Chapter 11

Miss Spencer,

If you think running away from me is going to change anything, I am afraid you are very much mistaken. You will need to run a good deal farther than London to escape me.

However, I am not about to plague you. This letter is only to inform you that I am very much in earnest despite the hasty way I went about things at our last meeting. I hope you will forgive me for how I behaved, but you know as well as anyone that I can be impulsive. That does not mean to say I am not sincere. I mean to court you, Miss Spencer, and I warn you, I shall present myself to the earl to ask his permission to pay my addresses.

I am not a fool, nor am I still a reckless boy. I only ask that you give me the chance to prove this to you.

―Excerpt of a letter from Mr Leo Hunt (Son of Alice and Nathaniel Hunt) to The Hon'ble Miss Violetta Spencer.

31 st March 1850, Brabster Farm, The Highlands of Scotland.

"The men are all out in the lambing shed," Mrs Paterson said, eyeing Delia with suspicion though it was Luella who had asked. "And I've no time to go fetch them, for as ye can see, I have bread to make."

"Not at all, please don't trouble yourself," Luella said with excessive politeness. "We can find our own way."

Turning, Luella rolled her eyes at Delia and led her out of the kitchen.

"Miserable old bat," she muttered under her breath, making Delia snigger with laughter. "If you do marry Muir, I trust you will have a word with her and put her in her place. Anyone would think she was the lady of the manor."

"I'm not sure I'd dare," Delia admitted, quailing at the thought of facing such a creature.

"Nonsense. Why do you always put yourself down? You're more than capable of dealing with the likes of Mrs Paterson. Indeed, I think you would do it with ease."

Delia smiled, gratified that Luella thought her capable, for so far Luella was everything she aspired to be.

Picking their way carefully across the muddy yard, Luella led them into the lambing shed, though Delia thought she could probably have found it herself, for the bleats and cries from within were most expressive.

Wooden hurdles separated the mothers-to-be, so each had their own space, and whilst some slept peacefully, others were obviously in varying stages of the birthing process.

"There's Dugald," Luella said, raising a hand as the fellow waved at them and gestured for them to come over.

"Just in time," he said quietly, grinning as he gestured to the scene he'd been watching.

As Delia looked over, the ewe pushed her new lamb into the world and Muir took it up at once, checking its airways were clear and rubbing the tiny newborn over with straw, his movements brisk and sure. The lamb gave a heartfelt bleat and Muir looked up, glancing at Delia as he put it before its mother, who promptly began washing it. His gaze was cautious, and she realised he was waiting to see if she would turn away in disgust from the scene, which was bloody and rather gruesome as well as being touching and extraordinarily beautiful. She supposed she could understand his expectation that she might squeal and turn away, or even swoon, for she knew plenty of girls who would do just that, but she was not one of them.

So, Delia watched the scene with quiet delight until Muir left the pen. He stopped to wash his hands in a bucket of cold water with a large bar of carbolic soap, before he walked towards them, drying himself on a cloth as he approached.

"Well, ye have seen yer first birth, Delia. What did you think?"

"It was fascinating, and rather wonderful," she said, smiling at him. "Thank you for letting me come."

"You're welcome," he replied, still studying her with interest. "Ye didnae find it too indelicate? It's a messy business, aye?"

"So I saw," she replied curtly. "And I meant what I said."

He nodded, hanging the towel over the edge of the enclosure. "Dugald, ye can manage for a wee while?"

"Aye, laddie, course I can. Away with ye."

"Would ye take a walk with me?" he asked, his voice quiet.

Delia shot a glance at Luella, who was hanging over the side of the enclosure, cooing over the new lamb.

"Alone," Muir added.

For an instant, Delia thought to refuse him, but then she told herself not to be such a coward and nodded instead. "Very well."

Muir rolled down his sleeves and shrugged his coat back on before offering her his arm. Delia took it and he escorted her out of the lambing shed. The day had brightened somewhat, and sunlight shimmered through the clouds. As they walked, arm in arm, Delia felt her emotions settle, the lovely countryside around her soothing her nerves.

"Do ye like it here?" Muir asked.

Delia glanced up to see his tawny eyes gazing down at her intently. "Very much," she admitted. "I don't ever remember feeling so comfortable anywhere before. It's felt like coming home since I arrived, for reasons I don't really understand."

