Thorn in My Heart (29 page)

Leana sighed. “Have a wee dram in celebration?”

“Och!” Rose banged her cards together with a noisy clap. “Enough of this peevishness, or you'll scare the poor lad away.”

Leana's spinning wheel slowed to a stop. “The only thing that might frighten Jamie is the thought of losing you.”

“Hoot!” Rose fumed. The bittersweet truth of it made her words sour. “He cannot lose what he does not have.”

Leana threw her hands in the air, her spinning forgotten. “And I cannot have what is not mine to choose. Rose, don't you see? It's
you
Jamie wants.”

“I'll make myself invisible then. Hide in the laundry until you've stolen his heart away.”

“Stolen?” Leana's sharp tone had an edge of disapproval. “I'd rather win a man's heart than steal it.”

“Stolen or won, what difference does it make as long as he's yours?”

“All the difference in the world, Rose.” The wheel began to spin again. “All the difference in the world.”

“Only to you,” Rose grumbled.

They worked in a fractured silence, without music or laughter to
weave them back together. Had they ever argued before Jamie appeared at their doorstep? Rose couldn't remember a single time. It promised to be a very trying month before he departed from Auchengray, taking his new bride with him. Rose prayed it would be Leana. Leana insisted it would be Rose. Their sisterly affection for each other had already been sorely tested, and the Lord alone knew what was to come.

Rose immersed herself in her work, keeping up a grueling pace until her wrists could bear no more. She put the empty paddles aside, then gathered the rolls of carded wool and quiedy placed them in an old heather basket by Leana's foot. “I'm away to the kitchen,” she murmured, standing and turning to leave. “Perhaps I can help with dinner.”

“Wait.” The great wheel stopped. “I'll come with you.” Leana spun on the three-legged stool, and Rose saw faint tear stains on her sisters cheeks. “I'm sorry to be so kitdie.”

With a sigh of relief, Rose leaned over and hugged her tight. “You
are
a bit sensitive,” she whispered in her sisters ear. “And I wouldn't change you, Leana, not for all the world. You simply want to marry a good man as soon as possible. And I only want a wealthy man, and not until I'm ready.”

“Dearie, you know what they say: ‘Never marry for money; ye'll borrow it cheaper.’ ”

“Aye.” Rose tossed her braid with a spirited shake. “But I've no one to borrow money from except Lachlan McBride, who won't part with a ha'penny unless it will earn him two. If I'm to be a wealthy woman, I must marry a wealthy man. Not soon, of course. Not for a very long time. But someday.”

“Marry a gendeman for his money then, if your heart's set on it.” Leana followed her down the hallway toward the stair. “As for me, I prefer to do as the Buik says: ‘Owe no man any thing, but to love one another.’ Had I the choice, I would marry for love, Rose. Only for love.”

Rose murmured over her shoulder, “Then it's a good thing you're not marrying Fergus McDougal.”

“Aye.” Leana paused at the top of the stair. “What an awfid row in the orchard. I've promised Father I won't disappoint him again.”

Rose spun on her heel.
“Disappoint
him? Father cares nothing for your future happiness. Nor for mine. He only cares about being in control of all that happens in this household. Pernickitie man!”

“Wheesht!” Leana held a finger to her lips. “The walls have ears.”

“I know,” Rose said, tossing her braid behind her as she started down the stair. “They have names, too. Eliza told me every word Father said in the spence yestreen.”

“Shame on you,” Leana whispered, though Rose heard no censure in her sisters voice. “Mind your tongue at dinner.”

An hour later, when Neda brought in a cold platter of boiled beef tongue, Rose suddenly excused herself from the table, running off to the kitchen to bury her face in a towel and shriek with laughter.
Tongue!
Had Leana known?

Neda returned for more dishes and found her draped over a table, wiping away tears. “Whatever is the matter with you, child?”

“Oh, Neda.” Rose could barely breathe, her stomach hurt so. “Truly, I have not laughed like this in ages. Auchengray has become far too serious since Jamie McKie arrived.”

The housekeeper regarded her for a moment, brushing back the stray wisps of hair that always gathered round Roses brow. “I canna say you're wrong, lass. A bit more joy would do the place some good.” Neda nodded at the door. “You'd best join the family, or they'll think you've taken ill.”

