There was already no drawing back from the course he’d taken today, not unless he wished to confuse her even more than he had already confused her.
There had never been any hope for them.
Max let his head bow deeply. Convention was pathetic, yet convention bound him, bound them both. In the name of convention he’d been persuaded that to pursue Kirsty would be cruel, cruel to her, and disastrous for himself.
Lucky Max. Max, the man who, as a wild ragamuffin boy, had been rescued from the gutter and presented with a silver spoon to which he had no right. And now that silver spoon was choking him.
A tap sounded at the door, and the elderly butler came in. “Miss Mercer’s here, sir,” Shanks said, sniffing, his thin, beaked nose elevated. “I’ve brought her in as you said.” His bald skull glistened. Apart from becoming even thinner, somewhat more stooped, and increasingly disapproving of almost everything, he seemed unchanged from when Max had first come to Kirkcaldy as a lad.
“Thank you, Shanks,” Max said automatically. “Please make sure we aren’t disturbed.”
The man lowered his eyes and stood aside to admit Kirsty. Once the door closed Max was certain he’d made a horrible mistake. He should have kept to his promise of some years earlier and made sure he and Kirsty were never alone together in the same space again.
Composed, her head held high, she regarded him with suitable deference, suitable but for the trace of bright question in her eyes.
He looked back, but could not summon a smile. To stand just so seemed a painful pleasure. Each second, each word from now on would take them from this point where neither harm nor good had been done, to . . . Where would they go from here—if anywhere?
Words crowded forward. All the wrong words. You are as much a part of these beautiful hills as you ever were, Kirsty Mercer. I have tried not to see you, to really see you. And while I would not look at you, I could not look at the hills. Take off your bonnet so I may see your blond hair closely. May I touch your hair? Your eyes are unchanged. Beautifully clear and the most brilliant blue I ever saw. Once I wondered if I should ever kiss your mouth. I still wonder. So soft. And your skin—the freckles are there, a sprinkling— and a faint glimmer as if a bloom of silver were dusted over your cheeks.
He drew in a great breath and settled his features in an austere mode. If she had touched him, he could not feel her more acutely. His own skin, his body, felt open, exposed, raw in the way that wounded tissue felt raw.
A curtsy, her curtsy, caught him unawares, and he flinched. She bobbed a curtsy and dipped her head.
Natural grace.
Max cleared his throat and walked around his desk to pull a small leather wing chair forward. “Sit down, please, Kirsty,” he said formally. “I’m glad you could come.”
“Thank ye.” She sat with ease enough, and folded her thin, pale hands in her lap. Her simple, gray cotton dress was unrelieved but for a high, white-lace collar and matching cuffs. With none of the usual feminine fluffing or smoothing of skirts, she settled and looked at him direct.
A club for two. A club for wishin’. Long ago. Only a memory.
She hadn’t changed, not really. Devoid of any paint, her face glowed from the fresh air. The bonnet she wore was of straw, of unremarkable style, and lacking in adornment.
Kirsty Mercer needed no adornment.
“Ye asked me t’come,” she said, her eyes steady, but no longer showing anything of what she might feel.
Max pushed back his coat and shoved his hands into his pockets. Already his rehearsed speech sounded ridiculous in his mind. “How are you?”
“Well, thank ye. And yoursel’?”
“I’m very well, thank you very much.”
She nodded, and took a deep breath that raised her small breasts inside the stiffened bodice of her dress. Her waist was tiny. How thin she’d been as a child, and a girl. Then, before his eyes, the coltishness had softened to slender, gracefully gentle curves.
“Ye sent for me, sir.”
Sir. The urge to remind her that he’d been “Max” wasn’t easily quelled.
“Mr. Shanks said ye were insistent. Ye sounded angry, so he said. I hope I’ve no’ failed in my duties.”
“Shanks is a fool,” Max replied. “If the marquess weren’t so wedded to tolerance, he’d have let the man go years ago. Of course you haven’t failed in your duties. How could you?”
