Chapter Twenty #2
“He is talking to Mr. Wilkie now.” She was enjoying herself tremendously after that initial bout of fear and fury. Now she felt like a Celtic warrior queen defending her homeland from invaders.
“Lady Kildonan,” said Lord Wetherstone, “you grew up in this glen? Would you recommend it as a place to live and raise a family? We have grandchildren.”
“I love it, of course. And I would never leave it. Ever,” she answered, pulling out of Evan’s grip. “Life is a bit rustic here, but we are used to it.”
“Rustic?” Lady Wetherstone asked, perhaps still thinking of roasted mice.
“We do not have all the benefits and conveniences that Southerners enjoy in the cities and Lowlands, but I do not miss them. We get most of our supplies from markets at Inverness and Fort William, as our kitchen gardens can be meager this far north. If you enjoy oranges and lemons and bananas, you will have to pay dearly for them here. And if you like good roads to handle a sociable or a gig—well, you should ask Sir Aedan what he advises,” she added with a smile.
“Oh, and regular postal service is unreliable, as are recent newspapers. English-speaking staff are hard to come by as well. The Gaelic culture of the remote Highlands can seem like a foreign country to outsiders. Would you enjoy that?”
“Oh, my.” Lady Wetherstone glanced at her husband.
“My dear, thank you,” Evan said somewhat between his teeth. “You’ve been helpful enough.” He turned her firmly with a hand on her shoulder. “I believe Mrs. Wilkie is in need of a rescue now that Arthur seems to be explaining the art of salmon fishing.”
“So very nice to chat, my lady, my lord,” she said sweetly. Inclining her head, she turned, skirts swirling.
Evan kept a hand at her waist. He bent low. “Let’s have a wee chat tonight,” he murmured. She heard a new edge to his voice.
“I look forward to it,” she said more lightly than she meant. Gliding out of his grip, heart thumping, she felt fierce. But he was clearly displeased—and if he sold the glen, she would be more than displeased.
*
“Hu ill o-ho-ro, hu ill o,” Catriona sang as she paced over the worn carpet in the little sitting room late that night. Singing softly, she repeated the refrain and went on to a verse. “O, si run mo cheill’a bh’ann. Oh, my secret love was she—”
Dashing to the small table by the armchair, she dipped a pen in ink to scribble a notation on a page in her journal.
She sang the phrases again as she puzzled out the translation.
The song was one that Flora had taught her, and she wanted to commit it to memory before she lost some of it to time and distractions.
The hour was late, but she felt restless, especially after the tense exchange with Evan earlier.
A little while ago, waiting for a knock on the door that had not come, she had gone to his connecting door, tapped, and opened it to find the room empty.
Summoning her courage to knock had been for naught.
He had been in deep conversation with Lord Wetherstone when she had excused herself to retire. Perhaps he had lingered there. Perhaps he had no intention of seeing her again tonight, despite his promise.
Unable to sleep, she had turned to her work, which had diffused her agitation a bit. She no longer anticipated an amorous encounter tonight, not after her attempt to discourage the Wetherstones from buying any part of the glen, and Evan’s resulting disapproval.
She did not care what he thought, lifting her chin as she recalled it. But she wondered where he was, and could not help but feel disappointment that he had not returned to his room.
“My secret love was she,” she sang again, writing down that verse and more lines in Gaelic and English. “Lips like raspberries, mouth like wine—”
“My secret love was she,” Evan sang in resonant, perfect pitch.
Catriona jumped, turned to see him standing in the open doorway of his room.
He filled the frame, a shoulder leaned against the jamb, his other hand pressed against the opposite jamb.
He still wore the kilt, waistcoat, and shirt, but his coat and neckcloth were gone.
His dark hair was mussed and his eyes gleamed.
“A bonny wee song,” he said. “Hu ill o-ho-ro, hu ill o…Is that how it goes?”
He had a rich, low singing voice, deep and mellow, and it sent shivers through her. She had not known he could sing.
She had never seen him drunk, either. She stood. “Aye,” she said.
His gaze was intense, his dark brows tucked in a frown. “A lovely Highland tune,” he went on. “Sung by my lovely countess. You should sing it for our guests.”
“I would never do that.” She walked toward him.
“Lips like raspberries,” he sang low, “mouth like wine. What was the rest of it? Hair like fire, temper like—the storms that sweep in from the west and blow the roofs off the houses? The houses you can see when you climb the high hills—when you are not lost,” he ground out, “or fevered, or busy sipping mouse soup.”
