By the time the Laird arrived for his usual hour to observe his daughter’s learning, Lydia had managed to achieve a semblance of control. Inwardly though, she was even more concerned now that she had time to consider the situation. The islands, it seemed, were not immune to some of the rules about honour and reputation that prevailed in England’s high society. In London, if a young lady spent the night in the company of a gentleman without an adequate chaperon, then he was honour-bound to offer her marriage. If, however, a gentleman was caught in a compromising situation with a low-born governess—or, indeed, any other servant—then the governess would be fired and blamed. That was how it went. That was the practice, the form, the standard.
If the Laird’s staff thought she was of high birth, like Lady Hester, they might mistakenly think a wedding was expected. But despite her education and manners, Lydia was of common stock and had already made the Laird aware of that fact. With that in mind, surely he would know he was under no obligation towards her? Given how strong and connected the Ardmore community was, if they expected him to marry her, then he might feel obliged to make her an offer of marriage. Even if she declined, he might still be judged. That, in turn, might lead to ongoing trouble for him. She would hate to see him condemned for something that was, in fact, perfectly reasonable.
She sighed. No matter how the situation unfolded, Lydia’s greatest fear now was that this awkwardness would indirectly lead to her having to leave. Somehow, she would have to make people aware that the Laird had done nothing wrong and hope that the whole incident could be put behind them. And in the meantime the Laird needed to understand that she had no expectation of an offer from him.
The thought of him being trapped into marriage gave her pain. She could dream of nothing better than to marry him, but not like this. For a moment, she imagined what it might be like to be his wife. Her heart pounded and her stomach muscles tightened as a wave of bliss rippled through her. Then she allowed herself to imagine a resentful husband. A trapped husband. An unhappy husband. It would not do.
Briskly, she decided to take a sensible approach to the whole matter. Her first task was to make it quite clear by her demeanour that she had no expectation of an offer from him. After that...well, she needed to be brave and speak to him of this. It was vital for her to make it clear to him that she firmly believed he should not be forced to marry a governess simply because they had sheltered from the rain together. Why, the very notion was preposterous!
And so it was when Alasdair arrived in the schoolroom, looking devastatingly handsome in Highland dress and with a decidedly questioning air about him, Lydia deliberately gave him a smile that signalled politeness rather than warmth. She filled the hour with a focus on Mairead. There was no French conversation, no invitation to the Laird to assist his child with a task. She ensured that today, he was very much the observer.
At first, he was leaning forward, making comments as usual, and clearly expecting to take a full part in the lesson. Deliberately, she avoided meeting his eye and after a time she sensed him leaning back in the chair. His usual hour was nearly up when she set Mairead a writing task and he immediately took his chance.
‘Lydia.’ His tone was soft and it sent shivers through her.
‘Yes?’ She did not dare call him ‘sir’, although she wished to. Steeling herself to remain unmoved, she met his gaze. His expression was inscrutable and the contrast with the warmth she was used to from him sent a pang of hurt through her. It was irrational, she knew, since she also was behaving differently towards him. It was just...a sense of something lost was in the air.
‘I think we must speak. Do you agree?’
Mutely, she nodded.
He glanced at the clock, then turned to his child. ‘Mairead, Mòrag is coming to see to you for a little time. Can you show her your writing?’
‘Yes, Papaidh.’ The child bent her head to her work and soon afterwards, Mòrag arrived.
Lydia knew that the time to talk was upon them. He knew it, too, and had clearly asked Mòrag to attend to Mairead for just this purpose.
Alasdair gestured for her to lead the way out of the schoolroom and Lydia did so, her head held high. Together they walked wordlessly through her bedchamber, through the castle and down the stairs until they reached Alasdair’s parlour. Lydia knew she should be using this time to rehearse what she might say, but her mind was too paralysed with apprehension to allow for much logical thought.
Once inside the parlour she turned to face him, but found herself entirely unable to speak.
