by Julia London
“Well, yes,” she admitted. “Oh, of course. Balhaire. Where is it?”
“Follow the loch to the sea,” he said. “That way,” he added, pointing. “Ask for Marsaili. And when she’s treated it, ask after passage to England. Enough ships come round—someone will take you.”
She seemed momentarily confused by that, but then something sparked in her eyes. “Why would I do that?” she asked.
“Because you donna belong here,” he said. “It’s only a matter of time before you admit it, aye?”
Her gaze narrowed. “So you’ve said, more than once. But I like it here.”
Barmy and daft and stubborn to boot. He didn’t believe for a moment that a lady of her obvious stature enjoyed rough hands and living without all the comforts her title brought her in England. “This sort of life is no’ for refined ladies,” he said.
“How would you know that? Are you some sort of master of refined ladies? I really don’t care for your opinion, sir, for I think it’s starkly beautiful here,” she said emphatically, surprising him somewhat. “It’s rugged and strong and...vast,” she said, nodding as if she’d found the right word. “With a bit of hard work, we might be very happy here.”
“With no society?”
Her face darkened. “Society? You cannot know what a relief it is to escape London society.”
He was ready to question her about that, but she continued. “I like everything about this place, with perhaps the exception of the mist.”
“The mist,” he repeated.
“The mist,” she said, gesturing with her free hand to the sky. “I keep dreaming that I’ve lost my son in it. There he is, and the next moment, poof, he’s disappeared into it,” she said, her fingers fluttering toward the forest.
Cailean might have laughed, but when he was a child, Vivienne used to fear the mist. It rolled in quickly, covering everything. “What color was the mist in your dreams?” he asked as he continued wrapping the handkerchief around her palm.
“The color? White.”
“Sea mist,” he said, and recited an old schoolroom poem. “‘When the mist comes from the hill, foul weather doth it spill. When the mist comes from the sea, fine weather it will be.’ You son will be quite all right in the mist, aye? Many Scottish children before him have found their way home in it.”
Lady Chatwick didn’t immediately respond to that; she kept her intent gaze on him, and Cailean could feel heat spreading in him like a spill of water. It was the sort of heat that stirred all things male. He wanted to kiss her, to lick the perspiration from her breasts. To take them in his mouth, one by one. The heat wended its way down to his groin, and Cailean felt another heat—anger.
He dropped his gaze to her hand. He was angry with himself for having such lustful thoughts for this Englishwoman. He wondered how long it had been since he’d felt lust stirring in him in quite this way, but he couldn’t recall it. He quickly finished tying the handkerchief across her palm. But when he had tied it, he impulsively, cavalierly, lifted her hand and kissed the back of it before letting go. Her fingers slid lightly across his palm, then fell away.
“I beg your pardon, my lord, but are you now trifling with me?” Her gaze slipped to his mouth, and that bothersome heat in Cailean flared again. “Have you forgotten that you do not roundly esteem me?”
“No’ for a moment,” he said and peeled away a bit of her hair that had glued itself to her cheek. “Mind that you clean the wound, aye? A cut to the hand is slow to heal.” He picked up his fishing pole and propped it against his shoulder. “Tiugainn,” he called to his dog, commanding her to come, and walked on from the Lady Chatwick.
“My lord!” she called behind him.
Against his better judgment, Cailean paused and looked back.
“I’ve been—I mean to invite my neighbors to dine. Not a garden party, mind you, but a proper supper. Will you come?”
She was gripping the side of her apron, he noticed, the leather bunched in her hand. “Your neighbors,” he repeated, uncertain just whom she meant, as the sort of neighbors who would be invited to dine with her were quite far from Auchenard and few between besides.
“Yes, my neighbors! I should like to make their acquaintance, naturally. You are my neighbor, are you not? You wouldn’t say, but as you are walking with your fish, I assumed.”
