Page 19 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
“Aye,” he said. “Rugged and savage. The rocks are the bones of the land, and the soil its flesh. When I hear the cries of the eagles in the sky and the stags in rut in the foothills, I know I’m home, among the green foothills and the purple mountains.”
“Purple?”
“Aye, lass. Bathed in heather, they are—nature’s blanket—and topped with white. And lochs that stretch for miles along theglens, the water cool and clear, with the taste of the mountain.” He squeezed her hand. “Do ye know what Murdo means, lass?”
She shook her head.
“It means sea warrior—and that I am. There’s nothing more pleasurable than to feel the water against my skin.”
“Y-you batheoutdoors?” her eyes widened. “Is that not improper?”
“Aye,” he said. “But, by the standards of gentlefolk,everythingwe do in the Highlands is improper. It’s what heightens our pleasure. And it’s a test of our manhood—to dive into the water on midwinter’s day, then return home for a dram of whisky by the fire. It’s as close to perfection as a man can come.”
“How I’d love to see it,” she said.
“Perhaps ye will.”
“You think so?”
Miss Martingale gazed at him with an air of childish innocence. What a contradiction she was! Though the daughter of a duchess, she lacked the refined accent of a Society lady. She seemed older than the other unattached ladies in the room, and her body’s reaction spoke of an experienced woman, yet at times, her wide-eyed naïveté was that of a bairn.
“I’m certain of it,” he replied, pleasure coursing through his veins as she smiled at the prospect. “I could issue an invitation to yer father.”
Her smile waned. “I don’t know. Papa Harcourt’s very strict. He said that if I did not behave properly tonight, he’d keep me confined at home until he deemed me ready for my debut. He… Oh!”
She let out a low cry and stiffened, withdrawing her hand. Murdo turned to see the duke and duchess approaching. The duchess’s gaze was sharp enough to split a granite boulder. The duke’s eyes, though less intense than his wife’s, regarded Murdowith a level of quiet dignity and thoughtfulness, as if he sized him up and found him wanting.
“Are you well, daughter?” the duchess said.
Miss Martingale colored. “Yes, Mama. Mr. McTavish was kind enough to sit with me at supper.”
“So I saw,” the duke said. “Did you not realize, young man, that Lady Cholmondeley’s seating plan was intended to separate the young men from the young women?”
“Mr. McTavish came to my assistance, Papa Harcourt,” Miss Martingale said.
“Hedid, did he?” The duke raked his gaze over Murdo’s form. “And who mightyoube?”
“My love, this is Mr. McTavish,” the duchess said. “The Scotsman I was telling you about.”
“I see.” He turned to Miss Martingale. “Is this the young man you threw your drink over, Clara?”
She shifted in her seat.
“It was at my behest,” Murdo said.
“I find that hard to believe.” The duke stared at his stepdaughter. “Clara?”
“Yer daughter’s behavior has been exemplary tonight, Yer Grace,” Murdo said.
The corner of the duke’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Really?”
“In fact, I’d like yer permission to court her.”
Miss Martingale drew in a sharp breath. Hope flared in her eyes, then she glanced at her stepfather and the hope died.
“That’s a little presumptuous, is it not?” the duchess said.
“Perhaps,” Murdo said, “but it’s a compliment to yer daughter that I wish to know her better.”
