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  Morgan breathed out his resentment and tried to make his shoulders relax. He went to find the porter, instead.

  EMMA SETTLED HERSELF ON THE broad seat at the back of the carriage and put up her parasol. Two porters heaved her trunks on to the carriage rack, making the vehicle shudder.

  Morgan stood to one side, monitoring their work, his fingers in his fob pocket, ready to tip them when they were done.

  The driver sat on the bench and did not look around at her, as was proper. He touched the back of the horses with his long whip, keeping them calm as the carriage rocked.

  Emma looked around with little interest. What she had seen of Inverness so far had not endeared her to the place. It was exactly as she remembered from visiting here as a child. The town was still small, quiet and boringly rural. Everyone walking along the street had plain clothes. Even the women wore thick, sensible black, or muted colors which clashed. She could not see a single bow or piece of lace anywhere.

  The street was clean, though. She had to admit that much. There was no dirt upon the cobbled road, not even horse droppings. An old, wizened and bent man swept the street, just up ahead, which explained the tidiness.

  The houses on the other side of the road had cheerful flowers in the tiny front yards. Some even had lace at the windows, although the windows were small and few. All the chimneys along the row were billowing smoke.

  The road was not busy, yet there were people here, tucked away. The quietness of this place after the bustle of London was unnerving. She could hear her own heartbeat.

  Morgan paid the porters and murmured to the driver. “Straight home, please.” He climbed into the coach and settled on the seat beside her.

  The driver got the coach rolling.

  Cold air brushed her cheeks and Emma shivered.

  “Would you like the lap rug?” Morgan asked her. “It is cooler here than in the south. It took me a while to get used to it.”

  “I would rather have a brandy,” Emma admitted, for brandy would warm her innards—if they could be warmed.

  Morgan lifted a brow. “It is barely past breakfast,” he pointed out.

  “I have been awake all night and have not had breakfast,” Emma replied, for she had not been able to sleep on the train at all. She had told herself it was the incessant sway and rattle of the train that had kept her awake. Yet, her thoughts had not been easy, either. “Let me have your flask, cousin.”

  “Flask?”

  “Your hip flask. If it is something other than brandy, I won’t mind.” She held out her hand.

  “I don’t have a flask,” Morgan said, his gaze on the road ahead.

  She lowered her hand. “What do you do when you want a drink?”

  “I don’t drink.”

  Emma stared at him, astonished. “What man doesn’t drink?”

  “This one.” His tone was cool. “We’ll be at Kirkaldy soon. You can have breakfast and the largest pot of tea you can manage. You’ll be warm after that.”

  She made herself not scowl, for scowling produced unattractive wrinkles. Tea! “I don’t eat breakfast, as a rule.”

  “Here, you will want to,” Morgan assured her.

  “I won’t be here long enough to learn the truth of it,” she shot back.

  For the first time he looked at her. One brow lifted. “Are you planning on running away?”

  She had forgotten Morgan was the Davies man with his mother’s blue eyes, instead of the Welsh black his brothers possessed. She was caught by the speculation in them. He actually looked interested in her answer.

  Emma flailed for an answer. When was the last time someone actually challenged her on one of her shocking assertions? It seemed as though it had been a while. Not even her claim that she bathed in cod liver oil and crushed cherries had made Lord Tadworth blink, which had convinced her he was not listening to her at all.

  That had been at the last party she had attended before Mama Elisa had arrived to tell her she was being sent from London.

  Emma flinched as if her thoughts had touched a hot kettle. Perhaps they had. She still couldn’t bring herself to think too deeply about the revelation that her real mother was cousin Lilly—the woman who had been her governess for years and years!

  “And where did your thoughts just wander to?” Morgan asked. His deep voice rumbled at the lower end of the scale. He did have a pleasant voice, she decided.

  Emma stirred and adjusted the parasol to put her face back in the shade. The sun was very bright here! “I suppose I could try to eat breakfast.”

