Free The Duke by Catherine Coulter

of Scotland’s rich, fanciful past in those amber eyes of hers—he’d never seen quite that color before. He felt something curious, something that felt really quite warm and very real, something he wasn’t at all used to. He said, “Are those the Robertson colors?”
    â€œAye. Once they were a rich bright crimson, and yellow, and green. Old Marta takes no care of them now.”
    â€œOld Marta?”
    â€œGrandmama’s maid. I think she must be as old as the castle and just as strong. I heard Grandmama once scream at her that the only reason she let her stay here was because Grandpapa wanted her. Oh, dear, I suppose I shouldn’t have said that.”
    â€œThat’s quite all right,” the duke said, fascinated. He suddenly realized that the others had passed into the dining room. “Come, Brandy, we do not wish the others to wait.” But he didn’t really care if the others waited. He felt the warmth fade, felt the chill of reality, until she said in that candid, lilting voice, “I wondered why I had no hot water for my bath. I blamed it on Percy’s being here. He always makes demands of the servants.”
    He raised a black brow and felt the warmth again, like smooth honey.
    She lightly patted his sleeve. “Oh, it’s not yer fault, yer grace. Strange, though, that Morag did not tell me of yer being here.”
    â€œThe rather slovenly woman who keeps scratching her head?”
    â€œShe doesn’t scratch her head all the time, justperhaps half the time, and that’s just because she doesn’t take baths.”
    â€œThat would explain things.” He looked down again at Brandy, at the proud, straight nose, and the firm chin, a stubborn chin. A precocious girl, he thought, and not without intelligence and charm. Perhaps someday, with proper nurturing, she would become a lovely woman. Damn, she was a woman, not a womanly woman but a beginning woman. He realized with something of a start that he was now her nominal guardian.
    â€œCome, yer grace,” Lady Adella called, “it’s the earl’s chair for ye. We’ll have to rechristen it the duke’s chair. Brandy, ye will be seated in yer usual place.”
    The duke looked about the long dining room. How very medieval it looked, with the long table flanked by rigid lines of carved chairs. The high wainscotting was as dark as the heavy furniture, and the firelight and the branches of candles couldn’t begin to pierce into the corners. All that was needed to complete the scene, he thought, was a rush-strewn floor and giant mastiffs gnawing bones on the hearth. He helped Brandy into her seat and crossed to the head of the table. The ornately carved earl’s chair stood nearly as tall as his shoulders, exuding a kind of crude power. The three Robertson wolves’ heads were carved into its back and pressed against his shoulder blades when he seated himself.
    He thought of the quiet elegance of Carmichael Hall and shifted his position.
    â€œYe old sot, pour the wine. I trust ye didn’t slurp it all down while ye polished the silver.” Lady Adella’s strident voice reached him from the other end of the table, and he winced, wondering if all Penderleigh servants were meted out similar insults. The impassive Crabbe filled his goblet.
    Lady Adella thwacked her glass upon the wooden table. “All of ye, let us toast the new Earl of Penderleigh.” There was a liberal lacing of mockery in her voice, and Ian saw that she raised her glass first to Percival, then to Claude and Bertrand, before turning to him.
    So much for a friendly welcome. The old woman was baiting the men. “I thank you all,” he said in his calm ducal voice, and sipped the heavy wine.
    Morag set a steaming bowl in front of him. He assumed it was soup, but it looked like no soup he’d ever seen before. He was at a loss to determine its origins. He wasn’t certain he wanted to