As High as the Heavens (17 page)

True to his word, Duncan began his first lessons after
the midday meal. Yet, even with a pleasantly full stomach after a fine dinner of thick slices of smoked salmon,
fresh-baked brown bread, boiled potatoes, and buttered
turnips, followed by a fine quince pie that mellowed his
mood considerably, Duncan was soon biting his tongue
and clamping down on his rising irritation.

"A noble doesn't speak so ... so crudely," Heather
was struggling to explain. "Ye must change yer way of
speech, and do so completely from this day forth. It must
become second nature, or ye'll surely falter in a difficult
moment and undo all our work-not to mention," she
added in a more somber tone, "endanger yer life."

"And would ye have me begin to act the dandy from
this day forth, too?" Duncan said through gritted teeth.
"Must I also prance around and affect prim mannerisms,
so as to make them second nature?" He grimaced and
shook his head. "Nay, I can't do it. I'd surely become the
laughingstock of Kintail, not to mention stir wonderment
and talk over why I suddenly began acting thusly."

"Well, then at least agree to practice yer speech at
all times when at home," Heather urged. "The mincing
dandy can wait a time, until we're closer to leaving for
Lochleven."

She was trying her best to keep her temper, Duncan
well knew. She was trying her best not to react negatively,
or begin yet another argument with him. He sensed that
from the long pauses she took before she spoke, from
the instinctive stiffening of her body in anger when he proved difficult, before she finally forced herself to relax
and smile. Indeed Heather was, he admitted grudgingly,
putting forth a far more admirable effort than he.

"Fine," he muttered, his guilt nudging him into a compromise he really didn't want to make. "I'll practice yer
way of speaking while at home. But if one person here
dares laugh ..."

"And who would do so? They all know why ye do what
ye do, why it's so important ye begin to change."

Duncan considered that a moment. "Who indeed?"
He sighed. "Mayhap, in truth, the problem lies more
, „
wime.

"With me," Heather promptly corrected him.

He scowled. "With me," he repeated. "I can't say I care
to change what I've grown up wi', though."

"With. Grown up with."

Duncan sucked in an exasperated breath. "Grown up
with. I can only wonder what I'll be, once ye're done with
me. Once this becomes second nature, it'll be equally
hard to change back to the old way. Yet my friends, my
family, will want me to."

"And ye fear ye might not want to?" Heather supplied
softly. "That what ye learn, ye might wish to keep? That
ye might never be the same man again?"

How did she know this? Duncan wondered. How could
she cut right to the heart of the matter with such ease?
Was it perhaps because they truly were so closely attuned,
one to the other?

He had imagined it so, right from the start. Yet, conversely, he also feared the perception sprang solely from
a love-struck longing that it be so. But now ... now that same perception returned-even more strongly than
before.

"Aye," he said, gazing deep into her eyes. "And if I'm
no longer the same man, who will I be? And, more importantly so, will this man be accepted back in Kintail,
and will this man e'er be happy again here?"

"Ever," Heather whispered, never breaking his intense
glance. "Ye must ... say ever, not e'er."

"Aye," Duncan replied slowly. "So I must."

His gaze fell to the table before them. Fell to rest upon
the slim, delicate hand lying on the paper before her. With
all his heart, he wanted to reach across that table and
take up Heather's hand. Wanted to lift it to his lips and
kiss it. Kiss it in gratitude for understanding him as she
did, and for caring that such concerns distressed him.

But he didn't. He had no right to touch such a fine
lady, much less presume such intimacies with her. And
most especially not here, in the presence of his mother
and Heather's maid and groomsman. At this moment, he
was as grateful for the requisite chaperones as Heather
must be!

"If the truth be told, it's my fear, as well," Heather offered when Duncan remained silent. "From the starteven before I met ye-I wondered what all this might
cost ye in the end. And I wonder at and fear it still. I
wouldn't have ye irreparably harmed, Duncan. It'd hurt
me as much as it'd hurt ye."

"Would it, lass?"

His voice dropped to a husky whisper. Duncan. She's
finally called me Duncan. The realization sent a fierce
joy surging through him.

"Aye, I fear it would."

He knew he shouldn't ask the next question but, suddenly, Duncan needed to know. Needed to know at whatever cost, whatever the answer.

"Why, lass? Why would it hurt ye?"

She opened her mouth to speak. Then, as if recalling
herself at last, Heather clamped it shut again. She shook
her head, the soft, tender lines of her mouth hardening
with determination.

"It doesn't matter, and well ye know it, Duncan Mackenzie," Heather said. "It's enough that I share yer con
cern and will take the greatest care that yer education
not harm ye." She paused to glance down at her notes.
"Now, let us continue with yer lesson. No purpose is
served squandering valuable time discussing our innermost secrets."

And we dare not, either, Duncan thought, noting the
attractive shade of rose now flushing her cheeks and
washing her fair skin. We dare not, he realized with a
sharp, bittersweet pang. Yet, though we dare not, I wonder
if such a decision is truly ours to make. And I wonder if,
in the end, time itself isn't our enemy.

A benevolent enemy who will lure us closer and closer
in spite of ourselves, in spite of the well-intentioned efforts
of others to keep us apart. Lure us to a fate we both fear
and desire. A fate predestined by the good Lord Himself,
long, long before we even met.

The next morning, Fiona began preparations for weaving
the dark blue wool she planned to use to make Heather's
dress. After the requisite two-hour lesson in mid-morn,
and with several hours left before the midday meal and
Duncan's next lesson, Heather soon found herself standing near the loom, watching in fascination. As the older
woman threw the wooden shuttle between the two rows
of thread, Heather stepped even closer.

