by Julia London
He knew what she saw: a left eye tugged down by the burned skin of his cheek, a misshapen ear. There was scarring on his neck and shoulder that she couldn’t see, but was just as bad. He expected her complete revulsion and tried to pull away, but Fiona held his head in her hands, and remarkably, she touched her fingers to his putrid skin.
Duncan jerked back so suddenly that she toppled to her side. He quickly returned his scarf to its rightful place, and his suddenly lifeless heart to its lockbox. He felt awkward and exposed, did not know what to say, what to do. He was accustomed to the shock, but this time he was not prepared. He’d been so unguarded and lost in the moment.
He occupied his hands and his sight with tending the fire.
“Duncan . . . I beg your pardon.”
He shook his head. It was he who should be begging her forgiveness.
“I was surprised.”
Repulsed, she meant.
“It must have been quite painful.”
He pushed the stick around the fire, stirring the embers, desperately seeking his voice. He finally managed to speak, but he was unable to look at her. “Do please forgive me. I have overstepped my bounds. Excuse me. I should see to the horses.”
He tossed the stick in the fire and stood, walking out of the shelter. He could not bear to see revulsion in her eyes, or far worse, her pity. Moreover, he realized she’d seen his face fully and did not recognize him yet. Was he so changed? Had the fire taken all his recognizable features from him? Perhaps he should admit now who he was, he thought bitterly, and explain that her wish to see him brought down had been fulfilled.
He did not return to the shelter until the bitter cold had left his extremities numb, his thoughts dull.
Thankfully, Fiona was sleeping. Duncan stoked the fire once more, then took a seat next to her, propped himself against the hay, and stared into the fire, unable to sleep.
Chapter Eight
A fire was roaring the next morning when Fiona awoke, and the last two scones were warming on a rock near the fire.
But Duncan was nowhere to be seen.
Fiona ate one scone, then slipped out of the shelter. She was stiff and her bones ached, but the sky above her was a glorious shade for blue. She used the snow to wash her face, gasping at the burning cold of it. When she had finished, she stood up and glanced around.
She spotted Duncan then, tending to the horses. It amazed her how fluidly he moved for a man with a useless arm. He’d learned to compensate for it, and it seemed as if there was nothing he could not do.
The sight of his face had kept her from sleeping much through the night. She’d feigned sleep when he’d returned because she’d sensed his discomfort and because she’d not been able to rid her thoughts of the burns or the pain in his eyes—God, his eyes. The pain that shone in them was so powerful that it reverberated in her. She could not imagine how he must have suffered, both physically and emotionally. Her heart had overflowed with sympathy, and then empathy, and now she wanted to assure him that it was not his scars she’d noticed, but him. And his eyes. They were expressive and deep, and last night they’d been filled with a passion that had ignited her. He was a man of few words, but with those eyes and hands and mouth, he hadn’t needed words.
Fiona realized that in spite of the impropriety and futility of it, she was very taken with this stoic man. She didn’t care that he was a tenant and she a lady; she told herself that in Scotland those things mattered less than they did in London.
There was something else, too, something that niggled at her thoughts, something vaguely familiar about this man she’d met only two days ago. In some strange way, she felt as if she’d known him quite a long time.
She watched Duncan trudging up the hill to the shelter he’d made. He stooped down, picked up big handfuls of snow, and dumped them onto the fire as she made her way through the snow to help him. “Merry Christmas!” she said cheerfully.
He barely spared her a glance. “Merry Christmas.” He was wearing the patch, had wrapped his head in the woolen scarf again, and his hat was pulled low over his eyes.
“Will we reach Blackwood today?” she asked, for the sake of conversaton.
“God willing, aye.”
“Oh, that’s marvelous news! I’m frostbitten through and through, I am. And how do you fare this morning, Mr. Duncan?”
He rose, gathering the fur they’d slept under and stuffing it under his arm. “Well.” He began to take the tarpaulin down. Fiona immediately moved to help him. “That’s no’ necessary,” he said.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but the sooner we’ve put these things away, the sooner we will be on our way.”
