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Chapter 8

Dearest Rex,

I hope this letter reaches you before you leave for Scotland. Please don't come!

Understand that it's not because I do not wish to see you. It's only that there is nothing you can do here, and I do not wish for poor Emmeline to endure that horrid journey in her condition. I also know what a trial such a journey would be to you, and there is no need for you to undertake it.

If I decide I shall marry Muir, I will, of course, let you know, but for the moment, we are just taking some of time to get to know each other. I confess I have fallen in love with this place, if not yet with my husband to be.

Wildsyde Castle is beautiful, rugged and remote, set in an untamed landscape that is like nothing I have ever known before. Lady Buchanan has been so wonderfully kind too and has welcomed me like a sister. I have also visited Muir's property, which is quite different and wonderfully modern, but just as lovely in its own way. I believe I could be happy in this place, Rex. It gives me a deep sense of peace and freedom that I have never experienced elsewhere.

Please rest assured that I will keep you appraised regarding my plans and do not worry about me. For the moment, I am happy and well looked after and there is nothing for you to fret about.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Lady Cordelia Steyning to her brother, The Most Hon'ble Leander Steyning, The Marquess of Wrexham.

30 th March 1850, Wildsyde Castle, The Highlands of Scotland.

It was two days before Muir returned to Wildsyde to visit Delia. He was not quite certain why he had stayed away. Though it was a busy time and he'd hardly had a moment to spare, he knew well enough that he would have found a way if he'd really wanted to. Something held him back, and try as he might, he could not put his finger on what it was.

The kiss lingered in his mind, memories of holding Delia in his arms returning to him at inopportune moments. When he'd finally fallen into bed, she'd been there the moment he had closed his eyes, and he relived those private moments all over again. Remembering the feel of her in his arms, her innocent ardour, the honeyed taste of her lips and the fresh, meadowsweet scent of chamomile, his body stirred restlessly, and he'd had the devil's own job finding sleep, despite his fatigue.

Now, as he handed his horse over to a groom and walked up to the front door, he was aware of a sense of anticipation, of excitement, and wondered why he'd been so foolish not to come before now. He'd offered this woman marriage, and he thought now that it was not such an outrageous notion as he'd first believed, yet how could he be certain if he avoided her?

"Numpty," he muttered as he let himself in the castle and hollered to the inhabitants that he'd arrived.

"Oh, ye have decided to show yer face, have ye?" Lyall said, regarding Muir with annoyance as he appeared from the door of his study.

Murdoch walked past his master, tail wagging, and Muir bent to make a fuss of the dog before returning his attention to his brother.

"Aye, I've been invited to dine with ye," Muir said, following Lyall back into his study.

His brother lifted the whisky decanter in Muir's direction with a questioning lift of one eyebrow.

"Aye, please. A wee dram will warm me up. It's bitter out today. How's Delia?" he asked nonchalantly, watching Murdoch return to his wives who were sleeping in front of the fire.

"Why don't ye ask her?" Lyall enquired, passing Muir a glass containing a healthy dose of the amber liquid. "Ye could have asked her yesterday too, or the day before that."

"Ach, I've been busy," Muir said defensively. "She's well, though?"

"Aye."

Lyall sat down, regarding his brother speculatively. Muir tsked, annoyed by the sensation of being judged and found wanting. Mostly because he knew it was justified.

"Well, what d'ye make of her, now ye have had her company for a few days?"

Muir watched, genuinely wanting to know Lyall's opinion. His brother's first marriage had been a disaster and for a time had made Lyall both cynical and deeply distrustful, yet marriage to Luella had changed that, and Muir knew his opinion now would be both measured and worth listening to.

"She's too good for you."

Muir glowered at him. "If yer just going to insult me—"

"Haud yer wheesht," Lyall said, amusement glinting in his eyes. "I like the lassie. She's an original, aye? I mean, if patter was water, she'd drown, but she's entertaining. For all her odd ways and notions, Lady Cordelia is nae a little pea goose that chatters about nothing."

Muir was about to ask precisely what she'd been talking about when his sister-in-law appeared.

"Oh, you're here," she said, with rather less enthusiasm than she usually showed him.

