White Regency 03 - White Knight

by Jaclyn Reding

  Now, having seen that everyone had received their supper, Grace slipped on her favorite half-boots and pulled the pins from her hair, letting it billow in the breeze off the loch as she walked along the brae that ran north from the castle tower.

  Before going out for her walk, Grace had changed into the new woolen gown and stockings that had been presented to her earlier that day by several of the women. It was made of the Skynegal tartan and while simple in its cut, the gown offered warmth against the evening chill and its full skirts would allow her to wear it in comfort throughout most of her pregnancy.

  As Grace walked along through the high reedy grass, Dubhar ambled alongside her, neither racing ahead nor straying behind, but keeping right at her leg, occasionally sniffing at a tuft of marram grass. He wouldn’t leave even for a moment to fetch the stick she tossed for him. The crofters who yet remained in the fields where they had planted oat, potato, and barley waved to her, calling out greetings to her in both the English they were learning and the Gaelic they were teaching her in turn. She called out in response to one of them, Hugh Darsie, when he’d asked if she’d had a good day.

  “Gle mhath, Hugh. An danns thu leamsa?”

  At his puzzled expression, Grace quickly thought back on her words and realized she had just asked him if he would dance with her instead of how he was faring. She quickly corrected herself with a shrug and he laughed, applauding her for a valiant, if mistaken effort.

  A distance away from the castle, there was a small bluff that overlooked Loch Skynegal’s cobbled shoreline, where Grace enjoyed watching the oyster catchers as they picked among the rocks for a supper of limpets and sea urchins. At this time of day, with the sun just setting to the west, the water looked like a thousand twinkling diamonds in the distance. A matting of ox-eye daisies and goldenrods waved to her as Grace lowered to sit against a machair tussock. After a few moments, Dubhar meandered a short distance away to poke his snout among the marram grass on the shore.

  Grace closed her eyes and leaned back upon her arms, losing herself to the soft wind against her face and the gentle sound of the water lapping at the shore. As she sat, she thought of how very different her life had become in the past few months. No more did she spend her days and nights worrying over the perfect ballgown or the placement of her curls. Instead she clung to the pleasure of simpler things—heavy woolen stockings on a cold Scottish night, the smell of Deirdre’s oatcakes baking in the kitchen, the touch of the Highland breeze on her face.

  She wondered what the society ladies who flitted from shop to shop along Bond Street for their “necessaries” would think of the Marchioness Knighton, who instead of diamonds and pearls now wore necklaces made of seashells and colored pebbles made by the many children of the estate. Would they gasp to know she drank tea brewed from blueberry leaves? That she forsook her gowns of silk and muslin for the more practical Highland attire?

  How curious, she thought, knowing that at this very hour, a world away in London, members of the social elite were busy preening before their looking glasses, fearful of having a single flounce out of place lest it should bring shame and ridicule down upon them. From the moment she had been thrown into that life—even on the outskirts as she had been—Grace had never felt a proper fit, not the way she did here at Skynegal, where she felt truly wanted for the first time in her life. Even more, she did not want to see a babe of her own born into the world of that fickle noble society, growing up cold and unfeeling just like…

  The sound of a sudden harsh howling broke Grace from her thoughts and she sat upright, searching for Dubhar and whatever it was that was causing him to create such an unholy din. When she spotted the dog, he was not making any noise at all, but was instead sitting calmly several yards away with his head cocked to the side, staring to the true source of the howling, something hidden in the tall grass.

  What in heaven’s name…?

  A leg surfaced briefly above the tall grass.

  Goodness, someone was injured.

  Grace got to her feet and rushed over to find a man hunched over himself, holding his bare foot, pierced by the spiked head of a rather large and very prickly-looking thistle. Grace acted quickly. She took up a length of her woolen skirts and covering her hand, grasped the thistle head, careful not to stick herself as she jerked it free. The man let out another howl and then promptly became silent. Grace walked several feet away and dislodged the thistle from her skirts, crushing the sharp spikes of it with her boot, before turning to see if the man required any further assistance.

