Knowing that word of Roger’s unexpected wedding would inevitably leak out, with Symmes and Gissing ranting and complaining over at Clough House, Macklin and Roger’s mother decided to share the news themselves. The couple’s last letter from Scotland had given them promising phrases to use, implying that Fenella’s grandmother was part of the whole marriage scheme. Trusting Fenella to gain the support of that formidable old woman, they agreed that it would be wise to tell certain sociable neighbors, so that their version of the story would be the one the gossips spread.
“Oh, I’m glad they paid no attention to those dreadful letters,” replied Mrs. McIlwaine when the dowager marchioness conveyed the tale over tea the following day.
Arthur glanced at their hostess. Seeing uncertainty in her gaze, he decided to pretend ignorance. “Letters?” Things one had heard nothing about often seemed less important.
“No one told you?”
Mrs. McIlwaine’s expression was familiar. She was one of those who reveled in knowing more than anyone else, Arthur thought. Not necessarily malicious, but overeager. He made a noncommittal gesture.
“I expect Chatton didn’t want to upset you.” Mrs. McIlwaine directed her comment at Roger’s mother.
“And what would have done that?” asked Helena calmly, following his lead.
“Several of us received the horridest anonymous letters,” the other lady replied. “Repeating that silly rumor blaming Miss Fairclough—Lady Chatton, I should say now—for her, er, predecessor’s ride out in the storm.”
Arthur kept his expression bland. If neighbors were talking of this insult so openly, something really must be done.
“Several of you,” said Helena evenly.
The visitor mentioned names. “And Mrs. Cheeve had one yesterday. She was excessively shocked.”
The vicar’s wife would have been, Arthur thought. Or would have wanted to appear so. Both, probably.
“Particularly as Chatton was talking of the story again last Sunday,” continued Mrs. McIlwaine. “It might have been better to ignore it.” She shook her head. “Difficult, though, when one is angry at the injustice.”
Not malicious at all, Arthur concluded.
“I’m so glad they didn’t let it stop them from marrying,” the visitor added.
“Why should they?” asked Helena. Clearly, she was angry.
“Exactly so,” answered Mrs. McIlwaine. “One mustn’t give such a vile person the satisfaction. It’s so lowering to think that one of our own neighbors would be so sneaking and spiteful.”
“Neighbors,” said Helena.
“Well, they were delivered by hand, you know. Dreadful to imagine that creature writing them nearby.” Mrs. McIlwaine gathered her shawl, eager now to go and spread her juicy news. They said their farewells and waited a few minutes until they heard her carriage depart.
“You said you had some idea what we might do about those letters,” Helena said then.
Arthur nodded. “Find out who is sending them,” he replied.
“How will you do that?” Her voice was clipped with annoyance.
He didn’t blame her. “By watching for the messenger. Someone local has been enlisted, and no doubt paid, to carry them. They will be more flush with cash than before. And perhaps prone to boasting.”
Helena frowned. “We can’t wait in the lanes or the village tavern for this person to appear.”
“No, but I have someone who can. Tom is a keen observer.” Arthur noted her doubtful expression. “He’s proven his ability to discover information when we needed it. You may trust me on that.”
“Well, of course I do. It’s just…this is rather important. I can’t bear to have more of these letters arrive. What a horrid welcome to her new home for Fenella.”
“We will treat it so,” said Arthur. With a courteous salute, he went out.
After a moment’s thought about the best way to arrange a private conversation, he went up to his bedchamber and rang for Clayton, who was dispatched to find Tom. The lad turned up a few minutes later, bright and inquisitive. When the problem was explained to him, he said, “I can do that. Likely this messenger is spending his new wages around the village.”
“That’s what I thought,” Arthur said.
“He may be itching to tell about his good fortune as well. Most do. But even if he’s not, there’ll be summat to notice.”
“And then you must follow him to the source,” Arthur reminded him. “Without being observed yourself.”
Tom nodded.
“After that, we will root them out,” the older man added. “There’s nothing worse than poison-pen letters.”
“Ha, poison pen, that’s a good name for them,” said Tom.
“Descriptive of the effect they can have.”
Tom turned toward the bedchamber door. “I’m right pleased to have something to do,” he said. “That Wrayle fellow has got John shut away at Clough House, and I’ve been back to walking about the fields on my own.”
