The Highlander And The Governess

Her future depended on it.

Lachlan opened the door to the study, steeling himself for what lay ahead. Even after the past few years, it had become a Herculean task to sort through his father’s ledgers. He and his clansmen had loved Tavin, though the man was impossibly disorganised. The loss of their laird had left a hole in everyone’s lives.

Lachlan had shut himself away from everyone after his father’s death. Not only to heal from his wounds, but to come to terms with his guilt. He hadn’t saved Tavin’s life, and he blamed himself. But there was no choice except to move on. He intended to take care of the people and the estate, but first, he had to unravel where all the money had gone.

‘We forgot about Elspeth,’ Miss Goodson reminded him. ‘She’s still asleep in the parlour.’

He wouldn’t say that ‘forgot’ was the right word. Deliberately left behind, perhaps. ‘We won’t need her for this. And I’ll leave the door open, if it makes you feel better.’

Lachlan led her into the study, and Miss Goodson could hardly conceal her horror at the sight. ‘Dear God.’

Although the room had once been Lachlan’s favourite, with polished wooden panelling and rows of bookcases, there were papers on every surface. Stacks of ledgers remained on the large desk, while papers were stuffed inside books, stacked on the floor—even crammed behind a brass sconce upon the wall. He’d done his best to organise it as best he could. His father had saved every last scrap of paper, and Lachlan didn’t know which ones were necessary and which could be burned.

‘Oh, my,’ she breathed. ‘How long has it been like this?’

‘Two years,’ Lachlan answered. ‘When I first took my father’s place, there were papers so deep in places, they were up to my knees. At least I can see the floor now.’

‘Did he…keep everything?’

It certainly seemed that way, though he hadn’t known it at the time. ‘My father stopped recording the information in the ledgers some time ago. He simply kept the bills and wrote down the amounts on scraps of paper.’

‘And your mother simply allowed him to keep his books in this way?’ She appeared aghast at the idea, and Lachlan privately agreed with her. Tavin had clearly been in over his head. ‘Why did no one intervene?’

‘He kept the room locked,’ Lachlan answered. ‘I believe he was ashamed and wanted no one to know about it.’ And that was no surprise, for the study was a disaster. He felt slightly guilty that he had asked for her help in this, but then again, if the intent was to drive her away, this would do it.

Miss Goodson, however, didn’t seem deterred at all. Instead, she rolled up her sleeves and let out a slow breath of air, turning over the problem in her mind. ‘Well, I suppose we should begin by sorting the papers by date.’

‘Not all of them are dated,’ he pointed out.

‘Then we shall make a stack of those papers with no date and see if we can’t make sense of them, in time.’ She paused a moment. ‘When was the last time he used a ledger to record anything at all?’

‘1802.’

Miss Goodson blinked at that. Unfortunately, they were looking through at least eight years of papers. There was no way around it, except to go piece by piece.

‘All right.’ She steadied herself a moment and said, ‘I suggest that we purchase eight ledgers. One for each year. We can sort the papers and put them inside the ledgers to be recorded later. What do you think?’

‘I’ve already begun sorting them by year. This is 1803.’ He pointed towards the stack of papers on the floor beside the desk. ‘And this is 1804.’ He gestured at the brass sconce. It was the best semblance of order he could achieve amid the chaos.

‘Where is the pile left to be sorted?’ she enquired. He didn’t miss the slight note of alarm in her tone.

‘In the bookcase. Behind portraits. Inside every possible hiding place you’d imagine.’

Her complexion turned sickly at his statement. ‘Oh, dear.’

‘Aye. I won’t be asking you to sort all of it. We’ll try it for an hour. That will be forfeit enough.’

Even so, he intended to speak with Alban about the extra ledgers. It was a good idea, and it would make it easier to organise the materials. The truth was, he’d been avoiding this task. A part of him thought it would be just as easy to lock the door and walk away. But he had to learn how Tavin had lost so much money over the years.

‘Shall I begin gathering the papers?’ Miss Goodson suggested. ‘I could go through the bookcase and find them. Since you already know where your stacks are, you could put them where they belong.’

Lachlan shrugged. ‘If you like.’ It was as good a place to start as any. He took three pages and placed one behind the sconce and a second on the pile for 1808.

