by Karen Ranney
The remainder of the journey to Susanna McKinsey’s home was uneventful; however, James took the precaution of doubling back several times to see if they were being followed. Twice he suspected as much, and twice nothing had come of it. If someone was acting as his shadow he was being extraordinarily cautious.
He was familiar with the scenery of the Highlands, from the stark jagged peaks of the mountains to the brilliant French blue of the skies. Yet this part of Scotland was all rolling wooded hills and lush green glens. James felt as if he were back at his father’s childhood home in England.
The River Wye ran between the four hills surrounding Ayleshire. To the southeast was a cliff face that reminded him oddly of Gilmuir, only not as severe or stark. The ruins of an abbey were all that remained, sitting atop the plateau like a guardian of old.
He and Rory descended to the village, following a well-worn path that widened to form the main road. Ayleshire seemed a prosperous place, with blocks of houses merging together just behind the main street. James found himself nodding to people, surprised at their smiles of greeting. Rory began to wave as if they were a royal procession. James noted, with some amusement, that more than one of the village girls waved back.
Crossing the small bridge that spanned the river, they turned toward the west and Susanna McKinsey’s home.
Situated in a depression of earth, Tyemorn Manor was an odd little place. The main part of the red brick structure reminded him of homes he’d seen in Surrey, making him wonder if the original builder had taken his inspiration from the English. But subsequent owners had evidently continued with construction until the house was now a hodgepodge of styles. A small tower jutted from an abutment to the right, and a long flat wing to the left added to its disjointed appearance.
A small garden, formal in appearance, fronted the structure, while the lane that led to the front door was flanked by blooming yellow flowers.
Instead of taking the road to the house, however, James obeyed an impulse, giving his horse its head across the meadow, leaving Rory to follow as well as he could. Over a series of hedges they flew, and James felt exhilarated for the first time in months. The sound of his own laughter surprised him. A last bit of freedom, then, before he dusted off his clothes and adopted the sober mien of a responsible MacRae once more.
James cleared another hedge, the muscles of the horse beneath him arching and flexing. He didn’t see the woman on the ground until it was almost too late. For a second, a horrified instant, James thought she would move, thereby putting herself even further in danger. But she remained still as he sailed over the hedge. Hurriedly dismounting, he raced back to see if she had been injured, kneeling at her side.
She had a look of dazed amazement on her face as she lay there, hair spread around her head like an auburn pool, her arms stretched outward, palms up. Her gaze was on the sky, but slowly her eyes moved until she focused on him.
“I’ve never been quite that close to the underside of an animal before. How illuminating. Your horse is a stallion, isn’t it?”
Her comment caught him off guard, and for a moment he could only stare at her.
“Do you always ride like that?” she asked, sitting up slowly. Her eyes, the color of clouds before a storm, were steady on his.
“I would have been more cautious had I known you were there,” he said. “Do you always hide behind hedges?”
“Only when I’m trying to avoid someone.” She brushed a twig from her bodice, made a sweeping inspection of herself, and seeming to find everything intact, got to her knees.
He wanted, suddenly, to know whom she might be hiding from. But that was as inappropriate as watching her tidy herself.
“Are you certain you’re all right?” he asked, standing and extending a hand to help her rise.
Ignoring it, she stood, brushing her skirts down. “I believe so.” She seemed to consider the matter for a moment. “Yes, I’m fine.”
She glanced at him and then away, making him wonder what, exactly, she was thinking. He grabbed the reins of his horse, hesitant in a way he’d rarely felt.
“If you’re certain—” he began, only to have her interrupt.
“Most assuredly,” she said, watching him mount.
He inclined his head, and she smiled lightly. Two perfect strangers engaged in exquisite politeness. But he couldn’t help but look back once he’d reached the road. She was gone, only the lingering echo of her voice remaining, making him wonder, idly, if he’d imagined the entire interlude.
Riona watched in dismay as he dismounted at her front door.
Who was he? Why was he calling at Tyemorn Manor? Was he one of the innumerable messengers who ferried letters between Captain Hastings and Maureen? A visitor come for Lethson? He might be filling one of a hundred roles, and would soon be gone from here, him with his amazing blue eyes and easy grin.
If it were possible, she’d stay hidden behind the tree for the rest of the day. She wasn’t a hoyden, truly. She had learned her lessons well from Mrs. Parker and, before that woman’s tutelage, had always been a proper young woman. She could now walk with grace across wooden floors without her heels clunking at each step. Although not as delicate as Maureen, she was not a clumsy oaf, either. She could dance in a fashion, although she admitted that the more complicated steps were beyond her. She was expected to silently count them in her mind while remaining outwardly flirtatious and charming. One or the other always took precedence. More often than not, her partner heard her mumbling to herself.
Now she’d been found in a hedge.
He’d only stared at her when she’d made that remark about his horse. No proper lady ever commented upon the gender of an animal. Which was absurd, of course, but it was one of those innumerable rules that everyone obeyed. Even living on a farm, she was supposed to pretend that she’d never noticed animals copulating, or even the fact that a male was a male. Not that she was given to studying the nether regions of horses, but in this instance she hadn’t exactly been able to ignore it.
