by Karen Ranney
He had become, James discovered, a farmer. Yet that was the only revelation he’d made in the past few days. He’d been unable to discover the identity of the thief or even details of the losses themselves.
Susanna, however, seemed to think nothing of his lack of progress. In fact, each time he broached the subject, she waved it away, changing the topic quickly.
“I’m surprised Susanna let you up on the roof. She’s so particular about your comfort.”
James smiled. He’d heard that tone before.
“She feels the same about you,” he said, in an attempt to ease the other man’s jealousy. “She’s lucky to have you,” he added.
He’d studied the ledgers with great care, attempting to discover if the thefts were as a result of simple mathematical errors. Ned’s entries had been flawless.
Ned sent him a narrow-eyed look, as if to say that he didn’t give a whit what James thought of him. But James had crewed with older sailors before, those who claimed not to want or need praise. A man should know when the job he did was good regardless of his age, so James repeated his statement, adding, “I doubt that Susanna could have settled in here as easily as she has without your help.”
“The old barn needed repairing,” Ned conceded. “But I never had the time or the manpower. The rain this year only made the damage worse. Not that I’m complaining. A fool would complain about rain. You take what you get and consider it a blessing.”
“The farmland is rich here.”
“Aye, there’s more rock than soil away from Ayleshire,” Ned agreed. He knelt at James’s side, began to hammer. A curious moment of agreement.
“Have you always lived here, Ned?” Today was one of the few times he and the older man shared a conversation that didn’t involve the manor or farming.
“Aye,” the older man said. “I never went away to war all those many years ago. There were some who call us Ayleshire men traitors because of it, but we didn’t side with the prince for all that Scotland seemed to love him. He watered his horse at our well, did you know that?”
“No,” James said, sitting back on his heels.
“I guess he thought drinking the waters and making a display of himself would change the villagers’ minds. But not one person came to greet him on the day he and his army came here. We all busied ourselves doing what we could to keep our homes and hearth around us. It didn’t make it easier that we were right when it all ended.”
James nodded, thinking of stories his father had told of the deprivations in Scotland following Culloden.
“Even with help we’ll not finish the barn for a good week,” Ned said, looking around him.
“A better occupation than looking for a thief who doesn’t exist,” James said, eyeing the older man.
For nearly two weeks, he’d begun to suspect that there weren’t any thefts occurring at Tyemorn Manor. People were too casual about guarding the cattle and sheep. There was no suspicion in their eyes or worried looks. If livestock was missing, he doubted that those who cared for the animals knew it.
Ned didn’t even blink an eye. “I told her it wouldn’t work.”
James straightened. The other man didn’t even make an effort to continue the pretense. Nor did it appear, from his wide grin, that he felt any guilt over his part in the ruse.
“If there are no thefts taking place, then what am I doing here?”
“You’ll have to ask Susanna that,” Ned said.
“Was there ever any missing livestock?”
“To be sure,” Ned replied easily. “I sent them to a man on the other side of the village. It cost a pretty penny to keep that creature’s lips from flapping.”
James couldn’t decide exactly what he felt at this particular moment. For some reason, Susanna had decided to lie to him. Yet he couldn’t deny that he’d enjoyed the time here. In fact, working at Tyemorn had helped him crystallize his own future.
“Don’t tell her that I know just yet,” he said.
Ned looked at him.
“If it’s an excuse you need for staying, James, there’s Rory’s healing to do.” Ned glanced down at his arm. “And I guess I could use some help.”
“Am I that transparent?” James asked, unwillingly amused.
“Let’s just say I know what it’s like to be bedeviled by a woman,” Ned said, looking toward the manor house.
For the moment, however, there was nothing to do but concentrate on the roof.
The summer sun was directly overhead by the time the majority of the roof trusses were finished. The rhythm of hammers and the smell of newly cut wood reminded him of Gilmuir and the new shipyard he’d built there. He might have been with his crew repairing a sail or testing the structural integrity of a mast. From time to time he’d stand and stretch, seeking Riona from his vantage point atop the roof. But she had disappeared, leaving him with a curious feeling of emptiness.
Chapter 22
“N ot like that, miss,” one of the milkmaids said. “Gently, gently. As if you’re combing a baby’s curls.”
Riona looked down at the scarred iron pot. Her hands were buried to the wrist in gelled milk. Her fingers separated, pulling upward through the curds, cutting the mixture slowly into smaller sections.
“You could do it with a knife, but Tyemorn’s cheese is always scored by hand.”
Riona nodded, concentrating on her task.
Making cheese was not the easiest task at Tyemorn, but one of the most fascinating. Today she was learning to separate the curds from the whey, one of the first steps in making the hard white cheese commanding such a good price at market. One day’s milking resulted in a five-pound wheel, and since so much time was needed to age the finished cheese, a few hours each day was set aside for production.
The building where they worked was at the farthest edge of the outbuildings, well away from any of the animals. A broad oak table in the middle of the room held most of the molds, with a cook fire at one end. The other side of the room was filled with shelves, each one carefully labeled and holding cheese in various stages of ageing.
