Page 20 of Kidnapping Cordelia

“She’s a fetching little thing,” Lyall remarked, watching Muir closely. “Lovely, in fact.”

“Aye, she is that,” he agreed, for it was hardly a secret.

Lady Delia was beautiful, that much was obvious. Even when he’d first seen her that fateful day, in the dirty, rumpled gown, with her hair a tangled mess, she had shone with an inner light, something good and true that could not be manufactured or got from a bottle. His feelings about her seemed to fluctuate wildly, though. Every time he looked at that bruise, it made his guts tighten with fury and he wanted to kill Malmsey all over again, and yet other times he resented her fiercely for forcing his hand into offering marriage.

“What’s she like?”

“I hardly know,” Muir admitted. “I spoke to her a handful of times over the past years and… well, she made me smile, laugh too, but she’s a wee bit….”

“What?” Lyall demanded.

Muir hesitated, torn between loyalty to a woman who might well be his wife in a short space of time, and confiding in his brother. His brother won out, for Muir knew he’d never breathe a word of what was spoken to anyone. “Away with the faeries,” he said, smiling at his brother’s expression. “She’s sweet and kind and gentle, I reckon, but I there’s nae denying she’s a wee bit eccentric.”

“Well, that’s perhaps nae a bad thing. Yer a bit of an odd one yerself, aye?”

Muir sent his brother an unloving look, but Lyall only laughed.

“Nae, don’t eat me. I dinnae mean to insult ye, but ye have a sense of the ridiculous, do ye nae? Perhaps this lass is the same?”

Muir shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps it will work out fine and we’ll live happily ever after,” he said glumly.

“What about Rona Telfer?” Lyall asked him.

“Ach, I never gave her the slightest reason to suppose I would wed her,” he said crossly, annoyed by the implication. “I widnae do that, Lyall.”

“I ken that, and ye ken that, but does Rona?” Lyall asked, pressing the point. “She’s been sweet on ye these past three years and more. I reckon the news yer to wed a pretty little Sassenach will nae be easy to swallow.”

“I dinnae ken what that lass thinks, but she has nae hold on me, thank the lord. Faith, I’d rather marry one of my flock than find myself tied to her. Believe me, Delia wins over that choice any day of the week.”

“Well, then,” Lyall said, slapping him on the back. “There’s yer bright side, aye?”

“Aye,” Muir said glumly, not in the least bit comforted by the thought.

Chapter 6

Hamilton,

You may already have heard, for the world is flapping its gums like fury already, but our fool brother is in an almighty mess. I reckon he might appreciate your company at the farm for a while. You know I only ever rub him up the wrong way, but perhaps you can help him figure things out.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Right Hon’ble, Lyall Anderson, The Viscount Buchanan to his younger brother, The Hon’ble Hamilton Anderson.

28th March 1850, Wildsyde Castle, The Highlands of Scotland.

Delia woke from a peculiar dream about dancing sausages to discover the scent of bacon wafting under her nose and the sound of someone bustling about in the room.

“Good morning, my lady. I began to think ye would sleep all day, though the mistress tells me ye’ve had a trying time of it, so I’m sure nae one begrudges ye the rest. But I have brought ye an excellent breakfast, so dinnae spoil it by falling asleep again. Aye, up ye come and I’ll arrange yer pillows. There, like so. How’s that now?”

“Perfect,” Delia said, rather dazedly, as the lady wrestled her into a sitting position and plumped her pillows.

“There, now,” the woman said, placing a tray on her lap that could not have held another morsel of food. A steaming cup of tea was rammed beside a plate overflowing with sausages, bacon, and eggs, with another plate of golden triangles she could not identify to the side and small dishes containing butter and jam.

“Tattie scones,” the lady said cheerfully, seeing her eyeing the triangles with interest. “They’re lovely with butter and jam. Eat yer eggs and bacon first and then have a go.”

“I’ll burst if I eat all that,” Delia protested.

“Nae, lassie. Yer but a wee little thing, I grant ye, but difficult times give ye an appetite. Ye will eat it right enough. I’m Mrs Baillie by the by, housekeeper here at Wildsyde. I’ll send one of my girls to ye in half an hour to bring ye hot water and help ye dress, and I expect a clean plate returned to me, aye. Set to it now,” she ordered, before drawing the curtains and bustling out once more.

Rather stunned, Delia gazed at the plate before her as her stomach gave an audible growl of protest. Deciding Mrs Baillie might have a point, she tucked in, and rather to her astonishment, very nearly cleared the whole tray. Replete and sleepy, she sat back against the pillows and allowed her gaze to drift to the window. A blue sky beckoned, daubed with large billowing white clouds that scudded past with speed enough to suggest it was exceedingly windy outside.