by Karen Ranney
Mrs. Parker, if here, would certainly be pleased at the sign of Riona’s demure behavior. But the older woman was in bed, dreadfully ill.
“An attack of gout, perhaps,” Susanna had said earlier. “Or indigestion. Or the fever.”
She’d looked at her mother curiously, which made Susanna only sigh. “A temporary indisposition, I’m sure, Maureen. Our Scottish weather proves difficult for her.”
Riona, however, wasn’t celebrating the other woman’s absence from the table. In fact, she seemed hardly to notice. No, her sister was definitely not behaving like herself.
In Edinburgh, Riona had chafed at her daily restrictions. When Maureen would just as soon be abed, Riona was up at dawn. She wanted to talk about subjects that no one else wished to discuss. Barnyard prattle, Mrs. Parker called it. There were too many times when, in the midst of a polite gathering, Riona would simply not be there. Her gaze would be on a far wall, but Maureen knew that in her mind she was seeing Ayleshire, or a pasture or paddock, someplace at Tyemorn Manor far removed from the ballroom or dining room or parlor in which they sat.
Where Maureen would just as soon be sitting with her needlework or reading a novel, Riona was all for exploring the woods or visiting the animals. Sometimes she patted them on the rump fondly, addressing them by name. Once, when she’d watched Riona bringing in the cows, it looked as if her sister were conversing with one of them.
Mrs. Parker was forever comparing the two of them, holding her up as an example for Riona to follow. Every time the older woman did that, she could feel Riona almost physically step away. By the time they’d returned from Edinburgh, they were almost strangers. Maureen might have told the older woman that it was foolish to expect her sister to be someone she was not. But Mrs. Parker and, in a way, their own mother tried to ignore Riona’s true nature.
She reminded Maureen of those women about whom stories were whispered, women who’d followed their sons and brothers, husbands and fathers into battle, who had hidden a prince and defied defeat.
Riona was unlike anyone she knew. Her sister’s laughter seemed so much louder, her smile more amused. Her anger was deeper, and her tears, although rare, seemed to emerge from a wellspring of grief.
She herself had a gentler relationship with the world.
Conversation was stalled, the long silences between questions and answers inordinately long. Remembering her lessons, she turned to James.
“Where are your brothers now?” she asked him.
“I’m not certain of their exact location,” he said. “But they should be returning to Gilmuir within the year.”
“Are they planning on settling in Scotland?”
“I would be surprised if they did so,” he answered, glancing at Riona and then away.
“I hope that you’ll be able to stay long enough to celebrate Lethson,” Maureen said. “The entire village participates.”
“Indeed,” Susanna added. “The festivities are planned for months.”
Even that comment did not elicit a response from her sister. This was definitely not like her at all.
Riona had surprised her by agreeing to marry Mr. McDougal. Only in these past few days had Maureen begun to realize that she was truly miserable about the decision.
The candle burned long into the night in Riona’s room, and too many times Maureen had heard her sister open the window, and wondered if she sat there looking out into the darkness. Maureen had not spoken on those occasions, sensing that Riona preferred the solitude of her own thoughts to conversation.
“What do you think of Tyemorn Manor?” Susanna asked now.
“What I’ve seen of it is impressive,” James replied. “But I’ll confess to knowing little of farming. We maintain some cows and sheep at Gilmuir, along with our crops, but I have been more involved in building in the last year.”
“Do not let our gardener hear you say that,” Susanna chided with a smile. “Else he will have you building a new winter house for him. And a new chicken coop as long as you’re at it.”
“It’s your barn that needs work,” James said, surprisingly.
Riona looked up, their gazes meeting across the table. “The west wall,” she said, animated for the first time tonight. “I’ve noticed it needs shoring up.”
“It would be better to replace it.”
Riona returned to her soup, concentrating on it with an almost desperate intensity.
Maureen felt as if she were balanced on a fulcrum. On one side was her happiness and on the other Riona’s. But now there was no choice, was there? Riona had agreed to marry the determined Mr. McDougal.
He was, on the surface, a favorable enough husband for any woman, yet she doubted that the union would be a happy one. There would be nothing for Riona but cramped living quarters in Edinburgh. No fields, no woods to explore, no Ayleshire.
What a shame that Riona’s decision had been made. Especially now, when James MacRae and her sister were each trying to pretend that the other wasn’t in the room. As if no one could sense the emotions flowing between them.
Her mother glanced toward her, and they shared a look. Instead of appearing concerned, Susanna seemed inordinately pleased.
Another reason to worry.
After dinner, when Riona would have dearly liked to escape to her room, Maureen surprised her by asking for help.
“We’ve a pupil,” she said, “who needs our assistance.”
“A pupil?”
“Rory,” she explained, walking down the hallway.
The young boy refused to join them in the dining room for the evening meal, choosing instead to eat dinner in the kitchen with Abigail and Cook. Now he waited outside the double doors of the parlor, straightening when he saw both of them.
“Are you sure I’m not a bother, Miss Maureen? I’ve no one else to ask.”