“I dinna know, sir. I just thought—”
“Well, you thought wrong. And I’m surprised at your faulty reasoning. You were always sharp of mind, Kirsty— too sharp—” Stop, you fool. He threw up his hands and sighed, and went to sit on the edge of his desk. “Forgive me. I’m troubled. I shouldn’t allow those troubles to shorten my temper. Not with you. Never with you.” His tongue would give him away yet.
Her expression became intent, so intent he felt an unaccustomed discomfort before her scrutiny. A slight movement brought his attention to her hands. No longer carefully relaxed in her lap, the fingers were curled into her skirts.
This was going badly.
“It’s been a long time since you and I were children together, Kirsty.” What was there to lose by being direct? “The time seems to have flown. But then, childhood does fly, doesn’t it?”
That shimmer on her skin—so familiar—like dew on flowers. And her full lips were as pink as ever, her chin as pointed, her nose as charmingly tilted. Her pale brows winged upward slightly.
“It’s no’ so long ago,” Kirsty said quietly. “There’s moments when it seems no more than an hour past.”
“Our childhood?” he pressed, unwisely, he knew.
“Childhood,” she said tersely.
Max swallowed, then cleared his throat. “This was beautiful country to grow up in.”
“It’s beautiful no matter when, sir. The most beautiful place in the world.” She rolled her r’s softly. Now she did not look into his face.
“Hm.” His lauded way with words had deserted him. All he wanted was to move nearer to her, to observe her more minutely. “Your family?” he asked, pushing upright from the desk and leaning over her.
“They’re all verra fine, thank ye,” Kirsty said. “They’ll be wonderin’ where I am soon enough.”
“Your routine never varies, then? The hours when you come and go? That must become tedious to one with so free a spirit.”
She inclined her head and looked up at him, and he saw his Kirsty in the firm set of her mouth, the quizzical pulling together of her brows. “Routine’s no’ a bad thing. For the likes o’ us it can be a comfort.”
“The likes of you?”
“Simple folk of no particular importance.”
The urge to argue was automatic, but he was wasting time. If he wasn’t careful, Arran might arrive for his daily consultation. Most men in his uncle’s position would expect Max to wait upon him. A musical composer, and an intensely private man, Arran preferred to come to Max, and to come when he was ready.
“Take off your bonnet.” Instantly aghast both at what he’d said and the abruptness of it, he smiled and hoped he tempered his inappropriate behavior.
Kirsty said, “I’m ready t’away home, sir.”
“Presently you’re with me. I have matters to discuss with you, and I should like you to be comfortable.”
“I’m comfortable enough,” she said, and got up so abruptly that she startled him.
Edging past him to do so, she went to the window and stood on tiptoe to look out through leaded panes bowed with age. She held the stone sill.
The gray dress might as well be blue and white. The sight of her took him immediately back to that day in her parents’ croft. He had hugged her, and she had returned that hug. And they had never touched again.
Max opened his mouth to breathe.
In most ways she was no different from the sixteen-year-old he’d left at her mother’s kitchen table that day. Her straight back was as narrow, her air still that magical mixture of fragility and lissome s
trength. Kirsty was magical.
“I’ve no’ seen the land from here before,” she said. “I wonder ye’d choose t’work here.”
Mesmerized, he walked behind her, but rather than look through the window, he looked down at the curls that escaped her bonnet at the nape of her neck. No, she was hardly changed at all.
“I’d have chosen a different place meself,” she told him. “You don’t like it here?”
“Och, aye, I do, o’ course I do. It’s verra fair. But I’ve a notion I’d no’ do my work, I’d be moonin’ t’be out there.”
Max raised a hand, but stopped himself from touching her. His fingertips hovered so close he felt the warmth of her. He closed his fist and flyaway hairs floated free of her curls to greet his knuckles. His skin stung with the need to put his hands on her, to feel her against him.