  “Are you all right? Those can be terribly sharp and I—”

  Grace lost her words as she came face-to-face with the last person she would have expected to see standing there.

  It was Christian.

  He was there, in Scotland.

  He was wearing no boots or hose.

  And he was doing the oddest thing.

  He was smiling.

  Grace found herself wondering if he’d perhaps hit his head when he’d fallen to the ground and she almost voiced that thought aloud.

  Until she saw that he had started toward her.

  Grace simply froze, at a complete loss for what she should do.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “Hello, Grace.”

  Christian came toward her, approaching slowly as if he thought she might bolt—a ridiculous thought, really. Where on earth could she possibly go? Grace simply watched him, a small part of her wondering if he was truly standing there on that windswept bluff with her, or if Deirdre had brewed something strange into her tea earlier that day.

  But of course Christian was there. She had always known that someday she would see him again. What she hadn’t expected was to still be so mesmerized by simply the sight of him. The setting sun shone on his hair, burnishing it a rich sable brown. He wore no coat and the full sleeves of his shirt billowed in the breeze, pulling at his neckcloth as he moved. His eyes were fixed directly on her and Grace knew the moment she felt her heartbeat traitorously quicken that the months they’d spent apart had done nothing to lessen her feelings for him. If anything, living without him had only made her regard for him that much stronger.

  Dear God, no matter how she might try to deny it to herself, she still loved him.

  Even as Grace admitted this to herself, she knew she could never allow him to know her feelings. The risk was too great, the memory of his hurtful words too poignant even now. She could never reveal how empty she had felt the past weeks without him, how she had longed for his touch, his look, the sound of his voice. How many times would she have endured even his chill indifference if only so that she could see him again?

  Grace struggled to focus her thoughts on what had driven her to leave London, ignoring her first instinct to go forward to meet him. Instead, she waited until he stood right in front of her. She lifted her gaze to meet his and felt her breath catch. He smiled at her again, damn him. She glanced down at his feet, focusing on his bare toes peeking out through the tufts of grass, anything to avoid looking into those silver-blue eyes and getting thoroughly lost once again.

  “You’re not wearing any boots,” she said, absurdly obvious, yes, but at least it was something to divert him from staring at her so intently.

  “Yes, they are back there near where I stuck my foot. I had taken them off so that I might approach you quietly.” She heard him smile. “Apparently I was so intent on watching you, I wasn’t paying any heed to where I was walking—or rather what I was walking on.”

  Grace chanced a look at him—a mistake, for he was still staring at her and his eyes were so warm she hardly noticed the chill breeze off the loch anymore. She drew a quick breath and looked out at the rippling waters in the distance, crossing her arms before her. Oh, dear.

  “Deirdre says that there is a legend of when the Danes had come to invade Scotland centuries ago. Much the same thing happened. They had come at night and had removed their shoes so to approach without notice. They stepped on the wild thistl
es and yowled so loudly, they woke the sleeping Scots, warning them of their coming and allowing them to spring to their own defense. It is said this prevented the Danes from a successful invasion and from then on it was the thistle that had saved Scotland. Deirdre says it is because of that event in history that the thistle is so highly regarded among the Scots even now.”

  Grace could think of absolutely no reason for her to have just told him that old folktale other than that she would do or say just about anything at that moment to avoid the subject of her having left London, or of his having come now to retrieve her.

  Unfortunately Christian was not a man easily diverted.

  “I’ve missed you, Grace.”

  His voice wrapped over her like the glow of spring’s first sunshine after months of frigid winter. Grace clung to her fast-fleeting reserve.

  “I suppose I should have told you where I was going.”

  “It is all right.”

