by Tracy Fobes
Annoyed, hot, and sweaty, she’d eventually fled her bedchamber and the castle. The stars and cool breeze had reassured her somewhat, for they at least hadn’t changed from what she’d known in the village of Beannach. Sionnach had found the hay barn against a wall surrounding the kitchen garden. There, clutching her panflute, she’d managed to gain a few fitful hours of sleep.
She crawled across the distance between her and Sionnach and rubbed the soft fur behind his ears. He opened his eyes and, in their black depths, she could see the same sort of confusion that had plagued her when she’d awoken.
Sarah dug through the straw, and found her panflute. She lifted it to her lips and played a soft, reassuring melody that told him they were in the Duke of Argyll’s barn.
The fox’s eyes lost that hunted look at her words, and he stood. Yawning widely, he stretched and shook himself, then informed her in no uncertain terms that this barn, like her new bedchamber, was far too hot for anyone to have a good night’s sleep, least of all a fur-covered fox.
Sarah wasn’t surprised. The hay in the barn had kept them very warm. Now, with the sunshine coming through the roof, the temperature had risen several degrees. She combed through the hair behind his ears, knowing this was the best way to cool him. Sionnach’s ears were large and dissipated heat. While she petted him, the fox rubbed against her hand, telling her how much he appreciated her attention.
Usually, petting Sionnach relaxed her and brought her peace. But this time, she couldn’t stop wondering how she was going to cope with the day ahead of her, a day in which her every word, thought, and mannerism would surely be criticized as peasantlike. As she rubbed the fox’s fur, she tried to imagine how Sionnach would behave in such a situation, and decided he would likely have some good advice for her.
She picked up her panflute and asked him, exactly, what he would do.
He stretched out one last time, then sat up on his haunches and stared at her, his little face earnest. He looked so adorable that she wanted to gather him in her arms and crush him to her, but she didn’t dare. Sionnach had told her more than once that he wasn’t a toy, or a pet. He was her teacher, and she had better show him some respect.
With a low rumble in his chest, he scratched at the hay with his paw. Sarah translated his gestures loosely. He was asking her what a fox was best at.
Head tilted, she considered for a moment. Sionnach never gave a direct answer to a question; no fox did. Overall, they weren’t a straightforward sort of animal. Rather, they worked to blend in with their surroundings, to come and go unnoticed, to move silently about without revealing their intentions, and generally to distract. Even now he was being oblique, not telling her how to cope, but asking her to remember what he’d taught her.
Well, Sionnach had several clever techniques up his sleeve, but her favorite was his charming performance. When he came upon an animal that he thought might make a juicy prize, he would charm it by leaping and dancing about, and rolling over, and chasing his tail. These nonthreatening antics would thoroughly capture his prey’s attention. And while he danced, he would draw ever closer without the prey realizing it. At the right moment, he would snap his jaws shut around the unsuspecting prey.
She thought of this technique as camouflaging, or disguising one’s real goal behind a series of fake, more pleasant goals. She lifted her panflute to her lips and told him that foxes camouflage and distract, in order to survive.
He yelped in his throat, his tone indicating approval, then rumbled at her again, indicating she should practice camouflage today.
With a quick trill on the panflute, she asked him to elaborate.
His tail wrapped around his body, he stared at her, and in his eyes she could see his frustration. At length, he uttered a series of yelps and rumbles, and buried himself in the hay, only to leap outward a moment later, spreading pieces of chaff everywhere. They both sneezed. The surprise of his attack brought a smile to her lips.
Scratching his paw through the hay and yelping, Sionnach demanded to know if she understood.
Sarah nodded. If she blended in with her surroundings, came and went unnoticed, and moved silently without revealing her intentions, she’d see and hear things that she otherwise could not.
At her nod, Sionnach added that she had to be careful, until she understood better this new world she now lived in.
Her mouth drooped. She felt so out of place, and Sionnach’s warning had only underscored how much she didn’t belong. “I dinna like it here,” she whispered in human language. “Even though I have ye, Sionnach, I feel lonely.”
