Chapter 3
Riona sat beneath a venerable oak, her skirts arranged artfully around her.
If a casual onlooker could ignore the streaks of dirt on her garments, the unkempt state of her hair, and the fact that her nails were dirty, she might have been considered one of Mrs. Parker’s prize pupils.
But she’d helped deliver a calf this morning, and Riona doubted very much if that ability ranked highly in the older woman’s lexicon of acceptable behavior.
Tugging on her lopsided braid, she pulled it free, wishing again that there was some way of controlling her hair other than the heavy plait.
Tying the ends again, she tucked the mess up on her head with what hairpins still remained, hoping it looked like a crown of sorts.
A moment later, it came tumbling down again.
Giving up on any semblance of propriety, she unplaited the whole thing, letting it frizz around her face like an auburn cloud.
Sitting back against the trunk of the tree, she surveyed the cloudless sky, marveling at the beauty of the day.
In front of her was the lane and beyond it a meadow blooming with hardy flowers and tall grass.
Sometimes, sheep foraged here, but it had been left to go wild these past months.
On the other side of the expanse of land grew a series of hedges, kept neatly trimmed by the gardener and his boy.
Oddly enough, the juxtaposition of the two, hedges and meadow, reminded Riona of herself.
She would dearly love to be left wild, but she was being trimmed all the time.
Take this morning, for example. She desperately wanted to discuss the birth with someone, but she wasn’t supposed to have been present, let alone to have placed her hands on the cow’s belly to gently urge the contractions.
Why should she be left in virtual ignorance of nature when she was going to give birth herself one of these days? Riona could only imagine the reaction should she ever voice that comment.
There was a book in her lap, one of those Mrs. Parker thought acceptable, but she wasn’t in the mood for Milton.
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all, but torture without end
Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed
With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed.
Such place Eternal Justice has prepared
For those rebellious; here their prison ordained
In utter darkness, and their portion set,
As far removed from God and light of Heaven
As from the center thrice to th’ utmost pole.
Paradise Lost seemed a fate similar to what Mrs. Parker would have decreed for her, had not Riona chosen to wed Harold.
Riona stared at the page for a long moment, wondering why she suddenly envisioned Mrs. Parker as Milton.
Perhaps it was because the older woman had not ceased in her endless complaints and dire predictions, despite the fact that Harold had announced their betrothal.
All was still not well at Tyemorn Manor and would not be, evidently, until Riona—an immoral creature of sin—was safely married.
Putting the book down on the ground beside her, Riona folded her arms around her drawn up knees, staring off into the distance.
The village was beginning to prepare for Lethson, the ceremony marking the summer solstice.
Ayleshire had created its own celebration around the date, and this year would mark the first time the manor inhabitants would participate.
At least she would be here for Lethson, she thought dispiritedly.
The bonfires, the horse fair, and the blessing of the fields would take her mind from her coming nuptials.
Unless Mrs. Parker disapproved of Lethson as well.
As if she’d conjured her up, Riona heard the sound of a stick pounding on the lane.
Twice a day, the Englishwoman took a bracing walk during which she quoted soul-elevating verse.
“A time to exercise the spirit as well as the limbs, my girl,” Riona had been told during similar constitutionals in Edinburgh.
Mrs. Parker was making vigorous progress, striking the whins on either side of the lane with her stick until the air was perfumed with almonds. As if she were reprimanding the brilliant yellow flowers on their posture.
Realizing that she could be seen if the other woman glanced to the left, Riona looked around for a place to hide, finally choosing the hedge that bordered the edge of the front lawn.
Throwing herself behind it, she lay at ground level, watching Mrs. Parker’s shoes through the gnarled branches as the older woman made her determined way to the front door.
The remainder of the journey to Susanna McKinsey’s home was uneventful; however, James took the precaution of doubling back several times to see if they were being followed.
Twice he suspected as much, and twice nothing had come of it.
If someone was acting as his shadow he was being extraordinarily cautious.
