by Karen Ranney
But Mrs. Parker wasn’t finished with her, it seemed. “You should really try to be more animated, my dear,” she whispered. “All this silence gives you a sullen disposition. Surely you have something to contribute to the conversation. Something that doesn’t have to do with barnyards or animals.”
James glanced in her direction and then away, making her wonder if he’d overheard Mrs. Parker’s whispered remarks.
“Tyemorn Manor is such a pretty little place,” Rosalie said. “Picturesque in its way. Have you given any thought to cultivating the meadow in front of the manor?”
Susanna looked startled at the question and only shook her head.
“I should, if I were you. You might wish to plant potatoes there.”
Susanna nodded again, but didn’t comment. No doubt she considered a view of rows and rows of potato mounds somewhat lacking, Riona thought.
“Will you be taking your daughters to Edinburgh?” Mrs. Parker asked, directing her attention to Gorman.
Riona stifled a smile. Her mother’s plan was working.
“I do so wish to see Edinburgh again,” Rosalie said. “There are a series of charming shops that have exquisite fabrics. On my recommendation, of course. I told them that they needed to stock more lawns and laces.”
Maureen made some polite comment while Riona resisted the urge to yawn.
“Riona, I would be more than happy to show you my last selection. In fact, we can plan a day when the seamstress will be working. She and I are finishing up the details of an exquisite ball gown that I designed. Will you not come and let me show you?” Rosalie surveyed her from her chin to her toes, her expression leaving no doubt of what she felt about Riona’s yellow and blue silk dress. “Perhaps we can find something in a color that flatters you.”
Riona nodded politely. An unexpected blessing of being married and living in Edinburgh, she’d never have to see Rosalie again.
A little while later, dinner was finally over and they retired to the parlor, the men joining them. Mrs. Parker bemoaned the lack of amusements, while the McDermott girls entertained themselves by crowding around James.
“You will never guess who I saw in Ayleshire, Maureen,” Caroline was saying. “Agnes Haversham. She’s the girl I told you about who’s gone to live in Inverness. She’s back for a visit. You must meet her.”
“The horse fair doesn’t last long, but it attracts a fair number of visitors,” Mr. McDermott was telling James. “A great deal of horseflesh gets sold in our small village.”
“Lethson is the most wonderful ceremony. Although, as I told the elders,” Rosalie was saying, “perhaps it would be better to have it in the early spring, before planting season.”
Riona wanted to ask, but didn’t, why Rosalie thought they would listen to her since the celebration was held because of the summer solstice, the longest day of the year. Which occurred in June, not April. Mrs. Parker was effectively dealt with by ignoring her, a fact that made the older woman cross.
Before she could be singled out for more attention, Riona stood, excused herself, and was out of the room before anyone could object.
Once the door had closed behind her, she debated where to go. Drummond’s presence had made walking outside unwise. Yet she didn’t feel like going to her chamber yet.
Finally, in desperation she walked down the hall, entering the library.
James had taken to working here before dinner, and after the meal as well. Taking a few steps inside, she felt oddly like a trespasser in this room now that he’d claimed it as his. He had made his mark on the farms; she had seen the result of his handiwork almost every day. Why wouldn’t it be the same in the library?
The desk bore evidence of his use; the inkwell had been moved to the right, a selection of quills were neatly trimmed and lying flat in expectation of his return. On the left corner of the blotter was a small oil lamp and a few candles sitting in reserve. She bent and retrieved the flint box, lit a few, and set them in the iron holder until the room was tinted yellow by the flickering light.
She noticed the large red leather book sitting in the middle of the desk. JM. Her fingers trailed over his initials.
A journal, no doubt. What sort of thoughts would a man like James MacRae write? She realized that she very much wanted to know. But such a book is intrinsically personal, almost intimate, and reading it would be an invasion of his privacy.
Just as he invaded her thoughts.
She placed her hand flat against the books on one of the shelves, picking one by the shape of it and not its contents. She wasn’t in the mood to read, but something should enliven her mind, take her thoughts from that of her own life. Perhaps even transport her somewhere else. To Greece or Rome, to tales so wrought with peril that her own existence seemed tame and mundane in comparison.
Anything but a story, perhaps, of unrequited love. Or loss so painful that it mimicked a burn, blazing away inside the human heart.
She had never felt the way she did now. Every moment seemed crystalline and painful in its intensity. She felt too much, was too aware.
The backs of her hands were somehow sensitive, as were her wrists. The cuffs of her dress irritated them; even lace felt too abrasive. She wanted to be surrounded by something soft and pillowy.
She placed her hand at her throat, wondering if she were sickening. It almost hurt to swallow, as if a hundred unshed tears lingered there. Her eyes felt gritty, as if she had been awake for days. But when she slept, she dreamed. Where once she’d had perfectly ordinary dreams, now they were so much more. Vignettes of James and kisses so exquisite that they awakened her to lie staring at the ceiling, flushed and wanting.
When she heard a noise and glanced over her shoulder to see James standing there, a deep, resigned sigh escaped her.
