The Scotsman Who Saved Me

by Hannah Howell

  It was the same yet much fancier. The furniture looked more expensive, there were fewer chairs scattered around the room, and they all matched. This had to be where they greeted guests, she thought. Here the rugs were almost certainly purchased. She wondered what the MacEnroys did for money. Again there was a large painting over the fireplace and she suspected she was looking at yet another picture of Scotland. Emily could not help but wonder how they had managed to bring the paintings so far without damage. Then she saw the sword on the mantel and fought against the urge to go over and have a closer look at it. It was a very large sword and had been polished to a pure shine, the scabbard hanging beneath it.

  Shaking her head at her odd fancies, for she had never had the slightest interest in weaponry, she headed toward the kitchen, pausing only to peek into what was obviously a dining room and wonder what was behind the closed door on the other side of the hall. The MacEnroys had built themselves a big house but she supposed it was needed when there were seven of them.

  Mrs. O’Neal sat at a large wooden table peeling potatoes. Emily carefully sat down on the bench opposite her and idly smoothed her hand over the table. Someone had a true skill in working with wood, she mused. Whoever it was truly knew how to bring out the beauty of the wood.

  “Matthew made this,” Mrs. O’Neal said. “The lad has a true gift.”

  “The benches as well?”

  “Yup. Took a while as he had to work but then winter came and he had the time to finish it all. They did most of the inside work on this house during the bitter months. Built the outside walls and all then did the inside bit by bit.”

  “A good skill to have when you are starting a home. If you have another paring knife I could help with the potatoes.”

  “Thank you, dearie.” Mrs. O’Neal quickly got a knife and pushed some potatoes in front of Emily. “We give the peels to the pigs. Just make a tidy pile and I will add them to the food bucket.”

  “They raise pigs?” Emily asked as she began to peel the potatoes.

  “I and my children tend the pigs. The lads raise sheep. Between the meat of both and the wool of the sheep we don’t do too badly.”

  “Is there not some trouble from the other people here about them raising sheep? I heard the beasts are loathed out here. In fact, Annabel and David discussed it a lot as they had considered having a few sheep. They decided to stick to just crops.”

  “They aren’t near any grazing lands so we don’t get bothered much. And they never go into town alone so few are brave enough to trouble them there. And, they give some folk work in the readying of the wool for market. As long as we stay up here it seems they find it tolerable enough. Our biggest problem is wolves. The boys are out hunting some now as we recently lost a lamb to the beasts.” Mrs. O’Neal shook her head. “I tell them they should just kill the things but, mostly, they harry them until the pack moves away.”

  Emily sighed. “Fair, I suppose. The wolves have to feed themselves too. It is just that the very idea of wolves in the area gives me a chill.”

  Mrs. O’Neal nodded. “Feel the same way but you are right. Animals are just trying to stay alive. Do you knit?”

  “A bit. Small things. You have yarn? Some from the MacEnroy sheep?”

  “If there is a plentiful amount, yes, I get some. I do the scouring and scrubbing and we have some women in the town who do the carding and spinning. It works out well for all of us.”

  “It certainly seems to.”

  “Especially since we do not grow enough crop to make much money. We grow for us and some for market but we could not live on that. I often think there is nothing these lads can’t do.”

  “You sound like a proud mama,” Emily said, and grinned when Mrs. O’Neal laughed.

  “Can’t help but marvel at all they do.” She tossed the potato peelings into the bucket. “I think they knew how to build things since they were small but everything else they just learn. They decide which one of them will find someone skilled at it, then he goes and learns the skill and comes back and teaches the rest.”

  “It is the best way.” Emily added her peelings to the bucket. “I did it before we came to this country. I felt one of us should know some basic skills like cooking so I hunted down ones who were willing to teach me. I was rather surprised how difficult that proved to be. It turned out to be very fortuitous as I think my sister could burn water.” She smiled sadly when Mrs. O’Neal laughed.

  Mrs. O’Neal put the bucket by the back door, washed her hands, and then began to prepare the meat for roasting. “Why did you come here?” she asked. “I can tell you are educated and all.” She noticed Emily’s look of unease. “ ‘Fortuitous’?”

  “It is a common word,” Emily said, not wanting the woman to keep asking questions for she knew she could not lie to her.

  “About as common as that dress.”

  “Oh. I thank you for cleaning it. You did an excellent job.”

  “I got it soaking before the blood dried. Now, don’t try to distract me. Why did you leave England?”

  Emily sighed. “My sister was beginning to show that she carried a child. David was only the local blacksmith’s son and it would be a match everyone frowned on.” A partial truth that she hoped would satisfy the woman.

  “A bad match.” Mrs. O’Neal shook her head. “I was considered the same for my Tommy. He was an educated fellow and I was only the daughter of a seamstress. He was also Catholic and Irish and I was not. My Tommy realized his family was going to make our life hell and so we came out here. His sister was saddened about it, and Tommy was their only son, but he was adamant. We had ten lovely years and I am still trying to forgive them for driving us away.”

  “Because he died here,” Emily said softly.

