Chapter 3
The wynd that Àdham and Ormiston followed forked almost immediately after the red port, one branch leading into town, the other rounding a garden wall to their right. Large houses lined the row, and Ormiston led him to the second one on the right, its gardens visibly extending from the house to the town wall behind it.
It was smaller than some of its neighbors, but Curfew Row’s residents were clearly wealthy. Not that Àdham had expected otherwise, for if the Mackintosh had taken a house nearby, he would likely have demanded even finer accommodations.
“My men will see to your horse,” Ormiston said, gesturing to the two following them. “The stables lie behind the house.”
“Thank you, sir, but they need do naught save tether him. I’ll be on my way soon after we have talked.”
“In troth, lad, I’ve been thinking, and I am strongly inclined to suspect now that I may be beholden to you,” Ormiston said. “If that should prove true, you are welcome to sleep here tonight and rejoin your clansmen in the morning.”
The invitation was tempting, but Àdham shook his head. “’Tis kind of you, sir,” he said. “But you owe me naught, and if I fail to reach the alehouse, men there will raise a hue and cry for me.”
“Not if I send someone to tell them that you’re with me,” Ormiston said. “But, if you would feel discomfited . . .” He paused, then added dulcetly, “That alehouse is said to be a gey noisy place.”
“’Tis true that I’d welcome a quiet bed,” Àdham admitted. “If your man will take a message for my squire and equerry that will bring them to me in the morning, I’d be fain to accept your invitation . . . if you still hold by it after we talk.”
Having given the necessary orders to his two men, Ormiston led the way inside and through the house to a cozy chamber in the rear, where a fire burned cheerfully on the hearth. Taking a jug and two pewter goblets from a shelf, he poured what appeared to be claret into each and handed one to Àdham.
Then, gesturing to a table near the hearth where a pair of back-stools faced each other, he said, “Take that nearer seat, lad.”
As Àdham obeyed the command, Ormiston stepped past him. Shifting the other back-stool a few inches closer, he sat and looked directly into Àdham’s eyes, goblet in hand, for a long, silent moment, before saying gently, “Perhaps now, you will tell me exactly how you came to be in company with my daughter at such a late hour.”
Taking a moment just as long and silent to gather his thoughts but seeing no way to describe their meeting without laying blame on her ladyship, and having no wish to do that, Àdham realized he had only one course to take.
“With respect, sir,” he said, “you must ask her ladyship about that.”
His jaw visibly clenching, Ormiston gazed sternly at Àdham, but Àdham met his gaze with long-practiced calm and sipped his wine.
“I believe,” Ormiston said, “that you owe me an explanation if only to maintain your knightly sense of honor.”
“My honor is in no danger, sir. I would willingly explain aught of mine own behavior were there aught more of import to explain. However, I cannot speak for her ladyship. I have told you where I was this morning and that I reached the North Inch shortly before you saw us together. She took no harm from me.”
“Your hair, tunic, and breeks are still wet, lad,” Ormiston observed quietly.
My boots, too, Àdham thought unhappily. Thankful that they had stopped squishing as he walked, he said only, “Aye, sir, I did enjoy a brief swim.”
Ormiston sipped his wine, observing Àdham over the rim of the goblet.
To Àdham’s astonishment, the man’s hazel-gray eyes began to twinkle. “Your goblet must be empty or nearly so, lad, and I doubt I’ll sleep yet a while,” he said. “Moreover, his grace will not convene tomorrow’s session until an hour or so before midday. Would you like more of this excellent claret before we retire?”
“I would,” Àdham agreed, “if I may take your offer as a suggestion that you need ask me no more about what happened tonight.”
“Aye, for the present,” Ormiston said. “Sithee, I know my daughter well.”
Deciding to let that statement stand without comment, Àdham said, “I ken little of what may be happening in the Parliament, sir. I do know that you serve as one of his grace’s advisers. I’ve also heard that ructions may arise, so if you’d liefer not discuss such things with me, I’ll understand. But if you can tell me aught of value, I would be grateful.”
“Naught of much importance has occurred yet, although ructions have arisen. However, his grace by custom lets his lord chamberlain deal with such discontent until a particular issue is formally introduced for discussion,” Ormiston said. “The issue stirring the most fractiousness so far concerns landowners’ heritable rights.”
“I do ken something about that,” Àdham said. “Such rights are of concern to all Highland chiefs. They believe that his grace, in desiring to institute one rule of law throughout Scotland, means to trample on ancient, established jurisdictional rights that historically have been theirs, such as our lairds’ courts and rights of the pit and gallows.”
