Panic caught her in the stomach, and Frances blurted out, ‘Then he must have a son in need of my tutelage?’
‘The laird has no children. I’ll bid ye a good day and be on your way, Miss.’
No children? Before she could make sense of that, the footman started to close the door. No—she could not let him throw her out. Not until she had answers. Frances stuck out her foot to hold the door open. From her pocket, she withdrew the letter she had received from the laird and held it out. ‘Then please explain this to me, sir. I have travelled hundreds of miles to be here, and if there has been some mistake, I need to know what has happened.’
The footman took the letter, but before he could unfold it, a voice commanded, ‘Let her inside, Alban.’
Frances didn’t stop to wonder who had given the order, but she closed the umbrella and stepped across the threshold. Her gown was damp from the rain, and she tried to smooth it as she gathered her composure. Then she squared her shoulders as the laird approached.
Lachlan MacKinloch was the tallest man she’d ever seen. Judging by his broad shoulders and raw strength, he looked like an ancient warrior more accustomed to wearing chainmail than a kilt. His brown hair was unfashionably long and rested upon his shoulders. There was a faint tint of red to it, and his blue eyes stared at her as if he didn’t quite know what to make of her. Across his cheek, she saw an angry jagged scar. It made him appear more of a monster than a man, but she forced herself not to look away. From his fierce scowl, he appeared to be accustomed to frightening others.
Frances didn’t know what was going on or why this man had hired her. If he had no children, then the footman was right—there was no reason for her to be here. She couldn’t, for the life of her, understand what had happened.
Her errant thoughts were distracted by his attire. He wore a blue-and-green-striped tartan coat over a white shirt, a blue waistcoat with brass buttons, and another blue and green kilt with a leather belt that slung across his right shoulder down to his left hip. A blue bonnet rested upon his head. His stockings were also tartan, bold and fitted to his muscular calves. There was no denying his Scottish heritage. In his demeanour, she sensed stubbornness and a man who always got his own way.
She remembered her manners and sank into a curtsy. ‘I am Frances Goodson, the governess you sent for.’
He regarded her when she stood and commanded, ‘We will have words in the drawing room.’ Without waiting for her to agree, he walked away.
Frances stared at the laird, wondering exactly what sort of position she had accepted. A sudden wariness seized her, and she questioned whether his intentions were nefarious. But then, she was far away from London, and it was too late to leave now. Better to follow him and discover why he had hired her. Perhaps there was another child in need of her help.
With a quick glance behind her, she saw that the footman had slipped away, allowing them privacy. It wasn’t at all proper to be alone with the laird, but perhaps Locharr didn’t want the servants to eavesdrop about the reasons for her employment. Even so, she kept the door to the drawing room wide open in case she needed to call out for help.
It was a lovely room, exactly the sort she might have chosen herself. The curtains were a rich sapphire, and the white wallpaper had scrolls of matching blue. The furnishings were creamy white with rococo gold. Two of the windows in one corner were made of stained glass with blue birds and flowers. The laird stood in front of the window, staring outside at the downpour. For a long moment, he said nothing.
Frances wasn’t certain if she was expected to sit or stand, but she couldn’t resist the urge to sit upon one of the gilded chairs. She straightened her spine and cleared her throat. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Locharr. But I must admit, I am rather…confused as to why you have employed me as a governess if you have no children.’
He stood at the window for a while, and she had the sense that he was choosing his words carefully. ‘Show me the letter, Miss Goodson.’
She gave it to him, not really understanding why he wanted to see it. Unless someone else had sent it instead?
The laird’s expression turned grim, and he crumpled the letter, tossing it into the hearth. ‘I am sorry you made such a journey. My mother wrote the letter, not me. But you may stay for the night and be on your way in the morning.’
All the air seemed to leave her lungs. ‘Why—why would she send the letter? I don’t understand.’
The laird crossed the room and stood by the window. ‘I didna hire a governess. But my mother apparently believes I need help.’
Dear God. She had been hired to tutor a grown man. The very idea rattled her composure, making her question what to do now. She couldn’t possibly be a governess to the laird, as wild and untamed as he seemed.
But then, the idea of going home was far worse. The thought of enduring another journey by coach for a second week, made her stomach twist. And worse, her mother would sigh and claim that Frances was, yet again, nothing but a disappointment and a failure.
No. These might not be the circumstances she had imagined, but she intended to make the best of them. She had the knowledge he needed, and there was a chance—only the barest thread of a chance—that she could stay here. But only if she handled the matter in the right way.
‘I am so sorry if my arrival was a surprise to you,’ she apologised. With hesitance, she added, ‘Might I ask…what sort of help does your mother think you need?’
He didn’t answer for a long moment but continued to stare out the window at the pounding rain. His silence stretched on between them, making her feel as if a departure in the morning was inevitable.
‘Is your mother here, Locharr?’ she ventured. Perhaps the matron could help her decide what to do next.
‘Nay. She’s travelling. I dinna expect her to return for another month.’
‘Oh.’ Frances stood from the chair, wondering what to do now. Her position here was tenuous, and clearly, the laird did not want her. There was nothing else, save to beg for another chance. She went to stand beside him, hoping her pleas would help in some way. His physical presence intimidated her, and the scowl only accentuated the fierce scar on his face. His hair was ragged, as if he’d cut it himself. There was a feral quality to this man, and she wondered if he had shut himself away from the outside world.
‘I realise that you do not want me here,’ she murmured. ‘You should know that this was to be my first position as a governess. I may have journeyed here under the wrong circumstances, but I really do wish to help. Would you consider granting me one day? And if I am of no use to you, I will return to London without argument.’
He turned to stare at her. ‘I don’t need a governess, Miss Goodson.’
Her heart was pounding with fear, but she forced herself to meet his blue eyes. ‘No. But I desperately need this position. It’s all I have left.’
There was an invisible battle of wills between them, but she kept her gaze fixed upon his. Let him throw her out if that was what he wanted. But she would not surrender this task without a fight of her own.
At last, he admitted, ‘I am getting married in London in three months’ time.’
It was all Frances could do to keep her expression neutral. ‘My felicitations on your impending nuptials, then. Your bride