  Morgan considered her for a longer moment. “As the next train to London doesn’t depart until noon, you have a few hours to fill before you can run back to the city. A good meal and sleep would help pass the time.”

  “How does one sleep, here?” She glanced up at the blue sky. “It is so…fresh!”

  “I’m told the air is restorative,” Morgan said.

  “You don’t know for yourself? Haven’t you been here for simply ages?”

  “Nearly two years,” Morgan replied.

  “That explains your seriousness, at least. Does no one laugh here?” She glanced at the dour expressions of the people the carriage passed. Most of them glanced at her with startled expressions. No one smiled. Some of them, particularly the women, shook their heads in disapproval. Emma was used to matrons looking down their noses at her, though.

  “I suppose people must laugh, sometimes,” Morgan murmured, sounding disinterested.

  To the right of the road was the castle, surrounded by well mowed grass and an old curtain wall. Beyond it wound a sparkling river. Emma could remember this bend of the road, at least.

  Barely any traffic was upon the road itself. No graceful, crested family carriages. No lords or ladies taking their morning constitution, for there was no Hyde Park, and no Rotten Row to ride. What vehicles were on the road were all utilitarian carts.

  “Why do most of the carts have barrels on them?” Emma asked.

  Morgan’s brow lifted again, as if her ignorance surprised him. “The distilling of spirits is one of Inverness’ primary industries.” His tone also implied she should have known that.

  Emma laughed. “And you don’t drink!” She laughed again. “You are living in the wrong town, aren’t you?”

  “I like it here,” Morgan said, his tone stiff. “It is peaceful. My work is here. So are my other business affairs.”

  Emma calmed herself. “Don’t you work for Will?”

  “I am a business partner,” Morgan said stiffly. “I don’t work for Will. If anything, I would work with him. In fact, though, I work with Bridget.”

  “Bridget?” Emma repeated, astonished. “She is a partner?”

  “She owns the family mills,” Morgan said calmly. “I control the finances for the mills. And I run my own, of course.”

  Emma stared at him. “You own mills beside the ones you control for Bridget?”

  “I do. I am in the process of establishing another mill in Nairn.” He hesitated. “You know where Nairn is?”

  Emma didn’t. She frowned. “Aren’t all the cotton mills in the midlands?”

  “You do know that much, then,” Morgan muttered. “These are not cotton mills. They spin and weave wool, to make a type of tweed only found here in Scotland.”

  Emma turned on the seat. “Oh yes, Kirkaldy Tweed! Now I remember! Everyone in London adores the colors and the softness. Catrin had the most divine suit made out of it—it had pinks and browns and cream and was absolutely stunning…” She paused, for Morgan was smiling. “Why are you looking at me in that way?”

  “You forgot for just a moment to be a bored lady from London,” Morgan replied.

  Emma sat back. “I am a bored lady from London.”

  A cart passed them, moving in the opposite direction. The stench wafting from the sheep crammed together in the back made her gasp and put her hand over her nose and mouth.

  Morgan’s mouth lifted at one corner. “Inverness is still a far
ming center, too.”

  “Thank you, I failed to notice that.” Emma waved her hand in front of her face. “How do you stand it, Morgan? All this…this rustication? Uncle Rhys or Ben could use your skills to run their business, in London. Or work for a bank, if you like mucking with money so much. Surely anything would be better than here?”

  Morgan peered down at his long-fingered hands where they rested upon his knees. He didn’t answer at once and wariness touched her. Had she gone too far? Spoken out of turn? It was frighteningly easy to offend members of the ton. Only, Morgan was family and the family was far more robust and willing to deal frankly with the world.

  His sideburns were dark against the pale flesh of his cheek—he had the fine Welsh skin his brothers shared. A few fine locks of his black hair jutted over his forehead as he considered his answer.

