Lydia was lost in a delicious dream. Vaguely, she knew she had been cold and wet and horribly uncomfortable. Somewhere still there were irritations—she was thirsty, her stays were digging into her, parts of her clothing were now warm-damp rather than cold-damp, but at a deeper level she was wonderfully comfortable. Consciousness came slowly and, with it, confusion.
Where am I?
She was resting in someone’s warm embrace, her head comfortably leaning on to the hollow of his shoulder.
Alasdair!
Rather than panic and move instantly away from him, she decided to savour the moment first. The rise and fall of his warm chest. The feeling of security and safety. The delicious scent of him, mixed with smouldering turf.
Yesterday had been one of the most wonderful days of her life. Being there when Mairead had shared her secret had been an honour, and her heart felt as though it were smiling at the memory. Then, the challenges of the long walk in the rain, feeling uncomfortable and cold...it had been worth it, for it had led to this place. This sheiling, this àirigh. This shelter. Cocooned with Alasdair and Mairead, Lydia had never been happier. She went through the memories, trying to fix them in her mind so they would never fade. His dark head bent to her shoelaces. His hands on her foot. His arm around her. And now, this.
Her head rested comfortably on his solid chest and in her sleep she had curled into him, her right arm bent and her hand lying resting on his soft linen shirt. Cautiously, she opened her eyes, careful not to move a muscle. Dawn light had crept into their haven, its glow lending an ethereal air of unreality to the scene.
As long as I live, I shall never forget this.
On the floor, Mairead stirred, then stirred again. ‘Is it morning?’ she murmured.
Lydia straightened, feeling bereft as Alasdair took his arm from about her.
‘It is, mo nighean.’ He stretched, then stood, bending to add twigs to the embers. ‘How did you enjoy sleeping in a nest?’
Mairead was frowning. ‘I think I prefer to be a girl and not a bird, Papaidh. My bed is softer than this.’ Pushing herself up into a sitting position, she paused. ‘Did I really walk yesterday?’
Alasdair, grinning, glanced at Lydia. The smile they shared was for Mairead, and thankfully smoothed over any awkwardness that might have ensued from any acknowledgement that Lydia had cuddled into him all night long. Still, her heart was pounding just at the sight of him, never mind the memories of how intimate their sleeping posture had been.
He bent to pick up his child, throwing her up a little and catching her, while she shrieked in delight. ‘You did!’ he declared. ‘You are a wonder!’
‘Again!’ Mairead demanded and he obliged, before depositing her on the settle.
Lydia had discovered, to her horror, that her hair was half up, half down. There was nothing for it but to remove all the pins and try to re-do it as best she could, without a hairbrush or a mirror. She began removing pins as she located them, placing them in a bundle on the settle between her and Mairead.
‘Papaidh,’ Mairead’s tone was thoughtful. ‘When I was little you used to throw me up in the air like that, but you have not done it for a long time. Why?’
His eyes widened, then he sobered. ‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘I was afraid you were too delicate for such things. That I might hurt you.’
She scoffed at this. ‘How silly, Papaidh! Only my legs and arms were delicate and none of me is delicate now.’
‘I am chastised!’ His gaze wandered to Lydia and seemed to linger on her unpinned locks.
She flushed. ‘Apologies, but I must do this.’
‘Lord, no apologies are needed! I am simply unused to seeing... That is to say, not since... Pardon me, I shall leave you now.’ Briskly, he dressed, added turf to the fire, then went outside without another word, leaving Lydia in a state of some mortification.
By the time he returned Lydia had finished re-pinning her hair, had donned her boots and dressed Mairead, and was now folding the blanket that had formed the main part of Mairead’s nest. They had also both relieved themselves outside, although Lydia had seen no sign of Alasdair when they were out. Lydia’s clothing was now almost dry, although uncomfortable, and her thirst was by now acute.
‘The rain has gone,’ he declared, ‘so we may set off as soon as you are ready.’ He held out his flask. ‘I filled it at the freshwater loch on Rarinish to the north of here.’ Once Mairead was done, Lydia drank the water. It was quite the most delicious liquid she had ever imbibed—pure and clear and islandish.
