Sarah glared at the man resting casually against the bedchamber door, blocking her only chance at escape. Though where she’d escape to, she had no idea. The thought of the snowy, dark, wolf-filled Scottish woods held little appeal. She considered attempting to overpower him but quickly discarded that notion. She’d wrestled with her brother upon occasion when they were younger, and Hart had always won. This man was at least Hart’s size, if not bigger. She had no chance of beating him at hand-to-hand combat. Especially now that she’d been divested of her sword.
Very well. She had no choice but to stay here and reason with him. She eyed him up and down. He had the voice of a gentleman, indeed. Though she was somewhat surprised to hear that it was the voice of an English gentleman. Mr. Fergus was Scottish, and she’d simply assumed his master was as well.
Yes. This man was clearly English, and his accent indicated he had some breeding, but he was clearly not of the Quality. The man himself was wearing coarse wool trousers, a rough linen shirt with a rumpled white cravat, and a simple black overcoat. His boots looked expensively made, but they were the only things he wore that appeared to be of any value. Still, she suspected they were not from the fashionable Hoby’s in St. James’s.
It was true that she herself was dressed as a maid, but that was for a very good (or very bad, depending upon how one interpreted the matter) reason. This man, whoever he was, had threatened to toss her out in the snow. Twice. He couldn’t possibly be a gentleman. A gentleman would have instantly recognized her father’s name. A gentleman would have immediately inquired after her health and safety. A gentleman wouldn’t have threatened to feed her to wolves.
She eyed him up and down again. What did she expect from a man like this? A man who lived in a tiny house in Scotland and had one servant to his name? Despite Mr. Fergus’s assurance, clearly Master Christian here—if indeed that was with whom she was dealing—was a barbarian. Not only was he sporting several days’ growth of beard, he looked grimy and smelled as if he’d been sleeping in a barn.
No. He was no gentleman. He was a ruffian. Albeit a somewhat handsome ruffian. His nose was straight. His jaw was square. His shoulders were broad. Was he Master Christian? If so, she’d been mistaken about his age. But she was quickly beginning to suspect that the tall, arrogant blond man with the crystal-blue eyes was probably the son or some poor relation of Master Christian. There was no help for it, however. She would have to tell him her name. She cleared her throat. “I’m Lady Sarah Highgate, daughter of the Earl of Highfield.”
The man glanced at the dog as if he might be able to verify her identity.
“And what are you doing in my house, Lady Sarah Highgate, daughter of the Earl of Highfield?”
Nervousness made her voice far harsher than she intended it to be. “In London people take such titles quite seriously,” she informed him, clutching the quilt tightly around her shoulders.
“I’m certain they do. Too bad for you that we’re in Scotland.”
Her mouth nearly dropped open. “But I’m Lady Sarah…”
“You might try explaining that to the wolves. I’m certain they will be impressed.”
Sarah’s face heated. He was right. She hated the pomposity with which she’d spoken. She never used her title for any special favors in London. But here, here she was frightened and uncertain of herself, uncertain of this man. She needed to use whatever means she had at her disposal to convince him not to toss her out on her ear, and she was quickly coming to realize that the things that mattered most in her world apparently made little difference in the Scottish Highlands. She decided to try a different tactic. “Have you never been to London?”
“Not when I can help it,” he replied vaguely, “and you still haven’t answered my question.”
Her virtue being somewhat assured, Sarah allowed the quilt to drop from her shoulders. She heaped it back onto the bed sheepishly. She hadn’t answered him because she hadn’t yet decided how to answer him. The truth was ridiculous, but a lie might be exceedingly more so. In the end, she decided to tell the truth. Her former governess, Miss Hawthorne, would demand it. Besides, she’d already told Mr. Fergus the truth. Mr. Fergus had been far more sympathetic and far easier to trust, of course. But when he returned, he’d repeat it and contradict any lies she might dream up now. Finally, she decided to tell the truth because of her own innate sense of fairness. She was clearly in the wrong here. She had broken into his home, even if Mr. Fergus had eventually invited her to stay. And she had subsequently attempted to attack this man with his own sword. She felt an adequate sense of chagrin. She was not chagrin-less.
She straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat, but she did not meet his eyes. She would answer his questions truthfully, but there was no need to blurt out the entire story.
“My father owns a hunting lodge nearby,” she said evenly.
“But why are you here?”
All right. She had to bend the truth a bit. “On … holiday?” Bother. She hadn’t meant it to sound like a question. She was obviously rubbish at lying.
“On holiday, dressed like a maid?” Skepticism positively dripped from his deep voice.
Double bother. That was a difficult question to answer without revealing more details.
She smoothed her hands over the white apron she hadn’t remembered to remove when she’d lain down for her nap. “I didn’t wish anyone to know I left London.”
“You left London?”
“Yes.”
“Secretly?”
“Yes.”
“And you came to Scotland?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She tugged at the wide white collar of her plain gray gown. “Be … cause.” Her face heated again. “Because I had to get away, only…”
He waited, watching her for a few moments of silence before prompting, “Only?”
She pressed a clammy hand to her forehead. “Only I’ve never been here before and the direction I was given wasn’t entirely accurate and I picked the wrong house.”
A few moments ticked by before she could tell he was struggling not to laugh. The corners of his mouth turned up and his firmly molded lips shook suspiciously.
“You mistook my house for your father’s?” he asked.
“Yes.” Her cheeks were flaming now. She pushed at the rug with the tip of her stockinged toe.
“I take it your father was not the one who gave you the direction?”
“No, I … er … that is … my maid bribed my father’s valet for the information, and—”
“Bribed?” His blond eyebrows snapped together. “Am I to understand your father didn’t allow you to come here?”
She bit her lip but forced herself to meet his eyes. Bother. Bother. Bother. She’d have to come out with it. “That’s correct. The truth is I ran away.”