Page 47 of Lyon of Scotland
“Oh aye.” She rested her arm on his chest. “I want to tell you something. About when you visited my father’s house in Edinburgh.”
“Aye, what about it?” He kissed her silken hair.
“Whenever you came to the house, I wanted to be wherever you were, one room and another. I would watch you as you talked with others, or when you stood looking about in that way you have. Quiet and watchful.”
He snugged her closer. “I always knew when you were near.”
“Did you? I could not tell. I thought you were so handsome, such a gentleman. You hardly spoke to me, but there was something about you that I liked—so much. I thought you were not interested in an artist’s daughter. But then—” She sighed, stopped.
“What?” He waited.
“Sometimes you were in my dreams,” she said in a rush.
“So you said before. I am flattered. And?”
“And I imagined—being married to you.”
“Did you now?” He gave a crooked little smile. “Then let me confess that I always noticed the artist’s daughter—you.” He brushed back her hair, traced the line of her jaw, tipped her chin up. “And I wanted to court you. Thought about marrying you.”
“Did you? Why did you not tell me?”
“I am not sure,” he whispered. “We could sort that out. We have time.”
She snuggled closer, kissed his jaw. “Dare,” she said then. “Why do they call you Dare? Is it because you take risks? You took one with me.”
He huffed, amused. “We both took a risk. I think it will turn out well.” He paused. “When I was a boy,” he continued, his fingers playing with the ribbons on her nightgown, “I jumped into a gorge filled with a heavy spate of water because my friends had dared me. I nearly drowned, but somehow made it to the bank. My brother sometimes called me Dare, and after that, it stuck.”
“Dare,” she echoed, resting her hand on his heart. “I think the first real risk I ever took was when I came to London. And it was a disaster.”
“Not entirely. It led to this. To us.” He traced her cheek. “Is this a risk?”
“At first. Not now. I realize now I feel—braver around you. Stronger.”
He laughed. “Good. You needed a wee bit of that, my lass.”
“I did. Alasdair—what would you dare me to do?” She shifted, coming up above him, her hair drifting down, a golden shield.
“I can think of something,” he laughed, and rolled her to her back as she laughed with him, welcoming, tempting.
Chapter Nine
Rain brought adreary gray light to the steamship lounge even at midday. Hannah curled on a sofa reading, her feet drawn up under a tartan blanket against the cool, damp air. Delighted to have discovered a copy of Jane Austen’sEmmain the selection of books, she was eager to reread it; she and her sisters had shared it avidly between them last year. Now she breezed through it swiftly, while Dare and Linhope sat at a table playing backgammon and talking quietly.
Hearing Dare laugh at something his friend said, she smiled to herself, blushing to remember that early hour together in the hotel. As if he sensed her thoughts, he looked over at her and smiled. Caught in that dark gaze, she burned for him again, and sent him an impish, flirting smile to tell him. Then she went back to the book.
She gasped to see the next words on the page.The dread of being awakened from the happiest dream was perhaps the most prominent feeling…
She was also immersed and content in the happiest dream just now. But the words also reminded her that a threat still existed outside the perfect, peaceful bubble in the steamship lounge. Once they docked in Scotland, their idyllic hours couldend if Frederic Dove pursued them north, bringing havoc and even danger.
Happiness was not guaranteed until any last issues with Dove were resolved. She stared out the lounge windows at the rippling slap of gray waves. Worry pressed on her again. She tried to focus on the story once more.
Later, when luncheon was served in the lounge, she sat with Dare and Linhope and said little. Dare sent her a puzzled look. After the meal, they took a brisk walk around the damp, breezy deck. When she tripped briefly on a wet curl of rope, Dare caught her arm and teased that she should come down to earth. Laughing, she caught his hand, his firm, wonderful grip easing her fretfulness better than the sea breeze.
Inside again, they claimed their usual sofa and chairs. Linhope disappeared briefly, returning with a fiddle. He stood and began to play, coaxing sweet, lilting tunes with such skill that Hannah listened and watched, rapt. All around the lounge, others paused in their games and conversation to listen as well. When the doctor launched into a livelier tune, a few rose to dance, and Hannah tapped her foot, loving the rhythms.
Strathburn stood and brought her to her feet, swaying with her while she danced on light feet. He claimed his dancing feet were made of lead, and she laughed, twirling around him as he circled her. When Linhope stopped and others applauded, she went toward him, delighted.
“Lovely! How long have you played the fiddle?” she asked.
