Chapter 3

Miss Halliday,

I beg you will forgive me for being so forward as to write to you in person. I only wished to ask, as I have not the courage to present myself to your father without an introduction, would you care to take a walk to the Old Man of Wick with me? That is to say, to the old castle ruins. It is a beautiful spot with spectacular views out to sea. I should be so pleased to show it to you, and perhaps give you a tour of our little town, such as it is. I beg your forgiveness for approaching you in such a way, but the truth is, I've thought of nothing but your lovely face since the moment you arrived on my doorstep.

―Excerpt of a letter from Mr Malcolm Stewart to Miss Clara Halliday.

5 th May 1850, Wick, Caithness, Scotland.

Clara stared at the carefully penned note that Mrs Macready had handed her that morning with a disapproving sniff. Apparently, a boy from the school had delivered it the day before and Mrs Macready had spent the interval fretting about whether or not to give it to her.

"I ken the young have different ways than in my day, but I cannae think it right and proper that he send ye notes in such a way," the lady said sternly.

"No, Mrs Macready, I must say I agree with you," Clara admitted, though there was still a wicked part of her thrilled to have received such a note from a handsome young man. She had, after all, come here with her own agenda, and that was to find a husband. Malcolm Stewart was everything she had asked for, and he was a schoolteacher, too! That he had been thinking of her lovely face ever since their meeting was not an idea that dismayed her, either. Though it might be shallow, she was not beyond enjoying a little flattery. "What do you know of him? Is he well thought of?"

"Well, I cannae say," Mrs Macready said with a frown. "He's a quiet fellow and doesnae mix much, but he seems pleasant. Polite," she added, though her tone was not exactly enthusiastic. "His brother is a nice fellow."

"I see," Clara replied, a little disappointed but not discouraged by this less than vibrant accolade. "Well, I shall go to the school and tell him to his face that he must not write such letters to me. If he wishes to further a friendship with me, he must present himself to my father," she said firmly, aware she was being just a little untruthful, for she was also taking it as an excuse to see the fellow again. If she were sensible, she would simply ignore the letter and pretend she never received it, but she doubted that course of action would end up with her getting married anytime soon. Needs must when the devil drives , she told herself, with a little thrill at the idea of doing something her father would certainly disapprove of.

He was not the only one, apparently.

"Oh, aye?" Mrs Macready said, folding her arms and giving Clara a look that suggested she had not been born yesterday.

"Well, I can hardly write back to him to tell me it is improper to write to me, now, can I?" Clara said reasonably.

Mrs Macready snorted and turned her attention back to the pastry she was rolling. "Whit's fur ye'll no go by ye," she said cryptically.

"I beg your pardon?" Clara said in confusion.

The lady clicked her tongue and lifted the rolling pin, wagging it at her. "If the fellow is fer ye, it'll work out. There's nae need for a pretty lassie like yerself to go a chasing him."

"But I'm doing nothing of the sort!" Clara retorted, stung by the implication but unable to hide a blush.

"Hmph," Mrs Macready said, and would not say another word on the subject.

It was with some trepidation that Clara approached the school, aware that Mrs Macready was not entirely mistaken in what she'd said. Certainly, if her father discovered either the letter or her visit, she would be in the suds. She had timed her arrival to just after the morning's lessons had ended and was almost knocked flat by a sudden rush of schoolboys as they ran down the road, forcing her to flatten herself against the wall to get out of the way.

"Mind where you are going, boys!" she called after them, to which not a one turned a hair. Shaking her head, she carried on up to the school to find the door ajar.

"Mr Stewart?" she called, knocking softly on the door.

No one answered and so she poked her head around the door, pushing it open a little wider. It opened onto a long corridor, with a classroom door on either side. One was closed, the other wide open, and showed a room filled with small desks and chairs. At the head of the classroom, in front of a large slate fixed to the wall, was an adult sized desk, at which was sprawled the figure of a man.