"Perhaps it's because ye belong here," he said quietly, smiling at her.

Delia looked away, unable to hold his gaze when he looked at her so warmly, for it set off sparks of eager excitement inside her, making her want things she was unsure he was prepared to give her. "What makes you say so?"

"Well," he said, stopping in his tracks and taking one of her hands in his. "Firstly, because I want ye to stay, but maybe ye soul kens the place. Perhaps ye lived here in another life, or perhaps it is fate that brought us together for a reason, because it was meant to be."

Delia snorted, assuming he was teasing her with romantic nonsense, trying to woo her so she would accept his proposal again. "You don't believe that," she said scornfully.

"Do I nae?" he retorted, quirking an eyebrow at her. "I feel this place in my bones, Delia. I have a connection to it, to the land. It feels ancient, and sometimes I feel like my ancestors are standing beside me, just out of sight. Perhaps it's a romantic notion, but if ye feel something of the sort too, perhaps it's for reasons we cannot explain in a rational manner."

Delia considered this, studying his face and finding him sincere. She wished now she had not been so caustic, yet sometimes she did not know what to make of him. "Why the change of heart? From the beginning you've said you couldn't imagine me in your home, could not see me as the wife of a farmer. Why should I believe you've reconsidered?"

"Because I have nae need to imagine it now, yer here before me," he said simply.

She huffed and shook her head. "Too glib, Mr Anderson."

"Ach, dinnae call me that. Come and see the lambs," he said, tugging at her hand and taking her to another barn where the new mothers and babies were housed.

Grinning, he led her towards a pen and lifted the side so she might enter. He closed it after him and Delia gave a soft sigh of delight as she gazed down at two little lambs, snuggled against their mother's side. At their entrance, they staggered to their feet as their mother bleated, eyeing Delia suspiciously.

"It's all right, yer babies are quite safe," Muir said, his tone soothing as he checked both lambs over. "Aye, yer a fine mama," he said approvingly as the ewe gently butted at the lambs and licked them.

"May I touch them?" Delia asked, longing to do so.

"Aye, here," he said, lifting one lamb up for her to pet.

Delia laughed delightedly as the lamb licked her fingers and tried to suck them. "Such a sweet baby, and you will grow up to be a fine, big sheep and give Muir lots of lovely wool to sell. Yes, you will," she crooned, and then looked up and found him watching her. She braced herself to feel embarrassed, to see him look at her with bewilderment or even derision as many had done in the past. Instead, he smiled at her.

"I hope so," he replied, with quiet approval, before tilting the lamb's chin so the creature looked at him. "Did ye listen well, wee yin? Ye must do as the lady says, aye?"

Delia laughed. "Adorable," she said, finding her heart lift at the wonderful sight and uncertain if she was speaking about the lamb or Muir. She studied him then, her expression curious. "Why did you invite me here today? I would have thought showing me such a heartwarming scene was the last thing you wished to do. You did not want me to have a romantic view of your life, I think."

He set the lamb carefully back on its feet again and shrugged. "I didnae want to sell ye a fantasy that isnae real, one that you will resent me for when the truth is clear to ye, but neither do I want to deny that sometimes life here… ach, lassie, life here is the best thing in the world in my opinion, but it's nae what ye were bred for, is it?"

"That doesn't mean I couldn't find a place here," she said impatiently.

"Aye," he said, surprising her a little. "I agree. I believe I am guilty of underestimating ye. Ye didnae swoon when ye saw the lamb being born," he added, his eyes warm with approval.

"I knew that's what you were expecting!" she exclaimed, glowering at him.

He shrugged, unrepentant. "Well, ye cannae blame me entirely. Many a lassie would, even some who were born here."

Delia made a harrumphing sound but allowed him that, for she knew it was true.

He stuffed his hands in his pocket before saying casually, "Luella tells me she asked Mr Macalister if ye could help with a lambing, but he widnae let ye."

"Another man who thinks me a frilly bit of nonsense," Delia remarked. "Just because I like to wear pretty things does not mean I'm weak, or incapable of learning a new skill. But really, Muir, what kind of life could I have here if I can't be a part of your life? Do you expect me to sit about the house looking ornamental? For I assure you, if that's what you have in mind—"

"Nay, lassie," he said at once, holding his hands up in a peaceable gesture. "I'll admit that's what I expected might happen and why I felt so reluctant, for I thought ye would be bored out of yer wits by the week's end."