“What is it, Riona? What’s wrong?”
She turned back to the books, studying their spines for the first time. What is it? If she only knew, she might address that problem and find a solution for it. Oh, but she did know, didn’t she?
What is it? Infatuation. Love. Desire. All these and perhaps even more. Emotions too late to be discovered, and with the wrong man.
“Go away, James.”
“Are you unwell?”
Why was everyone so concerned with her health? She wanted to answer him: Desperately unwell, my dearest James, and the cure is you. Such words shouldn’t be thought, let alone spoken.
“No,” she said softly. “I’m well enough.”
“Then what is it? Why did you leave the room so quickly? Why were you so silent at dinner?”
She turned and studied him, thinking that she had questions of her own.
Why, of all the men she might have met, had he come to Tyemorn Manor? Why this man, with his intense blue eyes and his broad shoulders? Why him, with his sense of humor and fairness, loyalty and honor? Why James, with his ability to pluck reason from her with a kiss?
“You should return. Rosalie and Caroline will be missing you. I wouldn’t be surprised if they followed you in here,” she said, glancing at the closed door.
She turned again, rather than watch him leave. She heard his footsteps, but he came closer.
“Please, James, leave me alone.”
He halted and she placed both hands on the bookshelf, her fingers gripping the shelves. With all her being, she wanted to walk into his arms. God help her, because she was too weak to help herself.
“Forgive me,” he said tersely. “I was but concerned about your welfare.”
She closed her eyes, praying for the resolve she needed.
He placed his hands on her shoulders, and she leaned back against him. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel him against her. Resolutely, she straightened and pulled away.
“Do women fall at your feet everywhere you travel, James?”
He looked surprised at her remark. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Riona.”
“What about the women of Gilmuir? What do you do about them?”<
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“I treat every woman I meet the same, Riona,” he said. “With kindness.”
“And gallantry?” she asked. “And charm, no doubt.” She glanced at him, her smile fading a little. “From any other man, it would be merely polite. From you, it’s devastating.”
“I doubt they think so.”
“I know they do,” she countered. “I’ve seen the effect of your charm at dinner tonight.” And felt it myself.
He looked startled at her words, or maybe the tone of them. Too bitter, perhaps.
Taking a few steps back, he bowed slightly to her.
Good, he was leaving, before she humiliated herself by begging him to stay.
“Forgive me,” he said once more. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“But you have.” The words slipped free of their mooring. She spent too much time wondering about him, thinking about him, looking for him during the day. She’d even taken to dreaming of him.
She heard the door close softly behind him, and only then did she relax.
Rory snored. The young man was obviously exhausted, and the sound indicated a deep slumber.
James lay there with his arms braced behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. The night was one he had experienced many times before. As tired as he was, sleep should have come easily to him. Instead, he pictured Riona in the library tonight. Curt, almost rude, not the woman he’d come to know.
The closer the wedding date, the more she seemed to change. Almost as if she were readying herself to become a shadow of the woman he’d admired. Her laughter was more rare, her comments were tinged with irritation. Gone was the hoyden, and in her place a proper young woman of Edinburgh. An almost wife.
He felt the knowledge press down on him as if it were an anchor he wore around his shoulders.
He sat up on the side of the bed and looked toward Rory’s bed. His snores had not abated, but that was not the reason James stood and dressed. Living aboard ship had taught him to sleep in even the most uncomfortable situations.
He closed the door quietly and found his way to the library. There he pushed the door closed silently behind him, his destination the desk. He lit a few candles before drawing shut the curtains to keep out the night. Sitting, he opened his journal and began to write. The thoughts were those he could never convey to another living soul.
It eased him somewhat to write, to purge his mind.
There are times when I want to ask her what she’s thinking, or simply sit and listen to her laugh. Sometimes at dinner she captivates me and I lose all thought while watching her. Of all the women I have ever met, none has challenged my heart or my mind as much as she does. She makes me smile and muse on subjects I’d never considered.
At table she does not often look in my direction, but I cannot help but be drawn to her. During the day I stop and look for her and find her diligent at some task. Even that momentary sight is enough to lighten my hours.
A sound at the door made him look up. He’d expected Susanna. Riona entered the room instead.
For a moment they just stared at each other. He wanted to see her above all people, yet at the same time he realized how improper it was to be alone in the middle of the night, with her dressed only in a thin nightgown and matching wrapper. Her hair was trailing down her back in one long, thick braid. Tendrils of hair had come loose and framed her face. Her hair had always reminded him of her true nature, unable to be completely controlled, almost wild.
Her hand went to her throat, her fingers splayed as if she held her words there before they could reach her lips.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said finally.
“Neither could I.”
“Forgive me for what I said earlier. I didn’t mean to say those things.”
“Yes, you did,” he said, unwillingly amused. Contriteness did not suit her. “But I would be more interested in hearing why you said what you did.”
“A comment of Rory’s,” she said, shrugging. “I shouldn’t have paid it any heed.”
