“I’d have a time explaining a black eye from that,” he said, chuckling as he returned to where Graeme and Isobel stood.
Considerably relieved despite the lad’s assurances, Graeme watched the next few apple hunters before he slung Connell over his shoulder to go watch the bagpipe competition. He was halfway there when his brother nearly kicked him in the back of the head. “Wait. I want to watch Ree catch an apple!”
Graeme swung around so quickly he nearly flung Connell to the ground. The boy yelped, grabbing onto Graeme’s head and obscuring one eye as he spied Marjorie stepping into the jungle of hanging apples. With her hands clasped firmly behind her back and an amused grin on her face, she went after a fat apple tied toward one end of the overhanging branch.
From the laughs and encouragement around her, she’d charmed his tenants as thoroughly as she’d charmed him. He wondered if she realized that—until his mind froze at the sound of an apple’s juicy crunch.
“The first apple!” Connell yelled, his cheer echoed around the meadow.
The lass likely had no idea she’d done anything more than caught hold of the Samhain fair’s first apple. And as he gazed at her accepting more cheers and congratulations, he knew the exact moment someone told her. Her fair skin darkened, her hands folded in front of her as if she was trying to protect herself, and her bright blue gaze darted about until she spied him.
She didn’t look away. What the hell did that mean, though? Defiance? Reminding him that she’d definitively turned him down already? Daring him to make some comment about the abysmal odds of her finding someone lofty enough in London to be worthy of her hand? Or did she wish for a single, mad moment that he wasn’t bound to the Highlands and she, to London Society? That was whathe’dbeen wishing for the past week.
But she was a damned stubborn lass, and until she realized on her own that the dream she’d had for her life was just that, he and his ramshackle life didn’t stand a chance with her. Graeme frowned. He’d kept his house and his family and his clan together for the past eight years on little more than willpower and sweat.
If he stopped bellowing at her for being pigheaded and instead demonstrated what Garaidh nan Leòmhann offered, what he offered… It would be a damned sight better than watching her leave to return to a life he knew she found miserable. To a life she could hope to have until her dying day and never find—because it didn’t exist. Not for her.
He slept alone that night for the first time in a week, and he didn’t like it one damned bit. Not that he did much sleeping—Marjorie Forrester had claimed the first apple of winter. That meant she would be the next to marry. And if he had any say in the matter, she would be marrying him. And this time he would ask, and she would say aye.
The best part of coming to that conclusion was that completely aside from the fact that he wanted it, this marriage was something he could justify. He’d already justified it to himself, when all that mattered was what she owned, and not who she was. She’d grown up with an income as limited as his own. Now, and thanks to the generosity of her brother, she commanded nearly unlimited funds. A marriage to Marjorie would allow him to accomplish unfathomable good for his tenants and his village, his brothers, the Lion’s Den, and his small corner of clan Maxwell, even if he’d decided not to wield her as a weapon against Dunncraigh.
When Ross came to wake him before dawn he’d already risen and dressed. Breakfast could wait, because he needed to return before Marjorie rose. Padding barefoot to the stairs, his boots in his hand, he stilled when a door at the opposite end of the hallway opened. It was likely Connell, and that could create some complications; he didn’t want to explain what he was about, and if he did, the bairn would blab about it to everyone, including Marjorie.
A big, bearded shadow approached, work boots in one hand.Well, fancy that. He and the blacksmith nodded silently to each other, slipped quietly down the stairs, and sat side by side on the bottommost step to pull on their boots.
“Laird Maxton,” the smith grunted, and opened the front door to head out on foot toward the road and Sheiling two miles distant.
“Rob.” Graeme shut the door and walked up to the stable for Clootie.
“Ye certain ye dunnae want company?” Johnny asked, as he handed over the gray gelding’s reins.
“Nae. I will take that tin bucket over there, if ye dunnae mind.”
“The—Nae. Of course I dunnae mind.” The groom retrieved it for him.
“Thank ye. I’ll be heading upriver a mile or two, if someone needs desperately to find me.”
In an hour or so workmen and villagers would be swarming over the meadow to remove canopies and planking and the remaining gourd and vegetable lanterns, but for now the hollow faces and dark, empty eyes continued staring at him as he trotted past.
It occurred to him that he needed to visit the village today, and that he also needed to begin his visits to all the outlying cottages to be sure every family had what they required to survive the winter. The Duke of Dunncraigh espoused that a family needed to be responsible for its own well-being, but that was something else about which he and the Maxwell disagreed.
Today, though, this morning, was about him and a lass. The rest of the world could wait its damned turn.
***
Marjorie took a last glance at the pretty rose-colored gown she’d worn yesterday, then closed the door on the small wardrobe. The contents had increased, at least; between Mrs. Giswell and herself she’d added five gowns to the selection, plus the few from her recovered trunk she’d deemed suitable for the setting and her faux position in the household. It was nothing compared to the shopping spree she’d embarked upon after moving into Leeds House, but it did remind her of how little she actually needed of what she now owned.
Today she wore a heavier brown and mauve gown with a gray pelisse. Those deep, rich colors seemed made for Scotland winters, and she smiled as she took a turn in front of the dressing mirror. Whether she and Graeme were speaking or not, at least she looked composed.
Mrs. Giswell reached the top of the landing just as she did. That wasn’t surprising; they’d both stayed out of doors late into the night to watch the festivities. What surprised her was the wide smile on her companion’s generally stoic face.
“You’re in a pleasant mood this morning,” she noted, leading the way down to the main floor.
“The fair was quite invigorating,” her faux aunt replied. “And I imbibed a little more of the spiced rum than I should have, strictly speaking. You did say ‘when in Rome,’ however.”
“So I did.” Mrs. Giswell hadn’t been the only one to overindulge, either. For heaven’s sake, how was she to know that biting an apple could be so significant to the Highlanders? She’d wanted to sink into the ground from embarrassment. They’d all laughed and cheered for her, though, and no one had seemed affronted or angry at her stepping into the middle of their traditions.
“Oh, I nearly forgot,” the older woman exclaimed, as they reached the foyer. “I spoke to Ranald, the owner of the Cracked Hearth, last night. He said my boys—by which I assume he meant Stevens and Wolstanton—were following my instructions and staying close by the inn.”