“We’re happy to help.” Maureen turned to Riona. “Rory wants to learn how to dance.”
A few moments later, some chairs and a table had been moved aside to give them room, and Maureen was leading Rory in the first movements of a country dance.
“I was a fool, Miss Maureen. I’ll never learn it.”
“Nonsense, Rory,” Maureen said. “Simply extend your right leg forward, then swing it in a gentle arc to the right. That’s it,” she added approvingly. “Now put your left foot forward, move your right foot right behind it, and then take a small hop.”
“On the right or the left?” he asked helplessly, looking down at his feet.
Riona smothered a smile. “It’s a lot easier than it sounds, Rory,” she said, taking pity on the boy. There was something sweetly innocent about his eagerness to learn.
“It doesn’t matter,” Maureen said, holding out her hand. “We’ll get to that part later.” She glanced over her shoulder at Riona. “What do you recommend, Riona? A reel?”
She nodded. “It would be the easiest, don’t you think?”
“Can you hum a tune?”
“Better than I can dance,” she admitted. She sat in the corner on an ottoman, watching as Maureen led Rory through the first part of the reel. Humming a tune, she clapped her hands to the rhythm.
“I’m awful at this,” he said, stopping a moment later. Maureen had a pained expression on her face. No doubt Rory had stepped on her toes again.
“You’re doing better,” Maureen reassured him. “Truly you are.”
The young man looked mutinous.
“Perhaps it would be better if we discussed proper comportment,” Maureen said diplomatically.
Stepping in front of him, she smiled and extended both her hands. “The man offers his hand palm up and the woman puts hers in it.”
“Except when actually doing a movement,” Riona offered, remembering her lessons from Mrs. Parker. “Then pretend as if you’re shaking her hand.”
“Or, if you’re wearing sharp buttons, you should hold her wrist and she’ll hold yours.”
Rory looked increasingly confused.
“I’ve
seen you climb the rigging, Rory,” a voice said. “This will be no challenge for you.”
The young man flushed, his gaze flying to James standing in the doorway.
“You’re doing quite well considering that you’ve never danced before,” Maureen said.
Riona stood, moving to James’s side. “Do not laugh at him,” she whispered. “He is trying his very best.”
“I have nothing but admiration for him,” he said, smiling easily. “I cannot help but recall my own dancing lessons. He is much more adept than I.”
“Where did you learn to dance?” she asked.
“France,” he said surprisingly. “Paris, to be exact.” His smile altered in character, but he didn’t offer any details.
“You’re the one who should teach us,” she said.
“I’m content to stand and watch.”
He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded in front of him, looking as if he were indeed happy to remain as he was.
She glanced at him surreptitiously from time to time and then away before he could catch her watching him.
His lips curved into an easy smile, and she realized how fond he was of Rory. His smile was not strictly for the boy, she realized, but also for her sister. There seemed to be a sparkle in his eyes as he watched the two dancing in the middle of the room. Maureen was gently instructing Rory, her kindness showing through her soft blue eyes.
She’d been envious of Maureen before, but never so acutely as now. Her sister’s black hair did not frizz. Her eyes weren’t a plain gray but a lovely blue. Even her smile was different, easily summoned and generous.
But it was in her nature that the two of them were truly different. Maureen was more accepting, sweeter, and undoubtedly kinder.
She moved to leave the room, but was captured by a question from James.
“Are you going walking, Riona?” he asked softly.
She had not planned on it. In fact, she would be unwise to do so. But she nodded.
“Perhaps I will as well,” he said. A warning. A promise?
Wordlessly, they stared at each other.
A wiser woman would have escaped at that moment, returned to her chamber, and sought forgiveness in a prayer. Instead, she left the house and stood in the shadows of the trees waiting for him.
“Mrs. Parker would say that it’s improper to meet you here,” she said, as he emerged from the house a few moments later.
“Do you always listen to what Mrs. Parker says? Is she that great an arbiter of behavior?”
“She is exactly that, and more,” she said. “It’s for that reason that my mother hired her. She has a reputation for making great matches.”
“And is your match one of them?”
She didn’t answer him. One more word about Harold and she would go screaming off into the woods. Even the condemned were not incessantly reminded of their sins prior to their hanging.
“When is your wedding?”
“Soon.” She didn’t want to enumerate the days, count the hours.
The evening breeze stirred the hem of her dress, slipped inside her skirt to caress her ankles. She clasped her shawl closer to her as she turned, walking up the path away from the house.
Unwise, this was unwise. But oh so tempting to be here with him. She’d tried to ignore him, but it was too difficult. His eyes attracted her attention, his smile summoned forth her own. Who could ignore the sound of his voice? Or the intelligence of his discourse?
He followed, but they did not walk together. At least ten feet of shadowed night separated them. They were each steeped in propriety even if she rebelled against it. Especially since she’d obeyed all the rules dictated to her and had subsequently been trapped by them.
“How soon?”
How obstinate he was.
