Chapter 9

Lyle,

That serves me right for asking your advice. I shall not do so again. Thanks for nothing.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Hon'ble Mr Hamilton Anderson to The Right Hon'ble Lyall Anderson, Viscount Buchanan.

4 th June 1850, Montagu House, St James's, London.

"There's no point in looking at me like that," Regina Harris said, trying not to laugh as Tilly glared daggers at her. "This is entirely your doing and now we are both missing a visit to the National Gallery. It's me who ought to be glaring at you for making me miss out on such a splendid outing."

Tilly's beautiful face wobbled and then fell, and she ran to Regina, who hastily set her sewing aside before she stabbed the girl with her needle. "I'm sorry, Harry," she said contritely, hugging her tightly. "I know I was very bad, but that lady was such a—"

"Yes, well, we shan't go into that," Regina replied swiftly, who privately thought an ice in the lap was the very least the dim-witted creature had merited. Men were all the same, though. They just wanted a pretty nitwit on their arm, someone they could treat like a dress up doll and put away when they were tired with them. Not all men, she told herself severely, for she disliked injustice and she knew several men who were everything they ought to be. A slight cough in the doorway indicated the arrival of one such.

Harris leapt to her feet, dislodging Tilly as she saw the Marquess of Montagu, Tilly's grandfather, standing in the doorway. It was like looking at a more mature version of her employer, except those cold silver eyes seemed to see through her, which made her exceedingly uneasy.

"My lord," she said, dropping a curtsey as Tilly disengaged herself from her skirts.

"Pops!" the girl cried and ran to Montagu, throwing her arms about him so hard the man let out a soft huff of exclamation.

"Tilly, you little wretch. I do wish you would not try to incapacitate me every time you want a hug," he said mildly. He took the girl by the chin, gazing down at her. "You've been wicked," he observed.

"Only a little bit," she replied stubbornly.

"Tilly," Harris reproved, busying herself with tidying up her sewing so she could turn her back to Montagu. She did not like being near him, for the man was as sharp as a dagger blade and little got past him.

"Oh, well, yes, then. I was dreadful," Tilly said with a sigh. "But I was provoked," she added, folding her arms.

"What have I told you about how to behave when you are provoked, Ottilie Barrington?" Montagu asked gently.

"To imagine I am a block of ice and everyone around me feels the chill," Tilly recited dutifully.

"You allow no one that is not a close friend or family member to see your feelings, child. They do not deserve such intimacy. It matters not what they think of you, that is not your business, anymore than what you think of them is theirs. You do not behave in a manner that is unworthy of the Barrington name. You are Montagu's granddaughter. You will behave as such."

Tilly's bottom lip quivered as she looked up at Montagu. "Yes, Grandpapa," she said, her voice tremulous.

Montagu sighed. "Don't try those tricks on me, you little devil. They may work on your father, but—" He paused and shook his head. "Oh, very well, they work on me, too. Fetch your coat and bonnet. I shall take you out and endure your father's scolding for spoiling you later."

Tilly gave a shriek of delight and hugged Montagu again, harder than before, making him suck in a sharp breath. "Thank you, Pops!" she cried, and ran off to fetch her things.

Montagu watched her go before turning his attention to Regina. "Are you going to scold me, too?"

Regina smiled and shook her head. "She's finding it very hard, knowing her father is looking for a wife."

Montagu nodded, a faraway look in his eyes. "Yes, I understand that very well. She fears she'll be set aside or replaced by his choice, or that his wife will not like or accept her."

"Those are valid concerns," Regina said, for she felt them on Tilly's behalf.

"The last is, the first are not. No one could ever replace her in her father's affections."

"No, my lord," Regina said respectfully.

"Lord Ashburton is of the opinion you neither like nor approve of him," Montagu said, startling her with such a direct statement.

Regina opened and closed her mouth before gathering her wits. "My opinion of Lord Ashburton is of no relevance. I do my job, and I do it well. So long as my work is of the highest standard, my private opinions are none of his business," she added, throwing his own words back at him.

Montagu's lips twitched. "Well done," he said approvingly. "Now fetch your coat and hat. You may accompany us."

