The Holly and the Ivy, page 15
“That’s my home.” She motioned with her head to the massive home, and the brothers’ eyes got big. She had needed to say something to simply get this trip underway. How could so many things have gone wrong all at once? Still, the words tasted sweet on her lips. She hadn’t called Craig House “home” in two years. Her mother had left the village, but Granny refused. This is where she and Grandad had lived out their lives, and she wasn’t going to leave. Mother couldn’t watch the house go into another’s hands, and Kirstine couldn’t bear to leave Granny on her own in Glenbeath, so Mother had taken all of Kirstine’s sisters and left. They didn’t live far away, but they never came to visit. Mother couldn’t stand the sight of her home being occupied by Mr. Parker.
“Ye married the laird there? Isn’t he English?” Farlan practically spat the words. Word of Mr. Parker’s residence had spread even outside of Glenbeath.
Granny’s eyes looked as if they were about to pop out. Her head whipped back and forth between Kirstine and Craig House. Kirstine pursed her lips and scrunched her face together in a quick movement, hoping Granny understood that she should remain quiet. “He isn’t a laird.”
“He might as well be, with a house like that.”
“He is English, and he bought the home. He is no laird.”
“Gentleman, then.”
“He is not—” She stopped her retort. She had only just inferred that Mr. Parker was her husband. She couldn’t refute him being a gentleman. Mr. Parker had returned from the war when her brother hadn’t. He had bought her home and lived there as if it belonged to him. He might own Craig House, but it would never belong to him, and he would never belong in Scotland. Mr. Parker didn’t even like Scotland. He hadn’t lived here much longer than a year and a half before he gave up and returned to England. He never sold the house, just left it empty. Some neighbors thought he might return, but as the weeks had turned to months, it didn’t seem like that would be the case. “—at home. My husband went on ahead. Perhaps we can hire someone in the nearest village.”
“There was a carriage pulling up the drive as we passed by,” Farlan said.
Kirstine nearly choked. “A carriage?”
The younger brother tried to smile through his obvious pain. “Perhaps he was delayed or decided to surprise ye and travel together to England.”
Kirstine tried to picture the stuffy Mr. Parker surprising anyone. “I assure you, that is not the case.”
“That sounds like Mr. Parker to me.” Granny piped up with a grin. “He loves surprises. Maybe he was going to surprise her.”
Kirstine should have let Granny stay in Glenbeath on her own. Mr. Parker loves surprises?
Kirstine leaned over Granny’s ear. “If you ever want me to celebrate Chris—” She stopped. “To go to England with you again, please let me handle this. Don’t speak until we are safely in the carriage and on our way.” Kirstine straightened. She had been reduced to threatening Granny. Not her best day.
“Well, if ye want to go to England, we are going to have to check.” Farlan’s eyes went back to Craig House. “Even if it’s just a servant of your husband’s, we need another man on the journey. Surely a laird can handle the hiring of one more man.”
“He is not . . .” Kirstine ground her teeth together and muttered the words low enough that Farlan wouldn’t hear. “. . . a laird.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. They simply needed to get away from Glenbeath as quickly as possible. This Christmas journey was already a disaster.
Mr. Parker had been gone for half the year. She had hoped he would never return, but even if he never visited the house again, it didn’t mean her family would get it back. It would remain his, empty and decaying instead of full of life. Just like her brother, whose body was buried far from home, on the fields of Waterloo.
But what else could she do? If Mr. Parker was back, he might be the best person to ask for help. He might grant her the use of a servant for a few days. The guilt she saw in his eyes whenever they had chanced to meet told her as much. He had wanted to form an acquaintance with her, but she had never allowed it. How could she spend time with the man who was living the life that should have been her brother’s? The least he could do was grant her a favor.
She ground her teeth together again. She really needed to stop doing that, but something told her it wasn’t a habit she would soon break. At least, not until they were safely in England.
