Grace in Thine Eyes

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  They passed a rose shrub in one grassy curve, a Grecian urn in another, though Davina’s attention remained fixed on him. Was she signaling her interest? Trying to discern his? Surely he’d made his intentions clear. Keeping their conversation light, he pointed out the cotoneaster in the nearby garden, a dozen branches thrusting up from the ground, each one thick as a fist. Even on a moonless night, the newly bloomed white flowers were visible.

  “ ’Tis a night for fairies,” he said softly. “Could be we’ll discover some dancing on a flat stone in the burn, aye?” She smiled a little, which pleased him. “On Midsummer Eve the auld wives used to collect the brown spots on the fronds to protect themselves from the wee folk.” He winked at her. “There are some especially large ferns along the water, Miss McKie. Shall I pluck one to keep me safe from you? After all, fairies have been known to play fiddles.”

  She blushed most becomingly in the meager torchlight.

  “And here’s the burn,” he said, guiding her to a curved stone bench secluded beneath the trees. Silvery gray willows crowded along the banks of the stream, edged in moss and damp earth. The torch beside them was reduced to a flicker. A passing breeze would have extinguished it, but he made a show of putting the fire out for safety’s sake, dousing the coals with water from the burn.

  “Are you thirsty, Miss McKie?” When she nodded, he produced a small pewter flask, only to watch her eyes widen. “But not for the water of life, eh?” If she would not join him, he’d restrict himself to one drink. Some ladies did not care for the taste of whisky on a man’s lips; he suspected Davina might be one of them.

  After swallowing a bracing gulp, he capped the flask and slipped it back in place. “ ’Tis sufficient for me,” he said, hoping to ease her mind on that score. “On a perfect night like this, I do not wish to disappoint you. In any way.”

  Davina looked at him with an expression of such innocence, she nearly unmanned him.

  Och, lass. Somerled gazed down at her, haunted by those guileless eyes of hers. Had he misjudged her? Despite the considerable passion in her playing, was she, in fact, an untried maid? If so, he would not be the one to ruin her. A gentleman who valued his neck and his purse did not trifle with virgin daughters of landed gentry, lest he find himself at kirk, standing before the bride stool. Somerled had no such plans, not for a very long time.

  Was Davina so naive as to think that he …

  Nae. She was smiling up at him now, her mouth slightly open, as if she might welcome a kiss. Somerled settled down next to her on the stone bench. “Miss McKie, when we played together this evening, I sensed something … ah, developing between us. Did you as well?”

  She nodded and touched her heart.

  Easily understood, that one. “I’m glad to know I am not alone in my feelings.” Somerled inched closer. “In truth, since we first met in the drawing room, I have imagined this moment.”

  Though Davina looked away, she could not conceal what he’d seen in her eyes: She’d imagined their tryst too.

  He needed no further permission, no clearer invitation. He would follow her lead, just as he had when she’d played her fiddle. And because Davina could not speak, he would remain silent as well.

  When he slowly began to caress her hands, rubbing his thumbs across her satiny skin, she did not pull away. Good, lass. He lifted her hands to his mouth and kissed the back of each one, tenderly but with purpose. Again, she did not flinch. Ah, better. And when he turned over her hands and took his time kissing first her palms and then her fingers, she trembled, but she did not resist him. Much better.

  The two of them were so close now, breathing the same night air, that shifting his mouth from Davina’s fingers to her lips was almost effortless.

  Thirty-Eight

  The silent soule doth most abound in care.

  WILLIAM ALEXANDER, EARL OF STIRLING

  Davina’s heart quickened as the heat of uncertainty rose to her cheeks. Should she open her eyes and gaze into his? Open her mouth at his gentle insistence?

  Nae. Suddenly shy, Davina turned away, breaking their kiss.

  Somerled responded at once, cradling her face in his hands. “Please, my bonny wee girl.” He kissed her again, so tenderly she could not resist him. “We have shared much already, have we not?”

