by Alisa Adams
The cat had settled down at Blair’s feet after giving the room a thorough exploration, as cats do. Having satisfied itself that all was well, it went into a doze and began to purr loudly, to the amusement of both Blair and Tavia.
Blair watched Tavia’s nimble fingers as she drew the thread in and out of the fine wool fabric she was sewing, and he wished that he could do something so simple and yet so skillful. “What else do you do for amusement when you are not working?” It was a conversation starter for the silence was becoming awkward, but he was astonished by her answer.
“I am almost finished learning French,” she replied, “but I am not yet so competent in Latin. After my French is as fluent as I can make it, I want to learn more about the herbs I use and why they make people well. And I draw.”
He stared at her in awe. “I have never met anyone as learned as you who was not a priest!”
“My father studied for the priesthood a very long time ago, though did not become one,” she explained. “He taught me everything I know.”
“Why did he not become a priest?” Blair asked curiously.
“My goodness, you are inquisitive!” she replied, but there was no censure in her voice. “He fell in love. He took one look at my mother and said that God told him what to do. He had not yet taken his vows so it was easy enough for him to take up this other vocation. He calls marriage a vocation, and I suppose it is. Anyway, he and my mother are as happy as any two people can be, so I think he was right.”
“Do you have any brothers and sisters?”
Her face was sad. “My mother and father were not blessed with children,” she answered. “But I am very fortunate to have them as parents. I am a foundling of sorts—I was washed up on the beach when the ship I was traveling in sank. My parents died but I survived, so here I am.”
“How old were you when that happened?”
“They think I was four.”
Suddenly he saw a tear running down her cheek. “Tavia—I am sorry. I did not intend to upset you.”
She shook her head and wiped her face with her fingertips. “I always wonder what they were like,” she whispered. “Was my mother pretty? Was my father handsome? Were they kind and loving, or cold and cruel? I have no memory of them at all.” She shrugged then pulled herself together. “Such is life,” she said briskly.
“You said that you are an artist too?” he asked, smiling. “That is a rare talent!”
“I am trying to be,” she replied. “I cannot go to Rome or Paris to study the works of the masters, but I try my best.”
“Do others provide you wages for your talent?” he asked curiously.
She laughed softly. “I have done a portrait of my mother, but I am usually asked to draw people’s pets.”
“Can you show me your drawings?” he asked, loving the way her eyes shone when she talked about her art.
“Of course,” she replied, “but I will not be here for much longer.”
“When will you leave?” he asked, panicked.
“Another few days or so.”
He gazed at her lovely face and felt himself melt inside. You are so beautiful, he thought.
“Bring some of your drawings, please,” he asked. “I would love to see them.”
“If you wish,” she answered, “but please don’t be disappointed. They are the work of a self-taught scribbler!”
He laughed. “I will not say a bad word about them. After all, I can barely draw as it is!”
She giggled, and it was like the bubbling of spring water. “I will bring them, if you promise not to laugh.”
“I promise,” he said, smiling. “Thank you for cheering me up today, Mistress Tavia.”
“I am a healer,” she said simply. “Now you must go to sleep. I will get you some valerian tea.”
“Wait!” He caught her little rough hand in his as she turned away, and she looked at him inquiringly.
“Will you teach me to speak French?” he asked. “I will pay you.”
“Let go of my hand, M’Laird,” she said coolly. “I will think about it, and let you know later.” She tugged her hand out of his and went down to the kitchen.
4
A Worried Mother
Tavia breathed a sigh of relief when she left the room. It was so hard to be around a man who was so devastatingly attractive that he confused her thinking. She went to the kitchen to get the tea, finding only two kitchen maids there, both of whom were slumped over the table with their heads on their arms, sleeping. She made the tea, then took it up to Blair again. He was fast asleep.
She sat down to study him. He looked younger and much more vulnerable in sleep, with his features softened, and his formidable shoulders and biceps relaxed. His hair was spread out over the pillow around him and she marveled at how thick and silky it was, and how long his dark brown eyelashes were. His legs reached almost to the end of the bed, and she laughed as she picked up his big hands and held hers against them. Each finger was at least two inches longer than hers.