Sionnach gave no indication of comprehending.
She blew on her panflute, asking him if he liked it here.
The fox gazed at her with dark, shuttered eyes. For once, she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Even so, she couldn’t imagine that he was enjoying himself any more than she was. Feeling guilty for bringing him here, she urged him to go and explore the woods, rather than feel that he had to stay with her all day. Reminding him to see if any news about the white beast had surfaced, she pointed out that at least one of them could experience some freedom.
Sionnach didn’t growl in reply. He didn’t twitch a muscle. He didn’t even berate her. He just stared at her with his dark eyes.
Curious, Sarah studied him. An impossible idea occurred to her and set her heart to racing. The melody she played him sounded off-key even to her as she asked him if he’d already heard something about the white beast.
Slowly, reluctantly, the fox informed her that the white beast was coming.
“What?” Sarah almost jumped up and down in the hay. At last, she would see the unicorn. She demanded more details from him, such as when the beast was coming, and where, and if he was still sick.
Sionnach confirmed her worries. The beast, he admitted, was coming to her because he was sick.
“And he wants me to help him,” she breathed. Quickly she asked Sionnach when she could expect the white beast.
Growling that he didn’t know, the fox then revealed something very strange: he knew little about the white beast’s plans, because it couldn’t speak. Without explaining further, Sionnach turned on his heels and slipped out the barn door.
Stunned, Sarah watched him disappear across the lawn. The unicorn was coming . . . and it couldn’t speak. Whatever did Sionnach mean? Most of the different species of animals could understand each other, after a fashion. But the fox’s demeanor had suggested that the unicorn couldn’t communicate at all. Sarah had half a mind to chase after Sionnach and insist he explain more fully. If not for her nightgown, she would have been racing across the grounds right now.
Pots clanged somewhere in the distance, reminding her that the household was awakening. She scrambled through the hay, dragged her dressing gown over her arms and tucked her hair into her nightcap, thinking that she dreaded having to spend the rest of her time at Inveraray wearing clothes that Mrs. Fitzbottom foisted upon her. While they were very soft, they were also numerous and tangled in her legs more determinedly than her old cotton nightgowns ever had; and though the lace hanging from the bodice and sleeves made them pretty, the lace also itched and put her completely out of sorts.
Silently promising to cut the lace off this nightgown at her first chance, she slipped out of the barn and kept to the shrubbery to avoid being seen. She wanted to smile with the knowledge that soon, she’d see the unicorn; still, she was far too worried about the beast’s health to give in to the desire.
A quick look at the sun’s position told her that morning was already well underway. She had over-slept dreadfully. Her movements even more furtive, she crept toward the simple wooden door behind the kitchen, opened it, and stuck her head in. The door opened onto a hallway, which appeared to be empty.
She pulled her nightcap lower over her ears and, breathing fast, hurried inside and through the main hall, past weapons with scythe-like blades and hooks that glinted in the sunlight. She passed a young maid who was dusting a sil
ver shield and made for the grand staircase. The maid kept her gaze on her work; nevertheless, Sarah prayed that the duke, Colin, and Phineas were late risers, and the servants not inclined to gossip.
“Sarah?” a male voice asked in startled tones.
She froze, one foot on the staircase, her hand on the iron balustrade leading upward. Lip caught between her lower teeth, she turned and looked in the direction of the voice.
Colin stared back at her. Dressed in a brown coat with large brass buttons and cutaway tails, he held a leather crop lightly against his thigh. “Sarah, is that you?”
She turned her back to him and raced up the stairs. She didn’t want him to know where she’d spent the night. He would surely make her suffer an arrogant diatribe on her ill breeding or, worse yet, give her pitying looks.
“Sarah!”
The sound of footsteps pounded up the stairs behind her, drawing closer until a hand descended on her arm, halting her flight.
