Chapter 12
The Midsummer Festival was more beautiful than anything Cassandra could have imagined. As she entered the town square of Calder Village on the duke’s arm, her other hand holding Annabelle’s, she could not help the gasp that escaped from her lips.
The whole square had been decorated for the festival. Bunting had been hung from the wrought iron lampposts, each of which was also adorned with garlands of Highland heather.
At stalls along the square, women were selling beeswax candles, seamstresses offered gloves and shawls, a woman had flower crowns for the children, a toymaker boasted wooden toys for sale, and there were more food vendors than Cassandra could count.
The smells of steaming pork pies and roasting lamb filled her nose, and her mouth immediately watered.
Around the square lanterns had also been set, the candles inside flickering and casting a warm, orange glow over the pathways. Families moved along these paths, children running ahead of their mothers and fathers, who walked arm-in-arm, admiring the displays.
In the center of the square, games had been set up. There were sack races, croquet, an archery range, and a path for racing games. The children were already gathering there to partake in a relay race, and as Annabelle spied this, she tugged on Cassandra’s arm.
“Can I join in, Cassandra?” she asked, her voice filled with longing. “It looks so much fun!”
“You have to ask your father,” Cassandra said, looking sideways at the duke. He had not spoken much since they had left the castle for the village, but he turned now to his daughter and nodded gravely.
“Be careful,” he intoned, barely finishing the words before Annabelle had released Cassandra’s hand and dashed forward, her hands raised high in greeting. Many of the village children knew her, and they screamed with delight as she joined them.
This caught the eye of their parents, and faces began to turn in Cassandra and the duke’s direction.
She could almost feel the tension in the air, the eyes that burned into them, the curiosity and the whispers.
The duke, according to Lillian, had not been at the Midsummer Festival in five years.
And now he had appeared with a new wife on his arm.
No wonder people were staring.
Cassandra drew closer to the duke.
“Where should we go first?” she murmured. “Is it customary for you to greet one vendor before another?”
“I… do not remember,” the duke admitted. “Let us begin at this side of the square, and then we can move clockwise. That is always safe.”
They approached a man selling puppets, who immediately doffed his cap and swept into a low bow.
“Your Graces,” he said, looking up with sparkling eyes at the duke, then at Cassandra. “We are so honored that you are joining us this evening at the Midsummer Festival.”
“We are very glad to be here,” Cassandra said, smiling at the man. “And I am very honored to be welcomed by the village.”
“Indeed, we are delighted to make your acquaintance, Your Grace,” the man said. “We have heard so many delightful things about you already, from those who work at the castle.”
Cassandra felt her face heat. At the same time, she could sense the duke looking at her.
She wondered what he was thinking: Was he glad that she was making a good name for herself, or did he think she was overstepping?
He had not spoken to her much since their wedding night, and although she was trying not to take this personally or worry that she had done something wrong, it was hard not to let her mind wander.
“And you, Your Grace,” the man continued.
“I must also extend my gratitude to you for helping my sister get to Inverness last year when she was expecting her twins. The pregnancy was quite difficult, and you paid to send her to your own personal doctor. She is doing well now, and the boys are healthy and happy.”
“It was no trouble at all,” the duke said, inclining his head. “I am glad to hear they are doing well.”
They bid farewell to the puppet maker and moved onto the next stall, which was operated by the village baker. He was selling rolls, pastries, and bread, and he gave them both some to sample after also expressing his deep gratitude that they had decided to attend the festival.
As they moved around the square, Cassandra noticed that all the villagers seemed to be honored and touched by the duke’s presence.
They gave him free samples of their wares, and many of them thanked him for help that he had given to relatives of theirs who operated farms in the area.
It seemed that everyone knew everyone, or was related somehow, and that everyone, at some point, had benefited from the patronage of the duke.
“They love you,” she murmured, after they moved away from the final stall, a cobbler who was fixing shoes.
“I would not say that,” the duke said gruffly, but he did not fully make eye contact with her either. “I am simply their duke.”
“They would not be so effusive in their praise if you were simply their duke,” she said. “They speak of you with great respect and admiration. Not all lords are loved. But you are.”
The duke frowned slightly, but he said nothing, and by the time they arrived back at the center of the square, his expression was thoughtful.
“They speak highly of you, as well,” he said, “and the improvements that you have made at the castle.” He released her arm and turned to her, so that the two of them were facing each other directly.
“I have noticed as well. I do apologize, I should have said something sooner. But I appreciate the changes you are making, even if some of them are a little… messy.”
He emphasized the last word just enough to tell her that she knew about the painting.
“So someone told you I let your daughter cover her hands in paint?” she asked, unable to hide her smile.
“They did not have to tell me,” he said, the smallest shadow of a smile tugging at the side of his lips. “I saw.”
She stared at him. “You saw?”
“The door was ajar,” he said, and she could see the twinkle in his eyes now.
“And you were not horrified?”
“Perhaps a little. But she seemed so…” he hesitated, looking away. “So happy.”
Cassandra nodded. “Yes, I think she was.”
She waited, wondering if he would say more, and at last, her patience was rewarded.
“I love her very much,” he said, still not looking at her, his gaze focused instead on where several children were playing tug-of-war.
“But sometimes I do not know how to connect with her. How to play with her. Her mother…” he cleared his throat.
“She was always so concerned about her being raised correctly. That she would be a proper young lady, she used to say.”
“She knew she would be a girl?” Cassandra asked.
“She was convinced. Some midwife had told her that the food she was eating signaled that it would be a girl.” He shook his head.