"Oh, but—" Regina said, not wanting to do anything that involved spending time with Montagu.

"No buts, Mrs Harris," Montagu replied, turning and walking away.

Ten minutes later and Tilly and Regina were ensconced in Montagu's luxurious carriage, making the brief journey to Gunters. Tilly chattered happily to her grandfather, who seemed to delight in his granddaughter's company. Not that Regina blamed him for that. Spoiled she might be, but Tilly was lively and clever, a quick-witted child who was an entertaining companion. She was also kind-hearted and loving, and she deserved a mother who would guide her through the coming years, for Tilly would be a beauty one day and then she would need careful handling. Regina could not help but worry, for both their sakes. She enjoyed her life as Tilly's governess, though the realisation had come as a surprise to her. Once upon a time she had longed for a husband, some romantic figure to come and rescue her from a life where her future had not been her own. It was her own now, but it was by no means secure.

The elegant tea shop fell silent as Montagu walked in, every head turning to stare at him, and then at Tilly. He ignored the gazes as he always did, encased in the ice he was teaching Tilly to cultivate. A hushed murmur of voices rose after the initial silence, with women raising fans to whisper behind as they stared at Tilly. Regina hurried forward, about to take the girl's hand, for she could see the blush rising to the child's cheeks, but Montagu looked down at Tilly and their eyes met. Tilly put up her chin, adopting a cool, haughty expression that was an echo of her grandfather's.

Montagu winked surreptitiously at the girl and took her hand, and Regina felt an unexpected lump in her throat at the silent exchange.

They enjoyed a lavish tea, with Montagu choosing a ridiculously indulgent selection of cream cakes and buns. Regina was rather startled to discover herself enjoying the outing. Once they had eaten far more than Regina thought quite proper for any of them, though she did not regret a single crumb, Montagu escorted them out again.

"I rather regret dismissing the carriage," he said with a sigh. "I thought the walk would do us good after such a disgusting display of indulgence, but I'm not sure I can make it," he said sadly, resting an elegant, gloved hand on a stomach that was as flat now as it had surely been in his youth.

"Silly, Pops. Of course we can," Tilly said scornfully, taking his hand and tugging on it as if she would drag him down the road.

"Child, I am not a dog on a lead, kindly stop pulling at me," he complained, though without heat.

"Tilly, you will walk like a young lady, please. We do not want your grandfather to think I have taught you nothing. He might have me dismissed."

Though she had said it merely in jest, a look of pure panic crossed Tilly's face, and she clung to her grandfather's hand. "You wouldn't do that, would you, Pops? Not Harry? I couldn't bear it if Harry left me. Not that. Please?"

"Calm yourself," Montagu said, gazing down at his granddaughter in surprise. "Of course I shall do no such thing. Whatever do you take me for?"

Tilly let out an uneven breath, struggling to calm herself. "I-I apologise, Grandfather. I just… I'm sorry," she said helplessly.

"It's all right," Montagu said, stroking her hair. "Go on now. Isn't that Lady St Clair up ahead? Tell her what a wicked child you've been. She'll enjoy that." He smiled at her and Tilly's expression smoothed out, the happiness returning to her eyes.

"Yes, Pops."

They walked on in silence for a while as they watched Tilly run ahead and catch up with Lady St Clair and her friends, one of whom was carrying a fat pug. The lady exclaimed with delight and then turned and waved at Montagu, who raised his hand in greeting.

"My granddaughter thinks a great deal of you," Montagu observed.

"I think a great deal of her," Regina replied with a smile, though her heart was beating hard as she felt Montagu's gaze upon her.

"I don't believe I know anything about you, Mrs Harris. Who are your people?"

"Lord Ashburton has all my credentials and letters of recommendation. I'm sure he can tell you all you wish to know," she said hurriedly. "If you'll excuse me, Tilly is about to stroke that dog, and I do not know if it's the kind to bite."

Knowing she had likely done herself no favours, Regina hurried away before Montagu could question her further.

6 th June 1850, Wick, Caithness, Scotland.