Men and women are so different, she thought, smiling. She thought she might like to lay her head on his broad chest and go to sleep, since she was very tired, but she resisted the impulse. She was a healer, she told herself sternly, and she had to be attentive to her patient’s every need without distractions—but not many patients looked like Blair!
She went back to her own chair and sat down, but despite her best intentions she fell asleep with her head on the soft cushion of the mattress.
When he opened his eyes, Blair, still half asleep, was amazed to find a lovely young woman slumped on his bed, her hair covering her face so that he could not identify her. It took a moment for him to realize who it was, then he smiled at his pleasant early morning surprise.
He was reluctant to wake her, but he knew he had to, as his arm was beginning to ache again. However, just as he put out a hand to shake her shoulder, she yawned, sat up, and rubbed her eyes, then looked straight into his.
“Oh my God! I fell asleep!” she explained in a panic. “Are you all right?” She put a hand on his forehead to check his temperature, then ran her fingers through her hair, desperately trying to bring some order to it.
He looked at her, laughing, utterly enchanted by her. She was flustered and panicked, but somehow she managed to look even more adorable.
“Calm down, Mistress Tavia,” he said soothingly. “I do not mind that you fell asleep—you are only human—there is no harm done.”
She stared at him for a moment and burst out laughing. “I am sorry, M’Laird, but I could not keep my eyes open a moment longer.”
“I am still alive!” he pointed out, laughing with her. “But my arm is hurting again.”
Tavia probed the arm with gentle fingers. “I will give you some more willow bark tea,” she told him, “but if that does not relieve the pain then we must try something stronger.”
Just then, Maureen came in, smiling and smelling of fresh air. She had come to give her daughter some reprieve. “How are ye, M’Laird? Has Tavvy been lookin’ efter ye a’ right?”
“She has been wonderful,” Blair said warmly.
“I am happy tae hear it, M’Laird,” Maureen said comfortably. “She is a very clever lass an’ a’.”
Tavia came back with a small teapot and an earthenware cup, and smiled at him. Maureen intercepted the look that passed between them and it alarmed her. The young laird was a mature man and Tavia was a girl in her teens and very much his social inferior.
There was only one thing men wanted from young and lovely girls like her daughter and that was to lie with them for their own pleasure. She had seen the tragic results of such couplings; pregnant downfallen chambermaids and their skinny offspring. They could never again find work and they would become beggars or prostitutes just to put food in their mouths.
However, they could talk about that later. Now Maureen turned her attention to her daughter and her patient as she poured the tea then gave it to him.
“You have
had it before?” she asked.
“Unfortunately, yes—last night,” he replied in a voice that sounded like a condemned man going to the gallows. He took the cup and threw it down his throat in one draught. “Aaagh!” He made an exclamation of pure disgust and shuddered. “That is foul!”
“The best medicine always is, M’Laird.” Maureen grinned. Just then a maid came in with the breakfast tray and Tavia prepared to take her leave. Tavia kissed her mother and Maureen pulled her hood up, settled her cloak more firmly around her shoulders, then hugged and finally kissed her lips firmly. Tavia submitted to all these ministrations with good grace, then she yawned and rubbed her eyes. “I feel like sleeping for a week,” she announced.
“No Mistress Tavia,” Blair laughed. “Not a week. Who would tuck me into bed?”
“I will,” Maureen said firmly, with a deep frown. “Now aff ye go, lass, and straight tae bed!”
Tavia twinkled a little wave at them and was gone. Blair’s gaze followed her as she left and when he looked up Maureen was glaring at him with narrowed eyes. As soon as their eyes met she looked away, but the message was not lost on him.
