Silence, though she could practically feel the heat and anger radiating from him. “Aye,” he finally growled. “Ye have every damned thing figured oot. Except fer yerself. Now. Did Brendan threaten ye?”
Just the way he pronounced every word spoke of fury. Putting her hands behind her back and clenching them together, she turned to face him. The icy steel of his gaze made him seem an utter stranger, not the man with whom she’d shared a bed for the last few, best, nights of her life.
“No,” she stated between clenched teeth. “He did not threaten me. He asked me for advice, which I gave him.” Marjorie stalked closer so she could lower her voice still further. “And why didn’t you tell me that Hamish Paulk is the uncle of my brother’s betrothed?”
A muscle in his jaw jumped. “Because I didnae want ye thinking he’s anyone ye could trust. He isnae. He turned his back on his own niece in exchange fer Dunncraigh’s table scraps.”
For a long moment she held his angry gaze. “Well?” she finally asked, tapping her foot against the ground. “Do we stand here glowering at each other till moonrise, or are you going to apologize to me?”
Both of his brows lifted. “I’m nae apologizing to ye, Marjorie. I told ye how I felt, and ye stomped all over it.”
The nerve! “You told me that you wanted me to stay. That’s all. That doesn’t say anything about how you feel. For all I know, you want me here because Connell does need a tutor, and the rest of you Maxtons need to learn some damned manners. Well, I am not a tutor, and I am not a governess, and I am not a lady’s companion. Not any more, and never again.”
“I havenae said ye were.”
“You never say anything I want to hear.” She could feel tears burning at the corner of her eyes, but she was not going to cry in front of him. Not for all the tea in China. “Now go away and be your clan’s chieftain.”
* * *
What the devil did that mean? He never said anything she wanted to hear? For God’s sake, he’d told her the decision he’d made not to allow any lass a piece of his heart, and that she’d taken one anyway. Not in those words, but he didn’t know how anyone could interpret it differently. He’d asked her to stay, when he’d determined that no lass would be sharing his life. If that didn’t qualify as him telling her how he felt, he had no idea what did.
Graeme tangled with it, argued silently with it, all through the evening’s bonfire and the carving of faces in gourds and vegetables to ward off evil spirits. The lads and lasses lit the candle stubs set inside the hollowed-out lanterns, leaving unsettling sets of yellow eyes glowing all around the meadow. If he’d been the superstitious sort he might think the eyes were all looking at him, accusing him of doing whatever the hell she’d said he’d done.
Sassenach women. Of course he knew better than to tangle himself up with one. In a sense, though, that had been part of the problem. He’d figured his attraction to Marjorie Forrester was lust. Lucifer knew he didn’t have anything in common with her, or even much sympathy to begin with. And then with her sharp wit and her defiant spirit, her calm presence and kindness to Connell and the lads, she’d crept beneath his skin before he’d even been aware of it.
A small hand grabbed his. “They’re hanging apples on strings. Can I try to catch one?”
Ruffling Connell’s hair, Graeme shook his head. “Ye’re nae old enough.”
“If I stood on a chair, I could reach.”
“Aye, but whoever snags the first apple will be the next one to marry. Do ye have a lass in mind?”
The eight-year-old made a face. “Brendan says he’s going to do it, and he only just kissed Isobel Allen an hour ago.”
Well, that straightened his spine. “How do ye know Brendan kissed Isobel?”
“Because I thought they were going to look fer rabbits and I followed ’em,” the boy said matter-of-factly.
One kiss, and the lad was ready to catch an apple. Whatever Marjorie had advised the sixteen-year-old, he doubted she’d suggested marriage. But something had happened, because while Brendan pining after Isobel Allen was nothing new, her being impressed enough with him to grant him a kiss was.
He walked over to where most of the young people had gathered. Technically he supposed that at twenty-eight he could be considered one of them, but it seemed like a very long time ago in both age and distance since he’d nervously tried to bite an apple and then been supremely relieved when he hadn’t managed it. And then, after the deaths of Deirdre and Brian Maxton, he’d never done it again. On purpose.
