Page 58 of Christmas at Castle Dunrannoch
“I told you, little bear; I’ve promises to keep.” He looked suddenly weary.
“And five young women lined up to flutter their lashes at you!” The words were out before Ursula had the chance to catch them. She bit her lip. He’d be thinking she was jealous, which was ridiculous. She’d only met him the day before; they didn’t know each other.
Neither did his girl cousins, of course, but that wasn’t going to stop him from marrying one of them.
“And I’ll be the one doin’ the choosing.” He spoke softly.
“That’s what they want you to think.” She picked up a larger piece of kindling, attempting to break it over her knee. “They don’t know the first thing about you. They employed someone to make you fit in. Doesn’t that irritate you?” After several failed attempts she threw the wood aside, sucking at her thumb.
They’ll polish down your rough edges to turn you into something they think acceptable. They’ll dictate your clothes and manners and change your accent if they can—that honeyed drawl that’s part of who you are. And they’ll marry you to their own to keep everything within the status quo.
“I need you, Ursula. I need you to help me, so that I can do what’s right.” He brought his hand over hers. “Show me what it is they’re expectin’ and I’ll do my darndest not to let them down.”
What other people were expecting? He was right that she was on the run—and it was other people’s expectations she was running from.
Yet here he was, running towards them.
His situation, of course, was different from her own. Ultimately, he’d have charge of his destiny in a way she never would.
She pulled her hand out from beneath his and brought it to her lap. He didn’t need to know how she’d ended up here, nor what she planned for her own future, but she could give him a few days.
“All right. I’ll stay.” She rubbed at the splinter in the pad of her thumb, keeping her eyes down. “But don’t ask me anything else.”
Leaving, he paused on the threshold and she glanced up then, but he was only checking that the passage was clear.
He didn’t look round again but she heard him as the door clicked shut.
“Fair enough, little bear.”
Chapter Eleven
Early-afternoon, 15th December
Blackened with centuries of soot,the vaulted rafters of Dunrannoch’s banqueting hall stretched high above, leading the eye to a minstrels’ gallery occupying one end, large enough to accommodate a small orchestra.
It wasn’t hard to imagine a gathering. The room had been built for that purpose—to bring together every member of the household in communal festivity. The cavernous fireplace would have blazed high, while long tables and benches would have filled its length and the hall would have resonated with the chatter of several hundred voices.
Now, the emptiness echoed.
In preparation for the Yuletide cèilidh, the staff of Dunrannoch had begun to hang greenery and a small fire had been set at one end of the hearth, producing a modicum of warmth to supplement the cool winter light entering through the hall’s windows of leaded glass.
It was here that Ursula was to teach Lord Balmore the deportment required of a gentleman. So far, they’d addressed the conventions of cutlery and glassware, as well as various other table etiquette—from how to use a finger bowl to the correct manner in which to pass a bottle of port. Where Ursula had been unable to recall the details herself, Miss Abernathy’s little guide had lived up to its title.
After a luncheon of venison pie, a hurried conference with MacBain, the butler, had apprised Ursula of the customary toasts of Burns’ Night, and other festive occasions unique to the Scots. She’d located a volume of poetry by the great man for Rye to study at his leisure.
Ursula entered the banqueting hall to find him already waiting, bending over something on a side table. As he did so, his shirt pulled tight across his back. His physique spoke of his working life, there was no doubt about that, and he’d rolled up the cuffs of his shirt to his forearms—as if to take up a scythe, or manhandle a sheep for dipping. She hadn’t forgotten how easily he’d lifted her, helping her into the saddle and out of it the day before.
It seemed that someone had brought in a gramophone and he was leafing through a stack of recordings—frowning at some, peering at the typeface upon others. She observed him remove one from its case and place it upon the turntable, winding the handle upon the side before lowering the needle. The shrill, wailing drone that emerged had him jumping back in horror.
Ursula rushed forward to lift the needle.
“Bagpipes.” She held up the case, indicating the picture upon the front. “They’re good for accompanying the Highland Fling and such—country dances, you know.” She moved her feet in the semblance of a jig, to demonstrate. “But the clans used them for centuries in battle, since you could hear them over the din of all the fighting.”
“No kidding.” Rye shook his head. “I don’t know how anyone’s meant to dance to this. More like a bag o’ wildcats fightin’ each other than any music I ever heard.”
“It’s all part of your heritage.”
“Are you ribbin’ me, Miss Abernathy?” Rye cocked an eyebrow.
