The Highlander's Yuletide Love (11 page)

Sophy frowned
slightly, and Isobel leaned in closer. “My dear, I have no idea why you are so
displeased with this idea, but you should put a good face on it. There will
indeed be lovely views to paint, and I fear that your continued disapproval of
Ranulf will only make you look ridiculous.”

“I don’t
disapprove of him!” protested Sophy.

“Perhaps not, but
whatever it is between you, it is you who look silly, and not him,” said Isobel
softly. “You have asked me not to treat you as a child, and so I shall not. You
are one-and-twenty and must think of yourself as a woman, not a girl, when he
is about.”

Sophy stiffened,
offended, but Isobel only patted her hand and turned to talk to Glencairn, who
sat on her other side. She finished the meal in near silence, speaking only
when addressed, but the others scarcely noticed, so delighted were they with
the prospect of the visit to Spaethness.

Sophy was
relieved when dinner drew to a close and the company returned to the drawing
room, where the carpets had been rolled up and refreshments spread for the
guests. As other families began to arrive, Sophy was gratified to find herself
surrounded by the sons of several of the neighbors, all eager to dance with
her. When the fiddlers struck up a tune, the son of the local squire escorted
her onto the floor for the first country-dance by. While she had known him
since she was a child, and thought him a bit of a fool, she nonetheless turned
a brilliant smile on him, making it clear to all present that she was very
pleased with her partner.

The next hour
passed in a whirl, with Sophy’s hand never once unclaimed for a dance. After
one particularly energetic reel, she stood by the terrace door, her cheeks
becomingly flushed, as her partner went to fetch her a glass of lemonade. She
looked out over the garden, admiring the deep pinks and golds of the sky as the
sun slowly sank toward the horizon, its rays of light gilding the flowers and
grass spread out before her and touching the ancient grey stones of Glencairn
with a rosy hue.

She felt the air
stir at her side and turned her head to find Ranulf standing next to her,
regarding her gravely. She stiffened and began to turn away, but he laid a hand
on her shoulder, his clasp light, but firm.

“No, don’t run
away again,” he said.

“Run away?” she
repeated. “When did I run away?”

“Every time you
see me.” The glimmer of a smile appeared on his lips and he turned her slightly
toward him. “Not to mention all this week.”

“I haven’t seen
you this week!”

“Precisely. You
knew I would come to the moor to find you, so you did not go there. What of our
unfinished painting?”

“I think it is
best left incomplete, Colonel Stirling,” she snapped.

“We are alone. You
are free to call me Ranulf,” he murmured.

“I have no
desire to call you Ranulf—or anything else, for that matter.” Sophy folded her
arms defiantly.

“No? You said my
name very nicely not a week ago.”

She flushed. “You
are rude.”

“And you are
dishonest.”

Sophy closed her
eyes for a moment, attempting to tamp down her anger. “If you are attempting to
apologize to me, Colonel Stirling, you are doing it in a very odd manner.”

“I’m not
apologizing. Those minutes were quite wonderful. Though I regret it if I made
you unhappy.”

“You are making
fun of me now. That is unkind of you.”

Ranulf shook his
head. “I have no idea why I put up with you. You are contrary enough to enrage
a saint. But somehow, I do wish to be near you. Sophy—”

“I did not give
you permission to call me Sophy!”

“You did indeed,
and very sweetly, last week.”

Sophy glared at
him. Over his shoulder she saw her partner returning with her glass of
lemonade, and her lips curved in a little smile. The colonel would have to
depart now, or risk being impolite. But when the younger man approached them,
Ranulf deftly relieved him of the glass of lemonade with an expression of bland
friendliness.

“Thank you, Mr.
Dyson,” he said, handing the glass to Sophy.

Mr. Dyson
hesitated, but when Ranulf did not yield his place at Sophy’s side, and indeed
raised his eyebrows in an inquiring manner, he beat a hasty retreat.

“That was rude
of you,” Sophy declared.

“Was it? I
rather thought I was preventing you from being bored into a stupor. I have not
met Mr. Dyson before tonight, so perhaps I am wrong, but he did not strike me
as a brilliant conversationalist.”