* * *
Roger pulled his horse up beside Fenella’s and joined her in gazing at a cascade of water foaming over a tumble of rocks and into a stream by the side of the road. They had decided not to hurry their journey north. They might have reached her grandmother’s house in two days, but they were taking at least three. Fenella’s horse wasn’t as good as his, for one thing. Mr. Larraby’s hapless animal was plodding and stubborn. He took advantage of any opportunity to pause and crop grass, as he was doing now. And he objected strenuously to long treks into unknown territory.
Also, Roger was balancing concern about facing Fenella’s formidable grandmother with the inconvenience of having no change of clothes. He’d bought a few necessities in Coldstream, so they weren’t without a hairbrush and tooth powder. But they had little else. The cash he’d had with him when they fled was running low. He told himself that it would suffice.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” said Fenella.
The most beautiful thing in Roger’s view was his new wife, but he didn’t say so. Sometimes she appeared to enjoy a compliment; other times praise unsettled her. He hadn’t learned the difference, whatever it might be. “The scenic route,” he replied instead.
This won him a smile. “I promise you I know the way,” she said.
“I’m counting on it.” They had veered off the main road onto a track that Fenella promised would show him striking views of the countryside. Roger suspected that his valet and her maid might well reach their destination before they did.
Fenella tugged on her horse’s reins, addressing the animal’s reluctance to move on. “Come along, sir. You will have better fodder when we stop for the night, as you might very well understand by this time.”
The borrowed mount snorted and fought her control, straining toward the grass. She got him moving with difficulty.
“I’d gladly ride him for a while,” Roger offered, not for the first time.
“I couldn’t inflict him on you,” she replied as before.
The day waned as they rode on. The track grew more overgrown. It seemed to Roger that little traffic had passed this way in some time.
“I was certain there was a small inn about here,” said Fenella. “Yes, there it is.”
But the building at the side of the road was empty, clearly abandoned. A thick plank had been nailed across the front door. The roof sagged in the middle. And the small stable at the back was partly burned.
“Oh dear.” Fenella surveyed the place. “I was through here only… I suppose it was two years ago. I didn’t stay, but…I suppose they didn’t have enough travelers to keep going.”
Roger thought it very likely. “We’ll have to break in. There’s rain coming. Unless you know of some other shelter nearby?”
She shook her head. “Not for miles.”
“Right.” Roger jumped down and handed Fenella his reins. “I’ll check for other entrances first.” He walked around the building. There was a back door, but it was secured with several planks. The mullioned windows looked too small to crawl through, even if he managed to open one. It would have to be the main entry.
Back at the front door, he found a sturdy tree branch and slipped it between the plank and the panels. By prying at first one end, then the other, he finally got the board off. Throwing it aside, he tried the door. “Locked. I’ll have to bash it in.” The darkness was deepening, and the wind definitely promised rain. He looked around for a suitable rock.
“Just a minute.” Fenella dismounted. She pulled two pins from her hair and knelt before the lock. In a few minutes, she had the door open.
“Where did you learn to do that?”
“My cousin Rob taught me,” she said.
“Rob?”
“My mother’s brother’s son. You’ll meet him. He lives near Grandmamma.”
Roger had never heard of this fellow before. He felt a twinge of jealousy. “Sneak thief, is he?”
Fenella laughed. “He’s the current laird.”
“So that means yes, if I know my Scotsmen.”
“We’re making a family visit, not a border raid,” she teased. “You will remember that we’re going to enlist Grandmamma’s help?” She stepped through the door.
“Help, not a raid,” repeated Roger with a smile, following her.
It was damp and chilly inside the small building. The rooms were empty; everything had been taken away. But a wide stone fireplace remained in the largest chamber, and it appeared the roof would keep out the rain, at least on the lower floor. Roger doubted that it did upstairs.
They went back out to collect wood. The surrounding vegetation was green and damp, but they found some dry scraps in the ruins of the stable, along with shreds of old hay for tinder. “I’ll bring the horses in here,” Roger said. “There’s enough cover left to shelter them. I’ll pull some grass for them.”
“I’ll help you.”
“No need. Take the wood in.” He handed her the flint and steel he always carried in a pocket on his saddle. “You could check the kitchen for food. Not that there will be any from the looks of things.”
