Jeannie then told him about growing up on the isle of Lewis, of the brilliant turquoise of the water in summer, and the way the autumn mists could creep in, soft and uncanny, and how in winter the island could be lashed by wild storms. And how after the storm had passed, the birds would return, and only then would you realize they'd gone silent, and you'd wonder where they'd been.
Babbling, she was, because all she really wanted to talk about was the meaning of that silent, burning look he'd given her.
But it was clear he didn't want to talk about it, so instead she talked of beaches and rock pools, and the sea-treasures she'd collected over the years; the shells and glass and pieces of beautifully twisted and sanded driftwood.
He laughed. "By the time we're old, the castle will be half buried in pretty shells and sea glass."
By the time we're old. It warmed her to think of that, a home with Cameron. And maybe children. A family to love and belong to again.
She told him about her father's passion for poetry. "He was a dreamer, Da, and we lived from hand to mouth—he was always looking for a patron, and could never keep a job for long. But he was the sweetest, kindest man, and Mam and I loved him dearly." Jeannie 's voice broke then, and Cameron squeezed her hand and they walked on.
"Mam was the practical one. In the end she went out and got herself a position in a great house. And oh, the quarrel over that! Da was all, 'My wife doesna work!' He was brought up soft, you see—a gentleman—but Mam, she'd grown up with Grandad. Hard work didn't frighten her."
"Or you," Cameron observed quietly. "So what did your mother say to that?"
She laughed. "That we either starved genteelly or she could get a job! And that was the end of that! They took her on as a housemaid but after a few years she rose to being the housekeeper. Decisive, well-organized and a wee bit bossy, that was Mam." She stooped to pick a handful of long-stalked feathery grass. She liked picking wild sprigs of green and pretty grasses for the castle. Greenery softened the stone.
"I learned a lot from her about running a great house," Jeannie reflected, "but if I'd known I'd one day be the wife of a laird, I'd've paid a lot more attention."
"You're doing fine, lass. The house is looking grand and half the staff is wrapped around your little finger."
"Only half?" she joked, and he chuckled.
His appreciation pleased her, but she wanted more than appreciation from him. But it was early days yet, and he was honoring his promise and giving her what she'd asked for—a courtship. And oh, it was grand getting to know him, and he her.
He showed her a pretty glen with lacy, bare-branched trees and arching ferns and a narrow burn running down the middle. The water burbled noisily over the rocks and he took her hand in his, and helped her carefully across.
Jeannie loved the feel of his hands, big and strong and slightly calloused from the work he was doing. No soft-skinned gentleman he.
"We built a dam here once, when I was a lad, my cousins and me," he told her. "It started out as a plan to trap fish, but stacking rocks is dull work, and well, boys and water." He flashed her a crooked grin, his teeth gleaming white in the soft, dim evening. "Somehow it turned into a Viking battle. We came home well after dark, drenched to the skin, and mud and bruises all over." He chuckled softly. "Did we ever get into trouble. But it was a grand battle, and well worth a whipping."
They walked on, hand in hand. Through the delicate tracery of branches, the sky turned from gold to lilac, slowly deepening to a velvety indigo. It was magic. Silent footsteps on a fragrant carpet of moss and leaf litter, quiet voices accompanied by the musical burbling of the burn.
He told her of the day his mother had died. He'd been a wee lad at the time, and his memories of her were faint. Mostly he remembered her perfume. Mrs. Findlay and Cook had brought him up, he said. And his Da.
He told her about his father, and how he'd also died, too young, when Cameron was but a stripling. And then Uncle Ian, who'd taken the place of his father.
So much death in Cameron's life. They had that in common.
They were a gift Jeannie savored, these precious times alone with her husband, just the two of them walking and talking in the quiet hush of the evening, with the sky turning gold and rose and violet overhead.
Her footsteps always slowed as they neared the castle. She never wanted their walks to end. She was coming to understand her husband more now, and she hoped he felt the same about her. But would they still do this once her courtship was over? A little over a week to go now. Such a short time.
Chapter Fifteen
The following day, Jeannie was working with a couple of maids, cleaning out one of the upstairs chambers when she glanced out of the window and noticed something of a procession coming from the direction of the harbor. Men, and horses pulling carts, laden with lumber and boxes and mysterious bundles in various shapes and sizes.
One of the housemaids peeped over her shoulder. "Och, that'll be the boat."
"The boat?" Jeannie queried.
"Aye, bringin' all the supplies the laird sent for when he got back from—er, when he returned with you, m'lady, married. He sent off a great long order that very night." She added with satisfaction. "He'll be able to get all the repairs done now, and start on the new bridge."
"Oh, good." Building supplies. That would make him happy. Jeannie turned back to her work.
A short time later the housekeeper appeared in the doorway. There was an air of suppressed excitement about her. "Would you please step up to your bedchamber, m'lady?"
"My bedchamber? Why? What's the problem?"
