The Governess's Convenient Marriage. Amanda McCabe

her feet seemed frozen to the earth.

      Malcolm ran his hand through his hair. ‘Lady Alexandra—you are the daughter of a duke. I can certainly help you learn how to fish…’

      ‘But you cannot be my friend,’ she answered quietly.

      ‘You are a very kind young lady,’ he said, in that terribly quiet, sweet tone people used far too often to placate her. She couldn’t bear it from him, as well. Especially not him. ‘One day soon you will take your proper place in the world and you won’t want to waste time with a ghillie’s son like me.’

      Alex knew, deep down in her most secret heart, that was not true. She knew what was expected of her as a duke’s daughter—her mother spoke of little else. Her governess drilled it into her. She was to bring honour to her family name, to marry well, lead society. But the thought of that made her feel terrified. She wanted to be free, to sit on the bank of a river just like this one, be part of nature, no one looking at her, expecting things she could not give.

      To talk to Malcolm for as long as she wanted. For ever. He was the only one who seemed to just see her. And yet he did not, not really. To him, just like everyone else, she was the Duke’s daughter.

      She hugged Malcolm again, even tighter, afraid it was the last time. The thought that she might never see him again, at least not like this, alone, easy and fun, made her want to sob. Malcolm hugged her back.

      ‘Let go of my daughter at once, you dirty cur!’ A sudden shout, as loud and shocking as the crack of a whip, shattered the perfect moment.

      Alex jumped back to see her father looming on the rise of the bank above them. He was tall, the capes of his tweed greatcoat flapping like an ominous bird, his face bright scarlet. She couldn’t stop shaking with fear.

      ‘Papa!’ she cried. Malcolm moved away from her, sweeping his cap into his hand.

      The Duke strode towards them and grabbed her arm, barely glancing at Malcolm. His hand was painful on her skin, bruising, yet she was so frozen she could barely feel it. ‘Come with me right now, young lady. Your behaviour is disgraceful.’

      Through her fear, she felt a flash of burning anger. ‘It is not like that!’ she protested. She glanced back at Malcolm, who gave her a small shake of his head.

      ‘Your Grace, Lady Alexandra is not to blame…’ he began.

      The Duke whirled around on him, his face turning even more red. His eyes bulged, almost as if they would pop free. Alex had to stifle a hysterical giggle. ‘You are just lucky that I do not thrash you where you stand! If I did not have to take my silly daughter home, believe me, I would. And I shall if I ever see you near her again. As it is, you should go home now and see to your worthless father.’

      Alex had one more glimpse of Malcolm’s face, his handsome features twisted with fury, before her father dragged her away. A cart waited on the lane just beyond the rise and he pushed her up into it roughly.

      Alex couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. They burst from her in rough sobs and she buried her face in her hands. Her father ignored her, of course, steering the horse towards their house, but she couldn’t stop crying. That last, terrible sight of Malcolm, the fear of what he would think of her now—it made her want to sink into the earth and vanish.

      The house was silent when they arrived, as if even the stones and glass knew she was in disgrace. That she had lost her friend. The hall, all cold flagstone floors, animal heads staring down glassily from the walls, echoed with heartless carelessness. She glimpsed a maid peeking over the balustrade from the top floor, a tea tray meant for Alex’s mother in her hands, but then she vanished. Alex’s brother was hiding in the attics, as usual, her mother resting with a headache.

      ‘Go to your chamber, Alexandra,’ her father said tightly. He tossed his coat on to a tall wooden chair and strode away.

      But Alex had to try once more. ‘Papa, you must not blame Malcolm! He was only—’

      The Duke whirled on her, his eyes burning. He pointed one long, shaking finger at her, making her fall a step back. ‘You know what is expected of you, Alexandra, how the family name must never be disgraced. Your cavorting with a farm boy will bring gossip and it must end. Now. Besides, his family is not respectable. They will soon be gone. If I hear of you seeing him again, the consequences for you both will be even more severe, I promise you.’

      Alex’s eyes ached and she was determined not to let him see her cry again. He would never see her cry again, would never know what she was really feeling. She ran up the stairs, past the rows of silent closed doors, to her chamber. Once she had loved that room; it was small, but in the corner of the old stone hunting lodge so boasting windows on two sides to let in the rolling countryside. Her white bed, draped in yellow tulle, her dolls stacked in the corner, her little white dressing table with its antique mirror, she had loved it all, found it a sanctuary from her family’s silence. Today it was only another prison.

      She threw herself on the bed and buried her head in the pillows, trying not to howl. She remembered the sun-splashed river, Malcolm’s smile, the touch of his hand. He had been a good friend to her, maybe her only real friend. She couldn’t leave things the way they were. She had to see him, to say she was sorry, if only she could sneak past her father.

      She quickly wiped at her eyes and went to peer out the window. The sun was starting to sink in the sky, the familiar purple, dull-pink Scottish sunset gathering in. Her father would be in his library for hours, until dinner. She would have to hurry if she wanted to find Malcolm and apologise to him. See him one more time.

      She wrapped herself up in a long, dark cloak and crept out of her room, praying she would not be seen.

      * * *

      The croft was silent as Malcolm approached it, no smoke curling from the chimney, no one working in the small kitchen garden to gather the last of the vegetables. It was just as he had left it that morning, yet he had hoped, as he always foolishly hoped, that something would change.

      The Duke’s words, that he had to see to his own house now, echoed in his mind, ominous and chilling. He had long known that the Duke, not a soft or kind man, would be patient no longer, but he hadn’t expected that moment to come just then. Because of Lady Alexandra.

      Malcolm shook his head as he studied the overgrown path of weeds that had once been a vegetable garden. Alexandra was a lovely girl, pretty and kind, eager to learn all kinds of new things around her, full of questions. At first, when he met her trying hopelessly to fish and offered to teach her, it had been out of pity. Yet he came to look forward to their afternoons together, to enjoy their conversations, hearing her laughter and chatter. She was extraordinary, entirely unworthy of her father. Surely she would do wonderful things in her future.

      But now that friendship had brought trouble to his door. He only wished he could have protected her, kept her that sweet innocent he adored so much.

      Malcolm shook his head and sighed. She would have to learn of the real world soon enough; everyone was forced to it sooner or later.

      He took off his muddy old boots and left them with the basket of fish near the door. Despite his own efforts, he could see all the signs of neglect on the cottage. The peeling paint, the loose shutters, the tangled garden.

      When his mother had been alive, it had always been bright and clean and welcoming. How Malcolm tried his best to keep it up, to keep his father from being evicted by the Duke. It was the only way Malcolm could escape, if his father was all right. The only way he could take the apprenticeship he had been promised as a draper’s assistant in the city. He could be more than a farmer, if he worked hard there. Could win Mairie’s hand at last. Only if his father could recover.

      Mairie. Some of the glow from his afternoon with her faded as he looked up at the loose tiles on the roof. Her father would never give her to a poor crofter’s son; she would never so give herself. And Malcolm wanted more for himself, as well. The vicar who had been teaching him for years said he was smart and quick, and could build his own business if he wanted. Maybe one day he