She could use some fresh air this morning. Anything to help her think, to help her figure out how she would leave these boys behind when the time came to go. How she would leave the master of the house even when he was acting like a complete lummox. Returning directly to London had begun to make more sense; as long as she remained in the Highlands she wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about him and all the might-have-beens he left in his wake.
“Certainly,” she said aloud. “I’ll go up and fetch my coat in a moment, if you’ll wait for me.”
“Let’s go now. I dunnae want someone else finding all the treasures.”
Well, she wasn’t terribly hungry, anyway. “Certainly. Give me two minutes.”
“I’ll wait fer that long, but nae any longer.”
This would be good. It would distract her, and perhaps one of the workers in the meadow might have overheard Sir Hamish discussing when he might be leaving. While Connell tried to recruit Brendan and Dùghlas and even Mrs. Giswell to join in the search for accidentally dropped treasures, Marjorie stepped around two cats and a rabbit and climbed the stairs again.
Pushing open the door she headed for her wardrobe—and stopped dead.
A large bouquet of thistles, late white roses, and long fern fronds stood on the table beneath the window, a ribbon of black, green, and red plaid around the neck of the vase. “Lovely,” she whispered, crossing to them as the mild spice of the roses touched her.
In her entire life no one had ever gifted her with flowers. And these were wild and lovely and unmistakably hers. She cupped a rose in her hand, inhaling again. Then, her fingers shaking a little, she picked up the folded paper leaning against the base.
She knew who they were from, of course; while she’d met several pleasant and even rather handsome men at the fair, none of them had cause to send her flowers. Of course the man of whom she was thinking had no reason to do so, either—unless he regretted something he’d said yesterday.
With the note half unfolded, she paused. She wouldn’t mind an apology for his rudeness, for the things he’d said that had made her question a lifelong dream. What if, though, the flowers were an apology for the kind things he’d said? What if she was about to read that he should never have suggested that she stay in the Highlands, because of course she belonged in London? What if he was apologizing for saying he liked her?
“Just open it, you coward,” she muttered to herself, took a breath, and unfolded it.
“Marjorie,” she read, his writing dark and surprisingly elegant, “The other night I called youmo boireann leòmhann. It means ‘my lioness.’ I reckon if I insult you in English, the compliments should likewise be in English. You fit here, at the Lion’s Den. As long as you’re here, I mean to keep pointing that out to you. Eventually maybe you’ll believe me. Yours, Graeme.”
Marjorie sat down in her chair and read the note a second time. And a third. It wasn’t an apology. In some ways it felt like a declaration of war. He knew what she intended to do, and he meant to convince her that she was wrong.
At the same time, he’d called her a lioness.Hislioness. He’d said it to her in Gaelic nearly a week ago, and every night since then—until last night, of course. A lady wasn’t supposed to be flattered at being called a wild beast. But she did feel flattered. When he said it to her, even before she knew what it meant, the words had made her feel fierce and wanton. She’d liked being in his arms, liked being in his bed. Liked the feeling of him moving inside her. She craved it, even. When she didn’t want to hit him over the head with something, she cravedhim.
What he’d said, though, that she belonged here—he couldn’t know that. By an extreme oddity of luck and coincidence she’d ended up here, but to say shebelongedat a place where she’d been—was still being—held captive? That was absurd. Arrogant, and absurd. She’d trained to be a lady, and now she had the chance to live like one. But not here. The Lion’s Den was not a place for a lady. No soirees, no evenings at the theater, no carriage rides through Hyde Park. No civilization. And that was what she knew—civilization.
“Are ye coming doonstairs?” Connell yelled from the direction of the foyer. “All the treasures will be gone!”
Marjorie shook herself. She couldn’t yell back, because that wasn’t ladylike, but she did stuff the note into her pelisse pocket, pull the old, borrowed coat out of her wardrobe, and hurry out of the room. If she was a lioness, she seemed to be a cowardly one.
Chapter Fifteen
A scattering of cotters and other workers had already arrived to begin removing canopies and benches and planking from the meadow, their efforts hindered by a light scattering of snow that had fallen overnight. While Brendan and Dùghlas divided their time between toeing the low grass for treasures and helping carry things to the waiting wagons, Connell clearly only had one thing on his mind.
He slowly trudged across the fairgrounds, bent over at the waist with his hands on his knees for balance. Marjorie wasn’t about to fold over like a rheumatic old man, but she did keep her head down and crouch to further explore any promising blemish in the white-dusted grass.
“We’re too late,” Connell muttered as he searched. “Naught’s left to find.”
Carefully Marjorie pulled a shilling from her pelisse pocket, waited until no one was looking, and pitched it into a small shrubbery before moving on. When Connell approached, she made a point of looking in a different direction.
“A shilling!” the duckling exclaimed, pulling it from the bushes and holding it high in the air. “I knew there would be someaught!”
“Well spotted, Connell,” she complimented, walking over to inspect his find.
“I’m a grand finder.”
“That you are,” she agreed, grinning at his excitement.
Over the next hour she managed to drop another shilling and twopence, which Connell found as surely as any hound. He also discovered a broken bead bracelet, a metal hair clip and, to his great delight, a small bone-handled knife.
“Ye should have Father Michael ask after anyone missing a knife,” Dùghlas suggested.
“ButIfound it.”
