Never Kiss a Laird by Tess Byrnes

he had
assisted her little group on the road, but he had been so certain that in a
small village like Thorne, he would be bound to find her location pretty
easily.    Feeling a sense of frustration
that was out of proportion to the inability to locate a chance-met traveler, he
hunched an irritated shoulder, and snapped the reigns, urging the team into a
fast, controlled canter.
    Using all his considerable driving
skill, he raced his team down the road, and the bracing cold of the wind seemed
to blow away his bad temper.   The wintry
Scottish landscape slid by, rocky outcroppings and, in the distance, the
sweeping moors.   Hugh loved Thorne, and Castle
Kane.   Just being here, smelling the
sweet Scottish air, was a balm to his soul.   After a while he allowed the team to drop
into a walk.   What was it about that
particular girl? he wondered.   She was exceptionally pretty, without a
doubt.   That combination of those delicate
features, her porcelain complexion, heightened by the wind and her annoyance
with the earl, and her red-gold curls was definitely attractive.   But Hugh knew countless pretty girls, and had
not wasted very many moments thinking about them, let alone scouring the
countryside for them.  
    No, it was something in the way she
had stood up to him, and given him back answer for answer.   She was obviously genteel and, by appearance
at least, appeared well off.   But that
temper!   He laughed aloud at the outraged
look she had given him, how she had choked out a few words of gratitude, and in
the next breath informed him that his aid had been unnecessary.   He wanted to match wits with her again; and
perhaps in a setting where she was not quite as infuriated with him.
    The long, manicured, tree-lined
drive that led up to the Castle came into view, and Hugh directed the team
towards it.   As he neared the Castle, a
groom appeared on the steps.   Springing
gracefully from the curricle, Hugh handed the reigns over to the groom with a
smile and a thank-you.    Before he
reached the front door, it was thrown open, and his butler greeted him
warmly.  
    “It’s a chilly morning, sir.   I have had a fire laid in the library, and
Mrs. Cameron will have a luncheon ready for you as soon as you have changed.”
    “It is as if you could read my mind,
Carr,” Hugh replied warmly.   His great coat
was damp and cold, and his stomach had been
complaining for the last hour.   He
shrugged out of the fitted garment, and then trod quickly up the Grand Stair to
change his raiment.   Turning down the
long gallery that led to his suite, he ran into his housekeeper, Mrs. Cameron,
who approached with an arm full of linens.   She was a round, comfortable woman somewhere in her mid-fifties, who ran
the Castle very efficiently.
    “My lord,” she bobbed a curtsy, tsk-ing at the Earl’s appearance.   “You look wet-through!   The mist on the moors is very treacherous, my
lord.   You’d best change quickly into
something dry before you catch your death.’
    “I don’t fear the moors, Mrs.
Cameron,” Hugh replied easily.   “If the
mists were dangerous I never would have survived my boyhood.”   He smiled at his house-keeper, who had been
fussing over him since the day he was born.
    “Well, who lives the longest will see
the most,” the pessimistic woman replied repressively.   “Oh, and when you have had your luncheon,
Sir, I must to talk to you about an unfortunate situation with one of the
staff,” she continued diffidently.
    Hugh paused, his hand on the door
handle.   “Oh?”
    Encouraged, Mrs. Cameron
continued.   “It’s Bridget, my lord, the
second upper house maid.   I’ve had to
turn her off without a character.”
    Hugh, who knew that a situation at
the Castle was a very desirable position for a village maid, and that without a
good reference the chance of attaining another one was pretty dim, looked
concerned.   “Was that really necessary,
Mrs. Cameron?”
    “I was left