The Highlander's Yuletide Love (22 page)

After her father
had gone to tell Ranulf of her decision, Sophy sat for some moments staring
blindly out the window. She had turned down an offer of marriage from a man who
was not only wealthy and handsome, but who pleased her in every possible way. She
bit her lip, reflecting that he had doubtless pleased any number of women in
precisely the same ways. It would do him good to know the world contained at
least one woman who was not his for the mere lifting of a finger. She realized
with a sinking heart that he had never spoken of love to her, only of pleasure,
and passion, and, in the end, the appropriateness of a marriage.

“I was right to
deny him,” she muttered defiantly to the empty room. She stood up hastily and
went out the doors to the garden, stepping down onto the velvety lawn. She
walked some distance before turning to look back at Spaethness Castle. Its gray
walls rose in front of her, both beautiful and forbidding. She would miss it,
she realized. She had come to love this land, with its birch trees and
bottomless lochs scattered among the misty hills. She gave a little sob.

“Sophy!”

She jumped at
the sound of Ranulf’s voice and turned to see him striding down the path toward
her. She looked over her shoulder, wondering if she could flee, but it was
abundantly clear that he would only follow, and she would look like a coward. It
seemed the matter needed to be faced now.

She stood and
waited as Ranulf walked up to her, his face like a thundercloud.

“I have just had
the most extraordinary conversation with your father.”

“You have?” she
responded artlessly.

“I have indeed.”
Ranulf folded his arms and regarded her steadily. “He tells me you do not wish
to marry me.”

“That is
correct.”

“What the devil
are you playing at, Sophy? We discussed this last night.”

“Discussed? Did
you consider that a discussion, Colonel Stirling? I rather thought it was
something far more intimate. With just how many women do you have such
discussions?” Sophy’s tone was biting.

Ranulf looked
puzzled. “What are you talking about? Last night you told me you would stay at
Spaethness as my wife. Today your father tells me that you will have none of
me.”

“That promise
was wrung from me under duress!” protested Sophy.

Ranulf gave a
short laugh. “Duress? My dear, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman enjoy
herself more than you did last night. You would have promised me anything for
me not to stop.”

His response
hardened Sophy’s resolve, which had begun to fade in his presence. “Exactly,”
she snapped. “I would have promised you anything. But that does not mean I want
to marry you. It only means that you hold me in thrall with your—with your
manliness!”

“My manliness,”
repeated Ranulf, clearly amused.

“You know what I
mean.”

“I do indeed.” Ranulf
stepped forward and tried to take her hands in his, but she retreated hastily. “Sophy,
whatever is wrong with you? I thought we had come to an agreement.”

“You thought
wrongly, Colonel Stirling.”

“It’s Ranulf. You’ve
called me Ranulf for weeks now, at least when we are alone.” He eyed her for a
moment. “We are alone now, Sophy,” he said, his voice softening. “Tell me what
is wrong.”

“Nothing is
wrong. I have simply decided I will no longer be only the most marriageable of
your many conquests. I suppose you thought I would be honored that you chose me
to be Lady of Spaethness. Well, I have no intention of sitting quietly by the
fireplace on cold winter nights while you go off in pursuit of other
amusements.”

The humor was
chased out of Ranulf’s eyes by a look of annoyance. “Ah. I see. You have spoken
with Davina.”

“Davina, is it?”
Sophy flushed with annoyance.

“The Lady of
Ardfern, I should say.”

“Perhaps if you
had left it at the Lady of Ardfern months ago we would not be where we are
today.”

“Sophy, please
listen to me. It is true that I had a—a liaison with her some months ago. It
was wrong of me, I know, to trifle with another man’s wife. But I was bored,
and so was she, and it amused us for a bit. I have not spoken to her or been
near her since I met you.”

Sophy’s eyes met
Ranulf’s, and her resolve was almost shaken by the sincerity she thought she
saw there. “You seemed perfectly happy to see her last night. You invited her
to your home.”

“I invited all
my neighbors. Failing to invite the Laird of Ardfern would cause comment. I had
no desire to see her.”

“Then why did
you whisk her away? She told me you cuckolded her husband under his very nose. Was
it her turn to be seduced on the terrace?”

“Sophy, you
cannot possibly believe that was my intention.” Ranulf regarded her seriously. “What
reassurances do you want of me?”

Sophy drew in
her breath. “There is nothing you can do to placate me, Colonel Stirling. If
you truly wished to marry me you would know what to say.”

