My True Love

by Karen Ranney

  The door opened slowly, but instead of Anne or one of the maids, the physician’s face appeared, his shock of white hair topped with a small and deli cate bald spot. Like the opposite of a nest, she thought, hiding her smile.

  He should have looked incongruous, but instead, such oddity of appearance suited him. He was tall and angular, as if he’d taken too many of his own potions and not enough meat. His face was the opposite, round and florid, his eyebrows bushy and white, and there were tufts of facial hair dotting his skin like little islands. His narrow-eyed glare, however, warned the unwary not to be fooled by his genial appearance. There was a quick-witted mind and a will of iron behind that smile.

  She sniffed the air.

  “Not gruel. I shall not eat it.”

  “It’s a nourishing soup. And you will have no choice,” Richard said, his grin challenging. “If you do not eat it, I will simply feed it to you. It strengthens the blood.”

  “Did you cook it?”

  He placed the tray on the bedside table. “Yes,” he said, his grin bordering on the smug. “It’s comprised of several delicious ingredients.”

  “Eye of newt.”

  “Dandelion leaves,” he corrected.

  “It will give me a rash.”

  “It will aid your digestion.”

  “I don’t want a purge.”

  “I’ve missed my chance, then.”

  “You are a foul-minded man, sir.”

  “While you are a delightful patient, Hannah. Possessed of the most amiable disposition, the sweetest smile, the most dulcet of voices.”

  “I believe you think I’m a canker.”

  His grin broadened. “I’m sure you don’t mean to be,” he said amicably, all the while holding out the spoon. “You might as well eat it,” he said. “Else I just may drown you in it.”

  She eyed it with suspicion.

  “I thought physicians were supposed to be gentle and caring.”

  “I am,” he said. “Most of my patients think highly of me. But I might ask the same of you. I thought women of your age were supposed to be grandmotherly and gentle. Frail, perhaps.”

  She eyed him with great dislike. His smile grew more sunny with every passing moment.

  It was the oddest thing, but she’d grown to quite like the man over the past few days. His order that she remain in this room, however, was onerous.

  “I am not that old.”

  “Hmm,” he said, nudging her lips with the spoon. “Most hags are difficult to get along with. They’re crotchety and generally make life miserable for everyone.” She told herself he was teasing. That there was no reason to feel hurt. But she was. Enough that she opened her mouth and drank his vile potion. It wasn’t bad. It needed a few more spices, but she would die before she criticized it.

  Another spoonful was taken, then another. Finally, she reached for the spoon herself, not even bothering to tell him that she could feed herself very well on her own. She had done so all week.

  “I’ve hurt you,” he said.

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “You’re as far from a hag as any woman I’ve ever known.”

  “While you’re a troll,” she said, and felt a bit better at his grin.

  “There, I knew you would return. The temptation was too great.”

  “You could do with some spices in your soup,” she said, forgetting her admonition to refrain from comment.

  “Then I will confess. I didn’t prepare it,” he said, motioning with his hand for her to continue to eat. She did so. In fact, she was ravenous. A few vegetables would not be amiss in this broth. When she said as much, he only continued to grin.

  “I suggest,” he said finally, “that you gain your strength and go tell cook. She is a formidable woman, but then she needs to be to cook for a place this size. My own home is much more modest.”

  “All I’ve seen of Harrington Court has been this chamber,” Hannah said, looking about her.

  Besides the huge box of a bed there were two matching candlestands embellished with inlay. Between the two ceiling-to-floor windows dressed in green brocade stood a dressing table draped to the floor with a similar material. The top was covered with a linen kerchief and adorned with a large mirror, as well as several ornate bottles of a pale green hue. A tall cabinet with folding doors sat against the opposite wall. One closet held clothes while another hid the closestool. On one of the candlestands was a brass bell, a solid-looking thing of some distinction. The sound it gave off when she raised it was loud enough to summon angels. The two chairs arranged in front of the window were quite comfortable.

  Altogether, the accommodations were lovely, the hospitality unexpected. Yet she’d still to meet her host.

  Hannah leaned back against the chair once her meal was done. She frowned at Richard, then allowed him to take her hand and ease her to her feet.

  She sat on the bed, not bothering to hide her distaste for what would come. It was time for Richard to tighten her bindings once again, a necessity but not unduly painful, although she felt shy and ill at ease.

  Neither of them looked at each other when he acted as physician, as if to distance themselves further from the intimacy of his fingers on her bare flesh. No man had touched her since Robbie. It startled her to realize how pleasant it was and how very much she’d missed it.

  “Have you finished torturing me?” she asked when he stepped away. Her side ached like blazes. She closed her eyes but allowed a small smile to appear on her face.

  She didn’t see him lean close, but she felt the whisper of his breath against her cheek.

  “You’re a fraud, Hannah,” he said, the teasing humor in his voice warming her. “I think you’re a kind and gentle creature.”

  “You’ve been taking too much of your own medicine, sir,” she said.

  “Would it be amiss to have you call me by my name?” he asked. “It has been a long time since a lovely woman spoke it.”

