“Aye, ye’d have a good view from the mountaintop,” Brennan Andrews said, pulling the map around to take a better look at the indentation where Coll had shoved his thumb. “Ye’d also risk being blown off said mountain every winter by the storms.”
“Nae if ye bury the foundation deep enough.”
“Ye’d nae be able to go outside without getting swept into the air, ye lummox. Well, ye might be able to. Nae yer wife or any bairns.” Narrowing his good eye, Brennan slid his own finger a half mile to the south and west, where the west edge of Loch an Daimh dug long fingers into the western foothills. “This’d suit ye better.”
The viscount leaned closer. “How far is that from Aldriss?”
“Nae more than half a mile. Ye could take a boat across the loch in ten minutes. Riding, though, I’d say a mile.”
“I dunnae want my brothers taking a spyglass and looking in my windows, Brennan.”
“They couldnae. See the curve of the bank here? Ye’ve a hill and a great stand of trees hiding Aldriss from whatever ye put there.” He cocked his head. “Aside from that, it’s the finest spot on the loch. And ye ken that Aden and Niall will see what ye’re about and want their own homes here, as well.”
“Dunnae try yer clever ways on me, ye bastard,” Coll rumbled. “I’ve an idea that Aden and Miranda mean to live here with Da, and Niall’s had his eye on the old Creag Falaichte house since he was a bairn. So I’m yer only chance to build a proper manor house.”
For the moment ignoring the fact that Creag Falaichte was a ruin that would definitely require at least new walls and a roof, Brennan grinned. “Aden and his bride living with just yer da, then? Was seeing Lady Aldriss walking down the stairs this morning my imagination?”
“That, I’ve nae comment about,” Coll returned. “She came up here for the holiday. If she stays longer, well, then Da’s going to have to learn to be more charming.”
And less stubborn, Brennan thought, though he didn’t say that aloud. “Seems to me that ye and yer brothers learned a few of those lessons, yerself. Ye are all married, after all. Ye should have heard the lasses weeping when the news came north.”
“Oh, shut it.” Coll sank into one of the chairs pushed up to the table. “Get out yer paper and pen, and I’ll tell ye what I want for my house. Then ye sit with Temperance and she’ll tell ye what she wants, and ye’ll mark out all my nonsense that doesnae fit with hers.”
Brennan gazed at his cousin for a moment. “I was nearly four when ye were born, Coll,” he said finally. “Ye stood for me at my wedding. And until this moment, I’ve nae thought ye’d find a lass who could stand up to ye. But ye do love her, dunnae?”
The fond, introspective look on Coll’s face nearly made him jealous. “Aye. She’s the one, Brennan. And ye’ve the right of it. She stands up to me. Temperance is a damned independent, brilliant lass, and I’m looking forward to spending my life in her company.”
“Good.”
Almost immediately the viscount’s expression sobered again. “I shouldnae be saying such things to ye, though. Ye had that, and what happened…”
Taking a breath, Brennan rolled up the map again and set it aside. “What happened, happened. I dunnae begrudge ye a moment of yer happiness, Co-ogha. Eithne wouldnae, either.”
The name tasted strange on his lips. Foreign, almost. It wasn’t that he didn’t think about Eithne Andrews any longer—he did so almost daily. It was just that he rarely spoke about her to anyone any longer. It had been seven years since the fever had claimed her, and God knew no one else in his extended family wanted to see him moping about or bemoaning his fate. He’d already lost an eye; he didn’t reckon there was anyone more pitiful than a one-eyed weeper.
Aside from that, Coll was just beginning what would, he hoped, be the best part of his life. Simply because he had an older cousin who’d seen his best bits taken from him didn’t mean the viscount wanted to be endlessly reminded of it. No one did, including Brennan.
“Even so,” Coll said aloud, his expression still dour.
“Even so, how many bairns do ye mean to have?” Brennan countered. “I reckon I cannae fit a house with more than forty rooms on the shore or it’ll slide straight into the water.”
