by Quinn, Paula
Skye quite thought it the most romantic thing.
One had only to look at them to see how in love they were.
Could everyone see how much she adored Quinn?
Was it as obvious as Liam and Emeline’s affection for each other?
Lord, she hoped not. Chagrin nipped at her pride.
It was one thing to gaze at someone with admiration when one knew the sentiment was returned, but quite another when no such words had passed between her and Quinn.
Shortly after Emeline’s arrival, the entire household—she and Quinn included—had embarked on a great adventure. Well, at least Skye had thought it a great adventure. They’d journeyed to Edinburgh and, once there, Liam, Quinn, and several other Scots, had foiled an assassination plot against dear Emeline.
She and Liam had married shortly after everyone’s return to Eytone Hall.
Skye plucked a late blooming aster blossom, fingering the delicate violet petals as she followed the meandering path.
He loves me.
He loves me not.
He loves me.
He loves me not.
She plucked the purple petals, one by one, a tiny smile arcing her mouth. There was no need for a flower to predict the outcome, for she was confident Quinn returned her regard.
A lone lavender blade extended from the aster’s center.
He loves me not.
Frowning, her shoulders slumping, she exhaled deeply and tossed the spent blossom aside. Flim flam.
He does care. I know he does.
Her musings turned to the other matter plaguing her peace of mind.
Several days ago—was it close to a fortnight now?—Mama had written and explained the delay in Skye’s returning home. Papa had taken a slight turn for the worse—nothing to fret over, she assured—but the two servants who’d also fallen ill were on the mend. The physicians were baffled at the nature of the lingering illness.
Skye expected to be bidden home any day. Unease niggled a trifle that she hadn’t heard from her mother again, but no doubt caring for Papa was most time consuming.
A chuckle escaped her, and a dainty, greenish bird flitted away from the branch it perched upon.
A man accustomed to being active and constantly busy, her father wasn’t a biddable patient, and Mama tended to fret overly-much. Hence, why Skye had been trundled to her cousin’s rather than risk her becoming ill, too.
Though she missed her parents awfully—she’d never been apart from her mother before—she couldn’t bear the notion of leaving Quinn. Even contemplating being apart from him brought hot, stinging moisture to her eyes.
When summoned, she must leave, of course. Even if he declared himself, she’d no choice but to return home. She adored her parents and wouldn’t defy them. Quinn had never mentioned marriage. Perhaps he felt it was too soon.
It wasn’t.
It didn’t matter that she knew next to nothing about him. From the moment she’d seen him in the drawing room, fingering a small cut on his chin, her heart had been his. She couldn’t find the words to express what had passed between them that day, but he’d been the attentive suitor since.
“There ye are,” came a familiar melodious brogue.
How she loved Quinn’s Scottish burr.
Not for the first time, he’d suddenly appeared; as if thinking of him conjured him to her side. Unable to contain her joy, she smiled, extending her ungloved hand. “I was just thinking of you.”
Waggling his eyebrows naughtily, he murmured seductively, “Indeed?” as he took her hand in his work-roughened palm.
“You are too cocky, by far.” She adored how playful and easygoing he was.
A boyish grin quirked his molded mouth. “Have I told ye how beautiful ye are today?”
Laughing, she shook her head. “You tell me that every day, Quinn. You’ve praised my hair, nose, eyes, lips, skin, the size of my feet and hands, and my voice. Though I know I am far from any such thing, you make me sound like a divine goddess or a vision of loveliness.”
He made her feel like that, too.
“’Tis true. I could gaze at ye forever and never grow tired. That shade of pink is especially becomin’ on ye. It makes yer skin glow.” Such warmth emanated from his pale green eyes, her toes curled.
Surely, he felt the same wild beating in his heart as she. The same yearning to see her when they were apart as she felt when away from him. She glanced behind him to the tall drawing room windows. Aunt Louisa stood framed behind the panes, and Skye reluctantly withdrew her hand. “My aunt watches us.”
That was unusual. Normally, Aunt Louisa didn’t fuss over Quinn’s time with Skye. Skye had always presumed she trusted him since he was such a good friend of Liam’s.