“A matter of weeks,” she said, staring down at the shadow of her shoes. How odd that she knew they were there, but could not see them in the gloom. She could not see her heart, yet knew it beat in her chest. She could not see humor, yet felt amusement.
She could not see James, but felt him near. How foolish to feel anything for a man she’d known for only days.
She doubted that Harold would tromp through the woods as James had done, or look as interested as he had when she’d pointed out the various foraging areas for their sheep. Or keep silence with her at the falls, allowing nature to speak for them.
Sometimes curiosity was a troubling trait to possess. Especially about this man. She wanted to know everything about him. What colors he liked, what season was his favorite. Was there a poet he read or a novelist he preferred? What occupations did he prefer in the evening? Gaming or reading, conversing or spending time in solitary pursuits? Did he play cards? What amused him or made him thoughtful? None of those questions was intrusive by its nature, but taken all together they were too personal.
She should want to know such things about Harold. Instead, her mind darkened when thinking of her betrothed as if he were no more substantial than a shadow.
James suddenly closed the distance between them, coming so close that she could feel his warmth, smell the scent of the soap he’d used for his evening shave.
He raised his hand, and before she could react, skimmed his fingers over her face, tracing a path from temple to chin. Shivers followed in their wake as if he were a sorcerer and had summoned lightning in his touch.
Instead of turning away, she remained like a porcelain fig-urine, never moving. When his finger stopped at her chin, she should have smiled or teased him about his solemnity. But she remained in place, fixed and rapt, even as he withdrew his hand.
“Why did you do that?” she whispered.
James looked down at her, making her wish that she could see his expression. “An impulse. Forgive me.”
That was all the explanation she was to have? What would he have done if she’d followed her whim? Stroked her fingers over his face, or traced his lower lip with the edge of her thumb, wondering at its fullness and softness?
Harold. There, his name. By invoking it, perhaps she would bring some sense and decorum back into her life. Yet she could ignore him only too easily. She tilted her head back, wishing it were light so that she could see James’s beautiful eyes.
But if it were day she wouldn’t be standing there, would she? She would be wise and proper, and all those qualities of character that seemed so difficult in his presence.
Chapter 12
O ne moment his attention was on Riona. The next, he heard a rustle of leaves, then the flash of gunpowder. At the same time James heard the shot, he pushed Riona into the safety of the trees, kneeling beside her.
“What was that?”
“Someone is shooting at us.”
“Shooting at us?” she asked in disbelief.
He felt the same incredulity, but his was lessened somewhat by the fact that this had happened before. And, as before, the musket was badly aimed.
“Stay here,” he said, leaving the cover of the trees. He was tired of being a target. Even worse, the bullet could as easily have hit Riona as him.
“What are you going to do?” she asked, following him.
“Stay here,” he repeated. “You’ll be safe as long as you remain in the shadows. Promise me that.” Reaching out, he touched her face, his palm cupping the edge of her cheek, feeling her nod.
Following the path that stretched along the ridge of hill, he halted, hearing the sound of running footsteps. A shadow emerged from the copse of trees, and he pursued it down the path to the granary. Before the intruder could slip from sight, James launched himself at him. They both fell to the ground with a thud and a tangle of arms and legs.
He pulled back his fist and slammed it into the other man’s jaw, feeling the pain vibrate across his knuckles.
“Who are you? And why the hell are you shooting at me?”
The man struck a blow of his own, connecting with James’s cheekbone. He winced, then threw the stranger to the ground again, straddling him. Gripping
his shirt with both fists James picked the man up and then slammed his head down against the dirt.
“Who are you?”
Instead of answering, the man spat at him. They were evenly matched in size, but James hadn’t expected that the man would suddenly grab a rock with an outstretched hand. The glancing blow to his head dazed him for a moment, blood flowing from a cut above his left eye. He pinned the man’s wrists to the ground and used his forearm to press against his throat.
“Who are you?”
“Drummond,” the man rasped. “I’m a Drummond, you spawn of Satan.”
“James?”
He turned to find Riona standing there, her pale yellow dress light enough to be seen in the darkness. His inattention was rewarded with a second blow to the side of his head. A third. He heard her scream and realized that he had lost the battle just as Drummond twisted and rose to his knees, the rock descending once more.
Reaching for the dirk he kept hidden in his boot, James armed himself with the knife just as Drummond lunged for him again. He felt the blade enter the other man’s body, heard his muffled oath as he staggered back several feet.
Rising to his knees, James watched as the man scuttled from the clearing like an insect in the light.
Riona reached his side just as the man disappeared.
“What was that?” Susanna asked, hesitating at the door of the library.
Ned was already standing, moving around the desk.
“A shot,” he said abruptly, brushing past her.
“Who would be shooting?” she asked, following him.
“Exactly what I intend to find out,” he said, grabbing the lantern from the desk.
She jerked her shawl from the peg in the kitchen and hurried after Ned, following the lantern bobbing from his right hand. Catching up with him, she walked by his side on the well-worn path.
“Riona and James are out walking.”
“Another of your plans?” he asked disparagingly.
