A Well Favored Gentleman

by Christina Dodd

  Thinking of the pinched face, the cruel jokes, the flamboyant spending, Alanna had to ask, “Has he always been so bitter?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s a Fairchild. We’re all evil one way or the other, but Mama says Uncle Leslie is exceptional. Mama says Uncle Leslie always thought he should have the title and the fortune. But Papa got it instead. We truly don’t know who Ian’s mother is. Ian just showed up at Fairchild Manor one day.”

  “How old was Ian when he arrived?”

  “Eleven. I was only six years old and his cousin, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. We Fairchilds are beautiful, of course, but Ian is just mesmerizing, don’t you think? Uncle Leslie hated that, too, that he was getting old and saggy, and the serving maids, who hated Uncle, were constantly sneaking into Ian’s bedchamber.”

  Wilda touched a memory in Alanna. The maids watched Ian here, too, and she wondered if he had spent his nights alone here in Fionnaway. She wondered if she would have to dismiss every hussy who smiled at him, then realized, with a pang, that she should not care.

  “Mama says Uncle Leslie is the most unnatural father she’s ever seen, worse than any Fairchild before him, and that’s why he’s trying to drive you away by saying Ian is a selkie when everybody knows it’s the witch who is magic.”

  Alanna froze in astonishment. “The witch?”

  “Oh, Alanna.” Wilda leaned forward, face glowing. “She left before you got here, but she was such a delightful woman. She promised to help me, and I’ve watched and watched for her, but she hasn’t come back. Do you think she’ll come back?”

  “The witch.” Alanna looked up at the animated face above her and wished she didn’t have to burst her bubble. “Wilda, perhaps you didn’t hear what happened that day I arrived in Fionnaway. I came in dressed like the witch, and washed my face and took off that foul robe, and showed everyone that I had been pretending to be a witch.”

  Mouth puckered, Wilda said, “Of course you did.”

  “Really, Wilda. That’s how I hid from Mr. Fairchild all this time. I played dress-up.”

  “And no one ever realized you were the witch.” Wilda tossed her head. “I know I’m a widgeon sometimes, but you can’t fool me. The witch was old and ugly. You’re young and pleasing. You couldn’t be the witch.”

  “I put charcoal on my face and I stuffed rags in my robe to be a hump…” Alanna wasn’t getting through to Wilda, she could see. It wouldn’t matter, but Wilda was still looking for the witch to make a spell for her. “What did you want a witch for?”

  “You’re teasing me about being a witch,” Wilda said, slightly miffed, “and you want me to confide in you?”

  “I thought maybe if I saw a witch, I could tell her…”

  Firmly shaking her head, Wilda said, “The witch will come back to help me. I know it.”

  Alanna could see only grief ahead for Wilda, so she tried once more. “Where do you think I’ve been all this time?”

  “Hiding from Uncle Leslie.”

  What could Alanna say? Wilda was right about that.

  “Because Uncle Leslie is an obnoxious old”— Wilda stopped and glanced around, then whispered—“ass.”

  Wilda looked so frightened by her own bravado, Alanna whispered empathetically, “Aye, he is.” And worse than he was four years ago. It almost seemed as if Leslie fed on the hatred directed at him from the servants, from Alanna, even from his own son. Each day Leslie seemed more healthy. Each day he seemed to take more pleasure in tormenting those around him.

  He hadn’t forgiven Ian for claiming Alanna as his own.

  “You came back for Ian.” Wilda rushed back into speech—obviously her greatest pleasure. “Because you’re not like that Quaker girl. You’re brave and strong and free, just like Ian needs. He won’t ever have to coddle you, although I suppose he’ll try, just because he’s that kind of man. And you’ve got a home for him, and he can help you build it better, and you two can sit by the fire together in the long nights—even in the summer, the nights are long here in Scotland, don’t you people believe in sunshine?—and you won’t even have to tell him what you’re thinking, he’ll know.”

  Alanna snapped her gaze to Wilda. “What?”

  Wilda seemed to realize she’d said too much, for she squirmed uncomfortably beneath the blankets. “Maybe it won’t be that way with you. It’s just that he always knows what I’m thinking.”

