Page 22 of The Laird's Bride
Cameron gave him a half-smile. He hadn't skipped anything, he'd just done it the other way around.
Bridget brought them mugs of tea a short time later. She must have overheard their conversation, for she said in a quiet voice, "My John and I used to take long walks when we were courting, along the beach, by the woods. Mostly we just talked. And listened. By the time we were wed, we knew each other so well there was no question of bridal nerves for me."
Cameron tried not to notice the unshed tears glistening in her eyes. "John wasn't much of a talker, as I recall."
She smiled. "You learn about a person as much by what they don't say, as what they say. More sometimes. And also by what they do. She glanced up at Robbie Ross drinking his tea on the roof, and added softly, "Nobody ever had to ask my John to do anything. He saw something that needed to be done, and did it. Quietly, without fuss or fanfare."
Cameron nodded. "Aye, he was a fine man, your John."
She swallowed. "He was. This roof would have been fixed long since if he hadn't been . . . " She looked away and after a moment said in a choked voice, "My thanks to you, Laird."
Cameron nodded. He put down his empty cup and climbed back up onto the roof with a renewed sense of purpose. This was why he'd married Jeannie McLeay—to do for people like Bridget what they could not do for themselves.
What he hadn't taken into account was how he would feel about his new bride.
The way Jeannie had looked when he left her this morning, curled up in the bed, all soft and warm, her hair spread across the pillow. It had taken all of his willpower to simply slide out of bed and pad quietly away. Leaving her serenely sleeping. Untouched.
He hammered down another strut. Unspoken in what Bridget had said was a clear sense that she and her John had enjoyed each other. In all ways. Especially in bed.
The sooner this blasted courtship of his was done with the better.
He thought about Robbie's wife, and how her watchful, protective family made sure that Robbie treated her right before the wedding. Jeannie had no-one to look after her interests, only that useless grandfather, who took better care of his sheep than his granddaughter.
And yet his Jeannie had stood up for herself. Not many brides would have the courage to deny a laird his marital rights and further, to demand a courtship. That took courage.
He liked that in her. A laird's wife needed courage.
Talking and listening and walks. He could do that. And little gifts. Anything, as long as he didn't have to spout poetry.
JEANNIE'S TOUR OF THE castle was enlightening—but also a little puzzling. The housekeeper, Mrs. Findlay, seemed to be as efficient as she looked. She answered all of Jeannie's questions crisply and in detail and, on the surface at least, Jeannie couldn't fault her organization. Or her attitude, though she was a little intimidating.
Yet in quite a number of rooms there was a faint but definite air of neglect—furniture that was dusty, cobwebs in a few places, carpets that needed a good beating. The dust showed all the more because Roskirk Castle was such a bare and barren-looking place. It wasn't filthy, Jeannie thought. But it wasn't spotless, and it ought to be.
She decided to broach the matter with the housekeeper. "This morning I sent for the maids who were supposed to clean the laird's bedchamber. Kirsty and Aileen."
The tall housekeeper frowned. "Supposed to? They did clean it, I checked."
"Well, be that as it may, it wasn't cleaned to my satisfaction. I've asked them to clean it again."
Jeannie half expected Mrs. Findlay to argue, or give some excuse, but though her frown deepened, she didn't respond to the criticism in any way. She didn't even seem offended, just thoughtful. She continued the tour, but seemed a little abstracted.
The only part of the castle Jeannie could find no fault with was in the area ruled by the cook—the kitchens and scullery. Everything was immaculate, from the well-scrubbed stone flags to the gleaming pots and pans hanging on the wall. Mrs. Baird, the cook, had greeted Jeannie with friendly courtesy and cheerfully gave her a tour, ending with her suggestions for meals for the next few days. Jeannie approved them all.
Mrs. Findlay stood back, playing no part in the conversation, waiting in silence. Clearly the two women ruled separate domains, but Jeannie could detect no apparent animosity between them.
As they walked down the passage leading away from the kitchen, they passed a door. "Where does that lead?" Jeannie asked.
"The kitchen garden." Mrs. Findlay kept walking.
"I'd like to see it."
"There's not much growing at this season, but if you wish . . . " The housekeeper opened the door and led the way into a large high-walled garden. It was neatly arranged in beds, with narrow cinder pathways winding through it. Fruit trees had been espaliered against the south wall and there was a substantial greenhouse in the corner. Jeannie was delighted.
"Can we see inside the greenhouse, please?"
With a faint, acquiescent shrug, Mrs. Findlay led the way. They turned a corner around some gooseberry bushes and Jeannie came to an abrupt halt. Stretched across the pathway a large cobweb hung, the strands glistening faintly in the sun. Mrs. Findlay didn't slacken her pace.
Clearly she had no fear of spiders. Jeannie hung back, waiting for her to deal with it. But to her horror, the housekeeper walked straight into the web—and recoiled with a loud exclamation and frantic gestures.
