“I am actually here to spend the day with your sisters and brother,” Myrtle said. “They promised to show me around the mound on your property. It is most interesting.”
“Justourmound,” Freya added hurriedly, knowing as well as Sinclair that the islanders didn’t want anyone sniffing around Fornhowe and discovering just exactly what secrets the hill in the center of the island hid.
Sinclair thought Miss Van Etten’s head jerked rather sharply, as if she, too, had picked up on Freya’s emphasis. Why did the heiress seem so curious? Toffs normally ignored their tenants ... unless they wanted something from them. But whatdidMiss Van Etten want?
Miss Van Etten must have noticed his scrutiny, because she instantly gave him an airy smile, as if she didn’t have a serious thought in her head—which he highly doubted.
“Well, I am most assuredly ready to visit the crofters, especially now that I am going to host a ceilidh,” Miss Van Etten said.
“Because you wish to invite them?” Sinclair asked almost hesitantly, once again hoping that Miss Van Etten was taking this event as seriously as the islanders would.
“Not precisely, as the planning for the party is just in its infancy and I don’t even have a date in mind yet, but perhaps you could tell me who would be a good person to supply what I’ll require. I’ll pay handsomely. Musicians. Cooks. I’ll even compensate the children for helping me plan.”
“You’re paying us money,realmoney?” Barbara’s squeaked exclamation echoed Sinclair’s own dumbfounded thoughts.
“Yep.” The irreverent American expression suited Miss Van Etten, who seemed to sally through all conventions like a Highlander leading a charge.
Sinclair wanted to immediately protest that his family and the other crofters had no need for alms, but he did not wish to guilt the children. Yet he also didn’t desire to receive Miss Van Etten’s charity. It was one thing to accept her help rounding up the flock and another to take moneyfrom her. A ceilidh was a shared expense of the community, with guests bringing food and volunteering their storytelling and singing. Did this heiress view them as simple folk to be pacified with celebration and coin?
It seemed not only was it hard for him to define Miss Van Etten’s true character, but his reaction toward her was just as muddled. She was not simply a rich gadabout. Yesterday had proved that. He’d misjudged her when she’d split the flock. He’d thought she hadn’t been taking the proceedings seriously. Reggie had always proved to be more of a distraction than an assistance whenever he’d gotten it into his head that it might be jolly fun to join the islanders in one of their community workdays. It had invariably ended with Reggie getting bored and either pulling a prank or trying to get the younger folks to abandon their posts for a game of football.
But after Miss Van Etten’s mistake, she’d wholeheartedly joined the operation, dashing back and forth like a true islander. She was observant too. They’d all missed the ewe in labor, but not her. Nor had she panicked, but she had simply directed his attention to the struggling sheep. Now, here she was, willing to pay the crofters for their labors rather than think their hard-earned bounty was hers by right.
He wasn’t going to straighten out his thoughts, though, by just standing here. It was time that Sinclair saw how Miss Van Etten interacted with the islanders and if it was even possible for her to understand their ways of life and needs.
“Shall we depart for the first croft on your tour? I was thinking about visiting David Craigie’s mill first,” he asked her.
“That sounds delightful! Let’s vamoose.” Miss Van Etten slipped her arm through his before he realized her intent. There was something chummy about the way she linked their elbows together ... and intimate.
The heiress did not amble. No, she practically marched. He found her quick, economical movements surprisingly well matched to his own. The earl had always sauntered—even during his famed hunting “expeditions” over Hamarray. Even Reggie had possessed the tendency to stroll without any regard to the time wasted.
But not Miss Van Etten. She plowed ahead with the nimbleness of a sure-footed goat.
“The wind isn’t as strong today,” she observed. “I don’t even need to shout to be heard.”
“It is unusually calm.”
“I almost miss the howling. There’s something about the wildness that suits me.”
Aye, Sinclair could see that about Miss Van Etten.
“What about you?” she asked, surprising him. “Do you find a bit of yourself reflected in this island?”
“Its hardiness.” The words slipped out of him, unintended. But he’d always felt a kinship to this land buffeted by wind and sea yet still sturdy and fruitful.
“Yes. That makes perfect sense.” Miss Van Etten’s appreciative look threatened to turn the strange glow inside him into an unexpected and rather unwelcome inferno.
Dousing the feeling, he said stiffly, “We are all resilient here on Frest. Although we would do well by a laird interested in improving the land, we have no need for charity.”
Miss Van Etten tugged a bit on his arm as she pulled back to study his face. “I wasn’t aware I was giving handouts.”
“There is no need to pay us for attending your ceilidh. By agreeing to give us a venue, you’ve done more than enough.”
Miss Van Etten’s dark eyebrows drew downward. Even pensive, she still exuded an ethereal kind of beauty. “I didn’t mean to insinuate that I would have a sort of reverse admission for attending. Thatwouldbe insulting.”
“Guests and performers at the ceilidh are one and the same.”
“Oh,” Miss Van Etten said, “I suppose that makes sense now that I consider it.”
