“Of course not,” Elias said reflexively, though it was beyond him how traveling with the daughter should be any less scandalous than staying alone with her in the castle. “If Lady Catriona prefers to stay at Applecross, then I shall go to Oxford by myself,” he suggested.
The earl smiled. “I appreciate the offer, Mr. Khoury, but much of your work takes place in the Ashmolean—I believe you would be more comfortable and your studies more efficient when someone associated with the university assists you with navigating the bureaucratic hurdles and idiosyncrasies.”
Neither the earl’s tone nor his posture had changed, but it was quite clear that Elias would not be left unsupervised in a room full of treasure. The earl was scruffy but not stupid. He had moved mildly like a pawn through most of the conversation, only to do an unexpected promotion to queen. Check.
Elias returned the man’s smile. “As you wish.”
They both turned their attention back to Lady Catriona.
She appeared to look right through them.
“Well, it all appears to be decided,” she said after a brittle silence.
“There’s another option, my dear,” the earl replied. “I accompany Mr. Khoury as planned, and you negotiate with Middleton. Including the honorable Charles.”
She stiffened. “No,” she said softly.
“I thought not,” the earl said under his breath. He signaled one of the footmen that they were ready for the final course.
Lady Catriona ate her dessert with minute bites, her back rigid as a fence post, because she had been given a choice between plague and cholera: Elias, or Mr. Charles. Who the hell was Charles?
Before the last plates were cleared, she took her napkin off her lap and stood. “Please excuse me,” she said to no one in particular. “I ought to look after the lambs.”
She left, her stride so quick that her dark head bobbed with every step. The thud of the mighty doors falling shut behind her echoed through the hall.
Wester Ross turned to Elias, his weathered face unreadable. “You have my word that she is a worthy representative for me at Oxford,” he said. “She is my best man.”
Oh, but she was a woman, too, Elias thought. And she loathes my very presence.
He had to find out where the Campbells kept their sheep.
Chapter 3
ABrutus couldn’t have betrayed her more viciously. Catriona was quietly fuming as she strode to the stable. One moment, Wester Ross extolled the virtues of intellectual percolation, and the next, he tossed her schedule aside to send her traveling with a man who knew the exact shape of her breasts. She had suffered through dinner with her insides churning from a powerful emotion, and now she was to be stuck with him for days?
Her burning cheeks cooled a little when she entered the sheep stable. The familiar smell of straw and wool grease and the bright baas of the spring lambs solidified the ground under her feet. Old Collins was leaning against the whitewashed wall of the last pen, talking to Will, the stablemaster. The men had finished sorting the lambs into different pens; some animals would be sent to the market tomorrow, the others would be shorn and released back into the hills.
She stood next to Collins and surveyed the flock.
“Middleton wants to purchase the old borderlands in the west,” she said.
Collins regarded her from the shadow of his greasy brown cap. “Aye.”
So there had already been talk.
“Do you think it necessary?” she asked.
Regret pooled in the gamekeeper’s blue eyes. Few Scotsmen willingly sold land. Will raked five fingers through his blond hair when she looked at him.
She blew out a breath. “I see.”
At least having her academic plans disrupted was for a worthy cause, then. It was always the worthy causes that impeded her own work, wasn’t it.
Will gave her the weekly report about the lambs. Wool prices were falling again. Would the land sale indeed be worth it, or just postpone the inevitable? Except for the borderlands, the estate was entailed and there was little more to give. She absently rubbed her throat. Any sensible woman in her position would have laid down her pen a while ago and set out to snare a rich industrialist for a husband. Any sensible father would have long urged her to do so.
The stable doors opened with a squeak, and they all turned to look down the aisle. Mr. Khoury’s well-built figure appeared on the doorsill. Heat scalded her stomach. Her gaze flitted over walls and rafters before settling safely on MacKenzie, who was hard on Mr. Khoury’s heels as he approached.
“You have found our stable,” she said, aware her voice sounded like an automaton’s.