Chapter Two
Isaac Parker fastened the clasp of Stephen’s kilt and took three paces to the mirror. The heavy wool swished about his legs in a very unfamiliar sensation. His knees poked out from under the kilt, and while it wasn’t as though he had bad knees, he would never get used to having them on display. He shook his head. Thoughts of ordering a similar kilt in a different tartan flew out the window. There was no way he could do it. Not to mention, it was winter. How did the men here stand it? He reached back down to the buckle. No matter how badly he wanted to fit in with the Scottish men in town, a kilt would be a mistake.
A knock sounded at his bedroom door, but before waiting for an invitation, Lawson opened it and stepped in. His gaze shifted down to the kilt, but not a muscle moved on his face—not a twitch of laughter, not even a disapproving look. Sometimes it was a burden to have a butler who never showed a sign of emotion. If Isaac looked ridiculous, he wanted to know it.
“A carriage has arrived, and a Mr. Farlan Thompson is here to have a word with you.”
Mr. Thompson? He didn’t know a Mr. Thompson. “With me?”
“Yes, sir.”
No one from the village ever spoke with him. He couldn’t remember the last time someone came to his door. He looked down at his attire once again. Well, if he was going to ingratiate himself with the people of Glenbeath, he shouldn’t keep one of them waiting. He had seen more than one or two men proudly wear a kilt about town, and whenever they did, they garnished a certain amount of respect. After being banned for thirty-five years, nothing was more Scottish than a kilt. Surely they wouldn’t think he looked ridiculous.
He followed Lawson down the stairs and into the drawing room, wishing that, at least, it wasn’t Stephen’s kilt. Someone from Glenbeath would immediately recognize the Jamieson tartan.
A large man stood in the middle of the drawing room. He was large and rough—definitely Scottish—just the sort of man he had tried, over and over, to hire to help repair the older wing of Craig House or to clear some of the fields on the property in order to make the land productive. But this town wouldn’t help him, not even if helping him would have helped themselves. He barely glanced at the man, though, for sitting in the corner with her grandmother was Kirstine Jamieson.
She had been fingering a table to the side of the couch when he walked in, but she immediately pulled her hand away and whipped her head around to look at him. Her straw-colored hair was tied in a loose knot at the back of her head, her cheeks rosy, most likely from the brisk air outside. In her lap she held a tartan shawl. The plaid matched his kilt perfectly.
Her eyes dropped to his kilt, and her whole body stiffened. Isaac may or may not have looked ridiculous to her, but one thing was certain: she didn’t like him wearing the Jamieson tartan. Her eyes narrowed, and he immediately felt the need to shrink back. Her brother’s eyes had been that way. He could convey every emotion with just one look. Anger, courage, and pain. In the end, that was all Isaac had seen in those Jamieson eyes—sheer agony and pain.
Something flashed in Kirstine’s eyes, and they clouded. Every emotion was replaced by no emotion, and she sprang up and marched forward.
Isaac straightened his shoulders. He had stood his ground on the battles of Waterloo and not fallen back. He would not run from this girl.
“Why are you here?” she asked, her voice bright even if her eyes weren’t. “We all thought you were in England.”
She was halfway to him now. One of his feet slid back half an inch. He cursed it. “Were you hoping I would stay there?”
“I assumed you would. At least until Granny and I arrived.”
Until she and Granny arrived? What the devil was this woman talking about? She raised an eyebrow, as if daring him to contradict her. But then she blinked, looked down at his shoes, and with a sigh, dragged her eyes back to him. She mouthed just one small word: “Please.”
Please? Please what?
She stopped only a pace away from him. Still holding the plaid shawl in front of her with her left hand, she reached up with her right and softly pulled at the matching length of plaid that ran from his kilt up over his shoulder. Kirstine Jamieson was never one to act prim or proper. She was the village darling, always making someone laugh or laughing herself. But in all his months of living in Glenbeath, she had never, not even once, turned those laughing eyes on him. But now she spoke to him as if he were someone she had grown up with, someone with whom she shared thousands of memories. “If you are going to wear the Jamieson plaid, you should at least make sure it lies properly.” Her tapered fingers slid across the top of his shoulder, positioning the fabric only slightly different than he had done.