Miss Goodson glanced outside. ‘What time is it, Locharr?’

He flipped open his pocket watch and answered, ‘It’s half past three.’ He didn’t know why she had asked, but he supposed it was growing later in the day.

‘Should I ring for tea to be served here?’

‘Aye. If you’re hungry.’ Now that she mentioned it, food did sound good right now.

She rang for Alban, and Lachlan ordered sandwiches and tea for her to drink, though he personally would have preferred whisky. Miss Goodson pulled out a slim volume from the bookshelf and found it stuffed with papers. Her eyes narrowed at his father’s handwriting, but she managed to find a date. ‘This one is 1805.’ She passed it to him, and he stacked it beside the window.

They found a rhythm of working together that was effective. Miss Goodson went through the papers, calling out each date before she passed it to him. One date was particularly difficult, and she squinted. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but I have no idea what these numbers are.’ She held it out and he studied it closely with no luck.

‘I’m thinking he was half-tippled when he wrote it.’ But he placed it in the 1806 pile nonetheless.

‘One might need to be deep in his cups to make sense of all this,’ she muttered beneath her breath.

Lachlan hid a smile at that. ‘In an hour, we can have a wee nip, if you’re wanting something.’

‘No, thank you.’ Her lips pursed together in the manner of a prim governess, and he rather wondered what she would be like with her hair loosened around her shoulders, her mouth softened.

When Alban arrived with the tea, Lachlan directed him to put the refreshments on the table by the window. Before the footman could leave, Miss Goodson cleared her throat.

‘Pardon me, Locharr, but do you think Alban could acquire the ledgers you need to sort through all of your father’s papers?’

The elderly footman turned back with a pained look. ‘How many would you be wanting, do you think?’ His gaze passed over the papers as if he wanted to set them on fire.

‘I should think that eight would be sufficient, don’t you?’ She looked back at him for confirmation.

Lachlan only shrugged. ‘It doesna matter to me. Bring eight, and if we’re needing more, I’ll send for them.’

Miss Goodson brightened at his support. ‘Good. That will help you put away what you’ve already sorted.’ Once the footman had departed, she tucked a wayward curl behind one ear.

‘Eat,’ he commanded. ‘You could stand to be fattened up a bit.’

She gaped and then said, ‘Please don’t speak to a lady about her figure, Locharr. If you mean to offer a sandwich, then do so, but say nothing about fattening her up. I am not a pig about to be roasted for supper.’

He knew that, but he hadn’t been able to resist teasing her. With a shrug, he said, ‘I meant no harm.’ He’d only wanted to watch her indignant reaction. Her cheeks flushed, and when she corrected him, she tended to straighten her shoulders, revealing the outline of her bosom.

Miss Goodson walked towards the window and picked up the plate. ‘Well, be that as it may, it is easy enough to simply offer a sandwich.’

He took one and devoured it with a single bite. Aye, he knew it was barbaric, but he was enjoying tweaking her. ‘It’s no’ bad. Ye should try one.’

She raised an eyebrow at him, and her expression turned into that of a prim schoolteacher. ‘Were you a difficult boy in school?’

‘Very. My friends and I were always avoiding our classes.’ He expected her to chastise him, but there was a gleam in her eyes as if she thought it an adventure instead.

‘I suppose your teachers grew frustrated,’ she teased. ‘You are quite a challenge. But I believe I can succeed in helping you, Locharr.’

‘Why?’ He set down the plate, deliberately wanting to challenge her. ‘Are you forgetting that you’re no’ my governess, Miss Goodson? And that you’re leaving tomorrow?’

Her expression dimmed at that. ‘I haven’t forgotten. But I want to help you as much as I am able, in whatever time I have remaining.’

‘Because you believe you can change my mind about keeping you here?’ He reached for another sandwich. ‘It willna happen. The last thing I need is someone telling me what to do and how to do it.’

Her face flushed, and she didn’t move. Those river-green eyes turned the colour of a storm cloud. ‘That wasn’t my intention.’

Oh, but it was. And he wanted to be quite clear that he would not allow her to give him commands.

‘You’re no’ going to stay,’ he responded. ‘No matter what you say or do.’

