A familiar sorrow ached his chest. “I am not so certain, Miss Balfour, but I do know this—family, no matter the size of it, is precious. Never leave a loved one behind.”
“That’s quite the strong sentiment for a mere walk in the park.”
She was right. How on earth had he allowed the conversation to veer so far off course? Tugging at his cravat, he looked away, taking refuge in the squawk of three ravens on a branch instead of digging himself deeper into memories better left buried.
“Oh, dear.” Miss Balfour’s hand fell away from his sleeve.
“Are you all right?” Graham snapped his gaze back to her, medical instinct on high alert. Her pupils were normal. Her skin was a bit pale, but only because she’d been so long in the house. Nothing about her appeared out of the ordinary. He should know, for he’d watched her closely enough this past month when she wasn’t looking, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the swan-like neck, the elegant swoop of her shoulders.
She didn’t answer, just kept on staring, her gaze fixed on a point past his shoulder. As the seconds ticked by, a real look of fear deepened the brown in her eyes—and raised the hairs on his forearms.
He wheeled about. Hands curling into fists. Feet spread. Poised to take on whatever threat may come. Leaves rustled overhead. Just off the path, two squirrels played tag, scurrying from one trunk to another. And that was all. No blackguards or cutthroats rushed from the trees. No one else even strolled on this part of the trail. Nothing—not one blessed thing—smacked of any sort of menace.
Perplexed, he turned back. “What’s wrong?”
Licking her lips, she jerked her gaze back to his, and once again the collected Miss Balfour appeared, any hint of fear suddenly vanishing. “Forgive me. It was nothing.”Tucking her chin, she walked on.
He stood there for a moment, once again scanning the area that had so disturbed her, when wings ruffled and the three black birds took flight.
He caught up to her in a few long strides. “Are you frightened of ravens, Miss Balfour?”
“Not the birds, just their number.”She glanced at him sideways.“And I am not frightened, but rather…leery, I suppose. Are you not familiar with the tradition that a gathering of ravens portends death?”
So that’s what this was? Naught but another of her superstitions, like the salt over her shoulder and the feather he knew for a fact she carried wherever she went. All the fight instinct in him drained, and he breathed easier. “On the contrary, Miss Balfour, from where I come, it is said that one raven is for sorrow, two is for mirth, and three for a wedding.”
She quickly averted her gaze, a pretty blush reddening her cheeks.
He chuckled, supremely satisfied to have flustered her so. “At any rate, it’s all a bunch of balderdash.” He cut his hand through the air. “No truer than the promises made by the quack selling cure-all remedies on a street corner.”
Once again she stopped, but this time her gaze was fixed steadily on him instead of over his shoulder. “You do not believe in the lore of our forefathers?”
“Not to the degree that it changes my behaviour in the here and now. And neither should you.” He bopped her gently on the nose. “It is not good for the mind or the soul. Trust must ultimately rest on God, not in folklore, which is flimsy at best and malignant at worst.”
“Point taken.” She arched her brow. “But not all tales are so morbid. Some are lighthearted, others achingly beautiful. Since we are here, would you like to hear a story from the past of Brandon’s Hill?”
“I am intrigued. Shall we sit? That boulder over there is more than big enough for two, but first—” He strode ahead and pulled out his handkerchief, sweeping away a few sticks. “There. All clean.”
“Very gallant of you, sir.” Smiling, Miss Balfour approached and settled her skirts on the far side of the big rock, then waited for him to sit before beginning. “This hill is named after a chapel dedicated to St. Brendan, which once stood at the summit over there.” She pointed to the rise.
His gaze followed the direction of her slender finger. “Brendan?” He cocked his head at her. “Then why is it called St.Brandon’s?”
Sunshine dappled through the trees, landing soft against her face, the fine curve of her cheeks, the full cut of her lips. How was he to pay attention to a story with such a beauty of a distraction?
The feathers on her bonnet fluttered as she angled her head jauntily. “Names, like people, change over time, hence the current mispronunciation. But the purpose of the saint remains, that being the godly patron of travelers, and in particular, mariners—which is why I thought you might be interested in this story, being you were a man of the sea. Sailors about to depart for all corners of the world would trek up here, seeking favour and blessing, for not to do so was inviting certain doom.”
“Mmm,” he grumbled. “Sounds ominous.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, do play along, Doctor.”
“Very well.” He slapped his hand to his heart. “I vow I shall behave.”
“Good.” She tugged her gloves snugly over her knuckles and continued. “Now then, there was a certain sailor named Oswyn, a young man who fell hopelessly in love with a village maiden named Gillian, and she with him. Her father, however, was against their union, for a common sailor was no match for his daughter, or so he thought. But, as young lovers often will not be swayed, Oswyn and Gillian married in secret. Naturally, they could not share a home, but that didn’t stop them from sharing their love in secret, which rumour has it they did, over there in that thicket of white mulberry trees. Oh, my!” She pressed a finger to her lips. “That was a bit much. I’m afraid I got carried away in the story.”
He chuckled, surprisingly honoured she felt comfortable enough with him to share such an intimate reference. “One question. Were ravens involved in this match?”
Once again, the flush of a June rose coloured her cheeks, followed immediately by a flash in her eyes. “Do you mock me, sir?”
“Do you mind, very much?” He laughed, surprised by how good it felt, this mirth. This good-natured teasing. How long had it been since he’d so freely made merry?