He eyed her warily, his gaze flicking over her. “Aye,” he admitted.
Fiona smiled and continued to pull the tarpaulin down. “We shall fold it neatly and tuck it into the wagon, for I refuse to ride beneath it,” she blithely informed him. “I, for one, intend to bask in the sun’s warm glow.”
Duncan clenched his jaw before he turned away.
But Fiona was not the least bit deterred.
When they were at last on their way, Fiona sat beside Duncan, chattering like a magpie, attempting to regale him with more tales of London. Once or twice, she thought she saw a look of amusement on him, but save for the occasional terse remark, Duncan remained quiet.
Fiona’s imagination began to run wild, as it was wont to do. Did he regret the passionate kiss they’d shared? Did he regret that she had seen his face? Perhaps he’d been treated very ill in his life and it made him reticent now. It was really too heartbreaking to even contemplate . . . yet she could not help but contemplate it. Perhaps he did not care for her. Could she have misread his passion so completely?
Feeling quite flustered, Fiona did what she typically did—she talked. She talked and talked, filling the air around them and the vast and vivid blue sky with her words.
But a day of chatter wore on her; by midafternoon, there was still no sign of Blackwood. “I imagine it’s around every bend,” she said, her spirit somewhat daunted.
“It’s quite a way yet,” he said. “The snow has slowed our progress.”
The thought that they might spend another night under the stars made Fiona’s skin flush. It wasn’t the cold that worried her—quite the contrary. She almost hoped this little adventure would never end, for there was something about Mr. Duncan that had settled into her blood as no one ever had. Another night. The very thought rattled her, titillated her, and launched her into yet another tale of London.
She told him about an afternoon she and Lady Gilbert had taken Lord Gilbert’s phaeton on a drive through Hyde Park. “He was quite beside himself, his lordship,” she said, after explaining how the team had gotten away from her normally firm hand and they had inadvertently terrorized a few elderly women on their walkabout. “He was very clear in his opinion that ladies ought no’ to drive a carriage, particularly at such reckless speed, to which Lady Gilbert complained that why should no’ women drive, as they are generally very keen on the small details, which would, naturally, make them the better drivers, but Lord Gilbert was very cross with us both, and he said, ‘This may be the way of things in bloody Scotland,’ ” she said, affecting Lord Gilbert’s voice, “ ‘but it is no’ the way of things in London,’ and really, sir, I was rather offended, for while indeed I was the one driving, it was no’ my idea, was it, then? I would no’ presume to make use of his property—”
Duncan suddenly put his big gloved hand over hers, startling Fiona into a moment of speechlessness. She looked down at his big hand on hers, his silent way of telling her that the nattering on wasn’t necessary after all. She understood him completely.
She turned her palm up beneath his, closed her fingers around his, and looked at him.
His eye shone with a hint of his smile, and once again she was struck by something familiar. “We’ll no’ see Blackwood today, will we?” she said, perhaps a bit too hopefully. “I know last night was right cold, but I . . .
I was . . . last night was . . .”
“Fiona,” he said, abruptly removing his hand from hers, the warmth in his eye fading a bit. “There is more than you know. More than meets the eye.”
He was speaking of his injury, and she nodded fervently that yes, she understood what he meant. “I donna care, Duncan. I donna care in the least.”
He seemed startled, confused.
“I mean . . . I understand about . . . about your face,” she said.
Duncan instantly recoiled, turning his face away.
“I am sorry!” she cried, seeing how it pained him. “But it is obviously uncomfortable for you. What I mean to say is that it is no’ for me! I could no’ possibly care any less. I—”
“Fiona,” he said, reining the horses to a halt. “Listen to me, lass. There is something you really must know—”
“Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas to you, then!”
Both of them jerked around to the sound of the voice, and watched as five people—two adults and three children—emerged from the woods. They were all carrying baskets.
It suddenly dawned on Fiona—they were carrying wheat or pies, as was customary, to the poor on Christmas Day.