"Morning, Angus. I'm sorry to call on ye on yer day off, but I plain forgot to give ye the papers ye asked me for yesterday. If I dinnae do it now, ye will nae have them for a week or more," Hamilton said, smiling at Angus and eyeing him up and down, for he was dressed in his best. "Well, ye are fine as fivepence, man. What's the occasion?"

"Mary and I are taking a walk up to the Old Man of Wick," Angus replied, looking a trifle uneasy.

"Ah, romantic. I didnae ken ye had it in ye," Hamilton teased.

"It's a walking party. A picnic, actually," Angus replied, a trifle defensively. "Malcolm arranged it."

"Oh, aye?"

"I know ye will not like it, but I couldn't say no, and… and it was all arranged, so I figured the best we could do was to go."

"What are ye blethering on about?" Hamilton said in confusion. "Why would I care if ye go walking with yer brother?"

"My brother and Mr Fraser, Miss Fleming, and Miss Halliday," Angus amended, wincing as Hamilton's gaze darkened.

"He's nae business trifling with that lassie."

"Well, I don't know that taking her for a walk in company constitutes trifling," Angus said with a frown.

Hamilton returned a stony look. "Do ye trust yer brother with Miss Halliday, Angus?"

Angus sighed. "Not entirely. That's why I'm going. Though he did ask me, and surely that shows he intends to treat her with respect. Perhaps he means to turn over a new leaf."

"Hmph," was all Hamilton could find to say on that point. He thrust the papers at Angus. "Here. Mind ye keep yer eye on her or ye will have me to answer to."

"Yes, of course," Angus said as Hamilton stalked off.

6 th June 1850, The Old Man of Wick, Caithness, Scotland.

The weather had been kind, a thing Clara suspected was not often said of the region, but today the sky was as clear a blue as she had ever seen, the sun sparkling so brightly on the water it almost hurt her eyes. The Old Man of Wick was a little underwhelming in truth, the ruins of a castle that had once been mighty but now was little more than the base of a square tower. The jut of land on which the castle stood, and the narrow gully into which the sea seethed and thrashed below, however, were spectacular. Every way she turned, the views were dramatic and glorious and made her wish she had even a little skill with a paintbrush for such a scene must call to the artist in everyone. Her heart lifted at the beauty of the scene, and it made her think unexpectedly of Mr Anderson, and his advice to hold on to such moments of happiness and keep them with you. She smiled, thinking she would tell him about it the next time she saw him, and then remembered she was cross with him for being a shocking flirt and her happiness dimmed.

"Are you glad you came?"

Clara turned to discover Mr Stewart beside her. She smiled at him.

"Very," she said truthfully. "It was a lovely walk and I'm looking forward to the picnic. We've been so fortunate with the weather, too," she added, turning her face up to the sun to enjoy the warmth. It was windy on the cliff's edge, but she had taken the precaution of tying her hair securely and fastening her bonnet on with extra hat pins just in case, so that she could appreciate the buffeting of the wind with no fears.

"I'm glad you came," Mr Stewart said, lowering his voice. "So glad. You can have no notion of how beautiful you look with your face turned up to the sun. Like a rose turning towards the warmth of a new day."

Clara looked away, feeling a little awkward. She knew she ought to be flattered by such a poetic turn of phrase. That had been the sort of thing she had hoped for, hadn't it? Yet the reality of it felt different, and she wondered if she was being fickle, if perhaps she was merely a shallow girl whose head had been turned by the handsome Mr Anderson. Unease stirred in her belly. "We should join the others," she said, sending him a cheerful smile. "Miss Fleming will want help with the picnic."

"Miss Fleming has never lifted a finger in her life before. Mary is seeing to the picnic," he said wryly. "Don't be such a goose. Come along with me, just for a little walk to the castle, we'll be in plain view all the way. By the time we return, it will all be ready."

Clara hesitated. It seemed churlish to refuse when he had arranged this day entirely for her pleasure. He had also taken pains to be agreeable and had entertained them all with stories of what his boys had been up to. Malcolm Stewart was everything she had believed she had wanted, so ought she not give him a chance? They would be in plain view, as he said.

"Just a short walk then," she agreed, taking his arm.

