by Alexa Aston
Chapter Three
Quinn waited outside Skye’s chamber as he had every morning these past several days. He couldn’t help but feel he’d overstayed his welcome at Eytone Hall. He’d arrived unannounced over two months ago and until the past few days, he couldn’t consider leaving.
Skye needed him.
By no means had she recovered completely from her parents’ deaths. However, a tiny bit of color had returned to her smooth cheeks, and she’d begun to eat a mite more. Despite Liam’s thunderous scowl of disapproval, Quinn had carried Skye to her chamber that awful day she’d learned of her parents’ deaths.
He’d remained until the dowager baroness had shooed him out. For the next week, he’d taken up a vigil outside Skye’s chamber. Several times, he’d persuaded Liam or her aunt to permit him inside.
Often, under the stringent eyes of her maid, he simply held Skye’s hand and listened as she spoke of her childhood and her parents. Other times, he read to her, and he’d taken to haunting the kitchen to ask Mrs. Spence to prepare traditional British foods and dainties for Skye, which he made sure she ate a portion of.
He’d given her a week secluded in her chamber before he insisted she dress and venture to the drawing room. Her grief was overwhelming, but he refused to allow her to waste away from her sorrow.
Today, he had news he wished to share with her.
She’d not be happy, but he wanted her for his wife. Before he could ask Liam for her hand, he had personal business to attend to. He wouldn’t speak to her of marriage before he left. After all, she would remain in mourning for some time.
He believed he could deal with all of the loose ends and return within a fortnight. Then, he’d brave Liam’s disapproval and contend for Skye’s hand. It would’ve been much easier to approach Skye’s father with the request to marry her.
He didn’t know Quinn well.
Didn’t know of his questionable past.
Liam did, however, and although they were the closest of chums, Liam disapproved of Quinn as husband material for his cousin, now also his ward.
Skye emerged from her chamber and, as always, she offered him a fragile smile.
“Good morrow to ye, Skye.”
My dear one. My heart. The light of my formerly blasé life. My reason for risin’ from my bed each mornin’, and for each breath I inhale.
She’d entranced him from the moment they’d met, but her smile had sealed his love and devotion for all time. He knew with everything in him, that if he couldn’t take Skye to wife, he’d never marry.
Her somber black gown rustling softly about her trim ankles, she placed her long, delicate fingers in the curve of his elbow. “Good morning.”
“I have a surprise for ye.” He smiled down into her eyes, memorizing her entrancing features. The slope of her cheeks. The arch of her brows. Her bowed lips. “Do ye want it now, or after we break our fast?”
She cut him an amused, slightly reproving glance. “You cannot tell me you have a surprise for me and then expect me to wait until after I’ve eaten to discover what it is.”
He chuckled, drawing her nearer his side. Her delicate fragrance rose to his nostrils. “We’ll need to venture belowstairs.”
With a bit more spring in her step than there had been for ages, Skye accompanied him to the orderly kitchens.
“Good mornin’, Mrs. Spence. Is that item in the larder, still?” he asked, glancing about the tidy space.
Herbs hung from several hooks, and someone had been busy baking though the day was young. A long table near the window held a dozen loaves of bread, four pies, and two types of biscuits. If he wasn’t mistaken, one was shortbread.
He practically salivated from the delicious smells permeating the large room.
Mrs. Spence, her face ruddy and tinged with moisture, turned from the stove. “Aye, Mr. Catherwood.” A twinkle entered her kind eyes and she smiled, her cheeks forming plump apples. “I think Miss Skye will be mighty pleased.”
On impulse, he asked, “Would it be a huge imposition to request breakfast trays for Miss Skye and me in the drawin’ room, rather than us eatin’ in the breakfast room this mornin’?”
The cook cut a knowing glance to the closed larder door. “Nae problem at all. I’ll have them sent up after ye leave.”
“Whatever are you about, Quinn?” A brightness lit Skye’s stunning blue eyes he hadn’t seen in weeks.
He’d cut off his right hand to see that glow of happiness there every day.