The man, wearing a patched brown cloak, hurried forward. As he neared, his round face lit with a smile. “My lord! I did no’ recognize ye from afar. Old eyes,” he said with a laugh, gesturing to his face. “Fàilte, fàilte, milord, how good of ye to come this Christmas Day!”
The man had mistaken Duncan for someone else, Fiona thought, and she looked at Duncan expectantly, assuming he would correct the man’s impression and identify them. But Duncan wore a pained expression as the man approached.
“We’ve been visiting your tenants!” the man said. “The snow is too deep for our old cart. Are ye coming to pay a call, milord?” he asked. A light suddenly dawned in the man’s eyes, and he looked behind him. “Karen! Karen, leannan, the laird has come to pay a call!” He turned back to them, his face beaming. “We’d no’ expected ye, laird—but ye are right welcome, ye are.”
Laird. The word slowly entered Fiona’s consciousness like a whisper, a whisper that grew louder and louder as the truth began to sink in. She suddenly understood why Duncan had seemed so familiar to her. Laird. Duncan Buchanan! He’d not even bothered to hide his name, and yet she’d failed to recognize him! He’d stood before her the whole time, listening to her rail about him, and she’d been so absorbed in her little adventure she’d not even recognized him!
She looked at him now, her eyes narrowed on the features of his face. She had failed to take note of his face in her haste to accept his burns. In fact, that was all she had seen—the purple, scarred skin, the evidence of a tragedy that had made him even more mysterious than she’d first believed. She had not looked at him, really looked at him until this very moment!
She felt like a colossal fool. An addlepated, loose-tongued fool. How could she possibly have developed feelings for a man who had once so rudely likened her to a woodchuck? “Mi Diah,” she said low.
Duncan jerked his gaze to her as Fiona bent over her lap, mortified by the depth of her stupidity.
“Fiona—”
“It is an honor, laird,” the man was saying.
An honor! An honor to receive a man who once reviled her and now deceived her!
“I assure you, Mr. Nevin, the honor is mine,” Duncan said. He touched Fiona’s hand. “Lady Fiona Haines, allow me to present Mr. Nevin. He is my tenant.”
She could hardly make herself sit upright. But she did. She stared at Mr. Nevin, her heart and mind in a nauseating whirl of wretched thoughts.
“A pleasure to make yer acquaintance, mu’um,” Mr. Nevin said anxiously. “Ours is but a humble home, just round the bend here, but ye are most welcome. Ceud mile fàilte,” he added in Gaelic, welcoming her.
“Tapadh leat,” she responded, thanking him.
“May I also present Mrs. Nevin, Master Tavin Nevin, his brother, Collin Nevin, and the lovely Miss Robena Nevin,” Duncan stoically continued as the entire family made their way to the wagon.
The lads bowed their heads; Miss Robena curtsied without taking her eyes from Fiona.
Fiona nodded. She could not speak. If she uttered anything, it would be a scream or a curse.
“Climb on,” Duncan said. “We’ll see you home.”
Mrs. Nevin ushered the family into the wagon, while Mr. Nevin gestured to Duncan’s hand. “I could ride up top with ye, milord, and handle the reins.”
“It’s no’ necessary.”
“Please, milord. It would be my honor,” Mr. Nevin insisted.
Duncan nodded, and Fiona numbly watched him unwind the reins from his deformed hand and pass them to Mr. Nevin. With Mr. Nevin up top, the wagon lurched forward.
She could feel Duncan beside her, could feel all of him, pressing against her. But she could not look at him. She was mortified to her very core.
After only a few minutes, they reached a thatch-roofed cottage from which a tail of smoke curled up out of the chimney. With Mrs. Nevin at her side, Fiona was ushered into the cottage. She made the obligatory remarks, but she hardly saw the place, her mind was rushing so. A table was laid with dinnerware and wine. The scent of roasted goose and bannock cakes wafted through the air, and Fiona’s stomach responded with a hungry growl. Boughs of evergreens were scattered on the floor before the hearth, a few of which Miss Robena picked up to show Fiona. Candles had been lit and placed in the windows, symbolically lighting the way for the holy family.