“Trioblaideach,” his cousin muttered, his grimace growing more amused again.
Brennan put a hand to his chest. “Me? I’m nae a troublemaker. I solve other people’s problems. Starting with yers. So tell me what ye had in mind for a house.”
As he made notes about what Coll wanted, Brennan’s thoughts drifted back to the library. He hadn’t expected to find anyone there at this hour of the morning, but there she’d been—a tall, black-haired lass with porcelain skin and her hair pulled back so tight it was a wonder she could shut her eyes enough to blink. But she’d had kind brown eyes, he recalled. Kind and patient, and a wee bit sad.
“Who’s Jane Bansil?” he asked abruptly, interrupting something about a fireplace grand enough for a man to stand upright inside.
“What?”
“Miss Bansil. I ran across her in the library. She said she’s the countess’s companion.”
“Oh, Jane. Aye. She’s Amy’s cousin. Tried to keep the lass out of trouble, and then found herself sacked by her own aunt when she decided to help Amy and Niall elope.”
“No wonder she’s skittish, then.”
Coll nodded. “Timid as a rabbit, that one. Did ye write down the grand fireplace?”
“Aye. I even put a line under it so I’d nae forget.” He drew a second line, just to be certain. If she’d been sacked by her aunt, he could understand why she’d be nervous; if her own family treated her that poorly, she wouldn’t be expecting much from anyone else.
“Dunnae pretend to humor me,” his cousin stated. “It’s cold here in the winter, and I’ve a wife who’s nae accustomed to it. She did grow up in Cumberland, but that’s still nae comparison to the Highlands in January.”
Brennan hadn’t met Temperance MacTaggert yet, but he had read about her, both in the letter from his uncle and in the newspapers when they finally made their way this far from London. “Dunnae punch me, but she’s an actress, aye? Do ye truly mean to let her continue onstage? She’s Lady Glendarril now, after all.”
“She’ll do as pleases her, and that will please me.” Coll rolled the map back and forth between his big hands. “I honestly thought she was nae but an actress, and I fell for her anyway. Persephone Jones, the most famous actress in London. And then after I decide I’m ready to take on all the MacTaggerts and all of clan Ross to keep her, she tells me she’s a runaway heiress named Temperance Hartwood. She’d been on her own for eight years, and made a damned fine life for herself, Brennan. She can have a hundred fireplaces if she wants ’em, and she can act in every play ever written.”
“Do ye want a room in yer hundred-fireplace house for performing, then? Someaught with a raised stage so she can rehearse?”
Coll leaned forward, jabbing his finger at Brennan’s notes. “Aye. Ye write that down. And underline it, too.”
He did so and then went on with his questions and suggestions for the next hour as Coll sorted through what he wanted. Lady Glendarril and the other lasses were still down at the village, so after he’d finished with his cousin he took the map, ruler, and some fresh sheets of paper and returned to the library to sketch.
The lass wasn’t there, but he put his disappointment to not having anyone about to commiserate with him at the number of bricks that would be needed for all the damned chimneys Coll wanted. Outside, visible through the trio of windows the library boasted, a light snow fell in slow, swirling silence, just enough to remind him that Christmas was but four days away, and Hogmanay only a week after that.
A shadow crossed the empty doorway, then vanished again. Brennan noted it, but continued working, humming “Auld Lang Syne” under his breath as he drew. He’d told Coll where he’d be and assumed that when the lasses returned he would be meeting with Lady Glendarril. Until then, he wanted to at least figure out a rough layout of what he assumed would be called Glendarril House—as the original Glendarril had burned well before the end of the Jacobites at Culloden and had never been much more than a wee hunting cottage to begin with.
Movement caught his attention again. He looked up, canting his head a little to the left to give himself a better view of the doorway. This time he caught sight of a blue skirt before it passed out of sight again.
