“It was the least I could do, considering the damage I did!” she retorted. “Thank you for the boxing lesson. It is a pity you are leaving so soon or you could have taught me more. Goodnight.”
She smiled and walked out, leaving Bernard alone, tired, and frustrated, wishing she could have tumbled into bed with him, even if it was only so that he could wrap his arms around her. It had been a long time since there had been a warm woman in his bed.
At that moment William entered. He frowned as he saw his friend looking a little the worse for wear.
“What happened to you?” he asked. “And why did I see the mistress of the estate slipping out of your room like a thief in the night? Is there anything going on that I should know about?” His tone was deeply suspicious.
Bernard chuckled. “My friend, if you think I am going to have secret assignations with the mistress of the house, do you think I would do it in the room I share with you?”
William smiled wearily. “Good point. Well, that is another ceilidh endured,” he sighed wearily. “How many are left? Five? Six? A dozen?”
“You are exaggerating,” Bernard remarked. “Three, and I am sure you will manage to pull through all of them unscathed.”
“Why was the mistress of the castle in our bedroom?” William persisted.
Bernard yawned. “It is a long story,” he answered, then fell into bed and was instantly asleep.
William pulled his friend’s mud-encrusted boots from his feet, shaking his head ruefully. He would not be happy until he had prised the whole story out of him.
* * *
The next morning marked the first event in which the Stewart brothers would compete against each other. It was an archery contest. Neither of them had even lifted a bow until Laird Stewart had announced the contest, so there was a frantic scramble to organize lessons at the last moment. Then the twins had declared that they wanted to have their weapons custom-made just for them. Accordingly, a procession of bowyers and fletchers arrived at Howdenbrae Castle to show off their wares a few weeks before the contest.
One fletcher and one bowyer were selected to make the weapons, a task which took them weeks because of the brothers’ over-fastidious requirements. When it came to choosing horses for their races, Janice left it to the head groom, who declared that he was on the verge of killing himself before they made a choice. Janice gave him a bottle of her best whisky for his trouble.
After that, Laird Stewart, who was beginning to regret the whole enterprise, gave them each a sword for the fencing contest and told them to take them or leave them. He canceled the foot race but, due to popular demand, kept the bare-knuckled fistfighting. Bernard was in charge of helping them with their training, but the laird had given him strict instructions not to let them bruise their faces while practicing.
“For God’s sake, lad,” he said wearily to Bernard, “try to spare their pretty faces. I am too old and too sick to listen to all the wailing!”
“I will do my best, M’Laird, but boxing is not a gentle sport,” Bernard answered. “I cannot guarantee anything.”
The laird muttered a few choice words that made him grin. “Those two would make a saint swear,” he said gruffly before he patted Bernard’s shoulder and walked away. “You have my permission to swear at them as often as you like. In fact, the more the better!”
Meanwhile, Janice, who had shouldered the burden of organizing staff, who had procured all the food and drink and attended to the ordinary business of running the estate while doing all that, was feeling very unappreciated.
Over breakfast, she flitted from table to table in the great hall, meeting, greeting, and chatting with many of her guests. She was a little better received than she had been the previous evening. Everyone seemed more inclined to take notice of her and be civil to her, at least, although she had a feeling that she was being discussed behind her back. How she hated these affairs!
Nevertheless, she had the impression that despite her efforts, she was regarded as a mere ornament, someone for the young men to flirt with and the young ladies to gossip about. The only people she could remember being civil to her were William Ballantine and Lady Davina Galbraith, but Alasdair was monopolizing her.
She looked over the huge room to see if she could spot William, but she knew from what Bernard had said that he was likely enjoying his breakfast in his chamber.
Then, of course, there was Bernard Taggart, but he was not among the elite who were eating breakfast in the dining room, yet he ranked above the staff below stairs, although he liked their company better. He was somewhere in the middle, in a class of his own. She smiled as she thought of that. He was like no one she had ever met before.
Suddenly she saw him passing along the atrium to the courtyard with William, no doubt going to see the archery contest between the two brothers. Neither of them looked too enchanted at the thought, and she saw that they had identical hunted expressions on their faces as though they were thinking:How can I escape?
She smiled mischievously at the thought, and at that moment Bernard happened to glance her way, and thinking that the smile was for him, he returned it. William followed his gaze, looked surprised, then tugged Bernard toward her and went to speak to her.
“Mistress Stewart,” he said warmly, “a fine ceilidh last night, but you disappeared halfway through the evening.” He raised his eyebrows questioningly. “My father and I looked for you.”
Janice laughed nervously. “I apologize. There was an emergency in the kitchen. I sorted it out, but I acquired a huge grease stain all over my new gown. I am not sure it will ever wash out. I hope everything was to your satisfaction, though?” She raised her eyebrows in a question.
“Of course it was, Mistress Stewart,” he assured her. “And now we are going to see which one of your brothers is the better shot. Are you coming to watch? If you are, please come and sit with my father and me.”
William was eager to be in her company since this was a good opportunity to talk to her and find out how her mind worked. He prided himself on being an intelligent man, but as he looked at Janice, he knew that hers was a mind at least equal to, if not better than, his own.
The tale of the kitchen accident was complete fiction. He knew this because Bernard had told him the true story, but she had sounded utterly convincing. There had been no hesitation or evasiveness in her answer, so unless she had rehearsed it, she had made it up on the spur of the moment.
Damn. More time wasted,he thought.