Sophy stifled a
chuckle. “Colonel Stirling—” she began, hoping to make it clear once and for
all that his presence was unwelcome, but she was interrupted as the musicians
began the next dance.

“Ah, I believe
this is our dance,” said Ranulf, taking her hand. “I asked them to play a
waltz. Even in the country it is surely acceptable now. Though, personally, I
don’t much care if others are shocked.”

Before Sophy was
quite aware of what had happened, Ranulf had swept her into his arms and onto
the dance floor. Sophy had, over her three Seasons in London, waltzed with many
gentlemen, but she found herself very much more aware of the colonel than she
had been of her previous partners. His hand on her waist clasped her only
lightly, but she could feel the strength in it as he guided her effortlessly,
and the sensation of being held so closely by him made her recall far more
clearly than she wished the kiss they had shared a week ago.

She noted
vaguely that Isobel and Francis were dancing, as well as a few of the more
adventurous locals. “We don’t usually waltz at Glencairn,” she said. “It’s still
considered just a bit fast.”

“You don’t? I
wonder why your father and stepmother have joined us, then.”

Sophy turned her
head to see that the earl and countess had indeed joined the dancers, and
seemed to be enjoying themselves. She bit her lip and looked down.

“Come, Sophy,
you can’t argue with me properly if you don’t look at me,” said Ranulf,
amusement in his voice.

That made her
look up, her eyes flashing with annoyance.

“That’s better.”
Ranulf guided her expertly across the floor. Some part of her brain
acknowledged that he was an excellent dancer.

“You lied to me,”
he said.

“What?”

“You told me you
danced no better and no worse than any other young woman in London. I would say
you are vastly superior to your rivals.”

“Certainly, you
would know,” said Sophy flatly.

“Perhaps I have
not danced with very young woman of late, but I am not so aged I cannot recall
when I did. You cast them all in the shade.”

“What of the
older women you have danced with?” she couldn’t resist asking.

“Them as well.” Ranulf’s
hand tightened just slightly on her waist. “You are very accomplished.”

“I can’t say I
am necessarily flattered, Colonel Stirling. The thought of being compared to
your numerous conquests leaves me cold.”

“Oh, I think you
quite beyond comparison, Sophy.” Ranulf gazed down at her. “You drive me quite
mad with frustration, but you are not like any other woman.”

“I make you mad?
You have no idea, Colonel Stirling, how you make me feel,” retorted Sophy.

“Then perhaps
you would like to tell me about it.”

Sophy realized
that he had gracefully carried them across the room to the open French doors
leading onto the terrace, and, before she could understand his intention, they
were outside in the golden-pink twilight.

Ranulf stopped,
still holding her. “Walk with me in the garden, Sophy,” he said.

She looked up,
startled. “It would be completely improper.”

“No, how can it
be? I am a friend of your family’s, and there is still enough light to see. Surely
it would do no harm for you to show me the flowers.”

Sophy glanced
from the dying light on the terrace into the candlelit drawing room, where her
family and friends still danced and chatted. She felt suddenly removed from
them all and very aware of the man before her. He smiled at her slightly, his
golden-brown eyes rich with promise.

“I—I suppose no
one would mind.”

“They won’t miss
us at all,” promised Ranulf.

Sophy cast one
more doubtful look over her shoulder before allowing Ranulf to lead her down
the steps and onto the graveled path that wove between the flowers. They walked
a ways in silence, and Sophy, looking up at her companion, noted with some
annoyance that his expression was perfectly calm, while she had begun to think
that he must notice how quickly her heart was pounding.

“The vistas are
beautiful,” Ranulf said eventually. “Is Glencairn’s gardener as much of an
artist as Begbie?”

“You surely did
not invite me out here to discuss the relative merits of the local gardeners,”
said Sophy with a touch of temper.

Ranulf looked
down at her, his eyebrows raised. “What would you rather talk about, Sophy?”

“I’m sure I have
no idea,” she snapped.