He’d known right away what she was doing. Do you always hide behind hedges? Her suitors in Edinburgh would never have dared say such a thing. Even if they had suspected, they would have fawned all over themselves to excuse her behavior.
Are you looking for mushrooms, my dear? Or have you gotten yourself entangled in the brambles? Or were you, perhaps, indisposed, having twisted your ankle or torn your skirt on a wayward branch?
She’d been so flustered that she’d told him the truth. Riona closed her eyes, wishing that she’d had the presence of mind to say something witty, instead.
Peering around the tree again, Riona discovered that he’d disappeared into the house.
She had seen attractive men before, in Inverness and Edinburgh. Not once had she been tempted to stare. Until now.
Would she have been as shamed if their guest had been a troll? If he had been Old Ned, for example, would she feel this flush of heat? Or even the parson? She doubted it, and it was that knowledge that further added to her irritation.
Looking down at herself, she frowned. Grass stains marred the front of her skirt, and her arm had a streak of mud on it. A leaf clung to a tendril of her hair, and she brushed it free impatiently.
She could march into the parlor in her current state and pretend that nothing was amiss, but such behavior would shock her mother. Or she could retreat to her room, clean herself up, and present herself to their guest, thereby impressing him with her manners and grace. Annoyed with herself, she chose yet another option, that of returning to her room and remaining there.
A young maid answered his knock, stepping aside before he gave her his name.
“Welcome to Tyemorn Manor,” she said with a little curtsy. “Come and rest yourself in the parlor while I let the lady of the house know you’ve come.” The greeting, evidently recited from memory, was offered with a cheerful smile.
Smiling back at her, he turned to look at Rory, who cantered up behind him. The young man dismount
ed, but didn’t move toward the door.
“If it’s all right with you, sir, I’d rather wait here.”
James nodded, hiding his smile. Rory was staring at the young maid as if he’d never seen a woman before.
Entering the paneled hall, he gazed at the staircase directly in front of him. Soaring high above the foyer, the polished expanse of wooden steps seemed to entice the eye. Two intricately carved lions’ heads began the banister that curved upward in a delicate arch of wood and workmanship. A beautiful creation, obviously built with as much care as the hull of a MacRae ship.
He followed the maid into one of the two rooms flanking the entranceway. Two settees, both upholstered in a deep blue fabric, sat opposite each other in front of a large white marble fireplace. The chamber walls were covered in the same dark blue material, as were the curtains on the two long windows. The monochromatic scheme was oddly comforting.
The drapes were open, and streaks of sunlight illuminated the richly patterned carpet on the floor. A silver bowl filled with flowers occupied the table between the settees and perfumed the air.
The only sound in the room was the lulling tick of the mantel clock. For the first time in months, James felt himself relax and wondered at the skill of his hostess in wordlessly conveying welcome.
Walking to the windows, he stared at the hedge to the right of the front walk. Who was she? He smiled, thinking of her words. Your horse is a stallion, isn’t it? Her gray eyes had been filled with a succession of emotions—surprise, wonder, embarrassment. Her face had, at first, been too pale before warming with color.
Conversation with a beautiful woman normally consisted of compliments or a series of witty verbal thrusts and parries. But with her he’d been startled into silence.
He was accustomed to feminine gestures, womanly traits. Just the right profile or angle of head, an extended hand, an artfully placed foot, a demure yet teasing smile, each one designed to attract and entice. This woman had lain beneath a hedge staring up at the sky.
Who was she?
He realized that he very much wanted—and perhaps needed—to know.
Chapter 4
A bigail bobbed in front of her, a smile on her round face.
“Ma’am,” the young maid announced, “you have a visitor.”
Susanna didn’t bother looking up from her sewing. “If it’s the parson again or his wife, Abigail,” she said firmly, “then please tell them I am unwell at the moment.” Not exactly a lie, since Mrs. Parker had just left her with a new list of complaints.
She’d managed a house with three boarders for over twenty years, but Susanna had never had a more disagreeable person living under her roof than Adelaide Parker. Something was always wrong—either wet or dry, hot or cold, soft or hard. Susanna closed her eyes and leaned back against the chair.
Why had she ever thought of employing the woman in the first place? Because she had been recommended by the pastor’s wife, a sweet and endearing woman who must not be related in any fashion to Adelaide Parker.
Abruptly, she realized that Abigail was still patiently standing in front of her.
A year ago she’d hired Abigail from the village. Her smile was always in attendance. Even the gloomiest of days had no effect on her mood, and as far as she knew, Abigail liked everyone. She was one of those genuinely good people who made others consider their own flaws simply by entering a room. Laughter halted, gossip stopped, and people glanced from one to the other as if ashamed of their own verbal viciousness. Susanna wondered if God created people like Abigail to make the rest of the world a better place.
Small in stature, Abigail had blond hair and soft blue eyes, and her cheeks seemed perpetually pink. She had a habit of brushing at her face with the backs of her hands as if to wipe the color away.
“It’s not him at all, ma’am,” Abigail said. “Nor any of the villagers come to call.”
