Chapter 16

16

W edderburn Castle's two-story stable block held a great many cobwebs and hay-scented shadows. The late July sun poked through in places, helping Orin recover a key piece of his childhood from the carriage house. Amused, the stable hands watched him roll the well-worn contraption out of its stall then quickly returned to their work when the laird appeared.

"What the devil … " Everard began, dressed for riding. "I've not seen that conveyance in an age."

"The auld pony cart." Orin stood back and surveyed the wooden frame with its wrought-iron accents and cracked leather seat. The blue paint was admirably intact but he was less sure of the spoked wheels.

"You and Blythe used to cavort all over the parish in that cheeky chariot. And not only Blythe."

Nay, not only. He needed no reminder. Orin bent and inspected the axles while the laird circled and eyed the cart from all angles. Once upon a time he and Maryn had logged miles over all of Berwick. She preferred the cart to sidesaddle as she'd not been the horsewoman her brother, Herschel, was. A riding mishap had shaken her long before the sleigh accident.

Everard stooped and examined the wheels. "The rims look solid but I'd have the wheelwright check the remainder."

Orin tested the footrest. "I intend to take it out again."

Everard sent him a canny look. "With my countess … or the Duchess of Fordyce?"

Orin smiled wryly. He'd never been able to dupe his eldest brother. "I might attempt the latter but am not sure I'll succeed."

"Try the former first and pray about the rest." With that, the laird strode away to where a groom waited with his own mount. The sound of retreating hoofbeats echoed as Everard rode west.

Climbing into the cart, Orin sat and stared at the empty whip socket. He and Maryn had always taken turns with the reins. His Highland pony, Brodie, had been a capable, patient beast. But did the Wedderburn stables have a replacement?

"Ye've a choice between a robust Fell pony from Northumberland or a Dales pony trained for cart driving," the stable master told him. "Either would suit. The laird makes sure we have plenty of horses on hand for all sorts of purposes."

But first, a thorough inspection of the cart itself. Over the next few days Orin took time making repairs along with the wheelwright, even installing a new leather seat. The paint he left alone. He didn't want the cart to look too different.

The countess was on hand to test it out. Once seated, Blythe sighed with delight. "This brings back a hundred happy memories."

"I recall I was too peely-wally back then to sit a horse so the cart sufficed."

She laughed. "Few would believe it now. Look at you, every bit as stalwart as the laird—and by far the tallest Hume!"

Chuckling, he ran a hand down the Fell pony's—Half-Penny's—broad back before taking the reins. They soon left the stable yard and ambled down the drive the laird had taken to the west gates. The clement day held low clouds and a cooling breeze that carried from the coast.

"Everard said you might take this to Lockhart Hall." Blythe pulled her hat lower to shield her eyes from the sun. "If so, a charming gesture."

"I haven't decided." In truth, he was no closer to deciding than when he'd first pulled the cart from its stall.

"You aren't afraid to take chances. One of your many admirable traits."

"Admirable? I'm not sure my heart is up to the risk. Or hers."

"Ah, hearts. Half-broken but soon mended, I hope."

He guided the pony into a turn that led onto the main road to Duns. "God forbid I do anything I regret."

"Or regret you did nothing," she replied sagely. "Which is worse?"

He'd considered that. Being haunted by inaction seemed crueler than outright rejection even twice. First Maryn's lack of response to his letters. And now her possible refusal of his unexpected arrival in a pony cart.

"So, I've been praying more lately … " The admission pained him after a long season of prayerlessness. "And the pony cart came to mind. I hadn't thought of it in years."

"Perhaps this is your answer, then. Often the Lord leads us step by step. A walk of faith, truly. Or in this case, a ride of faith."

"Much easier to just venture to the Hall atop Septimus."

"This cart has a history. You two began riding around in it when quite young. Maryn couldn't pronounce your name so she called you Orry so sweetly. Her mother was a dear friend of mine, remember. We were often together in those days. I was overcome when she and Maryn's father died. But I digress." She reached up to steady her hat in a sudden breeze. "If Maryn suffered injuries as has been rumored, she may not be able to ride a horse so this is likely preferable, and very thoughtful."

