by Linda Ford
He loosened his hold a fraction to allow her to land the fish herself, but no sooner had he slackened his grip that she jerked forward again. “Help!” she called out.
His hands tightened once more on the rod.
Even as his rational mind remained cool, using his experience and knowledge to land the fish, another part of him felt ripped apart. This time it was no slight touch, but the greater impact of Miss Norton fully in his arms.
His senses felt bombarded with light and sound and color—the feel of Miss Norton’s shoulders against his chest, the splash of the fish as it surfaced and receded again, the tug of the line, the sheen of the water now that the sun’s rays had hit it, awakening its dark depths just as his own senses were being forced awake.
“He’s a big one,” he murmured. “And strong.” Miraculously his voice came out sounding steady and normal, and not as if he were being punched in the gut, knocked in the head, inundated with a sweet taste in his mouth, a roaring in his ears, light and sound exploding in him like a rocket launched in the desert night.
Miss Norton’s straw hat fell off and his chin bumped into her soft hair, its feminine fragrance hitting his nostrils like a potent elixir spreading to every particle of his being.
Oof! Her body hit his and he absorbed the impact, his arms involuntary tightening around her. He felt chilled and burned wherever his body touched hers. Dear heavens, what was happening to him?
* * *
Maddie fought the sensations assailing her even as Mr. Gallagher and she fought the salmon. They pitted their strength against it for several more minutes, and then as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The fish, spent from its valiant struggle, was reeled in and trapped in a net. Mr. Gallagher didn’t look at her, his attention fixed on the salmon, his fingers deftly removing the hook.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, her voice coming out breathless as she leaned over him.
“Yes.” He took the fish up in his hands. “I’m surprised it didn’t break your line. It looks a good two stone. Congratulations.”
For a second their gazes locked, hers lost in his deep blue one. “I—we both caught it,” she managed.
“He was on your line. He’s yours.”
She chuckled, the sound nervous to her ears. “Beginner’s luck?”
He looked away from her. “Whatever you want to call it, it’s still your catch.” He rose and placed the fish into the creel. “How about some breakfast?”
“All right.” She set down the fishing rod as he fetched the hamper, and she wondered if he was as intent on finding a task as she was. Did he feel as self-conscious as she did after the moments they’d just experienced? Now, it hardly seemed real. Had she actually been held tightly in his arms?
He laid out their simple breakfast of oatcakes and a flask of tea. She watched him furtively as she spread a plain linen cloth on her lap and received the oatcake he handed her.
He began to raise the food to his mouth, but froze in midmovement when she bowed her head. “Dear Lord,” she said, “We thank you for this beautiful morning, the bountiful fishing and for this meal we are about to partake of. Please bless it, in Jesus’s name.”
“Amen,” he repeated with her.
She bit into the cold oatcake, its hearty texture satisfying. As the two sat silently eating their breakfast, she replayed in her mind the feel of his strong arms around her. It had been more than the physical wonder of the contact. As she remembered the moments, she thought how wonderfully protected and how bound to this man she’d felt.
As the sensations receded, they were replaced by the quiet companionability of two souls in harmony. She sighed, glancing sidelong at Mr. Gallagher. How long would this interlude last?
How would she survive its end?
Chapter Nine
Try as he would, Reid couldn’t get the memory of Miss Norton in his arms out of his mind. Almost every morning the two went fishing together, but no other opportunity presented itself in that realm. Miss Norton proved an apt pupil and was soon almost as competent as he with rod and reel.
He’d never had a female as a fishing companion and found her all that he could wish for in an angling partner. Together the two would return with a laden creel, well satisfied with their catch, knowing they would enjoy the fresh trout and salmon for dinner. Without any conscious consent, neither mentioned Miss Norton’s participation in the fishing. His aunt and sister assumed the catch was solely his and the local gillie’s. He didn’t enlighten them and was glad Miss Norton kept silent, as well.
It wasn’t in his nature to deceive. Yet, he sensed his aunt wouldn’t approve of Miss Norton’s having some recreation time to herself. He observed how demanding his aunt was whenever Miss Norton was with her.
Thankfully, his aunt depended more on Vera now, and the two spent a good part of the afternoon in the carriage making calls on the neighboring lairds. Reid avoided these calls as much as he could. Whenever he managed to remain behind, he usually invited Miss Norton on a hike. The hills behind the manor beckoned, and he told himself he was doing his own Christian duty by making sure Miss Norton got a real holiday.
He found himself wondering at the oddest moments of the day—reading a fishing journal or a volume from the library shelves, staring out on a misty yard, taking tea with his aunt—what it would feel like to have his arms about Miss Norton again.
Would it be as shocking to his senses? Or would the familiarity of being with her almost every day diminish the impact? The only sensation he could liken it to was the keen anticipation he experienced at the beginning of an archaeological dig, when the promise of uncovering some long-buried pottery of an ancient civilization faced him, but that excitement appeared monochromatic in comparison to what he was feeling now.
After Octavia had died, he’d never thought to experience these kinds of feelings for any woman. Perhaps that’s why he’d avoided the company of women and buried his needs as deep as any ancient treasure.
