“I missed last practice, but I thought I heard we had a new arrangement of ‘A Mighty Fortress’ this year,” he said.
“We do if the busybodies‘ll let us get to it,” Tom Bergin said, climbing off the last step with a groan.
Ann glanced at Imelda Cartwright, who had paused at the door, and then back down at the keyboard. “Nothing has been decided,” she mumbled. “We’ll see how things develop.”
Imelda gave her hair a toss and marched out.
Develop, my foot. Alec pounded down off the risers. He waited for the last person to leave.
“Who is in charge here, you or that woman?” Alec didn’t need to specify which woman.
At her startled expression, he regretted his words. He ran an agitated hand through his hair. “I—,” he sputtered. “You—”
“I’m a newcomer, an outlander, Sir Alec,” Ann replied.
He could hear the irritation under her attempt at docility.
Good. You should be angry—at the Cartwright woman and me, as well.
“I’m not saying this well, Ann. I just—” I just want to know why you keep pushing your light under a bushel basket. He bit back the question.
She stared at him, eyes wide.
“I’m sorry. I have no right to pry.”
That surprised her. “What is it you wish to know, Sir Alec?”
Very well. She asked.
“I—” He took a deep breath and blurted out, “Sometimes when you are fierce about your music, you become another person. But then you let someone like Imelda Cartwright make you withdraw into yourself. Why do you do that?”
She swallowed. Hard. “No one wants an opinionated woman.”
“In the case of Imelda, I would agree.”
That drew a sad smile. “When a woman is assertive and”—she bit her lower lip. Her brows drew together as if her thoughts caused pain. He thought she wouldn’t go on, but she did—“and emotional”—she paused again, searching for words—“it gives persons a disgust of her,” she finished, at last.
That didn’t make any sense, unless…
“Ann, are you afraid what happened between us at Ramskeld gave me a disgust of you?” The thought horrified him. The truth in her eyes made it worse. “I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”
“You didn’t!”
That sounded positive. “Ann Dunwood, who told you these things a woman must or must not do?”
The mouse returned. She dropped her eyes. He put a knuckle under her chin and forced her to face him. “Whoever it was could not have been more wrong.”
“But isn’t it wrong to put myself forward? My father always said—”
Her father? Good God!
“What is wrong is hiding talent like yours,” he replied. “The parish deserves your best. The world deserves it. I— Well, I don’t know that I deserve it, but I value it, you must see that.”
She smiled then, and its warmth reached her eyes and spilled out. “Thank you, Sir Alec, truly.” Her eyes clung to his for a long moment as if searching for truth.
“As to what you felt—good heavens, woman—your feelings are as beautiful as you are.”
He had gone too far; the moment was over. Her cheeks went pink and her eyes shuttered again. She packed up her things with determination, closing the conversation. “Will we see you at choir from now on?”
He assured her she would. He counted her smile as progress, but deep in the night, fears rose to plague him. He forced himself to face an uncomfortable truth he had been avoiding: he wanted a wife but not another submissive, biddable one. Lucy, he admitted, had been a meek and colorless creature. No amount of passion on his part ignited an echoing response. He had no desire for another bloodless marriage.
Ann had appeared equally meek, many times. If he had not heard and seen her that first day, he might have believed her to be as pale and dull a creature as his wife. He yearned for the passionate, vibrant woman she became when she allowed the music to take her. The messages forced on children by their parents could be difficult to undo, however. He would settle for no less. If her father had taught her to rein in all that passion, how would he draw that vibrant woman into the open? Neither an answer nor sleep came to him.
Chapter Nine
Awkwardness destroyed Ann’s appetite. She moved Maud’s wonderful meal around on her plate like a fussy child, unable to do anything else. When Sir Alec sat across the table watching her with those probing eyes of his, how could she eat? She kept her attention on her plate.
“So, your teaching goes well?” Sir Stirling prodded. His questions about her time with Lillian filled the awkward silences.
