Reverend Kinnion had the couple stand.
Tara had removed her hand from his hold and had folded both hands in her lap. She studied them, so still she seemed not to breathe. Lady Aileen leaned toward her sister, offering . . . what? Support? Solace?
Was Tara anxious about this step toward marriage?
After all the prattling on in the coach, this stillness seemed out of character—unless she had been attempting to calm her nerves. He’d never noticed her to be ill at ease in public.
And then the reverend called for Tara and him to stand. The woman he knew, the one with the bright and studied smile, reemerged.
Blake placed his hand on Tara’s arm.
Reverend Kinnion said, “I announce the banns between Mr. Blake Stephens and Lady Tara Davidson. This is the first time of reading. If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in holy matrimony, ye are to declare it.” He smiled at Blake. “Thank you, Mr. Stephens, my lady.”
Tara practically fell to the pew as if her legs could not support her weight.
Blake sat down beside her, slightly concerned at her disquiet. Perhaps she was shy here amongst her people. Or more circumspect, which was not a bad quality for her to cultivate. After all, someday she would be the mother of his children.
Children, a dynasty. He had no use for a title. But he was building wealth, and if his other investments proved satisfactory, he would grow richer with time and need heirs to continue his legacy.
The service was over quickly then. Well-wishers kept them from leaving the pew immediately. Furthermore, the earl had caught the attention of a robust woman a decade his junior and was having a fine time teasing her. She was introduced to Blake as Mrs. Bossley, a widow, and she had obviously set her sights on Tay.
At last Blake was able to work his way around the earl and the attentive widow so that he could escort Tara and Lady Aileen out of the kirk into the warmth of the day.
Tara was quickly carried away by friends. Several gentlemen cornered Blake to discuss the upcoming hunt and make him feel welcome.
Lady Aileen had wandered away on her own.
After a few minutes, Blake caught sight of her standing by the kirk door, her brow furrowed in concern as she studied a point not far from her.
Curious, he followed her line of vision and realized she was focused on Tara, who, even though she was in the midst of friends, had her concentration on something else. There was a vulnerability in her expression, a yearning he’d not seen before, or, at least, certainly not when she’d ever looked at him.
He traced the direction of Tara’s attention and discovered she was staring at Jamerson and his intended.
Inside the kirk, standing before the congregation, the couple had appeared happy.
Such was not the case now.
They acted as strangers, each slightly turned from the other, just standing, awkward and a touch sad.
And then Jamerson, a man whose physical attractiveness was such that he could set a thousand female hearts aflutter, glanced in Tara’s direction before quickly looking away. In that single second, only the most hard-hearted could not have detected the anguish of love forlorn.
An expression mirrored in Tara’s eyes.
Blake’s mind reeled, staggered by a sudden revelation: He had believed Tara when she’d said her running away had been because of maidenly apprehension about marriage. Or had he just assumed that was her reasoning? She was lovely, she was female, she was vapid-headed, therefore why did she need a true motive for any of her actions?
But now he knew differently.
She’d not been running away from marriage, or even from him.
No, she’d run to someone else. She’d run to the horse master.
Blake had always trusted his instincts. They had served him well. They never lied to him . . . like people did. He knew he’d blindly stumbled upon a secret Tara wanted to keep, but she was doing a poor job.
And then the hairs at the nape of his neck tingled as if someone watched him.
Slowly, he shifted his attention from Tara to meet the level gaze of Lady Aileen.
She’d noticed. She knew he’d seen, that he understood.
Her avoiding him for the past couple of days now took on a different meaning, one that cut him like a knife. She’d pleaded passionately for Tara to not marry him because she’d known her sister loved another man.
It was all right there in front of him.
And, yes, Tara’s passion for another man, one promised to another woman, was not comfortable.
But Blake discovered that what really disturbed him had nothing to do with Tara. He had convinced himself Lady Aileen was avoiding him because of their mutual attraction.
Now he realized she might have avoided him out of guilt. She hadn’t wanted him to know the truth.
She might not have feelings for him at all.
And that, surprisingly, upset him in a way he wasn’t certain he understood.
One of the gentlemen of the group he’d been standing amongst was jabbering about fishing in the river Tay. Blake discovered he needed time alone. He needed to think this matter through. He turned abruptly, knowing he appeared rude and mumbling some excuse even as he started to walk off to who knew where—
“Ah, there you are, Stephens,” the earl of Tay said, coming up behind him. “I’ve invited company for dinner. The widow Bossley. What an interesting woman. We must be on our way so I can inform Mrs. Watson and Cook of my decision. Oh, look, the widow has already lined her rig up behind mine. I adore an anxious filly. You don’t mind if I ride with her, do you now?”
The earl didn’t wait for an answer but strode off in the direction of his new love interest. She beckoned him from her pony cart.
The earl appeared a sight in the small, two-wheeled vehicle pulled by a shaggy Highland pony, but he took the reins over from the widow and off they went.
Tara walked over to Blake. “What is happening with my father?”
“What always happens?” Lady Aileen said tartly, approaching from the other side.
Blake pressed his lips together. He could deal with Tara, but he found he was uncomfortable with Lady Aileen. No man wishes to appear a fool, and perhaps him most of all.
