Chapter 28

28

O rin walked from the gatehouse to Wedderburn Castle in the gloaming. Was it only yesterday Maryn had left the bookshop? Mentally he'd retraced every exchanged word and look between them, including the fact, in a rare moment of angst, she'd called him Orry . Was she regretting that now?

He entered the castle's forecourt and was let in by a footman. The dining room wasn't far and the door was open as if he was expected. He walked toward it, remembering the laird and Charis would be away for some time given Yorkshire was so distant. Mayhap that was just as well. The countess was a keen listener and a wise counselor if he could unburden himself.

She turned away from the window when he entered, hands clasped in a sort of delight. "So I shan't dine alone after all."

"You might prefer it," he half-jested. "I'm poor company at present."

"Never that, though you do seem to be healing nicely." She smiled and they passed to the smaller chamber she preferred, the table set, a vase of crimson roses to one side, a few scattered petals on the damask cloth.

"The duchess sent the last of her heirloom summer roses round to me," Blythe said, admiring them. "She's kindly offered cuttings in hopes our gardeners can establish them here."

"I thought those had the look of Lockhart Hall." He took a seat, wondering if he could return there on the pretense of taking said cuttings. Nay. Gardener he was not.

"I'm afraid the menu may be too simple," Blythe said in apology once they'd said grace. "But in my advancing age rich dishes don't always agree with me."

"There's nothing wrong with brose and oatcakes."

"At least there's Crowdie cheese. You've been partial to that since you were a wee lad. And wild raspberry tarts."

He took an oatcake, trying to muster some appetite. Did Maryn dine alone or with the bairns?

"How goes the bookselling?" Blythe asked, touching on one of her favorite topics.

"Business is brisk. The reading room is now open. Yestreen I counted nearly twenty-six customers in the forenoon and half that many by closing. And nae more broken windows."

"Praise be." She sighed in relief. "The vandal was caught, I heard—and his penance is being taught to read."

"Aye. He's just a lad and helps out in the shop when he's not learning his letters from my clerks."

"A far more satisfying arrangement than the stocks. Bless you and your clerks."

"We're blessedly busy. Might you lend a hand?"

She laughed. "Everard would come after me if I did. He noted I spent half a day there last week but I simply couldn't help myself. Such a collection the duchess gave you!"

Maryn, again. He might as well confess she was his every waking thought. "She visited for the first time yesterday."

"Oh? And what did she think?"

"We never got around to that." All his carefully laid plans for showing her the shop folded once Miss Lyon and Miss Robson appeared. "Though I returned a rare copy of sonnets to her."

"Shakespeare, not Milton, I hope."

He chuckled. "Aye, the romantic rather than the tormented ones."

"So … " She looked up from spooning her soup. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

He hesitated. "There's something I'm not even telling myself."

"What means you?"

"I've only loved one lass my entire life and there won't be another."

"Does the lady in question know of your affection?"

"Other than giving her a hint by way of those sonnets? Nay."

"Then you should be on bended knee telling her, not me."

He smiled despite his discomfiture. "And if she doesn't want to hear it?"

"What woman in her right mind would refuse you?" She nearly glared at him. "You're the best of all possible worlds. Courtier. Poet. Playwright. Bookseller … "

"I finally approached her not long ago as a matter of honor, testing our former tie." He looked to the roses again, the memory still sore. "She said there's nae going back to what was. That we're different people now."

"And yet she came to visit you at the bookshop yesterday."

"As friends, aye."

"Given she's recently become a mother to four children, including the future heir to the duchy should she have none, I would guess she's having second thoughts about raising them without a fatherly influence. Lord Marchmont is not long for this world, I fear. His lung ailment is quite advanced. He may not return from France, sadly."

He'd heard the man was very ill. Losing one's wife didn't help either. "Do you also ken that Nicola and the late duke seem to have conspired to prevent Maryn's and my relationship from continuing by confiscating the letters we wrote to each other after the accident?"

"I did not." Blythe put a serviette to her lips. "I condemn that sort of scheming interference though it isn't my place to judge."

"Letters aside, I canna continue to pursue her if she's unwilling."

"As a matter of honor, nay." Blythe buttered an oat cake and eyed his mostly untouched meal. "But you can continue to pray about it. I've certainly not stopped. In fact, my petitions on that heartfelt subject have increased of late."

As had his. Did his deep appreciation show? He picked up his spoon, knowing he needed to eat.

"Though I've heard, from well-placed sources, that there are other ladies who are vying for your attention at present."

"Your daughter is trying her best to play matchmaker, aye." With Charis away, that he didn't miss.

"Since you feel the way you do about Maryn, I don't suppose you've given serious thought to anyone else."

He'd tried to set aside his hopes and desires to weigh that very matter in a more practical light. Miss Lyon was not someone he'd forge a future with but Miss Robson? She was kind, courteous, well read and more. But his half-heartedness regarding her, in light of his passion for Maryn, seemed pale, indeed. A lass deserved better than a lackluster suitor and husband.

He took a drink of Madeira. "Do you believe there are more sorts of love than one? That you can let go of what you hoped for and settle for someone and something else?"

"There are all sorts of love, yes. But there's only one shining kind on which to build a marriage. A life."

They finished the remainder of their meal deep in thought. Coffee was served, again reminding him of Maryn. He missed her with a physical ache. Was there no relief for this longing to be with her? To sit down with her for meals. To walk with her in the garden. To hold her at night. To discuss books and mayhap even pen plays together. Even becoming the proxy father of four overnight increased his yearning.

Was he mad?

"I believe I shall walk with you to the gatehouse," Blythe said as they rose from the table. "The lovely evening begs to be admired."

Together they left the castle's forecourt to watch the sunset overlay the landscape in a rainbow of hues. The gloaming's hush eased his turmoil somewhat.

"You miss the laird, I sense," he said, his steadying hand on her elbow. "And Charis."

"It seems a long separation at an unfortunate time. But death is never timely."

"I recall when Everard rode to England and petitioned the king on your behalf years ago."

"So long ago! I feared I'd never see either of you again. But here we are. Life has a way of exceeding our expectations. The Lord, rather."

"You've been happy here in the Lowlands though you're an Englishwoman."

"Ours has been a bountiful life despite its challenges. And did I tell you? Once Everard and Charis return we're to have a family gathering. All your brothers and their families will be here—and all our sons, Lord willing."

"So, my nephews are returning from the Grand Tour in time?" At her nod, he asked, "Will the castle hold them all?"

"We shall see." She smiled, her pleasure plain, as well as her pathos when she looked at him. "I want that same happiness for you, Orin. The joy of family. A home. Of coming together with the lady you love."

He looked heavenward, an unspoken prayer rising.

As do I.