Page 13 of Kidnapping Cordelia

It was nothing but the truth. She was uncomfortable among the ton and nerves usually made her tongue run away with her, or worse, she could not think of a thing to say. Those occasions were the worst, for she would sometimes blurt out the first thing to come to mind, usually things she ought not say at all. Sighing, Delia glanced down at her plate, appalled to realise that while she’d been talking, she’d sculpted the potato into something that looked distinctly like a sheep. Hurriedly, she used her fork to shove the potato around and glanced up, praying he hadn’t noticed.

“Who disnae like ye?” he asked curiously, and she felt a rush of relief that he must not have seen her inappropriate artwork.

“Well,” she said, wondering if she ought to say it, but if they were to be married, there was no point in being anything but honest. “Well, I didn’t think you liked me much, for one thing.”

“Me?” he replied in surprise. “Ach, ye have rocks in yer heid. I liked ye well enough.”

“The first time we met, you couldn’t get away fast enough,” she reminded him, taking another sip of her wine.

Muir frowned, looking uncomfortable. “I dinnae think—” he began, only to fall silent. “Oh, I remember.”

Delia blushed and looked away from him.

“There, you see,” she said quietly.

To her surprise, he chuckled. “It wisnae that I didnae like ye,” he replied, scraping the last of the cottage pie from the dish. He lifted the spoon in her direction, but Delia shook her head. “It’s just I was a little disconcerted. For I was talking to you while we strolled by the lake at Holbrooke House, and you began a conversation with a duck.”

Delia groaned and covered her face with her hand.

“I mean, I dinnae mind ye talking to the duck, it was only when ye seemed to hear the duck’s replies I got a little worried about ye,” he admitted ruefully. “But when I spoke to Emmeline, she told me ye were very fond of animals, and liked to imagine the things they would say if they could talk, and that I could understand, once she explained it.”

Her cheeks blazing, Delia struggled to meet his gaze. “Some animals are so expressive, you see,” she said, feeling utterly stupid. “I feel like I know what they are thinking sometimes and… and… Well, the truth is, they are more fun to talk to than most people.”

“Well, I cannae fault ye there,” he said easily. “And my brother talks to his dogs, I suppose. I cannae say I have conversations with my sheep, for they have nae much resembling a brain, but I do talk to them, so I suppose it’s nae so very different. But was the duck more interesting than I was?” he asked, humour glinting in his eyes.

“No, of course not,” she said, a little crossly. “But I do particularly stupid things when I’m nervous and… and you made me very nervous.”

“Did I, then?” he asked, interest lighting his expression. “Why?”

Delia rolled her eyes at him. “Because everyone I don’t know makes me nervous,” she said tightly, and though that was perfectly true, she was not about to admit it had been Muir himself with his lovely accent, so handsome and kind, who had turned her into a blithering idiot.

He made a sound low in his throat that she could not identify, and they lapsed into silence until the maid returned to clear the dishes and serve an apple pie with cream. They ate in silence, which was not entirely comfortable, while Delia racked her brain for some safe topic of conversation and failed.

“Ye ken we must work at this, aye,” he said, once he’d cleared his bowl and Delia had barely taken two spoonfuls of hers. “It’s a damned strange thing for both of us to be fankled together so dramatically. I think we would do well to be honest with each other, even if it’s nae always the thing the other wishes to hear. Delia, I must tell ye, I am having a hard time imagining ye in my home, in my life. Ye have been bred to run a grand house and be the wife of some fine English gentleman, and I am nae that.”

Delia nodded gloomily. “I know. Though can you really see me doing that? I don’t think I’d have been a very good wife to an English gentleman either, do you? Can you honestly imagine me hosting a dinner party to impress those in society?”

He considered this, frowning a little. “Perhaps ye have a point,” he agreed, which was not very flattering, but it was honest, at least.

“Why do you find it so difficult to see me at your home?” she asked, hoping he’d be truthful about that too. If she decided to marry him, she needed to know what he did not want from her.

Muir shrugged. “It’s a fine house, and I’m proud of it. I think ye will nae be displeased, but it is a working farm, and though I would never expect my wife to get her hands dirty in that way, there’s a deal I would hope she could do. I know ye must have been trained to run a great household, but I have nae need to give splendid dinner parties. Ye will have very little society, and I have nae requirement to fill every room with exotic flowers and fruits. The kitchen garden has nae flowers, it is a large affair and ye would need to oversee using or preserving the produce. Winters are harsh in the Highlands, ye ken. Then there are the tenants. Could ye see yerself walking for miles, visiting the sick, taking care of our neighbours and keeping the peace when they fell out with each other?”

“I don’t know,” Delia replied. “It might be difficult at first, perhaps, but I think I could certainly learn a good deal. I know I said I was useless at ladylike pursuits, but that’s because I always found them so dull and pointless. If the things I did had purpose, if they were valued, it would be different, I think.”

Muir reached for her hand and Delia’s breath caught as his warm fingers closed around hers, turning it palm up.

“Such a small, white hand,” he said, shaking his head. “Soft as a bairn’s.”

“Would you prefer if it were hard and calloused?” she demanded, a little indignantly.

He shook his head at once. “I widnae, and that’s the trouble. Look at ye, lassie, with all yer lace and ribbons. Yer pretty as a picture despite the ordeal ye have endured, but such a rig will nae be fitting at my home most days. Won’t that trouble ye?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I do like pretty clothes, that’s true, but if you dislike such things—”

“I didnae say that,” he said, a touch of impatience in his voice. “It pleases me to look upon ye in yer finery. But during the day, ye will have nae cause for such a rig. Only the sheep, my housekeeper, and a few farm hands will see ye.”

“Oh. I see,” she said, frowning. “But is there no society at all?”