A PORTRAIT OF A HIGHLANDER

CHAPTER ONE

 

Darnalay Castle, northeast Scotland. September 1828.

 

TAVISH'S GAZE DULLED ON the wine as it splashed into his glass. The green liquid gleamed in the candlelight, bright as spring leaves, then disappeared into the murky pool at the bottom of his goblet.

Of course, it wasn’t really green. He supposed it was red. It smelled that way—like sweet cherries gone bad.

Gregor, the footman, lifted the bottle with a flourish and stepped away.

Tav picked up the glass and drank. Yes, red. Everyone seemed to think it was such a tragedy he couldn’t see color, but he’d never understood why. He got along just fine.

He eyed the place setting before him. Three plates. One goblet. Two forks. Two spoons. Two knives. Multiply that by the three people at the table, plus whatever was brought out for soup and dessert, and what was used for serving . . . It would take Blair half the night just to wash the damn silver.

And this dinner was only the beginning. The staff would have to put out a meal like this every night while these people were here, for at least three weeks.

What a bloody waste of time.

“Oh, but the forest . . . the colors. The way the light filters through the autumn leaves. It’s just too romantic. It’s as if it were made to be painted.”

He supposed Miss McMillan was talking to him, though he hadn’t given her any indication that he was listening.

“My friend Mary Anne paints landscapes, you know. She’s quite good. I wish she was here. She would simply adore it.” She paused, as if waiting for a reaction, so Tavish glanced up and made a grunting sound in the back of his throat. It must have been enough, because she kept on prattling. “It’s such a jolly surprise. The forest, I mean. I expected the Highlands would be all windswept moors and bleak expanses of craggy rock.” She paused. “Though we saw plenty of those on our way here, did we not, Pater?”

Tav drew a breath of relief. Finally, her attention had moved off him and onto her father.

“Are there many places like this in the Highlands, Mr. Burns? Forests, I mean.”

So much for that. He could hardly ignore his own name.

Willing his face into some semblance of politeness⸺or at least tolerance—Tavish raised his eyes and focused on the woman across the table. The candelabra blocked his view, the points of flame blurring everything behind them, but he could make out the glimmer of her eyes, the shine of the dark blonde curls piled atop her head, and the expectant, wide-eyed expression on her pale face. Her father sat next to her, the light bouncing off his bald head as he stared at his wine and swirled it in his glass.

“There used to be,” Tav managed. “Not much left of them now.”

“Such a shame.” Miss McMillan sighed dramatically, as if the loss were some great personal tragedy. Then she brightened—too quickly. “But at least there’s forest here. At Darnalay.” She smiled dreamily, and her eyes seemed to lose focus. “A sylvan amphitheater, waving with birch, young oaks, and hazels . . . I expected to be met at the castle gates by a noble chieftain and his tartan army, bagpipes blaring.” A fluttery laugh escaped her throat. Then her gaze focused back on Tav, and she blinked, finally noticing his lack of enthusiasm. “Have you not read Waverley, Mr. Burns? By Sir Walter Scott?”

“No.” Tavish resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Of course. Some fool novel. “I havena.”

“It’s well worth it, especially since you yourself are a Highlander. And the history is real, you know. The battle of Culloden and the Jacobites. It’s thrilling.”

Tavish stared at the woman. He could think of absolutely nothing to say. Or nothing appropriate.

You’re right, being shot in the back is such a thrill.

Nothing as exciting as the slaughter of one’s ancestors.

The silence ballooned, and Miss McMillan’s expression slowly fell into confusion. Tav’s face turned hot. He should say something—

“A toast.” Mr. McMillan’s booming pronouncement saved the moment. “To Lord Banton and Mr. Sommerbell. For their generosity.” He raised his glass and his brow at Tav. “And to you, Mr. Burns, for your hospitality.”

Was there sarcasm in his words, or was it just Tavish’s imagination?

Tav held up his goblet and attempted a smile, though it felt—and probably looked—like more of a grimace. He’d have Cam’s head for this. Allowing these people to descend on the estate, and at the busiest time of year. Cam didn’t even have the decency to be here and entertain them himself. No. Cameron Dunn—Lord Banton—was too busy for such things. That’s what Tav was for.

Not that Tavish had any real problem with staying behind. It wasn’t as if he wanted to be in London with Cam, playing at politics and breathing dirty air. He preferred it here. He liked his work.

But he liked his quiet too, damn it.

And he had things to do.