He made a
helpless gesture. “Sophy, I must be honest with you. I cannot speak to you of
love, because I am not sure what it is. I can tell you that I care for you,
that I admire your honesty and spirit, and I will never do aught to hurt you. I
can promise you that I will honor you as my wife and the Lady of Spaethness.”

“How noble that
sounds,” said Sophy bitterly. “Noble, and deadly dull. You honor and admire me.
How long will that keep you warming my bed? Until the next bored wife you
encounter? Until Davina sends you a note telling you she is lonely?”

He frowned. “Do
you think so little of me as to imagine I would do such a thing?”

“All I know is
that I have given in to you—willingly, it is true—and now I feel I can refuse
you nothing,” said Sophy miserably. “If I wish to retain my dignity, I cannot
marry you. I know you would not intentionally do me harm, but the small
slights, the loss of affection, the dwindling into a mere wife is not something
I wish to experience.”

“You are being
foolish. Because I do not speak of love, but of respect, and desire, the things
that are real—for that reason you refuse me?”

Sophy sighed. “I
have examples you have never had, Colonel Stirling. My father loves my stepmother,
as he loved my mother before her, and Francis and Isobel have a bond so tight
no one can come between them. That is what I seek for myself.”

“So that is why
you have toyed with the gentlemen in London and now with me? Because you wish
to see if we are able to worship you enough to satisfy you?” Ranulf’s eyes grew
cold. “I thought I could make you see sense, but now I realize that you are in
truth what I first thought you—a spoiled, indulged girl, much cossetted by her
parents and unwilling to take responsibility for herself. Oh, when you wish to
seduce me you do so, but when I ask you to gamble on a life with me, you run
away, whining of love. I see you are unwilling to do aught but hide behind your
wealth and your name, pretending to be an artist, but always turning to your
parents for protection.”

Sophy drew
herself up. “Strong words from a man who is no more than a bully and a
libertine.”

Ranulf’s lips
curled. “At least I am straightforward with you, Sophy. I think it is time you
are candid with yourself and decide what you want. I offer you an honest man’s
affection, and the promise to take care of you. You want something that exists
only in novels and dreams.”

“Then I choose
my dreams,” said Sophy firmly.

Ranulf sketched
a bow. “Thank you, Lady Sophia. I believe you have just saved me from a
terrible mistake. I will relieve you of my unwanted presence.”

Ranulf strode
away, leaving Sophy on the verge of tears, and stalked through the gardens to
the stable. One look at his forbidding countenance made the cheerful greeting
on Sandison’s lips die, and he saddled his master’s horse in silence. Ranulf
stood in the stableyard, waiting impatiently, his arms folded across his chest.
He was glowering into the distance when Francis strolled up, dressed for
riding.

“Ah, Ranulf. My
arrival is well timed. May I join you?”

Ranulf turned to
him, unable to summon a smile. “I don’t think I’m particularly good company at
this moment, Exencour.”

Francis raised
his eyebrows. “Whatever is wrong?”

“Lady Sophia.”

“Ah.” Francis
regarded him. “For the past few weeks it has seemed as though the two of you
have grown closer.”

“Very close
indeed,” agreed Ranulf. “But very little good it seems to have done me.”

Francis rested a
foot on the mounting block and regarded him steadily. “Do enlighten me.”

“Don’t glare at
me so, Exencour. It is not my doing, but the lady’s. She still will not marry
me.”

“No? I thought
you had rather more finesse than that, Ranulf.”

“Oh, I have
finesse,” the colonel said wryly. “So much so that she now thinks she—and every
other lady in the kingdom, so far as I can tell—is ‘in thrall’ to it.”

“In thrall?”

“Indeed. She
holds my past
affaires
against me, and implies that I will marry and
then abandon her for—for any woman who crosses my path.”

Francis’s eyes
widened. “Have you given her reason to think you might do such a thing?”

“No, but the
Lady of Ardfern took care to plant that seed. It has flourished mightily in a
very short amount of time.”

“It is never
wise to allow one’s former paramours access to one’s intended,” observed
Francis.

“I can hardly
keep my neighbor’s wife out of my home,” said Ranulf bitterly. “As much as I
might want to. I could wring her neck.”

“Let that be a
lesson to you. If you dally, do it far from home.”

“I no longer
mean to dally. But Sophy will have none of it.”

“She refused you
again?”

“I did all that
was right. I asked her father’s permission, and he spoke to her. She told him
no, and, just now, she repeated that to my face. I am a libertine, she will
have me know, and she will not lower herself to marry me.”

“You had
Glencairn speak for you?” asked Francis.