"That's the girl," he approved. "Now, tell me how you like Wick. I'm afraid it must seem rather rough and ready after Cambridgeshire."

"A little," Clara admitted. "But I like it. I love being by the sea, and the people have been friendly, though I still don't know many of them well. I was so glad to get to know Miss Fleming, and Mr Frazer seems an amiable man. Thank you for inviting him. I'm so pleased to have been introduced."

"Yes, he's decent enough. A bit stodgy, in more ways than one," he added with a laugh, which Clara thought rather unkind. She had very much liked Mr Frazer, who seemed a kind and jovial young man. He was rather plump, and the walk had made him perspire dreadfully and become very red in the face.

"Do you intend to go home often?" he asked with interest.

"No, I don't think so. It isn't home any longer, after all," she added with a smile. "We had a few friends there, but in all honesty there's not much to return for."

"But your family is there, your grandfather?"

"My grandfather?" Clara repeated in confusion.

"Your grandfather, Baron Marsham?" he said, smiling.

"Oh," Clara said in surprise. "Well, yes, he is still there, I believe. Not that I've ever met him."

"Never met him?" he repeated, sounding shocked. "Why not?"

Clara frowned, a little put out by the bold enquiry which was none of his business. "My father does not see eye to eye with him, I believe. They have not spoken in many years."

Mr Stewart considered this as they walked. "But that sounds like exactly the sort of situation which a doting daughter would take the trouble to remedy. Surely you wish to know the rest of your family? Would you not like to meet your grandfather before he goes to his eternal rest?"

Slanting him a curious glance, Clara considered the question. "I would be curious, I suppose, but everything I have heard of the man from my father and my aunt leads me to believe he has far less interest in me than I have in him. Indeed, he appears to be a cold man who was content to cut my father off."

"Cut him off?" Mr Stewart said in surprise.

Clara nodded, rather wishing she'd not said anything. This was family business and not his affair. "Many years ago."

"Good heavens, but the man is worth a fortune, is he not? Surely your father tried to remedy the situation?"

Feeling a sudden thread of anger, Clara fought to keep her tone calm. "No, sir. Their falling out was of such a nature that my father did not feel comfortable in taking anything from my grandfather again."

And whilst her father had many faults, she could not deny that he had never wavered from that standpoint, when to do so would have greatly increased his own wealth and comfort. From what she knew, her grandfather had been a bully, and her father had stood up to him. For all his shortcomings, she could only admire him for that.

Mr Stewart stood looking out to sea, a pensive expression in his eyes.

"Who told you about my grandfather?" she asked, wondering how he'd gained such knowledge.

"I think Miss Fleming mentioned it. Her father wished to know if you were from a good family before she called on you, so he asked around."

"I see." Though the information was a little irksome, she could not blame Miss Fleming's father for his caution, which was quite normal. Mr Stewart's interest was more difficult to dismiss. She supposed she could not blame him for wanting a wealthy wife, anymore than she could Clara for desiring a rich husband. Still, it was hardly flattering. "I think we ought to return now," Clara said, feeling suddenly uneasy.

"Not yet," Mr Stewart said as she went to turn away. He grasped her hand, giving her a swift smile. "You've not seen the castle, and we've come all this way."

"There's little to see, sir," she replied calmly, though his hand was holding hers too tightly. It sent an odd sensation rippling through her and she wondered if she was being foolish. If Mr Anderson held her hand so, would she feel such a surge of disquiet? Was she being unfair? "I would prefer to return, if you would be so kind as to escort me."

"Oh, but I insist, Miss Halliday. Just think how much blood may have been spilled in such a place. Is it not a romantic setting? Can you not hear the moans of ghosts of the men that lived here?"

"I don't believe I can, I'm afraid, but I'm not a poet," Clara said apologetically, trying for a rueful smile and tugging her hand free. "If you will excuse me, Mr Stewart. I would prefer to return to the others but do continue your walk if you wish to do so."

"Miss Halliday, the picnic is ready. Malcolm, are you coming?"

Clara walked away, relieved to see Mr Angus Stewart had come after them. Leaving Malcolm Stewart to follow in her wake, she hurried to meet his brother. She felt oddly breathless and strangely unwilling to be alone in the man's company any longer.

