by Karen Ranney
When she said that to him, he smiled. “You do feel inferior or you wouldn’t say that you’re of no importance. You’re just as good as any English woman, Eleanor, and perhaps better than most. You’re a Scot.”
“I shall take care to remind myself of that every morning,” she said.
How odd that it was so easy to smile at him. Or feel a rush of pleasure when he smiled back.
Chapter Eighteen
He stood, and just when she thought he was going to walk away, he turned and extended one hand to her. She put her hand in his, marveling at the warmth of his palm, and stood.
“You’re freezing,” he said.
“I’m a little cold,” she agreed.
“You should return to the house right now.”
She nodded. She really should, for more than one reason.
Her conscience made her step away slightly as Bruce jumped up and off the bench. She reached for the lead, saying, “He’ll run away.”
“No, he won’t,” Logan said. “Besides, he needs to learn to remain at your side.”
“Who’s being trained, me or Bruce?”
Logan smiled. “Both of you. Next time you come, be sure and bring some treats for him. There are those who believe that punishment is the best trainer, but I’m not one of them.”
She reached into the pocket of her skirt with her free hand and pulled out her handkerchief.
“Liver,” she said, showing him. “One of the maids told me that anything that smells strong will work. I detest liver myself, but Bruce seems to love it.”
“Wise girl. And wise you for listening to her.”
The warmth she felt wasn’t wise at all.
She loved hearing his voice because it brought back Scotland to her. Her cousins didn’t sound Scottish and that was due to her aunt’s constant correction.
Instead of returning to the house, they walked together, hand in hand, for a few moments. She should have pulled her hand free, but she left it in his. For warmth only, although that excuse sounded feeble.
“Are you really going to try to avoid me for the rest of your life?”
“Our paths hadn’t crossed before, Eleanor. I doubt they’ll cross again. London is big enough. After last night I’m sure your family wouldn’t relish our association. Besides, I got the impression that you would rather I hadn’t appeared.”
“I was afraid you were going to say something about meeting me in Scotland. I hadn’t acted very proper with you.”
How odd that she found it so easy to be honest with him.
He placed her hand on his arm and together they walked to the road, keeping to the side of it. She glanced behind them and he was right. Bruce was on their heels. Still, she didn’t feel all that comfortable letting him roam free.
“If it makes you feel better you can put the lead on him.”
She did just that, and when she joined him again she didn’t put her hand on his arm. Instead, they walked close together. Anyone looking at them would think that they were a couple. A man and his wife, perhaps, or a woman and her fiancé. They might even be relatives, but she doubted anyone would guess at what they were: nearly strangers but oddly friends.
“Tell me about Eleanor Craig,” he said. “Pretend that we’ve never met. What would you want me to know about you?”
She glanced at him. “Why? You don’t want to see me again.”
“Very well. I’ll begin, shall I?” He hesitated for a moment, and she was certain he wasn’t going to speak further, but then he surprised her. “I didn’t want to be in Abyssinia. I didn’t want to die in a battle that few people knew about and even fewer would care about.”
“Isn’t that the definition of courage? To be afraid and yet carry on?”
“I’m not a hero. I was trying, most of the time, to figure out how not to die.”
“I think anyone would feel the same, don’t you? Or do you ask more of yourself than most people would? Do you have to be better than anyone else?”
“Yes.”
Surprised, she glanced at him again. “Why?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps it was the way I was raised. I have an obligation to the family name. I’m expected to be better than average.”
She didn’t know what to say to that.
“Perhaps it’s because my parents are dead.”
“So are mine,” she said.
“Any brothers or sisters?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“I have a sister who’s married and lives in Edinburgh with her husband and two children.”
He shouldn’t divulge any more about himself. She didn’t want a connection to him. She didn’t want to feel compassion or even curiosity. All of those would be dangerous emotions to have around Logan McKnight. She already felt closer to him than she should.
She should have remained silent. She shouldn’t have offered any information about herself, but she found herself talking.
“I was born at Hearthmere,” she said. “My mother died three days after my birth. My father raised me, at least until I was eleven. When he died, my uncle and his family came to live with me.”
She didn’t think her uncle had been very prosperous in Edinburgh. The terms of her father’s will were that her uncle and his family could live at Hearthmere until Eleanor turned eighteen. At that time it would be her decision whether her uncle’s family remained.
That decision, however, had been taken away from her. At the age of seventeen her uncle had died. Deborah lost no time in returning to London, taking her two children and Eleanor with her.
She told Logan an abbreviated version of her history. When she was done, he only shook his head.
“What does that mean?” she asked. “Are you disgusted? Annoyed? Disbelieving? I don’t know what it means when you just shake your head like that. That’s why we have words, Logan. Or should I just whistle to you?”
His laugh startled her.
“I understand why you became London Eleanor, but I think I prefer the Scottish version better.”
She frowned at him. He reached over and hugged her, surprising her again. He really shouldn’t touch her and he most definitely shouldn’t hug her.