"Aye, well ye invited me, did ye nae?"

"Yes, because I feared you would ignore your fiancée for another two days if I did not do something. Good heavens, Muir, what are you playing at? She's a lovely girl who's endured a horrific ordeal. You've brought her here after proposing marriage, and then dumped her among strangers. What are you thinking?"

Something that felt horribly like shame curdled in Muir's belly, making the whisky turn sour as heat crept up the back of his neck. Luella had said nothing he didn't know already.

"Aye, I'm—" he hesitated, clearing his throat. "I'm sorry."

"You'd be better off telling her, not me," Luella said tartly. "I mean, I know you're busy, but I'd think in the circumstances—"

"Aye! I ken I have nae acted very well, there's nae need to batter me about the heid with it," he said impatiently.

"Well, why did you stay away, then?" Luella demanded. "If you knew that?"

Muir shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "I dinnae ken why. I like her well enough, it's just… I suppose I still feel a wee bit resentful towards her, and aye, I ken it is nae her fault, but it's how I feel, trapped in a cage someone else made."

"I suppose that's understandable," Luella said with a sigh. "But it's cruel to lead her on if you think you can't give her a future here. Not to mention her reputation will be further damaged, the longer she stays."

"I'm nae leading her on," Muir said crossly. "I'm just… ach, I dinnae ken what. I'll be better, aye. I promise."

"Very well," Luelle said, giving him a hard look. "I shall hold you to that. Now come along, dinner is ready."

The two men followed Luella out of the room and Muir glanced up at the staircase, just in time to see Delia come down it. Tonight, the gown she wore was blue, and a mad confection of ruffles and lace and bows.

Muir blinked, thinking she looked like a Christmas fairy and not disliking what he saw in the least. She looked adorable, like a beautifully wrapped gift just for him. Muir wondered then just how long it might take him to unwrap her and found his mind returning to the kiss they'd shared. Ye great numpty, ye could have kissed her again if ye were nae such a blithering idiot!

"Good evening, my lady," he said, smiling at her as she descended the last steps. He held out his hand, uncertain of the look she gave him but relieved when she placed her hand in his. He lifted it to his mouth, kissing her fingers before glancing up at her. "Forgive me for nae having been to visit ye. I promise ye, I am regretting it sorely in this moment, for yer the prettiest thing I ever did see."

"Are you trying to fleech me?" she asked, a sceptical glint in her eyes.

He laughed, pleased as he always was by her frankness. "Nae, lassie, and who taught ye that?"

"Mrs Baillie," she said, and he was relieved that she was now smiling at him. "I'm learning a good deal, you see."

"Aye, so it seems, but nae, I didnae seek to coax or flatter ye, it was only the truth. Ye look bonnie."

Colour pinked her cheeks, and she seemed to glow at the compliment, making him wonder if she was unused to such praise. Surely not, for she was a beautiful woman and that much must be evident to at least the meanest intelligence.

"My brother was thoughtful enough to forward some of my things so I'm not beholden to Luella," she said, stroking a hand over the skirts of her gown.

"Ye looked very well in everything I've seen ye wear, but that is rather splendid. Ye look like a fancy French dessert."

"Oh," she said, apparently quite taken by this description. "I think that's the nicest thing anyone ever said to me. Most people think I wear too many bows and frills, but I like pretty things and it makes me happy to wear them, so—"

"So ye should wear them and to the devil with what anyone else thinks," he said firmly. "But if ye want my opinion, I think ye look very fetching indeed."

Much to his surprise, she lifted onto her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you, Muir."

Her voice was soft and seemed to wrap around him, a caressing sound that soothed away sharp edges. Muir gazed down at her, transfixed and finding he could not look away. "Ye have the bluest eyes," he said, almost to himself, for he felt momentarily adrift, like he'd been swept away by a warm Mediterranean tide.

"If ye dinnae come now, it will all be ruined," said a tart voice from farther along the corridor.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Mrs Baillie, we are coming," Delia said hastily, hurrying past Muir and breaking the spell she seemed to have cast upon him.

