Grace in Thine Eyes (29 page)

“Miss McKie will be along shortly,” Somerled told him, glancing at the doorway. “As to my accompanying her again, that remains to be seen.”

Thoughts of Davina consumed him. Nae, tormented him. Guilt, an unfamiliar emotion, hounded him, while anger, his old friend, had lost its teeth. He had no one to blame but himself for what had happened on Midsummer Eve. No one.

He would tell Davina that and a great deal more. But first he had to see her.

Far down the turnpike stair the old castle door creaked open, then banged shut. He listened to the footfalls on the stone steps.
A man’s boots
. Not Davina, then.

When the footman from Kilmichael appeared in the doorway bearing a note, Somerled’s spirits sank. Davina was not coming. He had pushed back his chair, preparing to rise, when the footman—Clark, he was called—came forward and presented the note to the duke.

Somerled frowned at the servant, the very one he’d paid to leave the torch burning. Was there no note for him? Apparently not, for the man took his leave without glancing in Somerled’s direction.

The duke pursed his lips as he read, then tossed the paper aside. “Gentlemen, I regret to say Miss McKie will not be entertaining us this evening. Our Midsummer feast at Kilmichael House did not sit well with her, poor lady.” He trained his gaze on Somerled. “It falls to you, MacDonald, to provide tonight’s music.”

“With pleasure, Your Grace.” Somerled pulled his chair closer to the table, resigned to honor the duke’s request. He’d brought his wooden flute and could easily sing unaccompanied. But it was Davina he would miss, not her fiddle.

The soup course was whisked away and plates of
cabbieclaw
placed before the guests. Somerled picked at his salted cod, his thoughts elsewhere. Was Davina truly ill? That would explain her absence earlier and this evening as well.

Except she’d eaten very little at dinner yestreen. And he’d spent hours with her after their meal, observing no sign of illness.

At least, not from the food.

Somerled pushed aside his dinner, his appetite vanished.
Please, Davina, do not hide from me
. There was one possibility, one remedy he wished to offer her.

’Twas the best solution. Nae, the only solution, as his father well knew.

But would she want him for a husband after all he’d done? Or would she wed him to avoid disgrace, then detest him the whole of their marriage?

Somerled rose from the table, composing a letter in his head. Not so brief a note as the one he’d sent that morning. Rather, an honest entreaty that would coax Davina from the safe confines of Kilmichael and give her a reason to trust him again.

Forty-Two

I wish, I wish, I wish in vain;
I wish I were a maid again.
T
RADITIONAL
F
OLK
S
ONG

D
avina retrieved the still-damp towel from her wardrobe, then unrolled the thick bundle across her bed. Could it be that her ivory damask was not ruined after all? She held a candle over the dress even as she held her breath.

Nae
. Several dark stains remained. The silk embroidery was roughened where she’d scrubbed it, and a faintly pungent aroma from the stables lingered in the folds of the fabric.

It seemed her gown could not be restored. Nor could she.

Ruined
. A terrible word for a young woman who was no longer chaste. Like a once-grand castle reduced to rubble or a lovely dress beyond repair.

Forgive me, Lord
. Not for how the night ended. But for how it began. She should never have kissed him. Never have followed him. Never have trusted him.

With a soundless sigh Davina put aside the candle, then shook out her gown before hanging it from a peg in the wardrobe beneath a long cotton wrap. It would take days to dry there. If she were a country laundress, she’d spread her linens out on the heath or drape them across the shrubbery.

She scrutinized her open window, then pushed aside the curtains and examined the clipped yew just beyond the sash. A tempting proposition. But if the gardener happened by, there’d be gossip in the servants’ quarters.
Wasna that the dress she wore the nicht o’ the fancy denner? How d’ye suppose it got a’ the ugsome stains on it? Did ye hear her playin’ her fiddle wi’ that
Hieland
laddie?
Nae, she could not display her shame for any passerby to see.

“Miss McKie?” Mrs. Fullarton tapped on the door. “Are you feeling better this morning? I thought we might take a turn in the garden.”

