Chapter 16
Agnes suspected it was no coincidence that Gordon had chosen to ride alongside the carriage instead of inside of it with her.
Last night, he’d alluded to wanting distance. But she would not be pushed away so easily, not now that she knew what it meant to be pulled in close.
She pulled down the carriage window, struggling against the old, rusted mechanism.
“How long will it be to the village?” she asked.
“A while,” he replied gruffly.
“Is it a big village?”
She caught a flicker of annoyance on his handsome, stubbled face. Why he had ever sought to hide that face behind such a scraggly, bushy beard was beyond her. Perhaps he was embarrassed by his scars?
But she couldn’t understand that either. They were embellishments to his handsome, rugged appearance, not a detraction.
“Large enough,” he muttered.
“But there is a haberdasher?”
He shrugged. “There’s fabric.”
“Will the people be friendly?”
“I daenae ken.”
For the better part of twenty minutes, perhaps longer, she bombarded him with similar questions. When she ran out of questions about the village, she asked about the weather, about the food, about the mountains, the lochs, whatever she could think of to hold his attention.
She wasn’t stupid. She knew it was annoying him, but the very fact that he kept on riding alongside the carriage gave her some satisfaction. He could have moved away whenever he wanted, but he didn’t.
“Will it be cold?” she asked. “Should I have worn a thicker cloak?”
“I daenae ken,” he grumbled, his eyes narrowed and fixed on the seemingly endless road ahead.
She smiled, tilting her head to the side. “Do you always answer like that?”
“Like what?”
“With as few words as possible?”
He expelled a weary sigh and glanced at her. “I do when there’s naught else to be said.”
Oh, but there is so much to be said.
She resisted the urge to smile as she met his gaze, thinking of the night before. There were so many things she wanted to ask, information and explanations that only he could answer.
Could he tell her why his kiss had made her stomach tighten?
Could he explain why his touch had made her legs tremble and stirred heat like a fever that had not had anything to do with sickness?
And what about the hardness between his thighs?
How did that work? And why had it made her feel so breathless, so tingly all over?
She wanted him to explain the sorcery of it all, yet some polite, restrained habit of Englishness held back such questions.
Propriety was so ingrained within the fiber of her being that every time she attempted to ask about what had occurred last night, it stuck in her throat and made her face burn.
“Don’t you find that a journey goes by more quickly with conversation?” she asked brightly.
He stared at her, his wolf-like eyes cold. “A journey takes as long as it takes. It cannae go quicker or slower.”
“I had no idea you were such a philosopher,” she teased. “Of course, your theory is wrong. If you were to ride faster, you would reach your destination faster. The same is true of the opposite.”
“Aye, but ye werenae talkin’ about pace,” he remarked. “If I ken a journey takes half an hour, chatterin’ away willnae make it pass quicker or slower. Although it might feel like an eternity.”
She scoffed, feigning insult, while secretly pleased that he was saying more than a handful of words to her. “Well, I apologize for trying to be a pleasant distraction, and I apologize for being curious about these new surroundings.”
“I accept yer apology,” he muttered.
With that, he clicked his tongue and urged his horse forward until he was riding just ahead of the carriage’s horses. Too far away to have to listen to any more of her nonsense, but close enough that he could keep an eye on things.
Indeed, unless she wished to aim her idle questions at his horse’s backside, the conversation was over.
You just wait, Gordon.
She didn’t know how long it would be until they reached the village, but once they did, he could expect a fresh bombardment of sparkling conversation. And out in public like that, despite what he had said in his study, he would not be able to stray far from her at all.
Agnes adored the market towns of England.
She had an entire vault of memories of her and Christine drinking in the sights and sounds and smells of the town closest to their childhood home, where they had wiled away countless hours, sampling delicious things, admiring fine fabrics and jewelry, purchasing new ribbons and adornments, eavesdropping on town gossip, before wandering down by the river to have a gossip themselves.
The sizeable village of Braemar was a bittersweet echo of those bygone days.
Pretty grey stone houses with slate roofs refused to crowd one another, the shops marked by beautifully painted signs that swung in a light, slightly chilly breeze.
Smaller stalls were arranged in a sunny market square, where women gossiped, children played, and older men smoked pipes and gossiped in their own way.
“I don’t know where to begin!” Agnes gasped, a thrill of excitement running through her.
Lizzy was safely strapped to her, though Agnes had chosen to turn the baby outward instead of inward so her darling niece wouldn’t miss anything.
“Fabric,” Gordon said grumpily, standing at her side on the edge of the square.
“Eventually, yes, but I didn’t realize there would be so much to explore,” she said with a grin. “It would be remiss of me not to go to every stall and shop, for if I need something later, then I will know where to come.”
He looked like he might protest, but she was already walking toward the market stalls. After spending so much time within the gloomy castle walls, even after she had opened all of the drapes and shutters, it was nice to just be outside, among people.
Not to mention the fact that she had essentially spent the past six months in self-incarceration at Aunt Tabitha’s residence, for the sake of her niece’s safety… and to preserve what little remained of Christine’s reputation.
“Och, would ye look at that!” a woman selling scones studded with currants cooed. “I havenae seen a bonnier bairn in a long while!”
Agnes blushed with delight. “I have to agree, but I’m somewhat biased.”
“I wouldnae say it if I didnae mean it,” the woman insisted, chuckling. “Look at them rosy cheeks, eh. Must get them from ye, miss. A beautiful maither and a beautiful bairn.”
Agnes considered correcting the woman but decided against it. The story was too complicated and not something a stranger needed to hear about.
“You are too kind,” she said instead, accepting the compliment.
