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until she had completely recovered from her
illness, was a foregone conclusion. But after that…
    There was no longer a governess’s position
here. He hated to think that Beth had travelled all this way in
good faith, for nothing. She was clearly alone in the world and
desperate.
    He cast about in his mind, trying to think
of friends or acquaintances of his that had children and required a
teacher, but he could think of none. It was a shame that Lady
Beauchamp’s intelligence about the position was old. He supposed
that Isabelle must have enlisted the services of the Widows of
Waterloo Trust to try to secure a suitable applicant before her
death. Perhaps he could enlist his sister’s aid in finding another
situation. He certainly had no suitable position of an honorable
nature to offer Beth.
    He doubted that she’d consent to becoming
his mistress.
    As much as he was loath to say farewell to
Mrs. Eliott, he knew it would be for the best if she left this
cursed place—for both their sakes.

Chapter Four
     
     
    Much to her consternation, Elizabeth quickly
discovered that Lord Rothsburgh’s prognosis about her current state
of malaise, and the expected rate of her recovery, was entirely
accurate.
    After he’d left her alone, the only activity
she’d had the strength for was returning to bed where she’d
alternately dozed and worried over her future; until Mrs. Roberts
had arrived with a pot of tea and a bowl of stodgy, salty porridge
to ‘build up her strength’. Elizabeth was dismayed to find that she
barely had the energy to lift her spoon or her teacup. As much as
it frustrated her, the grim reality was, she wasn’t going anywhere
for the next few days.
    As promised, Lord Rothsburgh arranged a bath
for her. Mrs. Roberts returned mid-morning and pulled the amber
velvet curtains around the bed before the tub was discreetly set up
by several—Elizabeth assumed—male servants. She felt grateful, but
also a little self-conscious for such a luxury being bestowed when
she was really nothing more than an interloper at the castle.
    Mrs. Roberts, a grey-haired, stout woman
with the type of dour countenance that brooked no argument, shooed
the men from the room before she drew open the curtains again.
“It’s verra good to see you are much better, Mrs. Eliott,” the
older woman commented as she ran her shrewd grey-green eyes over
Elizabeth. “Would you like me to help ye with yer bath?”
    Elizabeth politely declined the older
woman’s kind offer. “I’m sure you have enough to do, Mrs. Roberts,
what with cooking all the meals here and hardly any staff to help.
And from what I’ve discovered this morning, I have already claimed
too much of your time. You must be exhausted.”
    The cook shrugged. “It doesna matter.
There’s no’ many to feed at the moment. Wha’ wi’ Lady Annabelle
gone to live in Edinburgh wi’ her aunt—thank the Lord and sweet
Jesus, the child left afore this wretched ague came to Eilean
Tor—there’s only Lord Rothsburgh left to cook anything special for.
’Tis only a wee bit o’ work.”
    Elizabeth’s breath caught in her chest as
the import of what Mrs. Roberts had just said, sank into her brain. Lady Annabelle wasn’t here? Surely she hadn’t heard
correctly. Somehow she managed to suck a quick shallow breath into
her constricted lungs in order to speak. “Excuse me, Mrs. Roberts,
but what did you just say about Lord Rothsburgh’s daughter? She’s
in Edinburgh?”
    Mrs. Roberts nodded. “Weel, yes. The poor
wee mite has gone to live wi’ Lord and Lady Maxwell.” The cook
suddenly frowned and looked wary. “But perhaps I shouldna have said
anything. ’Tis no’ my place to discuss any matter to do wi’ his
lordship. Mr. Roberts is always tellin’ me to watch my tongue.”
    Elizabeth’s head suddenly buzzed with
dizziness and nausea swirled in her belly. She was grateful she was
still sitting in the bed as she didn’t think her legs would support
her. Why hadn’t