Scottish Brides (16 page)

Her naivete robbed her speech of any insult. Jeremy smiled brightly. “That sounds an excellent idea.” He looked at Rose.

Who reached for her teacup and took a long sip. She could feel their gazes on her, but she could
feel
Duncan's the most. Only a small part of the loch was suitable for punting; the rest was too deep. Punting meant hugging the banks, with the shrubs and trees and the flat loch for views, not the soaring mountains, the wild peaks. To appreciate those, you needed a rowboat, needed to go farther out on the loch or, better yet, to the island.

Punting was boring. And possibly dangerous, although she couldn't imagine how. But Jeremy wouldn't go without her, and Clarissa couldn't go with Duncan alone.

“The new punt will hold four easily.”

Lady Hermione's matronly comment sent a clear message; Rose couldn't ignore it. Stifling a sigh, she looked up and smiled. “Yes, of course. Let's go punting.”

Her gaze met Duncan's; she could read nothing in his eyes, his expression, other than a certain smugness which made her itch to . . .

Determinedly, she stood and gestured to the window, to the loch, smooth and glassy under a pale gray sky. “Shall we?”

They quit the house and strolled down the lawn, then through the extensive pinetum. The punt was waiting at the small jetty directly below the house; Duncan must have given orders for it to be brought around from the boathouse.

That was when they discovered that Clarissa, partial to the activity or not, was frightened of stepping down into the gently bobbing punt. Duncan tried to hand her in—she shied and skittishly backed, for all the world like a horse facing a float for the first time. Rose squelched the unflattering comparison and tried to encourage her. Wild eyes fixed not on the punt, but on the wide waters of the loch, Clarissa shook her head. “It's so big!” she gasped.

Jeremy went down the jetty; unlooping the rope that secured the punt, he shortened it, holding the narrow boat steady. “Try now.”

Duncan gently urged Clarissa forward; she smiled tightly. Shuffling forward, she paused, poised on the edge of the jetty, drew a deep breath, then another—and turned to Rose. “Perhaps . . . if you could go first?”

Rose smiled reassuringly and held out her hand. Duncan took it and handed her in; she stepped down into the punt without the slightest mishap. She smiled up at Clarissa. “See? It's no different than on a river.” So saying, she carefully stepped over the benches to the seat in the punt's prow; sub-siding, she settled her skirts, gracefully reclined against the cushions and, still smiling serenely, waved Clarissa down.

Duncan tried to hand Clarissa in; again, she balked.

“Just a minute,” she said breathlessly. “I'll take off my hat.” Reaching up, she pulled her hat pin free and removed her stylish villager bonnet—and promptly dropped it.

“Oh!” She turned to grab it, only to kick it farther. On her other side, Duncan couldn't help. The hat skated down the jetty, heading for the water. Dropping the punt's rope, Jeremy dove to his right and snagged it.

“
No!”

The admonition burst from Duncan and Rose simultaneously. Stunned, both Jeremy and Clarissa turned uncomprehendingly to Duncan. Then they followed his fixed gaze to where the punt was swinging wide, gripped by some powerful current. As they watched, it revolved once, then headed smoothly out over the loch.

Carrying Rose away. Her face, unshaded by any hat, wore an expression of aghast incredulity Duncan suspected he would treasure all his life.

“Oh, dear!” Beside him, Clarissa stifled a nervous titter. “How dreadful.” She did not sound overly concerned.

Not so Jeremy, rising from the planks of the jetty, Clarissa's bonnet dangling from one hand. “I say.” The knowledge that he had been the one who dropped the rope—to rescue Clarissa's hat—showed in his expression. He turned to Duncan. “Is she in any danger?”

His narrowed gaze fixed consideringly on the punt, on Rose's rapidly dwindling figure, Duncan didn't answer.

”Don't be silly.” Clarissa laid a hand on Jeremy's sleeve and squeezed reassuringly. “The punt will just go out, then come in to shore again, somewhere farther along.” She glanced at Duncan. ”Won't it?”

“Actually, no.” Duncan turned to face them. “But Rose knows where the punt will fetch up—she won't be worried on that score.”

Jeremy frowned. “Where will it fetch up?”

Duncan looked out, over the loch. “On the island.”