“Yes,” she murmured.
Why did her reply draw a frown from Sir Alec? Lillian did well; that ought to please him. Does he expect more from me?
Ed Salter’s sharp gaze darted from Ann to Alec to his wife. “How go the Saint Andrew’s Day preparations?” He raised both brows at Maud.
His wife blinked twice. “Brilliantly!” her cheer sounded forced. “Ann has organized the choir to sing ‘A Mighty Fortress.’ She added a new harmony.”
Ann sat up straight. “Only if you don’t mind, Reverend Salter.”
“Mind? God Lord, we need someone to add life to the old celebration. New hymns would not go awry, either. Can you suggest some?”
“We didn’t practice it.” Sir Alec pretended to study his plate.
“But Mrs. Cartright said…”
The reverend rolled his eyes. “That old busybody would have us live in 1775 forever. She knows naught about music. Don’t you let her bamboozle you.”
Ann couldn’t hold back a smile. “I might have one or two to suggest, then.” Neither could she resist a quick glance at Sir Alec. His approval, obvious this time, made her heart soar. She took a bite of lamb while smiling down at her plate.
Maud didn’t seem to notice. “There’ll be dancing in the evening. Ann has agreed to play, now that we have that wonderful piano in the hall.”
Again, she snuck a peek at Sir Alec, but his growing pleasure only caused her more confusion. Did he approve of her playing? Did he wish to dance? Dare she hope he wished to dance with her? She now felt uncertain whether he disapproved of her behavior at Ramskeld or not, but she didn’t believe he entirely disliked her.
“Now, dancing might tempt me to stay over in Kirkwall,” Sir Stirling said with a smile.
“Your wife may think otherwise,” Alec teased.
Sir Stirling sat back, and a look Ann might have called “moony” came over him. “Without her, dancing doesn’t tempt as much.”
“Are there celebrations in the afternoon in Kirkwall?” Ann asked. “In Little Bottleby, the tradition was poetry reading.”
“Lord, no, not that,” Reverend Salter said. “There’ll be races in the common for the children, of course, some rougher competitions among the young men, and a concert in the afternoon. Didn’t Maud tell you?”
“A concert?” Ann asked.
“Hardly that,” Maud answered. “Auld Peter will want to serenade on the pipes, of course. Alec used to treat us to fiddling, but he hasn’t since—”
Since his wife’s death. Ann could the truth of that in Maud’s face.
“We can do better this year. We have a brilliant musician among us,” Sir Alec said, nodding at Ann.
“True enough! Would you consider playing in the afternoon, as well? That may be a burden, what with church services and the dancing.” Maud beamed at her.
“Music is never a burden.” She thought about it. “You mean an organ concert? What would I play?”
“Bach!” Sir Alec said.
“Why not? Auld Peter on the steps. You inside after.” Maud’s enthusiasm expanded.
“Or on that piano of yours,” Reverend Salter suggested, picking up the idea. “Did you find something in that cupboard Alec dragged over?”
Ann did not dare think of the sonatas, much less the duets. “Sir Alec plays well,” she protested. “Perhaps he
should play.”
“Why not the both of you?” Maud nodded to the servants to clear the table.
In the utter silence that greeted her suggestion, Ann stared at Sir Alec, trapped by the stormy blue eyes that examined her very soul. He undoubtedly thought about their duet. She remembered the warmth of his mouth and hands and the way the sensations set her on fire. She could not look away. She waited in fear for him to tell the company he could never play with her again. Worse, she feared he might explain why.
“That is an excellent suggestion,” Sir Alec said, at last. “Of course, it means we’ll have to practice. It is, what—two weeks perhaps—until Saint Andrew’s Day?
“Plenty of time. I know you, Alec,” Ed Salter murmured. “That is plenty of time.”
Too much time! Ann thought.
“So. Will you do it?” Sir Stirling asked, studying her with narrowed eyes.
It took Ann a moment to realize all eyes were on her. “Will I what?”