Shaking himself and wondering what had come over him, Muir followed her into the dining room.

The meal was an excellent one, which was hardly surprising for Mrs Baillie took a deal of pride in her work and, knowing her rival's master would eat at her table, had excelled herself. Having known Muir and his brothers since the day they were born, she knew their favourites off by heart, so he was pleased but not astonished when his favourite pudding appeared before him.

"Ach, Mrs Baillie is hoping ye will tell Mrs Paterson how good the fare was tonight," Lyall said with a laugh, watching the footman spoon a generous serving of Clootie dumpling onto his plate.

"Well, she'll be sorely disappointed," Muir said, pulling a face. "It may be the best thing I ever ate, but I'll still nae tell Mrs Paterson. That woman is terrifying enough as it is. I'm feart of what she'll do tae me if I say such a daft thing."

Delia laughed, accepting her own serving of pudding with interest. "What's it called?" she asked him.

"'Tis a clootie dumpling," Muir said, grinning at her. "It's a kind of spiced fruit cake but boiled instead of baked in the oven. Ye have made it a time or two, have ye nae, Luella?"

"Yes, and I'm waiting to see if Lyall thinks it's better than mine," she said, smiling sweetly at her husband, who froze with a spoonful suspended before his mouth.

"Aye, now ye see the difficulty," Muir said to him, snorting with laughter.

"Of course, 'tis nae better," Lyall said, holding her gaze.

"You haven't tried it yet," Luella pointed out dryly.

"I dinnae need to. Yer pudding was made with love, so it stands to reason, it is the better of the two."

"Ach, I had nae idea ye were such a smooth talker, Lyall," Muir taunted, but Lyall ignored him in favour of concentrating on his dessert.

"Good evening, and where did you come from?"

Muir turned back to Delia to discover Murdoch had appeared in the dining room and was sitting beside her, his nose twitching. The great dog was favouring her with a beseeching expression.

"It is very good, yes," Delia said conversationally, just as if Murdoch had asked the question. "Yes, I know you would, but I think Lord Buchanan would tell me off," she carried on, enjoying her dessert and keeping up the conversation.

Murdoch made a pitiful sound and put one great paw up on her knee. Delia tutted at him.

"Sir, unhand me. You are a deal too bold. I ask you, is that any way for a gentleman to behave? Shame on you."

With a resigned grumble, Murdoch laid down at her feet and sighed heavily.

"Well, if you behave very nicely, I might save you a bit. How's that?" she offered, and Muir gave a startled laugh as the dog's tail thumped on the ground.

"I think he understood ye!" he exclaimed.

Delia looked up at him in surprise. "Of course he did, he's not stupid," she said indignantly.

"The dog is nae stupid," Lyall said with a smirk. "I cannae speak for my brother," he added, regarding Muir, who rolled his eyes at him before turning back to watch Delia with interest.

What a strange and rather fascinating girl she was.

Delia enjoyed the rest of the evening more than she could remember doing for a long while. She felt very much at ease at Wildsyde, in a way she had never accomplished outside of her brother's home. Lyall and Luella were amiable company, neither judging her nor expecting anything of her. Even the formidable Mrs Baillie had been kind, welcoming her into the kitchen when Luella decided she had a yearning to make scones and taking Delia with her. They'd chatted as Luella had guided her through the simple recipe, and then all three women had sat together and eaten the scones with butter and jam and a cup of tea.

The thought that Delia might sit at the table drinking tea and gossiping with the snooty French chef her brother employed was ridiculous, and if she had contracted a fashionable marriage, it would have been equally unlikely such a thing would be possible. Undoubtedly, Mrs Paterson was not a warm or friendly presence and the idea that she might welcome Delia's intrusion into her domain was hard to believe. However, the notion remained that Delia could create an atmosphere like this at Muir's farm, that she need not be the grand lady her father had always expected her to be. Delia had known she would fail miserably if she tried. Imagining herself running a vast household and directing an army of servants and giving endless dinner parties to fashionable people had brought her out in a cold sweat. Nights like this one, however, with family or very close friends, that she could do.

After dinner, instead of leaving the men to their port as she might have expected, they all retired to the family drawing room and relaxed with a glass of whisky until Luella cleared her throat.

