by Deborah Hale
“I have a place in London. That isn’t the same as having a home. If my house in Mayfair burned down tomorrow, I’d grumble about the inconvenience, but then I would buy another and never shed a tear.”
He pressed the glass back into her hand. “What about Strathandrew? Would ye shed a tear if it burned down?”
Claire seemed to mull over the notion as she took another sip. “I would. In that way, I suppose Strathandrew is the closest thing to a true home I have. But I’ve never fooled myself into believing I belong there, the way you do. How did you put it? Fishing the same beat and walking the same hills as your father and his father.”
She shivered. “The sea wind gets cool at night. Now that I’ve had my dram, I should get back to bed.”
Was it the night air that chilled her? Ewan wondered. Or loneliness?
“Can ye not stay awhile longer?” He spread his cape. “It’s good and warm under here. And there’s plenty of room for ye.”
She hesitated for a moment. “You’re sure?”
“Oh, aye.” He moved behind her, wrapping the cloak around them both. “Ye know, I reckon as long as ye love a place, then ye belong there.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Claire did not sound convinced. “It would be pleasant to think so.”
With a sigh, she leaned back against him, her slender curves liberated from their whalebone cage.
Ewan discovered just how warm it could get inside his cloak.
He tried to distract Claire from her melancholy thoughts, and himself from his improper ones. “Say, do ye remember the time ye talked me into taking ye to see the stone circle up the glen?”
The distraction seemed to work on Claire. She chuckled. “I still say I saw a ghost … or something.”
“It’s a wonder yer father didn’t ship me off to America over that.”
On they talked for a while, sharing stories from the old days.
“I suppose,” said Claire at last, “by morning we should be coming in sight of—”
Before she could finish, Ewan spotted a flicker of light in the distance, as though one of the stars had fallen to earth.
“There!” He raised his arm and pointed, his throat too tight to say more for a moment.
“I see,” said Claire. “What is it?”
“The light on Galloway Head,” replied Ewan when he recovered his voice. “My first sight of Scotland in ten years.”
“Ah!” Claire pressed the glass back into his hand. “That calls for a toast, I think, and there should be just enough whiskey left for one.”
Ewan lifted his glass in the direction of the Rhyns, that wee finger of land Scotland thrust down into the Irish Sea.
Claire gave a wide yawn. “Welcome home, Ewan Geddes.”
It all overwhelmed him suddenly—the sight of home and her nearness. Before he knew what was what, he had spun Claire around, into his arms. He kissed her the way he had not kissed a lass in many a year. Not since the long-ago night that had cost him so dearly.
He wasn’t sure if his veins were full of whiskey or moonlight, or a sweet, tipsy mixture of both. Her lips felt so soft and responsive to the most subtle movement of his. As if she were bidding him welcome.
He was delighted to accept her hospitality.
With a slow, hot swipe of his tongue, he coaxed her lips apart and made a tender but thorough acquaintance of her sweet mouth. One hand played through her hair, while the other … dropped the empty glass.
It shattered on the deck, shattering their moment along with it.
What had he done?
“Mind yer feet!” He lifted Claire clear of the deck and pivoted around to set her down away from the broken glass.
“Everything all right, sir?” called the first mate.
“Just broke some glass here and can’t see to clean it up.”
“Never mind about that, sir. I’ll get one of the crew to give it a swab as soon as they’re stirring.”
The practical consequences dealt with, Ewan turned to the more important ones.
“I’m sorry, Claire.” He let go of her, wishing he didn’t have to. “I don’t know what got into me just now!”
“Whiskey and moonlight, perhaps.” She made it sound so careless. “And feelings running high, looking for an outlet.”
“I reckon ye’re right.”
What she said made sense and he wanted to believe it. Somehow, though, he feared there might be more to it than that.
Chapter Eleven
Ewan was sorry for kissing her.
Claire felt as if her heart were made of glass, and he had dropped it on the deck.
Perhaps that did not matter, though, so long as neither of them cut their feet on the jagged shards, and the whole mess got cleaned up before morning.
