Birdie returned to the castle,deep in thought. She’d as good as promised Eilidh to set up a village school. She couldn’t simply leave without doing at least that for them. If something good could come out of this entire situation, maybe this was it. Yes. She’d do this. Set up a school. Make sure the children were taken care of. Then she could leave with good conscience.
Setting up a school, of course, wasn’t done just like that. One needed so many things …
Birdie’s mind whirled as she made a mental list of all the items she’d need.
She stood in the middle of her room, back to the door as she pulled her dress over her head. A timid knock sounded at the door.
That must be Ally. The girl was a blessing to have about. She was quiet, courteous, and seemed to enjoy being Birdie’s maid. Not like that quarrelsome Mary who pulled her mouth into a sour line when she helped pull up Birdie’s stockings.
“Come in,” Birdie said as she struggled into her gown. “Help me button up, please. I can’t reach the top buttons in the back.”
It took her rather long to button her up, Birdie thought. Once or twice, Ally’s fingers brushed her nape as if in a gentle caress. She felt the little, fine hairs on her arms rise. With a half-laugh, Birdie tilted her head sideways to brush her fingers off.
“Thank you, Ally.” She turned around, and an involuntary scream tore out of her throat. For this wasn’t Ally.
Gabriel lifted his hands as if to ward off her scream. “Please. No more screaming. I daresay your scream terrifies me more than my unfortunate visage frightens you.” He’d backed off so far that his back almost touched the wall. “Though you are not to blame, of course. Not in the least.”
Birdie snapped her mouth shut. “Goodness me.” She pressed her hand against her chest. He was in shirtsleeves and wore beige coloured breeches that looked like they came from the previous century. He looked like a pirate through and through. Birdie’s heart hammered, but she was certain that it was no longer from surprise.
Gabriel rubbed the scar on his cheek. “I seem to have the unfortunate habit of giving you a fright. I came to—to—apologise.” He stepped from one foot to another. “My behaviour earlier was inexcusable. It was ungentlemanly and entirely unacceptable. I don’t usually shout at women.” He took a big breath. “I usually don’t shout at all. Except at my men. When the French attack. To keep them from dying. My men. Not the French. They were meant to die.” No doubt it dawned on him that he was bungling his apology horribly. He closed his eyes, swallowed, and tried again. “My only weak excuse is that you took me by surprise. But even that is no excuse for my behaviour. I have no words. Pray accept my apology.” He awkwardly gestured to a small bundle of flowers that he’d placed on the table before he’d buttoned up her dress.
Birdie picked up the little flower bundle. It was a simple bouquet of purple bell heather. Had he truly scrambled about the moors to pick the flowers for her?
As if reading her thoughts, a red blush crept over his cheeks. “They grow everywhere on the hills behind the castle. I see them from my window. The entire field is purple with those things.”
She looked at him sternly. “Did you ask Higgins to pick them?”
He cleared his throat and mumbled something.
Birdie bent forward. “I did not understand.”
He cleared his throat again. “I said, I went out and picked them myself.” His face was most definitely glowing red.
Birdie stared into his face. “You actually left your hermit’s tower to pick flowers for me.”
He rubbed his neck. “Er, yes.”
“When was the last time you were outside in the fresh air?” Birdie took a cup, poured water in it from a pitcher and arranged the flowers in it.
“It’s been a while.” He cleared his throat. “It may have been the first time since I arrived at the castle. No, that’s not correct. Our, er, wedding day. I walked through the bailey, twice.”
Birdie gaped. “Aside from that, you never left the castle the entire time since your arrival?”
He lifted one shoulder.
“For how long?”
He didn’t reply.
Birdie pushed up her spectacles and glared at him. “How long?”
“It may have been two years,” he mumbled. “Or three.”
She shook her head, horrified. “No wonder you’re as white as a ghost.” She placed her hands on her hips. “You have to go out more often. The fresh air and sun will be good for you.”
He looked at her curiously. “Yes, ma’am.” Then he laughed. “The last time someone scolded me like this, it may well have been my mother.”
“As any good mother would! Three years of voluntary imprisonment.” Birdie clasped her hands together. “It is inconceivable. And before that?”