A salve to his soul? He barely contained a bark of laughter. More likely she would become as salt in a million open wounds he bore, yet he would take the pain gladly.
“I see you, y’know, Kirsty,” he said, when he could speak again. “Often.”
She stood quite still.
“I mean, I’ve noticed you about the castle from time to time.”
Her fingers whitened where they gripped the windowsill.
“Aye, sir, and I’ve noticed ye from time t’time, too. It’s no’ so big a place that a body can disappear.”
“Oh, I think a body could very well disappear if he or she chose. My uncle is only seen when he chooses.”
“Your Uncle Arran—the marquess, that is—is a wonderful man. His music’s so beautiful it fair breaks my heart t’hear it.”
“Of course—”
“My mother and father think him the best there is. An’ there’s never been a better husband and father than t’marquess.”
“True,” Max said, smiling a little. He’d forgotten how the Mercers worshiped Arran, who was a champion to his tenants. “Arran and Grace are—”
“They care about everyone, and if they think themselves better than any, then they hide it well. There’s none who’ll tell ye otherwise.”
“I’m sure—”
“O’ course some say the more a body’s sure o’ himself, the less he takes himself away from the common folk, and puts on airs and thinks himself great in the eyes of God and man.”
Max sensed a tightening in her slight body. He felt she had chastised him for what she perceived as his arrogance. He wanted to say, I’ve hurt you. I’ve gone on and on hurting you. But I’ve hurt myself, too, and it has all been because I feared for you, Kirsty Mercer. True, I wanted to do what would please my father, but even more I didn’t want to subject you to a life you were never meant to lead.
“I’d really best be on my way.” She dropped from her toes and turned away from the window.
When she turned, she confronted his chest. She gasped and stepped sideways. “They’ll worry about me.”
“The children are old enough not to need a nursemaid,” Max remarked, and silently cursed himself for his awkwardness. “I refer to the Stonehaven children. Lady Elizabeth is eighteen, older than you were when we . . .” So much for prepared speeches. “She’s a young woman, and Niall’s only two years younger.”
Kirsty threaded her fingers together at her waist, and said, “The marquess and marchioness feel strongly that their children not be sent away t’school too early.”
“The marchioness feels strongly. And the marquess— well—Niall will go to Edinburgh in the autumn. He must. Elizabeth should have made her season this year. She will do so next year.”
“There’s still Master James,” Kirsty said. “He’ll no’ be away so verra quickly.”
Max clasped his hands behind his back and paced to the fireplace. The room smelled of old leather books, and polish, the scuttle of coals on the hearth, and brass polish. And it smelled faintly of the sweet woodruff that was Kirsty’s own scent.
“The marchioness will not want her bairn t’leave her yet. She’ll have him stay at least as long as she’s had the young viscount with her.”
He had already said too much on that subject. Rather than lead her to be open to what he intended to suggest, he was managing to frighten her into thinking she might be about to lose her place because she wasn’t needed.
“Do you still read?” he asked her suddenly, swinging to face her, and pacing back across the room. “And take interest in worldly matters?”
She blinked, the tips of her gold lashes catching a shimmer from the sun’s lowering rays. “O’course I still read,” she said, frowning. “How would a body ever learn to read and then not read?”
“Some do.”
“Then they dinna know what they waste.”
“And the worldly matters? Do you follow what happens?”
“Yes.” A worried shadow entered her eyes. “I only deal with the simplest of areas of instruction, sir. But I know I’m competent in my tasks.”
“Naturally. I taught you a great deal myself, remember.”
She became quite pink. “Indeed. And I thanked ye for it often enough. Or I did when there were times when I could speak t’ye. I thank ye again now.”
“I don’t want your thanks,” he told her shortly. Why could he not control such sharp rejoinders? “How about your numbers? Have you had reason to use them?”
“Oh, yes. Miss Lamenter prefers that I instruct the young masters in that subject while she’s about Lady Elizabeth’s watercolors and the like. And I teach them . . .” Her voice faded.
