So now he thought he could order her about. Narrowing her eyes, she started for the door. They did seem to end their rather excellent evenings and mornings with him naked and bellowing while she walked away. With a grimace she walked back and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Ye ken I started after ye because of yer money and yer brother,” he said, trailing his fingers down her wrist. “But we have managed fer three generations withoot a spare coin to pitch. A time ago I’d nae have let ye go because I didnae much care how ye felt aboot all this. Now, though, I reckon I’d be after ye no matter whose sister ye were, or what yer income might be.”
“I know that. And you know I said I’m not accustomed to wealth, either, but what I have is yours.”
“Aye. Then why was I talking aboot a dog, when ye were talking aboot someaught else I cannae fathom?”
“Because you’re a heathen Highlander, I suppose,” she said with a sigh. “The one thing you insisted on before when I refused, is the same thing you don’t seem to be offering now. If you can’t decipher that… Well, I suggest you do so.” Twisting around, she kissed him. Whenever they touched, the idea of living in sin seemed less significant than her need, she supposed it was, to be with him.
She didn’t slam the door, which Graeme considered to be an improvement. The lass kept her true feelings buried beneath a lifetime of logic and propriety and disappointment, but he looked forward to a lifetime of discovering all her layers.
In the meantime, and as much a heathen as he knew he was, he had no intention of adding to her disappointments. Once he could hear her rustling about in the neighboring room he slipped out of bed and dressed in the shirt and kilt that were becoming as comfortable again as they’d once been—before he’d become so disillusioned with Dunncraigh and his use of clan Maxwell to make himself wealthy.
Once he’d shaved and cleaned his teeth and made an effort to comb his hair he padded over and quietly locked his door. Then he pulled open the bottom drawer of his wardrobe, dug beneath the stack of worn trousers, and removed a small velvet bag. When he tipped it into his hand, his grandmother’s ring, a lovely thing twined with silver and a trio of blue sapphires that matched Marjorie’s eyes, spilled onto his palm.
A few weeks ago he’d begun to consider selling it so he could afford to retrench all the irrigation ditches and replace the wooden water gates. When the lads had delivered their prize to him, he’d figured at least one of the few heirlooms they had left would be safe. Now, though, he could use it for what it was intended—a promise to marry a lass he’d never expected to find and never meant to let go.
Of course he meant to marry her, whatever she might think. But this time it mattered how she felt. She’d spent a quiet, solitary life without expectation of love. His own life hadn’t been either quiet or solitary, but he’d been adamant about not risking his heart on something as fickle as love. Both of them had a bushel of surprises ahead of them, and he looked forward to every one of them.
Once he’d replaced the ring he left his bedchamber—only to have a plump female figure jab him in the chest. “Good morning, Mrs. Giswell,” he said, stepping around her and continuing on to the stairs.
“Don’t you ‘good morning’ me, Maxton,” she returned in a low voice, following on his heels. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but Lady Marjorie has a home and a life in London. She could well wed a duke or a marquis.”
“Ye’re nae fooling me, woman,” he returned. “There’s nae a blue blood in London who even looks at her.”
“Not yet, but they will. It will take patience and finesse.”
Graeme stopped, facing her. “I’m a viscount, ye ken. I could have made her marry me.”
“Yes, so you have a pinch of morality. Huzzah for you.”
“In the two or three or four years it might take fer her to buy her way into parties and maybe find a beau who needs her blunt and happens to have a loftier title than I do, what do ye reckon’ll happen to her?”
“You want her money, so don’t pretend you’re more noble than anyone else.”
“I havenae. And aye, she brings with her someaught I find very useful. But I’m nae asking her to change who she is or prove she’s whatever those damned dandies require. I looked at her and I found someaught past her purse. And I happen to find her remarkable.”
“I could say the same about a horse, sir. That doesn’t make it so.”
“Damned Sassenach. Ye tell me how often ye saw her laugh and smile before ye came to the Highlands.”
Mrs. Giswell opened her mouth, then shut it again. “I notice when she smiles, Highlander. I didn’t realize you noticed, as well.”
“I do. I’m a keen-eyed heathen, Hortensia Giswell, and I love that lass something fierce. So dunnae ye try to come between us unless ye’re ready fer a brawl.”
She backed up the hallway a step. “Her brother could still cut her off if he disapproves of you, you know.”
He’d figured that out weeks ago, when he’d reckoned Lattimer would be willing to trade some blunt for his sister’s good name. Now, though, it needed to be a fair fight. “I ken. I reckon we’ll go up to see him in a few days, once damned Paulk slinks away. If he hears word that I’m on my way to Lattimer, that’ll begin a whole different battle.”
The day he shrank from a fight with Hamish Paulk would be his last day, but he wanted any conflict to be between them, and not about Marjorie. And not about his brothers. That was the one thing that continued to trouble him, in fact; while his brothers had been born into this mess of clan rivalry, he’d kept them as far from it as he could. Marjorie, though, had no experience with clan politics or how deeply anger and resentment could run.
The Highlands was a different world, and one she hadn’t learned about in finishing school. Was she ready for it? She was strong, but was she strong enough?
“Well, I see I’ve made you stop and think, at least,” Mrs. Giswell said. “And that’s something. We both want the best for Lady Marjorie, evidently, but I’m not certain we agree what that is.”
Aye, she’d made him think. And now he wanted to heave the stout lass over his shoulder and dump her into the river. His fingers curled. “I reckon deciding what’s best fer Marjorie will be up to Marjorie.”
“True enough.” She sketched a shallow curtsy. “Good day, Lord Maxton.”
