Michael’s gaze flicked toward me, his soft gray eyes dancing with mirth. “Aye. And I discovered I wasn’t too old for my father to take a switch to me. I couldn’t sit for nearly a week.”
“Well, it was no more than you deserved,” Alana proclaimed with mock indignation. “My other braid had to be lopped off at the shoulder to even it out. I was mistaken for a boy for almost half a year.”
“Oh, Alana, you could never have been mistaken for a boy. Even at the age of nine.”
She blushed becomingly, giving her wan cheeks a welcome wash of color.
“And it taught you an important lesson.” He leaned toward her. “Young ladies should never spy from haylofts upon adolescent boys. Not if they don’t want an eyeful.”
“And an earful,” Alana added with a teasing arch to her brow.
This time it was Michael’s turn to blush. Nearly all of the tension that had tightened his frame moments earlier was gone, and I was grateful to Alana for putting him at ease, whether it had been her intention or not.
He turned to take my hand, flashing me the same dimpled grin I remembered from childhood. Even at eight years my senior, Michael had never acted too old or important to pay attention to a quiet little girl. Nor too mature to tweak my nose when I was ignoring him in favor of my sketchbook. “Lady Darby. Kiera,” he corrected, likely hoping I wouldn’t also dredge up some embarrassing story about our shared past. “You are looking very well. The Highlands must agree with you.”
“They do. Though I cannot say I will miss their cold and darkness this winter.”
His grin widened in agreement. “Still painting, I hear.”
“I am,” I answered in some surprise.
“Caroline has spoken of little else in the past few hours,” he replied by way of explanation, though it only served to perplex me further. But before I could ask for clarification a loud commotion called our attention to the entryway. “Ah, the children,” our host exclaimed.
The next few moments were occupied in assisting the rather frazzled-looking nanny in wrangling the children. They were all introduced to Michael and then herded up the stairs toward the nursery. “Laura’s babe is also there. I imagine the little scrapper will enjoy the company,” Michael told us.
“Oh, yes. I had forgotten your sister welcomed her first child but a year ago,” Alana said. “What is the lad’s name again?”
“Nicolas. And what a charmer he is. You’ll see.” His eyes shone with genuine affection for his little nephew. “Now, I imagine you would like to rest and refresh yourselves after your journey. We normally dine at six o’clock,” he declared, opening his pocket watch and then snapping it shut again. “I would be happy to ask Mrs. MacDougall to postpone it another half hour if you would like to join us. Or I can have trays brought to your rooms.” The last was directed at Alana with some measure of sympathy. The man had not missed the signs of her recent illness.
“Oh, we don’t wish to be an imposition,” Alana began.
“No imposition,” he declared, interrupting her. He reached out to take her hand between his own again. “I’m simply glad you are all here.” He smiled warmly in turn at each of us, but I thought I detected some measure of sorrow in his eyes. The somber emotion confused me. The tautness that had returned to his frame I could understand, as he undoubtedly knew why his future mother-in-law had sent for us, but sadness seemed oddly out of place. Unless he worried Philip would advise his aunt to end Michael and Caroline’s engagement, or be unable to convince her not to. But what could Michael have done to warrant such a drastic measure?
In the next moment, he blinked and the sheen of grief was washed away, making me wonder whether I had seen it there at all. “What shall it be?” he asked Alana.
My sister glanced at her husband, who gazed down at her, waiting for her to make the decision. “We will dine with you,” she said with a smile.
“Excellent. Then, if you’ll follow me.” Michael offered me his arm and guided us toward the stairs, allowing Philip and Alana to fall into step behind us.
Catching my gaze on the portraits hanging above, he patted my hand where it rested on his arm. “Still painting mostly portraits?”
“Yes.” I waved my arm at the array of artwork decorating the chamber. “This is quite a collection.”
He nodded. “Aye. The whole host of Dalmay ancestors since the barony was granted over three hundred years ago. There’s more hanging in the dining room, the drawing room, and the library.” My eagerness must have shown in my eyes, for he chuckled. “You are welcome to wander at your leisure.”
“Thank you.”
He waved it away. “Someone should appreciate it.”
I glanced up at the wry tone of his voice.
He smiled tightly. “I’m afraid I find the gaze of all my forefathers bearing down on me rather heavy.”