  “Which is silly of me. Some fool in Boston could have killed him. Killing an Irishman wasn’t all that unusual there.” She put the meat in to cook then turned to study Emily for a moment. “I think you feel something like that.”

  “Yes. Something like that.” Emily suspected what she felt was far stronger and more bitter than what Mrs. O’Neal felt. “Is there anything else I can do?” She wanted something that would dim the sad memories stirred up by their talk.

  Mrs. O’Neal set a huge bowl of pea pods on the table. “Shell the peas. Done that before?”

  “Yes. That is a lot of peas.”

  “We have twelve, no, thirteen people to feed and many of them male. Several of them still growing boys. They are like locusts in a field after a full day of work.” She set down a bowl to put the peas in. “Then we do some carrots and, after that, apples, as I mean to make a couple of pies.”

  “A couple of pies?”

  “They all have a sweet tooth.”

  Emily laughed and concentrated on the peas. It was pleasant to sit in the kitchen talking recipes and helping Mrs. O’Neal prepare the meal. She thought of her friends back home and knew many would be an even mixture of horrified and fascinated. A smile twitched at her lips as she thought of her friend Penelope Whitman, who had been her friend since they were very small. That woman would fall down laughing if she could see her now. Emily missed the long talks and laughter they had often shared over tea.

  By the time Mrs. O’Neal had all the apples she needed for her pies, Emily was exhausted. It embarrassed her that helping with such simple chores had worn her out. When she stood up she had to grab the edge of the table to support herself. She glanced toward the door leading out of the kitchens and was not sure she would be able to reach it without sprawling gracelessly on the floor.

  “You are looking very pale,” said Mrs. O’Neal as she stepped close to Emily. “Done in now, are you?”

  “It is ridiculous,” Emily muttered. “I have done nothing but lie abed for days and all I have done now is sit here and ready vegetables for cooking. That should not weary me so.”

  “You may have been lying abed but your body was working hard.” Mrs. O’Neal put her arm around Emily’s waist to help hold her up. �
��When folk stay in a sickbed for a while they always find the first few days of being back on their feet hard work. Let’s get you back up to bed. There are a few hours for you to rest before the meal is set out.”

  They were slowly starting up the stairs when a voice behind them demanded, “What are ye doing?”

  Both women screeched and Emily grabbed hold of Mrs. O’Neal. When they turned to see it was Iain behind them their fright turned to annoyance. Emily scowled at him.

  “You should not sneak up on people like that,” she said.

  “You scared us half to death, son.” Mrs. O’Neal patted her chest as she fought to calm herself. “I am helping her back to bed so she can rest before tonight’s meal. She was helping me. Too much too soon, I am thinking. What are you doing?”

  Iain tugged Emily free of Mrs. O’Neal’s grip and swung her up into his arms. “I will do it. Ye can go back to your work now.”

  Mrs. O’Neal just raised her brows, nodded, and hurried away. Emily silently cursed and tried to ignore the broad chest she was being held against. She stared at her hands to keep from looking at his face. Then he faltered in his step and she quickly wrapped her arms around his neck. His pace up the stairs immediately smoothed out and she frowned as she glanced up at him.

  “Better,” he said. “Before it was akin to toting logs up to the fire.”

  “I am unaccustomed to being carried about.”

  “What? No servants to carry ye about back home?”

  “I suppose you think yourself amusing. You may have noticed that Annabel and David had no servants.” Except for her, she added silently, but quickly buried that bitter thought. “And I left England almost four years ago.”

  “Where in England?” he asked as he set her on the bed.

  “Hertfordshire. My sister chose the wrong man to love and was carrying his child.”

  “And that made her need to run here?”

  Realizing she was close to telling him too much, Emily shrugged and looked at him. “Why did you and your family leave Scotland? I have seen the paintings you have. You loved that place. One can see it in each painting.”

  “We were not given a choice.” He looked down at her feet as he fought down an old anger. “Where are your shoes?”

  Emily blushed. She had hoped he would not notice that. Once she had realized she could not put on her stockings she had seen no point in struggling with shoes.

  “I left them off because I was unable to don stockings. I am not ready to bend down and put them on, either.” She tried to pull her feet up under her skirts but the slight bending of her upper leg caused her wound to protest enough to make her hiss with pain.

  “Dinnae be a fool,” Iain said, and tugged her feet down. “I have seen unshod feet before.”

  “Not mine,” she muttered.

  “Why did your sister feel the need to leave just because she carried her husband’s child?” He sat on the edge of the bed near her hip.

  “I told you, she chose the wrong man to wed, one our parents did not approve of.” She sat up against the pillows and gave him her best polite smile. “She could not raise her child where he would always be looked upon as less, as a terrible mistake. Where she and her husband would not be accepted in the places she always went to so freely.”

  “Aye, that would be hard on a lad and a woman but harder yet to leave all your kin as weel.”

  Not liking how intently he was studying her, his expression pleasant enough but his dark green eyes narrowed, Emily settled herself more comfortably against the pillows. “I came up to get a little rest before supper so I suppose I best get to it.”

