She scrutinized her open window, then pushed aside the curtains and examined the clipped yew just beyond the sash. A tempting proposition. But if the gardener happened by, there’d be gossip in the servants’ quarters. Wasna that the dress she wore the nicht o’ the fancy denner? How d’ye suppose it got a’ the ugsome stains on it? Did ye hear her playin’ her fiddle wi’ that Hieland laddie? Nae, she could not display her shame for any passerby to see.
“Miss McKie?” Mrs. Fullarton tapped on the door. “Are you feeling better this morning? I thought we might take a turn in the garden.”
Davina quickly placed a potpourri of dried rose petals in the wardrobe to sweeten the air, then rearranged her tucker at the mirror before opening the door to her hostess.
Mrs. Fullarton’s personality was as warm as her russet-colored hair and brown eyes. “I declare, that eyelet gown is far more becoming on you than it ever was on me.” Her thin lips curled in a smile. “You must take it with you, Miss McKie.”
Embarrassed, Davina curtsied her thanks. Would her young hostess be so affable if she knew what had transpired in her stables? Davina had considered telling the Fullartons, eliciting their sympathy and their help. But then she imagined the scandal. The suspicions raised and the accusations made. Nae. She knew what had happened on Midsummer Eve, and so did Somerled. That was enough.
Her hostess cupped Davina’s elbow and guided her through the house and into the garden. The morning was dry, and the color of the sky matched the tall bank of delphiniums, brilliantly blue against the lush grass. As the two women walked, Mrs. Fullarton kept up a steady stream of lighthearted comments, punctuated with an airy laugh.
“I never touch the soil myself, of course, but I do enjoy choosing what is planted. This red ornamental along the border is a French honeysuckle.” When her hostess paused, Davina dutifully studied the tall plant with its long cluster of flowers and oval leaves. “ ’Tis a biennial. I’m glad you are visiting this year, Miss McKie, for you’ll not find it blooming here next summer.”
Davina’s gaze wandered toward the burn. Though she could not spy the bench from where they were standing, the unlit torch could be seen through the trees. Yesterday afternoon, a book of poetry in hand, she’d observed the curved bench quite clearly from the second-floor drawing room window. Somerled had tarried there for almost an hour—sometimes sitting, sometimes standing—waiting for her.
She did not regret avoiding him; the man was not trustworthy. But she did wish—oh, how she wished!—things between them had taken a different turn. If they had simply parted ways at Kilmichael’s door with a proper farewell, they might have enjoyed many evenings of pleasant exchanges at the castle. He might have sought her father’s permission to court her …
Nae. However charming and intelligent, Somerled MacDonald was not the courting sort.
“Did you wish to walk by the burn?” Mrs. Fullarton stood beside her, gazing in the same direction.
Davina promptly shook her head, casting aside any thoughts of a certain Highlander as she turned toward the rose garden.
“Ah.” Her hostess beamed. “The queen of flowers.” Mrs. Fullarton swept along the pebbly beds, introducing them as one might present friends. The moss rose with its hairy stems. The musk rose, a fragrant climber. The double velvet rose and its scarlet petals. “And here’s our lovely maiden’s blush.” She touched the pale pink blooms affectionately. “A rose as fair as ever saw the North.” Taking Davina’s arm, she drew her closer as they walked. “No bloom in my garden is a finer complement to your complexion, my dear. I’ll have Nan prepare a vase for your chamber.”
Davina tried to smile. Maiden’s blush. Aye, the color suited her but not the name.
At the sound of someone walking through the grass, Davina glanced over her shoulder in time to see Clark approach.
“Mrs. Fullarton?” The footman held out a sealed letter. “ ’Tis for your guest, madam. Delivered by a messenger from Brodick castle.”
Davina received it with a nod of thanks, though her hands were less than steady. She recognized the handwriting this time, though her hostess did not.
“An entreaty from the duke, I’ll warrant. Pleading with you to join him this evening.” Mrs. Fullarton pointed them toward the door. “Suppose we have a light meal and see how you’re feeling. Then you can judge if you are well enough to play.”