‘We’ll see about that.’ Her challenge brightened those cheeks, and she glared at him. It intrigued him further, and he wondered if she would keep her temper.

‘Are you wanting a sandwich, Miss Goodson?’ he asked. He deliberately spoke with exaggerated politeness as he pressed the bread to her mouth.

The colour deepened in her face, and she turned away. ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘I am.’ He took the sandwich and ate half in a single bite. Miss Goodson’s expression appeared pained, but she did not correct him.

‘Do you want the other half?’ He held it out, knowing that she wanted to say something. But she didn’t dare, knowing how that her place was tenuous.

Instead, she turned her attention to another distraction, and she poured a cup of tea for each of them. ‘Do you take milk or sugar in your tea?’

‘You’re ignoring my question, aren’t you?’

She gave no acknowledgment but held out the cup. ‘Take a small sip. If you don’t care for the taste, I will add milk or sugar, however you please.’

‘I take whisky,’ he answered. ‘Without the tea.’

She eyed him and then said, ‘Let me fix it for you.’ He handed the cup back, and she added milk and a few nips of sugar, stirring it. ‘Try it now.’

‘I’ve never liked tea,’ he told her. ‘It’s hardly more than boiled water.’ He took a small taste. It still reminded him of water, only it was sweeter now. ‘Is that how you take your tea?’

She nodded. Then, with a faint smile, she admitted, ‘I don’t really like tea, either. But I can tolerate it this way, if I must.’

He set it aside and suggested, ‘You should try whisky. At least if you dinna care for the taste, you won’t remember that after a few glasses.’

She bit her lip. ‘I will keep that in mind.’

He knew he was baiting her, but at least she wasn’t being so priggish now. He mimicked a proper voice again. ‘Are you certain you don’t want a sandwich, Miss Goodson?’

A mischievous gleam caught her eye. ‘I believe I’ve changed my mind. Thank you.’ He handed her the plate, and she stuffed the entire sandwich in her mouth, puffing out her cheeks as she did.

An unexpected burst of laughter caught him, but he suppressed it, coughing instead. His governess was shaking with her own mirth as she tried to chew. When she finally swallowed, she was still beaming. ‘That’s what you looked like, Locharr. Trust me when I say it would not be attractive to Lady Regina.’

When she stopped laughing, he offered her a napkin, and their fingers brushed together.

She froze instantly at his touch. The look on her face was of a woman caught in an illicit embrace, and she took the napkin before she jerked her hand back. Her cheeks flushed, and Lachlan wondered if she had ever had a suitor. Had a man ever kissed those full lips, tangling his hands in her curls?

For a moment, he found himself wanting to push back her boundaries and discover if there was any wildness beneath the propriety of his governess. He gritted his teeth to force back the flare of unexpected need.

‘Please don’t touch me,’ she whispered, her face flaming.

He shrugged and lied. ‘You had a few crumbs on your face. I didna think you’d want to be walking about with them.’

Her shoulders lowered in relief. ‘Oh. Well, if that happens again, simply tell me and I’ll get my own napkin.’

Miss Goodson dabbed at her mouth and cheeks. He noticed that she was staring at him, and he couldn’t think why.

‘Have I crumbs on my face, then?’ he asked.

She shook her head. Her gaze passed over his clothing, and she winced slightly. He saw naught wrong with his tartan, but it bothered her in some way. For a moment, he saw her pondering him, her eyes studying him as if she didn’t quite know how to broach the subject troubling her.

Then at last, Miss Goodson asked, ‘When was the last time you were in London, Locharr?’ She reached for another sheet of paper under her chair and read aloud, ‘1807.’

He took the paper and filed it with the others. ‘It’s been nearly four years since I’ve travelled there. I had no wish to go.’

‘Are you not required to take your seat in Parliament?’

‘My father was no’ one of the landowners who had a seat, by the grace of God.’ He was thankful for that, for he had no wish to be part of government.

Lachlan sat back for a moment, still aware that she was stealing glances at him while pretending to search for more papers. Was she concerned about his scar? After the fire, he rarely looked at himself any more. He knew it could frighten Lady Regina, but there was naught he could do about it. Or was there another reason Miss Goodson was staring?

She handed him two more papers. ‘These are 1804.’ Then she bit her lip and blurted out, ‘Whether or not you allow me to stay, there is one thing you ought to consider.’