“Ah.” Jeremy studied the small island, covered with trees, situated in the center of the widest part of the loch. “We'll have to go and rescue her, then.”

“Why? The pole's in the boat.” Clarissa sounded close to pouting. “All she need do is exert herself a little, and she'll get herself back to shore.”

“No.” His gaze still on Rose, sitting upright, staring back at the shore, Duncan wondered how long it
would take her to work it out, to see what was bound to happen next. “The main part of the loch is too deep for punting, and there are no oars in the punt. We'll need to get the rowboat and go after her.”

“Right, then.” Manfully squaring his shoulders, Jeremy looked along the shoreline. “Where's the boathouse?”

“I can't go in any rowboat—not across all that!” The panic in Clarissa's voice rang clearly. Duncan and Jeremy both looked at her; wild-eyed, she stared back. “It's too wide. Too big.” She glanced at the loch and shuddered. “I couldn't
possibly.”

“Well, that's all right.” Jeremy spoke calmingly. “Strathyre and I will go after her. You can go back to the house.”

Clarissa cast a horrified glance back up the slope. “Through the trees?” She shivered. “I couldn't—there might be someone in the shadows. And anyway”—her chin trembled—“Mama wouldn't like me walking about alone.”

Jeremy frowned at her.

Duncan spoke decisively. “Penecuik, if you would escort Miss Edmonton back to the house, I'll get the rowboat and fetch Rose.”

Jeremy looked up. “If you can show me the boathouse, I'll go and get her; after all, it was I who dropped the rope.”

Duncan shook his head. “No—the loch isn't a river. The currents are complex.” He looked out at the punt, shrinking in the distance. “I'll go after Rose.”

“Oh.” Jeremy half grimaced but accepted his fate. He offered an arm to Clarissa; she leaned on it as if she were in imminent danger of collapse.

She flashed a weak smile at both Jeremy and Duncan. “All this excitement! I fear I'll need to rest once we get back to the house.”

Duncan merely nodded, and they parted, Clarissa and Jeremy heading back through the trees. Duncan turned and studied Rose's tiny figure; she was still staring at the shore. Lips twitching, he swung about and headed for the boathouse.

And heard, from far across the water, an anguished wail.

“Nooooo!”

He looked at the punt, but Rose had slumped back on the cushions, out of sight. Duncan grinned, unrestrainedly triumphant, and lengthened his stride.

*       *       *

Sand crunched as he beached the rowboat on the island forty minutes later. Stepping out into the shallows, he hauled the boat up the narrow beach, a crescent of gravel edging a small cove, until the boat was safe from any shifting currents. The punt, empty, bobbed nearby. Duncan waded over, grabbed the prow and towed it to the rowboat. After lashing the punt to the rowboat's stern, he turned and surveyed the trees.

Which was all he could see. No Rose.

Duncan considered, then climbed up the beach onto the path that led to his forefathers' castle. He hadn't been on the island for years—not, now he thought about it, since the days he and Rose had run wild over the Strathyre lands. The years hadn't changed the basic geography, but trees he remembered as saplings were now full-grown; bushes of hazel had turned to thickets. The paths, however, although rock-strewn, remained easily navigable.

Ten minutes later, he rounded a corner of the old keep and found Rose precisely where he'd expected her to be. She was seated on a huge slab of weathered gray rock, a long-ago part of the battlements. As children, that particular spot had been their especial place. In the past, she'd usually scrambled up, skirts hiked to her knees, and sat cross-legged—an engaging if irritating imp—to view their domain. That had been their customary game here—to start at the far right and name all the peaks, noting any changes the seasons had wrought, traveling the horizon, all the way to the far left.

She looked liked she was doing that now, except that her legs were now so long she could sit properly on the stone. Her hands were clasped in her lap; although he made no sound, she sensed him as he neared, and looked around.

“I've just reached Mackillanie.”

Her voice, soft, lilting, with the endearing rounded roughness of the Highlands, was a memory he'd never forgotten. She smiled—softly, easily, without teasing or restraint—and time stood still. A willing captive to the web she'd so effortlessly thrown over him, Duncan returned the smile, then sat beside her on the stone. And squinted up at the distant mountains, all part of his lands. “Gilly Macall rebuilt his cottage. In a slightly different spot.”

