To Bed the Bride

by Karen Ranney

  “The cottage doesn’t seem to fit you,” she said, feeling a little ridiculous by saying something so odd.

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “No,” she said.

  She took the cup he’d poured, and added some sugar to it. He excused himself once more and returned with two spoons, one for her and one for himself. His tea was doctored with cream and a good bit of sugar.

  It was a strange experience, holding the cup and saucer while Bruce was still on her lap.

  “Why not?” he asked. “What about the cottage doesn’t seem to fit me, exactly?”

  She had the curious thought that he truly wanted to know, that her opinion was important.

  After glancing down at the stack of books beside the chair, she answered him. “You would have put your chair beside the window where there’s better light,” she said. “Instead of in the corner there. Your sofa would be more comfortable and so would this chair. Your china wouldn’t have chips.”

  “I could have fallen on hard times,” he said, his smile nowhere in evidence. Instead, there was that curious, intent look in his eyes as if he were studying her. What did he see?

  She was too much a coward to ask. She had the feeling he would tell her the truth and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that much honesty.

  “I hope you like the tea. It’s from a small shop in London.”

  Another piece of the mystery. He lived in London, then, but he was a Scot. That was evident from his speech. What shepherd traveled to London? Or perhaps she was misjudging shepherds as a group. She knew little about sheep and even less about shepherds. She was often annoyed by her aunt’s friends who decreed certain things, some of them about her, without any knowledge whatsoever. Here she was, doing the exact same thing.

  “It’s a blend from India, made to my own specifications. I spent some time there, but not recently.”

  “Who are you?”

  “A friend of the duke’s,” he said. “Who so kindly allowed me to become someone else for a few days. A shepherd, in this instance.”

  The tea was excellent and when she said as much, he smiled.

  “Why would you want to become someone else? Was being yourself too onerous?”

  She was tiptoeing right next to the line between good manners and rudeness. Still, he had opened the door to the current topic of conversation. She had simply walked into that room.

  “Yes,” he said, surprising her. “Have you heard of the Battle of Magdala?”

  She nodded slowly. She’d read reports of it in the newspapers, one of which she read each day. Her father had insisted upon it.

  His words still resonated in her memory. Granted, Eleanor, you may not think that the world impacts your life, but it does in significant ways. It would be wise for you to be aware of it.

  “Mr. Disraeli seemed to think it was a moral victory,” she said.

  A look of surprise flashed over his face and was gone in an instant.

  Normally, she pretended an ignorance she didn’t possess, especially around men. With him, however, there was no such restraint. If he’d pretended to be someone else for a few days, so could she. Here, in this little cottage in the Highlands of Scotland, she could be Eleanor Craig, herself.

  Chapter Nine

  “How did you know about Disraeli?”

  “I read at least one newspaper every day,” she said. “It’s something my father insisted on.”

  “A wise man, your father.”

  “Do you really think so? Or are you only saying that because it’s something polite to say?”

  “Most people don’t accuse me of excessive tact, Miss Craig. I normally say exactly what I think, and I have in this instance as well.”

  “Were you at the Battle of Magdala?”

  “I was.”

  That’s all he said. Just two words. She had the impression that if she questioned him further he wouldn’t answer.

  Still, she felt compelled to say something. “So, you were a soldier.”

  “Of a sort,” he said.

  What did that mean? The longer they talked the more confused she became. She had a feeling that he did it on purpose in order to confound her.

  The puppy finally woke, stretching, then decided to chew on the fabric of her skirt.

  “Stop that, Bruce,” she said.

  “Bruce?”

  She nodded. “It seemed to fit him.”

  He regarded the puppy for a moment. “You’re right. It does.”

  When Bruce didn’t stop chewing she gently put him on the carpet, which meant that he attacked her shoes next.

  “See? He already has an affinity for you.”

  “I’m not prepared to raise a puppy,” she said, wishing she had a distraction. Something, anything to get Bruce’s attention away from her shoes.

  “What happened?” he asked. “Why are you so afraid of dogs?”

  He really did have a great deal of effrontery. Nothing stopped him from saying whatever he wished, including asking intrusive questions.

  She hadn’t intended to tell him, but she heard the story tumbling from her lips.

  “I was reading,” she said. “I was eight years old and my father was busy with a meeting at the stables. I grabbed one of my favorite books and went into the garden. There’s an old tree there that I liked to sit under so that’s what I was doing.”

  Everything about that spring day was stark and memorable. She recalled how the wind blew the hair onto her face. The sun was bright, filtering through the leaves and casting islands of light around her. She was wearing a yellow pinafore with a white apron and she’d already gotten the bottom of her apron soiled. It didn’t matter; her father would forgive her such a little sin. In minutes she was occupied with the story she was reading, a tale of a magical prince and a princess in hiding.

  Something had disturbed her. A sound, a movement, something that made her look up. There he was, a large brown dog with a black face. He was walking toward her, but something was wrong with his legs. He moved like a spider, not a dog. There was something wrong with his face, too. It looked swollen and he was drooling too much.

  “Don’t move, Eleanor.”

