‘Scare him off? I hardly think so,’ she drawled, hiding her hurt.
‘Two jilted suitors are enough to make any man think twice.’
It seemed the ton had a long memory. ‘I will be more circumspect next time he calls, Papa,’ she said, dipping a curtsy.
‘Good.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘If this thing goes well tonight, I believe I will have a buyer for Dunross, too.’
She gasped. ‘You are going to sell Dunross?’
‘Dunstan has no need of a keep in the wilds of Scotland. You don’t want to live here. With the proceeds, he can buy a country house close to his parents in Sussex and a house in town, just as you wanted.’
For some reason, she never thought Dunross would be sold. It was her dowry. She thought it would be settled on one of their children.
She frowned. ‘What does success catching the smugglers have to do with selling Dunross Keep?’
‘Ian Gilvry has been nothing but a thorn in my side and a deterrent to any serious purchaser. With him gone, we should get a good price.’
Her blood ran cold. All she could do was stare.
‘Well?’ her father said.
‘I … Nothing. I really should go back to Chrissie and tell her we are not expecting the lieutenant for tea.’
‘Never mind. I will join you instead.’
Blast. Now she needed to let the housekeeper know to deliver a tray to the drawing room, when what she wanted to do was be alone to think.
Selina thumped at her pillow, sure someone had put rocks in it instead of feathers. She tossed onto her back. If Dunstan’s plans came to fruition, Ian would find himself behind bars, or worse. The fool. How could he risk his life with so many relying on him?
The cottages in the village were in terrible shape—certainly much worse than when she’d left seven years ago. The children playing in the street hadn’t just been ragged and dirty, they’d been painfully thin. The people were slowly starving. He should be helping them sell their crops, not seeking wealth from criminal activities.
Potatoes and barley were the only crops suited to the poor soil in the Highlands. And they used the barley to make whisky instead of bread. It was one of the reasons her father despised them so—their preference for hard spirits over food.
The Highlanders swore by their whisky, attributing healing properties to the malted liquor. They even gave it to babies.
And it wasn’t only illiterate crofters who held fast to the old ideas. The nobles did it, too. A school, education, would bring them into the nineteenth century, but it wouldn’t get off the ground if Ian ended up deported or worse. Didn’t he realise that, by taking risks with his own life for a few barrels of brandy, he was risking their futures?
Or was he smuggling in order to put food in their bellies? Because her father cared not one whit for the people on this land.
Her blood ran cold. She didn’t want to believe it, but her father was completely ruthless when it came to money and power. It was what had made him so successful.
He’d be delighted to see the Gilvrys out of his way.
The memory of Ian’s strong arms around her shoulders, beneath her thighs, haunted her as if she was still some besotted schoolgirl. Only worse, because other sensations tormented her too, little pulses of desire she couldn’t seem to control.
And the way he had looked at her in the tithe barn had only made them worse.
Hot and bothered, she slid out of the bed and walked to the mullioned window. Clear. The rain clouds gone. Stars twinkled teasingly.
The perfect night for smuggling.
The perfect night for a trap.
She gazed in the direction of the village. Was it her imagination, or could she see men leading strings of ponies across the heather between here and the village?
Imagination. It was too dark to make out anything except the dark shape of the distant hills against the sky.
Was Ian out there? About to be caught in the hated Revenue men’s net? She should have gone to warn him this afternoon, instead of telling herself it was none of her business. She owed him more than a thank you for helping Alice. And even if Dunross’s people hated her, she had this strange feeling of responsibility. Dunross Keep might be her dowry, but Ian Gilvry was their laird. She would never be able to live with herself if she didn’t at least try to warn him.
A clock struck eleven. What had felt like hours was only a single turn of the hour hand. It might not be too late to tell them. It wasn’t as if everyone didn’t turn a blind eye to smuggling.
Good Lord, her own father had a cellar full of smuggled wines in London. As long as those responsible didn’t hurt anyone along the way, smuggling, while a crime in the eyes of the law, was seen as more of a game.
A game Ian should have avoided with her father in residence at the keep.
Hands shaking with the need for haste, she sorted through the clothes in her press. Stays. How would she lace her stays without her maid? She lifted up a gaudy skirt she’d worn to a masquerade in Lisbon. She’d played the part of a Portuguese dancer. Somewhere she had a peasant blouse and an overbodice, which laced up the front.
But if she wanted to ride Topaz, she would need breeches, because she’d have to ride astride. She dug out a pair she’d worn on her childhood adventures when Father had left her with servants and hadn’t cared what she did most of the time. Tonight she would wear them under her petticoats.
Anyone seeing her, such as the Revenue men for example, would take her for one of the village girls in such attire.
As long as she didn’t run into Dunstan.
Her stomach rolled in a most unpleasant way. If she was caught, it would be the end of all her hopes for a good marriage.
She would just have to make sure he didn’t see her. She was only going to the village and back. He would be waiting on the shore for the smugglers. Hopefully in vain.
She finished dressing swiftly, throwing an old woollen cloak around her shoulders and hurrying downstairs in bare feet, carrying her shoes. She put them on at the side door and went out to the stables.
Blast. A light shone from a window above the stalls where Angus lived. He’d hear her and stop her if she tried to take Topaz.
Then she’d walk. The gate, of course, was locked and barred. Anyone would think they were at war, the way they locked up the keep at night.
There was another way out. The old sally port—an escape route for if the keep was ever besieged. Long ago it had been her route to freedom and a few secret meetings with Ian.
Hopefully no one had blocked it up in the meantime. She took the stairs down to the ancient undercroft. In medieval times the kitchen was located here; nowadays the space was used for storage.
The next flight of stairs was barely wide enough for her feet and twisted in tight circles. She wished she’d thought to bring a lantern. Damp and musty-smelling air filled her lungs and tainted her tongue as she felt her way down in the dark until she reached the door at the bottom.
The last time she’d been down here she’d hidden the key up on the lintel. She groped around and shuddered at the clingy touch of spider webs. Her fingers touched a metal object. She grinned. It seemed her old way out remained undiscovered.