  Aye. She nodded slightly, letting him kiss her cheeks, drowning in a pool of sensations. To be so desired, so cherished … was this not what she’d always hoped for?

  When he kissed her lips again, weaving his long fingers into her hair, freeing her toppling crown, Davina opened her eyes and opened her mouth and opened her heart.

  Somerled took them all.

  “Davina …” Breathless. Muffled against the curve of her neck.

  No longer Miss McKie but Davina. Scandalous as it was, she liked hearing him speak her name.

  “Come with me, lass.” His voice was low, almost dangerously so. When he lifted his head, his eyes were like the night sky: the dark, round centers impossibly wide.

  He looked older now. Stronger. Taller. When he stood and pulled her to her feet, she suddenly felt very small.

  “We must not make a sound.” He clasped her hand and started across the grass toward the house.

  Why was he so eager to see her delivered to Kilmichael’s door? Though the hour was nearing midnight, she was far from sleepy. Ah, but they were bound for the garden instead. How strange, when it was so very dark. Nae, not the garden; the stables behind the house. She tugged on his arm, confused. Did he think to send her home to the manse at this hour? Or ride off with her to the castle? Wait, please!

  When he did not slow his steps, she dug her heels into the grass, desperate to get his attention.

  Somerled turned to her at once. “What is it, Davina?” He wrapped her in his embrace, enveloped her with his voice. “Is something wrong?”

  She had too many questions and no means of asking them.

  “Relax, milady.” He kissed her, dispelling her unspoken fears. “ ’Twill be so much better when we are withindoors. Alone.”

  He started out again, this time with his arm round her shoulders, yet with just as much haste. Davina did not understand why. The night was pleasantly warm, and they were already alone. Could they not simply sit by the burn? She heard the horses whinnying, even as she felt her heart pounding inside her stays. Might she faint before they reached the stable door?

  Somerled guided her down a long row of stalls. Red sandstone buildings formed a three-sided square, the open end facing the rear of the house. Outside the stables, everything lay dark and still; inside the house, candles remained lit in Kilmichael’s ground-floor rooms.

  She found herself wishing someone might look out the window and see them, question them, stop them. Tears sprang to her eyes, but she quickly brushed them away. What would Somerled think of her? That she was childish, that she was foolish. Once he kissed her again, all would be well.

  “Now then.” He slowed his steps, perhaps not wanting to disturb the horses, leading her past one stall, then another, until they reached the corner farthest from the house. Somerled claimed a small lantern hanging beside the stable door, then held it aloft. “Ladies first.”

  Davina entered with hesitant steps, letting her eyes adjust to the darkened interior. The vacant stall smelled of leather and oats. Straw covered the floor, tin pails hung from pegs on the wall, and woolen blankets were piled in the corner.

  Somerled closed the wooden door behind them and slid the iron bar in place. “Won’t this be better, lass?”

  Better than what? She shivered, though she was not cold.

  “Better than a hard stone bench,” Somerled answered as if he’d heard her thoughts. He hung the lantern on a peg, then shook out one of the blankets and spread it across the straw. “Better than you spending the night alone in your guest bed and me sleeping in a drafty old castle with a dozen snoring men.”

  She tried not to stare as he unbuttoned his tail co
at and hung it on one of the pegs. Did he intend to sleep here? And expect her to join him?

  “So, Davina.” He loosened his neckcloth, smiling at her all the while. “What might we do to make you comfortable as well?”

  She had never been more uncomfortable in her life. When she started to back away from him, Somerled swiftly pulled her into his arms.

  “What’s this now?” He must have felt the stiffness in her body. “A case of nerves, when you’ve traveled this road before? But perhaps not in a stable, is that it?” He leaned down and nuzzled her neck. “Many apologies, lass. I’ll see we have better arrangements for the rest of my stay on Arran.”

  Davina could not fathom what he meant. Better arrangements?

  He straightened, then lightly kissed her brow, her cheeks, her chin. “You caught me by surprise, don’t you see? I came to a dinner party and found the woman of my dreams.”

