Chapter 12

Dear Ash,

I'm sorry to do this to you but I must leave in the morning for Sheffield. I've a deal to wrap up down there and I'm likely to be away for a few weeks. I just wondered if you'd seen much of Larkin recently. He's been burning the candle at both ends for the past two weeks and I'm worried about him. He's either painting or drinking, or painting and drinking, and whilst I'd be the first to admit the work he's producing is the best I've seen from him, I'm worried. Perhaps you could look in on him and see he eats something and gets some sleep?

―Excerpt of a letter from Mr Felix Knight (son of Lady Helena and Mr Gabriel Knight) to Mr Ashton Anson (son of The Right Hon'ble Silas and Aashini Anson, The Viscount and Viscountess Cavendish).

18 th April 1850, Brabster Farm, The Highlands of Scotland.

"'Tis a fine sight," Dugald said with a weary grin, watching the field of sheep with new lambs gambolling about in the spring sunshine.

"That it is," Muir said, stretching and trying to unlock the knots in his back. "And I'm so glad it's over."

"Aye, well, it's an excellent tally. We lost less than last year overall and we've more lambs, so ye ought to count ye blessings, aye? What with that pretty lass smiling at ye like ye hung the moon."

"Does she, then?" Muir asked before he could think better of the question.

"Aye, she does, ye gowk," Dugald said with a snort of laughter. He shook his head at Muir and sighed. "I swear youth is wasted on the young. Go put a ring on her finger, laddie, and do it quick afore she comes to her senses."

Muir laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Aye, Dugald, it's sound advice, I reckon."

"It is at that, and she'll be here any moment, so ye ought to tidy yerself, aye? A lass does nae want her beau smelling of sheep, or worse, when he goes on bended knee."

Muir sniffed suspiciously at his armpit and pulled a face. "Ye may have a point at that," he said ruefully, and then turned, his heart lifting as he heard a feminine voice calling him until he realised it did not sound like Delia.

"Ach, here's trouble," Dugald said sourly, eyeing the new arrival with disfavour.

Muir sighed, no more enthusiastic than Dugald as he saw Rona Telfer wave at him from atop a sturdy Highland pony. People hereabouts held Rona in high regard for the way she ran her father's sheep farm. She rode astride like a man and could curse and drink like one, too. Muir had knocked about with her a good deal as a lad, but had only ever considered her a friend, finding her temper too erratic and her tongue a deal too sharp for comfort. Rona, however, had made no secret of her desire for him, so in recent years he had done his best to avoid her as her pursuit of him had become a trial. She seemed not to be able to take no for an answer.

"Rona," he said, nodding as she leapt down from the pony, giving him a good view of a pair of shapely legs before she strode over.

"Good morning, Muir," she said, coming over to stand beside him and looking at the sheep with approval. "It is a fine healthy flock ye have."

"Aye, 'tis. What do ye want, Rona?" he asked bluntly, long ago having learned that a direct tactic was best.

She shrugged, gazing at him with a glint in her eyes he did not mistake. "A private word," she said, her voice softening.

"I'm away, then," Dugald said, striding off before Muir could stop him.

Cursing the man for leaving him to fend off Rona alone, Muir turned back to her. "Well?"

"What this I hear about some little English princess staying here and making sheep's eyes at ye?" she asked, moving closer to him.

Muir took a step back and shrugged. "Ye must mean my betrothed," he said, hoping Delia would forgive him the falsehood, and hopeful it would no longer be false by this afternoon.

"Betrothed? Don't be daft, Muir. Why the devil would ye go marrying some silly little Sassenach chit? Ye need a helpmeet, someone who can work with ye and grow the farm into something greater than it is now." She stepped closer, reaching for him, but Muir grasped her wrists, holding her off.

"'Tis none of yer affair, and the farm is growing just fine, I thank ye. I have made my choice, Rona, and it's not yerself. It would never be, as I'm certain I have told ye afore now."

"But she's nae even Scottish!" Rona said in disgust. "And she disnae ken one end of a sheep from the other. Why in God's name would ye marry such a one?"

"That's none of yer affair, Rona, so keep yer nose out of my business," he said, even as he considered the question for his own sake.

A warm feeling burst in his chest as he thought of Delia, of the way she challenged him about everything, of her earnest desire to learn about sheep, about how it felt to hold her in his arms. The realisation that his feelings for her had grown far stronger than he had ever expected over the past weeks had hit him hard yesterday and seemed to grow brighter and stronger with each hour that passed. He was suddenly nervous about asking her again if she would marry him. Though he had no reason to expect her to refuse him—why else had she stayed and begun reading books on sheep? —the idea that she might made him feel slightly sick.

His distraction was such that he did not react quickly enough as Rona threw herself at him, using an old trick she had learned as a girl, and hooking her leg around his, pulling him off balance.

