Temptation

“I hate him. I hate him. I hate him more,” Temperance said as she brushed a wet strand of hair out of her eyes. “I hate him more now. I will hate him more tomorrow.”

With each declaration, she lifted a foot and set it back down in the mud, then she had to pull up on her leg with all her might to keep the sucking mud from pulling her down again as she made another step forward. The spines of her umbrella had broken within minutes of her leaving the village, and now she used it as a crutch to balance on.

“I hate him with all my might,” she said, then pulled up a foot. “I hate him with the might of my . . . ancestors!” She said the last word with force as she leaned on the umbrella staff, then wrenched her left foot out of the ankle-deep mud.

It was late at night and she was alone on a deserted muddy track that some man at the post office had told her was called a road. The thing didn’t deserve such an accolade.

“I hate him into eternity,” Temperance said, then pulled up her right foot.

All the people at the post office had been driven into hilarity when Temperance asked them about transportation to the McCairn estate.

“McCairn?” the man behind the counter had said. “‘Estate,’ is it?”

If the corner of his mouth hadn’t been twitching, Temperance would have thought she was in the wrong place. But wasn’t this James McCairn supposed to be the laird of a clan? Temperance didn’t know too much about Scottish history, but wasn’t that something important?

But, based on the amusement of the postmaster and the four other men in the store, Temperance was saying something that was mightily funny to them.

“This is Midleigh, Scotland, isn’t it? The driver didn’t let me off at the wrong place, did he?”

“Oh, aye, this is Midleigh and ye’re in Scotland, but . . .” His secret joke so overcame him that he had to turn away for a moment.

Temperance was cold and hungry and angry. The last twenty-four hours of her life had been hell. Up until the very moment that her mother saw her off in the heavily laden coach, Temperance had not believed that this was happening to her. She thought that her mother would suddenly find her spine and say, “No, Angus, what you are doing to my beloved daughter is wrong and the three of us will return to New York now!”

But nothing close to those words came from her mother’s mouth. Instead, Melanie seemed to gain strength as the day of her daughter’s departure drew nearer. For the first six months of their stay in her new husband’s homeland, Melanie had hidden in a darkened room and taken headache powders four times a day. But during the two weeks before her daughter’s departure, the woman had been a dynamo of energy. She’d organized the packing of Temperance’s bags as though she were sending her daughter off to be gone, well, forever.

“I can’t believe I’ll need a ball gown,” Temperance had said as she watched her mother clean out a wardrobe. “I’ll be gone only a few weeks.”

“One never knows,” Melanie had said cheerfully. “Remember that Angus’s nephew is the laird of a clan and he does live in a castle, so I’m sure there will be wonderful parties. And now don’t forget, dear, that I can send you anything you need. Except money. Mr. McCairn has forbidden me that, but anything else you need, just let me know and I’ll send it.”

“You can send me what my money can buy, but you can’t send me my money. Is that correct?” Temperance had said.

“You know, dear, I feel one of my headaches coming on. Perhaps you could—”

“Fetch your husband?” Temperance said, but her mother didn’t seem to hear the hurt or bitterness in her daughter’s voice.

For her part, Temperance had spent the two weeks before departure discontinuing her meetings, telling people that she was returning to the U.S. very soon. “After a bit of a holiday,” she’d said as airily as she could manage. She’d roast in hell before she told anyone that her stepfather was blackmailing her.

So eventually the horrible day when she was to leave had arrived, and even at the last moment, Temperance still expected her mother to save her. As Temperance walked down the steps and saw the coach, heavily loaded with her trunks, she felt like a prisoner walking to her execution.

But her mother hadn’t saved her. In fact, Temperance hadn’t seen her mother looking so cheerful in years. There was a flush on her cheeks and a tiny dimple at the corner of her lips. And that odious man, Angus McCairn, was standing beside her, his arm around his wife’s plump waist, and he was grinning ear to ear.

“Write me,” Melanie said to her daughter. “And don’t forget that if you need anything—”

“A pardon?” Temperance said, coming as close as her pride would allow her to asking for a reprieve. There was part of her that wanted to go on her knees to Angus and beg to be allowed to stay. For all that she was a grown woman “past her prime,” as Angus constantly reminded her, she had never been away from her mother except for the three to six months a year when her mother went away to “rest.” But those separations didn’t count, Temperance told herself. Only distance had separated them then. Now, Angus McCairn separated them.

But Melanie didn’t seem aware of her daughter’s misery and acted as though she hadn’t heard her. “I have a gift for you,” she said happily, “but don’t open it until you’re on the road. Oh, my, I can’t believe the time has come so soon. Well, dear, I . . .”