“And any other rights that pertain to inherited lands,” Ormiston said. “Many lords in the Lowlands and Borders likewise object to losing such rights, believing that lawlessness, and thus chaos, will result.”
“I tend to agree with that,” Àdham said. “’Tis our chiefs and chieftains who maintain order in the Highlands. So, why does his grace disagree?”
“Because power-hungry men can manipulate our current system to serve their own wicked goals, rather than the good of their people or their country,” Ormiston said. “His grace points out that we have seen what happens when an evil man inherits or otherwise contrives to seize vast power. His unscrupulous uncle, the Duke of Albany, did just that and ruled Scotland for nearly four decades without ever being King of Scots, first as Regent for his aged father, then for his older brother, and then—as James and many others believe—by arranging for the English to capture James.”
“I had not heard that,” Àdham admitted. “Only that he had been a captive.”
“The English held him for nineteen years, until Albany died,” Ormiston said. “But tell me more about yourself now, lad. If you are with Clan Chattan, you must be kin to the Mackintosh.”
“Malcolm is my liege lord. I live with my uncle, Fin of the Battles, at Castle Finlagh above Strathnairn, which is the valley of the river and town of Nairn.”
“If you fostered with Fin of the Battles, then who is your father?”
“I’m the youngest son of Ewan MacGillony Cameron of Tor Castle, which lies a mile or so beyond the western edge of Glen Mòr, not far from Loch Lochy.”
“I’m not as well-acquainted with the Highlands as I should be,” Ormiston admitted. “I do know that what we Lowlanders call the Great Glen divides them from Inverness in the north to the sea in the southwest, but I have not visited the area. Even so, just as I knew of your knighthood, I also know that you acquired it by persuading a host of Camerons to support his grace at Lochaber two years ago.”
“Just one Cameron, sir,” Àdham said. “I chanced to see my father as the tide of battle was turning and I recognized his banner. I urged him to support the King and he persuaded others. See you, the Cameron Confederation, like Clan Chattan, has many factions. Clan Chattan controls most of the area east of the Great Glen, whilst the Camerons bide mostly west of it as far as the coast. So, the Lord of the Isles is nearly always a greater threat to them than his grace is. I do count Castle Finlagh as my home, though, so the Mackintosh is my liege, and our loyalty is and long has been to his grace. But this is the first time I have come to the Lowlands.”
“I see,” Ormiston said. “I know that Clan Chattan has kept loyal to James, but Alexander must have expected all Camerons to remain loyal to him.”
“In troth, sir, he expected all Highland clans to welcome him and therefore believed that no Cameron or Mackintosh would side with his grace. He might also have thought that even if one confederation did, the other would not, because they had long been enemies. But Malcolm has been Constable of Inverness Castle for five years, and the confederations have kept a much longer, albeit uneasy, truce.”
“I like Malcolm,” Ormiston said. “He is a fine and venerable leader, so I am pleased to make the acquaintance of another Clan Chattan man.”
Àdham nodded, wondering if Ormiston was aware that many people more likely believed that his having been born a Cameron meant that he must always be a Cameron and not, in their view, a true man of Clan Chattan at all.
Fiona awoke the next morning at dawn to hear the monastery bells ringing the hour of Prime. Her door opened moments later, and quick footsteps crossed to the narrow window near the foot of her bed.
“Good morrow, m’lady,” her maidservant, Leah Nisbet, said cheerfully as she turned from the window to push back the bed curtain and tie it in place. “Lady Sutherland said her grace will no attend the Parliament this morning wi’ his grace but will attend Lady Mass here at the monastery instead. Since she will have Lady Sutherland and Lady Huntly tae attend her, ye need see only tae your own prayers and morning duties till they return.”
“They have not left already, have they?” Fiona asked, sitting up. She knew she must not go into town, even the short way to Ormiston House, without proper permission and a gillie to attend her.
“Sakes, m’lady, her grace ha’ no left her bed yet, as ye should ken fine,” Leah said. “She will say her morning prayers and break her fast afore she walks round tae the monastery chapel.”
“I would speak with Lady Sutherland before then, Leah. Prithee, go and ask her woman if her ladyship will be kind enough to see me before I break my fast. I shall wear the emerald green gown with my horned headdress and the ruched white veil,” she added, knowing that the green dress was Ormiston’s favorite. “I shall also want my fur-lined cloak, because I must visit my lord father this morning.”
“This smock be damp, m’lady,” the maid said, lifting the garment from the low stool onto which Fiona had cast it the night before.