There was a pause. He seemed to be considering his words. Her heart sank.
‘I wish to apologise to you, Lydia.’
Her eyes widened.
For what?
‘Why should you apologise? I am not aware that you have done me any harm.’
He grimaced. ‘This place...’ he gestured vaguely ‘...is both heaven and hell, I think.’ He thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘We islanders are a strange breed. History has taught us to value loyalty, to be suspicious of outsiders and to look after each other in every way possible.’
She swallowed.
Suspicious of outsiders, eh?
‘You came to us in good faith and have wrought a miracle with my daughter. Even without knowing this, the Ardmore people have already accepted you. I must say that I believe you have earned such acceptance and that I entirely approve.’
Tears pricked her eyes. Such wonderful words from him—and quite different from what she had expected him to say. ‘Thank you,’ she said. She took a breath. ‘You may be aware, Alasdair—indeed, you cannot fail to be aware—that the castle staff have come to some...er...conclusions following our need to shelter from the rain and, er...’ Her voice tailed away and she could feel herself blushing furiously. Those conclusions might be based on an assumption that he had made love to her. The notion was wonderful to consider, even for an instant. His lips on hers, his strong arms around her, she with the freedom to touch and taste, and explore his wild beauty... She coughed, dropped her gaze and squeezed her hands tightly together. She could not bear to look at him, lest he see how much she desired him.
Astonishingly, he chuckled. She looked up, all astonishment.
‘You are yet to learn, Sassenach, how to ignore the well-meaning but unwelcome conclusions that people may come to in Ardmore. They will move on to tease another victim in a day or two, I assure you!’ He eyed her closely. ‘I must ask you in all seriousness, though, if you feel your reputation has been tainted in any way.’
She was quick to reassure him. ‘Not at all! For they surely must know that nothing happened between us! Mairead was there and...’
He was looking at her in a way that made her pulse quicken and her innards curl with desire. ‘I assure you, if I believed your reputation to be in any way compromised, I would make you an offer of marriage this very instant.’
‘You...you would?’
‘However,’ he continued inexorably, ‘I would much prefer to make an offer of marriage on my own terms, in my own manner and at a time of my choosing.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Was he speaking generally? He had to be speaking generally. And yet, there was something most particular in his gaze.
‘And you are entirely correct.’ His voice was soft and he took a step towards her. ‘Mairead was with us and we were otherwise alone in the sheiling. Nothing could happen...then.’ Lifting his hand, he trailed it down her face, then brought his thumb across her lips.
Instantly, her insides kicked as desire flamed into full, aching life. ‘Alasdair...’ she whispered.
He groaned and closed the space between them. An instant later they were together, arms wrapping tightly around one another and their lips meeting. The aching sense of relief reminded Lydia briefly of sipping the loch water after a thirsty night. This was similar, but more. More thirst, more hunger, more aching need. This kiss was necessary, somehow, and she—they—had been deprived of it for much, much too long. Their tongues touched and danced in a sensual delight, her hands were in his hair, and his were busy on her back and—oh!—her bottom.
Pausing for breath, they rested their foreheads together, then he began planting tiny kisses on her face. Her closed eyes, her nose, the line of her jaw. She arched into him like a cat and finally he found her lips again. This time the kiss was slow, measured, deliberate.
Alasdair! she was able to think. Alasdair. He was truly kissing her. This is really happening.
‘Lydia,’ he murmured against her mouth. ‘Beautiful, lovely Lydia.’
They kissed again and again. Ten times. A hundred. Their hands joined the exploration, seeking, searching, enjoying the thrill of touching and being touched. Dimly, some part of Lydia’s mind worried about someone coming into the parlour, but she was simply incapable of stopping.
Alasdair, it seemed, was made of sterner stuff. ‘Lydia,’ he groaned, ‘we must stop, while we still can.’
Knowing he was right, she leaned against him, gathering her breath and her faculties. They stayed like that for a long moment, then he slid his hands down her arms and took both her hands.
