Horror swept her.
It took Leah far longer than it should have to realize that the leg was not attached to a human body.
And was, in fact, made of wood.
But her heart didn’t understand. It battered the walls of her chest, a frantic, crazed beast.
Leah swallowed.
It was nothing. Only a leg. A wooden leg.
But . . . how had a wooden leg gotten here?
Leah forced her spooked mind to think.
Major McAlpin. This had to be one of his legs, most likely. Stored here with the castle’s other forgotten things.
She glanced at the foolscap in her hand.
Was this interruption an omen then? A sign that she should put the letters away?
What good would come of knowing that her husband had once loved so completely?
In the end, Leah would still be . . . Leah.
The untrusted wife. The responsible caretaker. The convenient pillow for a drunk.
The lover Fox did not want.
17
Fishing, Fox decided, was a much better way to spend a summer’s afternoon than reading in his library. The sun beamed down with pleasant warmth—always appreciated in Scotland—and bounced off the water in glittering ripples.
This portion of his estate ended in an enormous cavernous bowl of a glen—acorrieas the Scots called it—a dead-end canyon with a magnificent waterfall at one end. Corrie Finn, the locals labeled the area. The sort of place that gave the Highlands their reputation for wild, rugged beauty.
But at the moment, the mountains breathed calm.
Fox savored the smell of pine on the air, the chirping calls of crossbills flitting from branch to branch, the burble of the river, and the far-off roar of the waterfall.
His nymph fly made a satisfying slurp as he cast his line over the water, the thin filament arching through the air.
The motion felt meditative, nearly spiritual.
Why had it taken him so long to go fishing again? Even if the last occasion stood as a red-flag warning?
That time . . . Dennis, Honoria, and himself had journeyed up the Adyar River that ran through Madras. Servants had piled supplies onto the backs of several mules: rugs and silk pillows, baskets of flakyparathaandbhaji, pots ofbiriyani, curried prawns, and jugs of chilledaam panhato drink. The day had been a feast for the senses—warm sun, delicious food, endless laughter. Vividly, Fox recalled how lovely Honoria had looked resting on a rug beside him, a lock of her blond hair floating in the light breeze, her smile shining bright in the glow of his adoration.
What a bloody idiotic fool he had been.
Well, actually . . . he supposed it had been a lovely outing at the time. A happy memory.
It was everything that had occurred in its wake that cast the day in a different light.
And why the hell was he thinking about Honoria, all of a sudden? She was a past he wished never to revisit.
Fox cast his fly over the river, trying to tempt a salmon to snatch it. There had been a nibble or two about an hour ago, but nothing since then.
Regardless, the repetitive motion soothed him, as did the rush of the water and the rustle of wind through the nearby stand of Scots pine.