Finally, Fiona paused in her work and glanced up.
"Are ye of a mind, then, to learn weaving?"

Heather nodded. "It seems a fine craft. Not that my
father," she added with a wry smile, "would deem it a
proper one for a noblewoman."

"And have ye e'er done aught wi' yer hands, hinny? In
an artist's fashion, I mean?"

"I've painted a bit in oil and tried sculpting a time or
two. I also play the harp."

"Well, weaving requires the same dedication and attention to detail, not to mention an artful flair."

She began to work again, pulling the beater sharply forward to pack the weft tightly together. Next, Fiona
pressed a different treadle and threw the shuttle in the
opposite direction.

"To make a plain weave, such as I'm doing for yer
dress, every other warp thread is raised," she explained,
"and the shuttle passed between the raised and upraised
threads ..."

The next hour passed quickly. Eventually, Duncan's
mother seemed to relent of her earlier claims to being
protective over her weaving, and offered to let Heather
try her hand at the loom. When it was time to begin
preparations for the midday meal, Fiona even allowed
her to continue on when she left. With practice, Heather
gained coordination and speed. By the time Duncan
walked in with his father and Tavish, she had managed
to add a good six inches' length of cloth to Fiona's earlier work.

Noting her at the loom, Duncan cocked a dark brow.
He quickly washed up, then joined her, drying his hands
and arms as he did.

"Ye make a most pleasing sight, lass," he said, "setting
there, working the loom."

Heather shot him an arch look. "And, pray, why
is that, do ye reckon? Mayhap because when I work
thusly, I fit yer image of a good, meek, yet industrious
wife?"

Duncan chuckled. "Och, nay. I'd wager ye'll never be
meek, no matter who ye wed."

"But ye can see me as good and industrious then?
Even being a noblewoman and all?" Heather asked with
an impish grin.

He nodded emphatically. "Aye. Verra good and verra
industrious."

She opened her mouth to deliver a witty comeback
when Fiona's frowning gaze caught hers. Recalling her
earlier agreement with Duncan's mother, Heather's smile
faded. Curse it all. Once again she had forgotten her
resolve to keep her distance.

Heather shoved the shuttle beneath the warp threads,
and rose. "The meal's ready. I need to wash up."

Duncan studied her a moment, quite evidently puzzled
at her sudden change of mood. Then he stepped aside.

"Aye, I suppose ye're right. We've time enough to talk
further while we eat and then, afterwards, during my
next lessons."

"Aye, during yer next lessons."

Without meeting his gaze, Heather swept past him.

"And what exactly will that next lesson entail?"

Nonplussed, she halted, hesitated a moment, then nodded in sudden remembrance. "Chess. I plan to teach ye
how to play chess. It's past time ye begin to learn Colin
Stewart's favorite game."

"Chess, is it, then?"

"Aye," Heather replied with a firm nod. "Chess."

The little entourage of Duncan, his parents, Heather,
Beth, and Tavish drew up before a large, moss-covered
stone cottage. In the encroaching darkness of the late
afternoon of mid-February, lights already glowed from
the large stone building that stood nearby. The sweet
tones of a fiddle being tuned rose on the chill air, and the mouth-watering scent of roasting meat and baked
goods wafted by.

As Malcolm and Tavish assisted Fiona and Beth from
the horse-drawn wooden cart and helped unload the
covered bowls of victuals Fiona had prepared as her
contribution to the culinary part of the ceilidh, Duncan
dismounted from his horse and walked over to Heather.
She eyed his upraised hand for a fleeting instant before
finally accepting his offer to help her down from her
horse.

"My thanks," Heather mumbled, her heart racing
and her cheeks burning when their bodies momentarily
brushed as she slid off her horse. She stepped quickly
back and made a move to go around him, never once
meeting Duncan's gaze.

A firm grip on her arm halted her. "Heather, wait."

She froze and reluctantly lifted her glance to his.

"Aye? What is it?"

"We've never discussed what reason to give others
for yer, er, extended visit at my home. There's sure to
be interest and talk, though, once the clan learns of yer
presence.

"And ye think after tonight," she finished for him smilingly, "mayhap the tongues will wag?"

"To be sure."

Heather considered for a moment. "Why not just tell
them I'm Heather Mackenzie, Janet's cousin, visiting
from somewhere south? I am half Mackenzie, at any
rate. And that I've come to help yer mither this winter.
All of that, in some manner or another, is true. That way
it's not entirely a lie."

"Aye," Duncan replied thoughtfully. "No one has to
tell a bald-faced lie, which suits me fine. Already, this
plot requires enough deception as it is. And calling ye a
Mackenzie isn't far from the truth."

"And what of Beth and Tavish?"

Duncan frowned in thought. "Friends of yer mither's,
sent along to chaperone ye? That way, they can keep
their own names and roles. It'll be easier for all if we
don't change the whole story."

"Aye, it will."

His gaze swept down her body. "Ye look quite fine, ye
do, Heather Mackenzie, in that gown and tartan cloak
my mother wove for ye."

"It was most kind of her to make these clothes, not
to mention take the time to teach me how to weave."
Self-consciously, because she knew Duncan still looked
at her, Heather ran her hands over the dark blue wool
dress, smoothing any imaginary wrinkles. "It's so soft
and warm, I don't think I'll ever wish to wear aught but
Highland wool again."