“Come.” He took her hand and drew her to the larder. He cautiously opened the door then poked his head inside. Giving her a wide grin, he shoved the door wide and gestured for her to precede him.
She stepped inside and gasped. Lying on a folded blanket, its tiny paws covering its nose, lay a long-haired calico kitten. “Oh, Quinn,” Skye breathed, rushing forward and dropping onto her knees. She gathered the sleeping kitten into her arms. “Hello there, darling.”
The kitten blinked citrine eyes and yawned widely before reaching her paw out to bat at one of the fair curls over Skye’s ear.
“She’s adorable,” Skye declared, after checking the multi-colored little furball’s sex.
Quinn extended a hand to help her up.
Cradling the tiny kitten to her chest, she rose, her eyes shining. “Thank you. She’s simply precious.”
He stepped nearer, so close Skye’s lips were but inches away. He’d forbidden himself such delicious liberties until they were formally betrothed. Now he cursed his chivalry to the devil. Instead of kissing her as he yearned to do, he brushed a bent finger over her velvety cheek. Pray someday, he’d have the right to touch all of her silky skin.
“What will ye name the wee mite?”
As she often did when thinking or considering, she scrunched her nose slightly. Head canted, she ran a finger down the kitten’s spine which earned her a blink and the softest purring Quinn had ever heard began.
“Why, I don’t know,” Skye said. “I’ve never named an animal before. Have you any suggestions? Her coat is so colorful, like a patchwork quilt.”
He bent his neck, examining the kitten he’d rescued yesterday afternoon when he’d ventured to the village to post a series of letters. “She has a black patch over her eye.”
“Patches.” Skye glanced up, grinning. “I’ll call her Patches.”
His breath stuttered behind his ribs at the joy radiating on her face. “Perfect.”
Ten minutes later, they sat on the carpet before the hearth in the drawing room, playing with Patches. Skye had snipped a length of yarn from her aunt’s knitting basket and trailed it back and forth across the floor. Patches leaped and bounced in pursuit of the pale pink wool.
“I thought she could keep ye company,” Quinn said. He was leaving Eytone Hall this morning.
Skye swiftly raised her head, her acute gaze searching his. “You’re leaving?”
He couldn’t miss the distress in her eyes or tone.
A footman and a maid entered, carrying the breakfast trays, and she directed her attention to the frolicking kitten.
“Where would ye prefer these, Miss Skye? Mr. Catherwood?” the footman asked.
Skye indicated the table between the two sofas. “There will be fine. Thank you.”
The maid smiled and pointed to a bowl. “Mrs. Spencer sent a spot of milk along for the wee kitten. There’s a bit of diced chicken for her, too.”
“Please tell her thank you. That was most thoughtful.” Skye’s perfect manners didn’t quite hide her upset.
At least not from Quinn. He doubted the servants took any notice.
With a bow and a curtsy, the footman and maid departed.
Quinn angled to his feet then offered his hand to assist Skye. When she stood before him, he drew her near, her chest almost touching his.
A crease pulling her fair eyebrows together, she stared at his cravat. She was upset.
“I shall be back, Skye.” He tilted her chin up, his heart squeezing at th
e sadness she tried valiantly to disguise. “I promise, I shall. In a fortnight.”
She averted her gaze and swallowed before bringing her eyes back to his. “You will be careful? I should hate for anything to happen to you.”
“Aye, my precious English lass, most careful. Nothing can keep me from ye. I vow it.”
“Ahem,” Simmons cleared his throat. “Yer mount is ready and waitin’, Mr. Catherwood.”
Skye stepped away, putting a respectable distance between them. With her usual grace, she swept to the table and removed the dome from a plate. Patches romped after her, swatting at her swaying skirts.
Quinn inclined his head. “Thank ye, Simmons. I’ll be there shortly.”
“Verra good, sir.” The butler withdrew.
“You won’t eat first?” She gestured at the food.
“Nae. The sooner I’m away, the sooner I can return to ye.” In three strides, he was at her side. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, pressing a fervent kiss to the knuckles. If only he dared kiss her sweet mouth, but he’d do nothing to stir Liam’s disapproval or wrath.