The weather could turn any day, and he still hadn’t finished readying the tenants’ cottages for winter. Widow Croft and Old Man Blair both still needed new roofs and clean chimneys. There were fields to harvest. Crops to store. Not to mention the repairs needed on the castle and the stables. With no housekeeper on staff, it had fallen to Tavish to direct the maids and footmen in their work. And on top of everything else, he’d hoped to find the time to attend the horse fair in Inverness next week to sell the colt and look for a new brood mare.

Instead, he’d be here, playing host to this pompous artist and his chattering daughter. Just so Jane could have a damn painting of the castle to hang on her wall in England. As if she’d forget what Darnalay looked like. She’d grown up here, for Christ’s sake, and she visited every summer. She should be able to remember the place well enough.

But the commission hadn’t been Jane’s idea, had it? Or Cam’s. It had been Sommerbell’s, Jane’s husband. And it was just like the man—an extravagant, needless gift for his beloved wife.

Tavish didn’t even want to know how much Sommerbell had paid for it.

“Mr. Burns?” Tav blinked. Through the haze of candlelight, he could just make out Miss McMillan studying him as the dark shape of Gregor placed a soup bowl in front of her father.

Tav’s eyes met the servant’s, and Greg grinned, a flash of white teeth. He was enjoying this, damn him. A born showman, he loved the rare opportunity to play a proper footman.

He also loved watching Tav squirm.

“I was wondering,” Miss McMillan said, “since you said you manage the stables here . . .” She bit her lower lip and eyed him.

He lifted a brow.

“I thought—I thought to go out riding tomorrow and explore the forest while my father sets up his paints. Is there a horse I might borrow?”

“On your own, you mean?” Mr. McMillan’s voice was taut with alarm.

“Yes.” Miss McMillan turned to glare at her father. “I rode all summer with Barbara at her—”

“It’s not that you don’t know how, lass.” The older man’s voice mellowed. “But you don’t know the place. This is the Highlands. It’s wild country. What if you got lost? Or fell off a cliff or . . . into a river?”

This time, Tav’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling before he could stop them. A person could hardly get lost on the Darnalay grounds. Even if she somehow managed to, there were plenty of folk about to direct her. And how one could fall off a cliff or into a river where there were no cliffs or real rivers, he wasn’t sure.

But he held his tongue. The old man’s ignorance hurt no one, and it certainly didn’t matter to Tav one way or the other.

Miss McMillan’s voice lowered. “I’m thirty years old. I’m not a child anymore.” She glared at her father.

“Oh, I know that.” He pitched his tone to match hers. “And I can’t stop you, I know, but I’m still your father. I’d worry.”

Relieved to be so obviously cut out of the conversation, Tavish allowed the quarrel to blur into the background as Gregor’s gloved hands deposited a bowl of soup in front of him. Mushrooms and chicken swimming in cream.

The steam wafted up, rich and savory. Tav had been out all day, hauling thatch. He was famished.

He kept his face down, but let his eyes travel up to survey the other side of the table. Politeness dictated that he wait for them to begin eating.

“Surely you don’t expect me to sit in this castle for three whole weeks while you’re out painting.” Miss McMillan pressed the words through gritted teeth. “I was hoping to find a place to set up my easel.”

“Of course, Dove.” Mr. McMillan’s voice was placating now. “But I don’t see why you can’t stay close. If you had a companion, perhaps, but . . .”

Tavish’s stomach growled.

Politeness be damned. He picked up his spoon and began to eat, allowing his mind to wander to tomorrow’s work. He’d have to break his fast with the guests, of course, but then he’d be free. If the weather cooperated, he’d take Greg and Ben to Widow Croft, get a start on her roof. He’d check her barn, too, to be sure no boards had come loose—

“Mr. Burns.”

Bugger. Tav lowered his spoon, which had almost reached his lips. “Yes?”

“My father is insisting,” Miss McMillan’s eyes swung to the man in question, then back to Tav, “that I take a companion on my ride tomorrow. To show me the paths and any dangers that may lurk. I wondered if you might be available.” She sat ramrod straight, chin held high, staring at Tav as if he was the enemy.

Mr. McMillan smiled blithely across the table. “Just so she can get the lay of the land. After that, with your permission, Mr. Burns, she’ll ride out by herself.”

Tav forced a long breath. He looked from a fuming, flushed Miss McMillan to her expectant, smiling father. Taking this woman for a ride was the last thing he wanted to do. The last thing he had time for.

And yet, he’d promised Cam he’d be a good host.