“I would not wear that one in any event, Leah,” Fiona said, hoping that her cloak, which she had hung on its hook, was not also still damp. “I’ll wear my white silk shift with the embroidered edging round its neckline.”
Quickly washing her face and hands, she donned the silk shift and gown, waiting only for Leah to lace up the back of the gown before shooing her out to find Lady Sutherland and relay her request.
“But your hair, mistress! Ye canna do it by yourself.”
“I can brush it whilst I await your return,” Fiona said. “I must speak with her ladyship before she goes downstairs.”
First, Fiona straightened her bed. Lady Sutherland had served the Queen since her grace’s arrival in Scotland and was a kindhearted woman. So, if Joanna still lay abed, her ladyship might deign to come to Fiona’s bedchamber. If not, Fiona would have to go to the Queen’s chamber and make her request there.
That thought brought a grimace to her lips.
She loved and admired the Queen, who despite being the mother of four small daughters and expecting a fifth child in the fall, had just turned six-and-twenty and was therefore only eight years older than Fiona. What gave her pause was the thought of having to make her request in front of Lady Huntly, who stood next to Lady Sutherland in rank but was older and less charitable.
Several other older ladies and three other maids of honor attended her grace. Most were fiercely ambitious for themselves or because their fathers or husbands hoped to use their positions with the Queen to curry favor with the King.
Pushing such thoughts from her head, Fiona had barely shaken out her skirts when the door opened and Margaret, Countess of Sutherland, entered in a cloud of the earthy-sweet ambergris-scented perfume she favored.
Wife of one of Scotland’s most powerful earls, Lady Sutherland was a handsome woman just a few years older than her grace. Willow slim, wearing a lavender ermine-trimmed silk gown and a boxlike lavender-and-white headdress surmounted with a gold circlet, she held her long, rustling skirts off the floor with delicate, beringed fingers. A silent, modestly attired attendant, having opened the door for her, entered in her wake and turned to shut it again.
“I ha’ less than two minutes afore I must hie m’self back tae her grace, Fiona-lass,” her ladyship said with a warm smile. “What would ye ask o’ me?”
“My lord father desires me to visit him this morning at Ormiston House, madam. I would beg leave to do so after we tidy her grace’s chamber.”
“Aye, sure,” Lady Sutherland said, nodding. “I ken fine that Ormiston will attend the proceedings today. Doubtless, he seeks a quiet hour wi’ his daughter, away from all the men who would plague him tae speak for them, so ye dinna want tae keep him waiting. Forbye, ye’ll take a lad wi’ ye as an escort.”
“I will, m’lady,” Fiona said, making her curtsy. “Thank you.”
Leah, entering seconds after her ladyship’s departure, deftly plaited and arranged her mistress’s hair and pinned the formal horned caul and veil in place. Afterward, Fiona donned her gloves and descended to the refectory where a table had been set aside behind screens for the maids of honor to take their meals.
Due to the advanced hour at which Àdham and his host had retired, the two men were breaking their fast much later than Àdham usually did.
Fortunately, the previous night’s hearth fire had dried his breeks. His rawhide boots were still damp, but Sir Ivor had warned him that Lowland nobles protected their feet in town. So, despite their dampness, Àdham wore the boots.
When he’d entered the room, Ormiston had greeted him cheerfully but had kept his silence since, and Àdham felt no need to break it. He did wonder if his host, having had time to ponder his daughter’s activities the previous night, might have more to say to him on that subject or more answers to demand.
A gillie entered with a full jug of ale to replace the empty one on the table.
Acknowledging the order with a quiet, “M’lord,” the manservant left with the empty jug, shutting the door firmly behind him.
“We talked much of politics last night,” Ormiston said then to Àdham. “I fear that I may have said more to confuse you than to aid you.”
“’Tis likely your claret that addled my mind,” Àdham said. “But I admit that I still know little of matters unrelated to those Highland clans nearest to me.”
“You seem to have a good head on your shoulders, lad. So, as the sessions proceed, if you are interested, you will soon grasp the difficulties his grace faces. But I would ken more about the circumstances leading to your knighthood, from your own view of them. My youngest son is likewise a knight of the realm.”
“Aye, sir, I know of ‘Devil’ Ormiston,” Àdham said with a wry smile. “As to my knighthood, the battle that led to it was a painful experience. . . .”
When he paused, Ormiston nodded. “I see. Even so, his grace is not a man easily impressed by other men’s skills, and he told me that yours impressed him.”