“It was his
notion. He thought Sophy might not know her own mind.”

Francis sighed. “Ranulf,
a woman does not want a cold, businesslike proposal of marriage delivered
through her father, especially a woman such as Sophy. She wants to be swept off
her feet. You did tell the girl you love her, did you not?”

Ranulf glared
down at his boots. “Of course not. I told her I would treat her honorably as my
wife.”

“I wouldn’t
marry someone who told me that, either,” said Francis flatly. “Why did you not
tell her that you love her?”

“I cannot lie to
her,” protested Ranulf.

“But you do love
her,” Francis pointed out.

Ranulf snorted. “I
know you and Lady Exencour speak of love, but what is love but desire dressed
up in fancy words? I wanted to marry Sophy, but I will not delude her with
fairytales.”

“Then I suppose
it is best she refused you.” Francis eyed him for a moment. “I think it a great
pity, but if you are such a fool as to let her go, there is nothing I can do
about it. On the cold, dark, winter nights, think on whether perhaps you love
Sophy or not.”

“You are an old
friend, Francis, and I know you mean well. But I begin to think I dodged a
bullet. She is too young for me, too volatile and romantic, too used to having
her own way in all things.”

“Ah, you are
thinking of that grateful widow you spoke of.” Francis smiled. “Doubtless you
will continue your search for her. I imagine she need not be beautiful—you
would not want her to be ugly, but she could be a bit plain, certainly. You
would not want her to be foolish, I suppose, but to be sure, cleverness is not
something needed in a wife. She should be quiet, and calm, and always happy if
you have a moment to spare for her. Have I got that right?”

“Something like
that,” snapped Ranulf. “At least I would have some peace.”

“Peace is
over-rated,” observed Francis simply.

Ranulf turned
away as the groom led his horse to him. He swung lithely up into the saddle. “Peace
is what I spent years fighting for. I did not return home from Waterloo and
India to fight every day with a woman.”

Francis shook
his head as his Ranulf trotted away. He turned back toward the castle. It
occurred to him that Isobel would find his conversation with the colonel very
enlightening.

Dearest
Philippa,

I write from
Glencairn, and while I am indeed happy to be home, I find myself missing the
glory of the countryside surrounding the Trossachs, and still more the company
of dear Colonel Stirling. We left in some haste, which made me very sad, but
you will not be entirely surprised to learn the reason. Colonel Stirling made
an offer for Sophy’s hand, and she refused him! I could not have been more
surprised, for she had been all but living in his pocket, spending time with
him not only in her studio painting his portrait, but also walking, and riding,
and indeed, they were seldom apart.

I thought she would
be only too happy to marry such an honorable man with such a lovely estate, but
she will have none of it! I asked Glencairn what her reasons might be, but he
is as mystified as I. When I ask the girl to tell me what moved her to turn
down such an advantageous offer from a man her family holds in such esteem, she
will only look away, and bite her lip and tell me that she does not like him. Like
him! What is there not to like in Ranulf Stirling!

Of course we
could not stay longer, as it would be far too mortifying for Colonel Stirling
(and Sophy, of course, but that is her own fault and I find it difficult to
sympathize with her), so we were packed and gone within two days of the event. Douglas
complained very loudly, and he and Sophy quarreled a number of times, but we
are now home and settled. Francis and Isobel stayed another few days at
Spaethness but are now returned to Dargenwater Cottage, and, while I have
teased Isobel to tell me what Sophy confides in her, she says only that Sophy
will not talk to her either. The child locks herself in her studio or tramps
about outside, wearing her oldest clothes and painting night and day. She seems
to have lost her interest in anything else but her work, which makes it very
difficult to winkle anything out of her. For a girl who claims she does not
care if Colonel Stirling lives or dies, she is certainly working very hard to
forget him!

All in all, if
Sophy did not look so tragic from time to time, I would be only too glad to
scold her for her selfishness. I suspect she continues to have feelings for R.,
and rejected him out of some foolish whim. I hope she does not come to regret
it, for a better husband she will not be able to find. I suppose now she will
drift into spinsterhood, which seems a great pity. Still, she made her choice,
and her father and I have agreed to respect it (though Douglas continues to
tease her unmercifully, which is unkind of him). I hope that, in the coming
year, Colonel Stirling will agree to visit again, for I do not care to lose his
friendship over Sophy’s stubbornness.

It is now well
and truly Autumn here at Glencairn, and the harvest will soon be coming in. I
hope that all is well with you and the children, and that the coming winter is
kind to you.

Your loving
sister,

Harriet.