Leading her to the sofa near the fireplace, he bade her sit and took his place beside her. ‘Tell me, are you happy here, Lydia?’
‘I—I am, yes. Everyone is so kind and Mairead is wonderful and—yes, I am happy here.’
A shadow flitted across his face. ‘I have often wondered why you left the other families that you worked for.’
He paused and she felt herself flush. If she told him the truth, especially after her wanton behaviour just now, might he think she was fast? That she had done such things before? That she was somehow contriving to earn a proposal from him? If she was honest about John Pickering’s brother and the Honourable—or dishonourable—Geoffrey, and the others, the common pattern in her tales was she herself. Especially now, with speculation rife in the castle. Her mind was all disorder and she could not think what to do for the best.
‘I would prefer not to speak of it,’ was all she could say. ‘Not yet, leastways.’
‘I see.’ There was a silence. ‘Whatever it is, you can tell me, you know.’
‘I—’ She turned, alarmed. There were voices outside the door.
Alasdair jumped to his feet and by the time the door opened he was standing two feet away from the sofa.
‘Sir?’ It was one of the men. ‘You are needed at the pavilion.’
‘Very well. I shall be there directly.’
A moment later they were alone again, but the air in the room had changed. ‘I shall speak to Mrs MacLeod, ask her to address the teasing. No-one would wish you to feel uncomfortable, Lydia.’
‘Thank you.’
There was nothing more to say. He bowed, turned on his heel, and was gone.
The next two days were deliciously strange. In public, Lydia and the Laird were pleasant and self-contained and Lydia drew on all the skills of polite self-concealment she had perfected in the drawing rooms of London. During the after-dinner visit to the Laird’s parlour, they would discuss matters of no importance with Iain—who, sadly, was there on both evenings. Lydia was careful to behave in an identical, friendly fashion with both gentlemen.
Twice more, however, she and Alasdair had had the opportunity to kiss and had seized it with enthusiasm. Lydia knew he was as aware of her as she was of him and her heart was singing with the glow of his regard. They had not had the opportunity for private speech. Indeed, they were much more interested in stolen kisses than in conversation. That, Lydia mused wryly, was wonderful in one sense, but it left her in a continual state of bewilderment. She knew not what to think. He was too honourable to trifle with her, yet she could not dare hope that he felt for her what she felt for him. He desired her, certainly, but she knew enough of men to understand that a man could desire, yet not love. Some women, too, could indulge their desires in affaires while their hearts remained untouched.
For her, it was altogether different. Because she had never loved before, she had never felt desire before. Now that she loved Alasdair, she desired him and only him.
She had not seen him yet today. The shinty game was to take place in the afternoon, with dancing afterwards, and Ardmore was in an uproar of excitement. Lydia had succumbed to pleading from Eilidh and Mairead and agreed to change into her special dress later—the blue one she had worn to Calum and Màiri’s wedding—but for now, she had donned a serviceable day dress. She had been fitted with new, soft boots at the Laird’s request. A prosaic gift, yet she treasured them. Her heart skipped with excitement at each new day. Surely, in the chaos of the gathering, there would be an opportunity for them to share a stolen kiss later?
In the meantime, her work with Mairead continued to bring her joy. The child’s walking was progressing dramatically and she was now managing ten or more steps at a time, without losing her balance. ‘Heavens!’ Eilidh declared, as Mairead demonstrated her increasing skill in the schoolroom. ‘If this gathering was even a few weeks later, I expect you would dance at it, Mairead!’
‘I think I shall be a good dancer,’ Mairead declared, in a prosaic tone. ‘Lydia, can you teach me dancing?’
‘You forget, Mairead, I am not from the islands and I do not know your dances. Perhaps Eilidh may teach both of us, when she is fully recovered?’
Eilidh agreed to this and, as they went slowly together through the castle and out to the courtyard, Lydia reflected on her own words.
I am not from the islands.
