Beatrice Sinclair climbs the mountain to Castle Crannoch seeking employment. Since her parents' death from cholera, Beatrice has struggled to survive. Denied employment as a tavern maid for having airs and too much education, Beatrice's last resort is the castle, where rumors abound of evil within its walls. Offered a position as governess to the unlikable young duke, Robert, Beatrice accepts. She wants the basics in life: food, shelter and warmth. Beatrice can tolerate a spoiled child and his sexy older cousin who tempts her with sinful kisses.
Devlen Gordon returns to Castle Crannoch after his young cousin, Robert, has another suspicious accident. Since the sudden death of Robert's parents, the child has encountered several mishaps with near fatal results. Devlen cannot believe his father covets the title enough to cause his nephew's death, but since his father lost his legs in a carriage accident, he's grown into a bitter and cynical man.
Devlen's attraction to Beatrice bedevils him for she's an ordinary, if not plain, woman. It's her flair and her unusual rapport with the young duke that bewitches him. When Beatrice's life is threatened, Devlen spirits Robert and her away. But who can Beatrice trust to keep them safe?
Dark, moody and intriguing, AN UNLIKELY GOVERNESS captures the essence of a good Gothic romance. Ms. Ranney deftly explores the ambiguous and imperfect love between father and son, the horrific affects of warped love and the power of a new love.
Beatrice Sinclair has been hired as the new governess for
the Duke of Brechin, a precocious nine-year-old boy with
underdeveloped manners and an overdeveloped opinion of
himself. Although she is certain she can eventually
handle the child duke, she is not so sure about his
cousin, Devlen Gordon, an independently wealthy
industrialist.
When the child's life is threatened, his older cousin
takes the two of them to his home in Edinburgh. Despite
Beatrice's suspicions that Devlen may have reasons to
cause the young duke harm, she finds herself charmed by
him.
Beatrice only wanted a position, a way to feed herself and
survive in an increasingly harsh world. Instead, she
found a terrified nine-year-old boy desperate for
protection, and an enigmatic man who fascinated her.
EXCERPT
CHAPTER 1
Kilbridden Village, Scotland
November, 1832
βIβll work very hard, I promise.β
βGimme your hands.β
Beatrice Sinclair stretched out her hands.
Because she was trembling, she placed them palm up on the
bar.
βYouβve got calluses all right. But you look
like youβd fall over after a few hours of good work. I
need a healthy lass, one who can be on her feet twelve
hours.β
βIβll be your best worker. Iβll even work for
free the first week to prove it.β
βCan you wipe a table down in the wink of an
eye? Or give a little saucy wiggle to the patrons?β
She nodded.
βLaugh at my customersβ jokes, even if they be
sorry ones?β
βI can.β
βYou donβt look the type my customers like.
Youβre too pale, and youβve got an air about you.β He
frowned. βAre you sick?β
βIβm very healthy.β
βThen why are you shaking?β
βIβm just cold.β
He didnβt look as if he believed her.
βWho told you I was looking for another tavern
wench?β
βThe owner of the Sword and Dragon.β
βWent there, did you? Bet he wanted someone
younger.β
βHe said he didnβt have need for another
helper.β
βThatβs not true. His business has been near
as good as mine. For the last half year, at least.
Before that, no one came to drink or talk.β He began to
wipe down the bar with a spotted rag, looking as if he
were thinking about the matter. βDid you have the
sickness?β
She shook her head again, afraid to tell him
the truth. But all the assurances in the world wouldnβt
matter. The minute the tavern maid entered the room
Beatrice knew sheβd lost the post. She couldnβt wear a
blouse that revealed all her assets or a skirt that bared
her ankles. Nor was she given to simpering smiles or come
hither looks. While she didnβt object to dispensing
spirits, she wasn't about to sell herself along with
them.
The innkeeper grinned. Several teeth were
missing, and the effect was more of a leer.
βGo up to Castle Crannoch. Theyβll have a job
for you.β
Sheβd heard of Castle Crannoch ever since
coming to Kilbridden Village, but sheβd never considered
it a source of employment.
βCastle Crannoch?β
He jerked his chin toward the ceiling.
βAye, where the duke lives. Go ask the duke
for a job. Heβll give you one, but I wonβt.β
Beatrice tightened her hands on her reticule
and thanked the tavern owner with as much grace as she
could muster. Sheβd come all this way for nothing.
She left the inn, and stood outside. The cold
rain seeped through her thin dress, a reminder that sheβd
traded her cloak for a sack of flour and a few eggs a week
ago. Beatrice tightened her shawl around her hair, held
it closed with one hand at her neck and looked up at the
mountain in front of her.
Castle Crannoch stood at the very top,
overlooking the village. The fortress dominated the
countryside, visible to anyone approaching, a sentinel of
the past that looked capable of protecting its inhabitants
well into the future.