It would never have worked if his thoughts had not been elsewhere but, as it was, Muir went down like a felled tree, with Rona landing atop him. She straddled his hips, pressing herself against him and putting her mouth on his. Muir froze, so shocked he could not react for a moment, and then he reached for her hands that were roaming over his chest, pushing her backwards. He opened his mouth to tell her just what he thought of her behaviour but did not get the chance to speak.

"Good afternoon, Muir. Is everything quite all right? You seem to be having a little difficulty."

Muir glanced up, horrified to see Delia standing beside them, looking down with a placid but politely curious expression on her face.

"Delia!" he exclaimed, panic bursting in his chest. "'Tis nae what it looks like, I swear it."

"Really?" Delia asked, wrinkling her nose. "Because it looked to me as if this young woman—I beg your pardon, I do not know your name," she told Rona with a cool smile. "Well, it looked as though she forced herself upon you."

"Oh," Muir said stupidly, so relieved his wits seemed to have abandoned him. "Aye. In that case, it's exactly what it looks like."

Delia nodded, apparently satisfied by his explanation.

"Rona, this is Lady Cordelia Steyning. My fiancée," he added, shooting a glance at Delia to see how she took this.

Rona, blushing for the first time Muir could ever remember, got to her feet and smoothed her skirts down.

"Rona Telfer," Rona said grudgingly, glaring at Delia.

"Good afternoon, Miss Telfer," Delia said with a smile. "I do hope you will excuse us, but Muir has promised to take me for a picnic, and you know what betrothed persons are like. Three is a crowd."

"Yer really to marry her, then?" Rona said, eyeing Delia's pretty lace-trimmed gown with a disparaging eye.

"Yes, he is. Next week," Delia said, flashing a dazzling smile. "So, you may congratulate us."

"Aye, well… congratulations," Rona said sourly, before stalking off to her pony, mounting unaided, and riding off again.

Muir let out a breath as the woman disappeared. "Thank ye," he said, the words sincere. "And thank ye for not thinking I'd be such a numpty as to play ye false."

"Of course," Delia said, but her voice was uncertain now, her gaze still fixed upon the retreating figure of Rona as she rode away.

"Delia?"

She turned then, looking up at him.

"Did ye mean what ye said, lassie? Will ye marry me next week? For I admit, I have spent the morning getting up the nerve to ask ye again."

"You have?" she asked, her soft mouth curving a little at the corners.

"Aye, and it's nae kind to tease a fellow, so… so will ye?"

She gave him a long-suffering look, and Muir sighed. Well, really, he supposed he ought to know better by now.

He got to one knee and reached for her hand, looking up at her and realising in that moment that there was no one else he wanted. Delia was his choice and would still be his choice if had every woman in the country to pick from. "Delia, would ye do me the very great honour of becoming my wife?"

She hesitated, glancing once more at the now distant figure of Rona.

"Luella told me about her," she said. "And that she had set her cap at you years ago. But I heard too how capable Miss Telfer is. There are those who think you'd make a fine match."

Muir's eyes widened in alarm. "Me and Rona? Then they've nae the sense they were born with. God above, she makes a fine farmer and nae doubt some man will be lucky to wed her, but my wife? Nae, lassie. Rona is nae the woman I'd want to spend the rest of my days with and raise a family. If that's my choice I'll stay a bachelor and I thank ye, but I'd far rather marry ye, Delia, and live with a woman who makes me happy, who makes me smile and makes me think, and is clever enough to learn everything about the farm and the sheep and take me to task if I ever underestimate her again."

"That's really, honestly want you want?" she asked him, her eyes shining.

"Aye, it really, honestly is and I feel a proper pillock on one knee surrounded by sheep, so will ye put me out of my misery, lassie?"

She laughed and shook her head at him before giving a tolerant sigh. "Then, yes, Muir Anderson. I will marry you."

Muir gave a shout of delight and got to his feet, swinging her up into his arms and spinning her around while she shrieked and laughed. When he finally set her down again, she was dizzy and clung to him, which suited Muir just fine as he kissed her until she was breathless.

"Let's have our picnic," she said when he finally released her. "I'm famished."

"So am I," Muir replied, holding her gaze and making her blush, but he took her arm and guided her to the barn where he'd left the basket. It was a quiet spot and one they'd often used over the past weeks. The sun shone through the large barn door, which he left open, but it was out of the wind with a fine view over the countryside.

Delia sat down, watching him as he settled himself beside her before she leaned in and pressed her mouth to his. Surprised, but pleased, Muir waited until she drew back.

"I thought ye were famished?"

"So were you," she countered boldly, and kissed him again, pressing her hands to his chest, pushing. Obediently, Muir lay back against the stooks of sweet-smelling hay as Delia followed him down and shifted, straddling his lap. Muir's breath caught as she settled herself down, his nether regions taking an immediate interest in the intimate position.

"Were you not tempted when Rona—" she began, a flicker of doubt in her eyes as Muir pressed his finger to her lips, silencing her.

