The wind picked up, as it often did in the Highlands. Dermot pulled her closer, hoping to lend her a bit of warmth. She fidgeted a bit before her eyes fluttered open. Whether it was the chill or his movement that woke her, he didn’t know.
“We’ve a fair spell left to drive yet,” he said. “You can go back to sleep.”
She didn’t lift her head from his shoulder. “I fear I am not a very enjoyable traveling companion.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
She pulled the wool blanket more firmly around her shoulders. “You prefer your companions asleep?”
“Quiet, anyway.” He smiled down at her.
She took a deep breath and settled more snugly against him. “Will your mother be upset to have us descend upon her without warning?”
“She enjoys visitors.”
“Even visitors who are English?”
The thought of his mother, of all people, being put out over Sophia’s Englishness pulled a laugh from him.
“Why should that amuse you so much?”
He shook his head. “You’ll simply have to meet her.”
“Why do you call her Mary, Queen of Scots?”
“Again, you’ll have to meet her.”
She sat up straight but turned a bit to face him more directly. “You are making me more worried, not less.”
He slipped the reins into one hand, then took hold of her hand with his free one. “My mother is a goodhearted lady who not only lives alone and longs for visitors, but who rather dotes upon her only son and will be smotheringly affectionate toward anyone he chooses to bring to see her, especially if he happens to be fond of that visitor.”
“You’re fond of me?”
Of all he’d said, that was what she’d latched on to? “Of course I am. Do you think I’d spend six evenings out of seven wandering a garden chatting with you if I wasn’t?”
“Or driving me to meet the queen.”
“Indeed.”
She wove her fingers through his. He liked that. “Are you pleased, then, that I begged you to be my friend?”
“I’d not say you begged, but I am pleased.”
“Are you truly?” She slid closer to him. He could feel the weight of her gaze. “Please don’t say that if you aren’t in earnest. So many people lie to me about things.” It was not the first time she’d said that.
“‘People’? Would that be your family, then?”
She turned forward once more. “I don’t believe my father ever said a truthful thing to me in all my life. My aunt promised to take me in after my father lost our home, but she changed her mind. A friend of my grandmother’s offered me a position as a lady’s companion, but then told her butler to refuse me entrance to the house. Mr. Haddington hired me for what he said was the role of governess, but he lied about why I was brought to Haddington House. People are forever lying to me.”
He raised their entwined hands to his lips. “I’m sorry people’ve hurt you, Sophia. But I swear to you that I’m not one of them. When I say I’m pleased to be your friend, I mean that I’m very much pleased to be your friend.”
“Do you kiss all of your friends’ hands?”
Nothing slipped passed this woman. “M’ first time.” And, he hoped, not his last.
He guided the horse up a pebbled path and under the columned portico of a house he knew well indeed. “Let us hope the housekeeper has a fire built in the sitting room.”
Sophia’s eyes darted from him to the house again and again. “This is your home?”
“It is.”
Johnny, who looked over the animals and stables, stepped up to the cart. Dermot tossed him the reins then hopped down.
“But—” Sophia looked all around, her expression only growing more confused. “But this isn’t a cave.”
Heavens, he enjoyed her sense of humor. “The cave is in back.”
He came around the cart and reached up for her. Without hesitation, she set her hands on his shoulders and allowed him to lift her to the ground. He kept his hands at her waist even after she’d firmly regained her footing; he enjoyed both her confusion over his home and her nearness.
“You are employed by another man when you own your own house and land?” She looked up at him. “I don’t understand.”
“We’ve stumbled upon a new idea up here in Scotland. We call it work, and we consider it a mark of a worthwhile person.”
“Is there not work enough to do here? In my experience, most estates require a great deal of effort to run.”
“It’s not the same.”
She watched him closely, clearly pondering his answer. Few people had truly listened to him the way she always did. He’d found himself anticipating their walks in the garden hours beforehand, knowing he had both a listening ear and an enjoyable conversation to look forward to. “You took the job to prove yourself, I’d wager,” she said. “To convince someone— I have my theories about whom that someone is— that you were more than the fortunate son of a land owner.”
She’d pieced that together quickly.
“And what do you think of my efforts? Have I been wasting my time on a pointless pursuit?”
“That depends on whether you convinced your harshest critic.”
He tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “And who is my harshest critic?”
“I think” — she stretched up on her toes— “that would be you, Dermot.” She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, sending warmth straight to his very heart.
The front door flew open and Mrs. Green, the housekeeper, rushed out, arms waving, eyes wide with excitement. “Master Dermot! We were not expecting you.” Her eager gaze fell on Sophia, whose hands yet rested on his chest, whilst his hands were still at her waist. “What is this? A sweetheart? Did you marry and not tell anyone?”
He laughed out loud at the immediate look of panic on Sophia’s face. “No, Mrs. Green. I’m not married. This is my dear friend, Sophia, who has come to meet your mistress.”
Mrs. Green clasped her hands over her heart. “Mrs. Buchanan hasn’t had a visitor in weeks and weeks.”
“Not even her son?” Sophia asked.