“Women’s work?”
“Kitchen maid’s work, while I do the ostler’s.” Roger gave her a smile as he went out. Rain was indeed starting. He led their mounts into the upright part of the stable and unsaddled them. Mr. Larraby’s horse voiced running complaints about the nature of the accommodations. Even a handful of the grain they’d purchased along the way didn’t mollify him.
When Roger returned, he found Fenella seated cross-legged on the floor before a crackling fire, holding her hands out to the flames. She’d fetched water, too. Whoever had stripped the place had forgotten to take the bucket from the well, fortunately.
Fenella turned and gestured at the meager results of her search, lined up by her knee. “Some salt in a twist of paper,” she said, pointing to the first object. “Left in the back of a cupboard. A broken paring knife. A few beans, well chewed over by what I believe is a rat living under the kitchen floorboards.”
“I suppose I could try to catch it for our dinner.”
“I am not that hungry,” declared Fenella. “And I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Suggesting this diversion in our route. It’s far more rustic than I remembered. I do think more people used to come this way.”
“One day without dinner is no great hardship,” he replied, sitting down next to her. “And we are out of the weather.” Rain had begun to beat against the window. Certainly the sagging roof would leak, Roger thought. But they should be all right if they stayed down here. Fenella looked melancholy. He searched for a diversion. “Tell me more about your grandmother. So that I’ll know how to ingratiate myself with her.”
As he’d hoped, this made her laugh. “I can’t wait to see that.”
“Is she such a fierce Scot?”
“Actually, she’s the daughter of an English duke and his French émigrée wife.”
“What?”
Fenella nodded. “She met the laird of Roslyn during a hunting party. It was in Northumberland, actually. She was visiting the North, and he’d ventured a bit south. Voilà, they fell madly in love.”
Her voice had an odd inflection at the end. Roger couldn’t interpret it.
“It was a fine match, except that she was a Sassenach and his family deep-dyed Scots. Her French blood helped persuade them.”
“Why was that?”
“Mary, Queen of Scots?” she answered. “The Stuart Pretenders living in Paris? There’s been a link for centuries.” She held up a hand. “By the way, don’t call the Stuarts ‘Pretenders’ while we’re up here. Should the topic arise.”
“I can’t imagine why it would,” Roger said. “That was ages ago.”
“I have a great-uncle who remembers the Battle of Culloden as if it was yesterday. Or claims to.” She considered. “Though he can’t have been more than five in 1746. Ha, to hear him you would think he’d cut a bloody swath through the enemy ranks.”
“Was that the one where the Hanovers defeated the Stuarts once and for all?”
Fenella shook her head. “Never say it that way up here. It isn’t so very long since then.”
“A good long lifetime,” said Roger.
“There aren’t many left who were there,” she agreed. “But live up here for a few years, and you’ll hear about it.” She gazed into the fire. The rain pattered outside.
They still weren’t completely comfortable being alone together, Roger thought in the silence. This wasn’t what he would have planned for a honeymoon journey. “What is your grandmother’s house like?”
“Elegant,” Fenella replied. She frowned. “Will your valet have packed evening dress?”
“For a country house visit. Of course.”
“Yes. Good. Grandmamma is a stickler on some things, and then liberal about others.” She smiled. “She despises the sidesaddle, for example. She’ll be sorry to see mine. While I lived with her, I had a riding habit with split skirts and rode astride. As does she. I didn’t bring the habit home with me because I knew Papa would object.” A shadow passed across her face. “Would have.”
“I hope you’ll bring it along when we return.”
She looked at him. “You’re not afraid of scandalizing the neighborhood?”
“Not in the least.”
Her blue gaze was steady. And perhaps speculative? “I will then.”
“Splendid.” Roger yearned to fold her in his arms, capture her lips, and sink into the pleasures that had illuminated their nights together. But the floor was dusty, and there was a smell of mold from the back premises. Hardly a spot for romance. He endured another pause, then said, “What sort of place is Roslyn?”
“The town is pretty. About seven miles south of Edinburgh, on high ground, near the North Esk River. There’s an ancient chapel.” Fenella yawned.
“You’re tired. You should rest.”
She looked around. “We must sleep on the floor. I looked upstairs. There’s nothing here.”
