Page 20 of Taming the Scot
She made it halfway through the garden before it all tossed back up onto a blooming bush of roses.
“Is there something wrong with the custard?” Esme poked at the creamy confection before her.
“I think no’,” Euan said, having enjoyed half of his already.
“Perhaps she was simply sick of our company,” Skye remarked with her typical sarcasm, accompanied by a smirk as she shoved her bowl away.
“Perhaps ye ought to mind your tongue,” Maggie retorted.
And just like that, the peaceful dinner erupted into an argument that left Euan with a headache rivaling the worst hangover. This was, of course, not uncommon in his house. With six sisters, all of whom were very different people, arguments erupted often.
As he did on most of those occasions, he escaped the dining room for a walkabout the grounds with Owen. After they’d all had a chance to shout off whatever was in their chests, he’d come back in to smooth things over. He’d learned over the years that to try to intervene when he was so heavily outnumbered usually ended up with someone throwing a shoe at his head.
The sun was beginning to set, sending a purple haze to cast over the grounds. He couldn’t believe that one day he might lose this. At the rate he was going thinking about Miss Holmes, he would not make it far in finding a decent bride, let alone luring one fall in love with him. She’d rejected every single hint of flirtation or charm he’d presented her with.
In fact, she’d accused him of trying to seduce her. For certes, that was not the message he wanted to send a potential bride. But he couldn’t figure out what it was that he’d done wrong. Perhaps he could ask her during tomorrow’s lessons.
He shooed away a bee flying past his head and bent to pluck a leaf of mint from a plant, biting off the tip to refresh his mouth. Owen approached him with a stick, and he tossed it. Euan’s older hound loped slowly to fetch it, then caught sight of something else that interested him, and trotted off to explore.
Clearly, something had upset Mis Holmes at dinner. The food perhaps, or the company, he couldn’t be sure. And he wasn’t certain that it mattered. The bottom line was she’d run from the table looking as though she was going to be ill, and by all accounts, he was responsible for it.
Euan’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of labored breathing ahead. He picked up his pace, winding his way through the maze of garden offerings until he came upon the gazebo. Though dusk was upon them, he could see Bronwen bent over with her elbows on her knees and her head resting in her hands.
“Are ye unwell, Miss Holmes?” he asked.
Slowly, she tilted her head to glance at him. In the fading light, her eyes were red and puffy, her cheeks wet. Had she been crying?
“I’d do well with some privacy, Captain.” Though her words were meant to turn him away, her tone was not convincing.
“Would no’ we all?” He glanced back toward the castle. “I’ve been saying that since Maggie was born.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “It was no’ a question for ye to ponder.”
“I apologize for intruding. I’m concerned. Ye fled the table, and here I find ye.” He came closer as he would with a wild horse.
“I would no’ go near that rose bush if I were ye.”
He took her word for it, understanding now that he’d not found her sobbing but rather on the tail end of being ill.
“Was it the custard?” he asked.
She laughed, the sound raw. “It was all of it. I’m afraid my stomach is no’ used to the…richness of the food.”
“Ah, that makes sense.” He approached cautiously, leaning an elbow against the arched entrance of the gazebo. “When I came back from the Peninsular War, it took me some time to adjust as well.”
“I’ve no’ been at war,” she said, smoothing her hands over her hair and then wiping at her eyes.
She might say she’d not been at war, but Euan hadn’t been lying when he said he was observant. The lass had been through hell recently, he could tell. There was something she’d been hiding since she’d arrived, and he was determined to find out what it was.
“A gentleman would offer me his handkerchief,” she mumbled.
“A gentleman would have one.”
She glanced at him sharply, and he shrugged in sheepish apology. Then he did the next best thing. He unwound his cravat and handed it to her.
“I can no’ sully this.” She rubbed her thumb over the fabric, staring down in horror at what he’d offered. Then she thrust it back at him.
“I assure ye, my handkerchief is nicer. Besides, I would no’ be a gentleman if I took it back and left ye to wipe your face on that pretty gown.”
