Greyson pretended not to see. “It wasn’t like that at all, sir. I take full responsibility. She’s a fetching lass, it was Samhain Eve, the moon was full, an enchanted night. But then a group of women came down the path, ladies sheknew.”
Greyson told them how she’d panicked, and what he’d done to hide her. He left nothing out except Wiggle’s contribution, and what she’d thought, not wanting to shockthem.
“Nothing else happened.” Greyson waited as a carriage rattled past the window. “I have been trying to find her ever since – to makeamends.”
Mrs. Russell went back to the table, again pouring him a dram. “We do worry abouther.”
“Humph.” Mr. Russell glanced at her. “Harm will come to her, I always said it. She causes a stir as easy as she breathes. She cannot sleep without makingtrouble.”
“The kiss was my fault.” Greyson kept his voice level – but it wasn’t easy. “She did nothingwrong.”
“Even so, something must be done.” Mrs. Russell handed him the whisky. “Speaking of which…” She began tapping her chin. “With all respect to your fame and with sympathy to the loss of your ship not so long ago – we did hear of it. If you were hoping to ask for her hand, we’d have to decline. We want the best for her. She should live quietly, settle into a placid life with a clerk or shoemaker. Or perhaps an older gentleman who falls asleep and snores before the sun sinks. We can’t subject her to the heartbreak of a husband who repeatedly disappears into the wild, perhaps never to be seenagain.
“You surely understand?” She actuallysmiled.
“Ido.”
“That is good.” She wasn’t finished. “Her wellbeing matters to us. She needs stability. Adventurers risk their wealth along with their lives, isn’t thatso?”
“It is.” Greyson wouldn’t lie. But his chest tightened, annoyance spiking through him. His Highland blood heated at herbluntness.
Words he knew were true, but they galled all thesame.
“I am no’ without means, lady.” He kept his gaze locked on hers as he knocked back the dram. “It is true that the loss of theSilver Thistlecost me much, but I sold my parents’ farm and sheep to address the ensuing debt. I have other income as well. I do no’ hunger and fires burn in myhearths.”
She nodded. “So you are here to offer forOphelia?”
I would if I could.Greyson kept that to himself, not liking how his heart clenched that he was not here to claim her. He just wanted to spare her a dreadful life. Gannet House might be warm and he might not go to bed with an empty stomach, but that was about all he could say forhimself.
The lass deservedbetter.
So he did the honorable thing. “I am no’ here to offer for her. I want your word that you will no’ subject her to a life shackled to a man who will stifle her spirit, douse the fire that burns insideher.”
To his surprise, the older woman looked amused. “You do not agree a placid existence would suither?”
“Nae, I dinnae.” Greyson frowned. “That is nae life forher.”
“Ah, well.” Mrs. Russell shrugged. “There are worse ends. Imagine her drudgery at your Gannet House. Word about town is that you only employ a manservant. How could she live comfortably under such an inhospitableroof?”
“Be still, woman.” Mr. Russell gripped her arm. “Do you forget who our guestis?”
“Oh, I know who he is.” She tugged free. “I also know hispurpose.”
“Your niece would love Gannet House.” Greyson ignored their bickering. “It’s haunted, for one thing,” he said, not caring that his words caused Mr. Russell’s mouth to tighten. “She’s keen on suchlike. And I suspect she’d also fancy the paintings old Arbuckle splashed across every wall. One room has the look of a medieval great hall in ruin and another depicts a fine hill-and-glen landscape. I often think I’ve been swept to my parents’ Highland home when I enter that chamber. There are others equallyfanciful.
“She might no’ find damask chairs and other frippery, but the house bursts with legend and heritage.” Greyson couldn’t believe he was saying all this, but the words kept rolling off histongue.
No, they escaped from hisheart.
His foolish heart, as the Russells had madeclear.
“You Highlanders are dreamers,” Mrs. Russell said then, shaking her head. “The slightest nudge and you each become a poet, like the romantic bards ofold.”
“I am no’ poet, mylady.”
“Nor are you a suitable match for our niece – it must besaid.”
“You speak plain.” Greyson was angry now. “You are also making assumptions. Or you do no’ listen. I told you I am no’ here to ask for herhand.”