Meeting his gaze, Àdham said, “I do have some repute as an archer and swordsman, having learned from Sir Ivor Mackintosh and his father, who are two of the best. His grace would have it, though, that by persuading Ewan MacGillony to support him, I did save his grace’s life and those of many others. I’m not as certain of that as he is, but I did acquire a minion of sorts who insists that his grace must be right. He offers as proof that I did save him, too.”
Raising his eyebrows, Ormiston said, “A minion of sorts?”
The image of young Rory rose instantly to mind, making Àdham smile.
He was glad, too, to change the subject, because when men spoke of his heroism in battle or in making the effort to recruit Ewan to aid the King, he felt obliged to explain that he had done only what seemed right and necessary at the time. Some scoffed at that statement. Others seemed to suspect him of inviting more praise, so he eluded such discussions when he could.
“If the laddie numbers more than ten years now, I’ll be astonished,” he said, and went on to explain how they had met.
“But he claims to have no ties of his own and has firmly attached himself to me,” Àdham added after he had described Rory’s relief at seeing him return to the tree. “He even, now and now, manages to make himself useful.”
Ormiston’s eyes twinkled then in the same way that the lady Fiona’s did, but he said, “Surely, you do not let that laddie accompany you wherever you go.”
“Nae, for my squire serves me well at home and in battle, and my equerry travels with me when we have horses to tend. I thought we had left Rory at home, but he followed on his own, so he aids my equerry and looks after my dog.”
Ormiston smiled again, and their conversation continued amiably.
The next hour passed swiftly for Fiona in a hasty breakfast and attendance to her grace’s chambers. As one of the youngest of her grace’s attendants, she worked silently, knowing better than to put herself forward or encourage gossip from others.
However, she saw no reason to shut her ears to the other maids’ gossip, because her curiosity nearly always defeated thought of restraint. Family members had declared that her chief fault was that when she knew that others had secrets, her curiosity became an insurmountable force, driving her to winkle them out.
Her brother Davy had once accused her of storing up such information to use against people who had irked her. But Fiona was sure she did no such thing.
When Davy pointed out that just letting someone know she had uncovered his secret might silence him as to her own misdeeds, the accusation did give her pause to reflect. Davy had been referring to himself and their two older brothers, though, so she decided he was mistaken. It was only fair, she had explained to him loftily, that having learned something to someone else’s discredit, one should make the person aware that his secret had escaped his control. Also, she reminded herself now, if her brothers were daft enough to think she would betray them to anyone else, that was their own misfortune.
Finished at last with her duties and knowing that further delay would irk Ormiston, she fetched her cloak from her chamber. Leaving Donsie curled on her bed and shutting the door so she could not follow, Fiona hurried downstairs.
At the porter’s chair, she found Tam, a tall, towheaded gillie in a pale gray tunic, awaiting her with Brother Porter, who wore the cream-colored wool tunic and scapular that men of his order customarily wore indoors. They saved the black-hooded capes that had given the Blackfriars their name for outdoor wear.
“Tam will await ye, to attend your return,” Brother Porter said to her.
Smiling, she said, “I do thank you for sending him with me. But my lord father will likely escort me back here before he goes to Parliament House.”
“Then his lordship will so inform our Tam,” Brother Porter said gently. “Parliament willna convene for an hour or two yet, m’lady. So his lordship may ha’ formed other plans for his morning.”
Knowing debate would be useless, Fiona left for Ormiston House with her young guardian and reached the house ten minutes later. Leaving Tam and her cloak with her father’s porter, she denied any need for that worthy to announce her and went briskly to meet her fate.
Hesitating at the closed door to Ormiston’s sanctum to assure herself that whatever Sir Àdham had told him, her father would do no more than scold her, she drew a breath, let it out, opened the door, and went in.
Ormiston looked up from the document before him, his expression as enigmatic as it could be. Seeing her, he set the document aside and rose to his feet.
“Good morrow, sir,” she said. “Mayhap I ought to have rapped. But—”
“Nae, lass,” he said reassuringly. “You ken fine that my doors are always open to you. Sit now, and tell me about last night.”
Although she yearned to demand that he first tell her all that Sir Àdham had said to him, she knew that would be unwise. She also knew that Ormiston would be more than displeased if she revealed the exact truth. So, to give herself time to think, she moved the back-stool that sat opposite him a bit farther from the table, sat gracefully, and carefully arranged her skirts.