It was not Malcolm Stewart.

Clara took an involuntary step backwards, aware of a sudden prickling sensation up her spine. She had the most peculiar sensation of having disturbed a sleeping tiger. Steeling herself, she told herself not to be so fanciful. It was only a man, after all, though in fairness, he was like no man she had ever encountered before. Long, muscular legs crooked around the legs of the chair, the bare knees dusted with golden brown hair, quite visible from beneath the line of his kilt. Never having seen such a powerful young man's bare legs before, this sight was enough to render Clara speechless. Then her eyes drifted to his arms, which were crossed on the desk in front of him, serving as a pillow. He was in his shirtsleeves, which was shocking enough, but he'd rolled them past his elbows, displaying muscular forearms every bit as hairy as his legs. Clara gaped, a wash of heat flaring in her cheeks. But then he groaned, a deep, rumbling sound of distress that made all the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Despite herself, Clara gave a little squeal of alarm and was about to turn tail when the fellow's eyes flicked open and stared right at her.

He blinked. Then he closed his eyes and opened them again, and with what looked to be considerable effort, peeled his face from his arms.

"I beg yer pardon," he said thickly, pushing to his feet. He shoved at his hair, which was an untidy thicket of deep brown and gold, and only succeeding in making matters worse. "Can I help ye? Miss…?"

"Miss Halliday," Clara said, relieved to find she had not stammered when her heart was performing the most peculiar dance in her chest. A little voice was shrilling in her mind. It said, run, run. Run! For reasons best left unknown, she did not.

"Halliday?" he repeated, his rather bleary expression sharpening a little as he looked her over, interest flickering in his eyes, which were an unusual tawny shade, close to amber. He pushed to his feet and Clara took another step back, watching him warily. "I dinnae bite, lassie," he said, flashing a grin that showed strong white teeth.

"I never thought otherwise," she replied, annoyed with herself for having allowed her nerves to show.

"Ye are the vicar's daughter, then?" he said, leaning back against the edge of the desk and regarding her with open appreciation.

His gaze was direct, making Clara feel suddenly that she had gone out without putting her corset on, which was ridiculous. She knew she was wearing it because she had clearly laced it far too tightly. That would account for the fact she could not find a proper breath, she was certain. However, the man was insolent and ill-mannered. To find him sleeping in the children's classroom was bad enough, but he was barely dressed, and the way he looked at her! Quite shocking. Quite invigorating, too.

"I am, sir. I came to speak with Mr Stewart, but as I see he is not here, I shall leave you to your nap." She inclined her head and turned to leave.

"Nae, I was looking after the bairns for him as he's, er… indisposed. What were ye wanting with Mr Stewart?" he demanded, a curious glint in his eyes.

Clara swallowed, well aware the truth would do her no favours. Crossing her fingers within the folds of her skirts, she asked God to forgive her the lie and promised to make amends. "My father gave him some leaflets for the children. He asked me to discover if they had all been given out."

"Leaflets?" he repeated and then reached for one of the same upon his desk. "Oh, aye. I gave them out this morning. I'm nae sure what good they'll do, mind."

Clara had to admit she wasn't certain either, not when written in her father's condescending tone, at any rate. How many of the children's parents were literate was something her father had not considered either. She wasn't about to tell him that, though. "Well, it's easy to criticise and do nothing at all, I suppose," she said tartly, rather despising herself for her manner, but really, the man was clearly a reprobate. "If you will excuse me."

"Ach, dinnae run away so fast," he said, crossing the room to her. "We have nae been introduced."

"You, sir, are in no fit state to be introduced to a lady," she retorted.

He grinned again, and there was something about that charmingly wicked curve of his lips that was terribly endearing. It would be the easiest thing in the world to be charmed by him, but then he added, "Ah, snooty, are ye? That's a pity."

