Page 41 of To Dare the Devil

Please come. Pip x.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Hon’ble Philip Barrington, The Earl of Ashburton (eldest son of The Most Hon’ble Lucian and Matilda Barrington, Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu) to his brother, The Hon’ble Mr Thomas Barrington.

18th June 1842, Wildsyde Castle, Caithness, Scotland.

Evie stood on the headland, the wind buffeting her face and tugging at her cloak. She pulled the material closer about her, lest it become a sail and have her flying off the edge of the cliff. The ruins of Bucholie Castle stood before her, and she knew better than to get any closer, having been warned of the dangers, but it was a romantic ruin and a beautiful if melancholy place. It drew her back over and over again.

“Here ye are!” called a cheery voice from behind her.

Evie turned to see Muir Anderson striding through the long grass. He looked like a great Scottish lion in a kilt, with his tawny hair blown about by the wind and his clothes all rumpled. He generally appeared somewhat dishevelled, as if he’d been wrestling some great beast. He was wild and untamed himself, and yet she sensed a gentle soul in him. He also had a dreadful sense of humour and made her laugh a good deal.

“I’ve been searching for ye this age,” he said, coming to stand beside her.

He stared down at her and she saw his eyes were tawny too, flecked with gold. She turned away, staring out at the sea, a vivid, almost painful blue that made something in her heart twist.

“You like it here, aye?”

She nodded, brushing the hair from her eyes and staring out at the sun glinting on the sea, so bright it made her eyes water. “I do.”

He leaned down then and kissed her, so swiftly she’d not known it was coming. It only lasted a moment, enough for her to tell that his lips were soft, and he smelled like heather and fresh air.

“D’ye mind?” he asked, drawing away a little.

Evie stared at him, wanting to cry. “N-No,” she stammered, not wanting to hurt his feelings, and she didn’t mind. She just wasn’t certain she wanted him to do it again.

“You’re not mad about the idea, though, eh?” he suggested, grinning.

To her relief, there was no trace of embarrassment or resentment in his open face.

“I—” she began, not having the first idea how to answer that question. The trouble was, she liked him. She liked him very much. Worse, she could imagine being married to him, and the life they would share. A good, steady life, filled with children and laughter, just as she had wanted, but….

But.

Oh, what was she to do?

“Aye, reckoned you’d not fallen arse over apex for my charm and good looks,” he said wryly.

Despite everything, Evie giggled.

He winked at her and offered her his arm. “Come along. I’ll escort ye back to the castle like a proper gent. I do ken how, ye know.”

“I know,” she said, smiling at him.

“Evie,” he said, lowering his voice and her heart beat faster as her anxiety returned. “I know ye are not in love with me. The truth is, I’m nae in love with you either, but I like ye a good deal. I think love could come, for we’re friends already. I think we suit, and I reckon we could be happy together, if ye gave me a chance. I’ll nae ask ye the question now, for I know you’ve doubts. ’Tis only natural. But I will ask ye, and soon. So, I’d like ye to have a think about it. A very serious think about it.”

He drew out the ‘r’ in ‘very,’ and she realised she liked his accent a good deal. It was rough, warm, and charming. So very different from another man, another accent. His words would be clever and seductive, so dreadfully sophisticated. Far more knowing and worldly than she could ever hope to be. She could handle Muir, she knew where she stood with him, and what to expect. He was not an unknown quantity, did not have secrets and a past which haunted him. He would be simple and direct and so much easier.

“Will ye do that for me, Evie, love?”

Evie, love. Would that be his endearment for her? Would he call her that with affection and a warm look in his eyes? Ma petite. Muir did not love her, and she did not love him. The trouble was, she did not know if anyone else loved her, or why on earth they wanted her, or if she had a chance of holding onto a man like that, because who could hold him? No one she’d ever seen. Beautiful women had come and gone, far more beautiful than her, and he’d never cared, not for one of them.

She blinked hard.

“Evie? Have I made ye cry?”

She shook her head, swallowing hard. “No. No, of course not. I… I am very honoured, Muir, and I shall think about it seriously, I promise. Very seriously indeed. You have my word.”

Evening of the 18th of June 1842, The Hanover Square Rooms, London.