by Shana Galen
“My family is fine-boned,” Ines said, avoiding the question of her age.
Lady Charlotte huffed. “You’re a wee thing, as the Scots would say. I’m amazed you survived the journey from London.”
Ines fisted her hands in the material of the skirts. “I am petite, not weak.”
Lady Charlotte lifted her brows dismissively then circled the room. It was a small room, only about a dozen steps across, so this did not take her long. “I see why he is attracted to you,” Lady Charlotte said.
“Who?” Ines asked, but she knew.
Lady Charlotte ignored the question. “I send a drab brown dress made for a child and you manage to look beautiful in it. In my younger days, I would have envied you.”
Ines took a step back.
“Yes, it’s true. I’m taller than many men and if I am not careful about the style of my hair and the colors I wear, I look hawkish and severe.”
That look would have suited her personality, Ines thought.
“But you—in your bare feet and braid—look pretty as a picture. Any man who saw you in this moment would want to seduce you. Did he seduce you?” she asked.
Ines couldn’t stop her jaw from dropping. How dare this woman?
Lady Charlotte waved a hand. “Do not pretend I offended your delicate sensibilities. What do you want? Money? Prestige for your shop?”
Ines knew when she was being called a whore. “You offend me, senhora,” Ines finally managed, her voice shaking with rage. “Please leave or I shall.”
“Did he tell you he would marry you?” Lady Charlotte asked. Though the question was asked casually, the woman’s eyes told a different story. She desperately wanted to know the answer.
“What does it matter?” Ines asked, sidestepping the question. “I am certain you would never allow him to marry a lacemaker.”
Lady Charlotte looked away. “Of course not.” The silence between them grew and then Lady Charlotte paced away from Ines. “So he has not asked for your hand in marriage?”
Ines had no intention of telling the woman that Duncan hadn’t asked anything of her. “If Duncan cares for me then that is between the two of us. You have no say in what I do.”
“Then you love my son.” Lady Charlotte turned and looked intently at Ines.
Ines tried to stand straight and stare down the other woman, but the mention of love made her want to crumple. It hurt to think of her feelings for Duncan. “He does not love me, so you need not worry. I will leave very soon, and you need never think of me again.”
Lady Charlotte nodded slowly. “Perhaps the colonel’s arrival will be the best thing for all of us.” She moved to the door and opened it. “Please wear your shoes to dinner.” She glided through the door and closed it after her.
Ines wanted to throw something at the door. She would have if she’d been holding anything. Wear her shoes to dinner. As though she did not know what was appropriate! She had been warned about Lady Charlotte. The woman was a dragon—a grumpy dragon who only looked for fault in others. If Ines had thought she might win the woman over, she saw the error in those thoughts now. But she would not give her the satisfaction of telling her that Duncan had not asked for her hand in marriage or told her he loved her.
Duncan had told Ines his mother would never accept her, but if he loved her, she did not think that would have been enough to keep him from her side. She did not want to believe he did not love her. The way he had touched her, kissed her, whispered her name. The way he had fought the reivers for her and the way he blamed himself for not keeping her safe. He loved her, but he was afraid to lose her. He might say he had no heart, but she saw otherwise. Something must have happened to injure it, to make him afraid to be hurt again. Given time and patience, Ines thought she might be able to help him mend his heart. She might be able to show him that she would never hurt him.
But she did not have time. Benedict would be here soon, and Lady Charlotte would do all she could to keep Duncan from her in the meantime. And perhaps that was for the best. If he would not fight for her, risk his heart and the wrath of his mother for her, then he was not worthy of her. Ines would not force him to love her. She’d almost been trapped in a marriage herself. She would never trap anyone else or allow herself to be trapped with a man who could not reciprocate her feelings.
And she definitely did not want to be trapped with a woman like Lady Charlotte.
Tears sprang to her eyes as she thought of the long journey back to London. Without Duncan. And then there would be the days and weeks and months of lacemaking and sympathetic looks from Catarina and long hours where Ines tried to hide her hurt. But she would survive. And even if she never found a man to sweep her off her feet or throw her over his shoulder, she would have the memories of this adventure to hold on to.