“Let’s go,” he ordered and walked toward the coach without waiting for their responses. Of course they followed, Tara unaware she had been discovered.
And Lady Aileen? He didn’t know what he thought, but he was not happy. Indeed, he was more disappointed in her than Tara.
As they traveled back to Annefield, Blake listened to the sisters talking. Their conversation was restrained and only about pleasantries. He now understood, and heard, what was not being said.
And with every turn of the coach wheel, he felt the bite of bitterness.
Chapter Eight
Dinner after church was an interminable ordeal for Tara. She was losing the ability to smile and pretend all was well. Tears hovered, and it stretched her sanity to hold them back.
Of course, she didn’t need to say much at dinner. Her father was occupied with the widow Bossley, a schemer if ever Tara had met one. The two of them controlled the conversation with giggles and sly innuendoes.
Meanwhile, Aileen continued to be as insufferable as she had become of late. She was silent, disapproving, and acted as if she was the very model of propriety if one did not know her history. She judged Tara and found her wanting.
And then there was Mr. Stephens. During the church service, he had held her hand, but now he had returned to his taciturn self. His jaw was so tight that he must have been continually gritting his teeth. He was displeased about something, but she was not concerned. How could she be? Her mind was on Ruary.
She pushed the peas around her plate, pretending to eat while assuring herself she would never be happy again. It had been a herculean task to sit in that church and listen to Ruary’s banns being read.
They had not seen each other since that disas
trous meeting when she’d first returned to Annefield. But a part of her held on to a belief in the love they had once professed.
Yes, she had walked away, but he was hers. They belonged together. Besides, she had returned. That must count for something. She was willing to give up everything for him.
Of course, it was Jane Sawyer’s fault. She was holding on to him, and Ruary was too kind a man to hurt her . . . or at least that is what Tara wanted to believe. But she also secretly hoped he would come back to her. He had to.
And in the meantime, for the past days, she had smiled and flattered and offered her attention to Blake Stephens. Sometimes she hoped the servants noticed her attentiveness and reported back to Ruary how happy she was. Then perhaps he would be jealous and come for her like a Shakespearean hero, ready to face all dangers and defy all conventions for her.
However, seeing him standing next to Jane Sawyer in church had impressed upon Tara that Ruary would never be hers. She was going to lose him forever.
Aileen could chastise her and tell her that she was being ridiculous. But then, Aileen no longer believed in love. She had forgotten that the heart wants what it wants and no amount of practicality can ease the pain of loss.
Now Tara realized that this agony was what Ruary had experienced when she’d left him to go to London. No wonder he was so angry with her. She’d made the most foolish mistake of her life by leaving him. . . .
Tara set down her fork. “I don’t believe I feel well. I need to go to my room and lay down.”
“Is there something I can do?” Aileen asked with her air of motherly concern.
Tara felt her expression grow brittle. “Nothing. I will be fine.”
Aileen reacted to the curtness in her tone, but hadn’t Tara just said she didn’t feel well? Did Aileen believe her such a ninny she didn’t know how to take care of herself?
Tara set aside her napkin and rose from the table. Mr. Stephens also came to his feet out of respect, but she didn’t look at him. She didn’t want to. His very presence annoyed her right now. He was the reason she was so miserable.
Later, when she had a chance to take hold of herself, she would offer a pretty apology and he would accept it. He had no other choice. He was stuck with her . . . just as she was stuck with him.
In the haven of her room, Tara wandered over to her window. She needed peace. Her soul longed for it, and she didn’t know how she could go on—
Tara broke her thoughts off abruptly and leaned toward the window, resting a knee on the window seat so she could be closer. She blinked twice to be certain her eyes did not deceive her.
They didn’t.
Ruary was riding up to the stables. He dismounted, tied up his horse, and went inside the yard.
She straightened, her heart pounding in her ears. There was no reason for Ruary to be at the stables on a Sunday. It was not one of his training days. But back when she’d lived at Annefield, before she’d gone off to London, Ruary had often come on Sundays for the sole purpose of seeing her. Most of Annefield’s servants were given time after dinner on Sunday for their own affairs. This had afforded the privacy she and Ruary had needed to meet clandestinely.
And here he was today.
Could this be a coincidence? She thought not. Ruary wanted to see her. She knew it. Her heart knew it. Perhaps the banns today had started him thinking about her? Perhaps he wondered as she did?
She stood only a moment in indecision before tearing off her dress and ransacking her wardrobe for her riding habit. In that outfit, people would understand why she was at the stables. She didn’t want to ring for the maid. She didn’t want to waste time. What if Ruary decided that he was making a mistake and left? She could not let him. This might be her only chance to speak to him with some privacy . . .
Tara heard voices in the hallway. Her maid, Ellen, was talking to Blake’s man, Jones. Tightening the lacings of her habit, she leaned against the door to listen, waiting for them to leave.
Jones was saying, “My master has gone for a ride.”
“Then you have time for me to show you the walk to the river,” Ellen said, a woman’s inviting warmth in her voice.
“I must be here when he returns.”
“When did he leave?”
“A half hour ago.”