  And I thought I’d found the man of mine.

  She wriggled from his embrace, but he laughed and captured her once more, then kissed her again, so hard she could not breathe. Or think, or reason, or sort out her feelings. Aye. Nae. Aye.

  “What a jillet you are.” Somerled pressed his body against hers. “I confess, I cannot wait much longer, lass.” His hands were quick. Already her brocade jacket was on the floor.

  Now she was certain. Nae. When she pushed against his chest, his hands stilled on her shoulders.

  “Am I being too rough with you, Davina?” His eyes probed hers, searching for answers. “Pardon me, but some women … well …” He smoothed his hands down her back. “I should have known better, watching you perform. Legato, not staccato.” The arm that had bowed across four strings now encircled her waist, giving her little room to move.

  She shook her head, hoping he understood. Somerled, please. Don’t.

  But then he filled her ear with whispered endearments and ardent professions, and she relaxed in his arms once more, convinced that he cared for her. The man in her dream, the man in her drawing, the man who’d bared his soul to her through his music—that man would never hurt her.

  In one smooth motion he picked her up and cradled her across his chest, as if she weighed nothing. “Let me hold you.” He gently lowered her to the blanket, then stretched out beside her. “My darling Davina.” His voice was rough, his breathing ragged as he pulled her arms round his shoulders, then rolled on top of her, pinning her to the ground.

  Fear rose inside her, stronger this time. She tried to move but could not.

  “Please, Davina. I want to feel your heart against mine.” The woolen blankets chafed her neck as his kisses grew deeper, his hands more insistent, inching her skirts toward her waist.

  When the evening air chilled her legs, her senses snapped to attention. Nae. Not here. Not this.

  But she did not know what this was. She did not understand all the words that he said. Did not understand why he touched her as he did. If he meant his actions to be pleasurable, they were not.

  Nae more. She shifted beneath him, tears stinging her eyes. Please stop. The harder she struggled to escape his embrace, the more firmly he held her down. Frantic, she pushed against his chest, but he was far too heavy for her. Far too strong.

  Never in all of her life had she needed her voice as she needed it now.

  Please, please don’t. Don’t!

  But he could not hear her. And he did not heed her.

  Thirty-Nine

  O man! man! hard-hearted cruel man!

  what mischiefs art thou not capable of!

  SAMUEL RICHARDSON

  Davina, why did you not tell me?”

  Somerled stared at the faint streak of blood on her pale thighs. No wonder she’d resisted him, embarrassed by her monthly courses. “Had I known, I would have …” Waited? Nae, that was a lie. He could not have tarried another minute before taking her. “Pardon me, lass, for not understanding.”

  He quickly found a cupful of water in one of the hanging pails, then dabbed her delicate skin with the wet tail of his shirt. She watched him, unmoving, almost unseeing, as if her thoughts were altogether elsewhere. “Is that better now? Do you have what you need to … ah …” He supposed she must.

  Somerled dressed in haste, giving her a moment to gather her wits and find her shoes amid the straw. Though he was reluctant to tell her so, they could not remain in the stables much longer. The midsummer sun was not far from the horizon.

  Davina was standing by the time he finished buttoning his tail coat. How vulnerable she looked with her soiled white stockings pooling round her ankles. The ruined damask gown was his fault entirely. He should have slipped off her dress and hung it on one of the pegs. But he’d been too intent on seducing her to remember such practicalities. Despite her dishabille, she was still fetching. A red curtain of hair hung down her back, the curls reduced to twisted strands.

  “You’ve need of your maid this morning,” he said lightly, plucking bits of straw from her hair and gown. He knelt long enough to tug up her stockings, then slipped on her shoes, intrigued once again by the smallness of her hands and feet. He’d not asked her age. Was she younger than twenty after all? “Such a fine gown,” he murmured, trying to smooth the many wrinkles. “You have a talented dressmaker at Glentrool.”