He waited for her to finish, and she added, ‘Before you travel to London, we should have you fitted for new clothing. Do you have a tailor you prefer?’

Lachlan frowned at that. He had no need of new clothes. What he had suited him well enough. ‘Nay, I am fine as I am.’

‘You cannot wear such clothing in London.’

‘Why not?’ He needed to save his coins, not spend them on wasteful attire.

‘Because it will draw too much attention to you. It’s quite different from what the other gentlemen wear.’

He knew that, but he hardly cared about what anyone else thought. The last time he’d been in London, he had remained out of the public eye, as a guest in the Worthingstone household. They hadn’t cared what he wore, and it bothered him to think that he would be judged on his attire.

The truth was, he saw no reason to spend money on himself. He had no right to worry about clothes—not when his people could go hungry this winter because of his father’s debts. And it wasn’t as if he intended to hide his Scottish heritage. What did it matter if he wore a tartan to a gathering?

Miss Goodson’s expression turned soft with sympathy. ‘Some of the men will be unkind to you, because you are courting Lady Regina. They will look for any excuse to make you into a laughingstock. I don’t want that to happen.’

Lachlan shrugged. He squeezed his fists together and said, ‘Then I’ll be having words with them. What I wear is my business.’

‘You’re wrong.’ She stiffened and lifted her chin. ‘In Scotland, I suppose your tartan is common enough. But for a shy lady such as Regina, you must try to blend in among the other gentlemen.’

Why should he care about that? Lachlan crossed his arms and glared at her. ‘I’m no’ going to blend in. I am a Scot, and there’s nae need for me to pretend to be anything else.’ He was already taller and stronger than most men. Blending in was impossible, given his size—or even the vicious scar on his cheek.

Miss Goodson’s face softened with sympathy. ‘Forgive me. I was not implying that you should try to be someone you’re not. It’s only that, Lady Regina is very shy, and she may feel uncomfortable if everyone is…staring at you.’

He shielded his thoughts, for her opinion was clear. She did not like his clothing at all, and it irritated him to think that he would have to be fitted for attire he wouldn’t need. He had better ways of spending that money.

Miss Goodson offered, ‘I can send for a tailor to take your measurements. It shouldn’t take more than a week or two to have an appropriate wardrobe.’

‘I see no reason for spending good coins when I already own clothes.’ He set down another paper and leaned back. ‘It seems you’re wanting me to spend money I canna spare in order to wear what the other gentlemen do.’

‘As you’ve said, there are twenty thousand pounds at stake. Is that not worth a new jacket and breeches, if it means winning Lady Regina’s hand in marriage?’

He hesitated, pondering the matter. She did have a good point that there was a great deal to consider. It wasn’t worth the risk of displeasing Lady Regina over something as trivial as clothing.

‘Try it,’ she insisted. ‘I will hire a tailor, and you need only buy one set of clothes. Consider it an investment.’

He set down the papers and regarded Miss Goodson with all seriousness. ‘It may be an investment, but once I have wedded Lady Regina, she must accept my family’s traditions. I wear the tartan to show my clan that I will support them until the day I die. She must ken that and accept it.’

Miss Goodson smiled. ‘Of course. But know that when you go to London, you are also supporting your clan. You are winning a wealthy heiress as your wife and bringing back twenty thousand pounds to them.’ She took a step closer and pleaded, ‘Set aside your pride for a few weeks, and Lady Regina will not mind if you wear the tartan when you return home.’

The laird drew closer, and Frances tried to calm the stutter of her heartbeat. His masculine scent reminded her of pine trees and rain. Careful, she warned herself. She was on borrowed time as the laird’s governess, and she could not let her admiration lead her down the wrong path. Even so, her heartbeat only quickened at his nearness.

‘Was there something else you wanted, Locharr?’

‘Aye.’ He took another step closer, causing her to lean back to look at him. ‘There was indeed something I wanted.’

Her brain turned into cotton while her pulse pounded beneath her skin. ‘W-what was it?’ Her face was burning as her imagination conjured up the vision of him pressing her against the bookshelves, kissing her until she could no longer stand. And she had no doubt that his husky innuendo had been spoken on purpose, simply to ruffle her feathers.