Did she mean to make the acquaintance of the poor crofters? No. She meant to parade eligible bachelors before her. Perhaps she might invite a few of the Jacobites to her table and determine their suitability while she was at it. Or perhaps she meant to start a war.
Cailean abruptly retraced the few steps he’d just taken. “I will speak plainly, madam. You are no’ welcome in these hills. Aye, there will be those enticed by the promise of your fortune, but I’ve no interest in it. I willna vie for your hand if that’s what you seek.”
Color flooded her cheeks. Her brows dipped into a dark V above her eyes. “You flatter yourself quite incomparably, Arrandale! You presume too much! You may think you know something of my situation, but whatever you’ve heard, I assure you, it is not accurate. I invite you only as a neighbor. I thought you might even be my friend!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms wide. “Now I shall be just as plain—no matter if you come or not, you need not remind me of your lack of desire for me ever again. You’ve made it quite clear.”
Cailean didn’t flinch at her dressing-down of him. “Donna look so astounded,” he said. “A friend? Most women who befriend men they scarcely know mean to attach themselves to his purse. Or, in your case, attach him to yours.”
Her mouth gaped open. Something sparked in those green eyes, something hot and glittering, and Cailean could not look away—or ignore that the hot, glittering thing was waking something just as hot in him.
“Ah, I see—you are the prize catch of the Highlands, are you? You must be utterly exhausted from escaping the clutches of so many women. You need not fear my clutches, my lord, for I would never join the chase,” she said and leaned forward, her gaze narrowing slightly. “Never,” she articulated, her voice deadly in its softness. “I live as I please, and it pleases me to trifle with gentlemen—with all gentlemen. Don’t flatter yourself that you are the only one. Don’t imagine that your purse is so fat that I should be tempted by it, for I assure you, mine is much fatter, and I don’t wish to attach anyone to it. If that scandalizes you, then perhaps you should stay away. But if it doesn’t?” She settled back and shrugged insouciantly. “You will be most welcome in my home.”
Cailean was surprised and a wee bit impressed with her admonishment. He couldn’t help but chuckle.
That inadvertent chuckle seemed to vex her even more. “You shouldn’t put so much stock in gossip,” she said, and angrily whirled around, marching away from him, her chin up, her braid bouncing above her derriere with the force of her stride. She stopped at the wall and shouted over her shoulder, rather crossly, “Thank you for tending my hand!” and then disappeared into the break in the wall.
It was perhaps the first time in Cailean’s life that he’d found indignation in a woman so wholly appealing.
CHAPTER SIX
TWO DAYS LATER, Daisy folded Arrandale’s freshly laundered handkerchief and tucked it in her diary beside the two crushed rose petals and the letter from Rob.
She dipped her quill into the inkwell.
The garden at last has been cleared, though sadly nothing salvaged. I shall bring on someone to see it through the winter with the hope that a viable garden will emerge next spring, God willing. I should like to see it one day, but I suspect a husband shall divest himself of a Scotch Highland lodge, particularly one so terribly far from England.
Ellis has not yet found Auchenard to his liking. He is without humor and very pale and does not sleep well, as he has heard tales of creatures in the forest that have frightened him. Mr
. Tuttle informs me that Ellis no longer has any desire to venture beyond the wall around the lodge.
A nest of mice was found in the settee in Belinda’s bedroom. She is convinced that there is an infestation the likes of which cannot be contained but with fire.
Daisy looked at the handkerchief. She touched it, her finger tracing lightly over the fine linen.
Arrandale is a brute. He is given to believing gossip and speaking to women in his acquaintance with a decided lack of decorum. He voices what thoughts are on his mind with little thought for my feelings. It vexes me terribly, but all in all, I rather appreciate it. I am at least assured that he is speaking true. Nevertheless, as he does not know me, he might have extended me the courtesy of believing the best of me. Not every woman is in search of a husband! Well... I suppose I am, but he must realize I’d not search for one here! I shall invite him and my other neighbors and give the rooster quite a few more assumptions to make.