Brendan stood close by Isobel, which wouldn’t make a conversation with his volatile brother any easier. Graeme draped an arm across the lad’s shoulder. “After an apple, are ye?” he murmured under his breath.
“I told Isobel I mean to try,” Brendan whispered back. “But nae, I dunnae mean to catch one. I cannae be a married man before I can manage to sprout enough chin hairs to need a razor.”
That was damned unexpected, and refreshing. “Have fun, then. I think ye’ll impress her just by stepping forward.”
“Aye.” He squared his shoulders and stepped forward out of Graeme’s grasp. “I’m next, I reckon.”
Some teasing and laughter followed that announcement, but to Brendan’s credit he managed a grin before he had apples bouncing off his nose, mouth, chin, and one ear. He actually made it look like a decent effort before the unofficial timekeeper called him to step back.
“I’d have a time explaining a black eye from that,” he said, chuckling as he returned to where Graeme and Isobel stood.
Considerably relieved despite the lad’s assurances, Graeme watched the next few apple hunters before he slung Connell over his shoulder to go watch the bagpipe competition. He was halfway there when his brother nearly kicked him in the back of the head. “Wait. I want to watch Ree catch an apple!”
Graeme swung around so quickly he nearly flung Connell to the ground. The boy yelped, grabbing onto Graeme’s head and obscuring one eye as he spied Marjorie stepping into the jungle of hanging apples. With her hands clasped firmly behind her back and an amused grin on her face, she went after a fat apple tied toward one end of the overhanging branch.
From the laughs and encouragement around her, she’d charmed his tenants as thoroughly as she’d charmed him. He wondered if she realized that—until his mind froze at the sound of an apple’s juicy crunch.
“The first apple!” Connell yelled, his cheer echoed around the meadow.
The lass likely had no idea she’d done anything more than caught hold of the Samhain fair’s first apple. And as he gazed at her accepting more cheers and congratulations, he knew the exact moment someone told her. Her fair skin darkened, her hands folded in front of her as if she was trying to protect herself, and her bright blue gaze darted about until she spied him.
She didn’t look away. What the hell did that mean, though? Defiance? Reminding him that she’d definitively turned him down already? Daring him to make some comment about the abysmal odds of her finding someone lofty enough in London to be worthy of her hand? Or did she wish for a single, mad moment that he wasn’t bound to the Highlands and she, to London Society? That was what he’d been wishing for the past week.
But she was a damned stubborn lass, and until she realized on her own that the dream she’d had for her life was just that, he and his ramshackle life didn’t stand a chance with her. Graeme frowned. He’d kept his house and his family and his clan together for the past eight years on little more than willpower and sweat.
If he stopped bellowing at her for being pigheaded and instead demonstrated what Garaidh nan Leòmhann offered, what he offered … It would be a damned sight better than watching her leave to return to a life he knew she found miserable. To a life she could hope to have until her dying day and never find—because it didn’t exist. Not for her.
He slept alone that night for the first time in a week, and he didn’t like it one damned bit. Not that he did much sleeping—Marjorie Forrester had claimed the first apple
of winter. That meant she would be the next to marry. And if he had any say in the matter, she would be marrying him. And this time he would ask, and she would say aye.
The best part of coming to that conclusion was that completely aside from the fact that he wanted it, this marriage was something he could justify. He’d already justified it to himself, when all that mattered was what she owned, and not who she was. She’d grown up with an income as limited as his own. Now, and thanks to the generosity of her brother, she commanded nearly unlimited funds. A marriage to Marjorie would allow him to accomplish unfathomable good for his tenants and his village, his brothers, the Lion’s Den, and his small corner of clan Maxwell, even if he’d decided not to wield her as a weapon against Dunncraigh.
When Ross came to wake him before dawn he’d already risen and dressed. Breakfast could wait, because he needed to return before Marjorie rose. Padding barefoot to the stairs, his boots in his hand, he stilled when a door at the opposite end of the hallway opened. It was likely Connell, and that could create some complications; he didn’t want to explain what he was about, and if he did, the bairn would blab about it to everyone, including Marjorie.