“And when her pregnancy started to become difficult, and she feared she might die, she worried that her daughter would have no one to raise her properly. I think she thought I was too wild, too unmannered, that I had spent too long away from society, to raise a daughter well.”
“You are raising her well,” Cassandra said at once, taking a step closer to him, and at last, he looked back at her.
His face was somewhat troubled, and she had to resist the urge to reach up and place a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“She has a father who loves her,” she said instead.
“I am certain that she will turn out very well indeed. But she is only a child, and for now, the best way to connect with her is to have fun with her. To play…”
“Play.” The duke huffed a laugh. “I know how to build Roman-style aqueducts and drainage systems, but I do not know how to play with a child.”
“I can show you,” she said softly. “Any time you like, I can show you.”
This time, he actually smiled, and as he did, his whole face seemed to soften. For a few moments, he did not look like the large, hulking, intimidating Duke of Calder. He simply looked like a father and a husband.
My husband.
Would those words ever not be surprising?
He swallowed and nodded. “Thank you. Cassandra.”
It was the first time he had used her given name, and her breath caught.
“You are welcome,” she murmured. “Ewan.”
Another flutter of a smile came and went on his lips, and she took this as permission. She was allowed to call him Ewan. The thought moved through her, warm and exciting, and she had to look away.
Across the square, Lillian was standing with Alaric Greybourne, who was helping her to shoot one of the bows and arrows. Ewan must have seen where she was looking because he nodded at them.
“Would you like to try?” he asked.
“I would, actually,” she said, grinning at him. “It could come in useful later in life if I am ever accosted again at a lake by a strange man.”
“You mean rescued?” he said, but he was grinning.
They made their way across the square, paid the two pence, and then the man running the archery range handed Cassandra a bow. She picked it up gingerly, not exactly sure what to do.
“Do you need help?” Ewan asked, his tone amused, and she made a face.
“No,” she said, determined to try this on her own, to not need assistance. She lifted the arrow up and notched it on the string, then attempted to draw back the string.
It was so strong that she could barely pull it back even a few inches.
Clearing her throat, she tried again. This time, she managed to pull it back a little more, but not nearly enough to actually release it.
Behind her, she heard a low chuckle.
“Having trouble?” Ewan murmured.
“No,” she said stubbornly, pulling back as hard as she possibly could. “I am very strong and capable and—”
“Bad at asking for help?”
And then, before she could stop him, Ewan had positioned himself right behind her. With one arm, he reached around her, and placed a hand over the one she had on the string. With the other hand, he held the bow in place, so that his arms were fully wrapped around her.
Then, his hand still over hers, he drew back the string.
Cassandra’s heart was in her throat. She could not think straight.
Her back was flush against Ewan. The duke.
Her husband. This man who had shared her bed one night and left her flowers, then had barely spoken to her since.
Now he was pressed against her, and she could smell his masculine, earthy scent, like earth and clove and smoke from the fire.
She tried not to close her eyes as the scent washed over her.
She had to focus.
She had to shoot this bow.
“Just like that,” he murmured, and she felt something hot move through her, moving sweat prickle on the back of her neck and under her arms. He moved the bow so that she was aiming directly toward the target. “Perfect.”
His mouth was very close to head, as if he were whispering into her hair. She tried not to tremble. She did not want to miss the target because she was shaking uncontrollably.
“Now we release,” he said.
And, at the exact same time, they both released the string.
Thwap.
The string sprang back into place as the arrow shot forward, and, to Cassandra’s astonishment, landed right in the center of the target.
“Oh my goodness!” she heard Lillian cry. “Good shot, Your Grace! Your… Graces.”
Ewan released her, and Cassandra stepped away from him, feeling slightly dizzy. She looked around and saw Lillian watching her with a wide smile. There was something knowing in her eyes that made Cassandra’s cheeks heat.
“Y-yes,” she stammered. “Well, His Grace helped. I would not have been able to do it without him.”
And she quickly moved away, toward where Annabelle was now playing croquet with several other children, so that she would not have to meet Lillian’s gaze a moment longer—or think about the feel of Ewan pressed against her.
For the rest of the festival, she was able to avoid Ewan, but when they finally left just after midnight, she was glad to find herself alone with him once more.
Behind them, they could still hear the merriment of men carousing, the children having mostly gone to sleep by now, the lights from the lanterns glinting against the darkness.
Above them, the stars whirled, and as they walked together up the road that would take them to Calder Castle, Cassandra felt as if she had never been so at peace.
They were entirely alone, surrounded by nature.
Never had the stars been brighter or the air clearer.
She breathed in deeply, letting the serenity of the scene wash over her.
Ewan walked beside her, carrying Annabelle in his arms. She had fallen asleep an hour earlier, and now she rested with her head on her father’s shoulders, her legs wrapped around his waist.
“She is up past her bedtime,” Cassandra murmured, breaking the silence.
Ewan glanced at her. “Well, she was having so much fun with the pie-eating contest, I thought I would not pull her away and make her go to bed.”
“That was very generous of you,” Cassandra whispered, and Ewan smiled.
“You told me to play with her more,” he said. “I think… I think that is what I was trying.”
Cassandra smiled. “Well, I think you succeeded. She will remember tonight for the rest of her life.”
“You really think so?”
“I do,” Cassandra said, looking away.
Ewan said nothing, but she could feel him watching her.
“She is very lucky to have you,” she murmured.
She felt something brush her hand and looked down to see his hand next to hers, almost touching. He did not take her hand, but for the rest of the walk under the moonlit sky, they stayed so close to one another that she could feel the heat of his skin against hers.