Despite the Laird desiring her and despite his cryptic words when he had not made her an honourable offer, Lydia reminded herself not to get carried away with dreaming. He might not even have mentioned the topic of marriage without the subtle force of the staff. Thinking back to a time before the happy delirium of the past days, Lydia reminded herself of her firm belief that he would be happier with someone born and bred in the Hebrides.
She shrugged. Her mind was now in such bewilderment that she truly knew not what she believed. Having reminded herself of her status as a Sassenach—an outsider—Lydia also could not help a flush of pride as she mingled with the castle folk at the side of the shinty field. They rarely spoke English with her now and her Gaelic continued to progress quickly. Thankfully, the Laird had been as good as his word and the knowing looks and winks had ceased.
So it was with a good deal of contentment that Lydia and Mairead took their place among the spectators at the edge of the field. Lydia had brought a blanket—the same one that she had used in the sheiling and which was also now precious to her—and she, Mairead and Eilidh sat together in comfort, the sun warming their backs. They spoke of Dòmhnall with great affection and a number of people, including Maggie, made a point of coming to see Eilidh and to remark that Dòmhnall Mòr would be a huge loss today. Instead of making Eilidh sad, this served to flush her with pride and shared memories, and the bittersweet acknowledgement of loss.
There are lessons here for me.
Dòmhnall Mòr was gone forever, yet, somehow, Eilidh had found the courage to live on without him. It was not easy for the girl, Lydia knew, and she had as many bad days as good ones.
At least I have known what it is to love.
If her heart would be broken, then she would have to survive.
I must enjoy this happiness while I may.
The game went on for what seemed like hours. Lydia had no idea of any rules, or how they would know when it ended, but she was in heaven watching Alasdair play. The men had stripped to the waist within the first half-hour, but Lydia’s eyes could rest on no one but the Laird. How fine he looked, how strong and handsome! Her hands now knew the feel of him—his firm back, hard chest, strong arms. She had explored him—through his shirt, it was true—yet the memories made desire kindle within her once again. She smiled inwardly. She seemed to be in a constant state of desire these days.
How perfect this is!
The sun on her back, Mairead and Eilidh by her side, Alasdair in front of her, and a feeling of warm contentment within.
Then, abruptly, it was done. Cheers went up from the Ardmore folk, while Angus and his men groaned in frustration. Then they all went about the field, slapping and hugging in congratulations and commiserations.
‘They did it for Dòmhnall,’ Eilidh declared, wiping away a tear, and Lydia put an arm around her. ‘The sword of Fergus Liath will return to Ardmore this year.’
‘The sword of what?’
‘We have a common ancestor called Fergus Liath and when he died it was a matter of contention where his sword should rest. Someone came up with the notion of playing for it each year and that was how this tradition began. Angus took it last year, but our laird has now won it back.’ She grinned. ‘The alternative was a mass brawl, I suppose.’
Lydia snorted, rising to her feet and picking Mairead up. ‘The shinty seems to have many of the hallmarks of a mass brawl, I must say.’
‘But the skill! The heart!’ Eilidh began folding the blanket.
Lydia laughed. ‘That, too.’
Alasdair ran lightly towards them, grinning like a child. ‘Well, mo nighean, what say you?’ He held out his arms and Mairead transferred across to him.
‘You were good, Papaidh.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘But you smell funny.’
He glanced at Lydia, his eyes dancing. ‘I must apologise to all you ladies for...er...smelling funny.’ He swung Mairead around until she shrieked with joy, then handed her back to Lydia. ‘I must leave you now. I am required to drink whisky and talk nonsense for at least an hour, after which, I assure you, I shall have a bath!’
‘See that you do!’ said Lydia primly, but she was twinkling at him. Her eyes, naturally, had been devouring him as discreetly as she could manage. The sight of his bare chest, stomach and shoulders, seen so close, was doing wonderful things to her insides. As he walked away she took one last look at his back before turning towards the castle.
Truly, her life had never been better.