Chapter Twelve
Mairie must have mentioned Jeannie's request for a seamstress to Mrs. Findlay, for shortly after she'd left Charles Sinclair's rooms, the housekeeper approached her. "Homespun is not at all suitable for the laird's lady," she said bluntly. "But we might find something we can use in the attic."
Jeannie spent the next hour in the attic with Mairie and Mrs. Findlay, going through the old dresses left by Cameron's mother, searching for suitable fabric to reuse.
Jeannie sat back on her heels, dismayed. "It's all very fine, but . . . " They'd gone through three large trunks and a number of smaller boxes. A wealth of old clothing, almost none of it usable.
The shoes were impossible. Cameron's mother had tiny feet.
They'd found plenty of dresses and other garments, including a fine tartan shawl that Jeannie shook out and draped around herself. It was moth-eaten in one corner, but she could hide that in the folds, she thought.
There were some fine linen petticoats that they decided could be made into underclothes. But none of the other fabrics were suitable for the kind of everyday dresses Jeannie was in need of.
Cameron's mother's gowns were all from another time, made of stiff brocades or heavily embroidered silks, satin, damask, and velvet.
Jeannie put aside several to be made into dresses for wearing to church, and for when they might have visitors to entertain, though both Mairie and Mrs. Findlay seemed to think a village seamstress might not be up to working with such fabrics.
The local women were, they reminded her, more used to wool. And very plain styles at that.
"These won't do at all," Mrs. Findlay declared, replacing the old dresses in their yellowed tissue wrapping and shutting the trunk lid firmly.
"The laird must take you down to Inverness, or better still, Edinburgh, where the fashionable dressmakers are to be found.
His mother, after all, had everything of the best, and from Paris. "
Like her brother, Charles, Jeannie thought. But she was no fancy French born aristocrat to be demanding the finest of everything. Cameron had been worried enough about his uncle's spending. Far be it for her to add to those worries.
As for a trip to Inverness or Edinburgh, Jeannie couldn't see that happening any time soon.
Cameron was wholly concerned with estate matters.
It would be petty of her to demand a shopping trip to Edinburgh, when he was racing against time to ensure his people were snug and secure and well sheltered from the winter cold.
"Homespun will suffice for the time being," Jeannie decided. "And some shoes from the village shoemaker." Anything was better than wearing the same dress day after day, and too-big shoes stuffed with wool.
Mrs. Findlay sniffed, but said nothing.
* * *
CAMERON ARRIVED HOME late that afternoon, tired, dusty and itching from bits of thatching straw caught in his hair and clothing, but well pleased. They'd made a good start on the repairs that the estate so badly needed.
Not wanting to present himself to his wife in his dusty state, he'd stripped to his breeks and washed under the pump in the yard behind the kitchen.
Clean, refreshed and still dripping, he stepped inside. "Afternoon Mrs. Baines. Something smells good. Would you happen to know where I might find my wife?"
The cook shook her head. "Laird, Laird, Laird. Must ye drip water all over my good clean floor?" She handed him a towel
Cameron grinned and dutifully towel-dried his dripping torso and hair.
Having known Mrs. Baines all his life, he appreciated the slightly acerbic undertone she'd given to "Laird," giving him to understand that as far as she was concerned he was still the grubby urchin who'd tracked mud across her floors, stealing biscuits and cakes on the way.
He tossed her the damp towel and eyed a batch of oatcakes, fresh from the oven and cooling on a rack.
She followed his gaze. "Don't you dare—och! Serve you right if you burn your mouth."
He demolished the hot oatcake in two bites. "My wife?"
"Upstairs, I think. She took tea this afternoon with your uncle. Last I heard she was in her bedchamber. Mrs. Findlay might know."
Cameron frowned. Damn his uncle. What the devil had he said to Jeannie?
He knew he shouldn't have left her alone on this first day.
He should have gone with her to Uncle Charles, defended her from his snobbery and superior attitudes.
Grabbing another oatcake, he hurried away and took the stairs two at a time.
Quietly he opened his bedchamber door and found Jeannie curled up in the window seat, reading a small blue book. "Jeannie?"
She looked up and to his acute dismay, her eyes were filled with tears. It was worse than a punch in the chest
The bastard. He crossed the floor in two strides. "What did he say to you—och, don't look at me like that, lass—I'll send him away." He pulled out a handkerchief, saw it was dirty, tossed it aside and used his thumbs to gently wipe her tears away. Her skin was like silk. "Tell me what he said."
She blinked. "What who said?"
"My cursed uncle. Whatever he's done, I'll fix it."
Her brow puckered slightly. "But he was very kind."
"Kind?"
She nodded and held up the book. "He gave me this."
Cameron glanced at the book. "A book?"
She gave a shaky little laugh, tears and smiles at the same time. "Not just any book." She opened it and showed him the title page. "My very favorite book in all the world."