They both scanned the relevant slope. “There!” Rose pointed.

Duncan squinted, then nodded. They started all over again, at the far right, matching what they could see with changes one or the other recalled.

As they did, Duncan could almost sense a growing, building, strengthening of his connection with his lands; he should have done this before, more often. This particular view, from the old forecourt of his ancestors' home, encompassed the very essence of his being, all that he was. He was Strathyre, head of one branch of the Macintyres, keeper of this place, defender, protector and owner of these lands.

He felt the same compelling awe, the same mystique that used to grip him as a child. As an adult, he still couldn't fully describe the emotion—a sense of belonging, of deep and abiding love for his lands. It was that that had sent him to London for ten years, to ensure that Ballynashiels was safe.

Safe for the next generation.

And beside him sat someone who understood all that, even though they'd never discussed it. Rose loved these peaks as he did; she understood the beauty, the awe, the belonging—the sheer magic of Ballynashiels.

She leaned across him, pointing out a fallen boulder on a distant slope; Duncan looked, briefly at the boulder, rather longer at her. He waited until they reached the end of their catechism, until a gentle, peaceful silence held sway, before asking, his words soft, low, quiet, “Will you accept Penecuik?”

Rose flicked him a glance, then, looking back at the soaring peaks, sighed. “No.”

“Not even for a dukedom—a duchess's tiara?”

Rose grinned. “Not even for the tiara.” She stared at the mountains; her smile slowly faded. “He's nice enough, I suppose, but Perth is hale and hearty, and Jeremy's father more so. If I married Jeremy, we'd live in Edinburgh for most of our lives.”

“And you wouldn't like that?”

“I couldn't
bear
that.” Rose considered the statement and knew it was true. She glanced at Duncan. “What about you? Are you going to offer for Clarissa?”

He grimaced exasperatedly. “When the mountains scare her and she can't even look out over the loch without getting panicky? No, I thank you. I require rather more fortitude in a wife.”

Rose choked, then chuckled; Duncan met her gaze and grinned. Their gazes held, locked; each studied the other, looking deep, seeing far beyond each other's social mask. The moment stretched—Rose suddenly realized she couldn't breathe. Breaking the contact, she smoothed her skirt. “We really should be getting back, or Jeremy will raise the alarm.”

“When are you going to put the poor blighter out of his misery?”

Rose cocked her head and studied Duncan as he stood, stretching mightily. “Strange to tell,” she answered, her usual haughty tones resurfacing, “I don't believe there'll be any misery involved; that's not why he wants to marry me.”

“Oh?” Brows rising, Duncan looked down at her.

Rose spread her arms wide. “I'm suitable—wealthy, well-born and wise.” Duncan choked; Rose smiled wryly. “I agreed to make my announcement on Midsummer's Day, which seems the best strategy. Otherwise, the rest of his stay might be a trifle awkward.”

Duncan's brows rose higher. “Indeed.” He cast a last glance at the towering peaks, then nodded, once, to himself. And turned back to Rose. “We'd better get going.”

With that, he bent and hoisted her into his arms.

“Duncan!”
Rose immediately struggled—and rapidly came to the same conclusion she'd reached years ago: there was never any point fighting Duncan physically; he was far stronger than she. “Put me down.” She didn't pause to see if he would comply—she knew he wouldn't. He was striding along; held against his chest, she swayed against him. “What the devil are you about?”

He glanced down at her, his expression one of utter reasonableness. “My duty as a host.”

“What?”

“I'm ensuring that you don't get a chance to play ghost-in-the-ruins and make me chase you through them. They're too dangerous; you might get hurt.”

Rose snapped her mouth shut. “I haven't done that for more than a decade.”

Ducking a branch that guarded the path to the cove, he met her gaze. “You haven't changed that much.”

Rose drew in a deep breath—and struggled to ignore the increased pressure between her breast and his chest. “I am not about to play chase in the ruins.”

“So you say now. But how do I know when you'll change your mind?”

Rose knew better than to swear an oath on it; he probably wouldn't accept that, either. “Duncan—this has gone far enough.” She was starting to feel light-headed. “Put me down at once!”