Her trunk really did hold everything she owned, and it was big enough to store a fair-size body. Even between the two of them it would be difficult to get it up the stairs. “However did you bring it home from the landing?”
“Let’s just say I hope there was nothing breakable in it. I dragged it behind me when I didn’t kick it forward. My boots are ruined.”
She was horrified. “Was there no one to help you?”
Andrew shifted on the sofa, looking discomfited. “The MacEwan’s boat followed in the wake of the island launch, and I’m afraid the villagers were much too preoccupied with his arrival to pay any attention to me, with all their bowing and scraping as if he were royalty. I was quite eclipsed. I needed the exercise anyway.”
“But your arm! Surely it’s too soon to strain it so.”
He rubbed his shoulder. “I daresay I know that now. Between my arm and my broken toes, you’ll have to find someone else to dance with you tonight. The MacEwan looks braw enough, and he’s brought some of his clansmen with him. You can talk to him about your school.”
“Dancing!” She stopped herself from waltzing around the sofa. Gemma hadn’t danced in an age, not since the first weeks she’d returned to Vienna from Miss Meredith’s. Her social life ceased soon after that when her mother died. “Do you really think so? The MacLarens’ cottage isn’t big enough to swing a cat.”
“I think they’ll find a way. They’re building a sort of pavilion right now in front of the house with planks their laird brought over. The islanders are very keyed up, and even the ferry crew is helping, as they’re staying over. I was subjected to an impromptu concertina recital on the dock and the banging of a hundred hammers. I’m surprised you can’t hear them from here.”
“A pavilion? How strange. It’s not exactly summer.”
“Maybe a dance floor is a better description. I gather the whole thing will be taken down tomorrow and the MacEwan will take his wood back home with him. This seems to be a yearly event, and the men know what they’re doing. Half the floor was laid down before I knew it.”
“But it’s December. How can there be a party out-of-doors?”
“In just a few hours, we’ll find out.”
Gemma thought it the most peculiar thing she’d ever heard of. “So your letters will go off with the crew tomorrow then.”
“If they’re not too jug-bitten after tonight’s festivities to shove off. There’s the unpredictable weather, too. My arm says it’s going to storm.”
“When doesn’t it? Really, I don’t mean to criticize, but whatever possessed you to retire here? You could have stayed in sunny Italy where Marc would have been much more at home.”
“There were reasons,” he said tersely.
He may not have loved and lived with his wife, but the subject of Italy always caused tension between them and he clammed right up. She wondered what kind of woman would have the fortitude to reject Andrew Ross. To send him away without regret. Gemma knew instinctively he would be a masterful lover. He radiated masculine perfection, which distracted her even when she turned her mind to multiplication tables to block it out.
Talk about a “braw” man—Andrew Ross was every girl’s dream. The village lasses made cows’ eyes at him every time they saw him, and poor little Mary was so smitten she could barely put two words together in his presence. Fortunately, she chattered away to Marc with no problem and the child was becoming trilingual.
Mr. Ross’s wife must have wanted him once, and he her. As yet, there was no trace of her in any of his belongings, and Gemma had snooped when she had the chance. Not a letter. Not a book. Not a lace handkerchief. No mementos of any kind for Marc to remember his mama by. Sometimes Gemma wondered if the woman had ever existed at all, but then she saw Marc’s innocent face, so like his father’s. To raise a boy who was the image of her estranged husband must have caused Signora Ross considerable pain.
Gemma wasn’t going to get anything more out of him now, and was ashamed of herself for badgering him after he’d gone through all the trouble of bringing her trunk home. He was looking white around the mouth, too, a sure sign he was in pain again.
“Look, I think it will be much easier if I just unpack bit by bit and carry the items upstairs. That way, you won’t have to stress your arm dragging the trunk all the way to my room. Your sling is in the kitchen, you know. Why don’t you keep Marc company while I take care of it?”
He heaved himself somewhat unsteadily off the couch. Yes, he’d definitely overdone it this morning.
“You won’t trip and fall down the stairs again?”
