“We’re close to Emmet’s cottage, Yer Grace,” he said with a trembling cough, holding out his hand and assisting the duke to his feet.
Then surprisingly the duke pulled his coachman into a hug. She faltered, staring at them in mute amazement. Kitty had never witnessed such familiarity between servant and master before. The kindness radiating in the duke’s eyes and the affection in his embrace brought a lump to Kitty’s throat. That the cold and aloof duke had such an attachment revealed much about the man’s character. An altogether new sensation unfurled through her belly. Unidentifiable but pleasant.
George muttered something, and with a low chuckle, the duke released him after slapping his back.
“That we are. Let’s make our way, then.” He held out his hand to her. “Come, Miss Danvers. We must get out of the rain and to a shelter.”
Grateful that shelter was nearby, she hurried over to his side.
He shrugged from his wet jacket and threw it over her head. She tried her best not to gawk at the outline of his chest beneath the waistcoat and shirt. The rain plastered his clothes to his lithe, elegant frame.
“Thank you,” she murmured, fancying she could smell his unique scent in the waterlogged garment.
She stumbled, and with lightning-quick reflexes, he grabbed her.
“It is very slippery, is it not?” she breathed, shocked at the strange feeling low in her stomach at his touch.
He laced their fingers together, and for precious seconds she stared at their clasped hands. Then he tugged her forward. Each step felt as if she were headed into something new and terrifying. It was her silly imagination, of course, but she could not escape the sensation that something about her life had altered. And it hadn’t happened when she met the duke, or when she agreed to accompany him to his remote castle in Scotland…but now, in this moment, their hands fused palm to palm as they silently made their way, heads dipped low to brace against the wind and rain.
Chapter Nine
Kitty had never been to Scotland before. She hadn’t paid much attention to the landscape in the carriage, content with reading to pass the journey. In truth, she was not even sure when they had crossed the border into the lowlands. It must have been some time ago if they were now close to the duke’s castle. Her impression of Scotland was rain and verdant beauty with rolling hillsides and valleys. The wildflowers dotting the lowlands were breathtaking in their vibrant colors.
After trekking for about fifteen minutes on the rain-and-mud-logged path, they broke through a wide clearing to find a cottage with a heavy stone chimney and thatched roof. A sigh of relief slipped from Kitty. She needed desperate relief from these wet, muddied clothes and boots. The coachman clambered up the few steps before them and opened the door.
Alexander paused for several moments, then slowly ascended the steps and went inside. Kitty followed, glancing around warily. The hallway was small and clean, and she stooped and untied the laces of her half boots.
At the duke’s pointed stare, she replied, “I would hate to track mud all over the place.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “I will have the cottage cleaned when we depart. The parlor is this way, if you’ll follow me, Miss Danvers.”
The duke preceded her, his gait slow and slightly uneven. Concern blossomed through her, but she held her tongue. They arrived at a simply furnished parlor with two armchairs by the hearth, a small table with four spindly chairs positioned near a small window, and a dark blue rug in the center of the space. Or perhaps a sitting room? Either way the clean elegance of it surprised her.
George, who had lit a fire, stood and nodded to the duke as if he’d asked a question. Kitty hurried over to the fire and held her hands above the flames. She couldn’t prevent the soft groan of pleasure as the heat of the fire warmed her chilled fingers.
The duke made his way beside her, removed his sodden gloves, placed them on the mantel, and pushed his hands close to the wonderful warmth. “The cottage is clean. The firewood is stocked. And there is food in the larder. The roof was recently rethatched, so we should be fairly safe from the wind and rain.”
She snuck a sideways glance at him. He was staring at the fire, his expression carefully neutral.
“Do you think we are in for more of the storm, then?”
“Yes.”
She swallowed, not liking to remember the frightful ordeal a few minutes past. “And where exactly are we?”
“This is my groundsman’s cottage.”
She glanced around at the clean, neat space. “It has the touch of a lady,” she said.
“He is recently married.”
Look at me, she silently implored. “I gather they are not here?” There was an echoing emptiness to the home.
“They’re gone on their honeymoon.”
She blinked, never hearing of a groundsman taking his bride on a wedding trip before. “I see.”
Finally, he shifted his regard to her. There was a bleakness in his eyes she’d not expected. He stepped back, encasing himself further in the shadows of the small room, and she wondered if the bleakness had been her imagination.