  She was so afraid that she didn’t even turn to look at her father. The dog approached her slowly, growling, his mouth open and his fangs showing. She knew something was terribly wrong because of his eyes. They looked strange, as if he’d suddenly gone blind.

  Any second now the dog was going to reach her.

  “Close your eyes, Eleanor,” her father said.

  Up until this point, she’d been obedient. Anything her father wanted her to do she’d done without complaint. On this sunny afternoon, however, she was too afraid to close her eyes for fear that the dog would jump on her. Her eight-year-old mind told her that if she kept her eyes fixed on him she could will him away.

  The gunshot was so loud that it sounded like it had gone through her right ear. The dog’s head disappeared in a spray of blood.

  Her father gathered her up in his arms, turning her face so she couldn’t see the sight. Yet she’d seen enough. Nor had she ever been able to forget it, even after all these years. She could still recall the terrible cold fear that chilled her insides and made her feet and hands feel like ice.

  Now she looked down at her intertwined fingers. “I didn’t realize until the other day that we’ve never had dogs at Hearthmere.”

  He didn’t say anything. Nor did he launch into a persuasive lecture on how that experience had nothing to do with the border collies or even Bruce. All he did was place his cup and saucer on the table between them.

  “Death is one of those things that makes an indelible impression,” he finally said. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget the sight of my first dead body. It didn’t matter that the man was an enemy or that he wanted to kill me. He was dead and all the hope of his life was gone.”

  “I hardly think that the death of the dog and that of a human being are similar.”

  “The beings aren�
��t, of course. Death is. Death isn’t simply the absence of life. It’s a presence of something malevolent. It’s an overwhelming force.”

  She remembered the newspaper accounts of the Battle of Magdala. If he had been there, he’d seen a great many people die.

  “That’s a terrible thing to have happen to you when you were a child. I still think it’s a pity, however, that we judge things so harshly.”

  When he didn’t say anything further, she finished her tea, placed her cup next to his, and sat back.

  She would not ask him what he meant. That’s exactly what he wanted her to do. Instead, she would simply wait him out. She wasn’t at all patient, but she was sometimes stubborn.

  “I met an Abyssinian,” he said. “An interesting man, someone who offered me water when I was thirsty. He was just like all the men who had fought us earlier. Part of me wanted to judge him like his countrymen, but he hadn’t tried to kill me. I saw him as a human being just like me, separate and apart from his nationality. I thanked him for the water and when I would have paid him for it, he shook his head and walked away.”

  “So I should accept Bruce because he isn’t like that rabid dog, is that it?”

  “It seems foolish to judge him based on the behavior of a totally different animal. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Why do you care?” she asked. “Why does it matter to you what I think?”

  “The easy answer is because you’re afraid. I know the emotion well and I would spare you that.”

  “And the hard answer?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea why, other than that you’re a fascinating woman.”

  No one had ever called her fascinating. They didn’t refer to her as a woman often, either. She’d felt like a girl for most of her life, unformed, unfinished, and unprepared.

  “One with a voice like a mother’s lullaby.”

  He smiled at her and the expression had a glint of mischief to it. “A silly thing to say, wasn’t it? However, I wanted to try to describe your voice and that’s the first thing I thought of. It makes you think of family and home and good things.”

  She felt her face warm. No one had ever said anything like that to her, either.

  They exchanged a long look. She didn’t know what he saw when he viewed her. Was it a foolish woman, held motionless in time because of an event decades old?

  “Is there something inherently wrong with being afraid?” she asked. “Must you banish fear or find some way around it all the time? It seems to me that fear is good in some instances. It keeps you safe. It gives you a warning. It urges you to be wary of your surroundings.”

  “Fear is not simply a sign of weakness to me. It’s an indication that I believe I’m not strong enough for what I must face. Or that I’ve already lost the battle. Perhaps fear has its place, but it doesn’t serve you well when you nourish it for a long time. Or when you hold it close and reinforce it with memory and a reluctance to challenge it. I suspect that you’ve held on to your fear of dogs to the point that it’s almost fossilized. I also think that, given the chance, you wouldn’t continue to feel that way. Most of us get in the habit of thinking or acting in a certain way because it’s simpler than changing.”

  She’d never been spoken to in such a way. Not even by her aunt when Deborah was extremely annoyed. Eleanor couldn’t decide whether she was hurt or angry or strangely admiring of Logan McKnight’s courage for speaking honestly. She had a feeling that he said what he thought to anyone.

  She’d never done that. In fact, there were whole days that went by when she realized she hadn’t been truly honest to anyone. If she awakened with a headache, she nevertheless told everyone at breakfast that she was feeling fine. If she thought the blood sausage was ghastly, she ate it nonetheless. If her aunt and cousin gushed over a new pattern the seamstress brought and Eleanor thought the dress was a horror, she never said anything. Everything about her life was one white lie after another.

  The only time she felt like she was truly herself was here in Scotland.

  “You don’t know me, Mr. McKnight. You have no idea who I am. You have simply taken a situation and blown it up in your mind to be whatever you wanted it to be. That’s hardly fair. Nor is it correct.”