  She frowned at him. He was altogether too much at ease with blandishments.

  “It is Richard, should you consider it.”

  Once installed in a heavily stuffed chair, she al lowed him to tuck the coverlet around her legs, not once criticizing him for his efforts.

  Instead, she thanked him softly. The word incited a smile and a twinkle in his eyes. He wiggled his eyebrows at her, and she laughed despite herself.

  “Thank you,” she said again, and touched his cheek with her fingertips. “Richard.”

  He looked as if he would say something. But he withdrew and straightened, his eyes growing warm and less filled with humor.

  “Shall I stay and keep you company?”

  When she said nothing, he only smiled at her. He left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

  Hannah remained staring at it for a long time.

  Silly man.

  Chapter 8

  Anne answered the knock on her door to find Betty standing in the hall, her arms laden with material.

  She softly smiled in greeting as she entered the room. The material turned out to be Anne’s only spare dress.

  “I’ve had it sponged,” the housekeeper said, “since you were caught in the rain.”

  “Thank you,” Anne said, touched by the gesture and grateful for the opportunity to change. She only wished she’d been able to save her sketches. They’d been half shielded by her drawing board, but even so, the rain had done enough damage for them to have to be drawn again.

  “I’ve come with more than a dress,” Betty said. “A message from the earl.”

  Anne waited, curious.

  “If you would be interested, the earl would like to show you what he’s discovered in that old book the two of you found.”

  It was anticipation Anne felt and something more. An awareness she’d never had before. But then she’d never kissed a man the way she’d kissed him. And wished more of it if the entire truth were divulged.

  “Has he done something to offend you, miss?” A question uttered in
an offhand tone. But Anne had seen Betty when she was a child, knew that her feelings for Stephen stemmed not from mere loyalty but also from affection.

  “Did he say so?” she asked carefully.

  Betty placed the dress in the armoire, fluffed the skirt before rolling up the hem. “He asked me to tell him how you accepted his invitation.” She turned and studied Anne, then smiled. “I shall report that you did not appear angry.”

  Anne smiled back at the housekeeper.

  He stood when she entered, an act of civility to which she was not accustomed. The men of Dunniwerth were not rude or uncouth. But she was one of them and did not expect the treatment they might accord a stranger.

  It made her oddly awkward to be the subject of such undivided attention. He had the ability to render her not only mute, but nervous. Or perhaps only acutely aware of him.

  She’d kissed him. Passionately. Fear of thunder and lightning had been supplanted by another emotion. One that had never been explained to her, but whose power was equal to a storm’s fury. She clasped her hands in front of her and studied the top of his desk. Did passion show? Reveal itself in some way that he might discern the nature of her thoughts?

  It would not disturb her if he knew. Another discovery, then.

  The coffer was placed near the front of his desk, the codex spread out before him.

  “You know Latin, then,” she said to ease the silence.

  “My old tutor would say not well.”

  “I speak only Gaelic and English,” she admitted. “My kinsmen speak the one, and my father wished me to learn the other.”

  He came around the desk then and stood close to her. So close that surely he could hear the pounding of her heart. “I am glad he did so. Else we would never be able to converse. I know nothing of Gaelic.”

  She nodded, an absurd gesture, but one of nervousness more than assent.

  “It was Gaelic you spoke to me that day,” he said. “What did you say?”

  Words she should not have said, mingled with the truth. A tale of her visions mixed with feelings, emotions too strong to be voiced in English. Words he would understand, sentiments he would not.

  She walked to the window. It stretched from the ceiling to where the sill was placed a few feet above the floor. Had it been deeper, it would have been a perfect place upon which to sit. A strange thing, that the afternoon should be so bright and sunny when the morning had been so dark and brooding. The view was of the meadow and beyond, to the curve of the river Terne.

  He had never asked her how she knew his name, and she had never asked how he had come to rescue her.

  There were more secrets between them than there were revelations. As if each of them had a veneer that needed to be stripped away, the better to see the soul more clearly.

  Who would be the first to lay bare hidden thoughts?

  “Do you take refuge in silence, Anne, when you do not wish to answer a question?” She glanced back at him. There was a small smile on his lips.

  “A habit of my childhood, perhaps. I found that if I remained quiet, people didn’t notice I was there.”

  “I doubt it’s possible to ignore you,” he said dryly.

  She wondered if it was a compliment he offered or an insult.

  His slight smile both answered the question and warmed her.

  “Adults have a habit of doing so around children,” she said. “Children are often ignored, as if their small stature measures their minds. I confess to taking advantage of their inattention. I discovered that I could learn the most wonderful things by remaining quiet and still.”

  “Such as?”

  So she was to be the first to reveal herself. It was a capitulation that made her smile. No one at Dunniwerth would have thought her so pliant. She was, perhaps, too headstrong. A bit of strength, however, was never amiss when dealing with all those Sinclair men.

  “Impudent things. Gordon drank more than anyone knew. Agnes had a sweet spot in her heart for him and filled his cup the moment it became empty. Hamish had a way of charming all the women, and some charmed right back. I did not understand everything I saw at the time, but I soon learned that it was better to remain silent rather than to question anyone about it.”