The picnic, provided in part by Mrs Macready and in part by Miss Fleming's father's cook, and in part from Mary Stewart's fair hand, was excellent and did much to restore Clara's equilibrium. Whatever maggot had got into Mr Malcolm Stewart's head seemed to have been put aside too, for he exerted himself to be charming and entertaining for the rest of the afternoon.

Still, even though she had enjoyed much of the day, Clara was not displeased when they reached the road to the school on their way home.

"Well, we'll leave you here, then, Malcolm. Mary and I will see Miss Halliday home, for it's out of your way," Angus said cheerfully, as his brother shot him a glare of annoyance.

"But I should be pleased to come too," Malcolm protested.

"Oh, of course you would, but there's no need," Angus said, clapping his brother on the shoulder. "We'll see you at church tomorrow, I expect. Goodbye, laddie."

"Tomorrow, then," Malcolm said sourly, though he bid good day to Clara prettily enough.

The moment he was gone, Miss Fleming hurried to Clara and took her arm, leaving Mr Fraser to fall in step with Mary and Angus.

"Thank goodness," she whispered in a dramatic whisper. "If I had to hold that revolting man's arm for a moment longer, I would have swooned," she said with a shudder.

"Miss Fleming!" Clara said, glancing around in concern. "He'll hear you."

"I don't care," Miss Fleming replied, sounding mutinous. "He's disgusting, and I don't care if his father is wealthy. There's no amount of money in the world that could make that match acceptable to me."

"Who is proposing such a match?" Clara asked at once.

"My father suggested it," she replied morosely. "I've told him I'd rather die, and I believe that has put paid to the notion, but all the same. It made me feel sick."

"He's a very nice man," Clara said carefully, for she could not deny that the idea of embracing Mr Fraser was not a terribly appealing one. He'd found the walk rather taxing and was wilting now in his heavy tweed suit, sweat beading on his face. "And there's much to be said for a kind husband, one who would be gentle and sweet to you."

Miss Fleming shot her a scathing glance. "So, you'd marry him over Mr Anderson, would you?"

Clara gaped, momentarily struck dumb. "As I have been asked by neither of them, I don't see any relevance in the question," she replied once she'd gathered her wits. Not for the first time she worried over some of things Miss Flaming said, and wondered if perhaps they were destined to be friends after all. Eventually Clara would have to stop biting her tongue if she kept saying such dreadful things aloud. The idea was a depressing one as there were no other young ladies beating down her door and wishing to become acquainted with her.

"Oh, come now. I saw how you looked at Mr Anderson. Not that I blame you. He's a handsome devil, and the son of an earl too, not to mention wealthy. Everything he touches turns to gold, they say. I think I could forgive him for being in trade for such a life," she added thoughtfully.

Clara stared straight ahead, wondering what on earth Miss Fleming meant by that. Had she been looking at Mr Anderson? How had she been looking? Not that it mattered; he hadn't the slightest interest in Clara, nor she in him. Miss Fleming was welcome to him, she decided, and walked on, determined not to encourage the conversation any further.

Miss Fleming's house was next and, as Mr Fraser was her close neighbour, she could not refuse him the pleasure of escorting her the final stretch as they parted company with the others. Miss Fleming's face was a picture of discontent, however, and Clara fretted over it until Mr Fraser caught her gaze. He grinned and winked at her, such a look of mischief in his eyes that she realised he was well aware of Miss Fleming's opinion of him and clearly did not give a snap of his fingers for it.

Relieved, Clara carried on with the Stewarts until they came to their front door. Stopping, she turned to them, for they clearly expected to escort her the rest of the way.

"I can walk home by myself, please don't trouble yourself. I know you are desperate to check on your little boy and the vicarage is just a step around the corner."

Angus Stewart hesitated, but Mary had already opened the front door. She gave a delighted exclamation as their nurse appeared with their baby son in her arms. Angus clearly wished to make a fuss over his son, too, and so Clara reassured him once more.

"It's barely a five-minute walk and in broad daylight. Thank you for a most enjoyable day, but I am quite content to walk the last little way by myself."

