by Karen Ranney
She turned and glanced at him again. His expression had thawed somewhat, a small smile playing around his lips. “I know Tyemorn,” she said simply.
At the top of the hill, along the ridge, was another path, this one leading to the falls. She hesitated, wondering if she should show him her favorite place at Tyemorn, then reasoned that if she didn’t someone else would. The view was not, after all, her domain, any more than if she owned the sky or the clouds billowing white on the horizon.
The path was wide enough so that they could walk abreast, and he slipped into place beside her.
“Our cheese is sold at market in Inverness and commands a good price,” she told him. “I’m not as familiar with the making of it as I should be, but I’m sure Old Ned can inform you.”
“Old Ned?”
“Our steward,” she said, staring at him curiously. “The man you need to see. He’s been here since Great Aunt Mary was alive and knows Tyemorn better than anyone.”
“You seem to be as well versed.”
She smiled at him, wondering if he knew what a compliment that was. He turned away from her, intent on the view. They had climbed to an elevation where the lower farms could be seen. They sat like squares of brown and green next to the undulating River Wye.
“Most of the farms are irrigated with canals leading from the river, but two of the pastures are too high and need water pumped up to them in dry months. But the spring has been wet and the summer looks to be as plentiful with rain.”
“Will you be here in the summer, Riona?”
The question caught her off guard. She answered him too honestly, her voice not schooled in deception.
“No,” she said, hearing her own regret. “Why are you here at Tyemorn Manor?” There, a question as sudden and blunt.
“Didn’t Susanna say?”
She suspected that he knew only too well that her mother had been mute on the subject.
“Will you tell me?”
“Regretfully, I cannot.”
“Tyemorn Manor isn’t to be sold, is it?” she asked, making no effort to hide the panic in her voice.
“No. At least, not that I’m aware.”
She didn’t know him, couldn’t trust him with something so important. The very fact that she was tempted to believe him concerned her. Her judgment had been appalling of late, witness the fact that she was soon to be married to Harold McDougal.
“Will you give me your solemn word of honor that it is not?”
His eyes, oddly enough, seemed to warm the longer he observed her. As if he were measuring her worth in a glance. Is this a woman I should give my word to? the look seemed to say. A reassuring notion, that his honor might be so valuable that he did not treat it lightly.
“I give you my solemn oath that I know nothing of the sale of the property, Riona. It is not for that reason I’m here.”
“But you will not tell me why you are?”
“I’ve given my word.”
She changed the subject for the moment, fully intending to return to it. “As far as people at Tyemorn, Polly is our housekeeper. Abigail and Cook are the only other servants in the house. The gardener, who also serves as our coachman, lives with his wife and three children in the poultry yard. His widowed father has a small dwelling behind the henhouse. Is there anything else you wish to know?”
“Have you no information about Ayleshire?”
Once again he’d surprised her. She’d been quite proud of her recitation, and any Cormech or Edinburgh man would have ladled her with praise. Not, however, James MacRae.
“Ayleshire?”
“Are you never teased, Riona?”
She considered the idea for a moment. “Rarely,” she admitted, a little disconcerted to realize that it was the truth. But then she had little patience with courting games.
“I wonder why?” he asked.
Turning to look at him was not a wise decision. He was smiling directly at her, his lovely eyes gleaming as if he knew an amusing secret.
“Perhaps I’ve not the wit to understand a jest. Or the time to appreciate it.”
He reached out his hand and gripped her wrist before she could move away.
“Forgive me.”
She nodded quickly, anything to make him release her. But he wasn’t satisfied.
Reaching out his other hand, he tilted up her chin, touching her in a way no man ever had before and perhaps should not now.
“Forgive me,” he repeated. “I was very impressed by your knowledge of Tyemorn. I chose a poor way of demonstrating it.”
“I took no notice of your comment,” she said, secretly appalled at how quickly the lie came to her lips.
He studied her for a moment as if doubting her words, then released her. But he didn’t step away. Suddenly, she wanted to ask him to move, to put some distance between them. For a moment she thought of placing her hand flat on his chest to keep him at bay. But she didn’t wish to create a bridge of either words or touch.
Long ago, someone as appreciative as she of the view of the falls had erected a few stones so that they formed a bench. She walked to it now, sitting and pulling her skirts aside so that he might join her.
To their right, water emerged from the ground soundlessly and tumbled down over a succession of rocks towering nearly twenty feet in the air. The pool at the bottom was black and deep and ringed by vegetation. Where they sat was midpoint, a place misted by the eternal falling water. A perfect spot for solitary reflection.
“Doran’s Falls,” she said as he joined her. “No one knows why it’s called that, but I hope it’s not because someone named Doran decided to do himself in here.”
“All for the loss of a ladylove?” he asked, and it took a moment for her to realize he was teasing again. She wished he wouldn’t. His charm was disconcerting. His earlier coldness was easier to bear.
She glanced at him, thinking that their paths would never cross again, This moment in time, as fleeting as it was, would be all they would share in life.