“Can I hold her?”
Agnes thought about it, glanced back at Gordon, who was talking to a bladesmith, and scooped Lizzy out of the sling. The baby squealed with happiness as the baker took her and began to bounce her on her hip, singing a silly little tune as she did.
Agnes knew she was not without the shapely curves of womanhood, but this baker of buttery scones had an ample bosom and wondrous, doughy hips that must have been a marvelous comfort to a baby who loved to be cozy.
As if to prove the point, Lizzy immediately cuddled into the woman.
“Och, I’ll be goin’ home to me husband tonight saying, ‘Daenae ye think we should have just one more?’ Ye forget how precious they are when they’re wee,” the baker sighed, pressing a kiss to Lizzy’s soft hair.
A small group of women from the other stalls had rushed forward, all of them sighing and cooing in agreement.
Soon enough, Lizzy was being passed around like the alms bowl at church and loving every moment of it, her babble and squeals filling the air.
“This lassie isnae the Laird’s, is she?” one nosy woman asked as she gently stroked Lizzy’s shock of red hair.
Agnes snorted involuntarily. “No, she isn’t, although he has said that he will adopt her when we are married.”
Gordon was just out of earshot, which was probably a good thing. But Agnes had said that she wanted people to believe in the betrothal, and he had agreed to the fake arrangement, so he could not exactly scold her for embellishing the truth, could he?
A collective gasp rippled through the women.
“Ye’re goin’ to marry him?” one asked.
“Och, lass, ye shouldnae do that,” another advised. “Ye’re a pretty wee thing. Ye could have any lad ye like. Any laird ye like, I daenae doubt. Can ye nae marry an English one?”
“There’s naught wrong with ours,” someone else interjected. “Might do him some good to have a wife.”
“Naught wrong? Ye must’ve been drinkin’ yer own supply, lass,” another remarked. “He’s probably sent for an English lass ‘cause he kens no Scottish lass will have him.”
The baker frowned. “There were some English lads in the village nae so long ago. Are they family of yers, come for the weddin’? Are ye to be married soon?”
A faint chill beetled down the back of Agnes’s neck, to think of her pursuers being so close, perhaps standing exactly where she was standing. But how long ago was “nae so long ago,” and where were those Englishmen now?
“Aye, they said they were lookin’ for a lass and a bairn,” someone said.
The baker frowned. “Do yer maither and faither ken ye’re here, lass? Ye havenae been kidnapped or anythin’, have ye?”
“No, no, of course not,” Agnes rushed to reply.
“I am here of my own volition; my family is well aware, and I am looking forward to the union. Those Englishmen must have been searching for someone else. It is… rather fashionable these days to run off to Scotland. It has been in all of the scandal sheets that this is where young ladies can find husbands, but I… um… already had this arranged before I arrived.”
She had no idea if the women believed her or not, but they seemed content to accept her explanation as they doted on Lizzy some more.
“I wonder if our lassies should go the other way,” a woman teased, breaking the tension.
“Well, ye’re very welcome,” the baker urged. “Rest assured, none of us will let anythin’ happen to ye.”
A few others nodded and mumbled their agreement.
“About time we had a Lady Buchlann again.”
“Might bring folks back to the castle. Have us a gatherin’ again.”
“Och, wouldnae that be a fine thing!”
“There’s naught like a weddin’ and bairns to make folks forgive and forget. About time, I should say.”
Listening to the women talk, even though she didn’t quite understand everything, Agnes felt warmth in her chest, as if she had just sipped some good port.
These people had no reason to welcome her or even speak to her, considering she was essentially a foreigner, but they were kind and open and easy to be around.
“This one is certainly where she belongs, with hair like that,” one remarked, laughing. “What happened to her faither?”
“Ye cannae ask questions like that,” another woman scolded.
Agnes chuckled faintly. “It is quite all right. She is my niece. Her mother is… dead, and her father… wants nothing to do with her.”
“Och, the poor thing!” the baker crooned. “And ye poor thing, too.”
It was the strangest thing, to look around at a group of women she did not know and suddenly feel like she might actually have a future here.
That she and Lizzy might be happy here. It was the unmistakable sensation that these were good people and this was a good place, far better and less judgmental than any she might find where she came from.
For one thing, if she had gone out and about in the town closest to her father’s home, everyone would have known the circumstances and turned their noses up. No one would have cooed over Lizzy like these women were.
Indeed, she was enjoying herself so much that she did not pay enough attention to the three men who had just approached the baker’s stall. Patrons, or so she thought, until one of them said in a clipped English accent, “Lady Agnes?”
Before she could stop herself, she turned at the sound of her name, an instinctual “Yes?” slipping past her lips.
She didn’t know them, didn’t recognize them, but she recognized her mistake well enough.
One of the men spotted Lizzy, now some distance from the safety of Agnes’s sling, being adored by two older ladies on the periphery of the group.
Both Agnes and the Englishman moved at the same time.
The man got there ahead of her, but the women holding Lizzy seemed to realize something was amiss, keeping the baby close, protecting her like she was one of their own.
“Get yer mitts away!” one of them snapped, while the other woman swatted at him.
Stricken, Agnes reached for her niece. She felt Lizzy in her hands, felt herself pull the baby closer, felt that everything was going to be all right, when the second man jumped in.
With one hand, he grabbed Lizzy by the back of her little dress, and with his other hand, he shoved Agnes with all of his might. Her grip on Lizzy slipped along with her balance, and she went tumbling to the ground, a sharp, winding pain shooting across her shoulders and through her chest.
As the air was knocked out of her lungs by the impact, it carried a single word, “Gordon!”