Her lips trembled, but she fashioned a brave smile. “I shall miss you.”
“And I ye.” My darling, love.
He was off to do something he’d vowed never to do as long as he drew a breath: Claim his inheritance.
Chapter Four
9 December 1720
Exhaling a dejected breath, Skye released the heavy drapery festooning Eytone Hall’s tall library window. With a gentle swoosh, the claret-colored velvet settled into place once more. The starless winter sky and perfectly symmetrical hedges veiled the courtyard and any misplaced hope of spying a newly arrived coach.
His coach.
What she’d believed was the crunching of gravel beneath wheels on the drive had awoken her, and she’d darted to the window, anticipation and joy sluicing through her.
He’s back. He’s back. Quinn is back!
Still half-asleep, she’d flung the drapery aside and pressed her nose to the icy glass, straining to see…anything.
She must’ve been dreaming. Again. He’d rode away atop a horse, but it wasn’t improbable he’d return by coach. Was it?
For the fifth night in a row, nestled on the divan and trying to read Robinson Crusoe—a Christmas gift from Papa last year—she’d dozed off while waiting for Quinn’s return. How pathetic did that make her? Waiting in vain, night after night?
The novel helped to keep her mind occupied and her thoughts from straying to her parents’ untimely deaths less than a week apart. Quinn’s solicitous presence at Eytone Hall had made their passing a trifle more bearable.
Only just.
Quinn, Liam, Kendra, Aunt Louisa, and Emeline had all been wonderfully considerate and compassionate in her time of sorrow.
What would she have done without them?
Nonetheless, she missed Quinn intolerably.
Those first few awful days when she’d functioned in a fog of disbelief and numbness, he’d been her rudder, providing her with his much-needed strength, stability, and reassurance. He’d encouraged her to eat, though she had no appetite, and gently insisted she take innumerable strolls around the house, the terrace, and the gardens when the tetchy autumn weather permitted.
He’d even contrived to present her with Patches. From whence he’d procured the kitten, she had no idea, but she’d fallen in love with the fluffy darling at once. Even now, the needle-clawed bundle of mischief snoozed contentedly on the divan Skye had vacated.
Something spontaneous, wonderful, and unnamable—magical, even—had sprung up between her and Quinn from the moment they’d met that day in September, and she’d honestly believed…
It doesn’t matter. It’s over. He left, and he’s obviously not coming back.
Disappointment crested in her breast, tightening her throat, and tears stung behind her eyelids. Tears she refused to shed. By heavens, she was done with weeping!
Yet, for several labored breaths, hopelessness and loneliness overwhelmed, shrouding her in gloom. Lower lip clamped between her teeth and hands fisted in the skirts of her gown, she rested her forehead against the velvet panel, struggling not to yield to the grief that was her ever-present companion these past several weeks.
A chill swept over her despite her simple, black, woolen gown and layers of petticoats, and a shiver scuttled across her shoulders and down her spine, puckering her flesh. The weather had turned bitingly cold and unrelentingly windy a week ago. ’Twas a wonder snow didn’t cloak the Highlands.
“Brr.” Briskly rubbing her arms, Skye doubted she’d ever feel warm again. Truly warm and toasty. And content.
England’s perpetual shrapnel-colored skies, damp, and fog were trifling nuisances, much like a pebble in one’s shoe, compared to the Highland’s brusque, uncompromising clime. But it was the icy deadness in her heart that chilled her to her marrow—that stole her hope.
She dreaded never shaking her despair and that at nineteen years of age, this frigid, unyielding ache that had taken up residence in her soul would last forever. This moroseness would insidiously and stealthily become her new normal, until she forgot the gay, optimistic woman she’d been before her parents’ deaths.
Before Quinn left, vowing to return to her.
Turning from the elegant row of windows, she continued rubbing her arms as she crossed to the divan. She picked up the navy blue, gold-lettered leather book which had tumbled to the parquet floor in her haste. Once she’d set it on the rosewood end table, she gathered the delicate ivory shawl off the divan and rubbed it against her cheek.