  Could this truly be Christian? Her husband, the aloof Marquess Knighton? His understanding was not something Grace had been prepared for. She had played this scene through her mind so many times over the past months, knowing it would come. But in her mind’s eye, it had always been far off in the future, with Christian scowling and angry, railing against her for her desertion. This acceptance and understanding was not at all what she’d expected. In fact, she didn’t quite know how to cope with it.

  “Yes, well, it is growing late,” she said, for want of anything better. “I probably should be getting back.”

  She turned and started back toward the castle, a direction that unfortunately necessitated a path around Christian. She prayed he would just allow her to leave, giving her some time to gather her wits.

  She was nearly past when Christian reached out suddenly and took her arm, gently stopping her. Grace’s heart leapt at the touch of him. She closed her eyes and forced herself not to look at him.

  “Grace, truly, if I could, I would take back the words I said to you that night.”

  Damn the tears that were coming even now to her eyes. She blinked them back. “I asked you for your honesty, Christian, and you gave it.”

  “Do you not think we should at least talk about this?”

  Grace drew in a long breath, releasing it slowly, knowing he was right. “Yes, Christian, we should talk. We have much to discuss, but not here. Not now. I need some time. I wasn’t expecting to see you here. I need to think about what this will mean to the life I have made here.”

  She looked at him. He was staring at her, silent, troubled.

  “Grace, have you…? He hesitated. “Grace, is there someone else in your life now?”

  Grace saw something change in his eyes—was it fear that she had found someone else? Hope that she had not? If only he could know how impossible a notion it was. Just the thought of feeling about another the way she did him was absurd. Grace shook her head. “No, Christian, there is no one.”

  No one but you.

  It was a thought Grace kept to herself as she turned and started walking back toward the castle.

  At Skynegal, Grace was met with another surprise when she found that Robert and Catriona, the Duke and Duchess of Devonbrook, and their young son James had come with Christian. At first she thought it odd that they should have traveled so far, until Catriona told her that their own Scottish estate, Rosmorigh, was located along the coast south of Skynegal on the Knoydart Peninsula, a day’s sail away. It was with their assistance that Christian had found his way to Skynegal.

  They sat now, the five of them, in the small antechamber set off from the great hall that Grace had put to use as an estate office. While they had waited for Grace’s return from the brae, Deirdre had brewed tea for the guests, which Grace now poured into their crockery cups—a far cry from the fine porcelain the Devonbrooks were no doubt accustomed to.

  “Please forgive the tea,” Grace said. “It is a local blend made with blueberry leaves, and while I find it very tasty, some might think it a bit tart.”

  “Blueberry?” Catriona took up the cup. “We take blueberry tea often at Rosmorigh, isn’t that right, my dear?”

  She looked to her husband, the duke, Robert, who nodded from where he stood beside Christian. Grace noticed that Christian no longer smiled as he had earlier when he’d met her on the brae. The frown she knew so well had once again darkened his eyes, but before Grace could consider what she’d done to displease him, Catriona went on.

  “One day I must show you how I add a bit of clover to the tea as well.” She leaned a little closer, whispering, “I quite prefer it to the China teas.”

  Grace smiled at her. She had expected such a celebrated society duchess to show disdain for the simplicity they had adopted at Skynegal. She was pleased to find that she was mistaken in that assumption.

  “We’ve already eaten supper,” Grace said, “but if you are hungry, I can ask Deirdre or Flora to see if they might yet have some of the stew for you in the kitchen—”

  Just then, the door opened and Alastair wandered in. He hadn’t knocked—Grace had made it a point that he shouldn’t feel the need to, for they were fellows in the management of the estate, not master and clerk. He started when he noticed the others in the room.

  “Och, my lady, I didn’t know you had visitors.”

  He made to bow, stepping back as if to leave, but Grace waved him into the room. “It is all right, Alastair. Please, come in and meet our guests.”

  Alastair wore his usual attire—tartan trews, matching waistcoat and jacket, his spectacles pushed low upon his rounded nose as he always wore them when he was checking figures in the account books.

