Mad About the Marquess (Highland Brides Book 2) (39 page)

“All right,” she said as if she were testing out the idea. “I think I’d like that. I’m rather fond of walking.”

Yes, he could picture his Quince as a rambler—all independence, bracing fresh air and sturdy, sensible boots, like the ones he taken off for her at the inn at Stirling.
 

But now was perhaps not the best time to be reminiscing about undressing his wife, however briefly. If he did, they were unlikely to leave the house, much less get out on a walk. “I’ll meet you in the entry hall.”

Yes, outside in the fresh summer air was best. They could make a fresh start, as it were. He would begin his efforts to forgive her from this day forward. He had told her it would all be fine, and he meant to make it so.

She did not keep him waiting long—no sooner had Alasdair entered the imposing, high-ceilinged entrance hall, with its display of weapons blazing from the walls in all their well-honed glory, did she appear at the top of the stair. “Too hard, trying to pick just one?”

He laughed, and turned to find her attired in the same sort of sensible country clothes as he—all stout linen and well-worn boots. “Well, you are certainly dressed for walking. No worry that the mud will ruin that gown.”

“I told you wit and not wardrobe is my motto.”

“So you did. And while I appreciate your economy, I feel compelled to say you needn’t worry you’ll pauper me with a few gowns every now and again.”

“No?” She turned that intelligent gaze upon him. “And are there no paupers in your portion of the highlands that might need your money more than I need a new gown?”

He acknowledged her point with a bow, determined not to start their day out on a cross foot. “A very good question, Lady Cairn. Why don’t we go look at my highlands, and see what we can see?”

Alasdair steered her through the garden, as it was the most direct route. He had crunched up the gravel paths a thousand times in his youth—often on the same errand as today—and never once took any note of the horticultural offerings. But his quick, curious wife was all opinionated observation.

“These mixed beds are beautiful and charming,” she commented. “While my Papa would doubtless be critical of the naturalistic planting scheme, I like all the gorgeous massed perennials for color. I especially like your allée of
Carpinus betulus.
” At his nonplussed look she clarified. “The hornbeam trees, with their bright yellow-green leaves, underplanted with this abundance of bright purple puffs of
Agapanthus africanus
.”

“I had no idea you were such a horticultural scholar.” Although he should have guessed—despite that dedicated flibbertigibbet exterior, she was clever, and well educated enough to know obscure passages of Shakespeare. And her horticultural knowledge should come as no surprise—her father was the Gardener Royal.

She waved the attempted compliment aside. “Oh, I’m no scholar. It’s only that I remember things prodigiously well. But as to education… Mama quite despaired of me and my natural inclination to graft instead of industry.”

She was so determined to be bad. “Says the girl who recites Latin plant taxonomy, knows her Shakespeare as well as her Bible, and speaks French—I have not forgot either your Q.E.D., nor your
Monsieur Minuit
.” But if he could not be forgetful, he would try to be philosophical and forgiving. “It seems to me that your graft
was
rather spectacularly industrious.”
 

She shot him a quick glance, as if she could not quite decide if he was attempting another compliment. But she did not argue, so he tried another gambit. “How should you like to have the direction of the garden turned over to you?”

“To me?” She looked astonished at such an idea. “Really? But I don’t really know the first thing about gardening besides plant names.”

“Certainly. And certainly you do—you just proved it with your talk of naturalistic planting schemes. You’re curious and clever. You see things others don’t. You have an eye for beauty. And you are not afraid to make decisions. You could learn.”
 

“Careful Strathcairn, that almost sounds like a compliment.”
 

“Careful, wee Quince, it might be one.”
 

He could all but see the idea take root in her mind—pleasure bloomed slowly across her face. “I might, mightn’t I?”

“I don’t see why not. You learned to steal prodigiously well, and you taught yourself to rob a coach—I don’t see why you might not dare to take on a garden. And the house. And more.”

“What more?”

“Why don’t we go see?” He pointed her up the path beyond the garden gate, toward one of the outbuildings, where McNab waited with Donne, the leathery-faced gamekeeper.
 

Behind them was a pen filled with a romping litter of soft-eared spaniels, tumbling over each other in their eagerness to greet and impress their new mistress.

Who was running toward them with equal boisterous excitement. “Oh, by jimble.” She fell among them, filling her arms with squirming, eager bundles of fur, kissing them just as avidly as they were kissing her.
 

Like attracted to like.

“Are they all for me? May I have them all?”

Typical of her to want to wade into the deep end of the pond straightaway. “Best to start with just one for beginners.”

“Aye, mistress,” the gamekeeper Donne confirmed. “And they’re no ready tae leave their dam just yet. We’ve time aplenty for ye to find the right one.”

She plucked the smallest of the lot up to gaze deeply into the tiny creature’s eyes, nose to nose. And then she turned the full radiance of her smile upon him. “Oh, Alasdair.”

Her use of his name hit him like a dart straight to the heart—or perhaps somewhere less choosy. But no matter where he was hit, he could not deny her effect upon him.

Nor his upon her. With any other lass he would have said that she looked at him with the whole of her heart shining in her eyes. But with Quince, he never knew—he was never certain he was seeing only what he wanted to see, and not what was really there. Perhaps he never would.

