by Nichole Van
Violet was still pondering the conundrum of Lord Graham a day later as she pored over a letter from Mr. Lawyerly, urging her to address the looming issue of the Manna Loan. The debt was due in October, and “it behooves us to make decisions now, while we still have multiple options.”
To paraphrase Mr. Lawyerly’s words: Please make a decision before the choice is made for you in the form of a debt collector appearing on the stoop of Kilmeny Hall.
Violet sighed. That would certainly give Lady Graham something delicious to gossip over.
Did you hear the Scandalous News, Mrs. Brown . . .
Granted, Violet had finally resorted to flipping a coin to decide whether to plant oats or potatoes—potatoes had won.
That strategy seemed less useful when addressing the Manna Loan. After all, it was a multi-faceted problem that could not be reduced to a simple heads-or-tails binary.
What to do?
The sound of raised voices drifted through the closed door of her study.
The twins were arguing yet again, this time debating the more terrifying fiend—Dr. Frankenstein’s monster or Lord Ruthven from The Vampyre. Initially, they both agreed that Lord Ruthven was the more chilling villain.
But then Aster had postulated that perhaps such delicious foreboding could turn Lord Ruthven into a potential book beau.
Rose, of course, countered that no one would want a vampire for a lover. The very idea was absurd.
Given how their voices carried throughout the house, Aster was not relenting her point of view.
Their father periodically emerged from his study to order the twins to cease this racket! Mr. Kerr was deep into writing a new treatise on the importance of showing patience and long-suffering in trials. His daughters’ inability to be silent was an impediment to this.
Violet had yet to point out the hypocrisy to him.
The entire scene continued to play beyond her study door—
“Aster, there is nothing romantic about a lover drinking blood from your vein. It’s vilely horrific!”
“You are fixating on the wrong point, Rose. Giving your very life’s blood to sustain an admirer is the ultimate act of love—”
“Girls! Silence!” Their father roared. “Such talk is vulgar in the extreme! I cannot concentrate!”
Violet realized she simply could not be in the house another moment. She had to seek some fresh air.
Or at a minimum, air that was less . . . shouty.
And less . . . vampirey.
Fifteen minutes later, Violet slipped out the library door and down the steps to the rear terrace.
Her feet took her across the flagstones, through the walled garden, out a door in the garden wall, and up the rise that protected Kilmeny Hall from the endless ocean winds.
As she crested the top of the knoll, the North Sea appeared.
She paused, savoring the panorama, the brisk wind tugging at her bonnet and cloak.
From her earliest memories, she had adored this view. The vastness of the ocean. The red sandstone cliffs extending up and down the coast. The green sweep of fields and gorse. This landscape was a soothing calm on a sunny summer’s day and a glorious terror in the throes of a January storm.
Today was somewhere between those two extremes.
Clouds raced across the sky, painting the world in dappled light. Wind rippled the wide expanse of the North Sea and pelted her skin, billowing her cloak behind her.
The endless blue horizon was broken only by the crenelated tower of Old Kilmeny Castle, perched atop the cliff’s edge. The castle was a lonesome sight, a solitary, boxy tower within a curtain wall that had disintegrated to dirt in more than one place. Only the central keep remained tall and stalwart. Surely there had been a time, perhaps five hundred years ago, when the castle had been a thriving beacon of civilization and culture.
Now, it was a plaintive reminder of a long-forgotten past.
Violet started down the path toward the castle, clutching her cloak, keeping the wool closed around her, the cool wind racing over her bare hands. Much to her mother’s despair, Violet had never really taken to gloves. Something about the leather on her skin always rendered her antsy. Consequently, she only wore gloves when propriety absolutely insisted upon it.
Or, in other words, when she might encounter someone gossipy.
Fortunately, windswept coastlines were usually gossipmonger-free. The wind sucked the air from her lungs, but it offered privacy.
As a child, Old Kilmeny had been her escape when they visited Scotland each autumn. The romantic ancient castle where she and Dahlia would play knights and ladies. She could still see Dahlia racing through the ancient keep in one of the crumpled, old-fashioned gowns they found in a trunk in the attic, her younger sister pointing and ordering Violet about.
Dahlia insisted on being the princess, the lady of the keep, the one to be protected and adored by the gallant knight.
Violet was always the knight.
In retrospect, Violet wasn’t sure why she had agreed to be the knight every time.
Perhaps that was simply the power of Dahlia’s charisma. Her sister’s effortless ability to love people and cause others to love her wholly in return.
Violet bit her lip, shaking her head and forcing back the sudden emotion clogging her throat.
Even two years on, thoughts of Dahlia were an endless wound, never healed and easily disturbed. The effects of Dahlia’s choices—of Violet’s guilt and involvement in those choices—reverberated in a seemingly endless loop, echoing through daily life at Kilmeny Hall.
The vicious sting of Lady Graham’s words from the afternoon before reared up.
The outcome of that debacle was only to be expected.
Violet clenched her teeth.
Enough!
Surely there were much safer mental paths for her to trod.
Such as . . . why hadn’t she ever been the lady of the castle? Why had the role always gone to Dahlia?