Occasionally, word would seep down from the
top of the mountain as to the lives of the occupants of
Castle Crannoch. There had been tragedy there not long
ago, she recalled. But her own life had been so difficult
that sheβd paid the gossip little attention.
The castle was oddly shaped, constructed as if
it were a large box with a smaller box pulled from inside
it. The two square buildings sat adjacent to each other
atop the mountain, the smaller structure in stages of
disrepair, the larger box topped by four turrets. The
only way to the place was up a long and winding road. Not
only did her legs ache but the climb looked be a
frightening one.
A voice, sounding too much like her fatherβs,
spoke against the fierce wind. Do not go, Beatrice. No
single woman of good character would seek employment
there. There were rumors about Castle Crannoch.
She no longer had a choice.
Slowly, she began to walk up the winding road,
praying for endurance. She wouldnβt allow herself to look
up at the castle again. Doing so would only make the task
seem interminable. She concentrated, instead, on putting
one foot in front of the other, leaning into the rain.
Her shawl was sodden, but she tightened it
around her head, holding it close at the neck. How long
had she been walking? Hours? Surely not that long.
She heard the sound of the carriage and eased
closer to the parapet. In the darkness she couldnβt see
the drop, but her imagination furnished the distance in
her mind, adding jagged peaks and huge boulders at the
bottom of the ravine.
The approaching carriage was a blur of motion,
a dark shadow against the wall. Four horses pulled the
ebony shape, the lead pair adorned with gleaming silver
appointments. Twin lanterns, also silver, sat on either
side of the door, but they were unlit, leaving her to
wonder if the occupant of such a magnificent carriage
wanted privacy. Or secrecy.
The coach took up the full of the road,
forcing her to the edge. Beatrice gripped the wall with
her frayed gloves, and felt them tear further. Was God
punishing her for her daring, for her journey, for the
thought of working in such a place as the dukeβs lair?
Only the curving half wall stood between her
and the abyss. She held her breath as the carriage passed
her, the stallions from hell blending back into the
shadows, their silver appointments winking out of
sight.
Was it Black Donald, the devil himself?
If so, it appeared he was not quite ready to
abandon her.
The carriage halted on the next curve as if
waiting for her. She gripped her reticule with both hands
in front of her as if the small bag was able to offer some
protection. She debated waiting until it moved forward,
but the rain was getting heavier. She had to make it to
Castle Crannoch tonight.
Just as she would have walked by, the door
abruptly opened. She stopped, halted not only by
curiosity, but by fear. She was cold, wet, and exhausted,
but cautious all the same.
βThe road is dangerous.β A human voice, low
and deeply pitched. βYou could easily have been
run down by my horses.β
The coachman didnβt turn but remained huddled
beneath his greatcoat.
Beatrice took one step forward. βYour horses
were taking up the center of the road, sir.β
βThey are skittish of heights, and since they
are so valuable, they are allowed to travel down the
middle of the road if they wish.β
βAs opposed to people, sir, who must travel at
the edge of it?β
βItβs raining. The least I could do is offer
you safe passage to Castle Crannoch.β
She almost asked if he worked there before the
foolishness of that question struck her. He was riding in
a luxurious carriage, pulled by magnificent horses. He
was probably the duke himself.
She would be foolish to accept a ride in a
strange carriage. Almost as foolish as declining such an
offer. The heavens growled overhead as if to convince
her. The door opened wider, and she entered the carriage,
stepping over his long legs to sit opposite the stranger.
Two small pierced silver lanterns illuminated
the interior. As the flame flickered, dots of light
danced across the blue cushions and silk of the ceiling.
βWhy are you going to the castle?β
He wasnβt the least reticent about prying into
her concerns.
She debated whether or not to answer him and
then realized his curiosity might well be the payment she
owed for the ride up the mountain. She looked down at her
clasped hands.
βI had hoped to obtain a position.β
βHad you? They are notoriously parsimonious at
Castle Crannoch. Did you know that?β
She shook her head.
He was, her rescuer, a man she would have
noticed in any setting. His face was absolutely
faultless; the nose, chin, and forehead perfectly crafted
like the sculpture of an archangel sheβd once seen. His
hair was brown with touches of gold, and his eyes were so
dark a brown as to appear black, and so arresting she felt
as if he could pin her to the seat with his gaze.
One corner of his mouth curved up slightly, in
amusement or a wry acknowledgement of her examination.
Surprisingly, a dimple appeared in his cheek, and it was
this particular feature she studied with great care.
Surely a man with a dimple could not be evil?
βHave you seen enough?β he asked finally.
βI have noted your appearance, sir. But
appearance does not matter in this world.β
βNo doubt a homily told to you by an ugly
woman. Ugly women are the only ones who think appearance
does not matter.β
βHave you ever heard of the story of the Ant
and the Chrysalis?β
He looked intently at her for a moment, as if
attempting to ascertain whether or not sheβd lost her
wits.