"If you are sure, then," he said, smiling. "And may I say what a delightful companion you've been, Miss Halliday. Mary is a little preoccupied now, I'm afraid, but I know she has so enjoyed meeting you."

"And I her. I beg you will remind her to call on me at the vicarage whenever she pleases, for I promise, I shall be a frequent visitor now I have seen how adorable your little boy is."

"He is a handsome fellow, isn't he?" Angus said proudly. "Well, good day then, Miss Halliday. We shall see you at church tomorrow."

Clara waved at them and carried on her way. She turned the corner, taking the street that led to the vicarage and then stopped in her tracks as she saw Malcolm Stewart ahead of her. What on earth was he doing? He must have taken a different route to get ahead of them.

"Surprise!" he called out cheerfully. "I felt sure you'd walk the last bit by yourself. Angus and Mary are so daft over that boy of theirs they can't bear to be parted from him for five minutes at a time."

"That's very perceptive of you, but I do not understand why you felt the need to do so. I have bid you a good afternoon already and I'm almost home. It was quite unnecessary."

"But I'm not yet ready to be dismissed. My brother is a pain in the neck, treating me like a child just because he's older than me. You have no such excuse, though, my innocent dove. Why do you insist on being so cruel to me?" he asked her, and whilst there was amusement behind the words, there was a hint of something Clara did not like. Not to mention the way he called her my innocent dove made her feel slightly ill.

"Cruel? Whatever do you mean?"

"I'm only teasing, lass," he said with a laugh. "Come now, take my arm and I'll see you home."

"I thank you for your solicitude, sir," Clara said carefully, for she was not at all certain it was solicitude at work. "But I am quite capable of walking home alone."

"Capable, yes, but it's not the done thing, you know, and you can't leave me standing in the street and walk off. Everyone will think we've had a lovers' tiff."

"Indeed, they will not," Clara said crossly.

"They will, though. Do you not think everyone expects the vicar's daughter and the schoolteacher to make a match?"

Clara bridled at the comment, determined now that the man would not walk her home. "I do not, unless someone were foolish enough to put such thoughts into their head."

"Is it foolish, Clara?" he asked, gentling his voice, his eyes soft behind his spectacles. There was that sweet boyish smile, his demeanour one of rueful amusement.

Clara hesitated, wondering if she had misjudged him. Was she being churlish by refusing to allow him to walk her home? She had liked him at first, and he had arranged this outing for her pleasure. Yet there was something about him that made her nerves leap. Her hesitation seemed justified when he took her arm, dragging her down narrow passage between two houses.

"Stop being so missish," he said crossly. "Neither of us is a fool, and it's clear we're meant for each other, so I see no reason to take an age about admitting it. There's no one else in this God forsaken town that's your equal, Miss Halliday and your father is not about to let you have a season, that much is obvious. So, let's stop the games and pretending and get to the nitty gritty."

"The nitty—" Clara gasped, reeling from the sudden change in demeanour. There was a cold, calculating look in the eyes that had appeared so soft only moments before, and she realised that not only had Mr Anderson been right to warn her, but she had not paid heed to her own instincts.

"I'm the best chance you have to get a husband," he said coldly, "And whilst I'd prefer someone a bit warmer in my bed than a vicar's daughter, I reckon we can get along well enough once we understand each other."

Clara stared at him, so shocked it took her a moment to react. "I think I understand perfectly well," she said, wishing she did not sound so breathless.

"We'll see," he replied with a smirk, and put his hand to her waist. Clara stamped on his foot, ignoring the obscene oath he uttered as he let her go. She exited the passage, walking quickly away, very aware of Mr Stewart following close behind.

"Not so fast, Clara," he muttered under his breath, as Clara quickened her pace.

"Good day to you, Miss Halliday."

Clara looked across the street, feeling a wash of relief at the sight of Mr Anderson. Her previous irritation with him for flirting with her—and every other girl in Wick—vanished, and she greeted him like an old friend.

"Mr Anderson, a good day to you too, sir. I hope you are well. Are you enjoying the sunshine? It's been a beautiful day. We've just returned from a walk to the Old Man of Wick, you know, with Mr Angus Stewart and his wife, and Miss Fleming and Mr Fraser. Do you know Mr Fraser? He's a very nice man," Clara said, horribly aware she was babbling but unable to stop herself.

