Page 33 of Sinful Scottish Laird
“You’ve a keen wit,” he said, smiling at her.
Somerled had lovely brown eyes...but nothing compared to Arrandale’s vivid blue. “You give me too much credit, sir. My talent lies only in repeating stories I’ve heard.”
“Nonsense. And you are to be commended on the meal. It was exquisite. It was a treat, it was, that you availed yourself of Arrandale’s wine. You’ll no’ find that quality anywhere else in the Highlands.”
That was the second time someone had referred to it as Arrandale’s wine. “Did he make it?” she asked.
Somerled laughed gaily. “No, but he’s brought it to the Highlands.” At Daisy’s blank look he said, “The laird Arrandale is a frequent visitor to the port of Calais, then. You must ask after his brandy, aye? It’s exceptional.”
France? She thought trade with France was forbidden, given the tensions between the two countries. Was he implying that Arrandale was asmuggler? No, he couldn’t be. Arrandale was too...sophisticated. Too strong, too in command of himself. She had the idea that smugglers were weak, desperate men.
“Lady Chatwick...will you walk with me?” Somerled asked, startling her back to the present.
She was wary of gentlemen who invited her to walk, as there was always something of great importance they wished to say. “Shall I show you my garden?” she suggested. It was a quick walk, and she could do most of the talking. “I’ve brought it back from the brink of death.”
They walked down the terrace steps and onto a well-worn path, headed for her garden, to the weathered wooden gate that marked the garden’s entrance. She proudly opened it. “My garden,” she said.
It was a bit muddy, but the garden looked fresh to Daisy’s eyes. She was delighted that her sad little roses had held their ground against the rain, and the vines—all of them cut back now—seemed particularly lush.
“’Tis bonny,” Mr. Somerled said as he paused to look around. He bent over one of her better rosebushes and picked one of the open buds before Daisy could stop him. He held it out to her with a smile, and she tried not to look appalled that he’d just reduced her crop of roses by one. “A rose for a rose,” he said.
Not very original, but Daisy appreciated the sentiment all the same. “Thank you.” She smiled sweetly and took it from him, touching the velvet petals to the tip of her nose. Her roses were so small and lifeless that they scarcely emitted any scent.
“Have you a potting shed?” he asked, looking about.
“No,” she said. “It’s much too small a garden for that.”
“You ought to have one.” He glanced at her and said timidly, “You ought to have all that you desire.”
Oh yes, and Mr. Somerled would next posit that he, of all men, was best suited to give her all that she desired. Daisy forced a smile. “I’d be rather spoiled, then, would I not?”
“May I speak plainly, then, Lady Chatwick?” Somerled asked and rubbed a leaf between his finger and thumb.
No! Go home now—go home!“Of course,” she made herself say.
“I pray you will no’ think me too bold...but you have been the bonniest surprise of summer. When I heard the Viscount Chatwick’s widow had come to open Auchenard, I rather pictured an old woman with graying hair. What a delight to find you here, aye?”
She blushed a little and avoided his gaze by tucking the rose into her bodice.
“I should like to inquire, if I may, after your intentions.”
She glanced up, not understanding. “My intentions?”
“Do you intend to stay on at Auchenard, then? Or will you soon be returning to London?”
“I’ve—”
“It would be my great pleasure to come to know you,” he nervously interjected.
Would it really be such a great pleasure? Had he seen even the slightest thing in her that spoke to compatibility? Or did he see only a fat purse when he looked at her? “Aha...well.” She cleared her throat. “That is terribly kind of you to offer—”
“I should like to be the one to introduce you to Scotland, aye? It’s a bonny land—there are many stunning vistas in these Highlands.”
“Yes, it seems there are,” she said as her mind raced through all the things she might say to discourage him without harming his feelings. She glanced at the gate and pictured herself walking around him and out of the garden. She pictured herself walking all the way to the lake and throwing herself in, hoping the lake would carry her out to the sea.
“Many stunning vistas and...many romantic ones, as well.”
Lord, it was worse than she suspected. “Mr. Somerled—”