Her heart was too full—she was too happy to speak. They were only puppies—adorable, warm, fuzzy, soft puppies—but still, they were a gift. The first gift her new husband had given her. And exactly what she wanted—something of her very own she hadn’t begged, borrowed or stolen. “Thank you so very, very much, Alasdair.”

“You are very welcome.”

“How long will it be until I can pick one, and take it home with me?”

“In tae the Castle, mistress? I don’ ken ’bout that, but ’twill be another four week or so, afore ye can take one.”
 

“So in the meantime,” Alasdair advised, “you can think of a name.”

A cheeky answer was on the tip of her tongue—she would call her Larceny or Graft, or some other scaffy name. But the truth was she had never had the naming of an animal before, and it felt like too precious a gift to take so characteristically lightly. “I will do.”
 

 
“We’ll visit the puppies again soon,” he promised. “But there is more to see this morning.”
 

She grudgingly let herself be led away, casting her glance back over her shoulder toward the kennel, until the rough way called for greater attention. Alasdair led her on in companionable and peaceful silence, until they reached the stile over the fieldstone fence marking the end of the pastures and rough paths beyond.

“Here, let me help you.” He didn’t wait for either her consent or her refusal, but simply swept her up into his arms to carry her across the mud puddle at the bottom.

He was rewarded for his chivalry when she instinctively looped her arms around his neck, bringing her so intimately close she could smell the crisp scent of starch rising from his linen, but still she felt bound to protest. “You can put me down, Strathcairn. I am made for action, not idleness. I need to regain my strength.”

“Alasdair,” he corrected. “And you’re not a prizefighter, wee Quince.”

“Neither am I made of spun glass. You needn’t be so careful of me. I daresay I could even take a tumble and emerge unscathed.”

“Let’s not test that theory, shall we?” But he set her down upon the path, and held out his hand, palm up. Offering his assistance, instead of insisting.

“Thank you.” She put her hand carefully into his, and relished the tingle of sensation that hummed all the way up her arm and settled warm and comfortable in her chest. So warm and comfortable and companionable, that when he laced his fingers through hers, and let their hands swing freely between them, she felt almost faint with hopefulness.
 

Free and equal, almost. At least as freely as possible, given that he was so much taller.
 

But still it was nice. Friendly. Equitable. Intimate in a way that had nothing to do with lessons in kissing, and everything to do with learning each other as people, instead of husband and wife.

Or maybe it was enjoying each other
like
a husband and wife. Like they had last night.
 

This time the riddy heat that crept across her face at the memory of being all stretched out next to him last night, and in his arms, felt comfortable and warming. And right—he was her husband.

At the first crest of the hill, he stopped and turned her back to the view. “And there is the castle. I’m sure Mrs. Broom will give you a full tour of the interior, if she has not already. But what she may not tell you is that you have my full leave to suit your own taste in the furnishings. The whole place is an antique, with ancient furniture that has been in this place or that since the days of the clans, and could likely use a fresh eye and a deft hand.”
 

She gaped at him instead of the battlement walls. “Would you really give the run of your house and gardens?”
“My dear Quince, I am trying to give you the run of the whole damn place. You are mistress here now—the house and garden as yours to do with as you please, so long as you leave me the grouse moors. And speaking of which, we go this way.”

He took her hand again, and towed her up the meandering path to the ridge of the hill. The air around them was full of sound and sunshine—the summer breeze dancing through the pine trees, the bees humming industriously in the wildflowers, and the tiny animals she could not name rustling through the underbrush.
 

In another few minutes they reached the second crest of the hill, where the landscape opened up to the glorious vista of the moor stretching as far as the eye could see, saturated with the purple and pink haze of heather.
 

This was Cairn. This was home.

Quince gasped at the sheer beauty of the place. Or perhaps she was only gasping for air from climbing a hill after staying in bed for nigh unto a week. Either way, she found a convenient boulder to rest upon.

“And what is this place?” she asked when she had caught her breath.

“This is the Vale. The Vale of Strathcairn. This is Cairn.”
 

She could hear the depth of feeling in his voice, the pride and possessiveness he felt when he looked out over the land stretching away toward the loch—the land where his family had lived and prospered for hundreds of years. She could see all the honor, and all the responsibility, he felt at being the steward of such a spectacularly special place.

“That’s Loch Cairn, and also the River Cairn.” He point out the familiar landmarks. “The house and park come to there”—he pointed back down the ridge—“and the home farm starts from there.” He took in a deep breath of the bracing air, and then let it all out on a laugh, as if he couldn’t possibly contain it—as if he was drunk on all the heather and sunshine. “All in all, Cairn runs to about fourteen thousand acres.”

“Is that all?”

“Aye.” He didn’t care if she was teasing him—he looked happy, all intoxicated pride and contentment. “The woodlands up on the hillsides”—he pointed off to a pocket of pine forest on their right—“run to about seventeen hundred and eighty acres.”

“Been counting carefully, have you?”

“I’m Scots, lass. No other way to count.” He was all unguarded enthusiasm and admiration for his home. “The home farm, which is most of the land on the valley floor, is about forty-two hundred acres of mixed arable—put to plow—and pasturage.”

“As far as the eye can see.”