The lass. Jane Bansil. She’d been wearing blue, a stiff, high-necked gown that looked as if it might break if she let out her breath. Still humming, he pushed to his feet and quietly crossed the room. Leaning against the wall beside the doorway, he waited for the swish of skirts, then stepped out into the hallway.
“Good afternoon, Miss Bansil,” he said, inclining his head and pretending not to notice her squeak of surprise.
“Mr. Andrews. I … You’re still here. I didn’t know.”
That was obviously a lie, but he only nodded. “Aye.”
“Do … Do you require any more assistance? I’m free until two o’clock, it seems.”
Women here in the Highlands as a rule didn’t attempt to force themselves into conversation with him. They knew him as a widower, and they’d known Eithne as a friend, and not a one of them wanted to be accused of attempting to take her place or, worse, leading him astray. It was ridiculous, of course, but Pethiloch was a small village, and everyone knew everyone else’s bloody business the moment it happened.
Perhaps she wasn’t flirting, and perhaps her offer had been precisely what she claimed, but he didn’t know for certain. That in itself was invigorating. “I’d welcome a female opinion,” he said, moving sideways to give her access to the doorway. “I’m trying to design a house for Coll—Glendarril—and all he’s told me is that he wants a great many fireplaces for keeping his lass warm in winter.”
That wasn’t entirely true, but he and the MacTaggert brothers had grown up together and in a very heavily masculine setting. A few insights into what a proper lass wanted, an English lass at that, would be helpful.
“Oh,” she said, touching the back of the chair opposite him as if trying to decide whether she’d been invited to sit with him or not. “My experience with great houses is limited to ballrooms and foyers for the most part, I’m afraid.”
He gestured at the chair as she continued to hesitate. “A house needs certain things, always. A kitchen, rooms for sleeping, a place to put things. For a great house, ye add a morning room, a dining room, an office, a library, mayhap a music room, a drawing room if they mean to entertain or have a large family, a room for playing cards or billiards. A nursery, places for servants to sleep and eat, and outside, a stable and a garden. It’s the proportions that differ, mostly.”
“The MacTaggerts practically live in each other’s pockets,” she said, finally sitting, “so a very, very large dining room and drawing room, for certain.”
“Aye.” He made a note beneath the note he’d already made to himself about that very thing. “What do ye know of Lady Glendarril? I was thinking she might want a sunroom for flowers and sunlight in the winter, but I’m nae certain.”
“She’s very gregarious. I don’t know how much solitude she would require. But the house she was renting did burn down six months ago. She moved into Oswell House after that, and of course stayed after the wedding.”
“I hadnae heard that.” He sent her a sideways glance. “Ye’ve been surrounded by chaos, I reckon.”
Her mouth curved in a brief, attractive smile. “That I have. The MacTaggerts do seem to upend things a great deal.” Her grin slammed shut again. “No offense meant, of course.”
“Nae a bit taken. I’m half MacTaggert, but I’ve eyes—an eye—to see with. ‘Upending’ is a gentle way of putting it.”
Her shoulders lowered a little. Brennan felt a wee bit like he was trying to coax a wild foal to take grain from his hand. That smile, though … He wouldn’t mind seeing it again. Teasing it out of her might take some effort, but it would be worth it.
“She could likely use a place where she can try on costumes and see the effect from different angles,” Miss Bansil put in abruptly. “She’s an actress. A very fine one.”
“So I’ve heard. Mayhap a sitting room with an arc of mirrors on one side? Or a room with a stage and a space for seats, and the mirrors in an alcove?”
She sat forward. “Oh, that would be perfect. With a place for canvas scenes to be displayed behind the stage.”
Brennan made another note, not atop one he’d already made. “Anything else?”
“Curtains? In front of the stage, I mean. And heavy ones for the windows. A miniature theater.”
“Aye. I like that.” Setting aside his notes, he took a larger paper and did a quick sketch of what she’d described, then turned it to show her. “Someaught like that?”