It would have to be enough.
Ines would have preferred to stay in her room all day and avoid Lady Charlotte, but she hadn’t eaten much at the noon meal and she was hungry. She ventured downstairs, hoping to be able to sneak into the kitchen or find a servant who would bring her tea and toast. Instead she heard her name as she tiptoed past the drawing room.
“Miss Neves,” Lady Charlotte said in her loud, unmistakable voice. “Join us, please.”
Ines paused just out of sight and blew out a breath. She was still not wearing shoes. She’d wanted to move quietly. And her hair was still plaited and hanging down her back. There was nothing for it now. Besides, Lady Charlotte already thought of her as a peasant. She threw back her shoulders and moved to the door of the drawing room.
“I do not wish to trouble you,” she said, her gaze finding Lady Charlotte near the fire. Unfortunately, it also found Duncan seated in a chair near his mother. He was looking at Ines, his amber gaze warm. She looked away before her body persuaded her head she should go to him. “I only wanted tea and toast. I will find a servant.”
“We have tea here,” Lady Charlotte said. “Come in.”
Ines let out a breath and moved into the room. There was a tea service beside Lady Charlotte. A tray had been set on the table, and it was filled with small sandwiches and cakes. Ines’s belly rumbled audibly.
“Sit there.” Lady Charlotte pointed to a couch on the other side of the table, across from the fire. Ines sat, trying not to look at Duncan. She glanced at him anyway, and he seemed to be trying very hard not to look at her.
“How do you take your tea?” the lady asked.
“Sweet,” Duncan said, “and with a splash of cream.”
Ines flicked her gaze at him. How had he known that? When had he heard her ask for tea and how had he remembered?
Lady Charlotte said nothing, prepared the tea, and handed it to her. Ines’s hands were shaking, and she set the tea on the table so she would not spill it. She eyed the tray with the sandwiches, and Lady Charlotte handed her a small plate. “Eat, little bird.”
“She may be small, but she can eat as much as Fortescue.”
“I do not,” Ines said, piling her plate with sandwiches. Of course, taking half the tray of food probably contradicted her words, but she didn’t care at this point. “Is it not rude to speak of a lady’s appetite?”
“It is,” Lady Charlotte said. She gave her son a long look. “You seem to know Miss Neves quite well.”
“Nae really,” he said.
Ines tried to swallow the bite of sandwich in her mouth, but it seemed to stick in her throat. How could he say he did not know her well?
“She tells me she is a lacemaker,” Lady Charlotte said as though Ines were not sitting right there.
“She is. Her lace is coveted in London. All the ladies are after it. We gifted a wee scrap of it in the lowlands and the farmer’s daughters were so pleased, the farmer gave us loan of his horses.”
“My mother taught me how to make lace,” Lady Charlotte said. Ines raised her gaze to the lady. She pointed to a table in the corner with a lace covering. “I made that.”
“Brussels lace,” Ines said, glancing at it. “Very nic
e.”
“Ines—Miss Neves makes Catarina lace,” Duncan said.
“I have never heard of that. Is it Portuguese?”
Ines should not have been surprised that word of Catarina lace had not spread as far as Scotland. And she should not have been pleased to know something of fashion that Lady Charlotte did not. “You are obviously familiar with Brussels and Chantilly lace?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Catarina lace is more coveted.”
Lady Charlotte set her teacup on the saucer. “Doubtful.”
“It is. In another six months, we predict Catarina lace will surpass blonde lace in popularity, and even your English royalty wear blonde lace.”
“Ridiculous prediction.”
“All the ladies in London wear it,” Duncan said.
“Why is it called Catarina lace?” Lady Charlotte asked, seeming genuinely interested. But Ines would not lower her guard.
“Because my sister invented it. As you must know, Barcelona is where all of the best blond lace is made. My sister studied there with a master. She learned enough in six months to create her own lace. It was so in demand that she opened her own shop.”
