Chapter 3 #2
If it were possible, she’d stay hidden behind the tree for the rest of the day.
She wasn’t a hoyden, truly. She had learned her lessons well from Mrs. Parker and, before that woman’s tutelage, had always been a proper young woman.
She could now walk with grace across wooden floors without her heels clunking at each step.
Although not as delicate as Maureen, she was not a clumsy oaf, either.
She could dance in a fashion, although she admitted that the more complicated steps were beyond her.
She was expected to silently count them in her mind while remaining outwardly flirtatious and charming.
One or the other always took precedence.
More often than not, her partner heard her mumbling to herself.
Now she’d been found in a hedge.
He’d only stared at her when she’d made that remark about his horse.
No proper lady ever commented upon the gender of an animal.
Which was absurd, of course, but it was one of those innumerable rules that everyone obeyed.
Even living on a farm, she was supposed to pretend that she’d never noticed animals copulating, or even the fact that a male was a male.
Not that she was given to studying the nether regions of horses, but in this instance she hadn’t exactly been able to ignore it.
He’d known right away what she was doing. Do you always hide behind hedges? Her suitors in Edinburgh would never have dared say such a thing. Even if they had suspected, they would have fawned all over themselves to excuse her behavior.
Are you looking for mushrooms, my dear? Or have you gotten yourself entangled in the brambles? Or were you, perhaps, indisposed, having twisted your ankle or torn your skirt on a wayward branch?
She’d been so flustered that she’d told him the truth. Riona closed her eyes, wishing that she’d had the presence of mind to say something witty, instead.
Peering around the tree again, Riona discovered that he’d disappeared into the house.
She had seen attractive men before, in Inverness and Edinburgh. Not once had she been tempted to stare. Until now.
Would she have been as shamed if their guest had been a troll? If he had been Old Ned, for example, would she feel this flush of heat? Or even the parson? She doubted it, and it was that knowledge that further added to her irritation.
Looking down at herself, she frowned. Grass stains marred the front of her skirt, and her arm had a streak of mud on it. A leaf clung to a tendril of her hair, and she brushed it free impatiently.
She could march into the parlor in her current state and pretend that nothing was amiss, but such behavior would shock her mother.
Or she could retreat to her room, clean herself up, and present herself to their guest, thereby impressing him with her manners and grace.
Annoyed with herself, she chose yet another option, that of returning to her room and remaining there.
A young maid answered his knock, stepping aside before he gave her his name.
“Welcome to Tyemorn Manor,” she said with a little curtsy. “Come and rest yourself in the parlor while I let the lady of the house know you’ve come.” The greeting, evidently recited from memory, was offered with a cheerful smile.
Smiling back at her, he turned to look at Rory, who cantered up behind him. The young man dismounted, but didn’t move toward the door.
“If it’s all right with you, sir, I’d rather wait here.”
James nodded, hiding his smile. Rory was staring at the young maid as if he’d never seen a woman before.
Entering the paneled hall, he gazed at the staircase directly in front of him.
Soaring high above the foyer, the polished expanse of wooden steps seemed to entice the eye.
Two intricately carved lions’ heads began the banister that curved upward in a delicate arch of wood and workmanship.
A beautiful creation, obviously built with as much care as the hull of a MacRae ship.
He followed the maid into one of the two rooms flanking the entranceway.
Two settees, both upholstered in a deep blue fabric, sat opposite each other in front of a large white marble fireplace.
The chamber walls were covered in the same dark blue material, as were the curtains on the two long windows.
The monochromatic scheme was oddly comforting.
The drapes were open, and streaks of sunlight illuminated the richly patterned carpet on the floor. A silver bowl filled with flowers occupied the table between the settees and perfumed the air.
The only sound in the room was the lulling tick of the mantel clock. For the first time in months, James felt himself relax and wondered at the skill of his hostess in wordlessly conveying welcome.
Walking to the windows, he stared at the hedge to the right of the front walk.
Who was she? He smiled, thinking of her words.
Your horse is a stallion, isn’t it? Her gray eyes had been filled with a succession of emotions—surprise, wonder, embarrassment.
Her face had, at first, been too pale before warming with color.
Conversation with a beautiful woman normally consisted of compliments or a series of witty verbal thrusts and parries. But with her he’d been startled into silence.
He was accustomed to feminine gestures, womanly traits. Just the right profile or angle of head, an extended hand, an artfully placed foot, a demure yet teasing smile, each one designed to attract and entice. This woman had lain beneath a hedge staring up at the sky.
Who was she?
He realized that he very much wanted—and perhaps needed—to know.