Rose composed herself and walked into the dining room with head high and her gaze firmly fixed on Leana and
not
on the dish of beef. Her sister's bemused expression told her all she needed to know.
Canny girl.
Leana had indeed known and pulled a wee joke on her. Not to be cruel, but to be kind. To prove that they were still sisters. And that she still loved her little Rose.

When Leana departed for Troston Hill after dinner, Rose resigned herself to a quiet Friday afternoon of reading while Jamie worked in the pastures with Duncan. She curled up in the window seat of Leana's sewing room, her feet tucked under her, a light plaid wrapped around her shoulders. Though the sky was bright, the wind was brisk as well,
seeping through all the cracks in the window. She opened her book with anticipation, having borrowed it from Susanne, who borrowed it from a friend in Dumfries, who'd had it sent to her by a friend from Carlisle. Books were not easily acquired, especially not this one—
The History of Miss Betsy Thoughtless
—written by a woman who was an
actress
of all things. If her father found it, he would insist it be returned to its owner immediately. Rose would make very sure he didn't find it.

She liked Eliza Haywood's story from the first page:
Betsy Thoughtless was the only daughter of a gentleman of good family and fortune.
Rose sighed with immense satisfaction, settling into the cushioned window seat, ignoring the wool that needed carding, the shirts that required mending, and the sight of Annabel picking apples in the orchard. Rose was too busy pretending that instead of being the younger daughter of a bonnet laird with a tight fist, she was Betsy Thoughdess and the world was her oyster.

Hours flew by unaccounted for as the pages turned and Rose surrendered to the story The sun, warm on her window, grew cool, then disappeared. She tucked a plaid about her and kept reading. Voices came and went in the hall, but no one came looking for her, which suited her perfecdy. She was so taken by one line describing Miss Betsy that she read it aloud to enjoy it more fully: “She had yet never seen the man capable of inspiring her with the least emotions of tenderness.”

“Had she not?” a male voice responded. “Poor lass.”

Starded, Rose looked up from her book to find Jamie standing in the doorway. No longer the ragged shepherd, he was scrubbed and dressed for supper. “Cousin, you might have knocked,” she scolded.

“I did. Twice. When you began talking to yourself, I knew it was time to rescue you before Dr. Gilchrist came knocking instead.”

Rose shuddered at the thought. “The Dumfries Infirmary may have a room reserved for lunatics, but none of the beds bears my name.”

“Not yet.” His eyes twinkled. “May I…join you?”

She put aside her book with some reluctance and motioned him forward. “Leave the door ajar though, or the servants will blether about improprieties.”

“What a shame.” The doorway and his grin both grew wider. “Something improper was quite what I had in mind.”

“Jamie!” The man was a shameless flirt. “What
braisant
behavior from a man who once studied for the kirk.”

“Right you are, Rose. And I'm about the Lord's work this afternoon.” He claimed the small stool where she usually sat to do her carding and pulled it close to her window seat. Too close. He claimed her hand without asking and held it in his, lighdy tracing her palm with his forefinger. His expression grew more serious. “I've been praying for you and your sister. I know I've made things…difficult. For both of you.”

“Thank you,” Rose said, not certain what might be expected. She noticed the dark circles under his gray-green eyes, the wan color of his skin. “Poor Jamie. Did you not sleep?” She slipped her hand free to brush some stray hair back from his brow. It felt like spun wool—soft yet thick, the rich brown of polished leather. She tugged on the handful of hair and said in a teasing voice, “This part always fights the rest, doesn't it?”

“Since I was a lad.” He lifted his head and swept back the locks of hair himself, touching her fingers in passing. “My mother was ever smoothing it back, tucking it behind my ear, trying to cut it some way that it wouldn't pull free.”

Rose smiled at the picture he painted of his childhood. No wonder women found Jamie so appealing. He was a grown man one moment, a green lad the next, displaying his heart on his sleeve, just as her sister did. He and Leana would surely make a fine match. Odd that her sister saw that but Jamie didn't. Not yet anyway.

She laughed as the strands fell across his brow again. “Your hair has a mind of its own. As do you, James Lachlan McKie.”

He chuckled, nodding. “My mother would agree with that.”

Rose tucked both hands underneath the plaid to keep them warm and out of harm's way. The lazy patterns he'd been drawing on her palm had made her feel slighdy drowsy. Or faint. She wasn't sure which. “Tell me about my Aunt Rowena. Have you written her since coming to Auchengray?”