“What makes the lace so special?” Duncan asked. “It’s verra pretty, but I dinnae see how it differs from other lace.”
Despite her wish to remain cool and remote, Ines could not help but warm to her topic. “Like blonde lace, there is a contrast between the patterns and the ground, sim?” She looked at Lady Charlotte to see if she was understood.
“Of course. But blonde lace is inferior,” Lady Charlotte said, lifting her haughty chin.
“Yes, because the pattern is not as perfect and regular. But Catarina not only created the new patterns, she designed a process to ensure the patterns were more regular than Chantilly or Lille lace.”
“I do not believe it,” Lady Charlotte said. And then to Ines’s surprise she rang a bell. “Show me.”
The woman Ines had seen earlier, and thought must be the housekeeper, entered. She wore a simple dress and a white cap with lace around the edges. She carried a pillow, a set of bobbins, and thread. She cleared the table before Ines and set the materials there. Ines lifted the bobbins. They were made from light wood and each had been painted with a different flower. She could identify lavender and roses and daffodils. Of course, there was the Scottish thistle. The varnish over the wood had preserved the painting and made the bobbins smooth to the touch. “These are lovely,” she said.
“Will those materials do?” Lady Charlotte asked.
Ines studied the cylindrical velvet pillow, suitable for making lace edging for small items like handkerchiefs. Then she lifted the thread. It was good thread, not as fine as she and Catarina liked to use, but it would do. “Sim.”
She lifted the materials and moved them to a card table near the window. The light would be better here, and she would not have to sit at an odd angle to work. Ines was surprised at how eager she was to work. Since she had arrived in London, she had not found as much pleasure as usual in making lace. It had seemed like a daily drudgery when there was a new city to be explored. But perhaps she had explored enough for the time being, because the prospect of sitting in this cozy room near the window with the lovely view and creating something beautiful appealed to her immensely.
She laid out her materials, arranged the pillow, threaded the bobbins, and then looked out the window, hoping for inspiration. She knew a dozen patterns she could easily recreate, but she wanted something uncommon. And what to make? Edging for a handkerchief or a cap? A lace doily?
“Well, she has threaded the bobbins well enough,” Lady Charlotte said to Duncan. “But now she sits and stares.”
Duncan didn’t respond to his mother, and Ines could feel his gaze on her. His amber eyes were very gold in the firelight, and she looked down to avoid meeting his gaze. She knew his mother was watching both of them, but she could not allow the dragon to make her nervous.
Ines studied her hands and her wrists, the plain sleeves of the drab gown. She could make lace to edge those sleeves, not lace that would hang down but lace to sew on the cuff and make them pretty.
Then she noticed the flowers again. She was in Scotland. Why not a pattern where she incorporated the thistle? Perhaps a pattern of lines reminiscent of the weavings of a plaid?
Almost without thinking, the bobbins in her hand began to move. Her progress was slow at first. Beginning was always the most difficult. She had to find a rhythm and that would not come until after she was sure of her design. She tried to ignore Duncan and Lady Charlotte, to concentrate on even movements that would create the fine lace her sister had become known for.
“She does know how to make lace,” Lady Charlotte said, as though the matter were ever in doubt.
“What are ye making, lass?” Duncan asked after a few minutes had passed and she was beginning to feel the rhythm.
“A decoration for the cuffs of this dress,” she said, not looking away from her work.
“Why that dress?” Lady Charlotte asked.
“Because this pattern is Scottish, and because this dress is special to you, não?”
“I would hardly allow you to wear it if it was precious,” she said with a huff. But Ines did not think the woman would have kept the dress all these years if it hadn’t meant something to her. Perhaps it simply reminded her of when her daughter had been young.
Lady Charlotte rose and moved closer, and Ines forced herself not to stiffen. Her hands seemed to move of their own volition now, and she did not want to think too much and make a mistake. Creating lace was simply a matter of the placement of the bobbins. This one crossed that one and then the rose crossed the lilacs and under the heather and all the way to the jasmine. Of course, her hands moved quickly, pulling the threads taut and shuffling the bobbins so quickly it was almost a blur. She felt the familiar ache in her shoulders, but it was only a small nuisance as the pattern beginning to emerge on the pillow pleased her.