Cameron stared at it glumly as she burbled happily on. Poetry, he might have known.
"And then, when he found out I didn't own a copy, he gave me his. As a bride gift." Tears welled again, but her smile was luminous. "I've been reading and rereading it all afternoon."
"Ah. A bride gift." And one that from her reaction would be a thousand times better than his own simple blue shawl. Poetry. Cameron stared at her helplessly, then bent and carefully thumbed her tears away.
Her eyes dropped to his chest. And stayed there.
Cameron abruptly recalled that he was naked from the waist up. His mouth dried.
A single tear remained, glistening on her cheek. It took all his strength not to kiss it from her, to taste the salt of her tears and the fragrance of her skin.
She seemed absorbed by his chest, his very bare chest. It was a slow caress, almost tangible, though she hadn't moved a muscle. He swallowed.
Her gaze dropped to where skin met breeks.
His stomach muscles clenched with the effort to fight his growing arousal.
She wasn't trying to seduce him, he could tell. He'd been seduced by enough girls and women to know the difference between calculated seductiveness, and feminine curiosity.
The temptation to lean forward and encourage that curiosity was overwhelming. But he knew what would follow—his body was one great aching knot of lust for her—and his control was on a knife edge.
But he'd promised her a courtship before any bedding. A fortnight to wait, dammit.
Her gaze dropped briefly below the belt-line, then skittered away. Blushing, she moistened her lips.
Cameron groaned and leaned forward to capture them. His mouth had barely touched hers when there was a knock on the door and a voice called, "Laird, are you in there?"
Cameron groaned, a very different groan this time, and rose to his feet, cursing under his breath. He strode across the room and pulled open the door. "Yes?"
A servant stood there holding out a blue bundle. "Cook said you left this beside the pump when you had your wash."
Cameron tucked the shawl under his arm. "Anything else?"
"No, Laird."
"Tell Cook—oh, never mind." He closed the door, and turned to find her standing in front of the window, gazing out as if transfixed by the view. But she was breathing fast, as if she'd been running. And though he could only see her profile, her color was heightened.
He smiled to himself and pulled a clean shirt from the chest of drawers. The interruption was probably for the best. He'd come home early in order to get some courting done.
He pulled on the shirt and as he tucked it in, he glanced around the room, wondering how to broach the subject. Perplexed he wrinkled his brow. The room looked the same, only . . . it wasn't. And now he came to think of it, there was a distinct smell of beeswax.
"What have you done to this room?"
She jumped and turned around. "Nothing. I only had it cleaned. Properly." She sounded defensive.
He gave the room another swift examination. "Looks good. Smells good, too."
She smiled and gave a brisk little nod. "So much for men not noticing."
"Not noticing what?"
"Whether a room is clean or dirty."
He frowned. "Who said we didn't?"
"It doesn't matter. What was it that Cook sent up?"
"Oh, nothing much." He was only too aware that his gift was paltry compared with his uncle's. "I thought you might like to go for a walk by the sea tonight, before we dine."
"I would, thank you. But what has that to do with—oh." She broke off as he handed her a bundle.
"I got you this. Thought you might need something. The breeze off the sea can be quite chilly." And where, he wondered, were the gracious manners his uncle—both his uncles—had tried to drum into him? And the charm with which he'd been able to approach women in the past.
Small and unassuming though she was, something in her quiet composure—or was it the look in those wide blue eyes?—whatever, it brought out the great awkward lummox in him.
She shook out the shawl. "Oh, Cameron, it's beautiful." She wrapped it around her shoulders and turned to look at her reflection in the looking glass.
Cameron gave a satisfied nod. "I thought so. It matches perfectly."
"Matches?" She turned and gave him a puzzled look. "But it's quite a different blue from that of my dress—not that I mind, of course, but—"
Placing his hands on her shoulders, he turned her to face the looking glass again. "Not your dress, your eyes. Bridget was trying to push a pink shawl on me, or white for a bride, but I wanted this one because I knew it would match your bonny blue eyes. And it does. Perfectly."
Their eyes met in the looking glass, and under his appalled gaze, her eyes slowly filled with tears.
Not again. Cameron was frantic to stop them. "What is it? Do you not like it? Don't worry, I'll get rid of it, get you another." He went to peel the shawl from her shoulders.
Her hands closed over his. "Don't you dare."
"But—"
"I love it, Cameron. It's so soft and beautiful and warm. But most of all, I love that you chose it to match my eyes."
"But you're crying."
She gave that husky little laugh, half laughter, half tears, that caught him by the throat every time. "Yes, but they're happy tears."
Happy tears? He stood staring over her shoulder at her reflection in the looking glass. He was drowning, all at sea, anchored only by the warmth of her body leaning lightly against him and her small, strong hands resting on his. And the look in those blue, blue eyes, shining with tears.
Happy tears.
Once upon a time—a couple of days ago—he'd imagined he understood women just fine. The truth was, he hadn't a clue.