Davina knew she could not keep the duke waiting indefinitely. Nor was it her nature to hide behind a falsehood. Aye, she would play her fiddle for His Grace that evening. But first she would read Somerled’s letter and learn what she might find when she arrived.
Davina held up the folded paper, hoping Mrs. Fullarton would grasp her meaning.
“Naturally you’ll want to read that before we dine.” She smiled as the footman held open the front door for them. “Nothing piques my curiosity more than an unopened letter.”
As they walked through the entrance hall, Mrs. Fullarton said, “Since the captain is aboard the Wickham today, I’ll have them set up a small luncheon table for us in the music room. Won’t that be cozier?” She stopped when they reached the guest room. “Here you are, then. Come join me whenever you finish your letter.”
Davina had barely closed the door before she’d broken the wax seal and unfolded the paper.
Miss McKie,
I trust that you are in good health and simply do not wish to see me. I understand completely and do not blame you in the least. Yet I long to speak with you and make whatever amends I may.
His humility, however genuine, provided little comfort. Unless you can make me a maid again, sir, I cannot imagine what remedy you might offer.
My conduct Thursday night was reprehensible. You have every right to despise me.
Davina stared at the word in his bold hand. Despise. Was that what she felt toward Somerled now? Hatred? Loathing? Nae, what she felt was distrust. And fear.
I dare not ask for mercy. But I would beg for an opportunity to speak with you.
Mercy? For the man who had stolen her innocence? Only the Almighty could manage such a feat.
And so I will ask you again, Miss McKie, with all my heart. If you are willing, kindly meet me at two o’clock this afternoon. I will be waiting at our bench by the burn, just as I waited yesterday.
Aye, you did. She saw him again in her mind’s eye, standing there, looking forlorn.
A final remark appeared above his signature.
There is one possibility I would like to discuss with you.
The paper nearly slipped from her hands. He cannot mean … He cannot think that I would … Tears made the phrase swim before her eyes. One possibility. She was not too young or too innocent to know what that might be.
You are wrong, sir. ’Tis not possible.
He was standing near the stone bench by the burn at the stroke of two.
Davina forced herself to take small steps, lest she appear eager without meaning to. Lifting the hem of her borrowed gown, she continued down the narrow path, not quite looking at him. She’d never again need to pinch her cheeks for color; the mere thought of Somerled MacDonald was enough to stain them red as poppies.
Her sketchbook and pencil were by her side, for she was determined to be fully understood this afternoon and not swayed by his handsome face. She’d already written a list of questions that begged for answers.
Somerled waited until she was an arm’s length away before he spoke. “I was afraid you might not come.” His eyes were as blue as ever, but the faint shadows beneath them were new; perhaps he’d not been sleeping well either. “I feared you might flee to the manse,” he confessed, “or, worse, to Glentrool before we had a chance to speak.”
Davina heard no playfulness in his tone, saw no mischievous twinkle in his gaze. She was grateful, yet wary, for she’d never met a man more disarming than this one. A warm breeze ruffled the waves in his hair as he looked down at her, apparently choosing his words with great care.
&
nbsp; “May I tell you first how truly sorry I am.” There was no doubting the sheen of tears in his tired eyes.
I am sorry as well. Davina looked away, grieved by the reminder of what she had lost. Sorry that I was so trusting. Sorry that you were so forceful.
“Perhaps you might be more comfortable if we were seated.” Somerled escorted her to the curved bench, then joined her, sitting a proper distance away. “I have given our predicament much thought.” He paused, but for only a moment. Not long enough for her to respond. “The wisest course—truly, the only course—is for us to marry as soon as the banns can be read.”
One possibility. Davina stared at her hands, willing away her tears. The only course. Was that true? Did she have no other choice but to marry a heartless stranger?
“I cannot think of your reputation being compromised because of me. Nor your future marriage prospects. I have already spoken with my father on the matter—”
Davina lifted her head. Your father knows?