  “What happened when you asked questions?” he said.

  “Well, there was the time I asked my father if God only lived in the kirk or if he lived in Gordon’s tankard like he said.” She glanced over at him. “He just stared at me. Or when I asked my mother why men always try to look down Moira’s bodice. My mother just made a choking sound and walked away.”

  He seemed surprised by the sound of his own laughter.

  “What kind of child were you?” she asked.

  He glanced at her quickly as if to divine the reason for her curiosity. What would he do if she were to tell him that she wanted to know everything about him? She wanted to learn those pieces of his life she hadn’t seen, discover the emotions behind the glittering anger she’d witnessed and the smiles of happiness. She remained silent, instead, encouraging him to speak with a wish.

  “A serious student, set to the task of learning more to keep my tutor employed than for the joy of it. I remember reciting Latin verbs only because my father was to be home the next day and was to test me on my knowledge. In my position of heir I was expected to excel.”

  “Did you?”

  He smiled. “Yes.”

  She smiled at his confidence.

  “It was the Sinclair prayer I spoke that day,” she said suddenly, giving him half the truth.

  “Will you translate it for me?”

  She let her fingers trail over the edge of the mullion as she did so. “The might of the Father of Kings, with the wisdom of his glorious son, through the grace and the goodness of the Holy Ghost, be with us at our beginnings, and give us grace in our mortal life living.”

  “A beautiful sentiment.”

  Her amusement was real. “My father always adds one sentence to it.” She looked up at him and smiled. “Grant us the power to prevail that we may not come too soon to your kingdom, and the wisdom to rule beside you when we do.”

  His laughter caught her off guard. Had it been possible to freeze time, she would have wished it done now. Him standing before her, his smile transformed into a lusty laugh. Despite his injury, or perhaps in counterpart to it, he looked fit and strong. A tall man with broad shoulders. He stood, sovereign over this room and any space he commanded. A man who any other man might wish to emulate. That the visions had promised, and that they had made true.

  He’d asked if she was a poet, and she’d responded negatively. But from some place she remembered something uttered by a man of sweet words. And he is half a god.

  “I saw your drawings,” he said.

  She turned away, focused on the view outside the window. No, in truth she didn’t see it at all. It seemed that more revelation was in order. She was private about her sketches. Occasionally she gifted them to people. The sketch of the young maid was for William, in gratitude for his help in looking for Douglas. The picture of Richard and Hannah had amused her. And Langlinais? She’d done it because she often gained comfort from sketching the castle, as if it held some power over her moods.

  “I envy your talent,” he said.

  She glanced over her shoulder.

  “My father’s mapmaker taught me. He is a truly gifted man. His maps are works of art, decorated with tiny birds and animals. His lochs are so skillfully drawn that they look as if you might be able to swim in them.”

  “You are as accomplished, Anne.”

  She shrugged, oddly embarrassed.

  Flanking the windows were two bookcases stretching from floor to ceiling. She walked to one of them, surveyed the titles. Two languages she did not know.

  “Your education was more complete than mine.” She fingered the tooled leather spine of one of the books. “My father decreed that I was not to grow up unlearned. So anyone in the clan with something to teach me took their turn. From
my mother there was needlework and patience. I’m horrible at both,” she confessed with a smile. “But I do know how to mix chalk and vinegar to clean the silver and use a horsetail and rag for the pewter and brass. Old Peter taught me how to catch a fish. So I’ll never go hungry,” she added in an aside.

  “As long as there are fish around,” he said wryly.

  She smiled. “Hamish instructed me on the pipes, but he laughed the one time I attempted to play them. I thought I would never get my breath back.”

  “What did your father contribute?”

  “How to swim and ride, to tally the annual barley crop, to bargain with the peddlers who came to Dunniwerth.”

  “A woman of many talents.”

  “I was taught that a willing mind was a virtue,” she explained. “But I confess to not wanting to know certain things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Stitchery,” she said. “As I said, I am woefully inadequate. And tanning leather, perhaps.”

  His smile was surprisingly warm.

  “Diverse topics. I know nothing of needlework, but I agree with you about tanning. It is a necessary chore, but it has a powerful odor.”

  “I should never like to learn a stableboy’s job.”

  His smile broadened. “There are worse occupations,” he said.

  “I hope you will not tell me,” she said, and smiled.

  “Poverty,” he contributed. “I am very glad not to have had to learn about poverty.”

  She thought about it. Dunniwerth was not as large as Harrington Court, but it was still a prosperous holding. She’d lacked for nothing as a child, was considered an heiress by some. She nodded in agreement.

  “Wounded,” she softly said. “I have not asked about your arm. Is it truly better?”

  “I am a paragon of healing, according to Richard.”

  She smiled. “While he does nothing but fuss at poor Hannah.”

  “He has a great respect for your friend.”

  “I suspect they are kindred spirits,” she confessed. “He is forever grumbling at her, and she is constantly complaining about him. But her words are only a screen. She is excruciatingly polite to people she despises.”

  “So it is a mark of her favor if she is rude?”