Gemma remembered crashing into the man’s broad chest, his arms coming around to steady her, his warm breath in her hair. He’d held her a bit too long and too tightly as she recovered from her clumsiness, and she’d forgotten to protest in a timely fashion, although she made up for it by being as rude as she could manage once she’d retrieved her wits.
“I will be fine. If you leave me, I’ll knot up this skirt. I shouldn’t want you to see my ankles—it wouldn’t be proper.”
His voice was pure sinful silk. “If you recall, I’ve seen them. And a bit more besides.”
“Well, you’ll not be seeing them again, nor anything else.” Not right now at any rate. But Gemma was very much afraid the time was coming.
As soon as he limped off to the kitchen, she fished the silver chain from underneath her rough wool jumper and drew it over her head. The key slid easily into the lock, making her fearful that someone else had been here before her, filing down edges and stealing her things. Once the trunk popped open, however, she was relieved to see a storm-tossed jumble of slippers and chemises and shawls. She rapped the side panel and it fell forward to reveal her little leather jewel pouch. Her full little jewel pouch. She blew a kiss to heaven with a trembling hand. She’d been afraid to think how she’d manage if she lost everything forever.
But her mother was in her heart, not trapped in cold stones.
She rucked up her skirts and scooped up an armful of sweet-smelling clothing. A vial of lemon verbena cologne had become unstoppered somewhere along the way, the perfume permeating the fabrics. Gemma buried her nose in velvets and silks with appreciation. Mixed in with the newly purchased proper governess attire were some of her mother’s things. She and Francesca were the same height, although the mother had been much more liberally endowed than the daughter. From somewhere on the Barrowdown side, Gemma had been bequeathed her boyish figure, freckles, and sharp elbows. Francesca Bassano had been soft and supple in both body and spirit, the perfect attributes for a successful courtesan. But now that Gemma had her recovered treasure, she was determined to approximate her mother’s charm as best she could, even if it meant more alterations.
She was going to dance, with Andrew and whoever else asked her—twirl and dip and glide—even if she was outside in the coming snowstorm. She’d be wearing a proper gown, probably improper for the island if truth be told, but certainly more becoming than the shapeless sacks she’d been forced to wear for weeks. The effect might be somewhat spoiled if she had to layer on shawls and scarves and cloaks against the weather, but there would be the joy of having her own things against her skin. It was almost Christmas, and it was time to celebrate the many things she was grateful for.
She had her possessions back, a job, a home, her own kind of family. One couldn’t really ask for much more.
Yet for one moment she did, making a foolish, wistful wish.
“Mary!” she called. Gemma stuffed the jewel pouch in her apron pocket. Her clothes alone would be enough to overwhelm the girl without tempting her with the sight of diamonds.
The two of them trucked the contents of the trunk upstairs, back and forth so many times Gemma’s knees ached. True to her expectations, Mary was goggle eyed at the finery. In an impulsive gesture, Gemma gave the girl a pretty pink spangled scarf.
“For the party. The ceilidh.” She arranged it over the girl’s sober brown smock, and Mary became quite u
seless, fingering the beading with wonder. Gemma folded and brushed and hung the clothes by herself, her rough hands catching on the smooth fabrics. Her mother would chide her for letting herself go, but her mother had never lived on bleak Batter Island caring for a busy little boy.
She wouldn’t shame her mother’s memory tonight. And maybe, just maybe, her wish would come true.
CHAPTER 11
The feeble sun held out longest over the Western Isles, turning the winter sky lavender before it dipped into the Atlantic. Dressed in all their finery, Gemma, Mr. Ross, and Marc had plenty of natural light to walk down the rutted track to the village. Even if they could not have seen their destination, the laughter and the music would have lured them ahead.
When they got to the rise over the little group of dwellings, they were rewarded with the scent of peat fires and roasting meat. Lanterns lit every doorstep, as if a hundred fireflies had descended from the dusk to join the festivities. An enormous tent-like structure stood in the crescent of grass in front of the houses. As they approached, Gemma knew this was the famous “pavilion,” its walls sheathed in sailcloth tacked to posts. The door to the MacLaren cottage was thrown open, so crowded with food-laden tables a body could barely get in to get a bite, but that did not stop the villagers from trying. A spectacular fire was burning in the hearth, keeping the house and the food warm despite the open door. Marc toddled immediately to a plate of cake and was swept up by Mary and her little brothers.
