“Have you made a decision yet?”

Edmund MacLainn, Earl of Kinfallon, clenched his teeth at the question. Bloody hell, they hadn’t even reached his study yet and already Perry Selfridge was badgering him for an answer.

Edmund cleared his throat, keeping his pace steady as he strode toward the stairs leading to the north tower. He could feel the Lowland esquire’s eyes on his back, but he refused to respond just yet.

As he began trudging up the narrow spiral stairs, Edmund silently cursed himself. He ought to have been sitting in his study for Selfridge’s arrival. He could’ve been waiting behind the enormous oak desk when Mrs. MacDuffy showed the man in. It would have asserted Edmund’s position—he was an earl and the keeper of the Kinfallon estate, not to be brow-beaten by some English-educated Lowland auditor into selling off his ancestral lands.

But Selfridge had caught Edmund just as he’d been about to ride out to a few of the crofters’ farms. It had been far too long since he’d seen to his people. It very well might already be too late, but Edmund at least had to try to save the Kinfallon legacy.

As he shoved open the wooden door to his study, Edmund cursed himself again. Nay, he shouldn’t have been positioned behind the desk, waiting for the esquire. He shouldn’t have brought Selfridge here at all, for the combination of dust and stacked papers covering every flat surface in the study only played into Selfridge’s hand. Edmund had been neglecting his duties. He’d let the management of the estate get away from him these last two years, and now he was so far behind that he feared his only option would be to acquiesce to Selfridge’s scheme.

Nay, he had one more option.

Edmund crossed the study and came to a halt before the narrow window carved into the ancient stone wall. The opening was little more than an arrow slit, once used by long-dead men to defend this place. All the windows in Kinfallon Castle had been glassed many years ago, but that touch of modernity only highlighted the age of the medieval keep. The castle was from another time, a reminder of Edmund’s responsibility.

“Well?” Selfridge prodded.

Edmund eyed the sloping, golden-brown hillsides through the glass. Rain had been falling intermittently all day, and now a thick mist was settling over the tops of the Scots pines and winter-bare oaks in the distance.

“I havenae decided yet,” he said at last.

Selfridge moved behind the desk to stand next to Edmund at the window. “But just think of it, my lord,” he urged. “Your land could be producing double—perhaps triple—what you currently make in rents from your crofters.” He swept his hand across the little square of rugged landscape framed by the window. “Sheep can graze far more hours each day than a farmer can work. Your income would—”

“I have no need to squeeze more coin from the land,” Edmund cut in, his voice coming out sharper than he’d intended. He drew a breath before continuing. “I dinnae keep a house in London, nor do I feel the urge to stay abreast of the latest trends, as ye can see.”

Edmund meant the dark, outdated condition of this ancient castle, but Selfridge’s gaze flicked over his clothes. Edmund’s lips compressed. He’d donned a kilt, riding boots, and a simple woolen coat for his trip to the crofts. The crofters were more welcoming when he was dressed like a Highlander rather than an Englishman. And besides, it was damn comfortable.

Still, he looked like a barbarian compared to Selfridge, who wore a smart burgundy frock coat, charcoal trousers, and pristinely polished black shoes. The man’s snowy-white cravat bobbed as he coughed.

“Indeed,” Selfridge said vaguely. “But…” He cast his gaze about, clearly searching for another angle to approach the topic. “But surely you will need funds if you are to keep this castle in working order.”

The list of repairs was never-ending—crumbling stones here, leaky roof there, and a near-constant effort to seal out the drafts. But Selfridge didn’t need to gain yet another advantage with that knowledge. “We get by,” Edmund said simply.

Selfridge’s blue eyes lit up at that, and belatedly, Edmund realized his mistake. We.

It was all the opening Selfridge needed.

“Ah,” he said, tilting his dark blond head in a show of sympathy. “Yes. I passed through the village on my way from the Sutherland estate. There is talk that you have had to let your sister’s latest companion go. Lady Clarissa’s wellbeing certainly must weigh heavily on your mind, my lord.”

In that moment, Edmund hated Selfridge. He hated the man for the faux concern shining in his keen eyes, hated the sound of his posh, put-on English accent. But most of all, he hated him for the subtle threat in his words. He was letting Edmund know that the gossips were already hard at work spreading tales about his mad sister and Edmund’s latest failure in securing help for her. And he was reminding Edmund just how precarious his position was.

Edmund had been so preoccupied with Clarissa’s health that the notices, inquiries, and accounts on the estate soon piled up. The embarrassing truth was, Edmund had no idea where things stood. He—and Kinfallon—might be in dire straits for all he knew. Selfridge’s constant urgings for Edmund to clear his lands of farmers and replace them with sheep was no doubt aimed at exploiting that distraction.

Selfridge had accomplished such clearances for the Countess of Sutherland several years ago when he’d served as her factor, the manager of her lands. The move had lined both the Countess and Selfridge’s pockets heavily—and displaced thousands of farmers who’d worked the land for generations.

When some of the families refused to be carted off to the coast to become fishers and kelp collectors, crofts had been set on fire, a few with their residents still inside.

Edmund clenched his fists, his thoughts drifting up to his sister, who was in her chamber at the top of the north tower. Many had suffered. Innocents had died. All were eventually broken into submission. Cheviot sheep now covered the Sutherland estate.

Edmund would be damned before he saw that happen on the MacLainn ancestral lands. But with Clarissa’s mind in pieces and no one able to help, Edmund had let his duties to his people and the estate go unattended. If Edmund failed again in finding someone to look after his sister, he would never be able to work through the stacks of paper covering his desk. And he might just have to accept Selfridge’s proposal to clear Kinfallon of its people and replace them with sheep.

Winter was nearly upon them. The fields were fallow now, and would remain so until the spring. If he was forced to displace his people and follow Selfridge’s scheme of sheep grazing, Edmund refused to do it in as cruel a way as the Sutherlands had. They would need a few months to move, to adjust to their new lives before spring came. Which meant that Edmund was running out of time to make a decision.

He had one last hope—for Clarissa, for his people, for all of Kinfallon. And that hope was to arrive any day now.

“As I said, I havenae reached a decision yet,” he said, turning away from the window. He let his hands rest on the edge of the cluttered oak desk. Bloody hell, how was he ever going to make this right? His thumb rubbed along a nick in the wood, its edges worn dark and smooth by generations of MacLainns worrying the same spot.

“One month,” Edmund murmured as he absently slid his thumb over the divot. One month was enough time to know if the woman he’d sent for would be up to the task of aiding Clarissa. Hell, most of the others he’d hired hadn’t lasted a fortnight. And one month would buy him time to go through these papers and determine if the estate was still solvent.

Edmund looked up to find a slow smile breaking on Selfridge’s face.

“Very well, my lord.”

“I’m sure ye can see yerself out,” Edmund said, straightening. Though the mist had grown heavier over the course of their conversation, Edmund longed to begin the ride that the Lowlander’s visit had delayed. He needed to clear his head—and get to work. His people—and all those who’d come before them—were counting on him.