Lord of the Highlands (15 page)

“Aye.”

Visions of baths, roaring fires, and hot buttered bread had been dancing in her head all morning. She was not going to stop now. “C’mon, Will. I’m
dying
to see your place. Can’t you just rest when we get there?”

“It’s not quite like that.”

“What do you mean, not like that?” Reluctantly, she turned her horse, walked back to him, and dismounted. “I’ve spent the past
how many weeks
wanting to rest, and
now
you finally decide to take it easy?”

“Please,” he said simply.

She heard something in his voice, something tight, pained even, and she decided not to push it. She would get to the bottom of it, though, she decided. If it killed her.

She watched quietly as he took a woolen blanket from where it was rolled at the back of his saddle. He tossed it to her wordlessly, and then plopped down at the foot of a silver-barked tree.

“All right,” she told him. With a shrug, she unfurled the blanket on the ground next to him, and sat on it. “I’m always up for a rest.”

Silence.

“How long are we resting for?”

“A while.”

“Good. A while.” She stretched her legs in front of her, waggling her feet. “A good, long while.”

She sighed, looking around. Perthshire really was ridiculously pretty. They were riding along the base of a valley. The stretch of land was yellowed with the season and bordered by grand, old trees. Soft reddish ferns, long grasses, and renegade clumps of winter wildflowers clung to the soil like a lush and ragged patchwork.

Though she missed modern conveniences, she hadn’t thought of the city once. Taking in the landscape, she marveled at what she’d been missing all these years. Despite the dirt, despite the discomfort, she’d felt moments of true contentment on their slow ride through the countryside. Just her and Will, with some horses, and gorgeous land all around. It made her wonder what, exactly, she’d been searching for in her old life, when here joy seemed so ready for the taking.

A breeze caught the treetops, and leaves rustled overhead. “Wait,” she blurted out, realizing what was missing. “Where are all the birds?”

“There are geese.”

“I haven’t seen any,” she said, studying the sky. “Anyway, where are the rest of the birds? We’re out in the middle of nowhere. Shouldn’t there be twittering and chirping?”

“I imagine they’ve flown south. It is almost winter, after all.”

“Oh. Of course. We don’t really get winter in San Francisco. There are birds year-round.”

He nodded quietly.

So much for their little nature discussion.

Was he acting so funny because of what had happened between them the night before? Either way, Will was about to arrive
home
. “Aren’t you excited? When was the last time you were home?”

“Years.”

“Years? You haven’t been home for
years
?” She shifted to face him where he sat, in profile, against the tree. “Where have you been?”

“At war. There’s been much fighting. I’m weary from it.”

“Ohhh,” she said, as it all became clear. “Is that what the minister meant by your
exploits
? Are you some sort of war hero?”

“Aye. Some sort.”

Admiration swelled in her. Of course Will was a hero. The way he sat on his horse, so brave and strong, clocking all the bad guys with his cane and his knife? She should’ve known it.

“Well then you should be extra happy to come home.” She waited for a response, but he wasn’t making this easy. Squaring her shoulders, Felicity decided direct was best. “Why aren’t you happier?”

“Happier?” He swung his head to face her.

There was something raw in his eyes. Something deeper than pain, more complicated than anger.

She considered backing off, but plowed ahead before she lost her nerve. “You’ve been away fighting at war. You haven’t been home in years. We’ve been on the road forever. We’re finally almost there, and you decide to stop now.
Here
.” She opened her hands to gesture to the land around them. “What’s the deal?”

“The horses needed to graze.”

She didn’t buy it for a minute. “But aren’t you excited to get home?”

“By
excited
, do you mean
agitated
?” He gave a humor-less laugh. “Then, aye, I am
excited
indeed.”

She studied him. The dark look on his face spoke to something more than just whether or not they’d kissed. “Is it your father? Are you worried about seeing your father? You’d said he was . . . sick.”

“Aye.” He raised his chin, inhaling deeply. “Mayhap that’s a part of it.”