As they walked southwards towards Ardmore they sang together, Lydia joining in as best she could with some of the songs. It was clearly very early, but as they marched through damp heather, crisp bracken and green sod, the sun slowly rose higher, bringing to life beauty and wonder in all directions.
In strong contrast, Lydia’s wet-and-redried boots were chafing viciously at her heels. After a time she found herself striking the earth with her toes rather than heels and a little later her attention had become so focused on her own agony that she was struggling to continue singing.
‘Oh!’ She could not help the exclamation as her right foot trod on an unexpected stone. The boot leather scraped against her torn skin like a grater and she stopped, feeling as though she could not take one more step.
‘What is it? Lydia, what ails you?’ Alasdair’s face held genuine concern.
Helplessly, she shrugged. ‘My boots.’ Wiping the back of her hand across her face, she dashed away the tears that had finally spilled out. ‘I am sorry for being so weak. I have been trying to persist, but I cannot—I cannot do so any longer.’ Pain, tiredness and frustration at her own weakness welled up, further fuelling her distress. ‘I am not normally such a watering-pot, I assure you.’
He exclaimed, then asked her to untie the wool blanket that had served them so well. She spread it on the damp heather and he placed Mairead gently down, then bid Lydia sit beside her. Gently, he undid her boots as he had done the night before, his jaw tightening as he inspected her torn heels.
‘Foolish girl! Why did you not say something?’
She bit her lip. ‘I thought I could manage.’
‘Clearly, you could not.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Very well. You have, I believe, two choices. You may walk barefoot, or I can try to fashion some sort of bandage?’
‘Barefoot?’ She flushed at the very notion. ‘That would be shocking! I cannot... What are you doing?’
He had untucked his shirt and, as she watched in dawning horror, he tore a strip from the bottom. Sliding his hands to the halfway point, he tore it in two, then bent to wrap her heels in the soft fabric, tying each bandage at the ankle.
His good shirt!
Briefly, it occurred to her to wonder how any of her previous employers might have responded. There would have been irritation for any delay and chastisement for her not having foreseen and prevented this eventuality. Some might have been sympathetic, Lydia supposed, at least initially. None, she was certain, would destroy an expensive item of clothing for the benefit of a servant. Especially when she could easily have torn her own petticoat.
‘There! Now I shall put your boots back on.’ He did so, slowly and carefully, and she winced as her foot slipped into place. ‘Try that.’
She stood, wiggled her feet a little, and pronounced herself satisfied. In truth, the pain was still there, though muted. This time, she vowed, she would make it all the way to Ardmore without any complaint.
She did so, but it was quite a challenge. As the grey walls of the castle came into view, she began counting her steps. Surely she would make it to the gate in a hundred paces? Forty-seven, forty-eight...
He was looking at her, she could feel it, but she refused to return his gaze. Fifty-three, fifty-four... Shouts went up as they were spotted and by the time they reached the courtyard Mrs MacLeod was there to greet them.
‘Well, and how is everybody?’ Her gaze raked them all, then returned to Lydia. ‘What ails you, Lydia?’
‘Bad boots!’ the Laird ground out and Lydia’s grimace to Mrs MacLeod contained both apology and pleading.
‘Ach, the poor girl, and you traipsing her all over the countryside!’ She tutted and took Lydia’s arm. ‘Come with me, m’dear, and we shall get you sorted.’ As they entered the Great Hall she began firing orders at passing servants. Food for the Laird and Miss Mairead. Hot water and food to Miss Farnham’s chamber. Someone to fetch her box of salves.
In the fuss and flurry, Lydia missed the opportunity to speak to Alasdair. Well, what would she have said anyway?
Thank you? I am sorry? I shall pay for your shirt?
None would have even begun to reflect the confused cacophony of thoughts and feelings screaming inside her. So instead she allowed Mrs MacLeod to take her upstairs, tend to her feet and help her undress. Sensing that Lydia was utterly exhausted, Mrs MacLeod bade her lie down and rest. Within minutes of the housekeeper’s departure, she was sleeping soundly.