  All at once Davina began shaking from head to toe. Chilled, no doubt. Her gown was too narrow to allow a chemise, though at least she’d not adopted the vulgar new fashion of wearing drawers. “Come, let me warm you.” He drew her into his arms, fitting her head well below his chin.

  Then he realized she was not simply shaking. She was weeping.

  “Davina?”

  She grasped the lapels of his coat, her slender fingers disappearing beneath the folds of fabric, her head buried in his chest. The faint sound she made was like nothing he’d ever heard before. A silent keening that was naught but air. And anguish.

  “Dear woman, what is it?” He tried to lift her chin and could not. “Are you … in pain?”

  He felt her head move but could not tell whether ’twas aye or nae. Was all this distress because of her courses? “Truly, the wee bit of … blood … matters not.”

  This time he was certain she nodded. Aye, it does matter.

  “Davina, you’ve no need to be ashamed …”

  When she lifted her head and looked into his eyes, the despair he saw there shocked him. “Please, Davina. Can you not tell me what’s wrong?”

  Her lips trembled as she tried to form words, her grip on his coat tightening each time she had to start over. Finally she mouthed a single syllable, difficult to make out in the murky interior of the stall.

  But he tried. “First? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Nodding, she collapsed against him, soaking his waistcoat with her tears.

  First? Somerled’s mind was reeling, trying to make sense of it. First. Her first …

  Nae. His mouth dried to dust. “Davina, you do not mean that … I was your first … that you were chaste … before tonight?”

  Please, Davina. Please don’t nod.

  But she did.

  Stunned, he fell back against the wall, taking her with him. “Oh, lass … I thought … I was so certain …”

  He could not hear her sobs, but he could feel them.

  “Surely you must have realized when I kissed you … when I led you to the stables …”

  She shook her bowed head. Nae.

  He ran his hand through his hair in frustration and disbelief. Could any woman be so naive? “How old are you, Davina?” Though he dreaded the answer, he had to know.

  She wrote the number in the air with her finger.

  Seventeen. He turned his head, sickened by the news. My bonny wee girl. He’d called her that when they sat by the burn, never imagining the truth, never dreaming the young woman who’d kissed him so willingly was an innocent maid.

  Yet hadn’t she pulled away from him more than once? Tried to break free from hi
s embrace? He’d thought she was toying with him, challenging him, urging him to be more aggressive. Instead she’d been trying to stop him, silently pleading for help.

  He’d misread her completely. And misused her abominably.

  “Davina …” He looked at her sweet face, forcing himself to see the pain there, knowing he was the cause of it. “I have wronged you in the worst imaginable way. I took what you did not offer.” He swallowed hard. “I took what was not mine to take.”

  She stepped back, beyond his reach, as tears spilled down her cheeks.

  “And what have I given you in return? One night of pleasure?” His heart sank when she looked away. Nae, not even that.

  A cock crow echoed through the stables.

  Och! He’d forgotten the time. If he did not deliver her unseen to her bedchamber, Davina’s reputation would be in tatters by breakfast. And he would have far more explaining to do than he wished. One did not rob a gentlewoman of her virtue without consequence.

  “Come, lass.” Somerled eased the stall door open. The hour was still early; the last of the stars had not blinked out, and none of the stable lads were in sight. “I left the window to your room ajar,” he whispered, motioning her closer. “Let me help you …”

  But she was gone, running past him, her unbound hair streaming behind her.

  Forty

  For there are deeds

  Which have no form, sufferings which have no tongue.

  PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

  Davina stared at the bruise.

  ’Twas the size of his thumb. Pressed into the soft flesh of her shoulder. There. She ran a wet cloth over it, then winced. Another tear slipped down her cheek.

  I took what was not mine to take. Aye, he had. Though she had given him her heart—foolishly yet willingly—she had not given him her body. He had claimed that without asking.

  Please don’t. Please stop.

  But Somerled had not stopped. He’d ignored her when she struggled against him and laughed when she’d tried to evade his embrace. “My darling Davina,” he’d said before pinning her to the floor. How could anyone be so cruel?