“Play with Sir Alec,” her benefactor responded.
“If—” She looked from one face to another and to Alec’s face last of all. “If you wish.”
A smile, slow and seductive, filled his eyes and penetrated her core. He wanted—she wasn’t certain what. “Excellent, Miss Dunwood,” he said. “I have duties during the day. Shall we practice evenings?”
Evenings. The two of them at the piano. Should she suggest a chaperone? “Which evenings, Sir Alec.”
“All of them,” he answered. “From now until Saint Andrew’s Day.”
Ann wondered what she had gotten herself into as the corners of his mouth turned up even further. What could she do but smile back? Joy spread through her as only music had ever done before—deep, warm, and toe-curling.
***
“James, walk with me a ways.” Alec had questions. Sir Stirling might have answers, if anyone did.
“Miss Dunwood seems pleased about the concert proposal,” Sir Stirling said when they left the vicarage garden and started down the street.
“Yes! Music is the one thing that seems to bring her out of herself—when she isn’t afraid to show her passion.”
“She does seem reluctant,” Sir Stirling said, studying Alec.
“Reluctant? She hides like a scared rabbit when attention turns her way. It is as if there are two of her, one this magical passionate woman…”
“And the other?”
Alec’s shoulders drooped. “A pale shadow. A meek, obliging mouse.”
“I gather you don’t find the mouse attractive.”
“No! That is, no one does, do they? Do people really want some drab they can order around?”
Sir Stirling stared at him longer than Alec found comfortable. “And you don’t. I thought not.” A smile spread across his face. “Good. What do you plan to do about it?”
“I wish I knew. What do you know about her father?”
“My sister-in-law described him as a despot. Other than that, nothing. Does it matter?”
“It may, if I can’t get past the mouse to the real woman underneath.”
“Before we go any further, I think I need to ask your intentions.”
“Honorable! You know me better than to ask. I don’t want another colorless wife who—” Alec broke off, embarrassed at what he had revealed. “Sorry. I want to court her, but I’m afraid my attentions will send her scurrying back into herself.”
“She agreed to two weeks of evening practice with you. That doesn’t sound like a frightened woman.”
“She did, didn’t she?” Alec grinned, hope growing.
“If you want the woman, you have to let her know. If you’re the man I think you are, you will find a way.”
Alec ran a hand over the back of his neck. “The music is our one sure ground. It will help.”
“I have every confidence you can convince the lady to show her true self,” Sir Stirling said. “Unfortunately, I have to sail on the tide tomorrow, and I can’t stay to watch the results. It has been a pleasure doing business with you.” They shook hands, and Sir Stirling walked away looking very pleased with himself.
Chapter Ten
The first night of practice, Sir Alec helped Ann sort the piles of music from the cabinet on a long table, pulling out etudes and lessons for Lillian and sorting sonatas from rondos, marches, and fantasies. They gravitated to Beethoven again and again, as if the composer’s great passion drew both of them like bees to honey. They rejected a march for four hands and chose a Sonata in D instead. That they sought a duet rather than two pieces had never been in question.
He led her to the piano by one hand, sending shivers up her arm, and began to pick his way through the unfamiliar piece. They went back and forth, each working through the music on their own and then together in a building partnership.
Her days began to revolve around those practice sessions, each one filling her with longing for the next. She taught his daughter and grew closer to her each day. One afternoon, Lillian’s brother burst into the room during her lesson.
“Lillian keeps saying her lessons are better than ours, Miss Dunwood. I came to check,” Wee Alex announced.
She assured him both were good, threatened him with long hours of practice, and promised she would walk along the shore north of town on the weekend. Lillian’s grin when he left rewarded her.
The choir met twice that week, and practices began to improve once she put her foot down to Imelda Cartwright. To her surprise, the others supported her. But her mind kept skittering to thoughts of her evening sessions with the man who also filled her restless dreams.