Damnation!
Alasdair had barely been home an hour and already he knew that he had gravely erred. Everywhere he went, he was getting knowing looks and subtle teasing from the castle staff. Everyone, naturally, now knew that they had had to seek shelter in the sheiling and that they had remained there together until morning. They also would know that nothing untoward had occurred between him and Lydia. His honour as laird, and the presence of the child, made it certain. Yet, such intelligence did not prevent the speculative looks and pointed comments. The castle folk understood that there was a connection between himself and Lydia and were showing their approval.
Closing the door to his parlour in a deliberately controlled manner, Alasdair paced the floor, raking his hands through his hair. At moments like this one, he almost wished he were a hermit, or lived in a community where he was not well known. Anonymity and privacy were denied him and today, he could wish all of his well-meaning friends and colleagues to perdition.
To be fair, he acknowledged, the same speculation occurred no matter who the subject was. Seeing new attachments form was one of the joys of living so tightly bound. Had he not, in this very room, discussed Dòmhnall and Eilidh with Iain and made plans for Dòmhnall’s future? Had he not, along with the rest, enjoyed noting the young couple dancing together, the looks between them, the mortification when they were each teased about each other?
He sighed. That story had ended in tragedy, but Alasdair knew well enough how the Ardmore community operated. Occasionally an unsuitable match had to be managed and the Ardmore folk did so subtly, preventing the pair from spending as much time together, throwing more suitable partners in the couple’s path, and letting it be known in a thousand tiny ways that the pairing was not to be approved. Oh, the islanders could be both artful and shrewd when needed. Two fiery characters showing signs of destructive fighting even when courting were gently encouraged to each seek a more suitable partner and often did.
More commonly, when the community approved of the pairing, they made no attempt to hide such approval, encouraging the couple with hints and smiles, looks and teasing. Shockingly, today Alasdair had realised that they saw him and the governess as a pair and were making no attempt to hide it. And this despite all his attempts to be careful with Lydia’s reputation!
Only his most senior aides—Iain and Mrs MacLeod—had maintained any sense of subtlety and decorum. Mrs MacLeod had roundly scolded him for his carelessness and lack of foresight in not returning home before the rain and had informed him that poor Miss Farnham was sore, uncomfortable and exhausted, her heels in shreds and her clothing still a little damp from yesterday’s soaking. He had almost welcomed her reprimand, which he fully deserved, and which contrasted sharply with the arch looks and knowing grins he was receiving elsewhere.
Mairead had fared better than Lydia, tucking into a hearty meal with enthusiasm before being carried off to visit Eilidh, who was apparently hoping to come downstairs on the morrow. Alasdair himself had bathed and dressed in fresh clean clothing. Before throwing his ruined shirt into the basket in his chamber for soiled linen, he had held it in his hands for a moment, gently rubbing his thumb along the torn end and remembering the feel of Lydia’s dainty feet in his hands.
Lydia.
Apart from his brief foray this morning to fill the water flask, this was the first time he had been alone since the momentous events of yesterday and last night. Mairead had walked! Lydia, the ever-patient miracle worker, had toiled diligently to encourage and support his child. She had also been the one to envision the very possibility that his sickly child could be healed.
Quietly, Lydia had told him more of Master John Pickering, who had been paralysed from the waist down after breaking his back. The boy’s legs had not worked at all from the moment of his fall from a horse, whereas Mairead’s, Lydia had reported calmly, had just needed strengthening again. Lydia also swore by the benefits of fresh air and sunlight, and by encouraging Mairead to rebuild her appetite again. How had she seen and understood something so simple, yet so powerful, when such wisdom had evaded all of the expensive doctors?
Lost in thought, Alasdair stared unseeingly out of the castle window, reliving the momentous happenings on Rossinish beach. How incredible it seemed yet that Mairead had stood and walked. The child had trusted Lydia and Lydia had not let her down.