When Temperance saw tears come to her mother’s eyes, she knew she had a chance, but then Angus put an arm firmly around his wife’s shoulders and led her away from the carriage. “Yes, Daughter, do write us,” he said over his shoulder as he led his wife into the house before she could say another word. Once inside the entrance, Melanie turned, gave a quick wave, then was pulled away, and Temperance was left alone to get into the carriage by herself.

Then, once seated with some hope still in her heart, she hurriedly opened her mother’s gift. Maybe there would be a letter inside saying that Temperance didn’t have to go after all. Maybe the fat little package contained steamer tickets back to New York. Or maybe—

It was a copy of Fannie Farmer’s cookbook.

And at that sight, all hope left Temperance. She really was being sent away to a strange place among strangers to do an absolutely absurd job.

After a long, exhausting trip, two hours before sunset, the carriage had unloaded her and her trunks at the post office in Midleigh.

“But where’s the castle where the laird lives?” she’d asked the driver as she looked around at the little thatched-roof houses. But the driver only said that this was where he’d been told to let her off and he hadn’t been paid to go so much as another mile.

Her mountain of luggage and the face of a stranger had caused what seemed to be the entire population of the small village to stop what they were doing and go stare at Temperance. And, based on the way they were gaping at her hat, current fashion had not reached Midleigh.

But, with only her pride holding her erect, Temperance had walked into the post office and asked to hire transportation to the castle of the laird of McCairn.

And that simple utterance had seemed to cause great mirth among the villagers. As soon as the words were out of Temperance’s mouth, one of the men lounging against a wall had run outside, and she was sure the man was going to spread the word of the stranger’s strange—and hilarious—request.

It took thirty minutes to get through to the postmaster what she wanted. The man was either stupid or having such a great time laughing at her that his brain had shut down, but, whatever his problem was, it took Temperance that long to get any directions out of him.

And by that time, Temperance’s pride was the only thing holding her upright. Smirking, the man said she should stay the night in Midleigh before setting out in the morning. “And where is the nearest hotel?” Temperance had asked, and her question had caused even more laughter.

“About fifty miles down the road,” the man said. “Back the way ye came.”

“Ye can spend the night with me,” a man behind her said. “Or me,” said another.

Temperance had braced her spine. “How far is it to the town of McCairn?” she’d asked, thinking that she’d have to barricade the door of anywhere she stayed in in Midleigh.

“Four miles,” the postmaster said, “but it’s too rough goin’ for a lovely American lass like yourself. You should stay with me and the missus.”

Maybe he was being nice and maybe Temperance should have accepted his invitation, but there was a twinkle in his eye that made her want to get away from him fast. She wondered if he even had a wife. “No, thank you,” she said. “Where can I hire transportation to take me to McCairn?”

“None to be had,” said the postmaster. “If Jamie didn’t send someone to pick you up, then you walk.”

“Walk four miles in this rain?” she’d asked, incredulous.

“I told you Americans were weak,” said a woman’s voice behind her. “She is good for nothin’ but holdin’ up them fancy clothes.”

Maybe it was her pride or maybe it was the insult to her country, but Temperance picked up her small leather case and said, “If I may leave my trunks here, I think I will walk.”

So that’s how she had tricked herself into being up to the middle of her calves in mud in the rain and on her way to the castle of the laird of Clan McCairn. And when she arrived, she planned to give James McCairn the sharp side of her tongue. He may think she was only the new housekeeper, but even housekeepers deserved the courtesy of transportation.

She couldn’t see her watch under the heavy mackintosh she wore, but she was sure that it was at least midnight when she finally saw a light ahead. The postmaster had loved telling her that if she veered off the road by so much as a yard, she’d find herself in the sea.

“Then I’ll have to swim, won’t I?” she’d shot back at the man, making the entire room laugh.

But now she’d made it, as, with each step she took, the light came closer. Through the driving rain and the mud that splattered her face, that single, dim light was the most welcome thing she’d seen in her life.

She was exhausted, nearly at the end of her endurance as she pulled her feet out of the sucking mud and tried to slog forward. Maybe the laird had thought his uncle had hired a carriage that would drive Temperance all the way to the castle and that’s why he hadn’t sent anyone to meet her.

Maybe the light she saw now was a fire. A big fire roaring in an open hearth. Maybe there was a table there and it had a bowl of warm soup on it. And bread. With butter. Freshly churned butter. And milk straight from the cow.

Temperance could hear her stomach rumble even over the sound of the rain and the mud. There was part of her that wanted to fall facedown in the mud and remain there until someone found her or she died, and, truthfully, right now, she didn’t care which one happened.

“Get hold of yourself!” she said out loud. “Think of something good.”

She used all her might to try to conjure an image of their former housekeeper, Mrs. Emerson, and her room at home in New York. Temperance had spent many hours of her childhood in that cozy room, with its big fireplace and the chintz curtains. Mrs. Emerson always ate her meals alone in that room, and she often shared them with young Temperance. They used to giggle over the fact that the cook often made delicious things just for them, things that were never put on the table in the dining room, for Temperance’s father had been a stickler about economy.