Still silent, Ormiston took his seat again, but she felt him watching her and knew she had to speak. At last, meeting his now stern gaze, she said hastily, “I fear that you must be gey displeased with me, sir. But, by my troth, I did not sneak out of the monastery. Brother Porter knew I had gone for a walk.”
There being no immediate reply, she added, “You know I cannot resist a full moon, and the monastery grounds and gardens are guarded and safe.”
“Are they?” Ormiston asked. “Then, prithee, tell me just how you chanced to meet Sir Àdham MacFinlagh whilst walking through those gardens.”
Unwilling to admit pushing through the gap in the hedge, she sighed and said simply, “I walked down to the river, sir.”
Finding it nearly impossible then to go on meeting his hard stare, she felt only relief when, instead of demanding to know why she had not stayed in the gardens, he said, “So you arrived at the riverbank. What did you do then?”
Looking down at the table but finding no solace there, she looked obliquely at him and said, “I think you know what I did, sir.”
“Sakes, Fiona, never tell me that you left Blackfriars in only your smock and your cloak —or less than that—and crossed the North Inch to the river to swim!”
Since she could say nothing without lying or admitting he was right, she kept silent, only to hear Sir Àdham’s voice in her head, wondering if Ormiston would beat her. A shard of ice slid up her spine, and she eyed her father more warily.
His expression offered no comfort. Softly, much too softly, he said, “Where was Sir Àdham whilst you stood on that riverbank in your smock, or less?”
Catching her lower lip briefly between her teeth, she said, “I did wear . . . That is, he was on the path. But I don’t think he saw me until I’d waded into the water. He did see me go under, though. You know how I like to practice holding my breath and swimming underwater at home. That’s what I was doing, swimming underwater against the current. When I felt the water surge round me and rose to the surface, he was looking frantically downriver, as if . . .”
Noting the increasing color in her father’s face, she paused to pray that God would have mercy on her if Ormiston did not.
“As if he feared that you were drowning?”
“Yes, sir. He . . . He said afterward that he feared I might be trying to drown myself. But, of course, I was doing no such thing. I was just—”
“Enough!” Ormiston snapped. “I begin to believe, Fiona, that your brother Kenneth is right to say that I indulge you too much. Mayhap you do need a stronger hand . . . a strict husband, in fact. It is one thing, my lass, to do such things at home, where our people and I know about them and can keep you safe. To commit such folly here on Perth’s North Inch, where anyone might come upon you and take advantage of your innocence . . . By my troth, I do not know what to say to you! I did believe that I could trust you to guard your reputation whilst you serve the Queen. But if this is how you repay that trust . . .” He paused to draw a breath.
Stunned, realizing that she had overstepped by a much larger degree than she had imagined, Fiona exclaimed, “I didn’t think! Oh, prithee, Father, believe me! It was the first truly spring day we’d had, and I grow so weary of the constant chatter of the others and so rarely find any solitude beyond my tiny chamber! But I would not . . . I could not . . . truly betray your trust. Brother Porter did know that I might go down to walk by the river, although I-I’ll admit that I failed to tell him I meant to swim. In troth, I did not mean—” Cutting off her own words when she read the derision in his expression, she grimaced. “No, sir, I shan’t say that I did not mean to swim, for I did.” She fought for calm before she added, “What will you do?”
“I ken fine what I ought to do,” he retorted grimly. Then, as if he could not bear to sit there, looking at her, he stood and turned just enough to look down at the hearth, where the morning fire had reduced itself to glowing embers.
While he stared silently into them, she dared not speak. It was just as well, too, for she knew that not a single word she could say would mend matters.
Ormiston drew an audible breath, let it out, and turned back to face her.
Every nerve in her already tense body seemed to stand on end and twitch as she wondered what he meant to do.
She opened her mouth to apologize, but he spoke before she could. “I understand now why Sir Àdham refused to tell me how you had met.”
“You talked with him, then.”
“Aye, sure. As it happened, we talked late, so he spent the night here. But he said I would have to ask you about how you came to be together when I met you.”
“I fear that he was as irked with me as you are, sir. Perhaps you think I ought to have feared him, but I’d seen at once that he feared for me. Sakes, no man would leap fully clothed into that river to take advantage of me. I did ask him to go on into town and let me return to the monastery alone. But he insisted on escorting me.”
“By my faith, Fiona, if you tell me that you wish he had not—”
“I don’t,” she interjected hastily. “It just surprised me that he reacted in so much the same way that Davy would have.”
Her father’s lips twitched, and Fiona felt herself begin to relax.
“I doubt that he acted as David would have,” he said, forming his words so carefully that she knew he was struggling to suppress any sign of amusement.