"I should never be so lacklustre and dull," Delia retorted hotly.

He laughed at that, his eyes bright with amusement. "That much I believe. Pax, Delia. Can we be friends again?"

Delia sighed. "We were never not friends," she said, starting a little as he took her hand, his fingers closing around hers. Delia looked down, noticing how tanned and strong his hand was, the fingers calloused and scarred in places. They were the hands of a working man, despite the fact his father was an earl. Muir worked for his place in the world, and he worked hard to make certain that place was secure.

"I'm glad to hear that," he said, stepping closer to her.

Delia's heart kicked in her chest as he closed the space between them, still holding her hand but settling the other at her waist. "The next weeks are going to be busy, lassie, but if ye think ye would like to, perhaps we could have lunch together. I'll ask Mrs Paterson to make us a picnic."

"A picnic?" Delia said sceptically, for though there had been a fair amount of sunshine in the past days, it was by no means warm.

"Aye. If yer as hardy as ye would have me believe, ye can picnic outside in April in the Highlands." He laughed at her expression, squeezing her waist. "Dinnae fash. If it's raining or too awful, we'll seek shelter in one of the barns, aye? But I'd like it to be informal, to give ye a taste of how I live my life, which is a good deal spent out of doors. What do you think?"

"I think I shall wrap up warmly and enjoy it very much," she told him, thinking it was a rather lovely notion, and a way they could get to know each other with no one else around.

"That's my girl," he said approvingly, and Delia felt a surge of pleasure at his words, which she told herself was ridiculous, but the sensation remained all the same.

She stared at him, aware of a sudden change in his demeanour, of the thrum of tension that prickled over her skin.

"May I kiss ye?" he asked, and Delia struggled to hold his gaze, for his eyes had darkened, a wicked glint visible there that she had seen before and had ended in her allowing him to take liberties she'd never imagined.

"That depends," she said, wishing she did not feel so breathless, "on whether you mean to kiss me, or try to seduce me again?"

"I dinnae try to seduce ye, Delia," he said, his eyebrows tugging together as his arm slid tighter around her, pulling her close. "If I had been intending to seduce ye, we would be wed by now, for there would be nae choice for ye."

"Why, you arrogant—" she began crossly, only to have her words smothered as he pressed his mouth to hers. He kissed her until the tension left her body and then he drew back.

"'Tis nae arrogance," he said softly. "Ye want me. 'Tis as obvious as the nose on yer face, and a fine and pretty nose it is," he added, kissing it and grinning at the glare she shot at him.

He kissed her again and Delia felt her wits dissolving as she recollected just why she had allowed him such freedom with her person. When he kissed her nothing else existed, there was no one else anywhere, no other reason to be anywhere doing anything but in his arms. The world went away, and that was at once reassuring and rather terrifying.

"You are an arrogant lummox," she told him firmly, once he let her up for air again.

"Aye, maybe," he conceded, amusement glinting in his eyes. "But I'm nae wrong."

Delia sighed and reached up, linking her arms about his neck.

"No, you're not wrong, drat you," she said, and pulled his head down for another kiss.

The next days settled into a routine for Delia and Muir. Whilst Muir hardly knew what was day and what was night, as he snatched an hour's sleep whenever he could grab one, he felt increasingly at peace with the idea of marrying Delia. Each day she would arrive around midday, and Muir would carry the basket to whichever spot he had chosen for their picnic. The weather had been exceptionally kind, with dry, sunny days that even held a little warmth as the sun shone on their backs. On those days, they talked and ate and got to know each other by exchanging stories of their childhoods and their hopes and dreams for what their futures might look like. Muir entertained her with stories of his and his brothers' escapades as children, and he took delight in her reaction, for she laughed easily and without reserve. There was no false tittering or simpering giggles, like some ladies he had met over the years. When Delia laughed, she did it with her whole heart, her nose and her eyes crinkling and the sound exploding from her without a thought for being ladylike, and Muir realised he liked that about her. She spoke without thinking sometimes, and the way her mind worked fascinated him as he struggled to connect whatever they'd been talking about with the new topic of conversation she threw at him out of nowhere. They spoke about the farm, with Muir explaining about caring for the sheep, and suddenly she was talking about an Italian opera. When he had asked the connection, she had said the sheep reminded her of goats and she'd had a wonderful goat's cheese at the meal she'd had before she'd gone to see the opera when she'd been in Italy. Then they had gone from whiskey to her wondering if people would one day discover a kind of fish that could fly – because Hamilton had a distillery and the herring business, and she'd been watching the sea birds dive into the sea to catch fish. It made perfect sense when she explained it, but the leap could be dizzying.