Reflecting on the sense of connection between Lydia and Mairead, he knew—believed fervently—that they loved each other, and yet had Lydia not loved John Pickering before she had left him? That riddle was yet to be solved. Despite the evidence to the contrary, he would swear that Lydia was loving, warm-hearted and true. So why had she left the children she had loved?
His heart beating a thunderous tattoo, he moved on to the intimacy of their time in the sheiling. He, Mairead and Lydia. A family. Her head on his shoulder. His arm curled about her. If they had been truly alone he would not have been able to resist kissing her again...
No! It would not do. He was in a position of power, of responsibility. Of all people, he had to be more careful than most about importuning a maiden. This being Scotland, the Hebrides, Benbecula, people were blunt and plainspoken most of the time. As laird, he had more burdens than privileges. His father, along with that of Angus, had instilled in both young men the understanding that a lass might be unwilling to say no to a laird, even if she wished to. And so Alasdair had gone to Edinburgh to find a wife—even then choosing badly—while Angus was as yet unmarried. They were both so accustomed to avoid behaving in a way that was even remotely flirtatious that they had trapped themselves into loneliness.
As understanding dawned within him, the loneliness itself sent an arrow of pain slicing through him. Six years of isolation. Of duty and companionship, yes. Friendship, for certain. But he craved more.
It was all to do with Lydia, he knew. She was what he craved. Before him he saw an entire new life—one with Lydia by his side, in his bed, mothering another child alongside Mairead. A child who was hers and his...
He was being much, much too hasty. Lydia liked him, he knew. But did she feel anything stronger towards him? She was so reserved that her deeper feelings, unlike the surface irritations that played out across her beautiful face, were unknown to him. He was her employer. She was stranded here, five hundred miles from her true home. Their kiss on the night of the crisis might have been an aberration, a search for comfort in a time of fear. He could make no assumptions. Yes, she enjoyed his company and he hers, but could he honestly claim to have proof that she cared for him in the way he cared for her?
Proof, no. Instinct?
Perhaps.
And now, she would be subject to the same chatter, gossip and conjecture that he had experienced since their return. It was kindly meant, he acknowledged. The castle folk intended no harm. More significantly, they were right to think Lydia a good choice for him. She had quietly and gently insinuated her way into their lives with good humour and grace, showing herself to be hard-working, kind and intelligent. Her mind was good, her judgement sound and her manners beyond reproach. Yes, she, unlike Hester, would make the perfect Lady of Ardmore.
He frowned. Had he not believed exactly the same when he had married Hester? Was he, once again, allowing himself to be led by the heart—or by the desires of his body—rather than by rational, considered judgement?
But, no.
Evidence there was a-plenty that Lydia was different to Hester. Or did he only wish for it to be so?
I struggle with rationality when it comes to Lydia.
There. He had admitted it. His only wish was to ensure her safety, her comfort, and her happiness—and, yes, to have her for his own. Forming a fist, he leaned against the window’s edge, knowing himself to be close to being lost. Lost in love, for only the second time in his life. And the first had been a disaster for everyone, including Hester.
No, he determined, pushing away the temptations that made him vulnerable to making poor decisions. Rationality must prevail. And from an entirely rational viewpoint, he now knew what he ought to do.
‘Good morning, Eilidh! Madainn mhath!’ Lydia placed Mairead on the courtyard bench beside Eilidh, blinking in the bright sunshine. ‘It is good to see you outside again.’ She hugged the girl, then Eilidh turned to hug Mairead.
‘Well, Mairead,’ her tone was conspiratorial, ‘have you been practising—you know—the secret thing?’
Mairead beamed at her. ‘I have! And I showed Papaidh!’
Eilidh lifted a hand to her chest. ‘You did?’ She looked at Lydia, then back to the child. ‘And what did he say?’
‘He says I am a wonder. He was very happy. I practised again just now, in Lydia’s schoolroom, and I walked again, like I did on the beach.’
‘By yourself?’
The child confirmed it and Eilidh hugged her again. They sat on then, enjoying sunlight and conversation. They talked of Dòmhnall, and Eilidh had a little cry. Strangely, a couple of the castle staff waved at them as they passed, but something about their manner struck Lydia as being odd or unusual in some way. She shrugged. They were probably just pleased to see evidence of Eilidh’s continued recovery.