Tavia did not go straight home, as she had told her mother she would. She decided to go and see her friend Bridget, whom she had known for almost all her life. Bridget was a bit of a ruffian. She had fiery red hair and mischievous brown eyes, and they loved each other like sisters. When Bridget saw her she all but leaped into Tavia’s arms, then kissed her all over her face, making her giggle and push Bridget away.
“You are a madwoman!” Tavia laughed.
“Ye’re no the first person tae tell me!” Bridget grinned at her, and they sat down on either side of her small kitchen table. Bridget leaned over so they were almost nose to nose.
“Now,” Bridget said, eyes narrowed as if studying her friend very closely, “a wee bird told me the young Laird broke his arm an’ you are lookin efter him.”
“Yes, I am,” Tavia’s face was giving nothing away.
“So? Whit’s he like?” Bridget asked eagerly. “I hear he is bonny.”
“Indeed he is,” Tavia replied. She was deliberately drawing out the suspense.
“Grrrr...am I gaun’ tae have tae torture ye?” Bridget asked in frustration.
Tavia laughed again and relented. “He is beautiful. He has long hair, a square jaw, and eyes that are a very strange color.” She paused, thinking. “A kind of lilac-gray.”
“Oooh—sounds lovely!” Bridget’s eyes looked dreamy. “Is he tall?”
“Very tall,” Tavia stood up and held her hand up to describe him. “With broad shoulders and muscly arms and legs...he looks as if he could lift a whole bullock!”
Bridget groaned with envy.
“He wants me to give him French lessons.” Tavia frowned. “But I am not sure if I should.”
“Why should ye no’?” Bridget asked, curious. “If I could talk French I wid dae it in an instant!”
“Mammy is not keen that I should be alone with him,” she explained. “She seems to think that all noblemen are only interested in lying with a woman, not caring about her mind—only her body. She is only looking out for my welfare, Bridget.”
Bridget nodded slowly. “There must be a way roon’ that,” she said thoughtfully. “But Tavvy, imagine ye did start teachin’ him! He wid pay ye an’ ye could start tae be a wee bit mair o’ yer ain wummin!”
Tavia’s eyes lit up. “I had not thought of that!”
“But tak’ care!” Bridget warned.
Maureen cut up Blair’s food for him into small morsels. “Can ye manage by yersel’ M’Laird?” she asked. Her voice was not hostile, but neither was it friendly, and Blair reflected that it was going to be a long, long day sitting and talking to her for hours.
While Blair was eating she went to the window but her thoughts were still with him, and she could feel his eyes boring into her back.
He is far too handsome for his ain good, she thought grimly. She could see how an innocent young girl like Tavvy could be won over by the charms of a man like this, with his castle and his big estate and all his servants.
She took his tray away when he had finished, then poured him some ale. As she handed it to him he spoke.
“Mistress Donald, are you angry with me?” His tone was puzzled.
She looked at him from under lowered brows and crossed her arms defensively in front of her. “No’ yet, M’Laird.” Her voice was practically a growl. “But I can see the way ye look at Tavia. She is a good lass an’ I want nae harm tae come tae her. I hae seen too mony lasses fa’ under the spell o’ noblemen an’ I dinnae want that for my daughter.”
For a moment they glared at each other.
“Give yourself peace, Mistress Donald.” His voice was stern. “I have no intention of taking advantage of your daughter. She is a lovely girl and I would not be a real man if I was not attracted to her, but I swear I will not lay a hand on her in the way you mean.”
Maureen nodded, but she was only half-satisfied. In her experience men often said one thing while thinking the opposite.
“Aye, well, thank ye, M’Laird,” she sighed. “I suppose I must take yer word for it.”
“When my word is given it is never broken,” he said firmly, and finished his ale.
Maureen nodded, but said no more. She pulled his nightshirt off over his head to change it, then stifled a gasp as she saw his magnificent body.
Maureen was not yet forty, and she and Archie were still intimate, but her husband had never looked like this. She could only liken him to a stag in all his muscular male beauty, and she could imagine him lording it over his harem of does, just as he would lord it over his estate in a few years.