“So they have leftovers, while you and I get the pick of the seasons,” the housekeeper used to say to Temperance, her finger over her lips in secrecy.

Temperance never told either of her parents of the lovely little extras that she shared with the housekeeper. Nor did she tell them of the hours that Mrs. Emerson spent dozing in her fat chair before the fireplace in her room. “A good staff, that’s the key, my girl,” Mrs. Emerson would say. She said that her talent was in hiring good people and because of that talent she had “a bit of leisure.”

So now Temperance was going to be living in the castle of the laird of a Scottish clan and she was going to spend her evenings in a cozy little sitting room like Mrs. Emerson’s. And the memory of that room gave Temperance the strength to pull one foot out and put another foot in.

By the time she reached the window that held the light, Temperance was too exhausted to remember much of anything. There was a door with a heavy brass knocker in front of her, and she managed to lift her hand to it. But her fingers were so frozen that she had to hook them over the ring of the knocker rather than curl them around it.

Somehow, she managed to lift the ring and let it fall again. One, two, three times; then she waited. Nothing. She couldn’t hear anything over the rain, but there didn’t seem to be any noise coming from behind the door.

Slowly, she lifted her frozen hand up again and managed to bang the knocker again. One, two, three, four times.

Again she waited, but there was nothing.

She was not going to give in to tears, she told herself. She was not going to collapse. If she had to bang that knocker from now until doomsday, she would. Biting her lip to give herself strength, she raised her hand again.

But before she could touch the knocker, the door was thrown open and a man blocked her vision.

“What the hell do you want?” bellowed a voice that drowned out the rain. “Can’t a man have any peace in his own house?”

Part of Temperance wanted to give in to fatigue and faint on the doorstep, but she had never been the fainting type and she wasn’t going to start now. “I’m the new house-keeper,” she said, but she could barely hear her own voice.

“What?!” the man shouted at her.

She hadn’t much strength left, but she managed to lift her head up to look at him. The light was behind him and the rain was drizzling in her face, so she couldn’t make out much except that he was big and dark. “I’m the new housekeeper,” she said somewhat louder.

“The what?” he shouted.

Was the man stupid? she wondered. Had there been so much inbreeding within the clan over the centuries that the man was retarded? Maybe she could write a paper on this . . .

“I’m here for the job of housekeeper!” she shouted up at him, using one of her misshapen, frozen hands to wipe water off her face. “Angus McCairn sent me.”

“You?” the man said, looking down at her. “You’re no housekeeper. You can go back where you came from and tell Angus McCairn he can go to hell. And you can tell him that I don’t care how pretty the strumpets he sends me are, I’m not marrying any of them.”

With that he slammed the door in Temperance’s face.

For nearly five full minutes Temperance stood there, rain running down her face, staring at the door, and utterly unable to comprehend what had just been done to her. Her mind seemed to fill with a motion picture of this long, horrible day, starting very early this morning with leaving her mother. There had been a long, jolting carriage ride that had given her a couple of painful bruises; then there was that encounter at the post office. And to top it all off, a four-mile wade through mud that had tried to devour her.

And now this! She’d had a door slammed in her face by a man who had to be Angus McCairn’s nephew. There couldn’t be two men like him by coincidence. No, only breeding could produce two of those jackasses!!!

If this James McCairn thought that he was going to get rid of her that easily, he had another think coming. She raised her hand to knock again and found that her hand had thawed a bit. Anger certainly did produce warmth!

She pounded away at the door with renewed strength, but the door wasn’t opened. To her right was the window where she could see the light, and she thought that if she had to, she’d break the glass and get inside the house that way.

But it was when she went to take a step that she found that her mackintosh was caught in the door. So, she thought as she tugged on the thick wool, it was either get inside or spend the rest of the night trapped in front of this door.

She grabbed the knocker with both hands and began to pound. And pound, and pound; then she pounded some more.

It was a good twenty minutes before the door was opened again.

“I told you you can go back to where—”

Temperance wasn’t going to let him slam the door on her again. Slickly, she slid under his arm and into the room. The light she’d seen was no fire. There was a single candle on a rough wooden table that sat before a fireplace that looked as though it hadn’t been lit since Edward I came through Scotland.

“Out!” the man said, the door still open, his arm raised as he pointed toward the black, rainy night.

Temperance had had enough!

She grabbed the curved handle of her umbrella and jammed the four-inch-long steel point into his chest. “No!” she yelled, using a voice that had been trained to carry to the back of huge auditoriums. “I am not going out in that godforsaken rain and mud again. So help me, if you throw me out I’ll come in through the window or down a chimney. Whatever I have to do, but I’ll not go out into that again.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “And if you murder me, I’ll haunt you.”