One of the milkmaids added a small log to the fire below the pot where she was working until the gelled milk began gently to warm. Once the solids had been extracted, they would be pressed into wooden molds and left to age for six months or more. The residue from the pot—what they called day cheese—would be served at breakfast, or sent home with one of the workers. Nothing at Tyemorn Manor ever went to waste.
“Did you ever see such a lad as him?” a milkmaid asked, sighing. The other two girls turned and followed her gaze, each one boldly staring through the open door in turn.
There wasn’t any sense in claiming ignorance, Riona thought, glancing toward the barn. There he stood atop the structure, as bold as a mountain, feet apart as if he stood on the deck of his ship. But what fascinated the milkmaids, and disconcerted her, was the fact that James had taken off his coat, waistcoat, and shirt and now stood in the bright afternoon sun bare-chested for all the world to see.
“What is he doing up there?” she asked, the first coherent question that occurred to her.
“Do you care?” one of the young girls asked, smiling. “It’s enough to see him there, all tanned and muscled.”
In Edinburgh she’d been counseled that a woman never actually looked directly at a man. One sent a sidelong glance, looked beneath her lashes, or spoke to the floor when addressed. Until this moment, she’d had no idea that women were capable of leering at a man. Riona couldn’t decide what unsettled her more, the admiring women and their quasi-lewd comments or the sight of James.
Oh, and what a sight it was. He had done this often, evident from the sun-browned expanse of chest and back. Also obvious was the fact that he had engaged in hard labor before. How else would he have garnered such strong arms, and muscles that rippled across his chest and stomach?
Riona McKinsey, look away. But the sight was almost irresistible.
As she stood watching him, his attention was c
aptured by one of the men on the ground. Or perhaps she moved, or one of the milkmaids beside her giggled too loudly. For whatever reason, he turned his head to see her standing there, mouth agape like a hooked trout.
But he didn’t reach to retrieve his shirt. Instead, he placed one hand against his abdomen, the other clenching a mallet.
They exchanged a look, open and aware and filled with more curiosity than any she’d ever shared with a man. How long did she remain staring at him? Long enough to cause comment, evident from the girlish giggles beside her.
Turn away, Riona. A voice so panicked that she couldn’t help but heed it. How odd that her conscience should sound so afraid. Face florid, she deliberately turned away from the barn with as much dignity as she’d ever learned from Mrs. Parker.
She concentrated, instead, on her task, dismissing the sight of him from her mind and her memory. A chore made more difficult by the giggling commentary behind her. She knew when James bent down, when he retrieved a board from one of the other workers, when he smiled in their direction. Knew, too, by their longing sighs, when he disappeared from sight.
For a little while, calm reigned in the cheese house. As they grew even more silent, she glanced over her shoulder, pleased that they’d finally gained some sense.
Only to encounter a fully dressed James.
He dwarfed the interior of the building, until all she could see was him.
The worst of his bruises had faded, leaving places slightly yellow in appearance. But from the eternal cooing and lamentations from Polly, Cook, and Abigail, one would have thought him scarred for life.
James handsome or James ugly. Which one was more alluring?
“I’ve come to take you branch picking. Isn’t it a task you need to perform?”
“You remembered.”
“I always remember a promise.”
“You needn’t help,” she said. In fact, she’d planned on using a few of the lads from the farm.
“I said I would.”
“Can you spare the time from the barn?”
“It cannot be built in a day,” he said, smiling.
The milkmaids were looking at her oddly. As if she were a fool to turn down an invitation from James. She would be more foolish to go with him.
“The afternoon is well advanced,” he said. “Are you so occupied here that you can’t spare an hour or two?”
“We’re nearly finished,” one of the girls offered. Riona frowned at her but she was staring at James with that wide-eyed look that most women adopted in his presence. Did he never tire of the adoration?
“It is very nice of you to offer,” she said, determined to be polite, “but it’s not necessary.”
“Have you done the task already?”
Yes. A lie she almost spoke aloud. “No,” she said, forcing a smile to her face.
“Then why won’t you allow me to help?”
She untied her apron and set it on the table, glanced at one of the milkmaids who came to take her place. Wise or not, she was evidently going to spend some time with James. The saddest part was that she wanted it very much. Reason enough to avoid him, even now.
She nodded, leading the way outside. In the cider shed each of them retrieved one of the tall baskets normally used for harvesting apples.
“How many branches do we need?” he asked, hefting the basket by its leather sling over his shoulder. She did the same, leading the way toward the line of trees in the distance.
“A hundred.”
“A hundred?”
“It’s not as onerous as it sounds,” she said. “Each branch need only be a few inches long. It’s the spirit of the tree that’s needed, I understand. Not the whole thing.”
He only smiled at her explanation.
“Tell me of the last place you visited,” she said, bending to pick up a branch. After brushing it clean, she placed it in her basket. James promptly removed it and put it into his. She smiled at his gallantry.
“India. Bombay,” he replied. “It’s a series of islands that make up a natural harbor.”
Picking up another branch, she placed it in his basket.