To his credit, Quinn didn’t glance over his shoulder, but instead offered his arm. He gestured to the aster and then to the verdant meadows beyond the tailored gardens. “I’m pretendin’ to expound upon the Highland’s many attributes,” he said out the side of is mouth. “Nod as if I’m impartin’ glorious knowledge to ye.”
Choking on a giggle, Skye dutifully bobbed her head and pointed to another shrub.
He bent near, inspecting the fading foliage, going so far as to lift a branch. “I have nae idea whatsoever what this plant is or anythin’ about it, except ’tis green.”
“What shade of green?” she quipped. “Fern? Pine? Holly? Sage? Rosemary? Grass?”
His expression unusually grave, a footman approached. “Miss Skye, the dowager baroness requests yer presence in the rose parlor at once.”
She exchanged a swift glance with Quinn. Was she to be chastised for permitting him to hold her hand too long? Summoning a smile, she said, “Of course. I shall come immediately.”
He bowed and retreated.
“Please excuse me, Quinn.”
“If ye’ll permit me, Skye, I’ll escort ye inside.” He gave her a wicked wink. “It shall afford me a few more pleasurable moments in yer company.”
“You are a flatterer, sir.”
“Only with ye, lass.” He pressed his hand atop her fingers resting on his arm. “Only with ye.”
How she wanted to believe that were true.
A few short minutes later, Skye entered the parlor.
Solemn-faced, Liam, Kendra, Emeline, and Aunt Louisa sat upon the matching settees. Were those tears in Aunt Louisa and Kendra’s gray eyes?
Liam promptly rose and came to meet her at the door. He took her elbow, kindness and something far more ominous glinting in his pewter eyes. “Come, Skye.”
She tossed a glance over her shoulder into the corridor. She wanted Quinn. Whatever was about to happen, she wanted him at her side.
Hands on his lips, his neck bent, he listened to something Simmons whispered in his ear. Quinn jerked his head up, his gaze tangling with hers across the short distance. Devastation glimmered in his beautiful eyes. He mouthed her name just as Liam guided her farther into the room.
“Something is amiss,” Skye said.
A statement of fact, not a question.
Liam and her aunt traded strained glances.
A nasty sense of dread curled around Skye’s ribs, constricting her lungs, and turning her cold from the inside out. She glanced to her aunt and each of her cousins in turn. “What is it? Tell me.”
Her mouth bent upward into a wobbly smile, Aunt Louisa patted the cushion beside her. “Sit here, my dear.”
Trepidation making her movements stiff, Skye sank onto the settee. Dread clawed at her stomach, and bile rose in her throat.
At once, her aunt took her hand in hers, and Kendra flew to sit beside her. On the opposite settee, her eyes awash in tears, Emeline dropped her gaze to her lap. She swallowed hard and pursed her lips as if struggling not to cry.
“Skye…” Her aunt’s eyelids drifted shut, and a fat droplet slid from the corner of her eye.
Genuine fear streaked down Skye’s spine.
“What has happened? Is it Papa?” Had he taken another t
urn for the worse, and that was why her mother hadn’t written?
Oh, God. Please. No.
Tossing propriety aside, Liam sat upon the table. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, grief etched into the rugged planes of his face. “Skye, I am so verra sorry to have to tell ye that yer mother and father have succumbed to illness.”
“Succumbed? Mama is ill, too?”
“My darlin’, yer father died nine days ago. Yer mother four,” Aunt Louisa murmured, her voice strangled and tinny.
Skye blinked, then blinked again. A low buzzing began resounding in her ears. She shook her head to quell the annoying sound.
Aunt Louisa wrapped a comforting arm across her shoulders. “The two servants who’d fallen ill survived. The physicians suspected plague since yer father recently returned from France. But they’ve ruled that out. They canna be sure what the cause was, but still believe yer father brought the illness home with him. And because yer mother tended him personally and didna protect her own health…”
Skye heard the gently uttered words, but her mind refused to believe the truth of them.