Frowning, she turned around and discovered him on the step below her, putting them almost face-to-face. He looked very tanned in a wash of sunlight coming through the second-story windows, and dangerously masculine. She could smell an appealing scent on him — something spicy, beneath a stronger combination of leather, dust, and horseflesh.
A shiver — part pleasure, and part dismay — ran through her. She pulled the edges of her robe closer together. “Good morning, Colin.”
Rather than answer, he stared at her from the tips of her toes to the top of her lacy nightcap, his gaze burning a path across her body and reminding her that two thin pieces of cotton — her nightgown and robe — hid her nakedness from him. She saw something flicker deep within his eyes, and his face tightened somehow. Her own breathing quickened in response.
After what felt like an eternity passed, he reached out and plucked a piece of straw from her hair. “Where have you been? The stables?”
“Tae the hay barn. In the kitchen garden.”
“You’ve been to the hay barn.”
“Aye.”
“In your nightdress.”
She hesitated a moment, then nodded.
Eyes widening, he allowed the straw to drop to the floor. “May I ask why?”
“Ye may ask, but I’m nae inclined tae answer.”
“Would you rather I surrender to suspicion?”
“Suspicion?” She eyed him closely. “Explain yerself.”
He tapped his crop against his thigh. “There are very few honorable reasons that I can think of for a lady dressed in her nightclothes to emerge from the stables, particularly at this time of day.”
“Ye think I’m . . . I’m . . .” She stuttered as his meaning sank in, then broke off, unable to think of a delicate way to protest her innocence.
“I think you’re . . . what?” he pressed, an insolent smile suddenly playing about his mouth.
He wanted her to come out and say it, she realized. To speak indelicately, to talk about lovemaking. For some reason, putting her at a disadvantage in this way clearly amused him. She saw the way his nostrils had flared and knew it had excited him, too. But he had sorely underestimated her if he thought he could embarrass her like this.
“Ye think I’ve been laying in the stables with a man?” She enunciated each word clearly, and spoke loud enough for anyone nearby to overhear.
His smile faltered. “Have you?”
“Ye insult me, my lord. If ye must know, I slept in the stables. I found them more comfortable than my fancy bedchamber.”
He digested this news in silence. When he refocused on her, a sharpness had faded from his face, giving him a boyish aspect that Sarah found infinitely more appealing. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
“I’m nae one of yer fine society ladies tae trade barbs with. I prefer plain language and honesty. If ye canna remember that, then ye and I willna get on at all.”
He grinned. “I like you, Sarah.”
“I canna say the same tae ye. Yet,” she allowed.
“The next time you plan to sleep in the stables, please inform me. I’ll guard you.”
“I’m afraid I’ll need a guard for the guard,” she said.
This time, he laughed aloud. “You’re a smart lass.”
“Are ye going tae tell the duke?”
“How can I not? You do need someone to watch over you.”
“I need no one. Please dinna tell the duke. He’ll insist I return tae my bedchamber.”
“Sarah, I must tell him.”
Her shoulders slumped. “Do what ye must.”
He picked another piece of straw from her hair in a gesture that was strangely possessive. “You had better return to your bedchamber. Quickly. I just passed Phineas in the hall, and he has asked me to attend your first lesson in the dining room at ten o’clock sharp. As it is nine o’clock now, you have only an hour to dress.”
“Only an hour?” She shook her head. “I need nae more than five minutes tae dress.”
“Here, you’ll need at least an hour,” he predicted.
“Did Phineas tell ye what we’re studying today?”
“Language and dining room manners. I’m sure we’ll both fall asleep in the middle of it.”
They exchanged a glance, and Sarah saw that his smile had become more than just an expression of amusement. It was an invitation. A painful giddiness gripped her, and as the silence between them lengthened, she imagined Colin kissing her.
Suddenly she wished she were an experienced society lady, one who took lovers on a whim and knew exactly what to demand from a man. Then she could demand what she wanted from Colin with confidence, rather than with insecurity and yearning, two sensations that had become uncomfortably familiar to her.