Thank heaven for the darkness, she told herself as she stole back down to her cabin. This was not the first time it had been a friend to her—hiding her face from Ewan Geddes after he’d kissed her. At least this time he’d known who she was, even if his reasons had been less than flattering.
In any case, she was the one who ought to be sorry.
She had been able to justify her attempts to lure Ewan Geddes away from her sister when she’d believed him to be an unscrupulous fortune hunter. Now that she was convinced otherwise, there could be no excuse for her conduct toward the man. She was heartily ashamed of it.
What had possessed her to slip under that cloak with him when the two of them were wearing only their nightclothes? Even Tessa might blanch at that kind of impropriety.
Come to that, what had made him invite her to share his cloak? Had it been nothing more than a rash impulse fueled by drink and the dubious intimacy of darkness? Or could there be more to it? And what might have happened if that cursed glass had not slipped out of his hand?
Claire removed her dressing gown and crawled into bed. Sleep proved more elusive than ever, as the memory of Ewan’s kiss and the warmth of his body pressed against hers taunted her. What might he do if she dared to steal into his cabin now? She imagined how he might hold her, kiss her, touch her—until her whole body ached and burned with longing for him.
She rose the next morning dreading the necessity of facing Ewan at the breakfast table. It must be done, though. To avoid him would only arouse suspicion that their aborted kiss had meant more to her than she’d let on. More than she ever wanted him to guess.
To her surprise, the meal proved less awkward than she’d expected, for both of them took great pains to behave as if nothing had happened. Clearly there were some embarrassments he did not scruple to sweep under the rug.
“So,” she asked as Ewan attacked his oatmeal with an appetite, “did the drink and the sea air help you sleep better?”
“Oh, aye.” He gave a vigorous nod, but his drawn features told a different story. Was it possible their close contact and kiss had plagued his dreams as they had hers? It would salve her pride a little to think so. “And ye?”
“The perfect tonic.” Claire countered his lie with one she hoped was more convincing, then moved on to a less awkward subject. “With fair winds, we should reach Strathandrew by tonight.”
Her distraction appeared to work. The tightness around Ewan’s eyes relaxed and his smile came readily. “It’ll be good to see the old place again. I wonder if it’s changed much?”
Claire shook her head. “Time seems to stand still up there. Tessa and I have certainly made no changes since we inherited the place.”
Nor had she wanted any. Mr. Catchpole occasionally hinted that a Highland sporting estate was a financial liability. Though she’d had several offers for Strathandrew, Claire had refused to sell. But neither had she made frequent use of it. Her few visits had stirred up too many memories, leaving her restless and melancholy.
“This has always been my favorite part of the voyage,” she told Ewan, and reminded herself. “Sailing past all the islands and mouths of the sea lochs.”
And looking forward to seeing him again. Noting how
much taller he’d grown over the winter, how much broader his shoulders and muscular his forearms. Finding him still so much more alluring than the well-bred young bores whose company she was forced to suffer during the rest of the year.
Every summer she had hoped this would be the one he would notice her. But he never had, no matter how much she’d badgered him. In moments of adolescent despair, she’d often wondered if he recollected her name from one summer to the next.
“Claire?” Her name on his lips, ten years too late, shook her from her bittersweet memories.
“I beg your pardon?” The lapse flustered her. Had the echo of her old longing for him shown on her face?
If it had, Ewan failed to recognize it. “I was asking if ye’d care to join me on deck to point out the sights.”
Could she? Return to the very spot where he’d kissed her, and stand near him as if nothing had happened?
“Why, of course.” To decline would be an admission that last night had meant more to her than she pretended.
Besides, she craved his company. It was like the bewitched food in a story her nursery maid had once told her, food that made a person hungrier the more they consumed.
If she wasn’t careful, she might gorge herself and starve to death.
Ewan was hungry for every glimpse of his homeland.