“We shouldn’t be here together,” she said.
He nodded. “I shouldn’t be so close to you now.”
“No, you shouldn’t. Are you really going to try to avoid me?”
“I’d be a fool not to.”
She didn’t want him to disappear, which was a bit of idiocy on her part. He had no role in her life. He was right; her family wouldn’t understand their relationship. She wasn’t entirely certain she understood.
He lured her as no one else ever had. He tempted her to do things she’d never thought of doing. She wanted him to kiss her again except this time she didn’t want a quick, teasing kiss. This kiss should be slower, softer, longer. She would remember it for the rest of her life. Or perhaps she would recall her own daring, walking with Logan in a shadowed wood.
She placed one hand against his jacket, close to his heart. She really shouldn’t touch him any more than he should reach out and place his hand at the small of her back, gently guiding her forward. They were almost embracing, the pose of a couple ready to kiss.
If they were in Scotland she wouldn’t feel a frisson of alarm. They weren’t in Scotland, however, but in a public park in London. Anyone could see them. Anyone would remark about their closeness and the fact that neither one of them drew away.
She should recall that she was engaged.
Yet nothing mattered but looking into Logan’s eyes, keeping his gaze as he placed his other arm around her, fully embracing her.
She didn’t say a word of protest as he bent his head. Nor did she move away when he kissed her, his arms pulling her even closer. For a matter of seconds, perhaps minutes, she lost her sense of self, the apartness she’d felt for years.
Her hands grabbed his jacket, holding on as her knees nearly buckled. Her heartbeat escalated; her breathing
grew tight. Blood heated and pounded as her skin warmed. She wanted to be closer, for this feeling to continue, to never end. He was no longer a stranger or quite a friend. Instead, he was more than that. She couldn’t explain it to anyone, even as the kiss ended and he stepped back.
She, too, stepped away, her gaze on the ground and not on him. How could she possibly meet his eyes? She should be ashamed of her actions instead of hungering for something that lay just beyond her knowledge. She’d heard of passion before as well as desire. Some of the books in Hearthmere’s library had not been geared toward history, politics, religion, or animal husbandry. Some had been poetry where lovers extolled the virtues of being with their heart’s desire. Or novels where women longed for knights or gave their hearts to men of strength and courage.
This association was different, less noble, and perhaps more earthy. She wanted him to touch her bare skin, to follow through with all the sensations his kiss promised. She wanted to know what lovemaking was like when her senses were involved as well as her mind. When he tempted her and challenged her and made her laugh.
The world would not understand why she stood there, one hand still on his arm, the other clutching the fabric of her skirt. Nor would society comprehend how difficult it was to take another step away from him, letting her hand fall. Glancing down at Bruce, she made a show of ensuring that his lead was in place. Would Logan see that her hands trembled?
She couldn’t think of a word to say to excuse her behavior. Perhaps it would be wiser to accuse him, to excoriate him for his actions. After all, he was the one who had initiated the kiss. She hadn’t stepped away, however. Nor had she run away as she had in Scotland. Even now, she wanted to kiss him again.
If the world knew her thoughts, she’d be chastised and shamed. Thankfully, no one would ever know.
All she had to do now was turn and walk away, encouraging Bruce to stay at her side. That’s all. All she had to do was lift her foot and put it down a few inches away, and begin her departure.
She wanted to remain with him, and wasn’t that a telling confession? She wanted to ask him about his childhood, about his thoughts for the future. She wanted to know about his sister and her children, how he came to know Old Ned. What he had learned about sheep, about Parliament. What were his greatest wishes? What did he want to achieve as a member of Parliament? Who did he emulate? Who was his mentor? A variety of questions espousing a curiosity that she’d never felt before for any man.
Everything about him interested her.
She finally managed to turn and walk a few steps away. He didn’t say anything when she stopped, her back to him. She was a fool to expect him to urge her to stay.
They had both acted irrationally and despite their better selves. She glanced at him over her shoulder to find that he was watching her.
“I . . .” Her words ground to a halt. What did she say to him? How could she possibly explain herself? He was too entrancing, too interesting, too compelling. She should never be alone with him again. Nor should she ever have another thing to do with him.
“I have meetings tomorrow,” he said in that voice she already loved so well. “But I’ll be here the day after.”
Now she should tell him that he was wiser earlier when he said he was going to avoid her. She should remind him of that statement and tell him that it was the safest and best course. Instead, all she did was nod just once before turning back.
Heading for the gate was the hardest thing she’d done in a very long time.
Chapter Nineteen
The day Logan was due back at the park, Eleanor took extra care with her appearance. She wore one of her newer dresses, a rich dark green that reminded her of spring in Scotland. Unfortunately, due to the weather, she had to cover it up with her plain black cloak, but the hem peeped out. If the wind wasn’t so forceful in the park she’d unbutton it to reveal the dress.
In addition, she asked Barbara for help with her hair. If the woman thought it was odd that Eleanor needed her services midmorning, perhaps she would believe that Eleanor was preparing herself for the life of a countess, to be as attractive as possible at every moment of every day.