Mama made this.
Knowing her mother’s hands had knitted the delicate covering, Skye took great comfort in wrapping herself in the soft wool.
Patches opened her eyes for a sleepy, amber-eyed blink before tucking her half-pink, half-black nose underneath her white-tipped paws once more.
Draping the wrap over her shoulders, Skye wandered to the fireplace and stared into the soothing yellow and orange flames.
A weary glance to the tortoise shell Louis XIV Religieuse clock revealed half-past eleven.
She ought to seek her bed.
Except, she knew as well as she knew her name was Skye Arabella Louisa Hendron, sleep would evade her until the wee morning hours when physical exhaustion toppled her into a restless, weird, dream-filled slumber. She’d awake a few hours later to leaden eyelids, gritty eyes, and a head which felt full of wet wool.
Thoughts of Quinn, adjusting to her life in the Highlands as Liam’s ward, the sudden and unexpected deaths of her parents, and what her future held tumbled around and around and around in her mind as she tried to sleep. To forget, if only for a little while.
In recent days, she’d been sorely tempted several times to dose herself with the laudanum the doctor had prescribed when she’d collapsed upon learning she’d been orphaned.
Papa had been recovering so well, and then—
Skye would like to think she was made of sterner stuff; that the bitter medicine didn’t entice her to dull her pain. After all, she was half-Scots, and a heartier, more stoic people didn’t exist. But she’d been raised in Wigginton as a gentle-bred Englishwoman, and it was so very hard to appear brave and strong when her life crumbled apart around her.
So far, she’d resisted the gentle urgings to seek the temporary reprieve the laudanum would provide. Facing her troubles with a sharp mind and acute senses was preferable.
Sighing again, she flexed her shoulders, a brittle half-smile arcing her mouth as her musings turned to Quinn once more.
Quinn Catherwood…as mysterious as he was striking, and the man who’d unknowingly captured her heart in the few short weeks since they’d met. Bah. He’d captured her heart that very first day.
When the light caught his sandy-brown hair just so, distinct golden-bronze hues appeared. Lashes a much darker brown than his hair framed green eyes so pale as to be almost colorless.
Eyes containing gold fle
cks and a gray-blue ring around the iris, and the slightest creases at the corners. Eyes that had flashed with mirth and, she’d been so certain, gazed at her with something more than affection. A remarkable man whose heady, outdoorsy, spicy scent she could almost smell if she closed her eyes and concentrated.
Not overly tall—he stood but four or five inches over her own five-foot seven height—he was sinewy and strong, exuding power, charm, and self-confidence. He wasn’t arrogant, but simply a man comfortable with himself. One who didn’t strive to impress others or care excessively what people thought of him. He was unerringly kind and quite funny, too. And so very tender and considerate.
Every detail about him was etched into her spirit for all time.
Kissing her knuckles and holding her hand far longer than was proper, he’d promised to return to Eytone Hall in less than a fortnight. With a cocky salute, he’d lithely swung into the saddle atop Benedict three and twenty days, fifteen hours, and thirty-seven minutes ago.
She was a naive ninny to have expected him to actually return to Eytone Hall. To her.
Liam’s not so subtle caution that Quinn was a libertine, a roué, who called no place home and whose precise occupation was somewhat murky had gone unheeded. For she’d blithely gone and done what so many gullible young girls had before her; allowed her head to be turned and her heart ensnared by a rake and a rogue. More fool she.
But an oh, so wonderfully, devilish, Highland rogue.
Quinn was also a true gentleman. He’d never once pushed the bounds of propriety and tried to steal a kiss or made improper innuendos. More’s the pity.
Mouth pursed, and vexed with her own naïveté, she shrugged, at last acknowledging the truth she’d strived to deny.
Quinn wasn’t coming back.
He’d only been kind to a young, enamored girl with stars in her eyes, mourning her parents’ passing. And though he might’ve enjoyed their innocent flirtation, a worldly man about town such as Quinn Catherwood wasn’t interested in settling down in England or Scotland and marrying a successful merchant’s daughter.