Clara stared at him in outrage, all the allure she had found in his smile vanishing at his words. "I am nothing of the sort," she said, shocked by the accusation. In truth, she ought to have turned and walked away the moment she laid eyes on him. No, worse than that, she ought never to have entered the building in the first place. This, then, was her punishment for misbehaving.

"Ye are, though," he said, folding his arms and leaning against the doorjamb. "Or perhaps ye are just a coward. Are ye too well bred to cross swords with me?"

"You sir, are rude, ill-mannered and… and quite outrageous." Much to her dismay, he laughed at that, and rubbed the back of his neck, his expression rueful.

"Aye, happens ye are right enough. Forgive me, lassie. I have the very devil of a heid, and a morning spent with those wee miscreants has nae helped a bit."

"You are a teacher?" she exclaimed, so shocked by this that she could not help the depths of her surprise show through. She could not for the life of her see this man as a teacher. A blacksmith perhaps, or wielding a broadsword at the battle of Culloden… that , she could imagine, but a teacher?

His eyes flickered. "And why not?" he asked, challenge in that warm, mellow voice, one tawny eyebrow quirking.

Clara swallowed. "I'm sure it's no business of mine what your profession is, sir," she blurted, and hurried from the room.

To her chagrin, he followed her.

"Ah, ye are a coward," he said, the satisfaction in his voice making her stop in his tracks. "I thought so."

Clara swung around, narrowing her eyes at him. "Why are you deliberately trying to provoke me?" she demanded, her breath catching when he took a step closer. Too close.

His voice lowered, so deep and dangerous it made her suddenly aware of her own skin, of the places where her clothing touched her. "Because ye are the prettiest sight I ever saw on waking and because yer eyes flash like diamonds when ye are vexed, and I dinnae want ye to run away too fast,"

Clara blinked, too breathless to speak, well aware she ought to be running away like the devil was at her heels, and finding she was rooted to the spot.

"They're grey," he observed, staring into her eyes with such intensity Clara could not help but return his gaze. His eyes were not just amber, she noted, but gold and bronze and copper and quite mesmerising. "Yer eyes are full of storm clouds, Miss Halliday. I reckon ye have a temper, have ye nae?"

"I am considered to be a perfectly placid and even-tempered creature," she retorted, putting up her chin.

"Liar," he said, flashing her that wicked grin again.

"How dare you!" she replied, glaring at him.

He only laughed, shaking his head. "Nae, dinnae fash. I like a lassie with spirit. I'm nae interested in these milk and water misses that agree with a fellow nae matter how daft he is."

"Oh, I'm so relieved you approve of me, sir. For your good opinion was all that was missing from my life," Clara said hotly, and then blushed, appalled at how rude she was being. "I beg your pardon," she said, immediately contrite.

"Nae, dinnae stop now, ye were just getting the hang of it," he said, winking at her.

Clara had the sudden childish desire to stamp her foot. She resisted. "You are the most… most…"

"Aggravating?" he suggested.

"Certainly that," she said furiously.

He grimaced suddenly a ran a hand through his hair. "Aye, I reckon ye are right enough. I suppose I owe ye an apology. Forgive me, Miss Halliday, I'm afraid I am nae at my best for my head is clanging and ye surprised me out of my wits – out of good behaviour anyway. But ye did well to give me a proper scolding, good on ye lassie."

Clara glared at him, refusing to be charmed by the rueful and far too endearing smile he sent her. "Good day to you, sir," she said, and turned on her heel, stalking away and wondering if he was so lost to propriety, he would follow her out of the school in such a state of undress. She was almost at the end of the road before she turned to check. The door to the school was closed, and she glanced at the window to the classroom, jolting as she saw him standing there, watching her.

"Oh!" Clara muttered, irritated that he'd seen her looking back. Now the odious man would think she was hoping he had followed her. Putting her chin in the air, she stalked off, determined that if she ever saw the vexing man ever again, she would not give him the time of day.