“I’ll spread my coat for you to lie on.”
“Nonsense. You’ll be cold.”
“The fire will do.” Indeed, the room was warmer.
After another glance at the dirty floor, she accepted his offer. She lay down with a look toward the moldy kitchen. “Do you suppose the rat comes out at night?”
“I’ll keep watch and feed the flames. That will discourage any visits.”
“I should take my turn.”
Roger nodded, not wishing to argue. But she looked so weary, and so lovely curled on the wooden floor, that he did not wake her. Instead he waited until light showed at the windows and then roused her to ride on, to the surly indignation of Mr. Larraby’s horse.
The rain had stopped, and they went faster than before, both having had enough of their cross-country trek by this time. Early in the evening, they crested a small rise and looked down on their goal—a substantial mansion of stone and slate.
Fenella set her heels to her borrowed horse, whose quirks had filled her with an irredeemable disgust for him, and moved down the incline.
Five years ago, she’d arrived at this house seeking refuge, Fenella thought as she rode. And she’d received it in full measure. Now she was looking for safety of another kind. A shield from scandal. What would Grandmamma have to say about that?
Her grandmother’s home was the same, with ranks of windows throwing warm light into the growing dusk. Fenella trusted her own judgment, and she didn’t regret her actions. But her grandmother had a lifetime’s more experience and a wealth of wisdom. She would be glad to hear her grandmother’s opinion. And of course to gain her approval and help. Fenella hadn’t realized until this moment how very much she wanted the former.
They were ushered into the lady’s presence without delay. As usual, she looked polished and elegant, making Fenella wish she’d been given a bit more time to prepare. A gown of lilac satin perfectly set off Grandmamma’s white hair and emphasized the wretched state of Fenella’s riding habit, crushed and stained by the night on the dusty floor. The lines in the old lady’s face seemed designed to emphasize its timeless bone structure.
Fenella saw Roger looking back and forth between them. “The resemblance has been remarked upon,” she said. Many observers had told her that her grandmother showed what she would look like at seventy. She hoped they were right.
“Well, what have you to say for yourself, young man?” said Grandmamma.
“I think I’m a very lucky fellow,” Roger replied with a bow that acknowledged them both.
“Ha.”
Fenella hid a smile. Her grandmother didn’t mind a little flattery, if it was judicious.
“I received your letter.” The old lady’s tone was dry. “And your servants, who arrived this morning.” She looked them up and down. “Fortunately,” she added.
Fenella was relieved to hear that her clothes had come. Grandmamma didn’t care for an untidy appearance, which she certainly presented just now. She didn’t have to voice a criticism for Fenella to be aware of it. “As I had no way of predicting the time of your arrival, you have missed dinner,” she finished.
“We’ll behave much better tomorrow, Grandmamma.” That won her a smile, so Fenella followed it with “I didn’t know the little inn south of here had closed. We spent last night on a hard floor, so I’m rather tired.”
The sympathy Fenella had hoped for showed in her grandmother’s blue eyes. A short time later, they were settled in a comfortable set of rooms, supplied with hot water for bathing and a savory meal. As a favorite with the staff here, Fenella was showered with greetings and small attentions. She reveled in the luxury, well aware that a searching conversation with her grandmother had only been postponed, not avoided.
And indeed Fenella was summoned to her grandmother’s private parlor as soon as she was up and dressed the following morning. She waved aside Roger’s concern when it was made clear that she was to come alone. If Grandmamma wanted to scold her, she would, and Fenella preferred to face that on her own. She was just glad she had a proper gown to wear and freshly washed hair.
When she stepped into the comfortable room, she remembered how she’d admired this chamber when she first saw it. Her grandmother had created a very personal retreat with books, flowers, keepsakes, and soft furnishings. Her parlor was a bower of color and ease. Fenella had envied it fiercely five years ago. A thrill went through her as she realized that she would be able to create a place like this for herself at Chatton Castle. She had her own home now, and the power to arrange whatever retreat she wanted.
Her grandmother sat in an armchair by the window. “Are you more rested?” she asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
“So now we can talk.” The old lady gestured at the chair opposite.
Fenella sat down. “Of course. Oh, first of all I must send back Mr. Larraby’s horse.”
“Larraby?”