Within a week, Lillian went from three new scales to “Für Elise,” the choir took to Ann’s variations with enthusiasm, and Sir Alec’s presence beside her at the piano in the candlelit common room every night filled her world. He did not, to Ann’s regret, attempt to kiss her. Not even once.
If the depth of her frustration astonished her, her disappointment was balanced by his joy in the music and the warmth of his praise. She came to believe she had misjudged his reaction to their earlier encounter. He didn’t condemn her, after all. Perhaps. When they sat side by side every evening, she could not help leaning closer and closer until their shoulders touched. The warm smile when they bumped each other put to rest any remaining fears, but he still didn’t kiss her.
By Friday night, with the concert looming five days away, they could play the piece through with neither hesitation nor error in the perfect harmony. They ended on a final chord, hands rising in unison, and grinned at each other.
She couldn’t say when the grin faded and something warm and enveloping came into his eyes. His gaze moved to her mouth, her lips parted, and anticipation of the longed-for kiss made her heart race. He leaned so close, his breath teased her lips. Her eyelids drifted shut, but his kiss didn’t come.
He gave a soft sigh. “Miss Dunwood, would you do something for me?”
Her eyes fluttered open, fearing rejection but seeing warmth.
“Would you play the Moonlight Sonata for me?” he asked, pulling back several inches.
She couldn’t speak. She gave him the only answer she had, the sad lament of the first movement. Could he hear her longing in it? Perhaps he did, because before she could go on to the second movement, he hovered over her, his breath hot on her cheek.
“Miss Dunwood—Ann—may I kiss you?” he whispered.
Her response was a faint moan. She turned her head so that their mouths were inches apart. His lips brushed hers gently, respectfully, and she responded in kind.
“Please,” he pleaded. “I—”
She reached for his neck, ran her finger into his dark hair, and drew him back. His mouth met hers again, less gently this time, probing and demanding. She opened to him, and they lost themselves in the kiss, still sitting side by side in front of the keyboard. He ran a searching mouth across her check to the sensitive spot beneath her ear, making her lean in closer.
“I’ve yearned to do this, to taste you,�
� he murmured against her skin.
She kissed his neck, smiling against the roughness of his evening beard.
He pulled away then and studied her face while her hands clung to his coat. “My behavior at Ramskeld shamed me. I imposed on you,” he said.
“Imposed?”
“Very much so. A gentleman doesn’t thrust his attentions on a vulnerable young woman who is a guest in his house. I feared, very much, I had given you a disgust of me.”
“But I thought—” she broke off in confusion. It was his own behavior that caused him to pull away?
“What did you think?” He took her hand in his and curled their fingers together.
“I thought you disliked my behavior that night.”
His laughter echoed through her. “Disliked it? Your response delighted me! Too much, I fear.”
“But I acted like a wanton.”
“You acted like a passionate woman. You responded to my attentions with all the warmth I could have wished. I dared hope you might wish more.” A sharp line appeared between his eyebrows. “Whoever told you to be ashamed of your feelings was a fool.”
Ann looked down at her hands, still entwined with his, and swallowed to clear her dry mouth. “You hoped I wanted more?” The wonder of it overtook her.
His frown deepened. “Couldn’t you tell? Someone hurt you, didn’t they? That must be the explanation for the way you pull back. Damn them, whoever they are. I suspect someone taught you to hide your talent, too, as if the great music makes you a wanton. Hiding that talent would be the world’s great loss. Promise me you won’t hide your lights under bushel baskets any longer.”
She dared to kiss him at that, a quick salute to his mouth, and then a more lingering one. He responded with echoing passion. “Do you recall the morning you left? I said I hoped to court you.”
Did he? She had been so upset she missed half of what he said. Now her astonishment increased ten-fold. This brilliant, attractive man wished to court her!
He squeezed her fingers. “So, Ann, dare I hope you have some interest?”
She wanted to leap into his arms. Instead she clung to his hand. “What of your children?” She gulped back worries.
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