Much how the summer would have to be endured.
One day at a time.
WHATWASTHAT dratted noise?
Arabella buried her head under the pillow, trying desperately to drown it out.
But the sound persisted, loud and melancholy . . .
A rooster perhaps? Aderangedrooster? The poor thing sounded as if it were singing a death dirge. But in the middle of the night?
She pressed the pillow around her ears, but her exhaustion was no match for the tenacity of that...noise. As Arabella had closed her eyes last night, the thought of sleep had been a relief, her bed a fortress that would provide an escape from the misery she’d endured since her arrival in this wretched place.
She’d been wrong.
It seemed Scotland was even capable of ruining her precious sleep.
Arabella threw back the covers in frustration, her eyelids so heavy that it took several long blinks before she could keep them open. To her surprise, small rays of light shone around the edges of the curtains.
Already?
It seemed only a few minutes ago she’d lay her head on the pillow. Her mind had still been reeling from tartans and kilts, the drinking, the knives. Had it all been a dream?
But the touch of her bare feet on the ice-cold floor assured her she was very much awake.
Arabella dressed quickly, pulling on last night’s dress, slipping into her boots, and throwing the tartan shawl Grandmother had given her around her shoulders.
She took no pains to keep quiet as she stomped down the stairs. Whatever that noise was, she was determined to put an end to it. And if it was a rooster, she’d...well, she could always use a knife.
They seemed to have plenty of those here in Scotland.
The house was quiet and dark. Arabella pulled open the heavy front door and stepped outside.
It was there she paused, spellbound.
For the entirety of her journey northward, Scotland had been rainy and dismal, with low-hanging clouds and persistent fog that had obscured any real view of the countryside. On her long trudge from the village yesterday, she’d questioned why anyone would want to live in such a bleak and gloomy place.
But now, as Arabella got her first real glimpse of the Highlands, she knew.
With soft rays of sun sweeping over the crags and ridges in the distance, Scotland looked otherworldly. The Highland peaks were painted in every shade of green, stretching down into valleys with so vivid a color that it hurt to look at them. A thin mist covered the sweeping hills, softening their intense beauty, giving the scene an almost ethereal feel. Nestled in a nearby dell was a winding river, a quaint bridge arcing over it.
Somewhere inside her, Arabella felt a little tug. As if the exquisite beauty before her had hooked around her rib cage, pulling her forward. Urging her to explore. And Arabella might have given in if it hadn’t been for that dratted noise. But for now, she had to discover its source. The screech of it almost sounded like...music?
It was coming from the north side of the house. She hurried around the corner, then pulled up short, coming face-to-face with a man she’d never seen.
His cheeks were round and red from puffing air into some sort of instrument she didn’t recognize.
Not a rooster, then.
He wore a feathered black hat, a woolen coat, knee-high socks, and a kilt, the pleated fabric blowing in the cool morning breeze.
But why on earth was he so determined to make music—if it could be called such—at this early hour? There were twenty-four hours in each day, after all. She saw no need for him to choose the ones in which she preferred to sleep.
“Do ye enjoy the bagpipes, Miss Hughes?” The familiar brogue came from behind her.
Mr. McKenzie.
She turned to find him leaning against the house in a casual pose, sporting the same grin as yesterday.