But now he’d stare into space, his thumb and forefinger smoothing down his mustache, reliving the moment he’d held Miss Norton, until someone’s voice would bring him back to the present and he’d start, and blurt out something about the weather.
It was during a rainy afternoon as he sat in a warm parlor, the peat fire glowing in the huge stone hearth, his aunt and sister entertaining a local gentlewoman and her daughter that he hit upon a perfect solution to his dilemma.
In a lull in the conversation, he ventured, “Do you ever hold any dances here locally?”
His aunt and sister stared at him as if he’d just asked if it snowed on the moon. Mrs. Campbell, their visitor, turned to him with delight. “We haven’t had one in an age, but we do so love a dance, don’t we, Priscilla?” She turned to her daughter, who had been silent until that moment.
The young lady blushed and nodded. “Oh, yes, Mama.”
Reid’s gaze drifted to Miss Norton who sat by a window embrasure, working on her embroidery as usual. She hadn’t looked up during the exchange, and he wondered if she forswore dancing as some of the stricter evangelicals did. The dance plans would be for naught if that were the case. He braced himself and continued on, feeling like a plodder in the fine desert sand.
“We have a nice-size drawing room here.” He consulted his aunt. “It would serve for a dance floor. What do you think?”
“I—well, I hadn’t thought about it, but...” She turned to Vera. “What do you think, dear?”
Reid’s sister clapped her hands together. “A dance is just the thing. There are some ever so agreeable families in the valley. I could write to Cecily, as well, and ask her to come up for the weekend. Theo could accompany her.”
Aunt Millicent nodded her approval. “That’s a wonderful idea. Now when should we hold this dance? Mrs. Campbell, you must help me draw up a list of the local lairds and their families to invite.”
He ambled over to the window embrasure and glanced down at Miss Norton’s work, some sort of dark red tapestry.
“That’s very intricate,” he said.
She glanced up at him. “Thank you. It’s...it’s for a set of chair cushions for my parents.”
“I see. Do you dance?”
She raised her head again. “Dance? I...”
He seemed to have taken her unawares. He smiled slightly, feeling suddenly like a nervous schoolboy. “Yes, dance...waltz, polka, quadrille...if my memory serves correctly. It has been some years since I hosted a dance.”
Her cheeks were tinged a pretty pink. “It’s been some years for me, as well...since I danced.”
“I’m told it’s one of those skills one doesn’t forget.”
“I’m...not certain.”
The topic seemed to make her uncomfortable. He didn’t blame her. It wasn’t something he was easy conversing about, either. At least she hadn’t said anything disapproving about dancing. He tried another tack. “Do you have any—” how to word it? “—party outfits?” She always dressed quite severely in plain, dark gowns, which was appropriate for a paid companion he supposed, though he thought it a pity, that one of her years and...complexion should have to dress like an elderly widow.
“Party outfits?” She made it sound as if the words were foreign to her.
Before he could explain further, his aunt’s shrill voice interrupted them. “What are you two discussing? Reid, I need your help with this guest list.”
He turned to the other ladies. “I was just asking Miss Norton if she danced.”
“Miss Norton dance?” His sister’s horrified laugh irritated him. “Miss Norton is Aunt Millicent’s companion. She isn’t paid to dance.”
When had Vera become such a snob? “That doesn’t mean she can’t enjoy an evening’s entertainment, does it?”
“Reid, don’t be silly.” His sister’s voice took on that note he recognized whenever she took offense. “Now, come and help us invite some suitable guests.”
He didn’t argue further, knowing it wouldn’t do Miss Norton any good. For some reason, he felt she wouldn’t approve of his defense of her, either. With a murmured “excuse me,” he moved away from her. He’d make sure she felt welcome at the dance, but he wouldn’t do anything to draw attention to her.
* * *
Maddie sat perfectly still after Mr. Gallagher had moved away, her hands clutching the linen and needle, her head bent low over it. But her heart thudded with deafening rhythm in her chest.
He’d come expressly to ask her if she danced. Her face warmed in chagrin. He’d asked if she had any party dresses. She looked at the faded cloth of her skirt. For a man who didn’t seem to take note of the beautifully dressed women around him, he had noticed how unsuitable her garments were for such an occasion.
The only fancy dress she had brought with her was a gown several years old, given to her by her first employer.
Maddie raised her eyes and looked across the room. Mr. Reid sat with the ladies but spoke little. He seemed distracted. Probably thinking how he’d rather be hiking in the hills.
These last few days had been a paradise for her. Fishing trips in the early-morning hours, like being at the dawn of creation, everything untouched, unspoiled. Afternoon hikes through forest and hillside, over moor and meadow to stand far above the world.
She had never known such a wonderful companion. Quiet yet strong, sensitive to her every need, whether to stop and rest, or have a drink of water, or break for lunch. Her mind went back to that first morning when she’d landed the salmon. She’d been so happy to show him he hadn’t brought her in vain, that she wouldn’t be a millstone around his neck.
Somewhere, tucked deep down where no one and nothing could disturb it, was the memory of his arms around her. Enveloped, protected...cherished... The words rose unbidden.