Dermot slipped his hand around her back, guiding her toward the house. “I’m here every Sunday without fail.”
“This is where you go. I wondered about that.”
They stepped into the sitting room where Mother always spent her evenings. This evening was no exception. She rose from her usual chair, her blue silk dress flowing in elegant waves as she stood.
Dermot slipped away from Sophia’s side and crossed to his mother, placing a kiss on her cheek. “I’ve brought you a visitor, Mother.” He indicated Sophia. “She has until recently been employed as the governess at Haddington House.”
“How very unfortunate for the young lady. Employment at Haddington House, no matter the roll, is an occupation I would not wish upon anyone.” Mother glided across the room, her hand outstretched in invitation, her words and tone as refined as ever. “You are most welcome to Greenborough. I trust your journey was a pleasant one.”
Sophia’s startled gaze sought and found him. “You didn’t tell me that your mother is English.”
Mother looked as shocked as Sophia did. “Dermot, you’ve brought me an Englishwoman.”
“More than that, Mother. She is my friend. And I hope that she’ll become yours as well.”
“Now, son, no more of your stories. Tell me what is truly happening here.” Mother sat in her favored armchair, eying him with the very knowing look of wisdom that had always brought a gleam to Father’s eyes.
Mrs. Green had led Sophia up to a guest room under strict instructions from Mother to provide her with a few gowns to try on, since Sophia didn’t have any of her own. Now Dermot was alone with his mother and, as was her tendency, she’d not waited more than a moment to ask questions.
Dermot had learned from his late father that delaying an answer was pointless. Though it was the Scots who had the reputation for stubbornness, his ve
ry English mother had long ago taught him that they weren’t the only ones with backbone.
“Mr. Haddington threatened her,” he said. “’Twas no longer safe for her to stay.”
Mother’s mouth turned up in a subtle smile. “You sound even more Scottish than usual today, Dermot. Miss Pemberton appears to have affected you more than you will admit.”
“How could an Englishwoman’s influence make me sound more Scottish?”
She reached over and patted his hand. “Even as a little boy, whenever you were excited or worried or overwrought, whatever influence I had on your diction disappeared. You have sounded like Johnny ever since your arrival. Miss Pemberton’s presence here must be indicative of something more than the moral depravity of Mr. Haddington.”
“She is my friend.”
His usually regal mother actually rolled her eyes. “Aiden MacAllister is your friend. When was the last time you sat with his hand in yours for a full quarter hour as you did with Miss Pemberton this evening?”
“I am fond of her, but she was born to a family of privilege and refinement.”
Mother pushed out a heavy breath. “Now you truly do sound like your father. He made the exact same objection early in our acquaintance. Tell me, did I ever believe myself above him, too refined for a Scotsman?”
Dermot shook his head and leaned back against the sofa. “But you, dear Mother, are the universal exception to most every rule.”
“Would it help if I told you that whilst I watched Miss Pemberton this evening, I saw a fondness in her eyes every time she looked at you that went beyond mere friendship?” She smoothed the front of her skirts.
“You’ve been trying to find me a wife for years and years, Mother. Knowing your growing desperation, I’ll not allow you to be the judge of any woman’s fondness for me.”
“Then allow me to be the judge of my son’s idiocy.”
He chuckled. Mother never was one to mince words.
“With her, you smile and you laugh, something you haven’t done often since your father died. And though my difficult relations convinced you long ago that the English hold unflattering views of Scotland and her people, please do not allow that to convince you to paint all the English with the same hateful brush.”
He let his shoulders sag. “She said something like that to me not long ago. I don’t care for the idea of the both of you being right about that part of me.”
Mother tucked a stray hair back behind her ear once more. “I, for one, am impressed that she possesses enough fortitude to tell you when you’re being mule-headed. You are rather intimidating, you realize.”
“So I’ve been told.” ’Twas one of the reasons the Haddingtons allowed him full run of the stables with few questions asked, and one of the reasons they didn’t dig too deeply to discover his origins. He needn’t tell anyone he owned a small but fine estate of his own; his demeanor alone convinced people to heed what he said. He far preferred being respected for his work and self-possession than for the value of his land and his mother’s family’s connections.
“Does Miss Pemberton find you intimidating?” Mother asked.
“She seemed to at first, but not any longer.”
Mother nodded. “I like her.”
He had hoped she would. “Do you like her enough to allow her to stay while she finds her footing again?”
Mother clasped her hands on her lap, her bearing as royal as if she’d actually been a queen. “She may stay as long as she wishes, under one condition.”
He narrowed his gaze on her. “What’s the condition?”
“You must come visit her, and do so more often than once a week.”
He opened his mouth to object, to explain all of the many reasons why that was unreasonable. But she held up her hand and cut him off.
“It is only an hour’s drive. And, Dermot William Buchanan, a woman who liked and valued you before knowing of your relative wealth and assets, who saw past the fearsome demeanor and quiet grumpiness you exude, is well worth the effort.”
Chapter Six
“I first met Dermot’s father at a ball in London, if you can believe that.” Mrs. Buchanan always lit up when speaking of her late husband.