“A tenant of ours.” Fenella grimaced. “Of the new owner of Clough House, I should say. Which is no longer any concern of mine. That has been made very clear.”
“Do I hear bitterness?” asked her grandmother, eyes searching her face.
“A bit,” Fenella admitted. She told the story of Lightfoot’s sale, which made her grandmother frown, as the horse had been her gift.
“Upstarts,” said the old woman. “But I hope you didn’t think to pay back your family by eloping. Because that would not be a good reason for such a rash action.”
“No, not pay them back,” she answered. “Escape their control in one fell swoop, yes.” She set her jaw. “I’m going to buy Lightfoot back, too.”
“Fell swoop? Are we in the midst of a melodrama?”
“A bit,” Fenella said again, with a smile this time.
Her grandmother didn’t smile back, but her expression eased. She summoned a servant and gave orders about Mr. Larraby’s horse. When this was done, she turned back to Fenella. “I intend to take a hard look at this young man you’ve married, and if he is not worthy of you, I can end this hasty match. I have influential friends, and I could manage that for you.”
“I don’t want to do that, Grandmamma.”
The old lady’s eyes narrowed. “You came running to me five years ago because you wouldn’t marry this very man. Now you come running because you have married him, in the most scrambling way. You do see the irony in that? Does it sound like sense?”
Fenella was rather tired of having their history thrown into her face. “That isn’t exactly how it was then. And I’m not running.”
“What are you doing?” Her grandmother sounded genuinely curious.
“Staging a strategic pause,” said Fenella. “Negotiating an important…alliance.”
Finally her grandmother smiled. “With me?”
“My sisters’ husbands wouldn’t dare oppose you. Any more than Greta and Nora would.”
“But I don’t understand why the issue would arise.”
Fenella explained the terms of her father’s will, and the attitude of her brothers-in-law. “Roger has promised me that my inheritance will be under my control.”
“And you believe him?”
“Yes.” Fenella had no doubts in that regard.
Her grandmother accepted her opinion. “But this is the man you described as rude and insufferable and—what was it?—vile. Yes, I believe that was the word.”
Fenella laughed. “And so he was, five years ago. He has changed.”
“People don’t often do that.”
“I did.”
The old lady acknowledged this with a nod. She considered briefly. “There are those who will say you married for rank and fortune.”
“Gossips must always be saying something.”
“I can see you are determined on this marriage.” She sat back in her chair, looking dissatisfied. “It all seems very convoluted. It wasn’t like that when I met your grandfather.”
“You fell in love all at once. I remember you told me.” Fenella shrugged. “Not everyone has it so easy.”
“Easy? I don’t believe I’ve ever said it was easy.”
“You were madly in love.”
“Oh yes.” Her grandmother looked wistful.
“And so was my grandfather.” Fenella remembered him as a fierce Scot who had no patience for fools. Even her sister Nora had been frightened of him.
“Do you think that makes marital bliss automatic? Not at all. I think it may heighten the disappointments that inevitably come, from time to time.”
“I thought you were happy together,” said Fenella. Disillusionment stirred in her. She’d set up her grandparents’ marriage as an ideal in her mind.
“We were. Because we worked at it. Love makes you want to agree. It doesn’t mean you will, or solve every problem that comes along. Like some sort of magic wand.” She snorted at the idea.
As Fenella took in this nugget of wisdom and stored it away for future reference, she felt the beginning of a broad relief.
“Well, let’s get this husband of yours in here and see what he’s made of,” said her grandmother.
It was a thrill to hear Roger called that, even as she worried about the coming encounter. “I hope you won’t bully him, Grandmamma.”
“Would he let me?”
“Well, no, but—” She didn’t want them to wrangle.
“Then we have no problem.”
Roger was summoned. He stood before them with his hands behind his back, a bit like a schoolboy brought before the headmaster, Fenella thought.
“Tell me about yourself,” said her grandmother to him. “How do you describe yourself to a new acquaintance? A gentleman acquaintance, that is. None of the namby-pamby stuff you’d tell a female.”
“Wouldn’t,” said Roger. “I’d be a dead bore describing myself. We’d talk about whatever we were doing. Who introduced us. That sort of thing.”
The old lady showed no particular reaction. “What are your favorite pursuits?”