“Nae. I suppose a good son would do that, wouldn't he?”

She pretended to look stern. “Aye, within an hour of his arrival.”

“I regret not doing so. But I did send a letter to your father from New Galloway.”

Her cheeks warmed. “Did you?” She kept her tone light and averted her eyes. “If it was delivered, Father didn't mention it.”

“Had you seen it, dear Rose, you'd have discovered that my handwriting is nigh to illegible.”

“Truly?” She had seen it. And it was.

“My instructors at university complained without ceasing.” He placed his hand on top of her hidden ones. Even through the wool, she felt the warmth of his touch. “I know that you write with a womanly script. Perhaps you might pen a letter for me this evening before supper.”

Rose brightened at the notion. She enjoyed forming words on paper, creating great, swirling loops with quill and pen. “A pleasant enough diversion. You'll tell me what to write?”

“Every word.” His eyes took on a brownies twinkle. “Most of them about a subject near and dear to you.”

Leana.

Rose almost clapped her hands with excitement.
Hoot!
Jamie planned to tell Aunt Rowena all about her niece and what a fine wife Leana would make.
Ocb! And
she would have the joy of putting those words to paper. “Find my writing desk, Jamie.” Rose slipped out her hand and waved it airily toward the door. “It's in my room—well, your room for the moment.” She stifled a giggle when he nearly fell over the chair in his haste to stand. “No need to hurry, dear cousin. I'm ever at your disposal.”

Kind messages that pass from land to land;
Kind letters that betray the heart's deep history,
In which we feel the pressure of a hand—
One touch of fire—and all the rest is mystery!

H
ENRY
W
ADSWORTH
L
ONGFELLOW

J
amie marveled at her hand moving across the ivory paper with ease, the letters elegandy formed and easily read. “Rosie, you are a wonder.”

Her hand paused in midsentence. “I beg you, Cousin. Do not call me
Rosie”

“Ring-a-ring o’ rosies, a pocket full of posies,” he taunted her until her scowl chased the old rhyme back to the nursery from whence it came. “Sorry, lass. I didn't know the name displeased you.”

She gave him a sidelong glance, her nose still aimed at her writing desk. “The red-headed shepherd you met by Lochend, the one named Rab Murray. Do you remember him?”

He grimaced. “It wasn't exacdy a formal meeting, you ken. They found my clothes before they found me.”

“Is that so?” Her laugh was sweeter than a well-tuned fiddle. “I'm grateful I didn't come strolling by any sooner than I did, then.”

“Not half so grateful as I was.” He stroked his jaw. Once again Hugh's razor had done him proud. After spending the afternoon in the sheepfolds, Jamie wasn't about to appear at Rose's side looking like a hairy-chinned goat. “I do think the lad told me his name, now that you say it. Rab Murray, aye?” He peered at her, suddenly suspicious, his smooth chin forgotten. “Don't tell me this Rab fellow has intentions of darkening Auchengray's door, hoping to court you?”

“Not at all,” she assured him. “Rab is simply fond of calling me
Rosie
because he knows I don't care for it.”

“So you say.” He stretched his legs out, cramped from perching on
a chair meant for a wee lass, not an overgrown lad. “Sounds to me as if young Rab is in love.”

Och!” She wagged the feather of her quill at him. “He's the same with every lass in the parish, making up some daft name and calling her his bonny dearie.”

He hid a smile. “What does he call Leana?”

“Leana?” She looked at him, perplexed.

“You just told me Rab knows every lass in Newabbey, which must include your sister.”

“Ah…well…”

“And does he have names for Eliza and Annabel, your two scullery maids?”

“Nae,” she said with a groan, “he does not.”

“I'm right then.” He stood and yanked on his waistcoat, pretending to be indignant. “Rab Murray has his eye on you. I must see it's plucked out at once.”

She slapped her quill down, spattering ink on the tiny desk balanced on her lap. “James McKie! If I didn't know better, I'd think you were jealous of a poor shepherd.”

“You'll ken when I'm jealous, lass.” He took a step closer, then bent over to blot the stray ink with a bit of rag she kept nearby. He felt her go still and heard the catch in her breath. The same heathery scent that filled his borrowed room now wafted up from her plaid, tickling his nostrils with a heady perfume. “So, lass, are you going to tell me about this
unchancie
turn of events with the Hogmanay Ball, or will the servants’ version suffice?”