Without waiting for a response, she began to
speak. βOnce upon a time there was an ant and a
chrysalis. It was very nearly at its time of change, and
the only thing visible in the shell was a long tail that
attracted the attention of an ant. He saw that this
strange being was alive, and walked up to it and addressed
the shell.
βIβm very sorry for your fate. Iβm an ant,
you see, and able to walk and run and play if I wish.
Poor you, for being trapped in such an ugly shell.β
The chrysalis didnβt bother to respond. All
of its energy was spent in its transformation.
A few days later, however, the ant was
climbing a small hill, allowing himself to fall, and then
running up the hill again laughing at his own silliness.
He felt a breeze upon the back of his head and
turned to find a large blue and purple butterfly hovering
in the air. βDear ant,β the butterfly said. βDo not pity
me. I can fly whereas you can only walk.β
The moral of this story is that appearances
are deceptive.β
βAnd you thought me a butterfly?β
βNo. I thought you were Black Donald.β
βI beg your pardon?β
βSatan might be a tempting master, but he
demands eternal servitude.β
He laughed, the carriage filling with the
sound.
When she didnβt respond to his amusement, a
corner of his lip curved up in an almost smile.
βDoes your virtue shelter you, then? Is that
why you donβt appear afraid? If I were Black Donald, I
would think youβd be trembling in terror.β
βDo you often do this? Insist upon
demonstrating an act of kindness only to ridicule the
person foolish enough to accept it?β
βDo you often chastise your hosts?β
βStop the carriage and let me out. I shall
trouble you no more.β
βDonβt be foolish. Itβs night and not safe
for a lone female. Besides, weβre there.β
In the next moment, the carriage slowed and
then stopped.
Beatrice slid her finger alongside the leather
shade, peering into the darkness. A face leered at her,
one so startling that she dropped the shade.
βHas something frightened you?β
βNo,β she said, not altogether certain the
face sheβd seen was real. Perhaps it was something sheβd
only seen in her mind.
The man opposite her reached over and opened
the carriage door.
She hesitated, unwilling to face the monster
outside the carriage. Her rescuer took her delay for the
fear it was, but it was obvious he didn't fully understand
it.
βI have not gnawed on a pretty virgin for many
years. You're safe enough with me.β
She doubted any virgin was safe with him, but
she didn't stay to argue the point with him.
Instead, she pointed one toe out the door.
The cold night air caressed her ankle, reminding her that
time was passing too quickly. It was already dark and she
had to meet with the duke. She still had to make it down
the mountain again, but she doubted she had the strength
to walk the five miles back to her cottage. Sheβd
probably have to find shelter on the side of the road in
the rain. The thunder overhead punctuated that thought
with a dull, ominous roar.
As she emerged from the carriage, the wind
tugged at her dress revealing her petticoat. A hand flew
to her bonnet to keep it anchored, while the other pressed
against her skirt.
The creature materialized as she navigated the
last step, He was tall and chunky, with thick bands of
muscle where his shoulders would be. The uniform he wore
was ill-fitting, his wrists hanging beyond the cuffs. His
face was misshapen, as if the bones of his face had been
broken once and never properly healed. His eyes, however,
were alert and kind, his gaze now fixed on her face.
βBienvenu a Chateau Crannoch,β he said, in
soft but perfect French.
Surprised, she only nodded back at him.
He translated his words, bowing slowly to her
from his impressive height. βWelcome to Castle
Crannoch.β
βMerci,β she said. βIl est mon plaisir.β
How much of a pleasure was doubtful, especially since the
giant had made no effort to open the tall oak arched
doors. Beatrice doubted if she could manage one of the
iron studded pair by herself.
βHow may I assist you, mademoiselle?β
Must she get through this giant to reach the
duke himself? Her stomach rumbled, vying in sound with
the approaching storm itself.
βI have come to speak with the duke about a
position.β
The giant looked at her curiously but said
nothing. Instead, his attention was drawn to something
behind her. Without turning, Beatrice knew the stranger
had emerged from the carriage.
Her stomach clenched as he moved to stand too
close behind her. She straightened her shoulders,
avoiding the temptation to turn and ask him to move
aside. He would be waiting for her to do something just
that foolish. Or perhaps he was goading her to do so.
βThe duke is not available, Mademoiselle.β
βItβs all right, Gaston, Iβll see to the
lady.β
βIf youβre sure, Mr. Devlen.β
She turned to face him. He smiled down at
her, nearly as tall as the giant, Gaston.
βDevlen?β His name was too close to devil.
She had been transported here by Black Donald himself.
βDevlen Gordon. And you are?β He inclined
his head, waiting.
βBeatrice Sinclair.β
βIβll take Miss Sinclair to see my father,
Gaston.β
βYour father is the duke?β
βNo, but be certain to address him as such, it
would please him immeasurably.β
He offered her his arm, leaving Beatrice with
the choice of refusing his chivalry or touching him.
After a moment, he dropped his arm, ending her indecision
and her options. She had no alternative but to follow him
as he strode up the steps.
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