Today, the sunshine had deserted them, and a fine, mizzling rain had settled over the landscape, shrouding everyone and everything in mist.

"Quick," he told her, tugging at her hand as he ran inside the barn where he had set up their picnic earlier in the day. "Are ye wet through?" Muir asked, turning to her to discover her cheeks and nose were pink from the cold.

"No, though I never understand how such a fine rain can make you so wet," she said, laughing as she took down her hood and unfastened her cloak.

"Will ye be warm enough?" he asked in concern, as she hung it up on a peg in the timber frame. "We could go back to the house."

"No, I'm quite warm. I just didn't want to wear the cloak when it's damp," she said, smoothing her hair back from her face. "It's rather cosy in here, and I love the scent of hay," she added, looking around her and smiling as she saw the little nest he'd made of the stooks of hay. A tartan blanket covered the floor, and the basket awaited them.

"If yer sure, then?"

Nodding, she sat down elegantly on the blanket and began arranging the picnic things for their meal. Muir stood watching for a moment, admiring the picture she made and aware of how much he'd been looking forward to this moment all morning. Last night had been a tough one, and he was weary to his bones, but seeing Delia had chased away his exhaustion and the disappointment of things having gone wrong. Somehow, she made the sun shine even on a dismal, grey day when he was not feeling in the best of spirits.

"What's wrong?" she asked, realising he was studying her.

"Nothing," he said at once, smiling and sitting down beside her.

To his surprise, she scowled at him, a challenging glint in her eyes. "Don't do that."

"Do what?" he asked, perplexed. "I just sat down."

Shooting him an impatient look, she handed him a flask of ale. "Don't placate me and tell me nothing is wrong when I can tell it is."

She was quiet for a moment, arranging a large slice of game pie on his plate, several pieces of chicken, and two thick slices of bread with butter. She handed it to him, and Muir set the flask down.

"If you want us to succeed and be happy together, you can't shut me out. Even if you think I won't understand your troubles, you must share them with me. How else can I ever be a part of your life?"

"Ach, but it is my duty to keep ye safe and to keep trouble from yer door, nae to add to it."

"What nonsense," Delia replied, darting him an impatient glance as she helped herself to a slice of the pie. "I can tell there is something is wrong, and if you don't tell me what it is, I shall spend the whole day making up my own reasons. By the time I go to bed, I'll have convinced myself you are regretting your decision and wish to be rid of me."

"Yer all about in yer heid if ye think that!" Muir protested but Delia held up her hand.

"It doesn't matter if it's true or not, I'll think it, and then tomorrow I'll be distant, and you'll want to know why, and I'll say there's nothing wrong. Then you'll make up reasons why I'm not as happy as I was… do you see? If we don't talk to each other honestly, we'll only misunderstand each other and assume things that aren't true."

Muir considered her words, realising as he did how easy such a scenario was to imagine. "Yer a good deal wiser than I am, I reckon," he said with a sigh.

"Well, of course I am, I'm a woman," she said tartly, making him laugh.

She smiled at him, her eyes warm. "Now, won't you tell me what's wrong?"

Muir sighed. "The truth is, I'm tired, lassie, and last night we lost six lambs. It happens, but so many in one go is difficult. It tugs at yer heart, especially when yer weary."

Delia reached out and took his hand. "I'm sorry. That must have been very upsetting for you."

Muir shrugged. "I'm a farmer, I cannae get too sentimental over such things, but aye, it's hard when ye get so many all at once. We've been so lucky until now and so I suppose I wasnae expecting it, which is daft."

"Not in the least. One ought not to look for trouble, I think, but I can see you are tired. Come, eat up and do the feast Mrs Paterson has made us justice, else she will be cross, and I do not wish to vex her."