Violet was destined for the part from birth. And yet, she had always been the guardian.
The Knight Protector.
It was odd, now that she pondered it.
Was this why she struggled to sell on the tack to pay off the Manna Loan? The Knight Protector in her felt the need to personally oversee the tenants—all those hundreds of people—who lived within the enormous tack? To watch over them and ensure that they were treated with fairness?
Granted, she had no idea how to go about managing the vast lands. The very thought threatened to overwhelm her. Surely she could hire stewards, but that meant even more meetings and further decisions about oats versus potatoes. And certainly at some point, a coin toss would reveal its weaknesses as a decision strategy.
Perhaps it would be kinder to sell the tack to a tacksman more capable and experienced than herself.
The castle loomed as she drew closer. Gorse grew tall and dense nearer the ocean, going from manageable shrub-size to towering tree-like thickets. Its golden-yellow flowers sent a shock of color through the landscape. It was as if the harsher the conditions, the more the bush thrived.
Violet was sure there was a profound life’s lesson in this. Her brain was simply too frayed to process it at the moment.
The castle wasn’t her destination today. She didn’t wish to intrude on her uncle and Mr. Campbell.
Besides, her wayward thoughts about the Highlander were better contained if she starved them of fresh nourishment.
Instead, she skirted the castle and followed a well-worn path that wound near the cliff’s edge. Here, the cliffs zigzagged along the coast, a dizzying blend of exuberant green grass and reddish stone, all dotted with white seabirds. The cacophony of their calls blended into the roar of waves crashing below.
Violet picked her way along the trail, stepping over stones and hopping the occasional boggy patch. The sun peeked out from the racing clouds, skittering light and shadow across the ocean.
Tilting her head upwards, she let the sun wash her face.
She breathed deeply, the fresh air and soothing sounds cleansing the cobwebs in her lungs and mind.
This was what her day had lacked. This freedom, the fresh air, sunlight upon her cheeks—
Ahhhhhhhck!
Violet tripped over something on the path.
The next few moments moved through time like a spoon through honey—slow, sticky, and glossed with a bizarre sort of golden haze.
Her arms flailed, akimbo, skirts tangling her legs. Her weight pitched forward, and she fell, hand smacking against something solid before diving head first toward a large boulder.
But a screech of alarm had barely passed her lips when a steely arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her upright as easily as one might snatch a rag doll.
The world abruptly straightened.
Violet’s heart beat a frantic tempo in her chest, her hands pressed to her sternum, as if to verify that she was, indeed, still whole.
She was unharmed.
She had not dashed her brains upon the rock, after all.
Her mind raced, frantic to puzzle out the last few seconds.
Before falling, she had caught a flash of something beside her feet.
The image came back to her now—Mr. Campbell seated on the leeward side of the large stone outcropping, his body in partial shadow, the man’s hulking form merging with that of the rock.
His foot, unfortunately, jutted out, partially blocking the path.
Violet, with her head upward, soaking in the fleeting sun, had tripped over his boot.
Mr. Campbell had somehow caught her before she hit the ground.
Worse, had she struck him as she fell? The sting of her hand insisted she had.
She swallowed, her relief rapidly morphing into awareness. All five of her senses flared to life at once.
The harsh tang of her breathing.
The flush of blood in her veins.
The scent of soap and wool.
The sight of a strong hand pressing against her stomach, a muscled arm wrapped around her waist.
The murmur of Mr. Campbell’s voice near her ear.
“Are ye hurt, lass?”
Violet gasped at the sound.
It was partially the fizz of his western isles’ accent—that trace of Gaelic in his vowels, the lingering hiss at the end of lass.
But it was more than that.
She felt his words, a puff against the shell of her ear, a rumble of sensation chasing up her spine.
Heavens, she was practically enveloped by him, held against his chest. He was so deliciously large. The heat of his body surrounded her, scalding from hip bone to shoulder blade.
How had he managed this?!
He had been sitting on the ground, of that her flash of memory was sure.
In the breath of time after she tripped, the man had somehow leapt to his feet, absorbed a blow from her own hand, and caught her—with one arm, no less!—before she cracked her head.
It was an astonishing feat of reflexes and strength.
But that had been his forte, had it not? As the Red Renegade, the prizefighter in a ring . . . an enormous brute of a man with cat-like quickness.
Such astonishing strength lay coiled in his body. A promise of the immense damage he could inflict should he choose.
I willnae hurt ye.
His words from long ago fluttered through her mind. A reminder of the dichotomy of him.
“Are ye hurt?” he repeated, some urgency in his voice. “Ye took quite the tumble.”
“I am whole, thanks you.” She stepped forward. He instantly released her.
The entire event had only taken seconds to occur, and yet, Violet’s skin burned where he had touched her. She was quite sure she would feel the imprint of his hands for days.
She turned to face him.
That might have been a mistake.
Violet feared she had avoided tumbling head first into one peril, a boulder, only to be faced with a greater one—him.
He loomed over her.
The sensation was still novel.
Given her own height, Violet had rarely, if ever, experienced looming.
She found she rather liked the feeling. The act of having to look up, up, up to a man’s face.
