42

All that glitters is not gold, nor all that sparkles silver.

ANCIENT PROVERB

The gardens solaced Blythe as little else did. In midsummer they were nearly at their peak. She often sat beneath an arbor of wisteria that was fragrant as perfume, Orin beside her, their watercolors before them.

Another winsome bird had emerged amid his paint and paper, this time a skylark. Orin’s strokes were more deft than Blythe’s, a claw here, a beak there. Downy feathers bore white streaks, and the crest sat proudly atop the bird’s wee head like a miniature crown.

“If only art could sing,” he said, studying his work.

“It makes one’s heart sing just looking at it,” she replied. “I can hear the lark’s melodious music in my mind, all because of your watercolor.”

“I hope to paint Wallace next. Only he willna stay still.”

They laughed. Even now the pup cavorted about Orin’s ankles, occasionally chasing a small leather ball or sampling a tempting flower. A half-chewed daisy lay at their feet.

Orin looked at her own work. A rose was in progress, a sunny yellow, the leaves a mint green. But how to capture the flower’s delicate folds and ridges . . .

“I can nearly smell your rose,” he said. “’Tis yellow as butter and makes me hungry.”

“You didn’t eat much at dinner.” She’d been concerned at the time, though he seemed unaffected by it. A late night at the wedding frolic and too much cake, she’d decided. “Supper isn’t long now. How about we partake together?”

He nodded and dabbed a bit more paint onto his brush. “It shall be just the two of us. The laird and Bernard are going out to Landreth Hall.”

“Ah, yes.” The fact was no more pleasant than it had been hours earlier when she’d first heard it.

“Sometimes Miss Alison comes here, though not lately. Once I heard her ask, ‘Who is that sickly looking lad? He cannot be a Hume.’”

“Oh? People ought not to say such things.”

“’Twas long ago. I was wee. But I have not forgotten.” He set down his brush. “Needs be people speak kindly.”

“Always.”

He brightened. “Just this morn at breakfast I heard the laird say you’re the bonniest dancer he’s ever laid eyes on. And we all agreed.”

Blythe’s entire being stood on tiptoe. “He did?”

“And then Bernard said you have so light a step because there’s so little of you.”

Blythe laughed. These Humes, each so different, were amusing, every one of them. Except David. From all she’d heard, David had a darkness about him that boded ill.

Orin yawned and covered his mouth in his usual polite way. For a lad raised without a mother, he was remarkably courteous. “’Tis good to pass on pleasant talk, is it not?”

“Indeed. Pleasant words are as a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and health to the bones, as Scripture says.”

He leaned closer, his head against her shoulder. She slipped an arm around him, her cheek resting against his silky hair. Together they looked out over the garden, and she tried not to think of the lovely Alison or the fate of her own father or Elodie’s absence.

For the moment she was safe. Sound. Amid a world of color and beauty beside a lad she dearly loved.

And the laird had called her bonnie.

Landreth Hall’s drawing room was crowded, the scent of tobacco and spirits strong. Several men were smoking in an anteroom—bonnet lairds, mostly, unaccustomed to the grandeur of great houses. Already, overweening voices and laughter rang out as Everard took stock of the company.

Like his father, he usually shunned such gatherings, but it was imperative he keep current on events and the people behind them. There was a great deal of empty babble on the whole, though occasionally a kernel of truth would emerge and prove useful. Tonight’s company was decidedly in favor of the new German king. Though Everard had just arrived, he’d already heard the words Jacobite and Papist spoken with disdain.

His hackles rose when he laid eyes on a few Blackadders. Longtime enemies of the Humes if for no other reason than their enmity went back centuries, they eyed him warily in turn. Recently there’d been a complaint of sheep being stolen from the Humes’ large flock on pastureland that bordered the Blackadders’. Everard had largely forgotten it, glad to forgo a potential grudge over so small a matter and let his factors deal with it as they saw fit.

The baroness approached him even before Alison did. “Lord Wedderburn, so good of you to come.” She seemed relieved, as if she’d feared he wouldn’t make an appearance. “My eldest daughter will be delighted too.” She signaled to a footman. “We must start off on the right foot with some of our best brandy.”