  He knew she was hiding some piece of the real truth, quite possibly the piece that would explain why her sister was dead. She held his stare for a moment and then closed her eyes, tensing when he moved up the bed until he was face-to-face with her. He thought of that box the boy kept such a close watch over, of the mark on that birth certificate, and her talk of papers proving that the boy owned land in England and the land his parents were buried on. He also recalled the rings and the locket, all worth more money than a blacksmith’s son and shamed daughter could gather. Emily was gentry but for some reason was determined to keep that a secret. He had to wonder what kind of trouble he had brought into his home.

  Emily opened her eyes and frowned at him. “I do not need to be watched until I go to sleep.”

  “I think there is something ye are hiding from me.”

  “Why would you think that? What reason would I have to do so?”

  Iain tried to think of a good reply, one that would help to pull the secrets out of her, but all that filled his head were thoughts of her mouth and if it would feel as warm and soft as it looked. It was a foolish thought but he could not shake free of it. She was trouble. Every instinct he had honed over the years told him so. Yet, even as those thoughts went through his mind, he realized he was lowering his mouth to hers.

  Her mouth was sweet and warm. She offered no resistance when he slid his tongue between her lips, needing only a light push to get her to open to him, although he had felt her give a start of surprise. He pulled her close and she wrapped her arms around his neck. It was the tiny sound she made as she raised her wounded arm that snapped him out of the haze of pleasure he had fallen into. He pulled away, ignoring the wide dazed look in her eyes as he leapt to his feet. There was also a lingering warmth in her gaze that called to him and he needed to get out of there before he answered.

  “Best you get some sleep now,” he said, then turned and hurried out of the room. Running like a damned coward, a small voice whispered in his mind but he sternly ignored it.

  Emily stared at the door wondering what had just happened. He had kissed her as if he was starved for the taste of her yet he had then backed away as if she had suddenly become venomous. She had little experience with kisses but felt certain that was not a common reaction. His parting words had been pleasant but his voice had been cold enough to chill her blood. It had certainly robbed her of any lingering warmth offered by the kiss.

  She mulled over what he had said before he had so abruptly kissed her. Relaxing back against the pillows she touched her lips and sighed. She could not answer his questions yet felt that she should. The man had saved her life and Neddy’s, too. Emily closed her eyes and tried to calm herself, to reach for the sleep she needed. She had spent too many years keeping secrets, fearing that she would slip and give something away, something that would cost her sister her child. Now she had lost her parents, her sister, poor sweet David, and she was all that was left to protect little Neddy.

  Well, Iain MacEnroy could continue to believe she kept secrets. She did and no matter how sweet his kisses, no matter how much his coldness upset her, she would not give them up. Neddy was the only family she had left. Then there were the ones determined to wipe out the Stantons, most especially the young heir. Secrecy was necessary to keep the child alive. She could not, would not, gamble with trusting her feelings about who could be told those secrets. As she slid into sleep her fears and worries followed her, darkening her dreams.

  * * *

  Iain dismounted and then plucked Neddy from the saddle and set him on the ground. The boy laughed and Iain smiled. Neddy had a great laugh, one that drew a person in to share his joy. Iain could only assume the boy had not seen any of what had happened to his parents. He had been saved that trauma. His mind and spirit carried few shadows of the violence he had survived.

  As he watched Neddy play with the puppies that ran out of the barn to greet them, Iain wondered if Emily Stanton was more than just an aunt to him. It was not unusual for a female to use some indigent relative to raise her child. It better explained the child’s lack of scars than anything else he could think of. In Neddy’s heart and mind, Emily was more his parent than the two people murdered had been. It was sad but he did not blame the boy’s parents for that. Starting a new life in a new country took up a lot of one’s time and strength. They had not had the time or ene
rgy to build a bond with their child before they died.

  Knowing he was postponing seeing Emily, he finished stabling his horse and then took Neddy by the hand. It was cowardly to use the boy to shield himself but Iain knew he would do it. It was time for him to face whatever consequences there were for his actions. Iain had no idea of how she might greet him but there was no forgetting how he had kissed her then walked away. He had the distinct feeling that was not something a woman shrugged off easily.

  It had been a mistake to kiss her. He was still not sure what had possessed him. One moment he had been admiring the lines of her face, thinking her mouth would be sweet, and the next he had been tasting that mouth. He had definitely discovered just how sweet that mouth was. Then he had run off like a rabbit scenting a hungry fox. He could not really understand what had sent him running but he certainly knew a lot of reasons why he should not be kissing her.

  There was no denying that there were many good, solid reasons not to go kissing the woman. Emily was a woman in danger, one he had taken in. She was, in fact, under his protection as was the child with her. It was something he continually reminded himself of. He should not then turn into one of those dangers, even if his desire was not one to kill her. It might kill him though, he thought, and chuckled softly as he led Neddy up the stairs.

  Just before stepping into the room, he sent up a quick prayer that she would be asleep. Neddy pulled free of his hold and ran to the bed. Emily’s eyes opened and she smiled at the child. Iain decided he might need to live a more righteous life if he expected his prayers to be answered.

  “And what did you do this afternoon, love?” she asked as the boy climbed up on the bed.

  “I rode a horse.”