In the weeks since Fletcher awoke to find Rosalyn warming his bed, he had realized she avoided him as much as possible. Hoping to amuse himself, he became acclimated to his new surroundings. He was more comfortable astride a horse than sitting in a carriage or a gig, and although he had ridden since he arrived, he had not carefully studied the horses at the stable.
One day he noticed a brown-and-white stallion, an impatient steed, frisky and anxious to run. This was the animal he wanted. He called him Ahote, which meant “restless one.” He’d asked Evan, the stable boy, about the breed.
“’Tis an Irish Hunter, Yer Grace,” Evan told him, and went on to explain the breed, a combination of Irish Draught mare and Thoroughbred stallion, most likely an Arabian. “Bred for jumping and racing.”
So in the days afterward, man and horse flew across the sand together, soon followed by the huge, shaggy wolfhounds and menagerie of other dogs that slept in the stable. They rode into the cold, damp wind, and over the coarse grass that peppered the island. Often, at sunset, Fletcher sat astride the animal and watched as the sun slipped below the watery horizon, leaving streaks of purple, orange, and yellow.
From there he could look back and see the castle in the distance, amazed that all of this was his. His father had told him it was a small castle compared to many, but it was bigger than any damn building Fletcher had ever seen. He learned that the ivy-covered, two-and-a-half-story red stone edifice had been built in the thirteenth century on the ruins of an earlier Viking fortress. Whatever his ancestors had been, good or daft or completely amoral, the buildings and grounds were well maintained and the rooms filled with furnishings that rivaled museum pieces.
The more he walked the property, the more he understood why men settled down. He found himself bound to this place in an eerily natural way, even though it was different from anything he had ever experienced. Perhaps it was because everywhere he looked he could imagine his father as a boy, racing over the grass, peering out one of the upstairs windows, or climbing onto the roof and settling against the chimney to watch the ocean and the sky. He now lived in the stories of his youth, images that had seemed so far away back then. Here he felt less lost than anywhere else he had ever been.
He wanted his brothers and sister here. Like him, they were bound to this land by blood and bone and heritage. He smiled—he even thought of Gavin that way, for he had been his brother for many years. It had been over a month and there had been no word from the agency.
As he took the path behind the stables, he heard a woman’s voice coming from inside. Curious, he stepped to the window and then pulled back quickly. He carefully looked in again and saw Rosalyn sitting on a stool, her back to the window, talking to Sima, the wolfhound bitch that had a litter of pups. He didn’t find it unusual for her to be exposing her soul to a dog. At his loneliest moments he’d talked to his horse.
Rosalyn held one of the pups in her lap and stroked it tenderly.
“Everyone has an opinion about my life, Sima.”
The dog looked up at Rosalyn, her tail thumping as several of her pups nursed.
“Geddes is insistent, of course, thinking he knows what’s best for me,” she said conversationally. “He’s always been so practical. Well, not always. There was that time when he was a far younger man and we were on holiday in Vienna with our tutor. Our da had a cousin who had some connections to the Austrian court, so we’d been invited to tea.” She stopped and chuckled, remembering. “There was this beautiful, fragile girl there and Geddes fell in love immediately. Unfortunately, we learned she was an Austrian princess and not at all interested in some pale, lanky schoolboy from Scotland. He was heartbroken when she rebuffed him. Sometimes I think that’s why he’s never allowed himself to fall in love again.” She cuddled the pup close, nuzzling it with her nose. “He won’t take chances with his life, but he’s willing to take chances with mine.
“I know why he wants me to marry. Oh, indeed, he’s anxious for an heir so the estate is secure, but he also wants me out of his hair, although he would never admit as much.
“I do wish Fen hadn’t gone to the mainland. I need to talk this entire thing over with her before it’s too late.” She put the pup down next to its mother and it immediately rooted around for an available teat. “I don’t know the duke well enough, Sima. I can’t trust my own judgment. He might be as evil as Leod, but how will I know until it’s too late?”
Fletcher leaned against the stable wall next to the window and closed his eyes. What reasons had he given her to trust him at all? And who was this Leod and how did he fit into Rosalyn’s life?
He glanced back through the window just as she reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a griddle scone. She broke it into pieces and fed it to the bitch, who took each piece delicately, yet eagerly. And then Evan entered the stable, so Fletcher moved away from the window again.
“Good day, mistress.”
“Oh, Evan, aren’t these the most beautiful pups?”
“Aye, they are.”
“Have you picked out the one you want?”
“Aye,” he said. “The one with the bushiest eyebrows. He reminds me of my uncle Artair who lives on Mull.”
“Artair means ‘bear,’” Rosalyn said.
“Aye. I’ll call him Bear.”
“Well, he’s a beauty, Evan. One of the males is spoken for, of course, but do you think we can find homes for the others?” Rosalyn asked.
“’Tis a job I’ll take on happily, mistress.”
“All but one,” Rosalyn said. “I think perhaps I should keep one of the pups, don’t you?”
“Aye,” he said, pausing before he left. “You should pick the one you want to keep, mistress. Do you think His Grace would want one?”