“Is that why you’re here? To apologize? It was not necessary.”
“It was for me.”
She was looking at him as if she’d imagined him. He wanted to tell her that he was only too real. Human, not a ghost.
If he weren’t an earthly creature, there would be no constraints between them. He would be able to touch her when he wished, infuse her nights with visitations. His invisible fingers would skim along her breasts, and he would press his unseen lips to her neck just above her collarbone and feel her shiver in delight.
But he was only too corporeal not to notice how the nightgown she wore hid none of her charms from view. Her breasts pressed against the modest material, lifting it, her breath made it rise and fall. One hand still pressed against her throat, the other at her waist as if to further delineate the lines of her figure.
His imagination had already furnished details to his curious mind, and now his eyes verified them.
“I am not a saint, Riona,” he said. “But I do not make indiscriminate conquests.”
“But you have made some?”
Did she want lies? Or him virginal? He was far from that, but she didn’t need to know the details. Only, perhaps, that he had never before felt the way he did with her.
“Do you ever wish to be back in Cormech?” he asked abruptly. The question evidently surprised her. “Do you ever wish to be penniless again and more in control of your own destiny?”
“Without Great Aunt Mary’s fortune?” She smiled. “More times than I can tell you. But then I realize how selfish a wish that is. Maureen is happy, and so is mother. Who am I to wish us back to penury? If I still lived in Cormech, it’s possible that I would never have wed at all.”
“Would you prefer that?”
“Would haves and should haves and could haves are unfair. I know exactly what I would have done a year ago or six months ago or even a month ago. Because I am so much more aware than I was then. But who is to say that I won’t regret, a year from now, what I’m doing today? I can only do the best I can each moment.”
“Is there nothing you would change about this moment now?”
“Oh yes,” she said softly, not attempting to look away from him. “There is something I would change.”
Her cheeks flushed; the picture she presented was of indescribable temptation.
He stood and came around the desk, but halted when he was still a few feet from her. There, a test of his resolve, and his honor. He reached out one hand, and she matched the gesture until only their fingertips touched.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, the words both a chastisement and a warning.
“No,” she agreed softly. “I shouldn’t. Or you should not be. We should not be together, especially on a night like this.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the closed curtains. If the moon shone brightly, he could not see it. If the wind was riffling through the trees, he was unaware. The temperature might be chilled, and animals restless, but nothing intruded into this quiet room but their own emotions.
Yet neither of them moved to leave.
They were held together by the simple touch of their fingertips, a bond as strong as iron between them. But more linked them than that, he suspected—curiosity and humor, intelligence and whimsy, desire and need.
A sound outside the door made Riona draw her hand back. She smiled again and went to the bookshelves, blindly grabbing a volume before turning toward the door.
He watched her go, so painfully aroused that he was shaking.
Chapter 17
E very year the sluice leading from the River Wye needed to be cleaned of weeds and debris to ensure that the fields were properly irrigated. At intervals, wooden dams were erected in the channel, each successive board adding height and consequently slowing the flow of water.
The frames in which the boards fit needed to be replaced from time to time, since they swelled from being in the water constantly. Ned was repairing a section just off
the river, where the current ran swiftly. Riona was helping, as were several other women, by carrying the baskets of silt away from the sluice and onto the newly cultivated west fields.
She was glad that James wasn’t there. The work wasn’t prettily done. Her oldest shoes squished with water, and the front of her dress was filthy. Add to that the fact that her hair had come undone once again and her braid was muddy.
Women moved in a line from the sluices to the west field, each bent under the weight of her basket. Riona joined them again, preferring to stay busy rather than think about James’s errand.
He’d gone to visit with Gorman McDermott. Something about plans for a river barge, she’d heard her mother say. She doubted the excuse. Gorman’s daughters were of a marriageable age, and he’d be a fool to ignore a prime candidate for a son-in-law in James. She didn’t doubt that Rosalie and Caroline had pleaded with their father to think of some reason for James to come to their home.
“Riona?”
She glanced up, realized she was next in line, and gave her basket to one of the men dredging the sluice on the other side of the dam. Ned was hammering the top board into position, softly muttering to himself as the frame, swollen and waterlogged, refused to budge.
Riona was returning from the field when she saw the commotion. The line of women disintegrated into a group crowding around the dam. She pushed her way forward.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Ned. He’s gone and gotten his arm trapped.”
Ned’s face was pale, his body half in and out of the rushing water. “Get the mallet, lad,” he said, directing another, younger man. “I dropped the fool thing when the board slipped.”
Riona threw her basket down and knelt on the side of the sluice. “How can I help, Ned?”
“Get a wedge from the smith. A long bar that we can use to lever up part of the dam. My arm’s caught between two boards.” The effort of speaking was evidently costing him.
She nodded and stood. The journey back to the farm was uphill, and she held up her skirts and ran.
There was no one in the smithy, but she looked around for something that would act as a lever. Finally, she found it, hanging next to the door. A long flat iron bar that she remembered was used to help change the wheels on the wagons.