Work was beginning on building a temporary pavilion at the end of the shinty field, so after a while they moved outside the walls, to rest on the warm grass and watch the men build a low stage. The gathering and shinty game was to be held in three days’ time, and the kitchen staff were also busy preparing for the feast. Here, Lydia was impressed to note how carefully the men were preserving all of the precious wood, which would be reused in multiple ways after the gathering. Almost no trees grew on the island—a fact that Lydia still found astonishing. The people were so resourceful, though—yet more reason to admire this hardy community.
The strange waves and looks had continued and a few actual winks had been added, which Lydia was finding most disconcerting. Gradually, she realised they were aimed at her rather than Eilidh. She had no clue what they meant by it and so asked the girl about it.
Eilidh’s response was a low chuckle. ‘You truly do not know?’
‘No!’ Lydia was mystified. ‘Please tell me.’
‘Everyone knows that you spent a whole day with the Laird.’ She gave Lydia a knowing look. ‘And a whole night.’
‘What?’ Lydia’s gut twisted. ‘But nothing untoward happened! Mairead was with us! And we had to take shelter from the rain. Mairead was drenched—we all were!’ Inwardly, horror was seeping through her. In London, her reputation would have been destroyed by such an occurrence. Here, she had hoped for more understanding.
Eilidh patted her hand. ‘You need not worry, Lydia. I am teasing you! Everyone is delighted at such a match. Can you not tell?’
‘A match? A match? But there is no match! There can be no match!’
They will force him to marry me? No! A thousand times no!
‘Why ever not?’ Eilidh seemed genuinely puzzled. ‘The Laird has been on his own for a long time. Everyone would like him to marry again.’
‘Are you talking about my papaidh? Might he marry Lydia?’ Mairead’s little face was alight with joy. ‘I should like that very much.’
‘No, no! That cannot happen, Mairead.’ Lydia’s tone was firm. ‘This is all a silly misunderstanding.’
‘Do you not like him, Lydia?’ Eilidh’s brow was furrowed. ‘I was certain you liked him.’
‘I—I like him well enough. I am not saying I dislike him.’ Briefly, she pictured his blue eyes gazing into hers. ‘Not at all. But it is impossible. Surely you can see that such a thing is impossible?’
‘Er—no. Why would it be impossible?’ Eilidh’s eyes widened as an idea occurred to her. ‘Do you already have a husband, Lydia?’
‘Lord, no! I have never been married.’
‘Then what is your reluctance to consider our laird as a possible husband?’
‘I am a governess! Can you not see?’
‘That changes nothing. We choose our husbands here according to our own preference. I chose Dòmhnall and lost him. Why should you not choose a good man who will make you happy?’
‘And what of the Laird? Does he not also have the right to choose?’
Eilidh looked perplexed. ‘But that is what we are speaking of!’ She shook her head. ‘I do not understand you, Lydia.’
‘Nor I you.’ Silence stretched between them, a tense silence. ‘Mairead, it is time for your lessons. We have lingered too long.’
Despite the child’s protests, Lydia gathered her up, offering Eilidh a cordial farewell and making for the castle in some haste. She tried to keep her head down, but could not ignore the bright smiles, pointed greetings and knowing looks that were being sent her way. Now that she knew what they signified, her mortification was complete.
Inside the Great Hall she espied Alasdair, conversing with Iain at the far end of the room. Ignoring them both, she made for the staircase, only to almost collide with a young kitchen maid who was passing through.
‘Sorry, my lady!’ the girl declared unthinkingly, bobbing a curtsy.
My lady!
Lydia could not bear it. She stood stock still, her hand at her mouth, before abruptly wheeling away. As she hastened towards the staircase, she heard Alasdair call the kitchen maid and knew he would quiz the girl about what she had said or done to make the governess scuttle away. Despite Mairead’s not inconsiderable weight, Lydia half ran up the wide staircase, aiming to reach the security of her chambers as quickly as she could manage.