I have not yet broached the subject of a supper party with Belinda and Uncle. I think they shall not be favorably inclined.
She touched the handkerchief again, thought of the man who had bandaged her hand. She closed her eyes, imagined him taking her hand that day, pulling her to him, removing her hat and kissing her.
God help you, Daisy. You’re such a little fool, dreaming of intercourse with him when you’ve only months to find a husband.
She opened her eyes, closed her diary. She felt as if a clock were ticking inside her, relentlessly counting the moments until she was under the rule of a man again. She thought of Robert—her memory of him a bit hazy now—and sent up a silent prayer that he would reach London in time to save her.
Her writing finished for the day, Daisy wandered out to the garden to survey it under an overcast sky. It was not a beautiful garden. It was a desolate one, with scarcely any adornment, and a fountain that could not be made to work, no matter what Uncle Alfonso and Mr. Green had tried.
She put her hands to the small of her back and arched backward, closed her eyes and listened to the breeze rustle the treetops. It was so peaceful at Auchenard. So blessedly removed from the bustling world of London, of even Chatwick Hall in Nottinghamshire. How she wished her family would come to see Auchenard as she did, but alas, they did not.
They’d done all that they could to the lodge without benefit of builders and masons. Daisy was proud of the work they’d done, and the idea of the supper party, blurted in a moment in which she’d sought a reason to keep that wretched Arrandale about, had taken firm root in her. Perhaps her family might find Auchenard more to their liking with a bit of society. Daisy would very much like to meet her neighbors. She would like them to see what they’d done to the old lodge.
And she would very much like to see the fine pair of blue eyes of her least hospitable neighbor again.
She brought it up at supper that night, between the fish stew and the cake Mrs. Green had made. “I have an idea,” she said brightly as Rowley cleared their supper plates. “I think we ought to invite our neighbors to dine so that they may see for themselves that Auchenard has been restored.”
Four wide pairs of eyes—Uncle Alfonso, Belinda, Ellis and Mr. Tuttle—turned toward her.
“Oh dear,” said Belinda instantly. “I cannot advise inviting Scotsmen into your home. They are not the sort of company you should entertain, Daisy. They scarcely speak English! And so many of them are Jacobites,” she whispered.
“The few we’ve met speak English,” Daisy said. “They are our neighbors, Belinda. Their complaint with England is not with me, and I should like to extend the welcome. I don’t mean to invite the entire glen, but only those from neighboring estates.”
“What neighboring estates?” Uncle Alfonso asked. “There is scarcely anyone about, love. There is Balhaire and Killeaven, but those are at a distance.”
“There is also Arrandale,” Daisy pointed out.
“That estate is inhabited by only one man.”
“He is our neighbor nonetheless,” she said, looking down at her soup and avoiding her uncle’s shrewd gaze. “Perhaps we might go farther afield if the lack of immediate neighbors concerns you?”
“What, then, just ride about until we happen on something other than a croft or hovel?” Uncle Alfonso shook his head. “It doesn’t seem prudent.”
“Why must prudence be the measure of things? Life is not meant to be lived prudishly!” Daisy complained. “Coming to Auchenard wasn’t prudent, either, but we’re here, are we not? And look what we’ve done. Look at all we’ve accomplished! I’ve rather enjoyed the weeks we’ve spent here.”
Everyone avoided her gaze.
What an intractable lot. Daisy sat up straighter. “Look here, we can’t hold ourselves out as superior. Isn’t it better to know our neighbors than to fear them? These lands were once the most desired hunting grounds in the Highlands. I should think our neighbors would welcome the idea that it’s been restored.”
Belinda grimaced and glanced around the table. “We might expose Ellis to some very primitive people.”
Sometimes Daisy wanted to slap words from Belinda the Doomsayer’s mouth. As if she would endanger her own son! As if the world outside London was unfit for humans. Why was it that Belinda saw only the worst possible outcome in every situation? How did one live in eager anticipation of calamity?
