"And how much does he sell them for in his shop?"
"I'm not exactly sure, but some one told me a friend in Edinburgh had seen one of my shawls for"—she named a price—"but that couldn't be right. It's far too expensive."
Cameron frowned. He'd have to investigate this Edinburgh fellow. He wasn't going to allow his people to be cheated, and it sounded as though that might be the case. But when would he have time to go to Edinburgh? Maybe he'd take Jeannie on a belated bride trip.
"Would you sell me that one?" He pointed to the blue shawl.
Bridget looked shocked. "Sell it, Laird? After you've worked all day on my cottage roof? I should think not! I'll give it gladly."
"Then I'll not take it." He glanced at her father-in-law, then back at Bridget and said firmly, "I'm the laird now, Bridget. I'm well aware of the neglect that's taken place since Uncle Ian died and I'm going to be working on every ruined roof that needs it—no special favors. Now, I want to buy this shawl as a gift for my bride, but I'll not be cheating you or any one of my tenants out of what they're due. So will you sell it to me or not?"
"Och, but it's not my finest shawl—there's a wee imperfection in the corner, see?" She pointed but Cameron could see nothing amiss.
"It's fine."
"The pink one is daintier, or how about this white one? White is very suitable for a bride." But his hand rested possessively on the blue shawl, and seeing it, she smiled. "Very well. I can see you want the blue one."
"I do." He laid a sum of money on the table and she gasped.
"But that's far too much!"
It was exactly what she'd said the shop in Edinburgh sold them for. He raised his brow. "Are you saying I'm no' as good as the fancy folk in Edinburgh?"
She gave an awkward half-laugh. "Of course not."
"Then we'll not be arguing." He folded the pretty blue shawl up and tucked it under his arm.
Bridget, her father-in-law and the little ones followed him to the door of the cottage. "Thank you, Laird," Bridget said. "For everything. My very best wishes to your bride."
The lad was waiting outside with his horse. Cameron tucked the shawl into his saddlebag. His first courting gift. He'd give it to her this evening.
He mounted his horse and rode away toward the causeway and the ruined bridge where he'd first met a feisty scrap, all mud and wary suspicion, with a pair of blazing blue eyes that had pierced him to the heart. And his whole life had changed.
He thought about the way she'd kissed him the previous night, the softness of her lips and wild honey taste of her. The way her slender limbs had twined around him.
Lord, but he wanted her something fierce.
He wished he could have spent more time with her this morning, given her a proper honeymoon. But these repairs were urgent and while the good weather held, he could not give his bride the attention she deserved.
He hoped she liked the shawl.
JEANNIE TOOK A DEEP breath, smoothed her hair and her skirts for the dozenth time, and knocked on Charles Sinclair's door.
"Entrez!" She hoped he didn't intend to conduct the whole conversation in French. She spoke a little French but wasn't very fluent.
A slight, dark-haired manservant opened the door and stepped back with a welcoming gesture. The tall figure of Cameron's uncle rose to greet her.
"Good morning, Mr. Sinclair, I . . ." Her voice trailed off as she looked around her in amazement.
It was as if by stepping through the door she'd been transported from a Scottish castle of plain gray stone and wood to . . . to some sumptuous French palace. It was all lightness and gold and richly textured color.
The bedchamber she shared with her husband was lined with dark wooden paneling. Here the same kind of paneling had been painted white, and was ornamented with elegant gold-leafed molding. The stone walls above the paneling had been plastered and covered with delicately embossed pale green paper.
The floorboards, too, were painted white, and scattered with thick Persian rugs, richly colored and soft underfoot. On either side of a tall, white enamel stove hung huge, ornately gold-framed paintings of an aristocratic-looking man and a beautiful woman, both wearing high white wigs and sumptuous clothing. Echoes of a past age of elegance.
"My parents," Charles Sinclair murmured.
Crimson velvet curtains framed the windows. On the opposite wall another window framed a scene of bucolic delight, hills and trees and a pretty shepherdess in an old-fashioned dress trimmed with lace—lace? On a shepherdess? She was watching over sheep that looked like small fluffy clouds against the lush, green grass. Cleaner than any sheep Jeannie had ever seen.