He was in a great kilt and appeared for all the world like a medieval laird, an ancient inhabitant of the castle itself. The earthy russet-and-gray tartan cloth wrapped around his hips and upper body, emphasizing the breadth and depth of his enormous chest. A shorter dark gray coat sat underneath the kilt, a white neckcloth quickly tied at his throat.
All he needed was a broad sword and a gigantic horse.
She swallowed and lifted her head a fraction higher, meeting his eyes.
Oh!
She had not noticed his eye color before now. They were an astonishing hazel—the colors of autumn . . . amber and green and brown.
Her heart continued to thump like a mad beast in her chest. This time, she was quite sure it was not from startled fright.
He was simply so . . . big. It was ludicrous to even think it, as of course the man was a giant. Surely he tired of people harping upon his size, as if that were the only dimension of his existence worth comment.
But he was a mammoth of a man.
More to the point, at this very moment, head tilted back to look him in the eye, she marveled at feeling small and dainty for once. He could engulf her in that chest of his, wrap his arms around her and cocoon her against him, nearly surrounding her.
Her blood fizzed and popped at the thought. How marvelous would that be—
Violet forced herself to take in a slow breath.
Do not fantasize about the attractive painter.
You are a countess. Countesses do not moon over low-born artists.
No matter how tempting.
“Are you all right, Mr. Campbell?” she asked. “I fear I struck you on my way down—”
“Me?!” Mr. Campbell’s autumnal eyes widened as if astounded. “Hurt by a blow from a wee thing like yourself?”
Violet was also quite sure this would mark the first and last time anyone referred to her as wee.
“Well, my hand continues to smart,” she said, shaking said hand, “and so I can only assume it incurred a similar damage to yourself—”
“Dash it, lass! My muckle foot nearly sent ye tumbling to your death, and ye’re asking after my health? I’m only grateful I was able tae catch ye in time—”
“Oh, heavens!” Violet looked around them, finally noticing the painting accoutrements and small canvas tossed aside as he had lurched to save her. “Not only did I strike you, I fear I have ruined your work.”
She bent to pick up the scattered paintbrush and painter’s palette, now resting in the grass, handing them to him.
“It was only a trifle, my lady. No harm done.” He lifted up the canvas, tilting it face down and away from her view. Violet only caught the briefest glimpse of it.
She rather desperately wanted to see more.
Which, in all truth, was a problem. Because part of her feared that she wanted far more than to casually view the man’s painting.
She wanted to study every canvas he painted, ask questions about line and color, and see if that connection she had felt all those years ago was real.
Such thoughts will only lead to heartache.
Remember you have two younger sisters who are currently relying on you maintaining an impeccable reputation.
And yet, she could not help asking, “May I see it?” She motioned toward the canvas in his hand.
He stilled, as if her question gave him pause. “I . . . uh . . .”
Was he . . . bashful?
And why did she find that fact adorable?
“I promise to be kind,” she said.
“Kind?” He squinted at her. “Och, I dinnae doubt that your ladyship will be kind.” He paused. “But will ye be honest?”
“Honest? About the painting?”
“Aye.” He shifted the canvas. �
�I’ve been exploring an idea your uncle had suggested, and I wouldnae mind an opinion. But it must be an honest one.”
“I can try to be honest.”
He tapped his chin, as if thinking. “I seem tae recall a woman—suspiciously like yourself, I must say—not three days ago declaring she was an acolyte of truth-telling.”
Violet paused, shading her eyes to look up at the man.
Was he . . . ?
Was he subtly . . . teasing her?
His face remained inscrutable as he continued, “I quite liked that statement, I must say . . . the truth-telling. As an artist, I only improve my craft when others provide criticism. I dinnae ken to being offered platitudes like a fruit-trimmed Easter bonnet.”
“Fruit-trimmed Easter bonnet?!” she laughed.
“Well, aye!” He straightened to his full height. “Ye ken what I mean. Some lass arrives at Easter Sunday services in the most ridiculous bonnet imaginable—lemons and . . . whatever citrus—around the brim of her bonnet.” He made a circling motion with his hand around his head, as if to illustrate his point. “She looks absurd, but no kind soul takes pity and tells her this. Instead, her friends compliment her stunning bonnet, while whispering behind her back that it is a travesty of fashion—”
“Something tells me there is a story here.”
“Ye dinnae wish tae hear it, lass.” He shook his head.
“No, you are convincing me that I need to hear the tale in its entirety.”
“Nae, ’tis not a tale for the faint of heart. Ye heard me mention the citrus, did ye not?” He held up his hand and shuddered, eyes shutting as if in pain of the memory.
Violet giggled.
Giggled?!
When was the last time she had giggled about . . . anything?
Countesses suo jure did not giggle. They were to look bemused, tolerant, and provide fond condescension when called upon.
And so, right now, giggling felt . . . glorious. An effervescent lightness in her blood that made her want to spread her arms wide and twirl.
She settled for glancing down at the painting still in his hand. “Have you painted lemons and oranges then? A cathartic purging of events that haunt your nightmares?”
Now she was teasing.
His answering grin said he did not mind.
He hesitated before saying, “Ye’ll have tae decide that for yerself, I suppose.”