  “You might be surprised by Inverness if you only give it a chance to grow upon you,” he said softly. “I was,” he added, his voice even lower. “There is a…a calmness here which I’ve never found before. Here, we are out of the reach of consequences of family calamities. The people are sensible and hard-working, moral and kind. They’re good people.”

  “It sounds utterly boring,” Emma said airily.

  “As you are used to a party every evening and a soiree every week, I am sure it does sound placid.” He glanced at her. “It will give you a chance to draw breath.”

  In fact, Emma’s stays were tight, and drawing a full breath was not entirely possible. She grimly resisted confessing that to Morgan. “If Inverness is so wonderful, how is it you have not smiled once since I saw you upon the platform?”

  The carriage had moved beyond the town, now. The road turned to beaten earth. Dust lifted behind them. Fields dotted with sheep were on either side.

  Morgan watched the hedgerows pass. “I can be calm here.”

  Emma absorbed that extraordinary statement and the many questions it raised. Before she could ask a single one of them, Morgan stirred. “It is as well you are used to parties, Miss Emma. I am sure Bridget will want to hold one of her large dinner parties, to introduce you to everyone in the area, as soon as she can manage it.”

  Emma’s interest stirred despite her determination to like nothing of this place. “There are society people here?”

  Morgan lifted a brow. “Not a single one,” he said flatly. “Will is the only peer in the district, if one doesn’t count the Duke of Forth, who is bed ridden and has been for years. I suspect Will may disappoint you in that regard, too. He prefers to tramp about the land and muck with sheep and cattle than to prattle in drawing rooms.”

  Crestfallen, Emma sat back once more. “Oh.” Will messing with sheep? Will had been one of the hardest drinkers in the family, a regular in the smoking salons at every season party, with a reputation for fighting anyone who slighted him. “Getting shot has obviously changed him.”

  “Will and Bridget’s friends are all upper class and middle-class families. Commoners, all of them. Good people, as I said.”

  Emma wrinkled her nose. “If you insist.” A moment ago, the dinner party had sounded like something to look forward to. Now she reverted to wishing she was back in London, even if society did mostly ignore her. At least the people at those parties were interesting.

  She could never be happy here among the sheep and the mills and the ruddy-cheeked locals. Oh, how she longed to be back home!

  How on earth would she survive the days ahead?

  Chapter Three

  Bridgit did insist upon hosting a dinner party at the first available and suitable date, which was determined to be the Saturday evening, four days after Emma’s arrival.

  Emma remembered Bridget from their childhood days as one of the older girls who had little to do with the four youngest in the family. The four youngest were Emma, Blanche, Catrin and Annalies and for many years they had clung together like burs. Even among the four, Emma had been younger by a handful of years. It had not stopped the other three from including her in their games and, later, in their gossip.

  Now, though, Catrin was hiding in Denmark, licking her wounds over Daniel. Blanche had eloped with her officer. Annalies—Lisa Grace—had been the most consistent friend of late. Although even Annalies had her head turned by the handsome Tobias Blackwood and was planning on actually living with the man—a secret only Emma knew.

  It had left Emma alone for most of the Season in a way she had not noticed before. Few members of the great family attended the Season anymore. Everyone was busy with their drearily domestic lives, or off having adventures.

  Was that why she had noticed how cold most of society was toward her?

  It had almost been a relief to know there was a reason for the coldness. She was not merely an adopted child of unknown parentage, but actually a bastard. Although that particular fact had not been shared with the public at large. Had they simply divined it? Was there a quality about her which marked her indelibly as not good enough?

  Emma didn’t have that answer, either. She had tried so hard to fit in. She had the prettiest dresses—although not too pretty or pretentious. She avoided out-shining the daughters of dukes, especially the horse-faced and bucked-toothed unfortunates who would still end up with moneyed and titled husbands in their first season. Emma was respectful to her elders, charming to her contemporaries and polite to everyone. She remembered birthdays and never failed to respond to all her correspondence. She knew every rule of etiquette, including the obscure ones about the handling of lorgnettes, and the silent language of fans.