Rosalyn paused. “All of the hounds follow him around already; I don’t think he needs any more adoration.”
Evan glanced at her, puzzled, but said nothing.
Fletcher smothered a chuckle from behind the stable wall.
Rosalyn sighed and picked up the pup she’d earlier held on her lap. “I’ve grown quite attached to this little lassie. She’s found her way into my heart. I’ll call her Bonnie, because she is such a bonnie little thing.”
Fletcher watched Evan leave the stable, but before he left too, he heard Rosalyn speak. “Picking a loveable pup is easy; ’tis picking a good husband that’s impossible.”
• • •
Days later, tired of wearing Geddes’s clothing, Fletcher entered the foyer, still hunched over from the early March chill. He bounded up the staircase as Rosalyn approached. “Good day, ma’am.”
She looked up, surprised to find him there. “You’re wearing a kilt,” she said with astonishment, but no smile accompanied it.
He’d nearly frozen his balls off when he stepped outside. But he gave her a nonchalant shrug. “Yes. I felt the clothes you had Barnaby bring me were too fancy. I thought I’d save them for the wedding.”
Her expression was priceless. She looked horrified. “You wouldn’t. And anyway,” she added hastily, “it won’t be necessary. Your clothes have arrived; they’re in your suite.”
He bit back a grin. “Lucky for you they arrived when they did. Otherwise, what else would I have worn to the wedding?”
She finally realized he was teasing her and she appeared to stop a smile. “I had nothing to do with Barnaby finding those clothes.”
“But you saw them, and you didn’t discourage him from bringing them to me.” When she didn’t answer, he said, “You didn’t really think I’d wear them, did you?”
Her expression told him that she had hoped he would.
“As for the kilt, I like it.” He glanced down at the plaid. When she didn’t respond, he said, “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I have your household to run, Your Grace.” She started to leave, but he caught her arm. She tensed.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
She seemed frozen in place, so he leaned in close, pulling her toward him. She smelled of roses and woman—a scent he remembered well. A scent he conjured up often when he was in bed alone, wishing he could remember every moment of their mating, cursing when he could not remember it at all. Her skin was pale, flawless. Her wheat-colored hair, pulled into a severe braid at the base of her neck, had a healthy shine. He wanted to see it spread out on his pillow. He longed to see desire in her eyes; he wanted to see her sated. He surprised himself when he realized he wanted her. “Do you never smile?”
She looked away. “I’ve had little to be joyous about of late.”
“Do you dread our marriage so much, Rosalyn?”
She turned quickly and looked at him, as if her name on his tongue startled her. “I was married once, Your Grace. It was quite enough to satisfy me for a lifetime.”
Evil Leod. Fletcher released his grip but kept his hand on her arm.
She didn’t move away.
“Someday I would like to know more about the man who put such pain in your eyes.”
She pulled her arm from his touch. When she looked at him her gaze was veiled, yet he could still see the lack of trust. “I’m afraid it’s a subject I don’t discuss with anyone.”
He nearly said, Not even with Sima?, but thought better of it. “Not even your future husband?”
She studied him for a long moment, then said, “Nay, not even my future husband.”
He felt a stab of disappointment that she could not confide in him, but he had given her no reason to and he was sorry. Whatever it took, he would learn why she felt as she did. He also had to assure her that he was not an oaf or a buffoon or a savage. “Rosalyn.”
She turned away. “I have duties. Excuse me.”
“Rosalyn,” he said again.
She paused halfway down the stairs but did not turn back.
“I apologize for my crudeness when we first met.”
She didn’t move.
“I will try to curb my foul language. I’ve been among men most of my life without a woman to consider. I’m sorry if I offended you.”
She hurried away and he studied her, her back straight, her chin high. There were layers upon layers of her that he had yet to discover. He realized with some surprise that he looked forward to it.
He returned to his rooms and found the clothing neatly put away in the wardrobes and dresser. It was decent enough—not like his buckskins, but it would do. He dressed carefully in casual wear—brown trousers and waistcoat and a white shirt.
It was time to stop in and surprise the pub owner with a visit.
He saddled Ahote and rode into the village. Shoppers stopped and watched him. He nodded and one woman actually curtseyed. The village was clean and well kept. Freshly painted buildings were built close together, possibly for warmth. Everything faced the water. One building stood alone. He raised an eyebrow. The brothel. Geddes had been apologetic when he’d mentioned it, as if it were his fault that sort of business was on the island at all.
A young girl with a mane of curly red hair came outside and shook a dust mop as he rode by. He greeted her warmly, but she merely stared at him and ran back into the building.
Up ahead was the sign for the Potted Haugh, MacNab’s pub. Wind and weather had made it nearly unreadable. So much for a clean and sparkling village.
He was going into this blindly. He should have gotten more information from Geddes, but when he’d learned Rosalyn had been attacked by this man he felt that was enough for a confrontation—or a meeting. He dismounted and when he pulled open the door to the pub, the filthy odor of stale fish and oil that hit his nostrils was so strong it made his eyes water.
Behind the bar stood an ornery-looking man with sparse, lifeless hair that fell down over his eyes. With a hand as big as a pig’s shank he wiped a gray rag over the bar top and followed Fletcher’s movements, his gaze not leaving him.
