“Urgh!” Ursula made no bones about shooing out the cat, closing the door firmly against McTavish’s protests.
Bringing the oil lamp closer, she peered at the thing on the bed—a scrap of brown fur damp with feline drool, four tiny paws pointing ceiling-ward and a very long tail.
What was she to do with it? She might move the corpse to the peat basket and ask one of the maids to remove it for her. Certainly, she didn’t intend to leave it where it was.
She was just reaching for the tail, when the mouse leapt up and burrowed under her nightdress.
Ursula gave more than a squeak!
The mouse, meanwhile, was quivering in fright, its whole body trembling.
“Oh dear,” said Ursula. “You were only pretending—and now what shall I do with you?”
The mouse looked back at her with beady eyes, twitching its nose between layers of ribbon and lace. It was quite a pretty mouse, truly, with soft little ears.
“You need to go outside.” Making herself brave, she scooped it up and went to the window.
That was no use at all. The glass didn’t open. Besides which, it was simply too cruel. She could hardly throw the poor thing from the fourth floor. It had suffered quite enough.
With a sigh, she put it in her reticule. Downstairs, she’d release it from the outer doors.
Chapter Thirteen
A little later in the evening, 16th December
The portrait dominatedthe far wall—a devastatingly attractive man in full kilted regalia, complete with cascading lace ruffles on his shirt and glinting broadsword in hand. He’d the same dark, curling hair and chiselled jaw as Dunrannoch’s newly arrived lord. The same air of sensual promise. The same dangerous mischief in his eyes.
Sipping from her sweet sherry, Ursula peered at the plaque on the frame: Dougray Dalreagh, thirteenth Earl of Dunrannoch. It had been painted in 1683.
Clan blood clearly ran strong.
“Ah, Miss Abernathy! ’Tis a pleasure to welcome you to the castle. I trust we’re making you comfortable.” The voice behind her was a little rasping but there was no doubting it as that of Dunrannoch’s laird.
Ursula caught her breath. Finlay Dalreagh lacked the strength to hold himself fully upright in his wheeled chair but he bore the same piercing look as the portrait. Even in his weakened state, she recognized the bearing of a man who was accustomed to being master of those around him.
“Forgive me for nae meeting you afore tonight.” He fastened his pale eyes upon her—the same grey as Rye Dalreagh’s. “Age is both a privilege and a curse.” He smiled weakly. “I hadnae thought to see another Yule season, but here we are.”
Ursula curtseyed low, managing with scarcely a wobble.
“I must give ye my thanks for taking on my grandson at such short notice.” The laird gave a rascallish half-smile. “I’ve nae doubt he’s a handful, being woven from Dunrannoch yarn. Ye have only to look at him to ken that!”
The countess, hovering not far away, kissed her husband’s forehead. “No woman minds a handful when it’s so handsomely packaged, my love.”
Ursula averted her eyes as the earl gave his wife’s behind a playful pat. “’Tis your sweet heart that keeps mine young, Lavinia.”
“Flirting with all the pretty ones, sir?” The unmistakable Texan drawl of Lord Balmore carried towards them.
“Ha! There’s the young scallywag, seeing well to the Dalreagh tartan, too.”
The laird spoke nothing but the truth. It was the first time Ursula had seen Rye in much else but his shirtsleeves. Now, he wore a full kilt of dark russet accented with green, and a sporran of beaver, his broad torso encased in an evening jacket, its buttons gleaming.
Though the hair still curled at his neck, his jaw was clean and smooth. Without his stubble, he looked almost a different man, though the glint in his eyes spoke of his wild streak, regardless of the shaving.
Until now, she’d hardly believed Rye might manage what he intended. Not that his accent mattered, nor whether he remembered to butter his bread on his plate. It had simply seemed that he was too much of the outdoors to be polished up and put on display.
As it turned out, he was proving her wrong—and she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about it.
Throughout dinner,Ursula had ample opportunity to admire Rye further, and to observe the fluttering lashes of Fiona and Bonnie, placed either side. A stream of inanities floated across the table, the girls exclaiming at tales of lassoing steers and cooking rattlesnakes over a campfire.