“And he’ll be gone how long? Come, Mr. Jones, don’t make this difficult for me. A short walk. We’ll be back before you can blink.”
“I doubt that, Ellen.”
She giggled in response to something he’d muttered only for the two of them, then there was the sound of footsteps. The door to the back stairs opened and closed, and all was quiet.
So Blake had gone riding, and where was Aileen? Probably reading, Tara hazarded to guess and opened the door to her room. No one was in the hall. She drew a deep breath, set her hat on her head at a rakish angle, and went down the front stairs.
Her father was in the sitting room, reading papers from Edinburgh and London and sipping his whisky for once.
“Going out?” he said as Tara made her appearance in the doorway. “You must feel better?”
“Yes, I do, thank you. I believe I’ll enjoy a short ride.”
“Stephens has already gone. It’s a pity you couldn’t have ridden with him.”
“I hope to catch up with him,” she answered.
“Ah, good,” he said, beaming approval. “Keep that lad happy, Tara. We need him.”
“Is the money so important, Papa? Could we not survive otherwise?”
Her father practically dropped his paper. He fixed her with a look that answered her question louder than words. “I’m done up,” he said. “It’s either marriage to Stephens or the duns will eat my liver. I told you how it was when I encouraged you to be open to him. But you have saved us, Tara, my girl. You and that pretty face. And now, if the widow Bossley’s husband left her as much as it is whispered, we’ll be doing fine.”
“We would do better, Papa, were you not so fond of gambling.”
In the act of raising his paper, he paused to deliver a cold look. “I don’t gamble, Tara, I wager. There is a difference.”
Not that she had noticed.
He seemed to hear her unspoken accusation. He sniffed, frowned, and lifted his paper to hide his face. He should hide.
And she’d best be careful. Her father would not be pleased if she jilted Blake Stephens a second time.
Ingold was not at his station in the front hall. Tara slipped out the door, lifted her skirts and ran for the stables. Only when she was almost upon them did she slow to a walk, pretending a bit of decorum.
Walking through the stable’s passageway, she took a moment to check the grain room. Ruary was not there, and his horse wasn’t where she’d seen him tie it.
For a second she worried that he had left, yet she sensed he was here. She paused in the yard, listening.
Horses hung their heads out of their stalls, watching her with idle curiosity. Beyond their restless movements and the quiet munching of hay, she heard Ruary’s low voice. It came from the one stall that appeared empty.
Tara silently walked over and looked inside.
Ruary had pulled a shoe off a big chestnut gelding named Dirk and was trying to file down the foot. Dirk nickered a greeting to Tara. Dirk had been born at Annefield, and she’d known him since he was a colt.
Ruary looked up, and for a moment he seemed frozen in place.
Tara glanced behind her. They were alone in the yard. Of course, there was always someone close at hand. She had to be careful. She let herself into the stall, closing the door behind her.
She smiled at Ruary, feeling giddy and tentative and shy, all at once, to be this close to him. He watched her, cautious, yet she knew he was not surprised to see her.
He wanted her here. She was certain of it, but instead of speaking her thought aloud, she said, “Did Dirk throw a shoe again?”
Ruary put down the hoof and stood, still holding the file. “You know him. He always loses i
t. But I found it in the paddock. I’ll have it on in a moment.” He reached for the worn shoe he’d leaned against the wall, replacing the file with a hammer. He bent to start nailing the shoe back in place.
Dirk leaned his nose toward Tara. She rubbed it with one gloved hand, and for a moment, it was enough to be here, in this space, with this man.
Ruary broke the silence first, not looking at her. “Congratulations on your betrothal.”
“Congratulations on yours.”
He grunted a response, his attention seemingly on the shoe he was nailing, but she knew differently.
“Where is your horse?” she asked.
“I put him in a stall. I didn’t know how long I’d be here.”
“And why is that?” Tara held her breath for the answer, waiting, wanting him to make the first move toward her.
He took a moment for two last taps of the hammer before he set down Dirk’s foot. He tossed the hammer so that it landed next to the file. He did not turn to her as he said, “You have upset my world, Tara, by coming back.”
There was pain in his voice. He was an honorable man in spite of his low birth. Indeed, there wasn’t a gentleman in London who had his strong sense of what was right and what was wrong.
She studied the hay on the stall floor, knowing that she had to be careful with what she said. The strong connection they had once had was now a fragile thread. She feared breaking it. “I was wrong.”
“Wrong about what?” He stood, turning to her.
“Oh, that is the question, isn’t it?” she answered with a shaky laugh at her own culpability. “I may have been wrong to have returned and—” Her voice broke off as she realized she wasn’t certain about what she’d been about to say.
“And?” Ruary prodded. His gloves were leather and were stained from the nature of his work.
“And it may have been the most right thing I have ever done in my life. I’m given Mr. Stephens good cause to doubt me. It will cost me dearly.”
“Why did you really return, my lady?” he asked.
The question seemed to fill the air of the stall. Tara raised her gaze to meet his. “For you. I wasn’t jesting when I said that I came back to you. I had to see you.” This was harder than she had imagined. “I know I hurt you, Ruary. It was wrong—”
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