A big, bearded shadow approached, work boots in one hand. Well, fancy that. He and the blacksmith nodded silently to each other, slipped quietly down the stairs, and sat side by side on the bottommost step to pull on their boots.
“Laird Maxton,” the smith grunted, and opened the front door to head out on foot toward the road and Sheiling two miles distant.
“Rob.” Graeme shut the door and walked up to the stable for Clootie.
“Ye certain ye dunnae want company?” Johnny asked, as he handed over the gray gelding’s reins.
“Nae. I will take that tin bucket over there, if ye dunnae mind.”
“The—Nae. Of course I dunnae mind.” The groom retrieved it for him.
“Thank ye. I’ll be heading upriver a mile or two, if someone needs desperately to find me.”
In an hour or so workmen and villagers would be swarming over the meadow to remove canopies and planking and the remaining gourd and vegetable lanterns, but for now the hollow faces and dark, empty eyes continued staring at him as he trotted past.
It occurred to him that he needed to visit the village today, and that he also needed to begin his visits to all the outlying cottages to be sure every family had what they required to survive the winter. The Duke of Dunncraigh espoused that a family needed to be responsible for its own well-being, but that was something else about which he and the Maxwell disagreed.
Today, though, this morning, was about him and a lass. The rest of the world could wait its damned turn.
* * *
Marjorie took a last glance at the pretty rose-colored gown she’d worn yesterday, then closed the door on the small wardrobe. The contents had increased, at least; between Mrs. Giswell and herself she’d added five gowns to the selection, plus the few from her recovered trunk she’d deemed suitable for the setting and her faux position in the household. It was nothing compared to the shopping spree she’d embarked upon after moving into Leeds House, but it did remind her of how little she actually needed of what she now owned.
Today she wore a heavier brown and mauve gown with a gray pelisse. Those deep, rich colors seemed made for Scotland winters, and she smiled as she took a turn in front of the dressing mirror. Whether she and Graeme were speaking or not, at least she looked composed.
Mrs. Giswell reached the top of the landing just as she did. That wasn’t surprising; they’d both stayed out of doors late into the night to watch the festivities. What surprised her was the wide smile on her companion’s generally stoic face.
“You’re in a pleasant mood this morning,” she noted, leading the way down to the main floor.
“The fair was quite invigorating,” her faux aunt replied. “And I imbibed a little more of the spiced rum than I should have, strictly speaking. You did say ‘when in Rome,’ however.”
“So I did.” Mrs. Giswell hadn’t been the only one to overindulge, either. For heaven’s sake, how was she to know that biting an apple could be so significant to the Highlanders? She’d wanted to sink into the ground from embarrassment. They’d all laughed and cheered for her, though, and no one had seemed affronted or angry at her stepping into the middle of their traditions.
“Oh, I nearly forgot,” the older woman exclaimed, as they reached the foyer. “I spoke to Ranald, the owner of the Cracked Hearth, last night. He said my boys—by which I assume he meant Stevens and Wolstanton—were following my instructions and staying close by the inn.”
“Your instructions?”
“Yes. Evidently I left them a note the night I vanished, saying I’d gone on to Lattimer Castle, and that they were to remain there until I sent for them.”
That would have been Graeme’s doing, then. In all honesty, over the past days she’d completely forgotten about her coachman and driver. “Well, it’s done, at least. And I can’t fault Graeme—I don’t want to see any harm befall Connell or the other boys. In fact, I’ll write Stevens myself and ask that they cover the Lattimer coat of arms on the coach doors.”
“I asked Ranald to do it nearly a fortnight ago,” Graeme said, as he emerged into the foyer from the direction of the kitchen.
Her spine stiffened and her fingers clenched, her body wanting to fling itself into his arms, while her mind bellowed that the more distance between the two of them, the better it would be for her. “Well,” she said aloud, “it’s been seen to, then. Good.”