The rough man behind Kirstine cleared his throat. “We need your help, sir. Your wife hired my brother and me to get her to England. We’ve had an accident, and we need one more man on the carriage.”
Wife? Kirstine’s hands were still on his shoulder, innocently wiping away an imaginary speck of dust. At the word, she winced but didn’t look up from that imaginary blemish. A corner of her lip curved upward. “He is far too busy a man to take Granny and me to England.” Her grip tightened on his shoulder. “Aren’t you, mo chridhe?”
He knew that word. Heart. Kirstine Jamieson had just called him her heart. Mr. Thompson had said she was his wife. He blinked hard. What the devil had he walked into?
Kirstine’s grandmother held her hand over her mouth, but her eyes sparkled with mirth. Mr. Thompson was only waiting for his reply. Nothing about his expression implied that he could be part of a ruse to run Isaac out of Scotland. If her grandmother knew what was happening and the carriage driver did not, Kirstine was doing this for the carriage driver’s sake. She must need some type of protection from him. Exactly what type of help had she hired?
The sweetness in Kirstine’s voice didn’t match the tightness of her hand on his shoulder. For the first time since coming to Scotland, someone was letting him into their confidence. Kirstine was using him, but what did that matter? Dash it all. Being used was a thousand times more favorable than being ignored. If she needed his help with something, he would be there for her, and not simply because she was Stephen’s sister. She had always been more than that to Isaac.
He placed his hand on Kirstine’s slight shoulder. “My wife is correct. I am a very busy man.”
Her grip softened until her hand dropped back down to her side. But she didn’t step away. She didn’t seem to find the touching and small distance between them inappropriate. Not like the young ladies back in London might.
Nevertheless, he dropped his hand back to his side. It was one thing to touch her when she was touching him but quite another when she stopped. No lady of his acquaintance would feel free to hold his shoulder so nonchalantly. Of course, none of them would have pretended to be his wife either. What exactly was she up to?
The big, burly man looked disappointed by his answer, and he stepped forward. “Perhaps ye have a man you could send then. We need more help with the carriage than we planned. My brother was injured, and I could use another hand.”
“On the trip to England?” He wished he knew more of what was going on.
“Yes,” the big man answered.
“With Kirstine and her grandmother.” He used her Christian name, for what husband wouldn’t? Her name came easily from his mouth, in a way it would have for no other unattached young woman. He had always thought of her as Kirstine. It was how she had signed the letters to her brother.
“We are leaving any minute. Do ye perhaps have a footman ye could spare? Ye sassenach always seem to have servants lagging about.”
Isaac didn’t like the way the man insinuated that he needed servants to do everything. His father might be that type of Englishman, but Isaac had learned while at war how to do things quickly and on his own.
In truth, he did have a footman, butler, cook, and scullery maid, but that was all. Most of those were for the house, not him. He couldn’t really spare the footman. Isaac had just hired him, and he was Scottish. Matthew was key to his plan to finally gain the acceptance of some of the people of Glenbeath. Hopefully a Scottish footman would make Isaac seem more approachable, and if that didn’t work, at least Matthew would be able to talk to the townsfolk for him.
Isaac sighed. “I’m afraid I can’t spare the footman. I only have one.”
The man groaned, and Kirstine let out a frustrated puff of air. He had never been so close to her. Her lashes were light where they met her eyelids but darkened toward the tips. Stephen’s hadn’t been that way. They were as light as his hair.
