18
Allie sat on the banks of the River North Esk—a mackintosh spread on the ground to protect her skirts from the damp grass—watching Ethan cast his lure into the river.
Lady Isolde had a prior engagement this afternoon—“Tea with the vicar,” she had said. “Mamma insists it will bolster my reputation.”—and therefore could not join in a fishing expedition with the Penn-Leith brothers. Though Allie would have welcomed her new friend’s company, there was something decadent about relaxing outdoors with Ethan Penn-Leith.
As if punctuating her thoughts, Ethan expertly flicked the end of his rod in three successive short bursts before sending the line soaring in a high arc to plink down in the deep pool of water before them.
Here the river eddied and swirled against dramatic cliffs that towered over both banks.
To Allie’s left, the waterway closed into a tight gorge overhung with trees, the black stone cliffs glistening with dew and punctuated by rock-cut steps and the occasional tenacious fern growing out of a crevice.
To her right, a grassy bank stretched from the river to the cliff’s edge, snaking upstream before disappearing around a bend.
Malcolm Penn-Leith stood on the mossy bank beside his tiny, two-year-old daughter, Kirsty. Ethan’s brother had come prepared to fish as well, but his own rod leaned against a boulder behind them, long forgotten.
Instead, Malcolm bent down and handed his daughter a small rock to toss against the stone cliff. He had already patiently explained to her that she couldn’t throw rocks into the water, as that would frighten away Uncle Ethan’s fish.
Dark-haired like her father, Kirsty ratcheted her arm back and threw the stone with all her might, squealing in delight when it pinged against the basalt cliff-face.
“Again, Papa!” she cried, turning in a circle and surveying the ground beneath her feet, looking for something new to throw.
Malcolm smiled and obliged, scanning for another rock so Kirsty could repeat the process.
Watching the father and daughter together—the cozy happiness of it—sent an aching tendril twining through Allie’s ribs.
Would Ethan be a similarly patient, loving father?
She rather thought he might.
Earlier, after arriving at Muirford House to collect Allie, Ethan had claimed uncle privileges and scooped Kirsty into his arms to his niece’s eternal giggling delight. When their little band of anglers had reached the river, Ethan had thrown Kirsty atop his shoulder, discussing the birds they could hear as they strolled along the top edge of the gorge to this fishing pool.
Perhaps that was the source of the twinge in Allie’s breast.
The thought that in another universe—where cruelty and betrayal hadn’t broken her, where she had the freedom to wish for anything—a little girl could belong to her and Ethan . . . a girl he would swing into his arms and point to birds and clouds and flowers.
Or maybe the pang came from the realization that she lived on stolen time. That she would have to renounce Ethan sooner rather than later; Kendall would pull his puppeteer strings and ensure it.
Her pact with Ethan was sincere—she would not fall in love with him. Charswood was still the more sensible choice for her future.
But for now, she was embracing her name and beingallegra—giving in to the happiness that took winged flight whenever she looked at her Scottish poet.
She scarcely remembered the cool, detached woman she had been in Italy.
Brushing an errant leaf off her skirts, Allie shifted backward, moving deeper into the shade of the cliff face behind her.
Today, the Scottish summer sun had finally decided to shine with true warmth. She had chosen her thinnest petticoats to go under an airy muslin gown and had immediately shed her Kashmiri shawl and gloves upon reaching the riverbank.
Similarly, Ethan had peeled off his coat, hat, and gloves and stood at the water’s edge in his shirtsleeves. Allie shamelessly ogled the ripple of muscle in his arms and shoulders as he moved.
Kirsty threw another rock, this one ricocheting with a dramaticthwack. She cheered and jumped in place.
“Ye still be scaring away the fish,” Ethan groused to his brother, reeling in his line and adjusting his feet atop the boulder where he stood.
“Och, the fish cannae hear voices under the water,” Malcolm replied far too cheerfully, eyes scouring the river bank for yet another rock. “If anything is scaring them, it be your ugly mug.”
Ethan scowled.
Allie grinned, biting her lip to hold back a laugh.