"Lyall, would you come with me a moment? I meant to ask you before, but there's something I need to discuss with you," she said, setting down her empty glass and getting to her feet.

"What?" Lyall asked blankly, gazing at her in surprise.

"A… A letter," Luella said, avoiding looking at anyone else. "It came earlier."

"Who's it from?" Lyall demanded, frowning. "Is there a problem? Why did ye nae tell me before?"

"No, there's no problem," Luella said impatiently, glaring at her husband. "I just need to speak to you about it… now ," she added, a warning note to the word that Lyall could not escape.

"Well, I dinnae see why I ye must bring it up now when we are all relaxing and—"

"Lyall!" Luella said, throwing up her hands and stalking from the room.

Lyall shot them a look of bewilderment before going after her and closing the door.

Hardly daring to meet his eye, Delia glanced at Muir, whose shoulders were shaking silently. She gave a bark of laughter which set him off and it took them a few moments to regain their composure.

"Lord, and he thinks I'm daft," Muir said, wiping his eyes. "She is nae subtle, is our Luella."

"I don't think subtlety works on Lord Buchanan," Delia replied with amusement.

"Aye, true enough. Us Anderson men generally need clouting over the heid with something before we take notice, ye ken."

"I had remarked as much," Delia replied, holding his gaze.

"Why, ye wee devil. I do believe yer insulting me," he said, though he looked pleased rather than annoyed by her sally. "Though if yer trying to say I have nae noticed ye, I'm afraid yer far and wide of the mark."

"You surprise me, sir, for I would think it is difficult to notice someone who is not in your company."

Delia felt her heart pounding, wondering if she ought to have said that, but she refused to act the shrinking violet. He'd said himself he needed clouting over the head, so she would spell it out to him in no uncertain terms. She was not so foolish she did not know when someone was avoiding her. But Delia had spent the past days in a state of agitated anticipation, wondering when she would see him again, and if he would kiss her. When he had so obviously stayed away, it had made her feel foolish and vulnerable and more than a little cross.

To her surprise, he did not immediately try to defend himself, nor make excuses. Instead, his voice lowered to something dark and intimate that made everything feminine in her quiver with anticipation.

"Ah, well, that's where yer wrong, lassie. For even when ye were nae by me, I noticed ye. I have nae been able to keep that kiss from my mind."

"Then why didn't you come?" she demanded, wishing the question had not sounded so needy and plaintive. "I… I felt foolish, for your brother and Luella plainly expected you to come, despite you being busy. I wish you would be honest, for if you do not want me here—"

Before she could finish the sentence, he had moved, getting to his feet and closing the distance between them. Delia gasped as he knelt beside her chair and reached for her hand.

"Forgive me, Delia. I have behaved badly, and yer right to scold me. I promise ye I meant nae insult. I just…" He sighed and ran his free hand through his hair, making it into an untidy tangle. Delia longed to smooth it back down again but did not quite dare. "Ye remember I told ye I was a naughty wee laddie when I was a bairn?"

"Yes," Delia said, smiling at his words. "I remember."

"Aye, well. If anyone told me I must do something, I did the complete opposite. I dinnae ken why. Often as not, I quite wanted to do what they had asked me, but there is a wee devil in me that sometimes makes me act the fool. I thought I had it in order these days, but—"

"But the idea that you must marry me is making you fight the idea," she guessed.

"Aye. That's it in a nutshell," he said, watching her face. "Do ye understand? 'Tis nae because I dinnae like ye, I just… I can't abide it when my hand is forced."

"I did not force you to offer for me," Delia reminded him gently.

"I ken that very well," he said quietly. "'Twas my own idea, and I'm thinking it wisnae a bad one. All the same—"

Delia nodded, contemplating him as an idea occurred to her. "In that case, I release you from your offer, Mr Anderson."