Of course, she was sure he didn’t harbor any of those feelings for her. She could never forget the ring he still wore on his left hand. But deep, where no one was privy to her thoughts, she could dream it was so.
Her feelings sank back down the next moment when she remembered his last question. Did she own something suitable for the dance?
Well, if she were expected to make an appearance at this dance, and if...her glance went once more to Mr. Gallagher...if Mr. Gallagher were to notice her, the old faille and crepeline would have to do. She had no alternative. Besides, Mr. Gallagher was used to seeing her in her everyday gowns. He wasn’t prone to notice what a woman wore. She thought back to their first morning fishing and the close scrutiny he’d given her then. But that had been for strictly practical reasons.
Maddie sighed and poked her needle into the cloth. She’d best put all thoughts of balls and gowns out of her mind. Likely Lady Haversham—or Mrs. Walker—wouldn’t permit her to attend.
The thought brought her no relief.
* * *
Scarcely a week later, Maddie stood at the head of the massive curved stairway in the manor’s main hall. She touched the golden fringe along the pull-back drapery of her gown and swallowed. One last glance at the mirror in her room had not reassured her. She hadn’t worn such formal attire in years. She brought a hand up to her throat, feeling almost naked.
The gold silk faille with the bronze underskirt in crepeline had been the height of fashion at one time. The low-cut square neckline with its narrow lace frill edging and tight cap sleeves felt inadequate. She wished she had a shawl to drape around her shoulders, but she’d had nothing appropriate.
She heard Lady Haversham from the drawing room. Maddie could hardly swallow from nerves, but knew she must join the family before the guests arrived. Lord, be with me. With that prayer, she finished descending the stairs.
The others were already gathered in the drawing room. A fire blazed in the stone fireplace against the cool evening.
“Madeleine, is that you?” Lady Haversham eyed her through a lorgnette. “Good heavens, where on earth did you get that gown?”
Maddie stiffened, crossing her arms as if to cover herself.
“What’s wrong, my lady?” she managed with difficulty, feeling everyone’s eyes on her. If only Mr. Gallagher didn’t have to be among them.
Lady Haversham approached her, still examining her toilette through the glass. “Too many furbelows, for one thing.” She walked behind her. “Doesn’t suit you. Much too youthful for someone who’s on the verge of thirty. You must begin to dress more soberly.”
Maddie dearly wished she could sink into the floor beneath her, but the solid oak held firm. Her glance went across the room to Mrs. Walker in her plush burgundy velvet skirt and cream lace underskirt with its large appliquéd flowers in deep crimson. She must be at least Maddie’s age, if not older.
Before Maddie could disappear into some corner of the room, Mr. Gallagher approached her and offered her his arm.
“I think she looks charming, Aunt Millicent.” He smiled into her eyes, his blue ones offering warmth and support.
Maddie pressed her lips together, afraid they would tremble otherwise.
“Thank you,” she said, the sounds coming out in a whisper, before she looked away.
He led her to a side table. “What can I get you to fortify you before this revelry begins?”
“A...a lemonade would be fine,” she replied, hardly aware of what she was saying. He looked breathtakingly handsome in his black evening attire.
He stepped away from her and went to the sid
eboard. She fingered the lace at the edge of her bodice, feeling ridiculous. She touched her temple. Her hair was dressed differently, too, a few tendrils curled around her face and the rest drawn back loosely to the crown of her head, exposing more of her neck than she was accustomed to. Now, she wished she had a cap.
“Here you go.” She started at the sound of Mr. Gallagher’s voice.
She took the glass and napkin he held out for her and bit down on her lip to see her wrist shake. If Mr. Gallagher noticed, he didn’t let on. He had turned away from her but remained standing beside her. She almost wished he would walk away. She felt humiliated and his presence only bespoke pity.
“Am I late?” A feminine voice floated from the doorway, and Maddie’s heart sank at the sight of Mrs. Mason, who had made the journey from London the day before.
“Not at all, Cecily.” Mrs. Walker gave her two airy pecks on the cheeks. “You look lovely.”
“Indeed you do,” Lady Haversham echoed.
Mrs. Mason remained in the doorway a moment longer, her confidence in direct contrast to Maddie’s urge to hide.
Mrs. Walker nodded her approval. “Your gown is the latest fashion.” The teal-blue gown with its puffy sleeves reaching to the elbows, its wider skirt, the bustle in back less prominent made Maddie feel all over again how dated her own was.
“Who are we awaiting, every laird in the region?” She smiled at her witticism, then slowly entered the room, as if to give everyone in it the chance to admire her.
Mrs. Walker laughed. “I suspect we shall be swarmed by every respectable family from here to Inverness.”
Mrs. Mason stopped before Mr. Gallagher and eyed his glass significantly. He asked her immediately what she would have.
“A sherry, if you please.” As he moved away from them, Mrs. Mason glanced at Maddie’s gown. With her lips pursed, she ran her eyes over its length but said nothing. Instead she turned to wait for Mr. Gallagher.
When he returned, she thanked him. “I vow, I had my doubts about coming all the way up here for merely a dance, but now I begin to feel recovered.”