Why had she chosen to come to him? And why did Mr. Thompson think they were married? He would happily help Kirstine with anything she needed. He had tried to offer her as much when he had first moved to Glenbeath, but she had refused to say more than a few words to him. If he loaned Mr. Thompson his footman, he might never know exactly why Kirstine had needed his help. He couldn’t let her leave, not without speaking to her at least a little longer.
“Not unless I accompanied you,” he added.
Kirstine gasped. He smiled and lifted his arm to put it around her shoulders. He got it halfway there and changed his mind, instead lamely dropping it to his side. “I’ve been away for months, and Kirstine and I need a chance to talk. What better way than in a carriage?”
The man grunted. “If ye and the footman come, we will make it to England on schedule.”
“Well then, it is settled.” Isaac rubbed his hands together. Kirstine stepped away from him. He didn’t dare meet her gaze. He had seen hatred there before, and he imagined he would get ample time to take in her censure on the carriage ride. “Let me change into breeches and inform my footman of the plan.”
“I’ll come with you.” Kirstine’s voice was overly sweet. Her Scottish-accented words rolled off her tongue as if it was the most normal thing in the world to join him while he dressed.
He stopped. He hated the way his heart responded to her words. That wasn’t sweetness, despite what all the townspeople thought of Kirstine. She may be the first person any of them would come to in trouble, but he was the exception. There was no sugar in that offer, only soured wine.
“Granny, stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Soft laughter followed that command. The elderly lady had no issue with her granddaughter toying with Isaac.
He turned slowly to find Kirstine’s chin up, a brightness in her eyes he hadn’t seen before. The brazen woman gathered up her shawl to her chest and marched past him toward the stairs. He had no choice but to follow. When they reached the top of the stairs, he motioned to the right.
“I know where your bedchamber is,” she said.
Oh, she did, did she? Once again, he let her lead the way. She missed the turn, but he let her march on until she came to the largest bedroom in the house. She pulled open the doors and sucked in a breath. Isaac came up beside her. His heart beat faster than it should. Kirstine should have seen this room two years ago. He would have invited her to his home, if she had ever given him the chance. Everything in the room was covered in white sheets. The bed, the couches, the tables. They were covered, but nothing had been moved since her mother had lived here.
Kirstine stood there for a moment, then walked in and pulled a sheet off the large painting over the mantle. The fabric wavered, then crumpled to the floor like a wounded soldier in battle. In its place stood an oversized portrait of a stately Scottish couple—Kirstine’s parents.
“Why do you have this here?” she asked after staring for a few breaths.
“Your mother didn’t take anything,” he answered. “It never felt right to remove it.”
“What were you planning on doing with it?”
“I don’t rather know. I wanted to talk with you about it, but you never let me.”
“So this isn’t your room.”
Isaac shook his head. “My room is down the corridor. You may stay here while I change if you would like. One of my servants will replace the coverings after we have left. Take all the time you need.”
He turned and left before she could call him back and tell him not to come to England. Before she lashed into him with the anger she showed so easily in her eyes. He had waited two years to get Miss Kirstine Jamieson in a place where they could truly talk, and for some strange reason, he was about to have a days’-long carriage ride with her. It was an opportunity he wouldn’t let slip away.
Chapter Three
Kirstine took one last look at her parents’ room before closing the doors. She would never be here again.
Mr. Parker was waiting for her in the corridor, looking much more like his English self now that he was out of her family’s plaid, thank goodness.
“Was that Stephen’s kilt you were wearing?”
“Yes. I wasn’t planning on wearing it anywhere. I found it, and my footman showed me how to put it on. I was thinking about getting one made.”
“Trying to fit in, are you?”
He stood taller. The muscle under his cheekbone clenched. “I am.”
Nothing about Mr. Parker was comfortable. He had infiltrated her village, showed up with his bags of money, and bought their home. But the worst thing about him was that he was alive while Stephen wasn’t. His broad shoulders and thick eyelashes boasted of health and a full life ahead of him. The way his chest rose and fell was a constant reminder that Stephen’s was perpetually still.
