“And the folly there, on the hill—it’s rather gloomy, isn’t it?” Sophie simply carried on discussing the landscape, hardly noticing he hadn’t said a word, or even nodded. He realized she was pointing to the old tower. “It really should have been built in a more pleasant spot, where ladies can stroll, and gentlemen might propo—” She folded her hands in her lap demurely. “I’m sure Glenlorne offers many pleasant vistas to be enjoyed. Will you show me one of them?”
Alec looked around at the hills, dotted with purple heather and white sheep, at the cloud-cast shadows that moved over the long grass, chasing the wind as it swept down the long slopes, at the way the loch shone in the sun, deep and black with ancient secrets. He took a deep breath of fresh Highland air, and his heart sang, and he wondered what better view there could possibly be.
Still, he offered his arm, and Sophie laid her gloved hand on his sleeve, and he set off toward the loch. Perhaps looking back up the hill at Glenlorne Castle, set against the majesty of the mountain peaks, would please her.
“What a steep slope this is!” she said after a moment, and Alec glanced back at the gentle hill they’d descended. They hadn’t gone more than twenty paces from the terrace. “It needs steps, something in a Palladian style, with a Greek temple halfway down so one might rest and contemplate the improvements one could make,” she continued.
“Do you wish to sit here? It is not a Greek temple, but I have often found it a good place for contemplation.” He indicated the long, soft grass of the hillside.
Her blue eyes widened as she looked around, then she laughed. “How silly you are, my lord! There isn’t a bench!”
“I meant to sit on the grass,” he said with one of his most charming grins, and realized it was a mistake at once. Sophie looked horrified.
“On the lawn? Like a dairymaid?”
“I thought dairymaids sat on stools, in dairies,” he quipped, but she looked at him blankly. He took off his coat and gallantly spread it on the grass for her. “Will this do?”
Her lips rippled over her long teeth, but she gingerly took her seat. “Lady Sophie, I—” he began, but a gust of wind snatched the words from his lips. She cried out as it tugged savagely at her bonnet. He stood between her and the gust, forming a windbreak with his body. Sophie blinked up at him, looking chilly.
“Do you like it here at Glenlorne, Lady Sophie?” he asked.
“It is rather wild, is it not? Are there wolves in the hills?” Her china blue eyes flicked across the landscape, and he had a sharp feeling that she did not belong here, like a needle in the gut. He forced himself to smile reassuringly.
“Wolves? I suppose so—a few, perhaps, but very far off. There are deer as well, and foxes and—”
“Foxes?” Lady Sophie brightened. “Do you ride to a hunt here? I do enjoy a hunt ball!”
“Er, no. We mainly hunt grouse and deer here at Glenlorne,” he said.
“Oh.” The sigh was filled with disappointment.
“There are some glorious walks in the hills,” he offered.
She pursed her lips and examined an invisible mark on her glove, but did not reply.
His proposal of marriage stuck in his throat. He looked across at the village. Every cottage he could see needed a new roof. Plenty looked crooked, ready to crumble into the loch. That would certainly fill it in.
He took a breath and pressed on. “My lady, I assume you know why your father asked you to come here.”
Sophie’s gaze was sober. “Yes, of course—to see if we’d suit. Papa seemed quite sure we would.”
Alec waited for her to give her own opinion of the matter, but she simply blinked against the wind and waited for him to continue. He wondered if he should get down on one knee, but it seemed silly to do so on a hill. He’d be kneeling uphill, and if he went around her, then downhill. He kept to his feet instead, and clasped his hands behind his back. Then he unclasped them, and set one on his hip, and hooked the other thumb in his watch pocket, the way he’d seen English gentlemen do when they wished to look important, yet still at ease.
“My lady—” he began, but the wind reappeared and snatched the muff out of her hands. It tumbled down the hillside like a runaway lapdog. Sophie cried out in dismay, and Alec ran after it, trapping it under his boot before it could reach the loch. He held it up like a hunting trophy and grinned at her. She frowned at the boot print.
He climbed the hill against the stiff breeze, only to find the wind was battering the feathers adorning her fashionable straw bonnet, threatening to steal them too, and fling them into the sky where rescue would be impossible. In Alec’s opinion, the hat would be much more attractive without the outlandishly colorful embellishments, anyway.
“You were saying, my lord?” she asked, half shouting against the wind. How odd. It hadn’t been windy in the least when they came outside.
“I was about to ask—” he yelled, but her shawl caught the breeze like a sail and tangled around her face, pasting itself to her features, outlining her nose and eyes and wide open mouth like a paisley mask, knotting the long fringe in the ribbons of her bonnet as she scrabbled at it, her shrieks muffled. Alec wrestled with it, trying to tear it free from the wind’s grip. He yanked the shawl loose and stuffed it into his pocket, where it snapped against his leg like the tail of an angry cat, cornered but far from vanquished.
“Thank you, my lord. I am very afraid of the dark,” Sophie explained, breathing hard.
“You are?” Alec asked. It got very dark in the Highlands. You could see the stars here, count them, almost touch them. He’d missed that in London. He loved the dark, peaceful nights here. He shook himself, remembering why he’d brought her outside. It appeared the wind was getting more violent by the minute. “I mean ... Lady Sophie, would you do me the honor of—”
Something tugged hard on his legs, hooking itself around his knees, and he lost his balance on the slippery grass. The wind tore the oath from his lips as he tumbled down the hill, head over heels. He landed hard on his tailbone, a large jagged rock between his outspread legs, and he realized in horror that if he hadn’t stopped when he did, then he certainly would have proven to be a disappointment to Lady Sophie on their wedding night.
He lay in the heather for a moment to catch his breath. Odd, it almost felt as if someone had tripped him, yet there was no one here but himself and Sophie. He got to his feet and climbed the hill yet again to her side. Sophie’s eyes widened at the sight of him. He glanced down. There was a green streak down one sleeve of his shirt, and a smear of dirt. His face stung, and his fingers came away bloody when he touched the scratches on his cheek. He must look like a wild Scot after a battle. He imagined his ancestors climbing this hill after a hard fight, clutching their swords in their bloodstained hands, looking forward to seeing their womenfolk— He looked at Sophie, sitting miserably in the wind with loose tendrils of blond hair snapping around her face like the riggings of a ship in a gale. Her nose was red, her lips white.
