Page 45 of Lyon of Scotland
“I do ken. A braw name in the Scottish Borders. Do you have a family crest?”
“Not that I have seen.”
“I would be happy to look into it for you.”
“My wife and sons would like that. I will keep your whisky safe. Well, most of it.”
Dare chuckled. “Take some for you and your men.”
“I dinna allow imbibing while on the water, but they do like a wee reward when we return to Leith. The king’s whisky might just please them.”
“So be it, then,” Dare said with a laugh as they shook hands on the bargain.
“What about the king’s whisky?” Linhope asked as they walked away. “You are sending it back to Scotland. It is a good way to thwart Dove, but King George will be wondering where his Highland whisky has gone.”
“It can wait. He does not yet know about the gift. I will go to the Lord Provost to make other plans to make sure the king gets his gift from the Scottish government.”
Along with the newly designed Scottish coat of arms, he thought. That had yet to be arranged as well. If both could be presented together, that would be outstanding, he decided.
“Send the whisky down by coach,” Linhope suggested.
Dare grinned. “Even with the risk of broken bottles, that is a thought. I am inclined to dispatch Sir Frederic first. Then we can send down a fresh shipment any way we like.”
“Excellent plan. But what if Dove comes north?”
“I expect it. And I will be waiting.”
Chapter Eight
Closing the doorsoftly, Dare noticed the oil lamp casting its light over his sleeping bride. She sat leaned against pillows, head tilted down, blanket tucked, sketchbook open in her lap. Her hair spilled down in loose golden tendrils over the white night rail she wore.
Hannah had fallen asleep waiting for him. It meant everything, suddenly.
She was a beauty in a pure and graceful way, with a simplicity that made his heart thud, his body pulse, instinct enhanced by affection—by love. He could no longer deny that; his cautious heart was hers now.
Sighing as he stood there, he felt his life quietly shift. He might never be the same again. He smiled, accepting it. He had wanted to find love, real and lasting love, but he had learned early to hold himself back from what he desired.
His family was a good-hearted lot, if distant in habit and emotion. His mother had died while he was at university; his father had gone four years back, leaving him with a title, estate, and a mountain of responsibility. His brother was currently in Ireland with the Black Watch, and his sister Nell was either in Edinburgh or the Highlands, waiting for her husband, asurgeon in the regiment, to return. Growing up in a household of restrained emotion and discipline, the three of them had the freedom of the Highland hills and each other’s company, and were happy enough.
His father, a strict Highlander, laird, viscount, and hardworking solicitor, encouraged their education, and Dare chose the law; after his mother’s death, he worked alongside his father and became engaged to the daughter of a local laird, reflecting his father’s desire for safety and familiarity. She had been a quiet and traditional soul, and though he’d cared for her as a friend, he’d sensed something missing. What that was, he realized later, was love, something he had never fully felt or explored. In the war and afterward, the scars on his hands, so visible, reminded him that he was changed to some extent. But he relied on restraint. It was safe.
He had been attracted to Hannah Gordon, yet held back. But she was different than most others he had known. What other lass would have married him within the hour, leaping off a proverbial cliff with him, trusting him. What other girl would have sat up waiting for him, even in her exhaustion? Perhaps she had realized she could love him, even as he realized he loved her. Good things seemed suddenly possible now.
He should have listened to his feelings three years ago, when Hannah Gordon had asked about jam and butter and rescued him more completely than he had ever rescued her. He owed her for awakening his spirit.
Silent, careful not to disturb her, he removed coat, cravat, and shoes, and ran a hand through his tangled hair. He was muckle tired. That sagging bed was the only option other than the floor, though the mattress looked barely wide enough for two. Lifting her sketchbook away, he eased her to her side to face the wall and plumped a pillow under her head. He brushed his fingers over the curling, silky coolness of her loosened hair.She gave a sleepy wee moan when he touched her, but settled without waking. That kittenish sound went through him like lightning.
He sat on the bed, partly dressed, aching for sleep, aching for the girl. Stretching out, his back to hers, he stuffed a thin pillow under his head. Tired as he was, her warm body was comforting and distracting, his body responding. But they both needed sleep. As he tugged the blanket up, her forgotten sketchbook slid to the floor. Its pages fell open in the faint light of the oil lamp.
He saw his face in the page spread, along with sketches of the shoreline, of Linhope at cards and playing the fiddle. Turning the page, he saw his own face again, this time repeatedly sketched in full view, in profile, at an angle, and with a rather poetic lowered gaze. She had captured his likeness in swift, sure strokes, shaded and lightly detailed. In one drawing, his hair was a curly tousle and his large, dark eyes held flecks of light in the irises. His gaze, directed at the viewer, the artist, was thoughtful, mellow. Then he knew.
The drawing showed a man enchanted, in love with what held his gaze. He remembered watching her work, thinking her lovely, marveling that she was his wife so spontaneously. The drawing showed a man secretly in love, warm with it, and hoping.
He turned the pages to look at more drawings: flowers, vases, landscapes, and many faces—breezy portraits in charcoal and pencil. He recognized Georgina Gordon-Huntly, serene and thoughtful; Oliver, reading; an older woman, perhaps their mother. Pages back, months in the past, he saw Sir Archibald at an easel, then napping in a chair. In other sketches, he recognized Hannah’s sisters: Maisie, Lady Kintrie; and Catriona of the red-gold hair at the piano.
Hannah had a sure hand, facile and accurate, for rendering faces and forms with skillful line and shade: a whisper of chalkhere, a fine detail there, capturing nuances of expression, mood, and atmosphere. She had a true gift.
Yet because of Frederic Dove, she now worked at heraldry art, diligently painting rigid, repetitive armorial images of lions, birds, chevrons, bars, and more. She could be a celebrated portraitist, with a natural talent beyond most, Dare saw now. He felt as if he had discovered a secret about her, something she kept to herself.