“We discussed no particulars,” he hastened to assure her, his neck taking on a ruddy tint. “But Sir Harry understands the situation and is in agreement. You are a lady of gentle birth. And though I seldom behave like one, I am a gentleman. For me to abscond with your virtue and not offer you the protection of my name and fortune would be …” He sighed. “Unconscionable was the word I chose. My father listed several others.”
Davina sighed and turned away. The protection of his name. A legal arrangement, a means of avoiding scandal. Not a genuine marriage.
“I realize this suggestion may be … abhorrent to you. I confess, I did not come to Arran in search of a wife. But then I saw your beautiful face … and heard your exquisite music …”
Davina’s throat tightened. Why must he say such things?
“And then I held you in my arms …”
Nae! She did not want or need to remember.
“And then I kissed you.”
When he touched her sleeve, she jumped, startled first by his warmth and then by the earnestness of his gaze.
“In truth, Miss McKie, I’ve thought of nothing else but you since we parted.”
She wanted to glare at him but could not for the tears pooling in her eyes. How dare you be so tender!
“Still her silent looks loudly reproached me,” he murmured. “Ovid’s words, not mine, though I see ’tis true.” With the tip of his gloved finger, he caught the teardrop that started down her cheek. “You’ve yet to say a word to me with your graceful hands. What am I to think? Though I’ve never proposed to a woman before, I always imagined there being a response, aye or nae.”
Aye, because I must. Undone, she bowed her head, brushing away his hand. Nae, because I cannot.
He sighed heavily. “I would have you for my wife, Miss McKie. But only if you truly are willing. For I’ll not make that mistake again.”
Forty-Three
Mistake, error, is the discipline
through which we advance.
WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING
Somerled eyed Davina’s knot of curls and tried to forget the silky feel of her hair between his fingers. “Please, miss. If you do not look at me, I cannot guess your thoughts.”
Davina lifted her head at last, dabbing her nose with a handkerchief pulled from the sleeve of her gown. How could he not have marked her youth on Midsummer Eve? The firm line of her chin, the soft curve of her cheek, the smooth, lightly freckled brow.
He moved farther down the stone bench, giving her room. Giving her time to consider his offer of marriage. “You’ve brought a sketchbook, I see. Are you an artist as well as a musician, or do you write out words in conversation?”
When she began turning pages, he had his answer. Both. Finely rendered drawings of Arran’s peaks and glens flew past, with words and phrases scribbled in margins, and the occasional longer note by itself. Finally she stopped at a page covered with single lines in an angular script. Questions, by the look of them. She presented the sketchbook with some hesitancy and pointed to the first one on the list.
Why did you come to my rescue when His Grace asked me to speak?
An easy question, to begin. “You seemed flustered,” he said, hoping not to offend her. “I thought I might be of service. Though I do beg your pardon for the ‘Speechless Lassie’ remark. I did not realize—”
She turned her head, as if dismissing his apology.
“I can tell you this, Miss McKie. ’Twas not calculated, my intervening on your behalf.”
That seemed to placate her. She looked at him once more, then pointed to the next question. Why did you ask to be my dinner escort?
“Ah. That was calculated.” He’d seldom been so honest with a woman. “From the moment I saw you, I wanted you.” When she blushed, he knew she understood. “Aye … just that.” He exhaled, wishing she did not need to hear the worst of it. But a lady deserved to know whom she was considering marrying. “I’ve made rather a career of seducing women.”
When her countenance fell, he was sorry he’d spoken so bluntly.
“ ’Tis my history, Miss McKie. Not my future, I promise you.” His conscience jabbed at him. Truly? No other woman but this one? Somerled jerked his chin, as if his opponent were there in the flesh. A man can change his ways, can he not?
Davina interrupted his mental argument with a light tap on her sketchbook.
He glanced down and was taken aback at her question.
Why did you choose me rather than someone else?