“Angus MacNab?”
“I’d ask who wants ta know, but it ain’t every day a savage enters me pub.”
Fletcher forced a smile. “Nice to meet you, too.”
MacNab studied him for a long moment, then said, “The old laird were me friend.”
Fletcher raised his eyebrows. “Is that so? Did he frequent your pub?”
MacNab’s laugh turned into a tobacco cough that growled into his throat. “We had other things in common.”
As Fletcher waited for him to go into detail, he took in everything about the room. The floor was wood, but some boards were warped and cracked, causing the floor to slant toward the back of the room. The bar stools were sturdy, but what finish they’d had at one time was long worn off. The two small windows by the front door were filthy; Fletcher could barely make out what was on the other side of them.
A new smell permeated his nostrils, and he coughed. MacNab was cooking something, but Fletcher wasn’t sure he wanted to eat it.
“Can I pour ye a pint?”
Fletcher stepped to the bar. “Thank you, I’d appreciate it.” He took out the small coin purse he’d found in his dresser, but MacNab stopped him. “On the house,” he said with a wink.
The ale was warm but not entirely distasteful. But there certainly was something distasteful about the place, including the owner. MacNab required further investigation.
That evening, no one spoke as they all ate their lentil soup from delicate china bowls. The flames from the candles in the tall, crystal candleholders flickered in the air, casting a glimmering glow of light over the long table.
Fletcher found the dining room both amusing and fascinating. It amused him that the three of them occupied a table big enough to seat sixteen people. What fascinated him was everything else in the room.
Two enormous globes sat on large wooden stands, one depicting the heavens and the other the world. A piece of MacNeil plaid, worn by the first Duke of Kintyre, was in a gilded frame above the simple fireplace. Other frames held portraits of family members. There was even one of his father as a young boy, and it tugged at Fletcher’s heart to see him so small, almost fragile, so unlike the picture of the man he kept near his heart.
And there was always a large bouquet of fragrant fresh flowers on the sideboard, thanks, no doubt, to Rosalyn. He had noticed the enormous pot plants with exotic foliage that were tucked into many corners.
Annie came in and removed the soup dishes. Close behind her, her younger sister, Ellie, who had joined the staff recently, entered carrying a pewter platter that held salmon, boiled potatoes, onions, carrots, and turnips.
Fletcher’s mouth watered. Once he had begun to feel better, he looked forward to the meals being served. He especially liked the griddle scones and porridge for breakfast, followed by the smoked fish, eggs, and biscuits.
After everyone had been served, he took a forkful of the tender salmon and put it in his mouth. As usual, it was delicious. Recalling what he’d been accustomed to eating in Texas, he couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Something about the meal amuses you?” Rosalyn asked, sounding defensive.
“Not at all. I was just thinking how much better I’m fed here than I was when Geddes found me.”
Geddes smiled and continued to eat. “What kind of food did they serve in the army, anyway?”
“A whole lot of beans and hardtack.”
“Hardtack.” Rosalyn frowned. “It doesn’t sound very palatable.”
“It isn’t. It’s a biscuit made from flour and water, without salt. When I was in the stockade, where Geddes found me, the beans were so watered down they resembled soup, and the hardtack was so tough I had to soak it in the broth.” He expected a comment from Rosalyn, but she was bent over her plate, concentrating on her dinner.
He told Geddes of his trip to the Potted Haugh earlier, and Geddes recalled for him his one disastrous attempt to eat there. “I swear he used horse meat,” Geddes said. After the dessert, Rosalyn got up, excused herself, and left the dining room. Fletcher followed her retreat with his gaze.
“She’ll come around,” Geddes promised.
Fletcher released a sigh. “I wonder.” He didn’t know what more he could do to convince her that he at least deserved a chance. She had been more aloof than usual during the entire meal. If her attitude continued, he wondered what sort of marriage it would be.
Just then, Fletcher heard from outside the shattering blare of an ill-tuned trumpet. He flinched, covering his ears. “What was that?”
Geddes sat back, amused. “It’s Barnaby.”
“What in the hell is he doing?”
Geddes tossed his napkin on the table, still grinning. “He’s declaring to the entire island that the great MacNeil has finished eating, and that now everyone else may sit down to their evening meals.”
Fletcher stared at him, perplexed. “Why in the hell would he do that?”
“It’s an old MacNeil custom; it goes back to time when the Norsemen were here.”
“No one pays any attention to it, do they?”
“I doubt it,” Geddes answered. “Actually, what surprises me is that Barnaby can still climb to the roof.”
“He’s on the roof?”
Geddes shrugged, his eyes filled with mirth. “How else is he going to be heard all over the island?”
“I’ve got to stop him. He’s likely to kill himself.”
“Don’t,” Geddes said. “He has little else to do; it makes him feel useful.”
True, Fletcher thought, the old man was as useless as tits on a bull. “Well, I just hope he doesn’t slip and fall into the rose garden. Rosalyn thinks little enough of me as it is. Barnaby crushing her prize roses would be all she would need to hammer another nail in my coffin.”