Gemma stared at ironstone platter after platter of food. “Good heavens.”
“Indeed. I don’t know when I’ve seen such a spread. There’s plenty of fish, but beef besides. I hope none of it was destined for Gull House and got waylaid.”
“Oh, and what if it did? It’s Christmas. You can share your riches with the islanders.”
“I’d like to be asked first,” Mr. Ross said grumpily. “I don’t believe I got everything I ordered this time around.”
He had unpacked the supplies himself when they arrived this afternoon, an afterthought once the ferry crew had helped with the party preparations. If he’d waited, they would have delivered Miss Peartree’s trunk, and then he wouldn’t be so cross and sore.
“Well, we’ll just have to stock up—stuff our pockets with treats to bring home.”
“You’ll ruin your dress.”
Not one adjective—not pretty, not lovely, not scandalous, and she knew the dress was all three. Gemma was disappointed. He’d not uttered one word when she’d come downstairs floating in bronze silk, topaz drops swaying in her earlobes and her mother’s topaz necklace buried in her décolletage. For a second she thought she’d seen a flash of emotion, but he’d hidden it quickly. No trace of flirtation remained from their conversation this morning, no talk of exposed ankles or memories of a hug on the stairs. Mr. Ross was entirely proper tonight, her wounded employer and Marc’s father, nothing more.
Without another word, he abandoned her, heading outside to where his whiskey sat on a table surrounded by loud men already under its spell, their breaths white puffs in the air. She smiled nervously at the other women bustling about, wondering if they’d let her help. She hadn’t removed her cloak yet and was now a little afraid to. She’d spent the afternoon with a needle, taking in the figured bodice so that it fit her like a glove. Unlike a glove, it didn’t precisely cover every inch of skin.
She watched Marc lick frosting from his fingers. He seemed perfectly happy with the MacLaren children, and Mary waved her away with a smile. Gemma had nothing to do but go outside and listen to the lively music.
The makeshift ballroom was warmed by strategically placed braziers and the body heat of everyone who’d already eaten their fill, or was resting between courses. A small raised platform held several fiddlers, pipers, an accordionist, and a wizened old woman on a drum. At the moment they were all playing together, and the floor reverberated from the noise and stamping of feet. Dancing was already in progress, resembling no cotillion she’d ever attended. Gemma hovered near the entrance, marveling how the plain space was brightened by swinging lamps from the beams across the ceiling, illuminating the colorful clan tartans and flushed faces of the partiers. There were plenty of strangers, the ferrymen, neighbors, and relatives from the other islands she supposed. A bearlike red-bearded man in the middle of them spotted her and pushed his way across the floor. Instinctively, she curtsied to him, earning a dazzling smile of approval.
“I haven’t seen you before, my beauty. You must be the English governess that’s caused such talk.”
Good lord. She had hoped Mrs. MacLaren wouldn’t spread embarrassing rumors about her to all and sundry, but she must have been wrong. Gemma lifted her pointed little chin. “What have you heard, my lord?”
“That you live up in the big house all alone with a man, lass, and that you want to teach English to my people. Now, why would you want to do that?”
Gemma ignored the first part. “You speak the language so well, my lord. Why would you have objection to others following your fine example?”
“I’ve no use for the English as a people, but one must get on with them on occasion.” His wink softened his words. “I tried to talk to your man this morning, but it must cost him a shilling for every word he says. Tight-fisted, he is.”
“Mr. Ross is not ‘my man,’ sir,” Gemma said, keeping rein on her annoyance. “He’s my employer. I care for his infant son. I’m teaching Marc English, too. He was raised in Italy, you know.”
“Was he? I’ve been to Italy.”