“Well, your mom is fine, though, right? Aren’t you looking forward to seeing her?”

Will’s sharp laugh startled her. “My mother. Looking forward to seeing my mother? No, lass, that wouldn’t exactly be my choice of words.”

“You don’t want to see your mom?” Disbelief tinged her voice.

“
Don’t want to see her.
Aye, that’s more the way I’d phrase it.”

She looked at Will, feeling suddenly as though she didn’t know him at all. “How can you say that? Do you know how lucky you are to even
have
a mom?”

Her mind went to her own mother, gone for how many years now? All Felicity had were pictures. A white-bordered and faded snapshot of her mom as a young girl, in a yellow dress, with blonde bangs and hair curled under. As a teenager, captured by someone’s Kodak Instamatic, her hair angular and shaggy. Holding Felicity’s hand for her first day of kindergarten, her mom wearing big, dangly earrings and a men’s felt hat.

“God, what I wouldn’t do to have a mom to disagree with,” she said in a small voice. She thought about how hard it must be for women in the seventeenth century. For a woman whose husband was ill, especially. “Come on, Will, how bad can she be?”

“How bad, Felicity?” His voice was cool, shutting her out. Standing, he politely reached a hand down to pull her up. “Come, then. I will show you how bad.”

They rode in uncomfortable silence. Will was stiff and brusque, and he acted as if he were headed for the executioner instead of on his way home.

Duncrub was much like Will had described. A grand manor house made of stone, with ivy climbing the exterior walls, and stout chimneys announcing a generous smattering of fireplaces within. There wasn’t a single Disney-esque turret in sight.

She was startled by how Will was received. The household staff clearly recognized him, but they acted as if he were the taxman instead of a long-missed son.

“Can I not just go to my own rooms?” Will asked a cold-eyed maid.

“No, m’lord.” She whisked them into a large room with a marble fireplace and paneled with dark, glossy wood. “All guests are received in the drawing room.”

“Ah, I am a
guest
.” Leaning down to Felicity’s ear, he grumbled, “It seems I am no longer welcome to wander at my leisure.”

“William.”

They spun in tandem, and Felicity saw at once what had made Will want to stop and rest by the roadside.

His mother was lovely. Perfect. A bun coiled tightly at the nape of her neck, not a hair out of place. Though marbled by strands of gray, her hair would still be considered brown. Her skin was just beginning to thin with age, but wasn’t so very lined, and Felicity sensed immediately this woman’s fury for the beauty she’d once been.

Her gaze swept disdainfully over Felicity. Her eyes were darker than Will’s, cold and flat, like shiny stones.

A young man appeared at the doorway, and his mother turned, her sharp chin darting like a striking snake. “Fetch William’s father,” she ordered.

“I’m sorry I doubted you,” Felicity whispered quickly. She reached for Will’s hand and gave his fingers a surreptitious squeeze.

The corner of his mouth twitched. She savored it, imagining it was as big a smile as she was going to get for some time.

His mother turned her attention back to them. “Who is . . .
this
?”

“
This
is Felicity Wallace.” Will’s hand came to rest protectively at the small of her back. It was a small gesture, but for a moment it made Felicity feel as though she could slay dragons.

“So pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said, managing a smile. Unsure what she should say, she’d chosen what she considered a very old-fashioned-movie turn of phrase.

The room was uncomfortably silent. Felicity’s smile felt like a grimace on her face.
C’mon Will, the hand is nice, but throw me a line here.

Shouldn’t the woman shake her hand, introduce herself,
something
? “I . . . I’m afraid I don’t know what I should call you.”

“I am Lady Rollo.” His mother’s tone spoke to confusion and just a hint of outrage.

“Oh . . .”
Jeez, lady. Give me a break.
“Of course.”

Felicity was saved by a bustling at the door. A small army of household staff bore Will’s father into the room on an elaborately reinforced chair.

“I thought you should see the thing your father has become,” Lady Rollo said, turning her back to her husband. “I gave up waiting for you to show up, to give me your condolences.”