Celebrate the temporary, lass. Sometimes it’s all you have. Her father’s voice, rarely recalled of late. His advice was wise, if a little sad.
They sat for a moment, listening to the fall of the water over the rocks. Riona folded her hands together on her lap, staring at the plume of mist rising like smoke from the pond. Day after day, regardless of the weather, the water plunged over the embankment. Only during the coldest winter days did the waterfall freeze.
“This is my favorite place at Tyemorn,” she said, wondering why she divulged that information to him. “I think it’s because it’s possible to feel out of yourself here.”
He raised one eyebrow, and she explained. “Sometimes I’m quite tired of my own thoughts. Have you ever felt that way?”
“As if there is a dialogue in my mind?” At her nod, he smiled. “Too often.”
“I haven’t decided why it is. Perhaps I spend too much time arguing over something I don’t want to do and yet must.”
“What is it you must do?”
She shook her head, unwilling to confide in him. Speaking of Harold would only tarnish the days she had left.
Closing her eyes, Riona listened to the sound of the water. Sometimes she thought that if she kept her eyes closed long enough, she might be transported to another time. At this moment, it wouldn’t be so difficult to believe herself a Roman maid or one of the Picts who tinted themselves blue and were so fierce that stories were still told of them.
She opened her eyes, conscious of the passing of time. Standing, she looked down at him, wondering at the companionable silence that had sprung up between them.
A disturbing man. He’d started the morning by being un-approachable and had reverted to charm only too quickly. She was unwisely curious about him, and more interested than she should be. The sooner she was rid of him, the better.
“You need to meet with Old Ned, do you not? Come, and I’ll introduce you.”
The barn was a commodious rectangular
structure that looked as if it predated the manor house by a hundred years or more. Constructed of gray stones that had rounded over the years, the building showed its age. The mortar between the stones had begun to crack and disintegrate in spots, allowing weeds and moss to flourish, thereby weakening the integrity of the walls. An especially large gap appeared at the roof joint on the west side.
James was surprised that work hadn’t been done to repair the building, but he said nothing as he entered, following Riona to where an older man was building a pen.
Old Ned reminded him of his Great Uncle Hamish, who had died when James was just a boy. Ned’s beard was as white as his uncle’s had been, and there was something of Hamish in Ned’s speech, too, a rolling accent that was peppered with enough Gaelic to make James grateful he understood and spoke the language.
“This is Ned,” Riona said, introducing them. “Evidently, James needs to speak with you.”
“And why would you be wanting to do that?” Ned narrowed his eyes at James.
His promise to Susanna hampered him from speaking in front of Riona. But she didn’t move, merely stood there looking interested.
After several moments of silence, she finally smiled. “He is sworn to some vow of secrecy, Ned,” she said, staring straight at James. “Evidently, I’m not to know.”
“Well, I haven’t time for games,” Ned grumbled. “I’ve chores to do.”
“I’m sure James would be glad to help,” she said, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Would he now?” the old man said, eyeing him from beneath bushy brows.
“I would,” James said, noting Riona’s amusement and Old Ned’s sudden sharp look. He had four brothers, all of whom bedeviled him from time to time. After the many pranks played on him in his life, he was capable of enduring any mischief.
“I’ve a bit of plowing to do at the end of the south farm.”
Silence was the best recourse, especially as they were both looking at him expectantly.
“Very well,” Old Ned said. “I’ll take him.”
With that, Riona left, sending a smile to both men as farewell. He caught himself watching her walk away.
She had prepared herself well for the chores of this day. Not one single hair was loose from the tight coronet of braid. Leather brogans, well worn at the heels and scuffed at the toes, covered her feet. Her dress was of a dun-colored linen, the threadbare nature of the hem attesting to its long wear and serviceability.
The sun had added color to her cheeks, her lips were red, and her eyes were the color of cannon shot. She was, simply put, beautiful.
Her skirt swayed in a gentle arc as she made her way out of the barn. Her head was bent, and it seemed to him that she was intent on her thoughts rather than her footing.
Until this moment, he’d never felt such curiosity about a woman. What was she thinking? Why did she look so relieved to rid herself of him?
He was appreciative of the companionship and grateful for the generosity and talents of those women who’d shared his bed in the past. But James had never before found his mind engaged in a way that was almost equal to a physical response.
Mental seduction. He’d never thought it possible.
He had tried to hold himself aloof, but had warmed to her too quickly, charmed by her abrupt comments and obvious love of her home.
Being interested in a woman promised to another man was foolish. Wanting her to be free was even more ill advised.
Old Ned kept working on a pen he was constructing, intent upon that chore even as Riona left them.
“You know about the thefts,” James said, grateful to be talking with someone who could shorten his visit.
“I do,” Old Ned responded.
“Who do you think might be behind them?”
The older man stood, taking his time, as if the movement pained him. “I thought that’s why you were here.”
“How many of the livestock have been taken?”
Ned didn’t answer.
“Have you any idea when they were taken?”
Still no response.
If the old man was trying to irritate him, he was succeeding admirably. “Are you going to tell me anything?”