Or gossip, Susanna silently amended.
“It’s a tall man with the most beautiful blue eyes you’ve ever seen and a smile that warms your heart just to look at it.”
Susanna looked up curiously. Abigail seemed caught up in some kind of daydream. Her eyes were vacant, her smile oddly crooked, and she breathed in deep gusty sighs.
“Did he give his name?”
“No,” Abigail said, looking disconcerted. “I’ve gone and forgotten to ask him, ma’am.” She turned as if she would rectify the matter this very moment.
“Never mind, Abigail.” Susanna stood, setting aside her needlework. “I shall attend to our visitor.” Before he strips another thought from your mind.
Truly, she should have taken Abigail’s words to heart, Susanna thought a few moments later. She had no one to blame but herself for the surprise she felt, or the strange fluttering in her chest. For a moment she chastised herself, because the visitor in her parlor was much, much younger than she. But should she be denied an appreciation of masculine beauty simply because she was getting older?
She thought not.
He was as tall as Abigail had said, and slender, with broad shoulders straining the fabric of his buff coat. His face was narrow, ending in a squared chin and graced with an aquiline nose. Eyes of startling blue, so pale they looked almost transparent, stared back at her, divulging intelligence as well as force of character. His hair was black and unruly in the front where it fell over his forehead, and as she watched, he brushed it back impatiently.
Abigail was indeed correct. He was quite the most handsome man ever to stand in her parlor.
She inclined her head, realizing that she had been staring. “Forgive my rudeness, I’m Susanna McKinsey. May I be of some service?”
He smiled then, revealing white, even teeth, and for a moment she felt as if she were no more than a young girl herself. Flattening her hand against her midriff to ward off a quivery sensation, she counseled herself against such foolishness.
“I am James MacRae,” he said, his voice low and resonant. “My Uncle Fergus sent me here with a message.”
Until this moment, she’d forgotten the almost desperate letter she’d sent to her old friend. Riona had reluctantly acceded to the betrothal a week after she’d implored Fergus to come to her aid.
“Oh dear,” she said, embarrassed that she hadn’t informed Fergus of the new development.
Turning, she gave instructions for refreshments to be brought to the parlor. For a second, Susanna thought her maid had lost her wits entirely. Abigail only continued to stare at their guest before Susanna cleared her throat. The young girl finally giggled and left the room.
Shaking her head at such foolishness, she waved James to one of the settees.
“I hope Fergus is well.” Sitting opposite him she wondered at the fact that there was no resemblance. Fergus was as tall, but stockier, and his hair had been a red to rival the setting sun.
“He is indeed well, and regrets that he could not come to your assistance himself.”
“I did not think Fergus had any relatives.”
“We believed him dead as well,” he said, flashing that astonishing smile. “His sister immigrated to Nova Scotia years ago, thinking all of her family dead. Fergus had no idea that she survived, wed her childhood sweetheart, and became the mother of five sons.”
“And you are one of the five?”
He nodded. “The second oldest of the brothers.”
“I am so happy for Fergus,” she said. “The loss of his family weighed heavily on him.”
“He is about to acquire even more kin. He is due to be married soon.”
“Married?” How curious that she felt no jealousy. For years, she had nursed a fondness for Fergus, but it was all too evident that he had loved another, a woman lost to him years before. The reason that, more often than not, there was an air of melancholy about him.
James nodded. “To a woman he’s known for a great many years.”
He handed her a letter, and she opened it with fingers that suddenly trembled.
Instead o
f reading it in front of him, she walked to the window, spreading open the paper and fingering the broken seal. There had not been that many occasions to witness Fergus’s handwriting, but the bold strokes seemed so much like him that Susanna felt a catch in her heart.
My dearest Susanna,
I am saddened to hear of your dilemma with Riona, and pray for you and her in this hour of indecision and strife. She is a level-headed girl, and I have no doubt that she will make the right decision in the end. In the meantime, please note that my heart and my prayers are with you.
Forgive me for being unable to call upon you myself, but I know that you wish me the greatest of happiness. I have been reunited with the woman I once lost and have loved all these many years. Please know that you can count both Leah and me as your friends.
Yours in friendship,
Fergus MacRae
She stared out the window, thinking that she was not quite done with envy after all. Fergus and she were not that different in age, yet love had come to him once more.
Had she truly forgotten to write him again? Or had she secretly wished that he would call on her?
The sight of a boy standing beside two horses drew her back to the present.
Turning, she addressed James, “I am sorry he was unable to come himself,” she said honestly. “But I’m glad for the reason that he was not. How kind of him to have sent you in his stead.”
Polly entered the room with a tray on which a pitcher and two glasses rested, the giggling Abigail blessedly absent. “There is a young man outside,” Susanna said before the housekeeper could leave the room, “who looks tired and dusty. I have no doubt he would be grateful for some refreshments as well.”
“Indeed he would,” James said, smiling. “Thank you.”
Waving away his thanks, she sat once again. “We make a fine cider here at Tyemorn,” she said, pouring from the pitcher on the tray. She handed him a tumbler and sat back against the settee.