  Alanna smiled reassuringly, and all the while she thought, He knows what I’m thinking, too.

  And for once, she had to get out of here before he could torment her. It was her birthday; she had the right to spend it as she pleased. Standing, she took a step backward. “You do display your emotions rather openly.”

  “Do I? That explains it, then.” In one of those lightning-quick changes of subject that left Alanna reeling, Wilda said, “Ian has gone with you everywhere this last week, and he has charmed all the servants and everybody likes him. He’s going to be a perfect lord of Fionnaway.”

  “Everything he’s done has been very reassuring,” Alanna acceded. “In the daytime.”

  “He’s a good dancer, too.” Wilda didn’t seem to notice Alanna’s preparations to go. “Don’t worry about that. I know you must be, but he can fulfill every one of a gentleman’s evening duties, as well.”

  Alanna opened her mouth to correct her, and shut it. There was no way she could explain this to Wilda.

  Then Wilda shocked her. “I imagine he’ll be excellent in the marriage bed also. That will make you happier, I’m sure.”

  “Happier?”

  Mouth pursed, Wilda glanced at her sideways. “You’ve been just a little cranky in the past week.”

  “And here I thought I’d been handling it so well,” Alanna said in a daze.

  “Oh, you have!” Wilda’s face, usually devoid of thought, gleamed with a kind of canny wisdom. “There have just been those moments when you looked at Ian as if you’d like to knock him down and beat him to the floor, and he shakes his head at you, and that’s when you get…a little snappish.”

  Groping behind her, Alanna found a chair and sank down on it. “So everyone knows?”

  “No, silly!” Wilda giggled. “Men don’t notice anything but themselves and what they want. Luckily, Ian wants you.”

  “And Fionnaway.”

  He did want Fionnaway. Alanna had seen it when they’d visited the farm village. As he discussed the difficulty of raising crops in the stony soil with men, the women told about his previous visits and praised him to her. They’d visited the outlying crofts. He’d already been to each one. And yesterday they’d visited the fishing village.

  But there Ian had behaved oddly. They’d stood right on the shore with the fishermen, discussing the currents, the fishing season, and the recent catches. Yet Alanna would have sworn Ian never once looked out at the ocean, and once when a particularly large wave had crashed against the rocks, he’d shuddered as if it had cracked his bones.

  He’d wheeled around and headed toward the horses, and the oldest man had taken Alanna’s hand in his own gnarled fist and patted it. “Take care o’ him, m’lady. He has seawater in his veins, and most o’ them come to a tragic end. But he’ll protect Fionnaway, and ye, and live to tell the tale, if ye just love him enough.”

  She dismissed that, but she couldn’t dismiss the message she’d been given. Without dissembling, each farmer, each crofter, each fisherman, had made it clear they wanted him as lord. As frankly, he indicated he coveted that position.

  The truth was, Ian’s heritage did not worry Alanna. What bothered her was her own intuition—the intuition that told her Ian wouldn’t be satisfied with the sensible marriage she’d always envisioned. He wanted her heart; she was resolved to guard it.

  Wilda broke into her thoughts. “It just makes me warm all over to think a woman is finally going to love him as he deserves.”

  “I am not.” Love him? Love Ian?

  God forbid that she love any man. She’d been betrayed enough times:
by her indifferent father, by Leslie, even by two cousins who would be happier if she were out of their way. Alanna didn’t need to love a man. Not even a man who seduced mad dogs into docility. Especially not a man who had the power to touch her forehead and bring forth dreams that made her want to lie with him and sate herself.

  “Well, of course you don’t want to. What woman wants to fall so madly in love with her husband she would walk barefoot with him to the ends of the earth?” Wilda sounded dreamy, as if she were thinking of someone other than Alanna. “But it happens, and when it does, great happiness awaits them both.”

  “Or misery.” Alanna repeated the vow she had made before. “There has never been a man born of woman who could entice me to take that kind of risk.” Then she realized—Ian, if Leslie’s tale was true, had not been born of woman.

  Wilda broke into a chime of laughter. “No matter what, Alanna MacLeod, I think you’re in trouble.”