"Nae, lass. Not even for a moment. I have never felt that way for Rona, not even when I was a lad. Yerself, however," he said with a wicked grin as he tilted his hips up so she could feel the effect she was having on him. "Yer a sore trial to my gentlemanly instincts, Delia."

"I am?" she said, her eyes widening at the feel of his arousal pressing against her so firmly.

"Aye. Ye have tormented me ever since ye arrived in my life, and worse than ever since ye let me touch ye so sweetly. I have had little enough sleep of late, but what sleep I've managed has been filled with dreams of ye, of having ye in my bed. I may tell ye, I dinnae get a wink last night."

She smiled at that, the expression such a feminine expression of pleased pride that he had to kiss her again. "I want to marry ye today, this minute," he growled in her ear, making her shiver and protest.

"We can't! Mrs Baillie would have a fit. Next week is the soonest I dare ask for," she replied, sighing as he kissed her neck. His hand strayed to her breast and squeezed the soft mound as frustration sung through his veins at the impediment of so much fabric between them.

"But 'tis only Tuesday," he protested. "'Tis too long. Thursday, aye?"

"No!" she said, giggling as he nipped at her earlobe.

"Friday," he countered, tilting his hips again and making her gasp.

"Fr-Friday is impossible," she stammered, increasingly breathless as he took her mouth again and kissed her hard.

"Saturday."

"Saturday?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Saturday," she whispered dreamily as he rolled her onto her back.

"Aye, lassie. Now say, ‘yes, Muir.'"

"Yes, Muir," she murmured, gazing up at him with a hazy look in her eyes he thoroughly approved of.

"That's better," he said, his expression smug, before he bent and kissed her again. His hand slid down her skirts, tracing the shape of her thigh beneath, down over her knee, reaching for the fabric of her gown. "I want ye, Delia. I need to make ye my wife and I dinnae want to wait."

Though he knew he was an impatient wretch, and he ought not to push her, his fingers closed over the hem. He dragged the fabric higher, whispering softly… as a heavy weight descended upon his head, painful sparks exploding behind his eyes as he fell into darkness.

Delia screamed, but the enormous man who had hit Muir so savagely over the head stuffed a foul piece of material into her mouth, silencing her. They were a long way from the farm here, the spot private and hidden from view, which was the reason Muir had chosen it, so she doubted anyone had heard her. He yanked at her arms, tugging her none too gently to her feet as another man hurried over to Muir.

"Christ, did you kill 'im?" A second fellow, smaller and wirier, stepped out of the shadows, regarding Muir with alarm. He crouched to inspect the body, his expression one of anxiety. "I don't want to get brought up on some murder charge."

"I doubt it. Bloody Scots have heads like granite."

"There's a deal of blood," the fellow added, showing the big man his bloody palm.

Delia shrieked around the gag, struggling to get to Muir, but she was held in a bruising grip that no amount of writhing would loosen. "Head wounds always bleed. Just get on and tie him up, and make sure it's good and tight and then cover him with the straw. I don't want to find him on our heels."

As the smaller man worked, the man holding Delia bound her wrists tightly together, the bindings so tight they bit into her skin. She wriggled and tried as hard as she could to get free of him, but it was entirely pointless. Delia could do nothing but stare at Muir in mute despair. He was so still, and there was a good deal of blood pouring from a gash in his head. She prayed the big man was right about him having a hard head and promised herself she would retaliate on Muir's behalf the first chance she got, though her own situation was not looking very promising.

"Hurry," the man holding her grunted as the smaller one covered Muir in the stooks they'd been sitting against earlier.

He hefted Delia over his shoulder like a sack of grain and carried her through the barn and out of the back door where three horses waited. She kicked and struggled as hard as she could, but the fellow didn't seem to notice. He slung Delia over one, her head on one side of the horse while her legs dangled on the other. Tying her tightly in place, he covered her with a thick blanket and ordered the other man to get a move on. Soon they were riding, with Delia jolting over the horse's back in the most uncomfortable and ungainly manner she could imagine. It was all she could do not to throw up, but the idea of being sick with the gag in her mouth forced her to do her utmost to keep calm and her breakfast where it belonged. The painful jouncing and jolting seemed to go on forever, but finally the horses slowed to a walk and then stopped. She heard the men dismounting and Delia thought she heard other horses too, tack jingling and a carriage door opening.

Rough hands snatched the smothering blanket that covered her and undid the ropes tying her to the saddle. Delia slid to the ground in an ungainly heap. She landed on a sharp stone that struck her elbow and made her cry out in pain, but at least it brought her back to her senses. Staring about her, she blinked, trying to make sense of the scene.

"Up you come, my pretty," the big man who had attacked Muir said, grasping her bound arms and hauling her to her feet.

With no other choice, Delia stood, swaying, her gaze focusing on the carriage as a man stepped out. Rage burst through her chest, scalding fury like nothing she had ever experienced burning through her veins as she recognised the man who looked at her with a smile of smug satisfaction.

"Ah, Delia. How glad I am to see you again."