Gemma’s surprise must have shown, for before she could say anything, he frowned down at her, his caterpillary red brows united. Apart from his excess facial hair, she thought he was passably handsome. “What, do you think me a savage Scotsman? I was educated in France like so many of my kinsmen. Parlez-vous francais, ma petite?”
“Bien sur. And German, Greek, and Latin. Italian, of course. I’m trying to learn Gaelic as well, but your native tongue is very challenging.”
“I’d be happy to give you private lessons on my native tongue.” He licked his lips for emphasis.
His message was rather obvious. For all his French education, it had not taught him much finesse. Gemma decided she could spend part of her night teaching this man a lesson, and Mr. Ross one as well. He was brooding by the whiskey, ignoring her completely.
“I’m sure you won’t have time. Aren’t you leaving tomorrow?” Feeling somewhat cliché, she batted her lashes.
“I could stay on for a few days. If it was worth my while. Dance with me.”
Gemma clutched her cloak. “We’ve not been introduced.”
“And here you’ve been talking to me all this time without a thought of that. I am Lord Stephen Angus MacEwan, and you are Miss Peartree, or so the old biddies tell me. What’s your Christian name?”
Gemma shook her head. For all she knew, Mr. Ross had put him up to this. “Miss Peartree will do, Lord MacEwan. I—I’m not sure I know how to do these dances.”
“I’ll teach you that, at least. Let me take your cloak, Miss Peartree. You wouldn’t want to trip as I spin you around, and it’s plenty warm. I’ve seen to it. Colum!” He called to one of his men and spoke rapid Gaelic. Before she knew it, he had divested her of her cloak and hat and scarves and Colum was walking away with them.
There was a collective gasp by everyone over the music as they saw Gemma’s silk dress for the first time. The MacEwan only smiled, looking remarkably like the Big Bad Wolf.
How did the fairy tale go? Why, Grandmother, what big teeth you have. Maybe she’d picked the wrong wolf to teach.
It was worse than he thought. Andrew took another sip of whiskey, ruing the day he ever accepted this invitation. The liquor burned, punishing his throat as he deserved to be punished, but not dulling his vision in the slightest. Despite his best efforts, he was as sober as a judge, if not as dispassionate.
For the past two hours, he’d watched Miss Peartree flit like a copper flame through the pavilion
on the arm of Stephen MacEwan, scorching a trail to every man’s heart. Evidently, her Italian mother never told her a young lady never partnered the same gentleman more than twice in an evening, for she’d stood up with the MacEwan for at least half a dozen dances, most of which involved showing much more than her ankles as he spun her about. She’d also been passed around to his kilted clansmen, with whom she was just as flirtatious as she was with MacEwan.
What a little democrat she was, treating the slavering men with equal delight, laughing and charming the kilts off them. Wallflower that he was, Andrew shifted in his hard chair to hide his own hardness. The damned chit was driving him to drink, although he couldn’t very well stand up to go get more.
He’d sat through the thumping music, the off-key and on-key singing, since everyone had been welcome to display whatever measure of talent they possessed at this ceilidh. Some had sung and then departed, and the crowd had thinned considerably as Andrew’s frustration rose. And now Miss Peartree, her face nearly as glowing as her dress and her hair tumbling in spiral curls from its clips, stood before the remaining guests, her hands folded piously as a nun. No nun would show her chest like that, however.
She began to sing an Italian song a cappella, a rather somber tune considering Andrew thought it had to do with kissing and roses. The baroque cadence sounded as though she should be joined by monks, or perhaps castrati. Baci soavi e cari, she began, her pure contralto placing a quiet spell on the crowd. She held the last note as well as a trained opera singer. In spite of his irritation, he joined the enthusiastic applause once she finished. She was surrounded at once by her admirers.
Andrew had had enough. All night he had watched her get maneuvered beneath the mistletoe kissing ball suspended from a beam. Her lips must be chapped by now. She might even be in pain. But that was not going to stop him from tasting her.
He shoved his way through the clot of men. Miss Peartree’s female friends were currently in short supply, but she seemed oblivious of the hostile looks tossed her way.
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