He was familiar with the scenery of the Highlands, from the stark jagged peaks of the mountains to the brilliant French blue of the skies. Yet this part of Scotland was all rolling wooded hills and lush green glens. James felt as if he were back at his father’s childhood home in England.
The River Wye ran between the four hills surrounding Ayleshire. To the southeast was a cliff face that reminded him oddly of Gilmuir, only not as severe or stark. The ruins of an abbey were all that remained, sitting atop the plateau like a guardian of old.
He and Rory descended to the village, following a well-worn path that widened to form the main road.
Ayleshire seemed a prosperous place, with blocks of houses merging together just behind the main street.
James found himself nodding to people, surprised at their smiles of greeting.
Rory began to wave as if they were a royal procession.
James noted, with some amusement, that more than one of the village girls waved back.
Crossing the small bridge that spanned the river, they turned toward the west and Susanna McKinsey’s home.
Situated in a depression of earth, Tyemorn Manor was an odd little place.
The main part of the red brick structure reminded him of homes he’d seen in Surrey, making him wonder if the original builder had taken his inspiration from the English.
But subsequent owners had evidently continued with construction until the house was now a hodgepodge of styles.
A small tower jutted from an abutment to the right, and a long flat wing to the left added to its disjointed appearance.
A small garden, formal in appearance, fronted the structure, while the lane that led to the front door was flanked by blooming yellow flowers.
Instead of taking the road to the house, however, James obeyed an impulse, giving his horse its head across the meadow, leaving Rory to follow as well as he could.
Over a series of hedges they flew, and James felt exhilarated for the first time in months.
The sound of his own laughter surprised him.
A last bit of freedom, then, before he dusted off his clothes and adopted the sober mien of a responsible MacRae once more.
James cleared another hedge, the muscles of the horse beneath him arching and flexing.
He didn’t see the woman on the ground until it was almost too late.
For a second, a horrified instant, James thought she would move, thereby putting herself even further in danger.
But she remained still as he sailed over the hedge.
Hurriedly dismounting, he raced back to see if she had been injured, kneeling at her side.
She had a look of dazed amazement on her face as she lay there, hair spread around her head like an auburn pool, her arms stretched outward, palms up. Her gaze was on the sky, but slowly her eyes moved until she focused on him.
“I’ve never been quite that close to the underside of an animal before. How illuminating. Your horse is a stallion, isn’t it?”
Her comment caught him off guard, and for a moment he could only stare at her.
“Do you always ride like that?” she asked, sitting up slowly. Her eyes, the color of clouds before a storm, were steady on his.
“I would have been more cautious had I known you were there,” he said. “Do you always hide behind hedges?”
“Only when I’m trying to avoid someone.” She brushed a twig from her bodice, made a sweeping inspection of herself, and seeming to find everything intact, got to her knees.
He wanted, suddenly, to know whom she might be hiding from. But that was as inappropriate as watching her tidy herself.
“Are you certain you’re all right?” he asked, standing and extending a hand to help her rise.
Ignoring it, she stood, brushing her skirts down. “I believe so.” She seemed to consider the matter for a moment. “Yes, I’m fine.”
She glanced at him and then away, making him wonder what, exactly, she was thinking. He grabbed the reins of his horse, hesitant in a way he’d rarely felt.
“If you’re certain—” he began, only to have her interrupt.
“Most assuredly,” she said, watching him mount.
He inclined his head, and she smiled lightly. Two perfect strangers engaged in exquisite politeness. But he couldn’t help but look back once he’d reached the road. She was gone, only the lingering echo of her voice remaining, making him wonder, idly, if he’d imagined the entire interlude.
Riona watched in dismay as he dismounted at her front door.
Who was he? Why was he calling at Tyemorn Manor? Was he one of the innumerable messengers who ferried letters between Captain Hastings and Maureen? A visitor come for Lethson? He might be filling one of a hundred roles, and would soon be gone from here, him with his amazing blue eyes and easy grin.