“I believe you
were going to tell me how I make you feel.” He paused to admire a particularly
fine topiary. “Were you not?”

“I was not,”
rejoined Sophy. “You proposed that I do so, but I did not agree.”

“Ah.” Ranulf
began to walk again. “This would seem to be your best opportunity to express
yourself. After all, you can hardly tell me what you think of me in your
mother’s drawing room, with your family in attendance.”

Sophy looked
back at Glencairn Castle. They had come some distance, and she could no longer
hear the sounds of revelry. There was a slight glow of candlelight through the
shrubbery, but she realized she was quite alone with Ranulf. Indeed, they were
as solitary as they had been a week before at the excavation. She caught her
breath at the thought.

“Did you say
something?” asked Ranulf.

“No.”

“Very well. We
shall stroll a bit more, and see if you find your tongue.”

 “Why do you
care what I think of you?” asked Sophy curiously.

He paused for a
moment. “Truthfully, I don’t know. Indeed, I’m not sure I care. I do want to
know, however.”

“Then you should
tell me what you think of me,” suggested Sophy.

An amused
expression crossed his face. “I think you’re lovely, and maddening, and far too
pert.”

Sophy digested
his statement. “Is that a compliment?”

“Perhaps.”

They had reached
the end of a path, and a lawn opened out in front of them leading down to an
ornamental lake. On the shores of it stood a classical folly, its white columns
glowing in the long, golden rays of the sun. It was reflected in the still
water, a shimmering, ghostlike version of the graceful building on the shore.

“How beautiful,”
said Ranulf. “I didn’t know this was here.”

“You’ve spent
more days riding and fishing with Douglas than exploring the grounds,” said
Sophy. “This is a memorial to my mother. Papa asked Isobel to design it when I
was just a girl, and it was built the summer that he began to court my
stepmother.”

“So it has great
significance to you,” said Ranulf.

“I come here
when I want to be alone—and some of my very first paintings were of this scene.”

Ranulf led her
across the velvety lawn to the folly, which he gazed at admiringly. “It’s
beautiful. A suitable tribute to your mother, who I presume was also lovely.”

“There’s a
painting of her in the Long Gallery in the castle,” said Sophy. “Papa loved her
very much.”

“I’m sure he
did, if his emotions drove him to erect this in her honor.”

They climbed the
few stairs to the folly and entered it. The deepening twilight seeped in
between the classical columns and the tiled roof arching above their capitals,
revealing a pedestal on which stood a marble statue of the goddess Flora seated
in a bower, a wreath of flowers crowning her regal head. Carved on the pedestal
were words picked out in gold. Ranulf leaned forward to read them.

“
Grace
shines around her with serenest beams,

And whisp’ring angels prompt her golden dreams.

For her th’ unfolding rose of Eden blooms,

And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes,

For her the spouse prepares the bridal ring,

For her white virgins hymenals sing,

To sounds of heavenly harps she dies away,

And
melts in visions of eternal day.
”

 “Alexander
Pope. A lovely choice,” he said softly. There was a pause. “Do you miss her
very much?”

“I don’t know,”
said Sophy hesitantly. “I don’t think so. I barely remember her, and Harriet
has been so kind to me, loving me as though I were her own. No one could ask
for more than she has given me. But I do sometimes wonder what my mother would
have thought of me.”

“She would have
adored you, I’m sure, and been very proud of you,” Ranulf said.

“I hope so. I
sometimes wonder if she would have thought me silly for not wanting to marry. She
was only nineteen when she and Papa were wed.”

“Did she love
him?”

“I’m told she
did,” said Sophy quietly. “Papa certainly worshipped her. He was much older
than her, and fell in love at first sight.”

“Then that is
why she married at nineteen, not because it was her duty, but because it was
her joy,” Ranulf replied quietly. “You mustn’t question yourself. I doubt she
would have wanted that.”

“Do you think
so?”

“I’m sure of it.”

They stood for a
moment in companionable silence, then Ranulf walked to the other side of the
folly, where a bench looked out over the deep blue waters of the lake. Sophy
followed him slowly.