Waiting for her thudding heart to calm itself, she broke eye contact and spun around. “I must go,” she said over her shoulder, and hurried up the stairs, fully aware that his gaze never wavered from her, not until she turned the corner and moved out of sight.
An hour later, Sarah completely believed Colin’s prediction that she would need at least an hour to dress. As soon as she’d reentered her bedchamber, Mrs. Fitzbottom had proceeded to layer her with outlandish bits of frilly clothing: chemise, stockings, garters, drawers, stays, petticoat, and a beautiful sky-blue silk gown with lace edging the bodice. Through it all, the housekeeper had plied her with questions as to where she’d gone, and why she had straw in her hair. Sarah had answered each question truthfully, and in short order Mrs. Fitzbottom had been clucking in sympathy.
Now, as Sarah sat in front of the looking glass while the older woman teased her hair into curls, she could hardly credit how much of her breasts the gown revealed.
“Is this proper?” Catching the housekeeper’s gaze in the mirror, she gestured toward her cleavage.
“That it is, lass. ’Tis circumspect, even. This gown belonged to the duchess, who wasn’t a fast dresser by any stretch of the imagination, God rest her soul.”
“I look sae strange,” Sarah complained. “My face is dark from the sun, while my . . . other parts are milk white.”
“I would hope they are milk white.” Mrs. Fitzbottom began twirling a ribbon through her hair. “Your face will soon be white again. I’ve a lemon juice mixture we can apply to your skin this evening. Just stay out of the sun, and soon you’ll match all over.”
The stays biting into her ribs, Sarah took a sip of the hot cocoa the housekeeper had brought up. While her silk dress felt very soft beneath her fingers, she couldn’t feel its softness anywhere else. She had too many underthings on to enjoy it. “Must I always wear sae many clothes? These are sae uncomfortable.”
“Be glad you didn’t live fifty years ago, when hoop skirts were the fashion.”
“I’m hot, and I canna breathe.”
“There, now, lass. We’re almost done.”
True to her word, Mrs. Fitzbottom finished coiling Sarah’s hair and stepped back to view her handiwork. “You are lovely,” she pronounced. “The men w
on’t be able to look anywhere but at you.”
Sarah stared into the looking glass and saw a sun-darkened, slightly flushed face over a white bosom that heaved for lack of air. “If ye say sae.”
“Oh, now, you must trust me on this. Indeed, think how beautiful you would look if I’d had the proper amount of time to dress you.”
“It wearies me tae think of it.”
Ignoring her comment, the housekeeper glanced at the clock on a side table. “I’ve kept you far too long. Mr. Graham is probably grinding his teeth with impatience. You had better go.”
“Where am I going?”
“To the dining room. Shall I ring for a maid to take you there?”
“Nay. I’ll find it.” She grasped her panflute from off a white bureau edged with gilt and felt around for a pocket. “Is there a pocket in this gown?”
“A pocket? Heavens no. When we picked this gown out for you, we sewed the pocket up.”
“Why? Are pockets nae allowed?”
“They’re completely out of fashion. You cannot have a pocket on anything but a riding habit.”
“Where should I put my flute, then?”
“In a reticule. I believe I have one somewhere.” Mrs. Fitzbottom tossed through the underclothes she’d placed on Sarah’s bed, then drew out a sky-blue silken pouch on a thin cord. “Here you are, lass.”
“Thank ye.” Sarah took the reticule and slipped her panflute inside, noting that the little purse hadn’t much room for anything else. “I’m off tae the dining room.”
“Good luck,” the housekeeper called out as Sarah left.
She managed to find the dining room after only two wrong turns. The duke, Phineas, and Colin were already inside, all three involved in newspapers, with steaming cups of coffee on the table in front of them. As soon as she entered, they put their papers down and jumped to their feet.
Hastily.
The duke, his gray hair brushed back neatly from his forehead, stared at her. An odd moisture gathered in his eyes. For one horrible moment, Sarah thought he might cry. She remembered Mrs. Fitzbottom telling her the sky-blue gown had belonged to the duchess.