And yet, when Belinda wasn’t predicting disaster, she was an extraordinary help to Daisy, particularly with Ellis. She was also quite artistic. She had created some of the most beautiful paintings and pieces of pottery Daisy had ever seen, many of which graced Chatwick Hall. It was quite odd that a woman who created such beauty could find it in her to gloomily remark on every aspect of Daisy’s life, unwilling to let pass any opportunity to predict disaster. Even more curious was that Belinda was never the least bit put off by the fact that her predictions of doom never came true. Daisy’s mother had once said that Belinda’s tutor was a Christian man who had struck the fear of God in her sister’s children, but he seemed to have struck the art of pessimism in Belinda.
Before Daisy could say something she might regret—a sound shut up seemed in order—her uncle said thoughtfully, “Perhaps that is precisely what the boy needs. He should be acquainted with different people and situations. One day, he will rule his estate and will have cause to encounter many different persons.”
Belinda looked horrified. “Uncle! Need I remind you that the Reverend Cosgrove and his wife exposed their young daughter to savages in the islands, and she engaged in an illicit affair with one of them?”
Ellis looked up from his plate at that. “What’s an illicit affair?” he asked.
“It means...it’s something like when Cousin Belinda admires the butcher beyond what is reasonable,” Daisy said.
“What?” Belinda asked, confused.
“Now, what do you think, Ellis? Shall we meet our neighbors?”
Ellis looked around at the other adults. “Have they any children?” he asked timidly.
Thank the heavens! She might have convinced at least one of them. “We won’t know until we’ve met them, will we?”
“I think we ought to invite them, Mamma,” he said.
She beamed at her son and one true ally, then turned that smile to the rest of them. “I think we ought to, as well.”
She could plainly see that Belinda and Mr. Tuttle didn’t agree with her, but Daisy had made up her mind. There was no opportunity like the present—she was fast running out of time as it was. A young widow of a wealthy viscount and the mother of an heir to a substantial fortune could not remain free forever. Daisy would, out of necessity for her son, be under the thumb of a man again. But for now, she was free to do and act as she pleased. She answered to no one, and if she wanted to travel to invite her Scottish neighbors to dine, she could bloody well do it.
The invitations wer
e sent out the next morning.
There were eight in all, a number determined after some consultation with Mr. Munro, an elderly gentleman who lived somewhere on the lake and brought hares around to sell. He knew who lived where, and agreed to deliver the invitations. “No’ a man in these hills I donna know,” he’d bragged.
But the replies were slow to return. By the end of the week, they had only four favorable replies from the eight they’d delivered—from the MacDonalds of Skye, the Somerleds of Killeaven, the Murrays of Moraig, and the Mackenzies of Balhaire. The others did not respond.
Among those who failed to respond was Arrandale.
“I see Arrandale has not replied,” Daisy said casually to Mr. Munro when no one was about. “Was he not at home?”
“Aye, that he was. Setting a window as I recall.”
Daisy considered his lack of response to be quite rude, but she was not the least bit surprised. The poor dear probably feared he’d have to fend off any ladies in attendance, who he surely believed would latch on to him like leeches, being the prize catch of the Highlands as he was.
But what of the other invitations that went unanswered? All their guests would be expected to stay the night, as the distances they would travel were too great. Was that it, perhaps? Did they fear Auchenard would fall down around their ears and didn’t know precisely how to say so?
Belinda was, predictably, less optimistic in her reasoning. “They must know of your situation,” she said. “Those that are coming mean to gawk.”
Gawk. At her? At Ellis? Did they think her fortune dangled from her waist like a set of chatelaine’s keys? Daisy deflated. Was there no one on this earth who desired to know her for no other reason than she was a new neighbor? “I think they are interested in Auchenard,” she said stubbornly. “And those that didn’t respond? Well...they must have their reasons.”
Belinda shrugged and returned her attention to her painting of a tower ruin on a hill near Auchenard. Daisy couldn’t help but notice the stormy sky her cousin had painted.