Fishing villages of whitewashed cottages huddled against the Atlantic winds. Colonies of fat dappled seals lazing on broad, deserted beaches. Humpbacked hills with summits swathed in cloud. Tall, gaunt stacks of rock thrusting from the sea, like accusing fingers pointed at heaven. Dark, towering cliffs seething with seabirds. The ruins of an ancient fortress standing ghostly guardian over the headland it had once protected.
He consumed it all, like a starving man at a banquet table. And Claire Talbot’s company added relish to every bite.
“Isn’t it strange how low those two bigger islands lie, while the little one rises so high?” She pointed toward them, raising her voice almost to a shout to be heard above the roar of the surf.
“I wonder how that came about?” Ewan observed the cluster of islands for a while, before he found his gaze drawn sidelong to study her, instead.
She had secured her hat in place with a wide scarf, but still had to anchor it against sudden gusts with her hand. That same wind had teased her cheeks to the color of thrift, a tiny pink flower that carpeted the Argyll countryside in spring. As she called his attention to each fresh wonder, her eyes reflected the restless energy of the churning sea.
The Marlet raced northward, sails bulging from the wind, its hull rising as it crested each high wave, then plunging into each trough with a belly-wrenching drop. It would have left most folks hanging over the deck rail, retching their guts out. But Claire looked positively exhilarated. Her mood proved contagious.
“If I wasn’t so anxious to get home,” said Ewan, “it might be a lark to stop ’round and visit some of the islands for a better look.”
Claire nodded. “I’ve often thought that, too. Iona in particular. Perhaps you and Tessa can make a honeymoon tour of the isles.”
“Oh, aye.” Ewan tried to sound as enthusiastic as he ought to feel. Why did the prospect of touring the isles with Tessa not appeal to him more?
He clutched the railing as another thought struck him. He was not as eager as he should be to see Tessa again, once they reached Strathandrew. For years, she had been the focus of his dreams and plans. Now that they were so close to fruition, those dreams pinched and bound him like an outgrown suit of clothes.
In the past few days, Claire had come to claim more and more of his attention. He could not shake the memory of their brief kiss, nor the conviction that she had responded to his unexpected ardor. Yet today she acted as if nothing had happened. Even last night she’d been cool about it, blaming their indiscretion on whiskey and moonlight.
Perhaps that was what had prompted her. Ewan wanted to lay the blame for his own conduct there, as well. But he feared it might not be quite so simple. If moonlight and whiskey had made him sweep Claire into his arms, why did he want to do it again, cold sober and in broad daylight?
He still had not answered that question to his satisfaction hours later, when the Marlet glided up the narrow firth toward Strathandrew. Nor had he managed to subdue the urge.
How strange it felt to be standing aboard the Talbots’ yacht, watching the staff assemble near the wharf to greet them. Part of him felt he should be down there among them, scrambling for his place, minding Rosie McMurdo’s motherly advice to tuck in his shirt and pull up his stockings.
Where was Rosie? There, he spotted her! Small and stout, standing next to the wraithlike figure of Mrs. Arbuthnot, the housekeeper he’d never much cared for. Alongside Rosie stood Fack Gowrie, the head gardener, and beside him his brother Fergus, the head gamekeeper. An irreverent young minister at the local kirk had once compared the Gowrie brothers to Cain and Abel, for which the elders had promptly raked him over the coals.
Ewan did not recognize any of the junior staff among whom there had always been a more frequent turnover. Parlor maids left to get married after they’d saved a little nest egg, while footmen and gardeners went to Glasgow or England or America in hopes of bettering themselves.
“This should be a fine surprise for everyone,” said Claire as they prepared to disembark. “I wired Mrs. Arbuthnot to expect us, and that we would be bringing a guest, but I didn’t mention whom.”
Ewan could not resist the urge to adjust his neck linen and brush an invisible fleck of dirt from his lapel. A passing qualm of uncertainty rippled through him as he followed Claire down the gangway. What kind of reception would he get from the folks who’d once been like a family to him?
“Mrs. Arbuthnot, you’re looking well.” Claire delivered the polite falsehood in a crisp tone as the housekeeper dropped a stiff-backed curtsy. “I hope it did not put you out too much to make Strathandrew ready for our coming at such short notice.”