“It’s warm even in winter, but gradually the air gets heavier until June. From then until autumn the rains, or what they call monsoons, arrive.”
“Not a place to farm,” she said, watching as he snapped a few of the younger branches from some of the older trees.
He shook his head.
“What an odd name, Bombay.”
“There are those who say that the name comes from a Hindu goddess, Mumbai Devi. Others who believe it’s from the Portuguese, bom baia meaning good harbor.”
“Which do you think is correct?”
“I tend to think the Portuguese is closer to the truth. The islands were part of Catherine of Braganza’s dowry when she married an English king.”
“So the English own it now?”
“Specifically, the British East India Company.”
“The English are everywhere. Sometimes I think Scotland is more English than England.”
He looked surprised.
“Have you not noticed? Mrs. Parker is not the only Englishwoman living in Edinburgh. They’re building a city modeled on London, it seems. Our manners are from London, our plays, our balls.”
“You would not think that if you’d ever seen Gilmuir,” he said. “It’s a place as stark and wild as any in Scotland.”
“But we cannot all live in places like Gilmuir,” she said, picking up another branch from the ground and placing it in the basket. “Some of us must live in towns and villages like Ayleshire. But at least here it seems as if time stands still, defying any changes at all.”
“An enchanted village?” he asked, his smile teasing.
“Do you not believe in such things, James? Or witches, fairies, and brownies? As a Scot you should not discount the unexplained.”
“You’ve never seen a more superstitious lot than sailors, Riona. But I don’t believe in myth and folklore.”
“You mustn’t speak in such a way, James, especially not here. Here the spirit of Annie Mull will come and hex you for certain.”
“Who is Annie Mull?”
Reaching up, she slid the leather strap from his shoulder, releasing the basket. Propping it against the base of a tree, she added hers to it.
“Come with me, and I’ll show you.”
“Another Roman wall?”
She shook her head. “A witch’s well.”
She bent beneath a branch, catching a leaf in her hair. Attempting to brush it free, she only managed to entangle it further.
“Let me,” he said.
A tiny twig clung tenaciously to an auburn curl. Gently he extricated it, his fingers tenderly smoothing against her braid until he realized what he was doing.
Her scalp was warm against his palms, her hair seeming to ensnare his fingers. His arms almost surrounded her, creating a hollow for them in the midst of the world. He took one step forward until the tip of his boots met the toe of her shoes.
He glanced down at her. Until he’d seen her in the cheese house he’d had no intention of seeking her out or of spending any time with her. But he’d been transfixed by the sight of her and intrigued by the blush that had suffused her neck and face. She’d not been able to look away from him, and now he felt the same.
Honor had been buried beneath a stronger emotion, one that kept him watching for her, made him lie awake at night thinking of her walk, her smile, her laughter.
Her face was turned up, her gaze silent, and it seemed, in that moment, that the world stilled around them. No doubt in condemnation of his touch. Desire held him rooted to this spot. Riona held him here, captive to a smile and a wish.
She was affianced, and he was transient in her world. Her duty was before her, just as his was, but he couldn’t help but wish that each path would change.
“When I marry,” she said softly, so very softly that he had to bend his head a little to hear her, “I’ll have
my hair cut off. It’s an incessant nuisance.”
“It would be a pity for you to cut your hair,” he said.
“It’s always in the way.”
Her fingers touched his elbows and then trailed down to his wrists. Reaching out, she touched his cuff, her fingers playing on the edge where fabric met skin. Instead of moving away, he simply turned his hand, his finger trailing across the inside of her wrist, his thumb resting on her palm. She looked down at their joined hands, as if engrossed by the sight. But she didn’t move away. Nor did he say a word to ease the sudden tension between them.
He could hear her breathe, the sound accentuated in this bower they’d created for themselves. He didn’t look up to see if they were visible to any of the workers. At this moment, he didn’t care.
“It takes such a very long time to care for,” she said.
He’d lost track of their conversation, and it took a second before he realized she was still talking about her hair. They were so close, he could feel the warmth of her words on his lips. He should be satisfied with that, he told himself, even as he bent closer.
Could he feel her smile?
Her fingers moved from his wrists to rest on the back of his hands.
“I, for one, would hate for you to do such a thing. You have such lovely hair.”
“Why does everyone say that? I’m more than my hair.”
He smiled at her, forcing himself to pull away. His thoughts were riotous and forbidden, couched as they were in lover’s terms. Yes, you are. You are your thoughts, your actions, and even your smiles. You constantly surprise me, but more than that, you intrigue me. I want to know you, and neither time nor circumstance will allow it.
“There, you’re freed,” he said, flinging the twig away and taking the precaution of placing a few feet between them.
She fluffed her skirt and rearranged her jacket. Small, feminine movements that charmed him.
Riona stretched out her hand to him in invitation and temptation. He shouldn’t take it, but then he shouldn’t have sought her out. Even now, he should claim other tasks to occupy his time.
Instead of being wise, instead of leaving her, instead of offering her a dozen reasons that he should not say, he took her hand.