Page 42 of Never Kiss a Scot
Brock grinned, his mood beginning to brighten. “It sits upon a hill, not a big one, mind, but below it is a loch, with waters as blue as the summer sky. My mother had some gardens built, but they’ve fallen into disrepair in the years since she died. I have no talent for them, but perhaps you could set them straight.”
“I would like that very much,” Joanna agreed. The prospect of restoring the gardens his mother had once created seemed like a lovely idea. She was also relieved that she would have something to occupy her there. Joanna had never been the sort of woman to sit idly by when she could take charge of something.
“What was she like? Your mother, I mean.”
Brock stiffened slightly, and for a long moment Joanna wondered if he would even answer.
“My mother was tenderhearted. There wasn’t an injured animal or wounded person that she didn’t try to heal or help. There was a light in her eyes, one that I can see in you. It reminds me so much of her.” His voice roughened, and Joanna squeezed his arm, wanting to show him her support. Brock drew in a steadying breath before he continued.
“Brodie called her an angel when we were little. He thought she came down from the clouds to be our mother. And Aiden…he is so like her in spirit—loving and easily hurt.”
“Are you like your mother?” she asked.
Brock shook his head. “I know I am not.”
Joanna was worried he’d say he was like his father, but thankfully he didn’t.
“I think you are,” Joanna said quietly. Sometimes speaking the truth, one that someone needed to hear more than they could ever admit, was a way of showing love. And she wanted Brock to feel her desire to love him. She didn’t yet, but she would love him someday soon. It was like the way she could always sense a coming storm—she could tell that she would love this man more than her own life. She hoped that when that day came, she would find he had come to love her too.
They dissolved into another silence, this one longer, more contemplative, but no less peaceful. She liked that about him. Being with him was restful, at least when they weren’t kissing. He was so different from the men in London and Bath, who were desperate for conversation, but the depth and value of that conversation was often shallow. When Brock spoke it was to make a difference, to share part of himself with her.
“Would you sing me another song?” she asked, closing her eyes.
Brock chuckled. “Am I to be your Scottish songbird, lass?”
“Yes,” she giggled. She laid her head on his shoulder as he started to sing sweetly in her ear.
Frae that sweet hour her name I’d breathe.
Wi’ nocht but clouds and hills to hear me,
And when the world to rest was laid
I’d watch for dawn and wish her near me,
Till one by one the stars were gone,
The moor-cock to his mate called clearly,
And daylight glinted on the burn
Where red-deer cross at mornin’ early.
The sweet, almost mournful tone tugged at Joanna’s heart.
The years are long, the work is sair,
And life is aftimes wae and wearie,
Yet Foyer’s flood shall cease to fall
Ere my love fail until my dearie.
I’d loved her then, I loved her now,
And could the world wad be without her.
The notes trailed off into silence, yet Joanna felt the tune hum deep beneath her skin in the most wonderful way. She’d never been talented when it came to music; she’d been more proficient at sketches and watercolors, one of the many interests and talents young ladies were expected to focus on rather than the interests that truly called to her. She’d been fortunate Ashton was her brother, because he had encouraged her to learn about economics and business as well as managing investments. She wasn’t as gifted as he was, but she did have a knack for it.