“I’ve been away.” Will’s hand pressed harder at Felicity’s back, and she wondered if he might just need that little bit of contact too. The anguish furrowing his brow made her wish she could wrap her arms around him.

“Besides,” he added, eyeing his father across the room, “condolences don’t exactly seem in order. The man doesn’t appear to be dead yet.”

Her gaze went to the old man in the chair. Though the staff had faced him toward the window, she would’ve sworn Will’s father canted his head their way.

“What did you say happened to your father?” she asked in a low voice.

“He suffered a spell,” Lady Rollo clipped out.

The man’s eyes appeared to track the scene in the room.

“It was quite ghastly,” his mother continued. “ ’Twould have been better if he’d simply died.”

Felicity’s eyes shot to Will at such a hideous statement, but his gaze didn’t swerve from his father.

Standing tall, she strode over to where his father sat. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” She took the man’s hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“What are you about, girl?” Lady Rollo’s words burst from her like a blizzard through an opened door.

“I think . . . I think your husband’s
spell
. . .”

“That man is not my husband. That is a driveling shell of my husband.”

Felicity looked into the man’s eyes, and she
knew
she saw a spark there. She took a deep breath.

“I bet this . . . episode,” Felicity ventured, “it probably just harmed his body, not his mind.”

She’d chosen her words with care, but Lady Rollo spun on her all the same. “Are you a physician?”

“No.” Felicity felt about two feet tall.

“Then you have no notion of what’s transpired here.”

“Enough, Mother.” Will’s voice was steely. “We’ve paid our regards. If you’re through, I need to tend to the mounts.”

Felicity shot him a desperate look. There was no way she could stay without him in the room. She was a people person, but this was way over her head. She wanted to get out of there too.

But Will’s mother beat her to it. “A man of your station in the stables . . . Vulgar.” Lady Rollo was indignant, her tone contemptuous as she stalked to the door. “This whole situation . . .
Vulgar
,” she hissed, storming from the room.

Will ignored his mother and looked at Felicity instead. Ambient light struck his face just so, igniting the golds and browns and greens of his eyes. They were warm on her, and Felicity thought she saw affection there. “I truly must go and tend the horses.”

“Can I—?” She stood, walked toward him.

“Best not.” His eyes cut to his father. “We’ve enough to explain as it is. I’ll return soon.”

“All right,” she relented. “Then I’d like to stay and sit with your dad for a while, if it’s okay.”

His nod was almost imperceptible, some untold emotion lining his features.

“And Will? Make sure to drape a blanket over Laddie’s belly. I think it’s good for his digestion.”

“Aye.” He pinched her chin between his fingers. “I’ll make certain they walk the lad before stabling him for the night.”

Chapter 12

The old wooden bucket sat just where it always had. Will nudged it with his foot. All the times he’d eagerly dragged that bucket out, flipped it over, and clambered up onto a horse for his morning ride.

In the days before.

Before his accident. Before he’d seen the flash in his brother’s eyes that day. Decades had passed, but still that look haunted him. Such glee had twinkled in young Jamie’s eyes, at the sight of Will’s terror.

To see such malice in one’s own blood was to lose one’s innocence forever.

Rollo walked to the old stall. Stepping inside, he ran his cane along the floor, leaving a faint line in the hard- packed dirt.

Though raked out long ago, the whiff of hay and the faint tang of urine prickled his nostrils. The smell of the stables had once been so reassuring. It was a rich scent, of manure and leather oil, and he couldn’t help but find the ghost of it reassuring now.

If only he could turn his back on everything and fill his days with serenity like this. Since arriving home, he’d returned frequently to check on their horses, deciding he’d give up battles, and plots, and kings to lead a life of peaceful seclusion. To have mornings spent in the stables, his greatest concerns the baling of hay and the breeding of mares.

He leaned against the stall door, remembering the child he’d been. And remembering that poor, damned pony. He’d been put down that very day. His father had put the bullet in the beast’s head himself.