  “Then you’re not afraid of dogs, is that it?”

  He was making her choices easy for her. She was trending toward anger, not hurt. Any admiration she might have felt for him minutes earlier was rapidly dissipating.

  “It doesn’t matter what I am or what I feel. You had no business simply dropping a puppy off at my house.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “I didn’t. In fact, I took a very great chance that you weren’t the kind of person who would cause him any hurt.”

  Now she was truly annoyed. “Of course I wouldn’t.”

  “Even though you think dogs are the devil’s companions?”

  “I don’t think any such thing. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Still, I’m pleased to discover that you seem to be a kind person.”

  “Of course I am.”

  “There is no of course about it, Miss Craig. The world is filled with people who are not nice or kind. I’m gratified that you aren’t one of those, but then, I couldn’t imagine you being anything but gentle, sweet, and caring.”

  He really shouldn’t say those things to her. She was about to tell him so when she heard Bruce growl. Looking down, she realized that he’d grabbed the fabric of her skirt between his teeth again and was now playing tug-of-war with it.

  Sighing heavily, she bent and extracted the fabric from his mouth.

  “You really are in a better position to care for him than I am,” she said, standing. “And to do so without any fear, real or imagined.”

  He didn’t stand when she did, which was rudeness in itself.

  “Eleanor, I didn’t mean to anger you. Or hurt you. My motive was to help.”

  He shouldn’t use her given name, either. It was too personal, almost intimate.

  “You assume a great deal, Mr. McKnight. More than you’ve any right to. As I said, you don’t know me.”

  “Does anyone?”

  She stared at him.

  “I would bet, Miss Craig, that you keep yourself well insulated from others. Perhaps for fear that they might discern how much of a sham you truly are.”

  If she’d had something handy and breakable she would have thrown it at him.

  “How dare you say something like that. How dare you examine my character and find it so wanting.”

  “On the contrary, I don’t find it wanting at all. You’re a fascinating woman. A mystery, I might even say. I believe that you have depths few people realize. Perhaps even you. I would also wager that you’re as constrained as any woman I’ve ever known. You really should allow yourself to be yourself, Eleanor.”

  “You should thank Providence, Mr. McKnight, that I am constraining myself at this moment. Otherwise, I do believe that I would cosh you on the head with something hard.”

  “That’s a sentiment that’s been repeated often in my presence.”

  “No doubt,” she said, heading for the door. Unfortunately, the puppy followed her.

  “See? What did I tell you about an affinity? He’s already developed an affection for you. Do you have that same effect on all males?”

  She glanced at him to find him smiling at her.

  If she’d had an umbrella she would’ve poked him right between the eyes.

  She really didn’t like this man. She didn’t dislike sparring with him, but she did dislike how much she was enjoying it. What a vile creature he was to incite her fury like that and then sit there and smile.

  Not just smile, but give her an understanding look as if he knew exactly what she was feeling.

  He had as much as called her repressed, some kind of boxed in creature who never revealed her emotions. There were plenty of times when she did so.

  He finally stood and followed her to the door. She wished he’d stayed where he wa
s, some distance away.

  “Does no one ever talk to you?” he asked, coming to stand much too close.

  “Of course people talk to me. What a ridiculous thing to say.”

  “Not about what a lovely day it is, Eleanor. Or how pretty your hair looks today, but directly to you. Of thoughts and feelings, perhaps. Of ideas, great and small.”

  Thoughts and feelings? Those were better kept to oneself. Ideas were the province of men. At least, that’s what her aunt had always told her.

  He bent and picked up the puppy who decided that he would occupy himself bathing McKnight’s face with kisses. All he did was smile down at Bruce.

  “Reveal yourself, Eleanor. Show the world who you are. Don’t hide yourself from anyone, however much you might fear their words.”

  He really was the most despicable man. Now was the perfect time to bring up Michael, but Michael had no place in this conversation.

  What a strange and shocking thought.

  No more shocking than what Logan did next. He drew even closer, reached out with one hand and placed it on the back of her neck. Without warning, he bent and kissed her.

  It was a sweet, affectionate kiss, holding hints of more. When he pulled back he was still smiling, the puppy curled into the crook of his arm.

  She turned, feeling her face flame as she left the cottage. He didn’t call after her or try to stop her from leaving. Not one word passed between them, neither explanation nor apology. Or, on her side, a condemnation for the unwelcome kiss.

  By the time she reached Maud she was nearly running. She didn’t know who she was fleeing: him or herself.

  Chapter Ten

  Eleanor had hoped to get an early start riding the next morning. Unfortunately, one thing or another took precedence, including her aunt’s letter. Deborah must have posted it a day after Eleanor had left.

  Her aunt giddily explained that she and Michael had set Eleanor’s wedding date.

  Eleanor read and re-read that sentence before putting the letter down on her father’s desk.

  Michael had said something about next spring as a wedding date, but nothing firm had been decided. Evidently, Michael and her aunt had chosen a date in May. In addition, he’d given Deborah approval to begin wedding preparations.