  She never gossiped about others, but made sure to praise everyone equally, whether or not they were present and might overhear.

  Yet the sourest maiden in the room would be favored with a seat close to the host at dinner parties. The debutante who slipped into the garden at soirees to steal kisses from her favorite gentlemen was the one whom matrons gushed over, while Emma merely earned a small smile and a polite inquiry about her health.

  This current Season, which would end in less than a month, had been a trial from the beginning. Emma had considered returning to Marblethorpe early, yet now she had been forced from London, she yearned to be back.

  It seemed contradictory, but there it was. She did not want to be here in Inverness, where she did not belong. She was tired of not belonging. At least in London, everything and everyone was familiar.

  Bridget, though, seemed determined to make Emma feel at home. Even though Bridget was busy with her business affairs, she took Emma about in the open coach, telling her about the mills and the fabrics they produced, the problems with workers and machines and processes.

  Emma was introduced to mill managers—all of them women, which startled her—and foremen, and one forewoman. She met captains of ships upon which crates of tweed cloth were loaded to be sent to the Continent. She met farmers who supplied the wool that became tweed.

  The process of making the tweed was, Emma admitted, interesting. The dying, carding, warping, wefting and weaving turned dirty gray tufts of wool straight off a sheep’s back into the most glorious warm woolen tweed in vibrant colors. The tweed could be used for everything from skirts to suits to hats to jackets to shawls. Even luggage and carpet bags.

  The coverlet on her borrowed bed was made of slubby, soft wool dyed different shades of blue and it was the warmest cover she had ever snuggled beneath.

  The finest, strongest fibers were reserved for luxury fabric used for men’s suiting and ladies’ wear. It was so fine Emma could see her fingers through the cloth and could not discern the plies which made it.

  She could have occupied herself with watching the weaving, but Bridget’s days were filled with endless rounds from mill to mill, for there were three of them in the Inverness area.

  “I think I must employ everyone in Inverness who is not a farmer or distiller,” Bridget admitted. “It certainly feels that way when I see the total for wages each week.”

  In between discussing business with mill managers, Br
idget planned for the dinner party—usually by writing with a pencil upon sheets of paper spread across her knees as they drove from mill to mill, and to suppliers and merchants in Inverness. Bridget seemed to never stop planning or thinking. She always had another new idea she wanted to try, which might help make the mills run more efficiently.

  “Although Will is marvelous at spotting such things,” Bridget admitted. “He understands physical work better than I do. He watches how the workers move, then makes a suggestion that makes it ten times easier for them to do their job. It was his idea to group the looms each person is supervising together—even though it meant turning some looms around so they faced each other. Then the worker doesn’t have to walk as far to take care of them all. It saves so much time, and the quality of the cloth is far higher, too.”

  Emma felt a little dazed. “I had no idea people even worried about such things.”

  “You’ve never seen cloth woven before?”

  Emma shook her head. “Not even spun, although there was an old spinning wheel in the attic at home, which we used to play with when we were children.”

  In between mill visits, Bridget drew up a menu for the dinner party, along with a list of guests. Emma did not know any of the names on the list. Then, after supper that evening, Bridget wrote the invitations at her desk, while Will and Morgan played chess in the corner by the open window, and Emma studied the sun lowering through the window.

  Saturday arrived as warm and cloudless as the last four days. “There will be a rainstorm by this evening,” Will said, looking through the breakfast-room window. “I’ll have the coach top put up for you, Briddie.”

  “You will work today, too?” Emma asked Bridget, startled, her piece of crumpet lifted halfway to her mouth.

  “It is a work-day for everyone,” Bridget said, sliding her arms into a smart brown jacket. The jacket had pink satin lining, which peeped beneath the ruffled peplum. “Although, I will finish early, so I have time to prepare for the dinner party.”