“Do you truly not know?” The openness of her expression—still innocent, despite his savage behavior—touched him deeply. Had no man ever courted her? complimented her? Her mirror alone should have offered encouragement enough. But not all women believed what they saw in the glass.
“Miss McKie, you are a rare beauty. Yet ’tis not your appearance alone that makes you desirable. Your musical abilities are extraordinary. And now that I’ve had a glimpse of your drawings, I suspect there are more hidden talents I’ve yet to discover.” He paused, studying her for a moment. “You are more than worthy of a gentleman’s admiration. This one’s in particular.”
She was softening toward him. In her posture, in her expression, she was a bit less guarded. He’d not have blamed her if she’d appeared that afternoon wearing a suit of armor and bearing a steel mace, though her white eyelet gown was far more becoming.
“More questions, I see.” As he read the next one, his chest tightened.
Why did you not stop when I asked you to?
Davina had not protested with words but with actions. He knew that now. Had known it then but had pretended not to. Could he speak the truth even if it hurt them both? “I did not stop, Miss McKie, because I did not want to.”
She sighed, then slowly touched her brow. I know.
His selfishness overwhelmed him, disgusted him. Somerled gripped the sketchbook, staring down at her list. Davina had already asked more of him than he cared to confess. But he was not prepared for this.
Did you intend to hurt me?
He felt the blood drain from his face. “I had no … that is, I did not …”
She slowly pulled aside the neckline of her gown and turned her head, giving him a clear view of her shoulder. Of a dark purplish bruise. The size of a man’s thumb.
Mine.
“Oh, lass …” His stomach twisted at the sight of it. “By no means did I intend …” Even after she eased her gown back in place, he pictured the bruise and remembered pressing her against the stable floor. “Please … tell me there are no others.”
When she did not look at him, he knew the answer. Others.
God help me. No wonder she didn’t leap at his offer of marriage and respectability. He had forced himself on her in every sense of the word. Knowing that fact was one thing and confessing it aloud another. But seeing her bruised body made his crime abundantly clear: He had raped her and could never plead otherwise.
He stared at the m
ossy ground, struggling to find the right words. “I dare not presume to ask your forgiveness, but … I truly am sorry, Miss McKie.”
Neither of them moved for a moment, the cheerful birdsong and brilliant sunshine a strange counterpoint to their discussion. There was no hiding the truth from such a woman. Or, any longer, from himself.
He turned back to her sketchbook with a heavy heart. The lines of script had grown uneven; such questions must have been very hard for her to write.
Why should I ever trust you again?
Why, indeed? As he looked up from the page, searching inside himself for an honest reply, he met her gaze. And saw in her eyes a tiny flicker of hope. She wanted to trust him. And he wanted, more than anything he’d ever wanted, to be worthy of her trust.
“Miss McKie, ’tis a great deal to ask after all that I’ve done, but … might we begin again?” He held her gaze, wanting her to see that he meant every word. “I’ll not touch your hand without your permission nor kiss your cheek unless you offer it. Is that … acceptable to you?”
She nodded almost imperceptibly, then turned the page of her sketchbook. A single question remained, the most heartrending one of all. What is to become of me now that I am ruined?
For this one, he had an answer.
Somerled closed her sketchbook and laid it on the bench, marshaling the strength to say what he must. “Miss McKie, please let me redeem what you have lost. Nae, what I have taken from you.” He knelt beside her, then held out his hands, letting her choose to rest hers there or not. “You need not answer me now. Only let me know of your willingness to think upon it.”
She examined his hands for some time, as if counting the stitches in his gloves, though he knew better; ’twas not his gloves that gave her pause. Please, Davina.
After a long, quiet moment, she sighed and placed her hands in his.
“Bless you.” Tears clouded his eyes as he held on tight. “I want you for my wife. You alone are meant to be Lady MacDonald.” Saying the name, he was even more convinced. Aye. Only her. “Please consider my offer of marriage. Not because ’tis the proper thing, the needful thing to be done, but because you would choose me for your husband.”
Grace in Thine Eyes Page 22