She had no trouble controlling her own sense of humor and felt only relief that Ormiston seemed slightly less likely now to treat her as Davy would have. “I did think that all Highlanders were barbaric,” she said. “But, although Sir Àdham was stern and unwilling to believe that I can look after myself—”
“Don’t spout such foolishness to me, not today,” Ormiston warned her. “Had Sir Àdham been another sort of chap . . .” The color drained from his face.
Quickly, she said, “You are right about him, though. His sense of honor is strong, for he even said he would not lie for me. I am thankful it was not someone truly horrid who saw me go into the river. In troth, I failed to think about anything except being entirely by myself for a short time and enjoying a moonlight swim.”
“You are still too impulsive,” he said. “Moreover, you have shown that I cannot trust you to behave sensibly. If her grace should hear of this escapade . . .”
Fiona waited out the pause by biting her lip to avoid assuring him that if Brother Porter had noted her wet hair or clothing the night before, he’d likely keep her secret as he had done the only other time she’d gone alone to the Tay. On that occasion, she had waded in only to her hips, which surely still counted as walking.
“If her grace should learn of it,” Ormiston went on, “she will have to dismiss you from her service. You must know that, Fiona.”
“I do,” she admitted. “But I promise you, sir, I won’t do it again.”
“You had better not,” he said. “If I hear so much as a whisper about this in town, or from anyone else at all, I will remove you from her grace’s service myself and deal much more harshly with you than I have yet. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, my lord,” she said when she could speak past the knot in her throat. “The only other person who knows is Sir Àdham. And he won’t—”
Realizing that she had no reason to trust him other than the initial instinct she had had that she could, she broke off.
Ormiston nodded as if he had followed her thoughts. “You had better hope that you can trust that young man. He scarcely knows either of us. And with matters likely to erupt during his grace’s Parliament, setting clan against clan all over the country, Sir Àdham might find more cause to speak, or threaten to speak, than to keep this to himself.”
Swallowing hard but unable to leave things as they were and knowing she would gain naught by telling him Sir Àdham had promised he would not willingly betray her, she said, “Will you ever forgive me, Father?”
“Stand up,” he said, moving around the table toward her.
Trembling, she obeyed, aware that tears had welled into her eyes.
Putting his hands on her shoulders, he looked down at her and said gently, “You need never ask such a thing of me again, my dearling. I know of naught you could do that I would not forgive. ’Tis true that your actions last night angered and disappointed me. But you need never fear more than well-merited punishment from me for any misdeed. It is my duty as your father to correct you when your behavior goes amiss. But that is all. What I do then I do out of love, never anger.”
“I love you, too, so much,” she said, leaning into him and giving him a fierce hug. “I’m sorry that I’m such a disappointment.”
Holding her close, he said, “’Twas only your behavior, not you, that disappointed me. And behavior is easy to mend, Fiona. I expect you to see to that.”
“I will, sir, I swear.”
“Good, then. I trust that you brought an escort with you today.”
Surprised by the abrupt change of subject and thus his hint that the interview was nearing its end, she said, “Aye, Brother Porter sent Tam, one of the gillies, with me. He told him to await me here. I did hope you would go back with . . .”
He was already shaking his head and setting her back on her heels. “Nae,” he said when she paused. “Cousin Buccleuch’s party arrived yestereve, and he sent me word that the lady Rosalie Percy has accompanied him. I mean to call on them before today’s proceedings begin. Likely, though, we will attend whatever festivities follow the sessions tonight. I hope to see you there.”
Fiona’s spirits sagged. Sir Walter Scott of Buccleuch, though only a dozen years older than herself, was a powerful Border lord, a friend of Ormiston’s, and she liked him. But his grandaunt, the lady Rosalie Percy, was a handsome widow.
Having married an English lord and returned to Scotland after his demise, Lady Rosalie now stayed with one branch of her family after another throughout the year. Ormiston had met her at Davy’s wedding and several times since. His eyes glowed whenever he spoke of her, which had warned Fiona months ago that he’d formed a fondness for the woman. As Lady Ormiston had died when Fiona was seven, she strongly suspected that her father had thoughts now of remarrying.
Although she enjoyed Rosalie’s company, she knew instinctively that such a change in Ormiston’s life would cause a difficult upheaval in her own.
She and Rosalie—or anyone who tried to take her mother’s place—would likely rub uncomfortably together at Ormiston Mains. And Fiona knew who would bear the blame for any strife that resulted from such conflict.