“Herself told me to help you, but she didn’t tell me to solve the riddle for you. I’m thinking you’re smart enough to do that on your own. For now I’ve chores to do, and you’ll help.” He headed for the door, glancing over his shoulder. “Or was your promise just a way of impressing Riona?”
James found himself torn between active dislike and amusement. Like Hamish, the old man bedeviled him, and was staring at him now with humor in his gaze.
“I’ll help,” he said, moving to follow him.
The room in which Harold McDougal stood was opulent by any standards. A richly patterned carpet lay on the dark oak floorboards. Crimson silk fabric stamped with small gold medallions adorned the walls. A portrait of a man sitting in a high-backed thronelike chair, its wooden arms ending in carved lion’s heads, dominated the wall above the cold fireplace. Below it, sitting like an aged and malevolent replica, was the same man and the identical chair. Of the two, the man had suffered the passage of the years with less grace. His hair was no longer dark, but streaked with gray, and the face that had once been lean, but not unattractive in its way, had grown gaunt and saturnine with age.
There were some who said that William Sinclair had become even more vicious over the years. Harold McDougal doubted that the man had ever been less than evil.
Gambling had begun as a way to keep body and soul together, and had become a habit that ruled Harold’s life. A few months ago, he had come to the man for help in paying his debts, never realizing that a reputation for being unable to pay a gambling chit was preferable to owing any sum to William Sinclair.
“You’ll have my money, then?” Sinclair asked, his voice a gravelly echo.
“I will,” Harold said. “As soon as I marry the girl.”
“And when will that happy event occur?” the other man asked.
“In less than a month.”
His major creditor nodded his head, sitting back in his chair. “I will wait until then. But I’ll have my money a day after the ceremony and not a moment later.”
“It might be a bit longer than that,” Harold said, feeling sweat trickle down his back. “I have to get control of her funds first.”
“How long, then?”
“A week. No more.”
He hated the man sitting in front of him for a variety of reasons, the first being the ease with which he inspired fear. A friend of his had appeared at Harold’s doorstep one night with a broken arm, a blackened eye, and a curiously cryptic account of what had happened. Later, he’d learned that Sinclair had ordered him beaten because he’d been two days late with a payment.
Sinclair wouldn’t hesitate to cripple him, or worse, if Harold didn’t make good on his promise.
The date of his wedding couldn’t come fast enough to suit him.
“You’ll be beating the fabric to bits,” Abigail said, peering over the line at Rory.
“If I’m poor at this task, it’s because I’ve never done such a thing before. It’s woman’s work.”
“So being clean is a womanly thing, now?” she asked, frowning at him. “I doubt the MacRae feels the same. The man is a beauty, he is, what with those eyes and that smile.” She sighed, which made Rory strike the curtains even harder.
He’d been given a wooden tool that looked like a paddle with bands of wood stretched over a frame. They’d placed the curtains over a rope strung in the yard, and were now thrashing the dust from them.
Abigail, however, was taking the opportunity to badger him with questions.
At Gilmuir, he was accorded respect due to his newly discovered carpentry talents and his acquaintanceship with the MacRaes. Here at Tyemorn Manor, he was only the person who had accompanied James McRae across Scotland. When Rory wasn’t being suffused with questions, he was being told how wonderf
ul James was. He found it a perplexing experience to be wanting to talk to a girl, only to have her giggle about another man.
One thing he’d learned over the past year was that females were a changeable lot, and it was best to view them with caution. Abigail had a laugh that made him want to smile, but still and all, she was a woman.
You never knew what they were going to do.
Experience told him that it was better to be a bit standoffish, which wasn’t a problem since all she wanted to talk about was James.
“Will you be here at Lethson?” she asked.
“When is it?”
“A few weeks from now,” she said, looking at him as if he were the most daft person on earth. “The longest day of the year.”
“I doubt it,” he answered, not at all sure why they were remaining there at all. A few days, that’s what James had said. Only a few days.
“Well, I for one hope that you are. It would be a shame for you to miss all the fun.”
It was the first time she’d not mentioned James. He felt a little more hopeful.
“What’s there to do?”
A spate of giggles answered him. “You must dance, of course.”
He felt his heart sink. Only aboard ship did he have perfect balance. Months of practicing on the rigging had given him a sense of confidence that didn’t translate well to land. He felt like a clumsy oaf at times, one with too many feet.
“I hope you stay. I, for one, would like a chance to dance with James.” Another sigh had him frowning at her again.
“Or with me.” The words were blurted out before he thought them.
“Or with you,” she said pertly, smiling at him.
He began to smile, forgetting for the moment that he had never learned to dance.
Chapter 9
O ld Ned might look ancient, but he did the work of a much younger man. At the end of a few hours, James had an even greater appreciation for the man’s stamina.
He found himself behind a plow as Ned gave the horse a swat on the rump. The old man thought it uproariously funny when his arms were nearly jerked from his shoulders. Once he’d become accustomed to the strain, however, James found the chore no more difficult than pulling in a full-bellied sail.