“Aye, but it must be quick. I’ve work to attend to.” Somehow, his reply sounded even more dismissive than he’d intended it to. Though that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Perhaps it would keep them from asking more of him.

Miss McMillan’s eyes widened. Then her lips stretched into a thin smile, a challenge. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you. What time were you thinking?”

“Before breakfast. Eight o’clock?” That would give him time to meet with the staff first. Send the boys off to start the roofing—

“Eight o’clock?” Miss McMillan’s already wide eyes stretched even rounder.

Her father chuckled. “My daughter is not an early riser, Mr. Burns. You’ve shocked her.”

“It’s fine.” She raised her chin, clearly refusing to allow either man to get the better of her. “Eight o’clock is perfect. I’ll be ready.”

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

Lawk, it was early.

Gwen leaned against the stone, letting her head tip back and her eyes half close. Her bonnet dangled from her gloved fingers.

The cold seeped through her hair and the thick wool of her pelisse, but she didn’t mind.

She’d won.

Mr. Burns had directed her to be in front of the castle at eight o’clock. Judging by the smirks on their faces, it was clear neither he nor Pater had thought she could do it. But here she was, with five minutes to spare.

In truth, once she’d convinced herself to get out of bed, it wasn’t half bad. The maid who came to make her fire had brought her a cup of chocolate, rich and steaming and sweet. What a luxurious way to wake up—nothing like at home, where she huddled under her blankets until she got up the nerve to build her own fire.

The girl had even helped her dress and done her hair.

Luxury, indeed.

And now that she was outside . . . it almost felt as if she were still dreaming.

The sky was a mass of twisting shades of grey, darker in the ether with gossamer whisps, like the steam from her chocolate, reaching into the foreground, then joining with the pearly mist that swirled through the weathered, wooden planks of the drawbridge at her feet.

The fog wrapped itself around her like chilled fingers, damp, moving, and alive.

She breathed in deeply, drawing the humid air into her lungs. Her back was still pressed to the wall, and she marveled at the difference in texture between the heavy, sharp cold of the stone and the thin, gauzy cold of the fog.

How would she paint this scene? This feeling? The mist. The looming forest with its halo of muted autumn leaves . . . grey and white and green, brown and orange and red, all layered together. Ethereal. Out of focus. Then the castle wall, solid and mottled with age.

A fortress of past certitude enveloped in the mist of an unknown future.

She stifled a giggle. Where on earth had that thought come from?

Yet, there was something in the visual. It wasn’t ominous exactly, but it was mysterious, and it held a meaning she couldn’t quite define. Something about how the ancient bled into the modern. How the present yearned for the past.

Or perhaps the other way round.

A picture coalesced in her mind. She would paint a Highland lady in a flowing white dress emerging from the fog, the folds of her gown blending into the mist, a haunted expression on her face, her dark hair unbound and wild about her shoulders, and a bright tartan shawl drawn tightly around her form . . . A Woman in the Mist.

A specter, rooted in the past. Lost to the present.

The muted clop of horses’ hooves sounded in the distance.

That would be Mr. Burns.

She pushed herself off the wall. It could be a beautiful painting, dramatic and full of meaning. But it would take months to get right—more time than she had. And even if she did manage it, no one would buy it.

The horse sound was louder now, almost upon her. She settled the bonnet on her head, tying the strings firmly below her chin.

Surely she’d painted enough pictures that no one would buy. Her walls were full of them. It would be far more useful to paint a quiet landscape. A babbling stream and a pretty tree for some middle-class banker to hang in his office.

Then she could at least contribute something to Pater’s household beyond the paltry sum her drawing lessons brought in. She was, as she’d so deftly pointed out last night, thirty years old now. If she was going to insist on keeping her independence and reject every suitor that came her way, it wasn’t fair to Pater for her to remain such a burden.

And, of course, she’d have to be ready to support herself when he was gone . . .

The fog swirled, and Mr. Burns stepped through as if he were pushing it aside. Tall, dark, and austere, he wore his hair drawn back in an old-fashioned queue. His face held a serious, almost disgusted look—the only expression she’d seen him wear since she and Pater had arrived yesterday. He was the opposite of what she’d expected of a Highlander. He didn’t wear a kilt or a Scotch bonnet, and he didn’t seem exceptionally robust or fierce. Everything about him was brown—hair, jacket, pantaloons, boots. A weathered Wellington perched on his head. She could have drawn him with five quick strokes—a thick smudge of coal over four lines of clove brown.

How could someone so irascible come from such a beautiful place?