  Was she? Alanna stood. “I’ve got to go now.” She walked toward the door, slowly at first, then faster and faster, until she broke into a run.

  The footman in the front hall hurried to let her out. The dairymaids with the buckets stepped out of her way, the gardener who trimmed the shrubs stared.

  But she made it out of the front gate before anyone—any Ian—caught her.

  In Scotland there’s a saying that those men and women with a special charm “have a wee drop of selkie blood a-runnin’ in their veins.” Those stable men can break a horse to the bridle while reserving its wild spirit. Those milkmaids can coax the sweetest cream from the cows. Those midwives have a way of easing the pain of child-birth that has nothing to do with herbs.

  Indeed, a selkie can charm every creature on this earth.

  Chapter 17

  Bees buzzed around Quigley’s hand as he culled the queen and her court from the branch where they hung. “See the honey bags each one carries? That makes it difficult for ’em t’ work that barb they carry behind. That’s why they dunna sting when they’re swarming, see.”

  Alanna shook her head in wonder. “They always sting me.”

  “Ye’re too nervous around ’em. They can sense it, see.” The snaggletoothed farmer grinned at her as he carried the queen to the woven willow hive he’d prepared. “The scouting bees already found this place. I put those herbs they love inside t’ make it all scented for ’em.” He placed the queen on the swarm sheet directly in front of the entrance and watched as she danced in. “Now watch. The other bees’ll follow her always. ’Tis easy, see.”

  From a safe distance, she stood and watched as bees followed in a swift brown stream. “Now they’ll settle in their new home?”

  “Aye, and make the honey for yer Christmas feast.” Quigley straightened from his task. “’Tis glad, I am, ye’re back in yer rightful place, see. And ’tis glad I will be t’ see ye wed t’ Mr. Ian.”

  Her smile disappeared. Why did everyone assume she would marry Ian? “You know him, too.”

  “Aye, the man came out t’ talk t’ me almost as soon as he arrived, see. The laird o’ the swarm, he is.”

  Everyone! Ian had captivated everyone! Every single person on her lands, with the exception of his own father, liked Ian.

  “A laird?”

  “Aye. He talked t’ me, found out about my bee-keeping, suggested t’ Armstrong I be put in charge o’ the bees and the honey. Had a real appreciation o’ my skills, ye ken. Perhaps, after ye’re wed, he’ll teach ye t’ handle the bees.” Quigley nodded knowingly.

  Her hackles rose. As if Ian could teach her anything. “Really.”

  “He’s got a touch with ’em, see. Helped me move a hive from a windy spot; na many’s the man who’ll do that. And never a sting on him!”

  He shook his head in awed appreciation, and Alanna wondered if she could get away from the memory and the mention of Ian anywhere. When Quigley spoke of Ian’s way with the bees, he reminded her that Ian had tamed the dog. Damon no longer threatened the peace of Fionnaway Manor; he had become its guardian.

  “He’s a good man, m’lady. Ye’ve done well.”

  No matter how she wished to, she couldn’t snap at Quigley just because he liked Ian. So with a disgruntled wave, she started along the trail. At Fionnaway, all paths ran parallel to the sea. Right now the sound of the breakers drew her up toward her hill. There she could see it, taste it in the tang of the wind; there she could think, or not think, as she chose.

  She squinted; the sun took advantage of the cloudless morning to bring the waving grass to attention. Despite Wilda’s concerns, she was warm, and she gave a skip along the meadow path. Without her cumbersome disguise, dressed in her chintz gown, she felt free. Although—she glanced behind her—that relentless sensation of pursuit still haunted her.

  Ian wasn’t there. She hadn’t seen him all morning.

  In the distance she could hear the crying of lambs, the shouts of men, the bleating of sheep, and she hurried toward them. The first of the shepherds came into view, hefting stones to dam the stream, and she veered toward the man-made pool where every summer the sheep were washed and prepared for shearing. They gathered in clumps to crop the grass, waiting their turn to be pushed into the steam. There men stood in the waist-deep water, grabbed the sheep, and scrubbed them with lye soap until the winter’s buildup of grime floated away, to spill over the dam and down to the ocean.