“It’s all right, Kirsty. I shan’t chastise Miss Lamenter, or mention that you’ve been doing her work. In her position I should have done the same thing.”
“May I go now, please?”
“No.”
“Thank you . . . No?”
“No. No, I think you shall stay exactly where you are, miss. I have a good deal to discuss with you about the plans I’ve made for you.”
An even deeper shade of pink washed her cheeks. “There is talk about your—” She stared at him. “Ye never used t’be so sharp o’ tongue.”
“Talk about my what, Kirsty?” He contrived to appear only vaguely interested.
“I . . . Oh, I dinna know.”
“Don’t you?” He did, but he wouldn’t press her. Rather he would set about proving his detractors wrong—if he could manage to change himself. “Kindly take a seat again and be comfortable.” Surely with Kirsty near he would become his old self.
“My family—”
“I took the liberty of arranging for a message to be taken to them.”
“Did ye now?” The words were tart, but weakly delivered. “It might have been nice if ye’d told me as much when I arrived.”
He bowed. “You’re right. Forgive me, please. We might as well be frank. This is no easier an interview for me than for you. Neither of us forgets that we were once . . . We were childhood friends and companions.”
The corners of her mouth turned down in a sardonic smile. “Another age. I remember o’course, but I’ve too much t’do to think o’ foolish things.”
They both knew they were dealing with deep discomfort.
He refused to believe she considered their years of being inseparable allies as “foolish.” “Come then,” he said, standing by the wing chair. “Let us continue.”
Soft skirts swishing, she did as he asked.
“You do agree that your duties with the young Stonehavens are growing less demanding?”
“Aye.” She looked up at him, and he saw concern in her eyes.
He could bend over her and kiss her. He could kneel beside her and take her in his arms.
And she could shriek and rush from the room.
Max crossed his arms and returned to sit on the edge of his desk. The fire hissed. The flames sent a sheen over the leather bindings of books that crowded the walls in untidy disarray.
He glanced at the portrait of his sister, Ella, above the mantel and wished she were here to advise him in person. By lette
r she’d told him she applauded his decision to approach Kirsty, but since Ella was in the very late stages of her third pregnancy, she could not travel.
“Ella’s well?” Kirsty asked, startling Max. “And Saber, and the wee ones?”
“Oh, yes.” Ella was his biological sister. They’d had the same mother but had never been certain as to the identity of their father.
“You think I’m—” Kirsty paused for breath “—I’m likely to be let go here? If ye know, I’d appreciate knowin’, too. We’re no’ poor, o’course, but what I earn does help, and—”
“That’s not why I asked you to come.” Damn his insensitive, bombastic bumbling. “I want you to work for me.”
Her hands stilled in her lap. The pink drained from her cheeks.
“You have a most competent mind, Kirsty, and I have need of a competent mind to assist me in the complicated task of running this estate.”
She stared at him so long he wondered if she understood at all. Then she looked around the room. “Runnin’ the estate? I’m no’ qualified t’help wi’ any such thing, and ye know it well.”
“I know that you learn more quickly than any man or woman I know. You learn more quickly than I do.”
“Your assistant?”
“Yes. I would instruct you in your duties, and you’d soon become indispensable to me. I should particularly appreciate your taking over the task of running the estate office, dispensing wages, documenting needs and complaints.”
“A woman in such a job?” she said, obviously to herself rather than to Max. “There’s never been such a thing.”
“It’s past time there was.”
Her eyes snapped into focus. “Why me? Why would you choose me?”
Because I want you with me. I want an excuse to see you every day. And he wanted more, but that could never be, so he would take what he could get.
“I’m choosing you because I consider you the best candidate.”
“There are men who have worked for you, and for Caleb Murray before you, who are more than capable.”
“But not nearly as capable as you, nor as deserving as you of the chance to better yourself.”
“To better myself,” she said quietly. “Now ye care about my betterin’ myself?”
The Wish Club Page 2