“Tavin, set two more places at the table. Robena, mind you have a care with those boughs!” Mrs. Nevin instructed her children, then smiled at Fiona. “We’ve no’ had a lady to dine with us,” she said anxiously. “And from England, no less!”
“England?” Fiona said, startled. “I beg your pardon, but I’m no’ English.”
“No?” Mrs. Nevin said, blinking clear blue eyes at her. “Forgive me—I thought, given your accent . . .”
“Scottish,” Fiona said adamantly, and removed her bonnet. She sheepishly put a hand to her hair, certain it looked a fright. “I am as Scottish as you, Mrs. Nevin, reared no’ very far from here at all.” She smiled at Robena, who was looking at her bonnet as if it were a fine work of art. She handed it to the lass, who took it carefully and held it away from her with awe. “Scotland is home,” she added, and realized for the first time since returning how deeply Scotland was imbedded in her blood.
Just when she’d begun to realize it, the shock of seeing Duncan Buchanan after all these years had put her to sea all over again.
Chapter Nine
Mr. Nevin could not have been more accommodating when Duncan explained their predicament and how they’d been caught in the snow. There was not the slightest bit of censure in his tenant’s expression. In fact, Mr. Nevin seemed more than pleased to be able to offer lodging for the night.
That had always been Duncan’s experience with the Nevins. They were good, honest Christian people, full of charity. The very sort of tenants he’d once ridiculed as too rustic in the company of his friends.
Now he wished for all the world he had an ounce of Mr. Nevin’s integrity. If he’d possessed it, he might have told Fiona who he was in Edinburgh instead of hiding behind his bloody vanity.
When he entered the cottage directly behind his host, his gaze fell upon Fiona standing at the hearth, her hands held out over the heat. She looked tired, and her gown was in an awful state of dishevelment, stained by snow and ash and tree sap. Her hair, which had begun the journey bound up nicely, had come undone in several different places. Thick strands of brown hair fell here and there down her back and over her shoulder.
He’d never seen a lovelier sight. To him she was beautiful.
He’d had every intention of telling her who he was when he’d pulled the team to a halt on the road. He would not have waited so long had he not already lost his heart to her. He could not bear to see her censure when she realized he was the one who had so stupid
ly and rudely dismissed her all those years ago. He’d thought all day how best to broach it—but he’d not counted on the Nevin family’s appearing so unexpectedly from the forest path.
“Shall I take your hat, laird?” Mr. Nevin asked as Mrs. Nevin bustled about the table, helping Tavin add two place settings.
“We are delighted you’ve come, laird!” she called to him. “Please, take off your cloak and warm yourself by the fire.”
There was no reason not to do as she asked—the Nevins had seen his face, as had most of his tenants. There was no reason to keep the scarf on besides his foolish vanity. He glanced at Fiona again—she was looking at him now, watching him closely.
He shrugged out of his cloak first, sliding it over his bad arm. And as it hung uselessly at his side, he unwrapped the scarf from his head and handed that, too, to Mr. Nevin, and stood in all his grotesque glory.
“To the fire, milord—I’ll pour a whisky for you, shall I?”
“Aye, please,” he said, gazing at Fiona. She had every right to hate him. He looked for it in her expression. But whatever she was thinking was carefully hidden behind an inscrutably polite expression.
“The children are tying boughs together to hang on the hearth,” Mrs. Nevin said proudly. “It’s something we’ve always done on Christmas Day.”
“It’s a lovely tradition,” Fiona said. “May I help them?”
The Nevin lass looked as is if she might float away; her gaze flew to her mother with a very loud but silent plea.
“They’d be honored,” Mrs. Nevin said.
Duncan watched Fiona sink to her knees beside the girl and begin to put the boughs together, helping her tie them with ribbon. Collin, the youngest boy, who Duncan knew had the aim of a grown man when it came to shooting grouse, leaped over a stool to join them. He stood at the fire, watching the three of them binding the boughs together. Fiona’s bright smile had returned, and she told the children a tale of Hogmanay from her childhood that included such excitement as spears, beavers, toppled bonfires, and general mayhem.
