Chapter Eleven
Cameron sat back on the roof beam and looked about him with some satisfaction.
His work here was done; the rest was up to the thatchers.
Two houses over, another roof was being repaired, and the village was busy with purposeful activity.
His marriage, and his consequent ability to take control as the laird, had given the place new life. New hope.
He sent a lad to fetch his horse. Next he would ride out to the site of the ruined bridge and see how his cousins were getting on.
He'd sent them out first thing in the morning, with orders to clear away the wreckage and sort it into wood that could still be used, and firewood.
He had long ago compiled a list of the necessary supplies, and had sent them off by sea the first night of his marriage, while he was waiting for her to be ready for him.
How was his bride getting on? If the repairs needed hadn't been so urgent, he might have stayed and broken his fast with her, discussed possibilities for the day, and eased her more gently into her new life.
But the state of some of the ruined roofs and the wrecked bridge—and the imminence of winter—were the very reasons he'd married her in the first place.
He hoped she was managing. He'd begin his courtship this very evening, and take her for a walk by the sea. And talk, though about what he had no idea.
"You're off then, Laird?" Bridget said as he stepped off the ladder.
"Aye, out to the ruined bridge." A brisk breeze had sprung up, though there was, luckily, no sign of rain.
"Once we move back into the cottage I'll be able to get back to my weaving. There's scant room for it in my father-in-law's."
"Weaving?" Cameron echoed vaguely. He'd been thinking about the bridge. There was no time to build a stone bridge, not before winter, but next summer he promised himself he'd make a start on it. In the meantime, a wooden bridge would allow a resumption of contact with the outside world.
"Aye, Laird, and these days it's no' simply a pastime. The money I earn makes a real difference."
With an effort, Cameron recalled she'd been talking about her weaving. "You sell it?"
Bridget nodded. "There's a shop down in Edinburgh that buys my pieces—mine and some of the other women's.
It seems city folk have lost the art of weaving.
The man in Edinburgh sends us the money when each piece is sold.
It's no' a lot, but it makes a difference, especially with three growing bairns. "
"That's grand," he murmured. He was anxious to get on out to the bridge.
"Would you like to see some of my work, Laird? It's but a short step to my father-in-law's house." She was clearly proud of her weaving, and Cameron hesitated but a moment before he nodded. As laird, it behooved him to show an interest.
"I use the finest lambswool I can get," Bridget explained as they walked. "And sometimes, if I get a rabbit or two, I spin in some of the fur. It's very soft and adds a lovely texture. And of course, I spin and dye and weave it all myself."
She laid several of her shawls out on the table at her father-in-law's cottage. The old man sat by, smoking his pipe, watching with a dour expression. The two older children had been playing knucklebones in the corner, while the baby gnawed on a crust. They'd all fallen silent when Cameron entered.
Cameron had never taken much notice of what women wore—not shawls, anyway—but he could see why the shop in Edinburgh bought Bridget's weavings. They were so soft and fine, not like homespun at all, and the colors glowed like jewels against the drab setting of the cottage.
His fingers hovered over a soft shawl in a deep, rich blue with a hint of lavender. "How much would you sell this for?"
"To the man in Edinburgh?" He nodded, and she named a price he thought shockingly small.
"And how much does he sell them for in his shop?"
"I'm not exactly sure, but some one told me a friend in Edinburgh had seen one of my shawls for"—she named a price—"but that couldn't be right. It's far too expensive."
Cameron frowned. He'd have to investigate this Edinburgh fellow. He wasn't going to allow his people to be cheated, and it sounded as though that might be the case. But when would he have time to go to Edinburgh? Maybe he'd take Jeannie on a belated bride trip.
"Would you sell me that one?" He pointed to the blue shawl.
Bridget looked shocked. "Sell it, Laird? After you've worked all day on my cottage roof? I should think not! I'll give it gladly."
"Then I'll not take it." He glanced at her father-in-law, then back at Bridget and said firmly, "I'm the laird now, Bridget.
I'm well aware of the neglect that's taken place since Uncle Ian died and I'm going to be working on every ruined roof that needs it—no special favors.
Now, I want to buy this shawl as a gift for my bride, but I'll not be cheating you or any one of my tenants out of what they're due. So will you sell it to me or not?"