A slow smile curved across his mouth. ‘I’m wanting more food.’

Oh, he was enjoying this, wasn’t he? She knew he had teased her to get under her skin. And yet, for a moment, his eyes had stared at her as if he desired her. The very thought unravelled her composure, and she struggled to shore up her weakening defences.

As a distraction, Frances chose a slice of bread, delicately smearing it with raspberry jam. ‘H-here you are.’ She held it out to him, well aware that for a man of his size, there wasn’t nearly enough food on the tray. He could have devoured everything by himself.

The laird broke off a piece and ate it. Frances tried not to stare, but as she watched him, she grew transfixed by the sight of his mouth.

Stop it, she warned herself. Right now, she ought to knock her head against the wall if that would bring back common sense. She already knew what would happen if she let a handsome man turn her head. It would only result in heartache.

Locharr reached for another slice of bread and this time broke off a small piece before he buttered it. ‘What would you have chosen as your forfeit, if you’d won the game?’

‘Dancing,’ she confessed. ‘It is a necessary skill that you must learn, whether you want to or not.’

He suppressed a grimace. ‘I ken how to dance. I’ve no need for instruction.’

She wondered if he felt clumsy or awkward. Or worse, if anyone had ever teased him. ‘If you are engaged to Lady Regina, dancing will be expected of you.’

‘I dinna care what they expect.’

‘No, but it will make it easier on her if you behave as other gentlemen do.’ Frances took a sip of the tea she didn’t want and studied him, her mood softening. ‘In time, she may even fall in love with you.’

‘Love isna necessary,’ he pointed out.

‘No, but it will convince her to marry you. If a woman loves a man, she is glad to follow him anywhere.’ Once, she had been willing to do just that. A bitter pain caught her heart, and she locked it away.

The expression on his face was knowing, but he didn’t ask. She had come to Scotland to forget the past, and there was no sense in talking over matters that were over and done with. The price had been paid ten times over for her folly, and she found it easier to bury the devastating memories.

‘Did you ever love someone?’ he asked quietly.

The air in the room seemed to grow stifling, and she felt a tightness expand in her chest. Yes, she had loved someone, more than life itself. Emotion gathered up inside her, threatening to spill into tears. But she held it back and answered, ‘A long time ago I did. But it’s over now.’ She had no desire to even think of the past, much less converse about it. Instead, she rang for Alban to take the tray away.

‘Locharr, if you don’t mind, I’d like to take a walk around the grounds. By myself, that is.’

‘Are you wanting an escort?’

‘No, I will remain in the gardens for a time, that’s all. I don’t think any of your servants will harm me, and I will be visible from the windows, should I need help.’ She had met his staff and thus far, she felt quite safe.

‘I must caution you about London, though. Do not ever be alone with a young lady at a gathering without a suitable chaperon,’ she warned. ‘You would be forced to wed her.’ He might know that already, but she felt compelled to warn him.

‘And what of Lady Regina?’ he suggested. ‘Is that no’ the point? Her father wishes us to marry.’

‘True, but she would be ruined in the sight of her friends and would resent you for it.’ Frances knew from personal experience, exactly what that was like. Even now, years later, it still stung to realise that her friends had turned their backs on her. Which meant they had never truly been her friends.

She stood as Alban entered the study. The footman cleared away the tray, and the laird waited until the man had gone before he spoke.

‘You may go, Miss Goodson.’ He escorted her from the study and closed the door behind them. Frances was quite happy to leave the papers behind. ‘Thank you for your help this afternoon.’

‘You’re welcome.’ She added, ‘And…if I am being overbearing, please forgive me. I mean only to help you win the heart of Lady Regina.’

The laird accompanied her as they walked down the hallway. ‘Good day, Miss Goodson. Be sure to pack your belongings. The coach will be here in the morning.’

Not likely, if Alban managed to delay it.

But she shrugged as if it were inevitable. ‘There are still some etiquette rules we can discuss tonight at supper.’

‘Because if I don’t use the right fork, Lady Regina willna marry me, is that it?’ His dry sarcasm and roguish expression made her knees turn liquid. It made her imagine his handsome face leaning in closer to steal a kiss.

Have you no shame? she warned herself. Your imagination has gone wanton.