He took to walking the long corridors to regain his strength, and from time to time he’d pass by one room or another and see her, usually in the company of Rodina and Una, usually completely idle, or occupied in some worthless task, as the two chambermaids worked around her. It was inevitable that he would stop to gaze at her, that he could not seem to make his body move forward. And it was inevitable that Mared would sense him and turn around, her gaze meeting his.
He supposed, in the quiet of the night when he sat before his hearth, that it was possible the fever had left him partially addled, for he believed on those occasions their eyes met, her deep green eyes would soften with what he thought was affection, and something would pass between them, something he felt deep inside him.
He was desperate to know if Mared felt it, too…yet he could not bring himself to inquire, primarily because there never seemed to be an opportunity. She was always surrounded by servants. But perhaps more to the heart of it, Payton did not want to know if he had misjudged the look between them. He rather preferred to go on privately believing that she felt it, too, rather than be summarily disabused of that notion.
He preferred to let his tiny glimmer of hope rise up like a bird and begin to beat its wings soundly within him.
Nineteen
A s summer slid into early autumn, and the days grew cooler and shorter, Mared had become accustomed to living at Eilean Ros. She’d found a happy balance with Rodina and Una, helping out where she could without compromising her promise to never serve the laird Douglas. She’d even managed to befriend Beckwith somewhat, who had, since Payton’s illness, seemed to have developed a newfound respect for her.
She took long walks about the estate, usually accompanied by Cailean, Payton’s sheepdog. Sometimes she’d see Payton ride out on Murdoch, bent over the horse’s neck, pushing hard, as if he sought to escape. Other times she’d see his grand coach roll by, bound for God knew where. But he was, she noted, always alone.
When Cailean gave birth to pups that looked suspiciously like her dog at Talla Dileas, Mared delighted in the puppies and with the neckcloths she’d removed from the milk cows, she made little collars for them.
One day, when she was playing with the litter of pups, Payton walked out to the stables accompanied by the coachman. He paused when he saw her at the kennel with the puppies and strode over to have a look. She smiled as one of the puppies climbed over the toe of his boot.
Payton smiled, too, but as he looked down, the smile slowly faded, and he leaned down, squinting at them. “What…are those my neckcloths?” he asked incredulously.
Mared smiled pertly and picked up one of the fattest puppies, holding him to her neck to coo in his ear. “They are indeed. Ye said the cows were no’ to wear them. Ye said nothing of puppies.” She gave him a sly smile and turned and walked deeper into the kennel, leaving Payton to stare at eight puppies with purple collars.
While Payton grew noticeably stronger and more robust with each day, Mared worked to convince herself that she was merely biding her time until her year was up and refused to acknowledge that she did, in fact, long to see him each day. She likewise refused to acknowledge that during that late stretch of day that struggled into evening, she caught herself looking for him everywhere—in his study, the salon, the stables. The drawing room, the billiard room, the gardens.
She told herself the circuitous path she took through the long corridors of Eilean Ros was to check the rooms under her charge.
On the occasions she did see him—in the corridor, perhaps, or standing in the door of a room she was tending—she could feel the strength of his gray gaze, could feel it sink into her, its talons gripping her heart and lungs, then stretching down to the deepest part of her to drag up a jumbled heap of emotions. She could never hold his gaze for very long, for the depth of it oddly frightened her, made her feel more vulnerable than she’d ever felt in her life.
Yet she continued to seek him.
The one place she saw him routinely was the dining room. Night after night she’d walk quietly by that open door, and night after night she’d see him there, sitting alone in the vast room with no company but Alan against the wall, his supper laid on expensive china and silver, his wineglass full. The light of six candles flickering in the cavernous room.
He seemed to Mared to be the loneliest man in all of Scotland.
Almost a month had passed since Payton had survived the fever—which, thankfully, had not spread beyond the master brewer’s cottage. Life had returned to normal.
One night, Mared was in her room, seated on the edge of her lumpy bed, darning her old stockings and idly wondering how many more months she might make use of them, when there was a knock at her door.
Rodina or Una, she gathered. The two were constantly seeking advice on one thing or another. “Come, then,” she called cheerfully, without looking up, and continued to darn her stockings.
The door opened slowly; she barely spared it a glance. “What is it now?” she asked airily. “Mr. Beckwith has made you sullen, aye? Or another lad has turned yer head.”