He nodded, no sign of last night’s anger on his lean face. “Aye. Are ye going in to breakfast? I’ve a few people to see, so I’ll be oot fer a few hours.”
“You don’t need to report your whereabouts to me,” she returned. “I said we’d remain here until Sir Hamish departs, and so we will.”
“Then I’ll see ye later.” Without another word he headed up the hallway toward his office, entered, and closed the door behind him.
“So you are on the outs,” Mrs. Giswell noted, moving into the lead. “I thought there was a chill in the air yesterday, but now I’m certain of it.”
“I don’t wish to discuss it.”
“And that is how a lady puts a stop to an innapropriate conversation. I shall desist.”
Wonderful. She’d finally mastered the art of being appropriately rude. Perhaps that was the key to success in London—to be direct, rude, and dismissive. Being friendly and hopeful certainly hadn’t achieved anything. Not in London, anyway. Yesterday, in this small corner of the Highlands, she’d been appreciated, welcomed, and accepted, all with nothing for her to offer in return but a smile. Of course she’d lied about who she was, but she had the distinct impression that she cared more about that than they did.
“Who are ye going to marry?” Connell demanded, as she entered the breakfast room. All three of Graeme’s brothers were there, in fact, the youngest one excited and the other two looking supremely amused. At her, no doubt.
“Why you, of course,” she returned, swooping in to clasp his hand. “I must marry the first man who asks me.”
“I didnae ask ye, and I’m nae a man,” he exclaimed, pulling his fingers free. “I’m a bairn and a duckling.”
“Oh, dear!” She put both hands to her cheeks. “Then I suppose I shan’t marry anyone—because no one bothered to tell me what catching the first apple meant!” She kissed him on the cheek.
He wiped the kiss away with a grimace. “I was hoping ye were bamming me. I’ve had my eye on Jenny Moss fer some time now, anyway.”
Brendan let out a shout of laughter, the first time she’d ever heard him do so. “Ye ken she’s twice yer age, duckling.”
“Aye, but she makes a very fine rhubarb pie.”
“That’s good enough fer me,” Dùghlas put in, chuckling as well.
After Marjorie selected her breakfast she headed for the chair at the opposite end of the table from Brendan. If he’d decided he didn’t hate her, she meant to mak
e an attempt not to do anything to change his mind.
“Ye can sit here, Lady Marjorie,” he said unexpectedly, indicating the chair to his right. “Ree, I mean. I’ve been thinking I might owe ye an apology.”
“‘Might’?” Dùghlas echoed. “This entire da—blasted mess is yer doing.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Marjorie interrupted, before they could begin quarreling, and took the seat beside the sixteen-year-old. “I was quite angry at first. But at the same time, I got to meet all of you, when I wouldn’t have otherwise. And about that, I cannot be angry.”
“You could still be angry aboot Brendan,” Connell suggested. “He’s only happy this morning because he finally got to kiss Isobel Allen.”
The older boy’s face flushed. “How’d ye like yer head dunked in the river, duckling?”
“Ye wouldnae, because I would tell Graeme, and ye’d be—”
“Isobel seemed very happy last night, herself,” Marjorie broke in. “And if anyone has the right to applaud or complain it would be her, Connell. Ladies don’t like it when you say things, true or not, that could embarrass them or hurt their reputations.”
“Aye,” Brendan seconded. “So keep yer gobber shut.”
“I…” The boy stood up, then collapsed into his chair again, the very image of defeated youth. “Aye.” In the next heartbeat he straightened up again. “I’m going up to the meadow after breakfast, if ye want to come, Ree. Last year I found two pennies, a button, and a seashell necklace.”
She could use some fresh air this morning. Anything to help her think, to help her figure out how she would leave these boys behind when the time came to go. How she would leave the master of the house even when he was acting like a complete lummox. Returning directly to London had begun to make more sense; as long as she remained in the Highlands she wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about him and all the might-have-beens he left in his wake.
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