"Och, but it's not my finest shawl—there's a wee imperfection in the corner, see?" She pointed but Cameron could see nothing amiss.
"It's fine."
"The pink one is daintier, or how about this white one? White is very suitable for a bride." But his hand rested possessively on the blue shawl, and seeing it, she smiled. "Very well. I can see you want the blue one."
"I do." He laid a sum of money on the table and she gasped.
"But that's far too much!"
It was exactly what she'd said the shop in Edinburgh sold them for. He raised his brow. "Are you saying I'm no' as good as the fancy folk in Edinburgh?"
She gave an awkward half-laugh. "Of course not."
"Then we'll not be arguing." He folded the pretty blue shawl up and tucked it under his arm.
Bridget, her father-in-law and the little ones followed him to the door of the cottage. "Thank you, Laird," Bridget said. "For everything. My very best wishes to your bride."
The lad was waiting outside with his horse. Cameron tucked the shawl into his saddlebag. His first courting gift. He'd give it to her this evening.
He mounted his horse and rode away toward the causeway and the ruined bridge where he'd first met a feisty scrap, all mud and wary suspicion, with a pair of blazing blue eyes that had pierced him to the heart. And his whole life had changed.
He thought about the way she'd kissed him the previous night, the softness of her lips and wild honey taste of her. The way her slender limbs had twined around him.
Lord, but he wanted her something fierce.
He wished he could have spent more time with her this morning, given her a proper honeymoon. But these repairs were urgent and while the good weather held, he could not give his bride the attention she deserved.
He hoped she liked the shawl.
* * *
JEANNIE TOOK A DEEP breath, smoothed her hair and her skirts for the dozenth time, and knocked on Charles Sinclair's door.
"Entrez!" She hoped he didn't intend to conduct the whole conversation in French. She spoke a little French but wasn't very fluent.
A slight, dark-haired manservant opened the door and stepped back with a welcoming gesture. The tall figure of Cameron's uncle rose to greet her.
"Good morning, Mr. Sinclair, I . . ." Her voice trailed off as she looked around her in amazement.
It was as if by stepping through the door she'd been transported from a Scottish castle of plain gray stone and wood to . . . to some sumptuous French palace. It was all lightness and gold and richly textured color.
The bedchamber she shared with her husband was lined with dark wooden paneling. Here the same kind of paneling had been painted white, and was ornamented with elegant gold-leafed molding. The stone walls above the paneling had been plastered and covered with delicately embossed pale green paper.
The floorboards, too, were painted white, and scattered with thick Persian rugs, richly colored and soft underfoot.
On either side of a tall, white enamel stove hung huge, ornately gold-framed paintings of an aristocratic-looking man and a beautiful woman, both wearing high white wigs and sumptuous clothing. Echoes of a past age of elegance.
"My parents," Charles Sinclair murmured.
Crimson velvet curtains framed the windows.
On the opposite wall another window framed a scene of bucolic delight, hills and trees and a pretty shepherdess in an old-fashioned dress trimmed with lace—lace?
On a shepherdess? She was watching over sheep that looked like small fluffy clouds against the lush, green grass.
Cleaner than any sheep Jeannie had ever seen.
She frowned, looking at those sheep. She moved closer and looked again.
She glanced at the windows on the opposite wall.
They looked out on a grey Scottish day in late autumn, all soft muted colors; slate gray, lilac, grey-green.
She looked again at the shepherdess standing in bright sunshine in a colorful flower-dotted meadow.
It didn't make sense. Apart from the very unScottish scene, this window was facing the wrong way—inward.
"Trompe l'oeil," Charles Sinclair said. "Do you like it? I painted it myself."
"You painted this?" Jeannie moved closer, and saw that it was indeed a painting. "But it looks so real. I'd heard you painted, but I had no idea . . ."
She examined the tiny figures, the illusion of lace on the shepherdess's dress, small exquisite details such as the tiny flowers growing in the grass and a bird pulling a worm from the earth. Everything looked so real until you were a few inches away from it and saw the texture of the paint.
"It's wonderful. I've never seen anything like it." Things that close up seemed like random blobs and smears, when you stepped a few feet away they turned into lifelike images.
"It's an old technique," Charles Sinclair said carelessly, though it was clear he was delighted by her praise. "Been around since the Romans."