“You’ve been drinking,” she said.
“I have.” He pushed away from the door. “Does the minister’s daughter disapprove?”
“I hope it is not a habit.” She lifted her chin.
“It is not.” He sniffed, pushed a hand through his hair. “I had enough whisky to keep up with Wetherstone, just to keep him happy. He is a sponge for the stuff. I prefer a clear head,” he said, moving toward her, “especially when I must deliver bad news.”
“What bad news is that?” She straightened her shoulders, heart pounding.
“I’ve had a long chat with Wetherstone, who has decided not to buy any part of the glen after all, nor rent the castle at the handsome price he had earlier proposed.
He likes the Highlands, mind you,” he went on, stepping closer.
“He is very keen on hunting and climbing. But his wife is not keen to live among savages. I wonder why.” He folded his arms. “Instead, they will purchase a country property in a less remote location.”
“That is good news if it suits them,” she said.
“But bad news for us, my dear countess, and bad for my solicitors, a firm of money-hungry devils in Edinburgh.”
“Solicitors?”
“I need funds, madam, which this estate is not currently providing. I very much needed Wetherstone to commit to purchasing part of the estate. But he has rescinded his offer. But you knew that would happen,” he said.
“Lady Wetherstone is so upset that she’s taken to her room with a sick headache.
Lord Wetherstone is not happy to learn more about life as a Highland laird—and not happy about being shut out of his wife’s room!
” He thundered the last. “I sympathize with him, since I share the same dilemma.”
“Being unhappy about life as a Highland laird?” She deliberately misunderstood.
“Being barred from the wife’s sanctum sanctorum,” he snapped.
“You were not barred. You could have knocked whenever you wanted. You did not.”
“I left you alone to give you time to decide. My knock would be pointless, since you apparently have no intention of staying in the marriage.”
“What gave you that idea? Because I do not want you to sell Kildonan and Glen Shee? Because I thought you should have told your wife about it first?”
“Some decisions were made before we even met, my dear, let alone married. Wetherstone and I discussed this two months ago.” He shoved fingers through his hair again, turned, strode, turned back. “And all for naught, thanks to you.”
“You could have told me. Just as you could have said you were the earl!”
“What was I to say? ‘Thanks for saving my life, by the way, I’m the earl about to sell the place out from under you. Pass the blasted blanket, it’s freezing!’”
“You could have explained. I have hardly slept for days, thinking about the future—our future—and even as I began to believe we could have a wonderful life together”—she caught back a sob—“you were planning to sell the land, rent the castle, and go back to the city!” She shouted that.
Tendrils of hair slipped loose with her agitated breathing.
“Mr. Grant said so, but I refused to believe it. He said you would evict more people and sell.”
“Grant! He does not know what I am thinking.”
“What are you thinking, then?”
“I know my mind, lass. I meant to give you time to think. We had said we might start over. Court. But I’ll be damned if I’ll play games now. Be my wife or do not, as you please. Trust Grant, or trust me. But tell me here and now which way the wind blows for you.”
“Are your winds blowing south toward Edinburgh? Tell me,” she said.
“From necessity, aye, to be honest.” His voice was quiet but firm. “Some of the estate must be sold. I see no other choice.”
“I should have heard this from you, not Grant.” She folded her arms. “I know so little about my own husband.”
“Tell me what you know, then. Outside of what Kenneth Grant says.”
“I know you keep secrets.”
“I keep things to myself. It is my nature. Go on. What else?”
“I know you are the son of the man who evicted kin and friends from the glen. I know that must be in your nature too.”
“Since he did not raise me past the age of knickers, I have been free of his influence most of my life. My mother was a Highlander, but she did not want to stay with him, and so she took us away to the Lowlands. But listen now.” He sighed, looked away.
“I love the Highlands. For years, I stayed away from this glen because Father was here. But the Highlands are in my soul. This place is in my heart. I want to be here.”
“Then why sell? Why leave here, and leave me?”
“Leave you? I would not do that.” He spoke softly.
She fought tears. “If you sell Glen Shee, you will have to leave me, because I will not go with you.”
“Your father was tempted to banish you. What would you have done then?”
“I would have gone into the high hills to live with Morag—unless the new earl evicted us. Even then, I would find a way to remain here.”
“I would never send you away. I swear it.”
“Wetherstone might, if you sell. Grant might too,” she blurted. “He wants to buy these lands. Do not sell to him.”