Fiona knew that Mother didn’t mean to be hurtful. But still it did hurt, a little, in some obscure, unprotected area of her heart. “Why, I’ll go on living here forever,” she said lightly. “When Father isn’t angry at me, he finds me quite useful to have around. In fact, when he’s in a pleasant state of mind, or is a little inebriated, he’s often said I’m nearly as good as a son—such a way as I have with the crops and the animals.”
Mother brightened again. “That’s true. And you’re such a help in the keep! Speaking of which, Cousin Isobel would like to switch bedchambers. She’s worried her room is overlarge and requires too much wood to keep warm. I’ve tried to dissuade her—we’ve wood enough for an army!—but she insists! Please could you talk to Mrs. Abercrombie about it?”
“Cousin Isobel is still here? Ugh. Why?”
“Yes, dear, she’s come for a nice long visit. You ought not to scowl so. You’ll get wrinkles before your time, and that won’t help matters! I invited her to stay on because she’s suffered some financial reverses. She’s had to give up her house in Edinburgh, you know, the poor thing. Where are you going?” Mother added, as her firstborn stood and shook out her skirts.
“Riding.” Fiona glanced down at Mother’s cluttered escritoire. “Your quill needs mending. Would you like me to do that?”
“No, thank you, darling, I’ve quite finished my letters. Six thank-you notes, and I even managed to write to Henrietta Penhallow—I’ve owed her a letter for these many ages.”
Penhallow. That name again. How odd. “Who is she, Mother?”
“A distant connection in England, whom I met in London many years ago.”
“Oh,” said Fiona, losing interest. Not only did she want to avoid Cousin Isobel, she’d prefer to get out of the keep without encountering Father if possible, while his temper was running high. “Well, I’m off to see Osla Tod, and bring her a tincture for her toothache. You know she lives beyond the bogs, so don’t expect me for dinner.”
“Oh dear, must you stay out past sunset? You’ll take a groom, won’t you?”
“No.” Fiona spoke without rancor. Mother knew she’d left off having a groom accompany her on her rides for many years now, but still she faithfully asked, in the same sweet and hopeful way. Fiona dropped a kiss on Mother’s smooth white forehead and quickly left the solarium, her boot-heels clicking sharply on the cold flagstone flooring. She spoke with the housekeeper Mrs. Abercrombie about accommodating Cousin Isobel’s request, and it was with relief that some half an hour later she was on her stallion Gealag and riding fast—away from the keep, away from Father, away from them all. Sleep had not come to her last night and now she was fatigued to her very bones, but at least she could, for these few snatched hours, be free.
She loved the feel of the cool afternoon air ruffling her hair and her skirts, loved the vibrant green of summer all around her and the great blue sky above. Loved gripping the leather reins in her bare hands and how willingly her big white horse carried her along. It was almost like flying. Her tired mind calmed, quieted; slowly, slowly, almost without realizing it, she drifted into a pleasant daydream.
Herself. In a lovely blue gown. Dancing, swirling circles on a polished wood floor, her lacy hem fluttering around her ankles. Held in strong arms. Her heart beating hard. Looking up. Looking up into dark eyes, alight with passion . . .
No.
Fiona snapped out of it. Gripped Gealag’s reins more tightly. And fiercely summoned a new image into her mind.
A small piece of paper.
Rheumatism—Mrs. Abercrombie—chamomile? Cat’s claw?
Order new parcel of books
Sheep & rupturing blisters—research. Cause, treatment?
Visit northern cow pasture tomorrow
Gift for Mother’s birthday?
Start sewing baby things
Gealag—to be shoed next week
NEW RUSHES brought in tomorrow WITHOUT FAIL
And so it went. Today she would visit old Osla Tod. Tomorrow she would cross off as many items as she could from her list. The next day, she would do the same. And the day after that as well. There was, after all, a kind of comfort in knowing what the weeks and months ahead would bring.
But Fiona was wrong.
Five days later, the letter came—the letter that would change everything.
Chapter 2
Castle Tadgh, Scotland
Three weeks earlier . . .
Pain. So much pain. His head felt as if it were clamped in the devil’s own vise, and his temples throbbed with fiendish intensity, as steady and relentless as his own heartbeat. His limbs were stiff and cramped. His mouth was dry and his closed eyelids were but a feeble shield against the stabbing brightness assaulting them.