Muir smiled and lifted her hand to his lips, kissing her fingers. "Thank you," he said, meaning it, finding he felt rather lighter for having told her.

"I've been reading about sheep," she said suddenly, blushing a little as he smiled at her.

"Ye have?"

Delia nodded, putting a small piece of pie into her mouth and chewing before she answered him. "A tup or a ewe three times shorn is a three shear tup or ewe. A ewe who fails to produce a second lamb is a barren ewe—which I must say seems a bit harsh—and after ceasing to give milk is a called a yield ewe. When taken from the breeding flock, she is a draft-ewe, and the gimmers, draft gimmers."

Muir stared at her, touched and impressed that she had troubled herself to learn a little about his work, about the farm. "And what is a gimmer?"

"A yearling female sheep, a two-tooth ewe," she said and grinned at him, looking so delighted with herself, Muir felt an odd sensation shifting in his heart.

"A tup?"

"A male sheep, uncastrated."

"A wether?"

"A castrated male sheep."

She laughed at his pleased expression, her cheeks pink. "I'm not pretending I know much more than that yet, but I'm enjoying learning about it, and I intend to learn more. Perhaps… Perhaps you would teach me yourself?" she added cautiously, looking away from him and plucking at a loose thread on the rug she sat on. "You could teach me far more than a book after all, about sheep, and how the farm runs."

Muir disliked her hesitation, knowing it stemmed for his earlier refusal to allow her to help him. "Aye, reckon I will at that, if ye would like to," he said, earning himself a dazzling smile that left him feeling quite winded.

"Thank you," she said, and Muir could only wonder at the happiness that filled his chest at the idea of doing so, and the anticipation of having her here with him, and teaching her about the life he led.

They ate in companionable silence, with Delia pressing more and more food upon him until he put up his hands in defeat. "Nae, I couldnae eat another morsel, I swear it. I'll burst."

"Very well, then," she relented, sitting back against the stooks. Giving him a slightly shy look, she patted her lap. "Lay your head down here."

Muir glanced at her, a little surprised. He had kissed her every afternoon during their picnics, but he had been careful to keep himself in line and treat her respectfully. She was always warm and willing in his arms, but never again had she instigated any deeper intimacy between them. Not wishing to deny her or make her uncomfortable, Muir hastened to obey, laying himself down and wondering what she had in mind.

"Now close your eyes," she said, stroking his hair.

"I ought to get back to work," he mumbled, but his eyes were closing of their own accord as her hand moved over his hair, her touch so peaceful and soothing it felt as though a weight was being lifted from his shoulders.

"You will. It's just a little nap," she assured him. "I'll wake you again, don't worry."

"Aye," he murmured as her fingers smoothed over his forehead, and he drifted into a deep sleep.

Delia watched as Muir's eyes closed, as the lines she had noticed around his eyes eased and softened and his breathing deepened. Tenderness filled her heart as he fell asleep in seconds, proving to her just how tired he was. She understood now that Luella had been right. Muir was not only a good man, but one who felt things deeply, more than he liked people to know. Yet it had taken little persuasion to encourage him to open up once he understood her reasons. He had listened to her, had troubled himself to understand what she was telling him, and had admitted the wisdom of it too. She suspected there were few men who would do so, and that she had found a man who was not only protective and kind but fair-minded was quite the most wonderful realisation. That it had happened in such odd circumstances made her wonder about fate and whether perhaps they had been destined to meet that day. She had thought him fanciful for suggesting she belonged in this place because she had lived there in another lifetime, but she liked how he had shared the idea with her.

Delia was used to being the only one with whimsical or peculiar notions, and it was a delight to discover Muir had his own quirks that somewhat mirrored her own. It was certainly a romantic notion, but she found now it was easier to believe than she might have imagined. Though she did not have his understanding or knowledge of the land around them, she felt the pull of it, the weight of history in every vista she looked upon, a peaceful sense of being part of a story that had begun long, long ago, and would continue long after she had gone.

Muir gave a soft snore, and she smiled, accepting the feeling that pushed at her heart, expanding in her chest and filling her up. Like it or not, she was falling for this man, and if he still wished to marry her, she would say yes.

