Page 33 of A Bonny Pretender
He gave a harsh laugh. “Will you cast out my demons?”
“If there’s no’ too many.” Her hand slid over his shoulder and down his sleeve. “Will I need reinforcement? How beset are ye?”
He caught her hand and pressed the gloved fingers to his lips. “I believe destiny sent you to me. If you cannot dispel the dark cloud over me, then it’s an impossible task.”
They strolled along the walking path, stopping on occasion when Brigid caught sight of a squirrel or bird or saw a particularly pretty flower and showered him with trivia about each species.
“You’re quite knowledgeable on animals. Do you have many of your own?” he asked, the haunted look gone.
“Aye, and take care of the sick or injured for most of my cl-family.” She raised her face up to the sun and thought of the small swimming loch where generations had sunbathed on the same boulder. “Do ye swim?”
“Yes. I’ve gone to Bath and enjoyed the water. And you?” he asked, waving at a passing carriage.
She nodded. “I enjoy being outdoors as much as I can.”
“I imagine that isn’t often. Your household duties must keep you inside much of the time.”
“Weel, my mother and grandmother run the household.” Brigid sent a silent apology to Mother Mary for the wee lie she was about to tell. “I help in the kitchen and with the livestock.”
He peered at her, a smile forming on his delectable mouth. “You’re not a traditional English wife, are you?”
Brigid shook her head, relieved that he didn’t find the idea appalling.
“As long as you don’t best me at some manly task, I don’t care.”
She let out a loud sigh of relief and he laughed. “I canna cook except for tarts, and I hate to sew.”
“I have servants for that. You only need to direct them, and they will complete the tasks for you.”
“What do ye enjoy?” She prayed it wasn’t the bow.
“I box and fence.”
A vision of Frank without a shirt, holding up his fists, made her knees go weak. “Ye’re safe from me in those areas. Are ye any good?”
“I like to think so,” he admitted. “I began boxing at the age of five.”
“So ye like to fight?”
He laughed. “Not really. The late viscount wasn’t… a kind man. He used words as weapons and assaulted me and my mother whenever he could. I wanted to be able to best him when the chance came. Come to my mother’s defense.”
“Did you?” This explained the discord she’d sensed between him and his father.
“At thirteen. It was one of the most pleasurable moments of my life.” His jaw tightened.
“That’s a long time to wait. Was he surprised?”
“He considered me a coward and a dimwit. Being witness to the consequences of his words, I always thought before I spoke. He took my silence as fear and stupidity.
“What did your father do when ye struck him?” She tried to imagine one of her brothers punching Grandda. Even at his age, the MacNaughton’s fist was powerful enough to send her brothers reeling.
“Sent me to Eton. I hated him but loved the estate and didn’t want to leave.” His eyes dulled, reminding her of a thick London fog. “My mother wanted to shield me from him. It was a good move.”
“And that’s where ye met Mr. Wilkens?”
“Yes, we declared ourselves friends for life at fourteen.” The fog lifted. “I spent half my holidays at his house. Some of my best memories are with the Wilkens.”
Brigid’s eyes burned, and she blinked. This wonderful man and his mother had been browbeaten by a selfish father and then sent away. He’d had to find happiness with another family. She rose up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “I canna imagine growing up as ye did. I was always surrounded by people who loved me.”
