Page 44 of A Most Unsuitable Lover
Needing some cheer, he’d passed through a market on the way and, while most of the stalls had been closed or picked over, he managed to snag a few good apples and a respectable bouquet of flowers. Arms full, he used the heel of his boot to close the door when he was inside.
“Mama?” he called, juggling his purchases. “Tha fàileadh blasta.”It smells delicious. The house was filled with the sweet scent of pastries and the rich, nutty aroma of browned butter. His stomach gave an involuntary growl. “Bidh mi reamhar ma dh’fhuiricheas mi an seo fada nas fhaide.”I will become fat if I stay here much longer.And he would; already his clothing was becoming a touch snug from the consistent, rich, comforting meals only a mother could provide.
Ian stepped into the kitchen and his every muscle froze. The apples nearly tumbled from his arm, but he managed to rescue them just in time.
His mother was beaming so much that the glitter in her dark chocolate eyes was nearly blinding. Her plump cheeks were flushed from equal measures of joy and the heat of the close room.
“Tha Gàidhlig na h-Alba aig a' chaileag seo, an robh fios agad?” she tittered like a girl.This girl speaks Gaelic, did you know?“Tha i math gu leòr airson Sasannach!”She is quite good for an Englishwoman!
Ian was still struck dumb with disbelief, staring at Juliette as she stood elbow-deep in powdery flour, helping his mother finish some dough for their supper.
“Tha i gòrach air bèicearachd, ach chan e rud beag a th’ ann nach socraich cleachdadh.”
“Mama!” Ian gasped, his face growing uncomfortably warm as he hoped Juliette hadn’t been able to translate the words:She is shite at baking, but it is nothing a little practice won’t fix.Unfortunately, a small, amused smile on Juliette’s full lips told Ian he had no such luck. He wanted to apologize for his mother’s blunt comment, but his brain struggled to process the domestic sight before him.
Surely his body was lying dead in the street somewhere, because this could not possibly be real.
He watched in fascination as Juliette wiped her hands on her deep pink skirts, likely ruining them, but not caring one whit. His heart stuttered when her eyes met his.
“Hello, Ian,” she said softly, carefully, as if unsure of the reception. How could she not know how every inch of his skin screamed for her, that he was bruising the fragile apples and flower stems in his hands in an effort not to reach for her?
“What are you doing here?” he croaked. How many nights had he lain awake with his heart too heavy to sleep, his arms unbearably empty, his entire being aching for her, mind, body, heart, and soul?
“Ian!” came his mother’s warning voice; it was apparently her turn to remind him of his manners. “Bi spèis,” she snapped.Be respectful.
Juliette’s head inclined to mask a coy smile. She’d somehow been practicing her Gaelic in the interminable weeks since they’d last seen one another.
Ian set down his burdens and he and Juliette eyed one another from across the flour-covered table. The weeks of absence and unspoken words simmered in the air between them.
His mother’s eyes darted between them. “It seems ye two have some talking to do,” she said in her rough-hewn English. “I’ll finish in here; you go to the other room and say what needs to be said withoutMamain the way. Leave supper to me.”
Juliette flashed a smile of gratitude and led the way from the kitchen. They found their way to the back room Ian had commandeered for his study. It was close and warm with barely enough space to walk around the trunks, small desk, and chair pressed tightly against the walls, but it was far enough away that his mother would have difficulty overhearing them. Both of them refused to sit in the single chair.
Ian cleared his throat. “How fares your brother?” The question was one of the last on his mind, but it was the most polite and least difficult one to ask.
“Well enough to begin barking orders,” Juliette replied with a little laugh through her nose. “He seems less upset about his injuries than the fact that the hunting party had to be cut short because of the accident and Lady Sommerfeld’s condition. It has been dubbed ‘The Cursed Party.’”
“And how is Lady Sommerfeld?” The stilted formalities were killing him slowly, but it was all he trusted himself to do.
“The viscount grows restless to bring her to Bridleton, but he is afraid to move her too soon. My brother and I have made it very clear to them both that they are welcome to stay as long as they need to.”
This last was followed by a prolonged silence.
“Are you going to inquire as to my health?” Juliette ventured. “You have done so for nearly every one of our other mutual acquaintances thus far.”
His mouth tilted in amusement; he couldn’t help it. “And you, Lady Juliette? How do you fare?”
“Miserable.” Her blunt response with its flat affect nearly knocked him backward. “I have been nothing short of utterly miserable, Ian. I have missed you terribly. I thought this time apart might heal the wound left behind, but it seems to have only made things worse.” Ian’s heartbeat increased as she continued. “This is why, as soon as I could be certain my brother was well on his way to recovery, but would not yet be well enough to follow through with his threats to keep an even closer eye on me, I fled.”
Ian experienced the most curious sensation as simultaneously, his stomach plummeted and his heart soared.
“You fled?” he questioned the obvious—for how else could she be standing there before him if she hadn’t escaped her brother?
She nodded. “Allowing you to slip away and hide here in Scotland would have been too easy for you.”
“It sounds as if Meredith planted that seed,” he said, shaking his head incredulously. “You must know this is a terrible idea, Juliette; you must return home before anyone knows where you have gone.”
“Ethan will have found my letter by now, so returning would be useless.”