Davina quickly placed a potpourri of dried rose petals in the wardrobe to sweeten the air, then rearranged her tucker at the mirror before opening the door to her hostess.

Mrs. Fullarton’s personality was as warm as her russet-colored hair and brown eyes. “I declare, that eyelet gown is far more becoming on you than it ever was on me.” Her thin lips curled in a smile. “You must take it with you, Miss McKie.”

Embarrassed, Davina curtsied her thanks. Would her young hostess be so affable if she knew what had transpired in her stables? Davina had considered telling the Fullartons, eliciting their sympathy and their help. But then she imagined the scandal. The suspicions raised and the accusations made.
Nae
. She knew what had happened on Midsummer Eve, and so did Somerled. That was enough.

Her hostess cupped Davina’s elbow and guided her through the house and into the garden. The morning was dry, and the color of the sky matched the tall bank of delphiniums, brilliantly blue against the lush grass. As the two women walked, Mrs. Fullarton kept up a steady stream of lighthearted comments, punctuated with an airy laugh.

“I never touch the soil myself, of course, but I do enjoy choosing what is planted. This red ornamental along the border is a French honeysuckle.” When her hostess paused, Davina dutifully studied the tall plant with its long cluster of flowers and oval leaves. “ ’Tis a biennial. I’m glad you are visiting this year, Miss McKie, for you’ll not find it blooming here next summer.”

Davina’s gaze wandered toward the burn. Though she could not spy the bench from where they were standing, the unlit torch could be seen through the trees. Yesterday afternoon, a book of poetry in hand, she’d observed the curved bench quite clearly from the second-floor drawing room window. Somerled had tarried there for almost an hour—sometimes sitting, sometimes standing—waiting for her.

She did not regret avoiding him; the man was not trustworthy. But she did wish—oh, how she wished!—things between them had taken a different turn. If they had simply parted ways at Kilmichael’s door with
a proper farewell, they might have enjoyed many evenings of pleasant exchanges at the castle. He might have sought her father’s permission to court her …

Nae
. However charming and intelligent, Somerled MacDonald was not the courting sort.

“Did you wish to walk by the burn?” Mrs. Fullarton stood beside her, gazing in the same direction.

Davina promptly shook her head, casting aside any thoughts of a certain Highlander as she turned toward the rose garden.

“Ah.” Her hostess beamed. “The queen of flowers.” Mrs. Fullarton swept along the pebbly beds, introducing them as one might present friends. The moss rose with its hairy stems. The musk rose, a fragrant climber. The double velvet rose and its scarlet petals. “And here’s our lovely maiden’s blush.” She touched the pale pink blooms affectionately. “A rose as fair as ever saw the North.” Taking Davina’s arm, she drew her closer as they walked. “No bloom in my garden is a finer complement to your complexion, my dear. I’ll have Nan prepare a vase for your chamber.”

Davina tried to smile.
Maiden’s blush
. Aye, the color suited her but not the name.

At the sound of someone walking through the grass, Davina glanced over her shoulder in time to see Clark approach.

“Mrs. Fullarton?” The footman held out a sealed letter. “ ’Tis for your guest, madam. Delivered by a messenger from Brodick castle.”

Davina received it with a nod of thanks, though her hands were less than steady. She recognized the handwriting this time, though her hostess did not.

“An entreaty from the duke, I’ll warrant. Pleading with you to join him this evening.” Mrs. Fullarton pointed them toward the door. “Suppose we have a light meal and see how you’re feeling. Then you can judge if you are well enough to play.”

Davina knew she could not keep the duke waiting indefinitely. Nor was it her nature to hide behind a falsehood. Aye, she would play her fiddle for His Grace that evening. But first she would read Somerled’s letter and learn what she might find when she arrived.

Davina held up the folded paper, hoping Mrs. Fullarton would grasp her meaning.

“Naturally you’ll want to read that before we dine.” She smiled as the footman held open the front door for them. “Nothing piques my curiosity more than an unopened letter.”