  “Alastair, allow me to introduce to you the Duke and Duchess of Devonbrook…”

  As she would have expected at such a noble pronouncement, Alastair’s eyes went wide and he bowed his head several times in deferential greeting.

  “…and this is Lord Knighton.” And then she added, “My husband.”

  Alastair looked quickly to Grace before turning a bow to Christian. “It is an honor to finally make your acquaintance, my lord. A great honor indeed.” And then to Robert and Catriona, “And to you as well, Your Graces.”

  “This is Mr. Alastair Ogilvy. He is Skynegal’s steward and a fine one at that. I don’t know what I would have done without him here these past months.”

  Alastair’s face colored nearly as red as his suit of clothes as he beamed under Grace’s compliment. “Thank you, my lady. ‘Tis been a pleasure, I assure you.”

  With the introductions done, an awkward silence fell over the room as if no one knew what next to say. Grace endeavored to put an end to it.

  “Did you have something you’d come here to see me about, Alastair?”

  “What? Oh, yes, indeed, my lady. McFee and McGee have just returned from Ullapool. I’ve a list here of what they were able to purchase and trade.”

  He handed her a sheet of paper and Grace scanned the list, nodding. “Looks as if they were able to secure a fair price on the supplies.”

  “Aye.” Alastair hesitated a moment before adding quietly, “My lady, I’m afraid there was a bit of bad news as well.” His dour expression told Grace something was very wrong.

  “What is it?”

  ” ‘Twas said just before they’d gone that the ship Prospect went down afore she reached the coast of New Scotland. It is believed everyone aboard her was lost.”

  Grace felt her body go instantly numb. She set the list she had been studying atop the desk and turned from the others to face the small window overlooking the courtyard. As she watched the children at play there, she remembered one small smiling face, thumb perpetually stuffed in the mouth, happy blue eyes laughing beneath a mop of blonde ringlets.

  Thomas McAllum had had all the innocence and energy of a three-year-old bundle of mischief. He had arrived at Skynegal late one soggy night with his Ma and his Da and several siblings and had immediately stolen his way into everyone’s hearts. When Grace would come into
the office to work on the castle’s accounts, she would often find him curled up in the kneehole of her desk, waiting to pop out his head with an exuberant “Boo!,” after which he would throw his tiny arms around her neck and squeeze her tightly as he could. She was “Lady Gwace” and he “Knight Thomas,” her “pwotector” against all things “bad and scawy,” just like the knight in the stories she would read to him at night.

  When his parents had finally found passage on a ship bound for New Scotland, Thomas hadn’t wanted to go. Grace would never forget the way he had clung to her skirts, crying that he wanted to stay there with her. But she had convinced him that all knights one day had to leave on crusade to protect other parts of the world from the bad and scary things. She could still see the image of him, standing on the deck of the sloop, waving to her as they drifted off onto Loch Skynegal bound for Ullapool and their new life—she could still hear his last words to her before he’d gone…

  “I wuv you, Lady Gwace, and when I come back from my cwusade I will mawwy you.”

  When she turned from the window moments later, she could hardly see Alastair through her tears. “It was Prospect, wasn’t it, that Thomas’s family had sailed upon?”

  Alastair nodded but she had known what his answer would be even before posing her question. Still she had asked it, hoping she would be wrong.

  Grace realized that all eyes in the room were upon her then and dashed away her tears. She looked to Christian, Robert, and Catriona where they were still sitting before her, Alastair behind. She suddenly wanted, needed, to be alone.

  “Alastair, might I trouble you to show the duke and duchess to the set of chambers across the hall from mine? Deirdre and Flora should be finished readying them now and I’m sure our guests are tired after their journey. And please ask Deirdre to see if she can put together a bit of supper for our guests. I’d wager young James would love to try some of Deirdre’s shortbread.”