"What?" he said, sounding shocked. "Lassie, I dinnae mean to say I would nae marry ye. I just—"

"I understand that very well," she replied, hoping this was the right tack to take. "And I am grateful to you. But it seems to me we are going about this all wrong. You are an honourable man, but I do not wish to marry someone who does not want me. So, I will release you from your offer. We shall not marry. But I shall stay on here at Wildsyde for a little longer, for I do love it here. If, in that time, I find someone I wish to marry, and who wishes to marry me, then all to the good. If I do not, I shall return home, and there will be no hard feelings on either side."

Muir stared at her, his expression troubled.

"Don't look so vexed," she said soothingly. "We shall go on as before, and see what happens, but now we can just be friends and get to know each other, with no pressure or expectations on either side."

"I am nae vexed," he said, though he sounded it to her ear. "I'm just a—"

"What?" she asked when he failed to finish the sentence.

"Ach, I'm disappointed," he said irritably. "I have been thinking of kissing ye all night and I cannae do so if we are just friends."

Despite herself, Delia laughed at his predicament. "You are a spoilt boy who wants what he can't have," she told him sternly.

"Aye, I ken that well enough," he grumbled, releasing her hand and slumping against the chair she sat on.

With her heart beating in her throat, Delia reached out and smoothed the tangle he'd made of his hair, running her fingers through what felt like warm silk. He sighed, tilting his head to allow her to continue.

"That's nice," he said, and Delia smiled, feeling as though she was petting a friendly lion.

He was so big, not only in size but his presence seemed to eat up the space in the room, dominating it and her every thought whenever he was near. How frustrating that the more she saw of him, the more she wished to make a life with him, and the farther away he seemed to get. Unless, perhaps, she did something about that. Unless there was a way to draw him closer again.

"You could still kiss me, if I allowed it," she said, certain that her heart had leapt from her chest to her throat, for it seemed to be beating there now.

He was still for a moment, and then he moved, shifting back to his knees, his gaze intent. Delia swallowed. He still seemed like a lion in the amber glow of the firelight that highlighted the gold and russet glints in his hair, gilding his skin, but now he seemed less friendly and more likely to eat her in one bite.

"I could?" he said, and she appreciated the question she heard there, even though the glint in his eyes made her pulse speed faster still.

She nodded, as an audible reply seemed to be beyond her, breathing was enough of a challenge just now. Heat swept over her skin, that odd tickling feeling in her belly morphing into something stronger, like wings beating as her blood raced through her veins.

Muir considered her for a long moment, before shifting to kneel in front of her. He braced his hands on the arms of the chair and leaned in. "I kissed ye the last time," he murmured, never taking his eyes from her. "Reckon ye owe me one."

Delia's eyebrows shot up. "Owe you?" she repeated, startled.

"Aye. 'Tis yer turn to kiss me," he said, a challenging note to his words.

The temptation to tell the arrogant lout to go to the devil warred with her own desire to do just as he asked. Deciding she'd not cut off her nose to spite her face, she gathered her nerves, not a straightforward task as they seemed to be leaping about like mad rabbits. Leaning in, she pressed her mouth firmly against his, and then remembered how he had kissed her over and over… tiny, soft kisses that had melted her from the inside out. So, she softened her lips against his, and repeated his actions, finding heat washing over her as he met each kiss with one of his own.

He did not move, nor try to touch her, just held still as she kissed him. Emboldened, she remembered next the shocking touch of his tongue, and the beguiling slide and caress as it moved against her own. Wondering how she dared, she ran her tongue over his lower lip, her confidence soaring as she heard his breath catch. His mouth opened and though she had instigated the kiss, she felt the moment when he took control of it, demanding more of her and deepening the kiss to something she felt to her very bones.

Delia was hardly aware of him pressing closer. At first, she did not realise he had insinuated his body between her legs, that she had opened her thighs to let him move closer. She realised it now as his body pressed against hers, the heat of him blazing through his clothes. A large, warm hand wrapped around her ankle and slid higher up her calf, where his fingers toyed with the sensitive skin at the back of her knee. Giddy with sensations she did not know what to do with, Delia was uncertain how to respond. She did not want him to stop, yet she was aware she had swum into deep water. This was turning into far more than a kiss, and yet she wanted him to want her, wanted him to want the future they might find together if only he would not keep underestimating her.