Gradually, she became aware of Lady Charlotte standing over her. She had been standing there for some time, but Ines had been wrapped up in her work. She continued moving her hands but glanced up at Lady Charlotte. The woman’s eyes were as sharp as ever, but her mouth was lax and even parted slightly.
“I chose a thistle for the flower,” Ines said.
“I see that,” Lady Charlotte remarked. “It’s very clear. And that is supposed to be a plaid on the border?”
“Yes. Of course, I cannot use the clan colors.”
Lady Charlotte did not speak and another twenty minutes or so passed. Ines did not know how long it had taken, perhaps an hour, before she finished the first cuff, tied it off, moved it from the pillow and stretched her back before readying her materials for the second cuff.
Lady Charlotte’s hand covered Ines’s, and she looked up in surprise.
“Wait,” the lady said. She took the cuff Ines had made and lifted it, studying it in the light from the window. Then she brought it to Duncan and showed him. He had been watching Ines, but his gaze shifted to the lace, and he nodded appreciatively.
Lady Charlotte turned back to Ines. “I would not have believed this if I had not seen you create it with my own eyes. This is the finest lace I have ever seen.”
“I could do better,” Ines said. “The thread we usually work with is finer and thinner.”
Lady Charlotte looked at the scrap she held in her hands. Then she set it down and walked out of the room. Ines stared after her, confused. Since she appreciated the lace, Ines would make a gift of it. It was the least she could do to thank her for feeding and sheltering her while they waited for Draven to arrive.
“She dinnae want tae like ye, lass,” Duncan said.
Ines had not forgotten he was there. It would have been impossible to ever forget he was in a room with her. He was not a man one could ignore. Ines started the second cuff, her movements slow, as usual at this beginning stage. “I wanted very much to like her.”
“She’s nae an easy woman tae like. She scares most lasses. Christ, she scares grown men. But she doesnae scare ye.”
“She does not scare me. You forget I am a shopgirl.” She yanked the lace a bit too tight and had to maneuver the bobbins to compensate. “I serve the upper classes day in and day out. Most of the ladies are accustomed to being treated as though they are the only people in the world.”
To her surprise, Duncan laughed. The sound was warm and throaty, and her body seemed to heat in response to it. “That is a good way tae describe them.” He stood and started toward her. Ines wanted to keep her hands moving, but her fingers fumbled, and she dropped one of the bobbins.
Duncan stopped. “Do I distract ye?”
Distract was too mild a word. Ines bent to retrieve her bobbin then began to untangle the threads that had gone awry. But her fingers shook, and she seemed to make no progress. In frustration, she looked up at him. “What do you want, senhor? Two days ago, you would not speak to me. Now we are friends again?”
“We were never friends, lass.”
She nodded, her gaze on his. “I never wanted to be your friend.”
“And friendship is all I have tae give ye.”
She waved a hand. “Give it to someone else. Now leave me. I wish to finish my cuff and present it to your mother as thanks.”
He gave her an odd look, and she would have sworn there was a tinge of sadness in his gaze. But she looked away before she could be certain. And then he murmured that he would take his leave, and he was gone. Tears swam in her eyes, blurring the threads before her. But she swiped at them and willed them away, and went back to work
STRATFORD
Stratford saw the way Emmeline’s expression went from anguish to confusion. She’d told him she loved him, and he’d told her it was futile. He hadn’t told her he’d loved her back. There was little point in saying those words. He could not act on them, and they would only hurt them both more.
He wished he could tell her. This seemed the ideal setting, here on the grass in the shadow of the Highlands. Looking about, it seemed the whole world was laid before them and went on and on, an endless wave of green and brown and, above, blue. He would have liked to lay her down on the grass, spread out her hair, and kiss her. He would have liked to run his hand over her body and feel her soft skin under his fingertips again.