“No,” she managed through stiff lips, wadding her skirts in her hands until her fingers cramped. “You’re wrong. It’s a mistake.”
“Oh, Skye,” whispered Kendra, her brogue thick and tortured as fat teardrops plopped onto her lap. “’Tis no’.”
No. No. No!
“No!” Skye screamed, feeling as if her heart were being torn from her chest. “They cannot be dead,” she sobbed, darting her gaze around the room in an effort to find an escape from this excruciating pain. “I…” A great rasping sob tore through her, the agony eviscerating. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
Her breath stalled in her lungs, and she couldn’t breathe. Spots flickered before her eyes.
She dragged her attention to the doorframe.
Quinn.
He strode into the room, his mouth pinched into a grave line.
With a soft cry, she collapsed into Aunt Louisa’s side just as darkness claimed her.
Chapter Three
Quinn waited outside Skye’s chamber as he had every morning these past several days. He couldn’t help but feel he’d overstayed his welcome at Eytone Hall. He’d arrived unannounced over two months ago and until the past few days, he couldn’t consider leaving.
Skye needed him.
By no means had she recovered completely from her parents’ deaths. However, a tiny bit of color had returned to her smooth cheeks, and she’d begun to eat a mite more. Despite Liam’s thunderous scowl of disapproval, Quinn had carried Skye to her chamber that awful day she’d learned of her parents’ deaths.
He’d remained until the dowager baroness had shooed him out. For the next week, he’d taken up a vigil outside Skye’s chamber. Several times, he’d persuaded Liam or her aunt to permit him inside.
Often, under the stringent eyes of her maid, he simply held Skye’s hand and listened as she spoke of her childhood and her parents. Other times, he read to her, and he’d taken to haunting the kitchen to ask Mrs. Spence to prepare traditional British foods and dainties for Skye, which he made sure she ate a portion of.
He’d given her a week secluded in her chamber before he insisted she dress and venture to the drawing room. Her grief was overwhelming, but he refused to allow her to waste away from her sorrow.
Today, he had news he wished to share with her.
She’d not be happy, but he wanted her for his wife. Before he could ask Liam for her hand, he had personal business to attend to. He wouldn’t speak to her of marriage before he left. After all, she would remain in mourning for some time.
He believed he could deal with all of the loose ends and return within a fortnight. Then, he’d brave Liam’s disapproval and contend for Skye’s hand. It would’ve been much easier to approach Skye’s father with the request to marry her.
He didn’t know Quinn well.
Didn’t know of his questionable past.
Liam did, however, and although they were the closest of chums, Liam disapproved of Quinn as husband material for his cousin, now also his ward.
Skye emerged from her chamber and, as always, she offered him a fragile smile.
“Good morrow to ye, Skye.”
My dear one. My heart. The light of my formerly blasé life. My reason for risin’ from my bed each mornin’, and for each breath I inhale.
She’d entranced him from the moment they’d met, but her smile had sealed his love and devotion for all time. He knew with everything in him, that if he couldn’t take Skye to wife, he’d never marry.
Her somber black gown rustling softly about her trim ankles, she placed her long, delicate fingers in the curve of his elbow. “Good morning.”
“I have a surprise for ye.” He smiled down into her eyes, memorizing her entrancing features. The slope of her cheeks. The arch of her brows. Her bowed lips. “Do ye want it now, or after we break our fast?”
She cut him an amused, slightly reproving glance. “You cannot tell me you have a surprise for me and then expect me to wait until after I’ve eaten to discover what it is.”
He chuckled, drawing her nearer his side. Her delicate fragrance rose to his nostrils. “We’ll need to venture belowstairs.”
With a bit more spring in her step than there had been for ages, Skye accompanied him to the orderly kitchens.
“Good mornin’, Mrs. Spence. Is that item in the larder, still?” he asked, glancing about the tidy space.
Herbs hung from several hooks, and someone had been busy baking though the day was young. A long table near the window held a dozen loaves of bread, four pies, and two types of biscuits. If he wasn’t mistaken, one was shortbread.
He practically salivated from the delicious smells permeating the large room.