“Riding, shooting. Dancing. I’m fond of a hand of cards with skilled players.”
“What do you despise?”
“Cruelty,” Roger replied promptly.
“What would your mother say if I asked her about your character?”
“Well, good things, I expect. She is my mother. Macklin might be a better reference if I require one. He’s a very honest fellow.”
“Macklin?”
“The Earl of Macklin. He is—yes, I think I can call him a friend of mine, though I just met him this year.”
“An older man?” asked Fenella’s grandmother.
“About fifty, I believe.”
“Ah, it must have been his father then.”
“What must have been, Grandmamma?” asked Fenella. The conversation was going better than she’d expected, if not predictably.
“The previous earl. He was a suitor of mine, long ago.”
“Really?” said Roger. “The current Lord Macklin courted my mother. In London, years ago.”
“Indeed.”
“She thought he might be again, when he came to stay with us. But now they say they’re friends. Do you suppose that’s all right?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Didn’t mean to say that,” said Roger. “That’s something else about me, you may as well know. If I’m describing myself. Sometimes words just…won’t do what I wish them to. They pop out, or stay in, at the least opportune moments.”
Fenella’s grandmother looked amused for the first time. “Do they?”
He nodded glumly. “Bane of my existence.”
The old lady hid a smile. “Bane?”
“Phrase I spotted in a newspaper once. It seemed apt.”
“I see. So what was it you wanted to ask me?”
“Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, I’m interested to know.”
Roger hesitated as if determined to get this right. “I just want to be certain my mother is all right. They claim to be friends, and all seems well. Macklin said that as people grow older, they understand the importance of friendship.”
“And since I am older, I must know the truth of this?” asked Fenella’s grandmother.
Roger blanched. “I didn’t mean—”
“As it happens, I agree,” she added. “This Macklin sounds like a sensible man. Is your mother a sensible woman?”
“Yes.”
“Then I don’t imagine you have anything to worry about.” She waved a dismissive hand. “You may go now.”
Roger hesitated, then bowed out of the room.
“All right,” said Fenella’s grandmother when he was gone. “I’m inclined to stand with you on this marriage.”
“You like him?” She hadn’t acknowledged how very much she valued her grandmother’s opinion until this moment, Fenella realized.
“I think I do. I want Rob’s opinion.”
“What can my cousin tell you? He isn’t acquainted with Roger.”
“He has the male perspective. And he might have heard things. Men gossip like washerwomen among themselves, you know. They put a bluff face on it, but they indulge just the same.”
“There is nothing disreputable to hear.”
“Splendid. We will simply have a pleasant family dinner together.”
“Do you promise?”
“Go along with you, impudent girl.”
Fenella gave her a hug, then hurried after her husband. She found him in the corridor outside. “That felt like an interrogation,” he said.
Fenella wondered if she should apologize. It wouldn’t be honest. She wasn’t sorry. His answers had been fascinating. “Grandmamma is extremely forthright.”
He smiled at her. “An understatement. But answering her was interesting. I hadn’t thought about some of that before. And I’m determined to prove myself to her.”
“For my sake.”
Roger nodded. “And for my own. Clearly, her respect is a thing worth having.”
Fenella nodded.
“Nearly as much as yours.”
“My respect?”
“I hope I may earn it eventually.”
Fenella looked into his eyes. During the talk with her grandmother, a new idea had suggested itself to her. Perhaps there was madly in love and then there was…gradually overtaken by love? Could that be a hope? “You do have it,” she said.
“That means a great deal.” He took her hand and held it. The tenderness in his eyes made Fenella tremble. It was marvelous to know that she hadn’t made a mistake.
The current laird of Roslyn joined them later that day. Stocky and dark-haired, he didn’t resemble his grandmother, or Fenella. As Roger acknowledged the introduction and met the other man’s shrewd brown eyes sizing him up, he wondered how much of the current situation had been conveyed to him. He didn’t have to wait for an answer. “Eloping with my cousin, man?” said the laird. He looked grim.
“Rob,” said Fenella.
Roger didn’t blame him for wanting to protect his cousin. But that role was his now, and he didn’t intend to be supplanted. “It wasn’t what we planned. I’d asked her to marry me before Mr. Fairclough’s death threw all into confusion,” he said.
“Took all my choices away from me,” said Fenella. “Even my horse.”