Mr Anderson looked from her to Mr Stewart and Clara knew at once he understood. Mr Stewart stared stonily back, regarding the new arrival with far less enthusiasm.

"Aye, Fraser is a decent fellow," Mr Anderson said, not taking his eyes from Malcolm Stewart. "He's clever too. Reckon he'll do great things before he's done."

"Well, he's invested in one of your businesses so that's inevitable, is it not?" Mr Stewart replied, with every appearance of giving a compliment, yet Clara thought there was a sour note to the remark. Mr Anderson must have thought the same, for his eyes glittered and he grinned, a not quite nice smile that suggested Mr Stewart mind his step.

"Aye, laddie. Reckon it is, at that."

Mr Stewart's face darkened, and he stood taller, the two men eyeing each other. Stewart was as tall as Mr Anderson, but fine-boned in comparison. "I'll thank you not to refer to me in such a manner."

Mr Anderson laughed. "But ye are Angus' wee brother, the one he's always pulling out of some misadventure or other. I always think of ye as laddie. I'll do my best to mend my ways, however, if it vexes ye."

"It does," Mr Stewart replied evenly.

"Ah, well, I meant nae offense," Mr Anderson said with patent falsity before turning to Clara. "Miss Halliday, I was on my way to call on Mrs Macready. Would ye mind if I walked with ye? I need yer advice about something."

"Oh, well, of course, Mr Anderson, if I can help, I should be glad to."

"Excellent. Oh, I'll bid ye a good afternoon, Mr Stewart," Mr Anderson said, as if he'd suddenly remembered the man was still standing there.

"Good afternoon, Mr Anderson, Miss Halliday," Mr Stewart replied, the words gritted out as he turned on his heel and stalked off.

Clara let out a slow breath, only now realising how tense she'd been as Mr Anderson walked beside her and she could finally allow herself to relax.

"It's all right, Miss Halliday. I'll nae let the likes of Malcolm Stewart bother ye."

Clara swallowed, wondering why she was so unwilling to tell him what had happened. Perhaps because she felt so very foolish after he had warned her about Mr Stewart, and she had been arrogant enough to believe he was jealous. "There was no problem, really," she said, aware the words were unconvincing.

"Aye, that was why ye face lit up when ye saw me," he said wryly. "I ken well enough ye were nae pleased with me the last time we met, yet ye looked like ye had missed me something dreadful. I'm an arrogant devil, Miss Halliday, but I'm nae a fool."

"No, but you must think I am," she admitted, for she could not deny it even though she wanted to. "For I well remember why I was not pleased with you, even if you are too polite to say, ‘I told you so.'"

He shook his head, frowning. "I'd nae be so daft as that. Maybe I was out of line warning ye off the fellow, but perhaps now ye can forgive me and believe I only had your interests at heart. He's nae the man his brother is, I'm afraid, and he's nae to be relied upon."

Clara glanced up at him, struck by the uncompromising line of his jaw, the shadow of his beard already visible, everything about him was hard, muscular, male. He may have called Mr Stewart laddie merely to incense him, but the fellow looked like a mere boy compared to this fine example of sheer masculinity. He turned to look at her, a quizzical look in his eyes, and Clara turned hurriedly away, fighting a blush at having been caught staring so brazenly. For a moment she wondered if this was why she preferred Mr Anderson, was she really so shallow as to be won over by a handsome face? With relief, she set this accusation aside. Mr Anderson's manners might not be what she was used to, but he was honest, blunt in fact, and he said what he meant which she found reassuring. She had always felt uneasy in Mr Stewart's presence, as if there was something else going on behind his eyes that she did not understand. Looking into Mr Anderson's eyes might sometimes be uncomfortable and make her blush, but his admiration was bold and to the point and he did not make declarations of love and devotion when he clearly felt none. That might be a disappointing fact, but she could not accuse him of leading her on and making her believe he meant to court her.