As she was advancing on him, he was looking down at her in amazement. He was a big man, with shaggy hair that fell down over the back of his collar. He had dark, fierce eyes and black eyebrows that peaked in the middle in a way that made her think of the devil. The bottom half of his face was covered with a scraggly beard and mustache, but she could see that he had full lips under the hair.

The truth was, if she’d had to draw a picture of the devil, she’d have drawn this man. He was handsome but in a way that looked wicked.

But with the way Temperance was feeling, she was ready to take on the devil himself.

“I don’t know what you have in that small mind of yours,” she said, “but I am here for a job and nothing more.”

Suddenly something in her snapped and she was back in New York in a tenement and she was one of the many women whose tragic stories she’d listened to and tried to change.

“You think I’m too pretty for this job? Is that what you think?” She was pushing at him with the umbrella, and she knew he could have taken it from her, but he didn’t. Instead he watched her with the fascination of a cobra following a flute.

“But it’s this pretty face that has caused me all my problems from . . . from you . . . men!” She spat the word at him, and as she pushed, he backed up. “I hate you. All of you for the things you’ve done to me. I have a husband, but do you know where he is? No, of course you don’t. Nor do I. He left me alone with three children to feed. We were thrown out of our apartment and all my children died of scarlet fever, one right after another. I prayed to go with them, but I was left on this earth for what purpose I don’t know.

“So your uncle Angus married a rich American woman and he told her he had a job in Scotland for me, so I returned with them to this cold wet island that no one would want if you tried to sell it, and I had to walk four bloody miles in mud nearly up to my knees, and now I get here and I’m told I’m too damned pretty for your bleedin’ job.”

He was still watching her, listening to her, and backing up when she pushed at him with the umbrella. When she gave one great push, the back of his knees hit a chair and he sat down hard, still watching her in fascination.

“Let me tell you something,” Temperance said, bending over him. “I don’t want to marry you, and I can’t see why anyone would want to marry you and live in this cold place, but I happen to be married already—although if I ever saw the worthless, philandering imbecile again, I can assure you that I’d soon be a widow—so, now, do you need a housekeeper or not?”

For a moment the man just looked at her wet face without saying a word. “Uncle Angus sent you, but you don’t want to marry me?” he said in a tone that said that he couldn’t believe this fact.

She blinked at him. “You’re a bit slow, aren’t you?”

At that one side of the man’s lips curved upward in what Temperance thought was maybe a smile. “You’re not like what my uncle usually sends me.” He ran his hand over his beard and looked at her as though he were considering the matter. Now that he was sitting and she was standing, their eyes were on a level with each other.

While she waited for him to make up his mind, Temperance took off what had once been a very nice hat and wrung it out onto the stone floor. Now that she was beginning to look around, she could see that the room was filthy. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling. The table had dried food on it that had hardened into lumps that would take a hammer and chisel to remove. She wasn’t worried about the water that was puddling on the floor around her feet because it could only help to wash the place.

When she looked back at the man, he was looking her up and down. She’d seen that look before. “Mr. McCairn—you are James McCairn, are you not?”

The man nodded, still silently looking at her in speculation.

“I need a job, and you obviously need someone to . . . to . . .” She looked around the room. What could she say? He needed someone to . . . “The Aegean stables were cleaner than this,” she muttered.

“And you are Hercules?” he asked.

She turned back to him, her face showing surprise since he’d understood her reference to a Greek legend.

Abruptly, he stood up, then turned his back on her. “All right,” he said over his shoulder. “Breakfast is at four. But if you make one attempt to marry me, I’ll throw you out on your delicate little ear. Hear me, Mrs. Hercules?”

Temperance wasn’t given time to answer because he disappeared through a door at the far end of the room.

When she was alone, it was as though all her courage left her and Temperance sat down on the hard wooden chair that he had sat on and put her head in her hands. She didn’t know what had made her act as she had and certainly not what had made her lie like that. In her years of working with destitute women, she’d heard one woman after another say that she’d been driven to lie, to steal, or into prostitution. In what she now realized was a very superior manner, Temperance had always told the women that there were alternatives.

But today, in just one day of cold and hunger, when she had been faced with the prospect of spending the whole night in the rain, she had easily formed a lie that would get her a warm bed for the night.

As she thought that, a shiver went through her body. Now that she was “safe,” so to speak, and no longer had rage coursing through her veins, she was cold. She looked at the candle on the table. Where was the housekeeper’s room? For that matter, where was the kitchen so she could get something hot to eat before bed?

Quickly, she jumped up and went through the door where the man had gone, but she was in a dark hallway, facing a staircase that looked as though it had . . . Now she was seeing things. The staircase looked to be littered with bones.

Going back into the room with the table, she picked up the candle and started to make her way through the house in search of a warm bed.