An hour later she left the house with Bruce on his new leather lead. This one was longer to accommodate his training. In the last day and a half she’d also practiced whistling not only when she’d taken Bruce to Queen’s Park, but also in the privacy of her bedchamber. No one knocked on the door to ask what that odd sound was, so evidently the original builders of the house had made the walls thick enough that she wasn’t overheard.
Once through the wrought iron gate she found herself walking rapidly, then made herself slow down. It wouldn’t do to look too eager.
She’d gone most of her life without knowing Logan. What did it matter that she hadn’t seen him for a day and a half? Someone didn’t come into your life that quickly and make themselves indispensable. Yet it was as if a spot that hadn’t been there before had suddenly appeared and he’d slipped into it easily. So easily that when he wasn’t there the space felt like an enormous cavern.
She wanted to hear his voice again. She wanted to know about his day. What kind of meetings had taken his time? Perhaps he wouldn’t tell her, considering it confidential knowledge that she had no right to know.
No doubt he was such a source of fascination for her because he was unabashedly Scottish. Or because he reminded her of Hearthmere. Or simply because he’d expressed an interest in her.
The proper thing to do would be to tell him that she couldn’t see him again. Kissing him had been wrong, even though she hadn’t been able to forget either of his kisses.
She was engaged to be married.
Today she would tell Logan that he’d been wiser than she in wanting to forget her. She would tell him that it would be wrong for him to come to Queen’s Park again. Both of them needed to remember the proprieties. They’d already crossed the boundary, but they could retreat behind it once more.
Don’t come here again. Forget me. I won’t meet you. Such easy sentences and all she had to do was say one of them. Say it and ignore the sadness when she did.
They walked some distance to the bench where she and Logan had sat.
He wasn’t there and the first thing she felt was disappointment. The second emotion was a sense of relief. She wouldn’t have to say anything to him. He’d already decided that it would be better not to appear.
How odd that the hurt felt like a living thing now, pushing against her chest. She felt like crying, except that she never cried in public.
Instead, she would fall back on her behavior of the past five years. She would bury everything and hide her emotions from everyone. She’d be silent and well behaved, mute and not betraying, by word or action, anything she felt.
Bruce grabbed a twig from somewhere and was happily gnawing on it.
“Put that down,” she said.
He ignored her.
She grabbed it and tossed it a few feet away. “You don’t eat twigs,” she said. “They’re not good for you.”
He tried to eat her fingers, instead, until she told him no in a loud voice. He gave up her fingers for her hem and was chewing enthusiastically on it before he gave it up to attack another twig. He brought it to her as a token of affection and it snagged the fabric of her skirt.
“Oh, dear, I’m going to get a lecture about that, Bruce. But thank you, all the same.”
“Why a lecture?”
Her heart lurched. He was here. He had come. The day was suddenly brighter, the morning sun streaming through the trees a promise of the rest of the day.
“I didn’t think you were coming,” she said, giving him the truth.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I’m an idiot.”
Before she could question him further he added, “This isn’t wise, Eleanor. I told myself that at least a hundred times, but here I am.”
Bruce whimpered and wiggled, retain
ing his lesson not to jump up on Logan’s trousers. He did, however, lick his fingers when Logan bent to pet him.
“So, should I welcome you or send you away?” she asked as he sat beside her, Bruce jumping up to join them.
She knew which would be proper, but that didn’t seem to matter.
He didn’t answer, which was just as well. They could both pretend that this meeting wasn’t improper.
“Tell me about your family.”
“My family?” When he nodded, she thought for a moment. “I only have my aunt and two cousins left,” she said. “Hamilton is my aunt’s second husband. I never know what to call him. He’s not strictly my uncle. My aunt’s first husband and I were related. Deborah and I are related by law, I suppose.”
He settled back against the bench, petting Bruce.
“My cousin Daphne is married,” she said. “Although she doesn’t seem like it. She’s always there, back at my aunt’s house like she never left. She’s either taking tea with my aunt or eating a meal with us. Or they’re off shopping together.”
“You don’t go with them?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’m a lamentable shopper,” she confessed. “I have no style of my own, you see. I can’t look at something and say whether or not it would flatter me. Most things don’t, I’ve found. I prefer plain colors rather than patterns and definitely not stripes.”
“Why not stripes?”
She glanced over at him. “You can’t possibly care.”
“On the contrary,” he said. “What is it about stripes that you object to, exactly?”
She considered the matter. “They don’t make any sense. You have stripes going up and down on the skirt, but on the bodice they’re often perpendicular.”
“Does everything need to make sense to you, Eleanor?” he asked with a smile.
She nodded. “I think it does, in some elemental way. A great many things in London don’t make sense.”
“The exact sentiments of a Scot.”
She looked up at the sky visible through the awning of branches. Autumn was upon them and all those abundant, luxurious leaves were falling to the ground. Bruce jumped off the bench to attack a few and roll around on the others.