"I do forgive you," she said, wishing he were not so easy to like. She could well understand why all the girls in Wick were pining for the fellow. His looks were one thing, but he was also kind, and the sort of man who made you feel safe, even though he was not safe in the least. Indeed, Clara could not help but wonder if Mr Anderson was far more of a danger to her heart than Malcolm Stewart could ever be.

"I'm glad," he said, his voice soft. "I dislike speaking ill of folk, but Malcolm Stewart is unreliable. I'd hold my tongue, for I have nae the least right to give you orders so I'll stop myself right now, but…"

"But?" Clara repeated, amused despite herself.

He laughed and ran a hand through his hair, turning to her with a sheepish smile. "I wish ye would steer clear of him."

"I'll do my best, Mr Anderson."

"That's grand, then," he replied as they arrived at the back gate to the vicarage.

He stared at her, not saying anything and Clara hesitated. There was an arrested look in his eyes, as though he'd suddenly realised something and was unsure whether to mention it or not.

"You wanted to see Mrs Macready?" she suggested, wondering if he'd forgotten why he came.

"Eh? Oh," he said, giving himself a little shake like he'd been a long way away. "Ah, nae. I just made that up to give me a reason to walk with ye," he said with a shrug.

"Well, perhaps you ought to come in and see her, for verisimilitude," she said gravely.

He laughed at that, his eyes twinkling merrily and making Clara's heart give a pleased little thud at having amused him. "Verisimilitude, eh?" he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"Yes, it means to give authenticity and—"

"I ken what it means, ye wee yin," he said, shaking his head at her. "I'm nae as daft as I look, aye? Despite what ye may think of me, I had a university education, like a proper gentleman," he added wryly.

Clara flushed scarlet. "Please, forgive me, Mr Anderson, I never meant to imply that—"

"Dinnae fash," he said with a smile, reaching out and taking hold of a lock of hair that had finally escaped her ruthless pinning. "I ken ye meant nae insult."

Clara held her breath as he tucked the errant curl behind her ear and then dropped his hand like she'd scalded him, looking as shocked as she was.

"Well, are ye coming in, or are ye nae?" demanded a tart voice from the kitchen door.

"Mrs Macready," Mr Anderson said, regaining his wits quicker than Clara, who was feeling ridiculously flustered for reasons she did not care to dwell upon. "Good afternoon to ye. I just walked yer lassie home."

"Aye, I see that," Mrs Macready said wryly, looking from Clara's flushed cheeks to Mr Anderson. "Ye had best come in before the neighbours start flapping their gums. Kettle's on," she added, turning away from the door and going back inside.

To her surprise, Mr Anderson looked at Clara, a question in his eyes. "I'll go if ye prefer," he said, somewhat gruffly.

Clara looked up at him, and knew she was a fool for wishing him to stay, but she did. "You had best not refuse an invitation from Mrs Macready, you never know when you'll get another," she told him sternly.

He grinned, a lopsided smile that did the most peculiar thing to her stomach, making her wonder if perhaps she had eaten too much at lunchtime.

He leaned closer to her, bending his head to her ear and lowering his voice. "Is that the only reason I should stay?"

Clara's breath caught, and she looked up at him, suddenly caught in the amber of his gaze like some poor, unsuspecting creature trapped for all eternity in a beautiful orange bead.

"I…" she began, only to forget what she'd been about to say as she stared up at him. Heat rose in a wave, surging up her chest, her neck, to her cheeks as she saw his gaze travel from her eyes to her mouth and linger there. His eyes darkened, and he seemed quite unable to look away as she licked her lips.

He's thinking about kissing me, her dazed brain screamed whilst her heart performed a complicated little dance behind her ribs. The moment stretched out, all her nerves leaping, her skin feeling like it was not her own but too tight and ill fitting. Before she could even wonder if she would allow him such a liberty or not, he put distance between them, straightening and turning a little away from her. He let out a breath, frowning, before glancing back.

"I'd best nae linger," he said gruffly. "But I thank ye kindly for the invite. Give my apologies to Mrs Macready but… but I have things to attend to. Good day to ye, Miss Halliday."

With that he strode off, leaving Clara feeling bewildered and foolish and not a little bit cross.