“Not at all, miss.” Mrs. Arbuthnot kept glancing toward the yacht. “We make the house ready for yer coming every summer.”
Ewan caught one of the parlor maids rolling her eyes. He could imagine the staff’s annoyance at having to go to all that extra work for nothing.
As Claire moved on to greet the cook, Mrs. Arbuthnot cleared her throat to draw her mistress’s attention. “Did Lady Lydiard and Miss Tessa not accompany you, after all, Miss Talbot? I thought your wire said all three of you would be coming, as well as your guest.”
“I expect my sister and stepmother will be arriving within the next day or two by train,” said Claire.
“Shortly before we sailed, I received word that Tessa was indisposed and that they would follow as soon as they could.
“I beg your pardon.” Claire turned toward Ewan. “I must introduce an honored visitor to Strathandrew, though he is hardly a stranger.”
Catching Rosie McMurdo’s eye, Ewan flashed her a wide smile.
“Ewan Geddes!” cried Rosie. She squeezed between Claire and the dumbfounded Mrs. Arbuthnot to throw her arms around him. “Ye look such a fine gentleman, I almost didn’t recognize ye, laddie!”
“Cook!” the housekeeper gasped. “Mr. Geddes is Miss Talbot’s guest.”
“Oh dear!” Rosie pulled back, all red and flustered. “I was so surprised to see the dear lad, I clean forgot.”
Ewan grabbed her plump hands before she could get away, and pulled her toward him again. “Thank ye for the warm welcome, Rosie!”
He stooped to plant a hearty kiss on her cheek, savoring Mrs. Arbuthnot’s disapproving look. “I was afraid there might be nobody at Strathandrew who remembered me.”
“Not remember ye?” Rosie dismissed such a daft suggestion. “After the letters ye sent and all the—”
“I hope ye’ll remember some of my favorite dishes and cook them while I’m here.” Ewan interrupted her before she could mention the money he’d sent. “I haven’t yet met a cook in America who can make partan bree or
a proper Dundee cake.”
The mention of victuals proved a perfect distraction for Rosie. “Partan bree? Bless me, lad, yes! I’ll have to get ye fattened up while ye’re here. Aught ye have a hankering for, just let me know and I’ll make it.”
The housekeeper cleared her throat again. “I believe we have already discussed the menus, Cook.”
An angry retort rose to Ewan’s lips, but before he could spit it out, Claire spoke up. “Surely the preferences of our guests should always dictate our bill of fare, Mrs. Arbuthnot. Why come to Scotland to dine as if we were still in London?”
“As ye wish, miss.” The housekeeper’s lips pinched together.
Ewan struggled to keep a cocky grin off his face. “Good to see ye again, Mrs. Arbuthnot. Ye haven’t changed a bit.”
In her case, that wasn’t a compliment.
She replied with a wordless curtsy so stiff it looked as though her joints might be in danger of snapping.
The Gowrie brothers looked little changed by the passing years, either, though Fack might have been a tad more stooped and Fergus a touch more grizzled. The gardener appeared almost as glad to see Ewan as Rosie had, while the gamekeeper gave him a welcome barely a degree warmer than the housekeeper’s.
As Claire greeted and introduced the junior staff, Ewan basked in their looks of wonderment. He could imagine how he would have felt at their age, seeing a former servant like himself risen to the dizzying social height of honored guest of the Talbots.
Introduced to the round-eyed young gillie, he gave the lad a warm handshake. “Would ye let me borrow yer fly-tying gear for a bit, to see if I can remember how it’s done?”
“Aye, sir! Will ye be doing some fishing while ye’re here? The trout are big this year. A lot of fight in ’em, too!”
“I’m looking forward to getting a rod in my hands again.” The prospect brought a smile to Ewan’s lips. “Clears the mind, fly-fishing does. Nothing better.”
Claire moved on down the line to a bonny young lass with rich auburn hair pinned up under her cap and a peculiar little smirk on her face, as if she knew an amusing secret.