He fell silent. Maryn had called him Orry on many occasions even full grown. It was one of the things he most missed, those subtle intimacies they'd shared. As far as her injuries, they haunted him. So many questions rolled round his head day and night. Even after all this time they hadn't abated. He wasn't able, like many, to just close that chapter of his life and move on. An old soul, his nurse had said since childhood. He lived on another level. Sometimes he wanted to curse his romantic nature. His ability to experience life deeply. Maryn had been even more sensitive than he, so easily moved by the world around her.

Was she still?

"He's here, Your Grace!" The urgency in the new maid's voice brought Maryn downstairs in a dither.

"Who?" she asked, putting a hand to her disheveled hair. Rosemary was away on an errand and Maryn always felt quite unkempt without her.

"A gentleman." Alice peered out the door's sidelight. "Driving a bonny blue cart!"

"Turn him away, then, please." Collecting herself, Maryn passed into the library and then to the security of her cabinet, refusing a look out the window. Immediately she rued her reaction.

Could it be Orin?

Her hands began to tremble which mirrored her insides, aquiver like quince jelly. She could hear a slight commotion in the forecourt and then a footman opening the front door. Had the servants not heard they were to refuse him? Where had Alice gone?

"This way, Mr. Hume."

Losh! Maryn whirled in the doorway of the cabinet to face him . Her companion since childhood. The enduring love of her girlhood. Now an estranged man who caused her heart to beat so hard she felt it to her thudding temples.

"Your Grace." Orin gave a courtly bow surely perfected in London's choicest drawing rooms.

Maryn simply stared—and stopped her unsteady knees from bending to a ludicrous curtsey in the nick of time. That was the effect he had on her. Up close, he looked as magnificent as she felt disheveled. Clad in a blue and black tartan coat and dark breeches, every inch of him was finely tailored but not overplayed. Time had done nothing to diminish his presence. He reminded her of the laird only Everard was almost twice his age. The man before her was in his prime and had his best years before him.

She swallowed past the lump knotting her throat. He waited for her to speak and she finally choked out two nearly inaudible words. "Mr. Hume."

His gaze moved to the bookshelves as if giving her time to collect herself.

An impossibility.

"I remember being in this room," he said easily. "There was an illustrated book about Berwick legends we used to pore over."

Taking a breath, she went to the very shelf. Grandfather hadn't altered the library, thankfully. She took it and held it out to him since she didn't trust herself to take so much as a step—or even speak.

He strode across the carpet in those striking black riding boots with cognac-colored cuffs and took the tiny tome from her. She held her breath and turned so that her injured limb was half-hidden in the folds of her petticoats.

"Though I confess I'm not here to read but to ride," he said, thumbing through the worn pages. "If you'll accept the humble invitation and our prior pony cart."

Our. He was as charming as he was braw. And she was melting faster than the ice house in midsummer. "Mr. Hume, I … "

He closed the book and met her hesitant gaze. His invitation stood. How could she refuse him? Those impossibly blue eyes. A Hume blue, some said. Blue as forget-me-nots …

She took the book back and hugged it to her bodice. "Why have you come?"

His eyes held raw regret. "Because it's been too long."

That did indeed sum it up. "We were close companions once but times—things—have altered."

"Only if we let them."

She returned the book to the shelf. "I would need to change and my maid is not here." A lame excuse. He said nothing and so she looked to the carpet where sunlight illuminated the pretty pattern and a worn thread or two.

"Once the pony cart amused you. I find it worthwhile still." Far from being put off by her dithering and dallying, he continued patient. Kind. As thoughtful as she remembered. His hopeful silence undermined her resolve.

"A short ride then." A measly mile or two. Yet she was already ruing her answer.

"As you wish."

She excused herself and fled upstairs. Alice was nowhere to be seen so she put on a bergère hat and gloves. Had he noticed her injury? He was waiting outside when she reappeared and passed through the open front door. The sight of the pony cart, once so beloved, lanced her. She could hardly see it through her tears and realized she had no handkerchief.