“That is exactly what I’d imagined. My goodness. You—You’re very talented, Mr. Andrews.”
“Och. Brennan, if ye please. I’m nae as high-and-mighty as the MacTaggerts, Miss Bansil.”
Her pale cheeks flushed. “Jane, then. It’s only fair.”
Realizing he’d been gazing at her rather intently, Brennan cleared his throat and shifted another piece of paper. “Well, Jane, I dunnae mean to keep ye from yer duties, but if ye’ve a few minutes, I’d like yer help in figuring out the rest of the house.”
“I doubt you require my assistance,” she returned, “but if you’d like the company, I have nowhere to be until this afternoon.”
He met her pretty brown-eyed gaze again. “I would like the company. Generally sitting by myself while I scribble is peaceful, but more and more I find it a wee bit … lonely.”
She visibly swallowed. “You aren’t married, then?”
“Nae. I was, once. My wife, Eithne, died of a fever seven years ago now.”
“My condolences, Mr. An—Brennan. She kept you company, then?”
“Aye. She always recommended an overabundance of sitting rooms, but that did remind me to put at least one or two into the plans.” He started to clear his throat, realized that he’d just done that and would likely have her thinking he had a fever, himself, and then choked as he tried to stop himself.
Immediately she fled the room. Before he could do more than frown and begin cursing at himself while he pounded his own chest and hacked, Jane returned with a glass of water. “Take a drink,” she instructed. “Small sips until the spasms cease.”
He did as she ordered. “Ye know someaught about choking on yer own spit, then?” he managed.
“Oh, definitely. I almost constantly have to stop myself from saying something idiotic.”
A laugh surged up from his chest, making him cough all over again. He managed to down half the glass without choking again and finally took a deep breath. “While I recover my wits, tell me someaught about yerself. Ye were Amy’s companion? Niall’s lass?”
She nodded. “My parents passed away when I was seventeen. I took work as a seamstress for a time, but I wasn’t terribly efficient at it, and … earning enough money to keep a roof over my head began to prove difficult. My aunt, Victoria Baxter, agreed to allow me to live with her family if I would help look after her daughter, Amelia-Rose. There are fifteen years between us, so I nearly felt like an aunt rather than a cousin, but we got on well.”
Despite her matter-of-fact tone, Brennan could imagine that being suddenly alone at seventeen, likely raised properly but without the funds to have a Society debut or make a good match, would have been terrifying. And then agreeing to become in essence a surrogate parent to a youngster, knowing she was turning her back on having her own children and her own life … This was a practical lass sitting opposite him. “But now ye’re companion to Lady Aldriss.”
She nodded, fiddling with one of his sketch papers. “Aunt Victoria had some very … strong opinions about the life Amelia-Rose should have. But she and Niall seemed so well matched, and—Well, I decided to help them elope. No one should have to live a miserable life when other options are so clearly available. Aunt Victoria rightly accused me of failing in my duties and sacked me, but Lady Aldriss was kind enough to take me in. I know it was purely out of gratitude for me helping her son find a bride, because I am certainly not an exceptional companion, but here we are.”
“Aye, here we are. A man with a ruined face who tries to imagine perfect buildings, and a lass who enjoys solitude and reading trying to keep track of a busy countess’s social schedule.”
“Your face isn’t ruined,” she protested. “You look very rakish with the eye patch.” Her cheeks darkened again. “In my opinion, of course. But I believe you know you’re quite well favored.”
Eithne had always said so, and the lasses before Eithne, but since then all the females seemed to think it some sort of sin to tell him that he looked like a man when he was a widower. And that wasn’t much of a description. Aye, he had a mirror, but mostly what he saw there was an eye patch and a mouth that seemed to grimace more than it did smile. “Thank ye for saying so. Ye’re a fair flower, yerself. But tell me, what room would ye want to be the largest in a house that belonged to ye?”