Glass in hand, Everard spied Alison coming toward him in a rustle of green silk that reminded him of a peacock, emeralds draping her neck and dangling from her ears. Color high, she curtsied, and they moved away from the entrance.

“Here you are,” she said, looking triumphant. “Better tardy than absent. Where is Bernard?”

“Deterred at the last.” Everard didn’t envy his brother. He would rather attend this function than a fracas at the collieries.

“A pity.” Her gaze roamed the room. “Or perhaps providential. I recall he is even less fond of the Blackadders than you are.”

“’Tis a long, complex association,” he said, tasting his brandy.

“What a feat to have both Blackadders and Humes in our very parlor, former Borders reivers and foes once joined by marriage. I well remember the Fraud of the Humes, as ’tis called.”

“Of which I am not proud,” he replied, having mulled it many times. “Though Flodden Field might be the worst of it.”

Her smile dimmed, and she led him toward a small alcove flooded with the last of the daylight. “I must ask you, before you are overtaken by others here, about a certain matter.” With a flick of her wrist she opened her fan, her voice holding the petulant edge he disliked. “How our servants talk. One of our chambermaids is kindred to one of yours at Wedderburn. She mentioned there is a lady of note who has come to tutor Orin, though she did not name her.”

Everard stayed stoic as dismay nicked at his composure. Which servant’s tongue had been loosed? Though he was surprised it had taken this long to become tattle.

“I cannot resist asking for details as to this intriguing circumstance.”

“The lass in question is my parents’ goddaughter.”

Again that brittle smile. “Surely she has a name.”

Blythe flashed to mind as he’d last seen her, wearing her spectacles beside Orin as he worked, a sunny silhouette in the morning room. “She’s a sassenach. You wouldn’t ken her.”

“I might call on her. Introduce myself as your nearest neighbor.”

“Nae need.” The urge to protect Blythe rose up, lending a terse edge to his words. “She came to pay her respects at my faither’s funeral.” For once he was glad of Blythe’s daring as he spoke no lie. At the same time he owed Alison no explanation. He glanced out the window toward Wedderburn, the peel tower climbing above oaks and elms against a gilded sunset. “Soon she’ll take her leave of us.”

He couldn’t hide the feeling from his tone, mournful as a fiddle’s lament. Blythe gone. Wedderburn empty. Orin sair-hearted.

And not just Orin.

At the back of his mind was the startling question he’d asked Blythe at the wedding reception, only she seemed not to have heard him. Or might she have chosen to ignore his startling proposal? True, ’twas a roundabout way to ask for her hand, but he remained unsure of her and her regard of him.

“I do wish you had confided in me.” A fitfulness crept into Alison’s gaze, her silk-clad shoulders squaring. “How you try my temper, Lord Wedderburn.”

He took another drink, glad to be an aggravation, at least where Blythe’s well-being was concerned. He was enjoying this rabbit trail Alison could not possibly trace, or so he hoped. “Next you’ll be hearing Ronan has taken a bride.”

Her vexation gave way to astonishment. “You jest!”

“He’s wed, aye, and left Wedderburn.”

Her brows arched. “A Scotswoman, I hope, of ample dowry and pedigree.”

“Nae.” Even as he voiced it, he marveled at the turn of events. “A simple English lass.”

“One of no distinction?”

“My brother feels otherwise.”

“I—well . . .” For once Alison was nearly speechless. “One of my sisters said she heard chapel bells pealing at Wedderburn yesterday . . .”

“At the conclusion of the ceremony, aye.”

“Felicitations to the happy couple, then.” Her voice lacked warmth. She was aggrieved to have learned of it secondhand. But murmuring and discontent were ever Alison’s way, and it was becoming clearer the longer their acquaintance.

“Have you any news from London?” he asked.

“None of note. But the gossip from Edinburgh is rather scintillating. ’Tis being whispered your libertine brother has become enamored with a stage actress—”

“Lord Wedderburn.” A bonnet laird stood before them, clearly intent on conversation, coming to Everard’s rescue. “I’ve been wanting to discuss leasing land from you.”