Muir stirred, aware of the scent of chamomile and a profound sense of peace. Sleepily, he registered the feel of Delia's hand toying with his hair and slitted his eyes open. She had laid back against the stooks, her eyes closed and a smile at her lips that really ought to be kissed. He watched her for a while longer, allowing himself a moment to wake fully, before he shifted to his knees, so quickly she exclaimed with alarm, but the sound was lost in the kiss he gave her as she relaxed into his embrace. She sighed, and he broke the kiss, looking down at her with a smile.

"You startled me, you wicked man, and I was having a lovely daydream too," she scolded him.

"About me, I hope?"

"You might have been in it," she teased him, then squealed as he tickled her.

Having discovered her waist was extremely sensitive, Muir took full advantage of the fact, and she shrieked and wriggled delightfully.

"Yes! Yes, you were in it!" she cried, trying to fend his hands off.

"Ah, now yer sure, aye?"

"I am sure. Very sure," she said, breathing hard now.

His gaze drifted to the bodice of her gown, to the way her breasts rose and fell beneath the confines of the material.

"Yer laced very tightly, lassie. I reckon ye will do yerself an injury, getting all het up and squealing when Yer so confined." Saying so, he reached for the buttons on her bodice, undoing each one deftly.

"It's not particularly tight, and you were the one making me squeal," she pointed out indignantly, though he noticed with satisfaction that she did not stop him. Indeed, she helped him remove the jacket and turned obligingly so he might loosen her stays.

"Yer skin is the finest thing I ever touched," he murmured, stroking his fingers over the swell of her breasts. "Ye dinnae mind me touching ye so?"

She shook her head. "You know I like it. I like you. There's little point in denying it. You said as much yourself."

"Aye, and ye told me I was an arrogant lummox."

"So you are, but you're right. Kiss me," she said, reaching for him.

Muir did not need asking twice, pressing her back down into the straw, delighting in the feel of her body close to his.

"Tha thu bòidheach," he murmured, as he dragged his mouth from hers to kiss a path along her jawline, nipping at her ear and nuzzling the tender skin beneath. He tugged at her loosened bodice, giving a little groan of pleasure as her breasts were revealed to him. Muir bent his head, taking one rose pink tip into his mouth and suckling as she gasped and slid her hands into his hair, holding him against her. His hand sought and found the hem of her gown and the froth of petticoats and slid beneath. Her silk-covered calf was warm, and his palm slid easily up and up, his body tightening with anticipation. "Yer so lovely, Delia. Ye taste like heaven. Will ye let me touch ye?" "You are touching me," she murmured, sounding breathless and a little confused.

Muir chuckled softly.

"And I am a greedy devil. I want more, lassie. I want to touch ye everywhere, like here," he said, and her breath caught as she felt his fingers part the slit in her drawers, tickling the soft thatch of curls he'd discovered in that private place. "Is this all right?" he asked, his voice low in her ear.

She pressed her face into his neck, her breath a wash of damp heat over his skin.

"Delia?" he prompted, hearing the husky note of his own voice. He thought he might go mad if she did not answer him, or worse, told him no.

"Yes," she whispered, hiding her face from him as his fingers slicked over her.

"Look at me," he commanded, smiling as she did as he asked. Her cheeks were a ruddy pink that made him want to kiss her, so he did, gently and carefully. "Yer lovely, Delia, and there's nothing to feel embarrassed about."

She seemed to take his words as truth, for she closed her eyes and sighed as he caressed her. Muir kissed her again, harder and deeper, and urged her on as she squirmed beneath his touch, her breath catching and holding as her body stilled, thrumming with tension.

"That's the way, sweetheart. Now, let go," he murmured. "I've got ye."

She did as he bid her, a soft cry leaving her mouth as her body shook with pleasure. She clung to him, convulsing in his arms. Muir watched her take her pleasure with tender amazement and held her close to him as her breath came in rapid gasps, struck to the core by the trust she had put in him, and by how much it meant to him, by how much she meant to him.

For once, however, he did not spoil things by opening his mouth and demanding he marry her. He had learned his lesson about crashing in and laying down the law, stomping all over her own thoughts and desires. Instead, he just revelled in the moment, in the certainty growing in his heart that they had a wonderful future together, that her future was with him, here at the farm, and that she belonged here in his life, forever.