In the fortnight Sophia had spent living with the dear woman, she’d grown exceptionally fond of her. The regal bearing that had earned the older lady the teasing title of “Mary, Queen of Scots” had grown thin over those two weeks, revealing a tenderhearted and caring woman. It seemed that Dermot had inherited from his mother the tendency to wear a protective mask. Sophia had learned to see beyond both.
“You have told me many times that Dermot is much like his father,” Sophia said as they turned a corner of the garden path. “And I cannot for the life of me imagine Dermot at a Society ball.”
“Fingal had been there on forfeiture of a wager,” Mrs. Buchanan explained. “And I was introduced to him by a young lady who, as it turned out, rather disliked me and thought that obligating me to dance with an unsophisticated Scotsman would be a humiliating experience.”
Sophia could easily picture the situation, having known a great many ill-mannered young ladies. “Clearly, she made a significant miscalculation.”
“Clearly.” Mrs. Buchanan stopped to take in the fragrance of bright-yellow rose. “His Scottish manner of speaking was nearly as pronounced as Dermot’s has become, and he was as rough and unrefined as the land he called home. While I was, at first, merely curious, I quickly became enthralled, and, quite unexpectedly found myself deeply in love with him.”
“What did your family have to say?” If Sophia’s family had been in any position to object to the direction her heart was leading her, they would have done so loudly and incessantly.
“They were properly horrified.” Mrs. Buchanan’s mischievous smile filled in the gaps: Her family objected, but she hadn’t cared one whit.
“Did you ever regret marrying your rugged Scotsman?”
“Not for the briefest of moments.” Mrs. Buchanan’s slow, fond gaze slid over the garden, the house, the distant land. “I fell further in love with him every day of our lives. His home became my home, his people my people. Those first few years, I traveled to my family’s estate, hoping to maintain that connection, but they were horrid to my husband and son. That, I am afraid, is where Dermot gained his distrust of the English. It is the only thing I regret about my life here: not putting an end to those visits before my relations soured him so fully.”
“How could you have known?”
Mrs. Buchanan nodded slowly. “Mistakes are always easier to see when looking backward.”
Sophia picked a small, pink flower from an obliging bush, spinning the bloom between her fingers. “Do you suppose Dermot will ever fully let go of his distaste for the English?”
“As a whole, likely not.” Mrs. Buchanan slipped her arm through Sophia’s and leaned in a bit closer as they walked on. “But on an individual basis, I know of one instance in which he already has.”
She forced down a smile, not wanting to appear too eager, or desperate. “The first time I asked him to be my friend, he turned me down on the instant. He seemed almost horrified at the idea.”
“He has made the journey here nearly every night these past two weeks,” Mrs. Buchanan said. “A man does not go to such effort for a lady whose company horrifies him.”
“He has told me several times that he is fond of me.”
Mrs. Buchanan laughed out loud. “I promise you, he is far more than merely fond of you; he’s simply unwilling to admit it, stubborn man.”
“Why does he continue working at Haddington House? He certainly doesn’t need the income; he has told me himself that this estate is profitable. I know he doesn’t stay out of loyalty to his employers.”
Mrs. Buchanan indicated a nearby stone bench. Once the two of them were comfortably settled, she answered Sophia’s question. “That is also the fault of my relations, I am afraid. They spoke at length of the lazy Scots, which convinced my little bo
y that he had to prove himself a hard worker to dispel that impression. And to compound matters, he became keenly aware of how very English it was to live off one’s inheritance without making contributions to the outside world.”
“Above all else, he did not wish to be seen as English.” Sophia was coming to understand him better all the time. The more she knew, the more miraculous it felt that he’d ever agreed to interact with her, an Englishwoman from the gentry. She must have seemed to him the embodiment of all he disliked.
“You have been good for him, you know,” Mrs. Buchanan said. “He is happier than I ever remember him being. He smiles, and he laughs, and he speaks of this as home again, as a place where he means to live and not simply visit.”
“I am happier with him as well.” Sophia found her hostess to be an easy person to talk with. The past fortnight had been delightful. The only way she could imagine improving her situation would be to have Dermot home.
“It seems, Sophia, that you are about to be very happy.” Mrs. Buchanan motioned up the garden path.
There he was. The man who had laid claim to her heart, not through grand gestures or flowery speeches, but through weeks and months of constancy and goodness. She never tired of his company and never grew less eager to see him again.
“I hope you will not think me rude if I eagerly and unrepentantly abandon you,” she said to Mrs. Buchanan.
“On the contrary. I will find you utterly ridiculous if you do not.”
Sophia needed no more encouragement. She leapt from the bench and rushed toward Dermot. His eyes danced when he saw her, and his smile formed on the instant. He held his hand out to her as she approached and she slipped hers into it. That had become their greeting whenever he returned. She spent her days looking forward to that moment.
“We were not expecting you until later tonight,” she said.
“I can leave and return in an hour or two if you would prefer.”
A Timeless Romance Anthology: Sarah M. Eden British Isles Collection Page 9