The laird glanced at their hostess. Some silent communication passed between the two. “Let us go in to dinner,” said Fenella’s grandmother.
They settled at table. Food was served, wine poured.
“I met Fenella when she was running up here to Scotland as a lass,” said the laird then. “Found her lost and cowering under a holly tree like a little mouse.”
“I was sheltering from the rain,” Fenella protested. “I might have been a bit lost, but I was not cowering.”
“‘Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,’” he replied mysteriously.
“Do not begin with your Robert Burns,” said Fenella’s grandmother. “A most improper person,” she told Roger.
“But a right proper poet was Robbie,” said the laird.
“If you are partial to low comedy.”
“Aye, and so I am,” he answered, a teasing gleam in his dark eyes. They went cool again as he turned to Roger. “She was running from you then, if I recall correctly.”
“Well, you don’t,” said Roger. He’d had enough of the fellow’s mistrust. And he wasn’t accustomed to feeling so left out where Fenella was concerned. “Our fathers were pressing her. Not I.” He met Fenella’s warm gaze. “Because I was… I didn’t.” He ran out of words, maddeningly.
Her lips moved. Did they silently form the phrase sodding sheep? Surely not. “We will leave history out of this,” she said. “Circumstances are quite different now, and there is no need to rehash all that again. Anyway, what I choose to do is not your affair, Rob.”
“Not even if you bring scandal down on our family? Of which I am the head, I might remind you.”
“Not of the Faircloughs,” she replied. “That would be…who? My father’s cousin Gerard? Oh, what does it matter. I’m not a Fairclough any longer. I’m—”
“Marchioness of Chatton,” interrupted Roger, thinking it was time to remind them of that point. He wasn’t some skirter or half-pay officer.
Fenella smiled. “So I am. Watch your step, Rob, or I’ll overawe you with my consequence.”
The laird examined her face. He turned to survey Roger. He exchanged another long look with his grandmother. Then, for the first time since he’d arrived, he laughed. “The first week Fenella was in Scotland, she challenged me to a bout of marksmanship,” he told Roger. “Shot the pips out of a playing card and beat me all hollow.”
“And how you hated that,” Fenella said. “You would not believe I’d actually managed it until I’d shredded half a deck.”
“Well, a crack shot wasn’t exactly usual among the girls I knew.”
“I was nothing like them. I’m still not.”
“True enough. Best mind your manners, Chatton, or she’ll lob a bullet past your ear.” He seemed only half-joking.
Roger had never seen Fenella sparkle so with a stranger. He’d known her only in their small neighborhood with gentlemen they’d been acquainted with all their lives. He was captivated anew, and just a bit jealous. He kept wanting to mention that he was her husband. But for once he managed not to blurt out an inappropriate remark.
“He has nothing to fear,” said Fenella. “You, however, could use a setdown.”
“Shall we go out and try a few rounds? You must have some pistols about, Grandmamma.”
“I’m out of practice,” said Fenella.
“So you admit that I’d best you now.”
Fenella hesitated, and for a moment Roger thought she was going to jump up and accept the challenge. He looked forward to watching her trounce her cousin. But then she nodded. “I expect you would, Rob.”
“Really? You concede?”
Their grandmother made a small sound.
Fenella and her cousin turned to her like plants stirred by the wind. “We need to talk about averting a scandal,” the old woman said.
“Just tell everyone that you’re behind the match,” replied the laird. “Who’d dispute it? Or dare to argue?”
“No one,” said Fenella with a fond smile for her grandmother.
“Well, I suppose that is the plan, more or less. With a few refinements.” Their hostess turned to Roger. “Your mother will add her approval?”
He nodded. “She’s very fond of Fenella.”
“And I of her.”
The old lady nodded. “Your sisters’ husbands are gabsters.”
“Shoot ’em,” said the laird.
This earned him a stern glance. “You are not to have any more wine,” said his grandmother.
“Yes, ma’am.” He pushed his glass away. “Only joking.”
“They must be brought around.”
“I’ll speak to them,” said Roger.
His tone made the others turn to gaze at him.
“They won’t cause problems,” he added.
Fenella’s grandmother and her cousin offered respectful nods. The look Fenella gave him sent a wave of heat from Roger’s head to his toes.