Mrs. Spence, her face ruddy and tinged with moisture, turned from the stove. “Aye, Mr. Catherwood.” A twinkle entered her kind eyes and she smiled, her cheeks forming plump apples. “I think Miss Skye will be mighty pleased.”
On impulse, he asked, “Would it be a huge imposition to request breakfast trays for Miss Skye and me in the drawin’ room, rather than us eatin’ in the breakfast room this mornin’?”
The cook cut a knowing glance to the closed larder door. “Nae problem at all. I’ll have them sent up after ye leave.”
“Whatever are you about, Quinn?” A brightness lit Skye’s stunning blue eyes he hadn’t seen in weeks.
He’d cut off his right hand to see that glow of happiness there every day.
“Come.” He took her hand and drew her to the larder. He cautiously opened the door then poked his head inside. Giving her a wide grin, he shoved the door wide and gestured for her to precede him.
She stepped inside and gasped. Lying on a folded blanket, its tiny paws covering its nose, lay a long-haired calico kitten. “Oh, Quinn,” Skye breathed, rushing forward and dropping onto her knees. She gathered the sleeping kitten into her arms. “Hello there, darling.”
The kitten blinked citrine eyes and yawned widely before reaching her paw out to bat at one of the fair curls over Skye’s ear.
“She’s adorable,” Skye declared, after checking the multi-colored little furball’s sex.
Quinn extended a hand to help her up.
Cradling the tiny kitten to her chest, she rose, her eyes shining. “Thank you. She’s simply precious.”
He stepped nearer, so close Skye’s lips were but inches away. He’d forbidden himself such delicious liberties until they were formally betrothed. Now he cursed his chivalry to the devil. Instead of kissing her as he yearned to do, he brushed a bent finger over her velvety cheek. Pray someday, he’d have the right to touch all of her silky skin.
“What will ye name the wee mite?”
As she often did when thinking or considering, she scrunched her nose slightly. Head canted, she ran a finger down the kitten’s spine which earned her a blink and the softest purring Quinn had ever heard began.
“Why, I don’t know,” Skye said. “I’ve never named an animal before. Have you any suggestions? Her coat is so colorful, like a patchwork quilt.”
He bent his neck, examining the kitten he’d rescued yesterday afternoon when he’d ventured to the village to post a series of letters. “She has a black patch over her eye.”
“Patches.” Skye glanced up, grinning. “I’ll call her Patches.”
His breath stuttered behind his ribs at the joy radiating on her face. “Perfect.”
Ten minutes later, they sat on the carpet before the hearth in the drawing room, playing with Patches. Skye had snipped a length of yarn from her aunt’s knitting basket and trailed it back and forth across the floor. Patches leaped and bounced in pursuit of the pale pink wool.
“I thought she could keep ye company,” Quinn said. He was leaving Eytone Hall this morning.
Skye swiftly raised her head, her acute gaze searching his. “You’re leaving?”
He couldn’t miss the distress in her eyes or tone.
A footman and a maid entered, carrying the breakfast trays, and she directed her attention to the frolicking kitten.
“Where would ye prefer these, Miss Skye? Mr. Catherwood?” the footman asked.
Skye indicated the table between the two sofas. “There will be fine. Thank you.”
The maid smiled and pointed to a bowl. “Mrs. Spencer sent a spot of milk along for the wee kitten. There’s a bit of diced chicken for her, too.”
“Please tell her thank you. That was most thoughtful.” Skye’s perfect manners didn’t quite hide her upset.
At least not from Quinn. He doubted the servants took any notice.
With a bow and a curtsy, the footman and maid departed.
Quinn angled to his feet then offered his hand to assist Skye. When she stood before him, he drew her near, her chest almost touching his.
A crease pulling her fair eyebrows together, she stared at his cravat. She was upset.
“I shall be back, Skye.” He tilted her chin up, his heart squeezing at the sadness she tried valiantly to disguise. “I promise, I shall. In a fortnight.”
She averted her gaze and swallowed before bringing her eyes back to his. “You will be careful? I should hate for anything to happen to you.”