She kept her eyes averted as much as she could, and was almost relieved to drop the clean nightshirt over his head and cover up the sight of his broad shoulders and powerful arms.
She must warn Tavvy again, in even stronger terms. This man was dangerously attractive, especially to an impressionable girl like her daughter.
The day passed somehow, with Maureen reading a book and Blair dozing on and off, then Tavia came back to sit overnight with Blair. As soon as she arrived Maureen took her aside, out of his earshot.
“Listen, hen,” she said anxiously. “Ye knaw ye mean the world tae me?”
“Of course, Mammy!” Tavia replied, puzzled. “And I love you too. Why do you ask me that?”
“Because I am concerned for yer safety wi’ thon young Laird,” she replied grimly. “He seems nice, an’ he is handsome, but handsome young men sometimes take advantage o’ pretty young lassies, an’ you are prettier than most.”
“Mammy—” Tavia began, but Maureen put up her hand for silence.
“I am only warnin’ ye for yer ain good, sweetheart,” she sighed, her eyes searching Tavia’s face. She paused and bit her lip nervously. “Has he tried tae kiss ye?”
“No!” Tavia was shocked. “Mammy—do you think I would let him?” Then she laughed. “Mammy, he has a broken arm. He cannot defend himself, so I think I am quite safe.” She had not mentioned the kiss on the cheek, because her mother and father kissed her like that, so it did not count.
“Hmph!” Maureen grunted in disapproval. “Jist dinnae turn yer back on him, that’s a’!”
Tavia was tempted to laugh, but decided it was better not to. She had seen that determined glint in her mother’s eyes before, and it usually preceded a long lecture.
Maureen hugged her, and with a last suspicious glance at Blair, she left.
5
The Portrait
“Do you have everything you need?” Tavia asked.
“Yes, I do.” Blair smiled. “What do you have there?” He pointed to what looked like a big leather envelope which she was carrying under her arm.
“My sketches and a few pieces of finished work that have not yet been framed. You said you were interested in seeing them but if you have changed your mind I can put them away.”
He looked into
her eager eyes; even if he had not been interested in the drawings, which he was, he would not have been able to resist their appeal. He smiled at her, and she flushed slightly. “I have been dying to see them,” he replied.
“Good,” she answered. “I must warn you, though, that I am only an amateur. I have only ever seen copies of the masterpieces that are in Rome, and they are probably poor imitations. I doubt I shall ever see the real thing, although it is my dream.”
“Dreams can come true,” he murmured. “Perhaps you will marry a rich merchant or someone else who can take you there.”
“Or perhaps I will make myself rich,” she countered. She was not sure whether his suggestions offended her or not, since there were very few self-made women around.
“Perhaps,” he said mildly, although he thought that was quite impossible for a girl and he dropped the subject. She began to take her drawings out and spread them on the bed.
Blair gasped as he looked at them. Every one of the landscapes was a view of the surrounding countryside—mostly in soft chalk, but some in charcoal—and each was done in loving detail, so that the stunning sweeps of countryside were revealed in all their glory. There were emerald green hillsides with the cream and black blobs of native Scottish sheep on them, and towering above them were great vertical granite outcrops that looked as though they were the very bones of the earth itself.
Another drawing showed meads of pinkish-purple heather, in his opinion, the prettiest flower in the whole of his native land. He simply could not imagine his native country without it. Here and there ran stripes of lemon yellow gorse, and the contrast between the two bright colors stunned the eye. Beyond the hills and heather lay the sea, a formidable iron gray slab on which ran the white crests of waves chasing each into the shore like the manes of galloping horses. Above were towering billows of darkened clouds, layer upon layer of them, piled one on top of the other in the angry sky.
The drawings were so vividly accurate that they took his breath away. “They are wonderful,” he breathed. He took out a drawing of a woman who vaguely reminded him of someone. It was a charcoal portrait, so there was no color, but from the shading he got the impression she was blonde. Her features were even and balanced—a conventionally pretty face. “Now, who is this?” he asked. “She is lovely.”