She put her arms around her own sides, hugging herself. “If I had a house? Oh, it would have a massive library, two stories tall with ladders for climbing to reach the books up on the highest shelves.” She smiled again, the expression lighting her face. “Perhaps I’d even have two libraries, one for actual histories and science, and one for works of fiction.”
“That’s a great many books. I reckon the floor would have to have extra beams beneath it to carry the weight.”
“You know, that’s something I would never have considered.” Her grin flashed. “I would have made myself a lovely library, only to have it all collapse into the cellar.”
“Nae if I were yer architect,” he countered, bending his head to sketch out a wide, high-ceilinged room with bookshelves reaching twenty feet up in the air, divided by tall windows and countered by long, wide tables and comfortable chairs in the middle of the room. He fiddled with a few more details, not entirely certain why he felt the need to do so, then handed it over to her. “How close did I get?”
For a long moment she gazed at it silently, and he began to wonder if he was just being an idiot, acting foolish because she was the first woman he’d met in seven years who made him want to smile. Who made him want to linger in her company.
Then a tear rolled down one pale cheek, and he reckoned he’d done even worse than insult her. “I’m sorry, lass,” he said, reaching for the paper. “I was only playing.”
Jane jerked the sketch out of his reach. “This is so lovely,” she said, another tear sliding down the other cheek. “Don’t you dare make light of it. May I keep it?”
“Aye, of course.”
As she gazed at it, he had the strongest, oddest urge to storm out and build her a library just like the one he’d sketched for her. To give her a lifetime’s worth of books and a very comfortable chair in which to sit and read them, without having to worry about being at anyone else’s beck and call.
He looked at her all over again, or what he could see with her sitting at the table as she was. She was fairly tall, with that tight-pulled black hair and rich chocolate eyes. Small-bosomed, she was, and nearly straight as a fence post, but he imagined that if she stopped feeling like every bit of food she ate made her more obligated to someone else, she might have a few curves to her. In a sense she seemed like a hearth fire at dawn, grown cold except for deep down where the embers still smoldered. All she needed was for someone to give her life a good stir and she would burst into bright flame.
“Do you live here, at Aldriss Park?” she asked, and he wondered if that was an abrupt change of subject or if he’d simply missed the first part of her conversation because he was staring again.
“Nae. I’ve a cottage at the top of the hill above Pethiloch, but a mile from here. My house doesnae have a name, but I like it well enough.”
“Yes, most of us don’t live in houses with names, do we? I think they—the ones who do—forget that, sometimes. But I suppose if you own three or four or five homes, you need to name them or no one will know to which one you’re referring.”
“Exactly. Though this place—Aldriss Park—is near four hundred years old. I reckon if a house can keep itself together for that long, mayhap it does deserve a name.”
“I suppose you have the right of it. Did you design your house, or purchase it?”
“I designed it. My da’s family owned the land, but the wee cottage that sat on it wouldnae keep out a light breeze.”
They sat and chatted about his house, and the house Coll wanted for himself and Temperance or Persephone or whatever name she chose to go by, and about books and whatever else came to his mind to keep her there at the table. Now that she’d begun to relax a little he could clearly see that she had a quick wit and a sharp sense of humor, even if it seemed more designed to cut at herself than anything else.
“There ye are,” Coll’s voice boomed from the doorway.
Jumping, Brennan looked up. Beside his cousin stood a lovely lass in a deep blue gown, her honey-colored hair a jumble of curls. He stood. “Ye’d be Lady Glendarril, I presume.”
Across from him, Jane Bansil stood as well. “Excuse me,” she said in a hushed voice. “I need to see to Lady Aldriss.”
With that she vanished through the second doorway. Brennan had to remain, making more notes about a house that would be grander than any he could ever hope to reside in, and his thoughts on a much more practical theme—where and when he would be able to find an excuse to chat with Jane Bansil again.