His left hand followed the same path the right had taken, and her mind tried to sort out the jumble of feelings, the pleasure of his kisses that turned her mind to warm honey, the distracting heat of his hands sliding up her thighs that seemed to make tiny fireworks explode deep inside her. The whole experience was so diverting, she did not hear the turn of the doorknob, and apparently neither did Muir, for the two of them leapt apart at the sound of a voice in the doorway.

"Oh! Beggin' yer pardon. Excuse me, sir! I thought ye had gone to bed and came to clear up. So sorry…"

Delia watched in dismay as a maid darted from the room and firmly closed the door behind her.

"Christ," Muir said furiously, raking a hand through his hair. "Forgive me, Delia. I ought not to have taken the chance. Damn Mrs Baillie, she's a sight too efficient in keeping the maids on their toes."

"It's fine, really," Delia said shakily, though her cheeks were blazing with mortification, her lips pink and swollen from his kisses. The sight only made him feel more wicked, for desire still ran in his veins, making him unsettled and frustrated with himself, her and the blasted maid.

"It's nae in the least fine! Scandal in England might nae touch ye here, but gossip runs wild in a place like this, and the girl saw me with my hands under yer skirts. 'Tis nae good at all, Delia. Damn me, but I ought to ken better than that when the staff are still about. I do!" he added furiously.

"It's not your fault. It was my idea, after all. I ought to have stopped you," she replied, frowning. "Only I couldn't," she added sadly, making him feel worse than ever.

"I ken that well enough, and I beg your forgiveness, lass." He sighed, shaking his head, knowing there was no choice now, he'd made his bed. "I'm afraid ye will have to marry me now."

There was a taut silence which set his instincts prickling.

"No," she said, the word stark and hard, and she sounded quite in control again, which was more than he could say. "There is no need for that. I'm ruined already, so it hardly matters."

"It hardly matters?" he repeated, aghast, wondering how she could be so calm when she had ruined herself in the one corner of their world where her reputation had not been entirely shredded. He shifted closer to her again, still on his knees, trying to reach for her hand but she removed it from his grasp. "Dinnae talk such rot. Ye ken well enough what people will think of ye after everything that happened to get ye here. Dinnae be so damned foolish, Delia. I may no' be yer choice, but I'm considered a fine catch, ye ken. Ye could do worse."

"I know very well what the situation is," she told him, and he noticed the glint of anger in her eyes but was too overwrought to heed it.

"Says the girl who, by morning, everyone will ken let me put my hands under her skirts," he retorted, and immediately wished the words unsaid as she flushed scarlet. "Delia," he began, but she got to her feet, pushing past him in such a rush he fell back on his arse.

"Goodnight, Mr Anderson," she said coldly, stalking toward the door.

Muir hurried after her, catching hold of her hand. "Forgive me, Delia. I ought never to have said that. I… I'm sorry, lassie. The truth is, I want ye something fierce, which is the reason my brain has gone begging."

She glared at him, her eyes so bright they put him in mind of driftwood fires he'd made on the beach as a lad, watching the blue flames dance against the sky. "It seems to me that you only want the things you cannot have. Goodnight, sir," she said, and left the room with the dignity of a queen.

Muir stared at the door before cursing himself soundly for making such a hash of what had been a wonderful evening.

"Ach, ye great gowk, now ye have ruined everything!"

For one thing was certainly true, she was right. He had avoided her the past days because he'd felt trapped and annoyed. Now he wanted her badly, and knowing she'd have none of him now was enough to make him mad as fire at his own stupidity. Well, she would simmer down, and he would make it up to her, he told himself. She wanted him right enough, that much was clear. So, all he had to do was grovel a bit, and he'd be back in her good graces.

Thank the lord she was a kindly and forgiving sort, a woman who would not hold a grudge nor be unfair. She'd be a wonderful mother, he realised, suddenly picturing a domestic scene with little ones playing at his feet. The idea pleased him more than he'd bargained for, giving him a warm sense of wellbeing that he'd not expected.

"Aye, well, tomorrow is another day," he said, determining to come back in the afternoon, bearing flowers and a dejected expression that was bound to touch her tender heart.

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