Page 3 of To Winter at Wildsyde

“Right then,” she said, smiling as the two men settled themselves down. “Shall we begin?”

Chapter 2

Today, I leave my friends behind and begin a new life in the Highlands of Scotland. When we reach Wildsyde Castle, I will become Mrs Anderson.

Oh, my word. What have I done?

― Excerpt of an entry by Miss Ruth Stone to her diary.

30th October 1814. London.

“It was good of you to agree to delay our journey to visit my aunt in Tunbridge Wells, Mr Anderson,” Ruth said, drawing those unsettling amber eyes in her direction.

Mr Anderson snorted and raised one eyebrow. “It was nae good, lass as ye ken well enough. It was clear ye would nae give me a moment’s peace if I dinnae agree to it. I’m nae so foolish as to endure a journey to Scotland with a woman holding a grudge.”

Ruth frowned for a moment, a little irritated that he had to point the fact out, but it was true enough. “I suppose that is a fair comment, but my Aunt Ethel has been vocal in her disapproval of my unmarried state.”

“And ye want to go and rub her nose in it, aye?” he said, a flicker of amusement behind the words.

“Aye, I mean yes, yes I do, if you must know.”

He shrugged and Ruth watched his massive shoulders lift and settle with avid interest. “It’ll delay our journey by a day, but ye can consider it a wedding gift. I’ve nought else to give ye.”

“It is a very fine wedding gift,” Ruth said, meaning it.

She was beside herself with delight at the prospect of presenting this magnificent specimen of manhood to her widowed aunt. The woman had given a deal too much advice and become far too exasperated by Ruth’s inability to snare a husband. She’d made Ruth feel every bit the oversized, ungainly and unfeminine lump she’d always feared she was. Finally, Ruth could hold her head up.

“Though…” she began, before losing her nerve and closing her mouth again.

“Well, out with it,” he said, his voice a pleasant rumble over the noise of carriage wheels.

“Well,” she said, gathering her courage and leaning towards him, her expression hopeful. “Do you think you… you might…?”

“If ye are asking me to act the part of besotted fool, Miss Stone, ye are barking up the wrong tree.”

Ruth flushed. “Not a besotted fool, Mr Anderson,” she said, her voice tight. “My aunt is neither blind nor a halfwit, she’d never believe it, but if… if you could try to… to….”

“Be less of a brute?” he suggested.

“Do you think you might allow me to finish my own sentences?” she demanded, irritated, although he was right on both counts, even if she’d perhaps not have phrased it in quite such terms.

“If ye stop hemming and hawing, aye.”

Ruth sighed. “Well, then, can you manage to be less of a brute?”

Mr Anderson regarded her with a resigned expression. “How long are we going to be there?”

***

They made Aunt Ethel’s by midday and, as far as Ruth was concerned, it could have added a whole month to the journey and still have been worth it.

Her aunt was a bracket-faced woman with a thin mouth, set eternally into a narrow line, and protruding eyes that were currently in danger of falling from her head, so profound was her astonishment.

“Betrothed?” the woman repeated, her voice faint as she stared at Mr Anderson like he’d dropped from the skies. Ruth couldn’t really blame her. It was the kind of figure that ought to have dropped from the skies, bringing with it as it did thoughts of warrior gods and ancient deities.

Mr Anderson bore her aunt’s scrutiny for about five minutes, which was four more than Ruth had bargained on, before he made his excuses, albeit politely, muttering something about seeing to the horses. Ruth didn’t care. Her aunt had seen him, knew he was not a figment of her imagination—who in the world could have imagined such a man? — and was suitably speechless.

“Well, I never,” said Aunt Ethel, snatching up a fan and waving it vigorously even though she was swathed in shawls and blankets. “Goodness me.”