He handed her up and she lowered herself to the new leather seat though all the rest of the conveyance seemed remarkably unchanged. With expert movements he guided the pony—a bonny, young creature—beyond the forecourt. A breeze cooled her flushed face as she looked to the gates in the distance, the wrought iron as stiff as she felt.

Amid the warm sun and the rustling lime trees and the cart's gentle swaying, she fought to keep her emotions in check. As he slowed their pace to minimize the dust she nearly changed her mind and got out of the cart. If only she could return to the lass she'd been, when sitting beside him was entirely natural. Now he seemed entirely too close. So close she caught his citrus-sage scent, reminding her of his card tucked away in her cabinet. She refused to look at him and further ensnare her heart so she fastened her gaze on the landscape.

They were nearing Lockhart Hall's ornate entrance. When Orin turned right onto the main road toward the coast she held her peace. Let them have it out, whatever this was. Then they could move on with their lives.

"Why are you here and not in London?"

"How did you know where I was?" Amusement laced his words.

She almost smiled. "Britain's Poet Laureate is hard to hide."

"Which is one reason I returned home."

"Scotland is still home, then."

"Now and hopefully in future, aye. I've taken up residence in the gatehouse."

"The gatehouse?" She nearly sighed as a dozen poignant recollections took hold. In her girlish dreams she'd often wished they could live there. Together. "'Tis a charming place. I remember the walled garden fondly. What made you leave the Court?"

"Sheer boredom to begin with."

"The Scottish Lowlands is the epitome of that for many."

"But not for you nor me."

"Never." She kept her gaze between the pony's upright ears and the little traveled, brown ribbon of road.

All the while she marveled. Riding about unchaperoned while in mourning violated every convention she knew. Yet he was bold enough to buck custom and she had thrown caution to the wind and let him. If they went much further they'd not return till sunset.

As if reading her thoughts, he halted on a particularly picturesque knoll. Fast Castle was visible despite its crumbling splendor, heather purpling the moors in all directions, the blue backdrop of sea breathtaking. For a moment she forgot her turmoil.

"Why did you seek me out today?" She spoke so quietly it seemed the wind might fling her words away. "I'm sure it wasn't just to ride me around in a pony cart."

When he took his time answering she stole a look at him, as if she could reconcile the young man he'd been to the older man he was becoming. Were those glints of silver in his dark blonde hair? If so, it turned him all the more braw.

She nearly shuddered at the next thought. What did he see when he looked at her after being amongst the most beautiful, titled women in Britain? She shrank from the comparison. Duchess or no, she could never be the lady on his arm at Court. She couldn't even befriend him in Berwickshire. Not at the risk to her heart. Or his reputation.

"I came to see how you are. If you have need of anything," he finally said, eyes on the view. "I wasn't sure you'd even see me."

I wouldn't have if the new maid had followed my directions .

"I rarely see anyone," she confessed by way of apology.

Yet part of her wanted desperately to change that, to make up for lost time and tell him everything. Explain away five years and reveal she'd found his letters and thereby realized he'd not received hers. So much lay hidden in her heart and head that begged sharing.

But to what purpose?

She looked down at her gloved arm hanging limply by her side. "Grandfather's death flushed me out of hiding, so to speak."

"Why hide?" he asked gently.

"My injury and five years of mourning allow for little else. It does seem something of a curse to lose a brother, then parents, and lately a grandfather in that span of time."

"Not the Lockhart curse, Maryn … a fallen world."

Maryn. She was growing so used to her new title that she'd forgotten how intimate forenames were. She'd yet to say Orin —wouldn't let herself say it. And she mustn't say Orry ever.

He continued on, quietly, "Since we're close neighbors, I'd have us be on good terms, at least."

"Distant neighbors, rather." Though it hurt, she forced a coldness into her tone she was far from feeling. "I want nothing, thank you. Nor do I need your pity if that forms the basis of your visit."