As they walked through the entrance hall, Mrs. Fullarton said, “Since the captain is aboard the
Wickham
today, I’ll have them set up a small luncheon table for us in the music room. Won’t that be cozier?” She stopped when they reached the guest room. “Here you are, then. Come join me whenever you finish your letter.”

Davina had barely closed the door before she’d broken the wax seal and unfolded the paper.

Miss McKie,

I trust that you are in good health and simply do not wish to see me. I understand completely and do not blame you in the least. Yet I long to speak with you and make whatever amends I may.

His humility, however genuine, provided little comfort.
Unless you can make me a maid again, sir, I cannot imagine what remedy you might offer
.

My conduct Thursday night was reprehensible. You have every right to despise me.

Davina stared at the word in his bold hand.
Despise
. Was that what she felt toward Somerled now? Hatred? Loathing? Nae, what she felt was distrust. And fear.

I dare not ask for mercy. But I would beg for an opportunity to speak with you.

Mercy?
For the man who had stolen her innocence? Only the Almighty could manage such a feat.

And so I will ask you again, Miss McKie, with all my heart. If you are willing, kindly meet me at two o’clock this afternoon.
I will be waiting at our bench by the burn, just as I waited yesterday.

Aye, you did
. She saw him again in her mind’s eye, standing there, looking forlorn.

A final remark appeared above his signature.

There is one possibility I would like to discuss with you.

The paper nearly slipped from her hands.
He cannot mean … He cannot think that I would …
Tears made the phrase swim before her eyes.
One possibility
. She was not too young or too innocent to know what that might be.

You are wrong, sir. ’Tis not possible
.

He was standing near the stone bench by the burn at the stroke of two.

Davina forced herself to take small steps, lest she appear eager without meaning to. Lifting the hem of her borrowed gown, she continued down the narrow path, not quite looking at him. She’d never again need to pinch her cheeks for color; the mere thought of Somerled MacDonald was enough to stain them red as poppies.

Her sketchbook and pencil were by her side, for she was determined to be fully understood this afternoon and not swayed by his handsome face. She’d already written a list of questions that begged for answers.

Somerled waited until she was an arm’s length away before he spoke. “I was afraid you might not come.” His eyes were as blue as ever, but the faint shadows beneath them were new; perhaps he’d not been sleeping well either. “I feared you might flee to the manse,” he confessed, “or, worse, to Glentrool before we had a chance to speak.”

Davina heard no playfulness in his tone, saw no mischievous twinkle in his gaze. She was grateful, yet wary, for she’d never met a man more disarming than this one. A warm breeze ruffled the waves in his hair as he looked down at her, apparently choosing his words with great care.

“May I tell you first how truly sorry I am.” There was no doubting the sheen of tears in his tired eyes.

I am sorry as well
. Davina looked away, grieved by the reminder of what she had lost.
Sorry that I was so trusting. Sorry that you were so forceful
.

“Perhaps you might be more comfortable if we were seated.” Somerled escorted her to the curved bench, then joined her, sitting a proper distance away. “I have given our predicament much thought.” He paused, but for only a moment. Not long enough for her to respond. “The wisest course—truly, the only course—is for us to marry as soon as the banns can be read.”

One possibility
. Davina stared at her hands, willing away her tears.
The only course
. Was that true? Did she have no other choice but to marry a heartless stranger?

“I cannot think of your reputation being compromised because of me. Nor your future marriage prospects. I have already spoken with my father on the matter—”

Davina lifted her head.
Your father knows?

“We discussed no particulars,” he hastened to assure her, his neck taking on a ruddy tint. “But Sir Harry understands the situation and is in agreement. You are a lady of gentle birth. And though I seldom behave like one, I am a gentleman. For me to abscond with your virtue and not offer you the protection of my name and fortune would be …” He sighed. “
Unconscionable
was the word I chose. My father listed several others.”

Davina sighed and turned away.
The protection of his name
. A legal arrangement, a means of avoiding scandal. Not a genuine marriage.

“I realize this suggestion may be … abhorrent to you. I confess, I did not come to Arran in search of a wife. But then I saw your beautiful face … and heard your exquisite music …”