“Ah… the moon is lovely, isn’t it?” he asked absently.
“Yes,” she said, and watched, fascinated, as he squeezed her knee, then caressed it with his palm. She was distantly aware of more people walking about, another couple on the other side of the hedgerow— and she could hear the girlish laugh of a woman. But her attention was riveted on Drake’s lips now, hoping fervently that he would kiss her.
“This night reminds me a bit of a poem,” he said absently as his fingers casually stroked her knee. “Would you like to hear it?”
“Yes, please,” Anna urged him, and shifted a little closer as she tried to block out the light chatter of the couple on the other side of the hedgerow.
Drake glanced at the moon again and said, “In the moonlight was her heart thus taken; a chaste kiss, another vow forsaken. And when the sun rose again on her lovely face, there she did lie in love’s sweet embrace.”
Anna sucked in a slow breath and lifted her face, nearer to his. “It’s lovely… who is the poet?”
He laughed low; his gaze fell to her lips. “Would it surprise you if I said it was me?”
Now her heart was beating wildly. He would kiss her. He would kiss her! “I did not know you were a poet,” she murmured, lifting her face higher.
“I merely dabble at it,” he said, and as Anna closed her eyes, she heard Lucy’s laughter somewhere close by. Drake pressed his lips to her cheek at the same time he removed his hand from her knee.
Anna opened her eyes; Drake was not looking at her, but down the path. “Would you like a refreshment?” he asked absently. “A cider to warm you, perhaps?”
“No, I—”
“It’s really rather chilly,” he said, standing. “I’ll fetch a cider for you. Rest here and I will return forthwith.” And with that he went striding off into the dark, leaving her to sit alone on the wrought-iron bench.
Blast it! Anna folded her arms beneath her bosom and fell back against the bench, pondering what might possibly have gone wrong—after all, she was on a garden bench in the moonlight, practically sitting on his lap, for goodness’ sake….
She heard the woman’s girlish giggle again, and realized another couple was still on the other side of the hedgerow.
“Aye, of course we’ve a name for it,” she heard the man say.
Ardencaple! Anna sat up with a start—Lockhart momentarily forgotten, she quickly inched to the left side of the bench, leaning as far back as she could, straining to hear without actually shoving her head into the hedge shaped like a bishop.
“What do you call it in gallish?”
“Ach, lass, ’tis Gàidhlig, then,” he said pleasantly. “And the word is gealach.”
“Oh, I don’t think I can say that!” the woman said, laughing.
I don’t think I can say that, Anna silently mimicked her.
“All right, then, let’s try another, aye?” he said. “What is your given name?”
“Catherine,” the woman said, and Anna instantly deduced it was Catherine Peterhouse, whom she had seen earlier this evening openly ogling Ardencaple.
“Catherine, lovely,” he said. “Can you say ‘Caitriona’?”
“Kay-tree-una,” Miss Peterhouse said very carefully and ar-tic-u-late-ly.
“Aye, ye said it perfectly, ye did!”
“Did I?” she squealed, and Anna rolled her eyes, twisted on the bench, and leaned toward the bishop-shaped shrub, pushing aside some of the branches in the hopes of seeing him.
“Let’s have another, shall we? Perhaps ye know someone named… Amelia?”
“Amelia?” Miss Peterhouse repeated, sounding perplexed. “Umm… yes, of course, there is Amelia Crabtree.”
“That’s the only Amelia ye know, then?” he asked, sounding, strangely, as if he was slightly disappointed with Miss Peterhouse’s answer. Confused, Anna quietly pushed farther into the giant bishop, but her foot kicked the torchère next to the bench and made it wobble. She instantly grabbed it, righting it before it fell over. When she turned to the hedge again, she froze—she could see his leg just inches from her face.
“Yes, she’s the only one,” Miss Peterhouse said uncertainly. “What is the name Amelia in your language?”
“Alas, it doesna translate,” Ardencaple said with a sigh. “Ah, here’s one, then. Lady Battenkirk! Would ye happen to know her?”
“Lady Battenkirk,” Miss Peterhouse said carefully. “I’m afraid I’m not acquainted with her.”
“Pity, that,” he said, and sighed again. “I would think she’d have a splendid Christian name to translate.”
Now he was talking nonsense! Anna’s frown deepened. He moved again, and then when he spoke, Anna realized he was even closer, and dared not move.
“I’ll teach ye another bit of Gàidhlig if ye’d like. Ah, let’s see… what would ye call a very silly person?”
“A fool?” Miss Peterhouse eagerly answered.
“Aye, a fool. Here we are, then. If ye were to encounter a complete fool in Scotland, ye would say of him, fior òinseach.”