  She stood and watched, marveling at the complacency of some of the older ewes. They even seemed to enjoy it, floating while they were soaped and dunked. They swam to the opposite shore and shook the wet from their fleece and immediately set to grazing once more. Some of the younger sheep weren’t quite so tolerant, and they required a stern hand to get them into the water. When an aggressive ram entered the pool, the men worked in pairs, washing and dunking with the efficiency of long practice.

  “Ho, m’lady!” One of the shepherds in the pool had spotted her, and she came forward to greet him. The man grinned and called to her. “Ho, m’lady. Did ye come for yer summer bath?”

  As if in answer to the question, the swimming ram got its back feet on the ground, reared up, and with its front feet, knocked the saucy fellow backward. He fell with such a splash and flailing of arms that Alanna bent from the waist in merriment. When he surfaced, she called, “Nay, but I can see you’re getting yours.”

  The others laughed while he flushed. Then he laughed also, too happy to be wet and cool on this warm day to be humiliated long. “It’s good t’ see ye returned from the dead,” he said, as he wiped suds from his eyes. “’Tis glad we are ye’ve come back, and pleased ye’re marrying such a fair man as Mr. Ian.”

  Her smile disappeared, and in a too sweet voice, she said, “You know him, too.”

  “Helped us with the lambing, he did. Had a nice touch with the ewes. Na too proud t’ get his hands dirty.”

  In unison they nodded, and the head shepherd offered, “He’s a good one.”

  Subduing her scathing reply, Alanna produced a polite smile and walked down below the dam where the stepping-stones provided a dry passage. The interested gaze of the shepherds pricked at her spine as she crossed the flat rocks and left the path to strike out over the meadow. She knew where she wanted to be, and she knew she wanted to be there alone.

  The ground rose steeply beneath her feet, and she stepped to avoid the starflowers tucked into the tapestry of grass. Blazing with the bright yellow of the sun overhead, the odorless blossoms embodied spring to Alanna. They shined warmly, existed briefly, and left a bright spot of memory.

  When she reached the peak of the knoll, she paused to look around at the most marvelous place on earth. Behind her rose the tree-covered fells, stepping back from the sea in glorious summer splendor. Before her the long, grassy slope descended toward the ocean in a green cascade.

  To the eye it seemed the hill descended in an ever-steepening slant to the shore, but she knew that wasn’t so. The mound actually descended at an even rate until it reached a cliff, then dropped str
aight into the sea. Along this stretch of coast, no beach softened its plummet. If anyone was fool enough to crawl to the edge and look down—and when she was younger, she had been such a fool—she would see black rocks like jagged, rotten teeth sticking out of the water. She would see the breakers rampaging over them, around them, using the rocks to grind anything in the way of the relentless sea. Then, with a sucking noise, the waves could carry it down to a hungry gullet.

  Alanna loved the ocean. She walked beside it, swam in it, gloried in it, and never, ever forgot what a vicious destroyer it could be.

  She bounded in the direction of the cliff. Careless, she didn’t watch her step. She tripped, fell, rolled. Grasses cushioned the ground; she caught her breath easily and then rolled again. She grinned; it was a long way to the place where the cliff dropped off. She was safe, and this was fun.

  Raising her arms over her head, pointing her toes, she rolled without direction and with increasing pleasure. Over and over on her side, the sky flashed blue above her and the ground circled green and brown below her. She chuckled, her lips open. When a stem slapped her in the mouth, she stopped rolling, stopped laughing, sat up, and sputtered until she ascertained she hadn’t ingested a bug. Then she laughed again—at herself—and loosened her hair to finger-comb the seeds and wisps of grass from her braids.

  She sat right in the midst of the plants, her chin even with their heads. The sea glinted deep blue, and she could see the swells as they rode towards the rocks. With a groan of pure mindless delight she fell back into the grass.

  The stalks loomed tall enough to block her side vision. All she could see was blue sky, white clouds that puffed and expanded in the breeze, and green stalks, heavy with the forming seed. A faint wind carried the smell of summer, and the odor of crushed grass rose from beneath her. She could hear the buzzing of Quigley’s bees as they searched for nectar, and from far below the faint, steady rhythm of the sea. Every muscle in her body relaxed for the first time in days.