Page 43 of Return to Wildsyde

13th June 1845, Wildsyde Castle, The Highlands of Scotland.

Luella watched as Lord Buchanan inspected the work, unsurprised to see him climb up and examine the new roof closely. From what she had seen of him, his lordship was not one to mind getting his hands dirty. He seemed to know everything that went on at Wildsyde and in its environs and was not content simply to let others report back to him. He made it his business to check on the building of a wall or the fencing of a field. She knew he visited the fishing boats often too, reviewing the size of the catch and ensuring that what went to market was of the highest quality. Some of this she had learned from Mrs Baillie and others who worked at the castle and held his lordship in high esteem; some of it Luella had seen for herself.

Her heart did a peculiar dance in her chest as she watched him leap down from the scaffolding. Summer had finally shown its face and the afternoon was warm. Never one to be concerned with appearances, he had stripped off his coat and waistcoat and rolled up his sleeves, unconscious of the effect his naked muscular forearms were having on the females in his immediate proximity.

Mrs Grant had two pretty daughters of sixteen and nineteen, and both sighed and giggled, whispering together as they admired Lord Buchanan checking every inch of their newly rebuilt home. The barn next door was still a work in progress and the men were hard at it, preparing to lift a huge beam into place. Lord Buchanan scrutinised this next, and the eldest of the two girls made a cake of herself, batting her eyelids and offering him refreshments and whatever else she could think of in a breathless voice until her father scolded her and sent her away, much to Luella’s relief. There had been an unpleasant, angry sensation in her gut as she watched the spectacle and she did not like to consider just what disturbing emotion that had been, though she knew well enough. Even Mrs Grant was not immune, and stared with unabashed admiration as Lyall helped the workmen lift the massive beam into place. Luella could not blame her. The sight of all that straining muscle and show of manly vigour had done odd things to her equilibrium, too.

Once the thing was in place, there was a good deal of backslapping and congratulations, and Mr Grant insisted his lordship take a glass of his homebrew before they left.

“No, thank you,” Luella said politely, upon being offered a small glass for herself. The memory of the whisky cherries was still vivid in her mind, and she was not about to repeat the experience. Lord Buchanan met her gaze and grinned, knowing full well what she was thinking. Luella huffed and went instead to speak with Mrs Grant, who was occupied cutting up a fresh brown loaf into thick slices.

“Can I help?” she asked.

“Aye, lass, that’s good of you. They’ll be ravenous soon enough now they’ve started in on the home brew. It’ll be the whisky next, ye mark my words and they’ll need something to soak it up or they’ll be a handful. There’s a rabbit pie in the larder there. Cut it up into slices and set it on a plate for them, and there’s a jar of pickles and…”

Luella hurried back and forth, following Mrs Grant’s commands until they had ferried enough food out to feed an army. Finally satisfied, the lady patted Luella’s arm.

“Thank you for your help. I am glad to see ye are nae the wicked slut ye were reported to be.”

Luella blinked, momentarily speechless, and Mrs Grant gave a bark of laughter. “Ach, don’t look so appalled. Ye know as well as I do that yer cousin was no better than she ought to be and a good deal worse than his lordship bargained for, but ye seem to be a good sort and I’m glad of it. People talk though, ye cannot stop some folks' gums flapping, no matter if there’s nae a scrap of truth in it.”

“Well, er… thank you,” Luella said cautiously, still somewhat taken aback.

Mrs Grant guided her back to the table and bade her sit down. Luella did as she was told, disconcerted to discover she had been saved a place next to Lord Buchanan. The daughters, seated on either side of their father where he could keep an eye on them, eyed her with simmering dislike. Well, at least Mrs Grant approved of her.

As Mrs Grant had predicted, the men had moved on from the homebrew and a bottle of whisky now adorned the table. Mr Grant was toasting the workmen, his new home and all who dwelled in her, and he downed the whisky in a large swallow before slamming the glass down and filling it again. Luella noted Lord Buchanan’s plate was empty and replenished it with a selection of everything on offer, setting it before him. He glanced down at it and then at her with a quizzical expression.

“Whisky on an empty stomach is a bad idea, take my word for it,” she said wryly. “I doubt you’ve eaten enough to mitigate the damage.”

He laughed at that, his tawny eyes sparkling, and Luella watched in fascination as he devoured the contents of the plate in short order. Three more toasts and three more shots of whisky were disposed of. Luella filled the plate again.

He tried to leave several times, but each time he was earnestly entreated to stay, and more toasts followed, each more fulsome than the last. His lordship was the handsomest, finest, most honourable, et cetera, et cetera. Finally, he made up his mind to leave and no protests could keep him in his seat. There was a good deal of backslapping and demands to ‘haste ye back,’ but finally they set off for Wildsyde, with the dogs running excitedly ahead of them. The sun was low in the sky, casting everything in shades of gold and amber.

Luella darted an appreciative glance at the man beside her. The sunlight gilded him, turning him into something not quite real, a man stepped out of a myth, a hero of long ago, returned for one last adventure. She could easily imagine him wielding a broadsword, fighting off the English invasion to his last breath. Lord, but he was handsome, and a good man, too. She had seen that much of him. He cared for this place, his home, for the land and the people who lived here. People brought their problems to him, and he listened, no matter how trivial. He helped, too. He didn’t offer lip service, but tangible solutions, whether it meant putting his hand in his pocket or helping himself. She respected him, she realised. That wasn’t all, though, fool that she was. The desire to reach out and touch him, to have him touch her, was so fierce her skin ached with it. No matter how many times she told herself she was the last woman in the world he would ever want, her stupid heart refused to listen any more than her body did.

“Dinnae look at me like that.”

Luella jumped, her cheeks flaming, not having realised he had noticed her admiring gaze.

“I beg your pardon,” she said stiffly, reminded once again of precisely what he thought of her. She had begun to forget, for he had treated her more kindly of late, speaking to her with no trace of coldness or resentment. Foolishly, she had allowed herself to believe they might be friends at least. But she would always be cast from the same mould as Lilith in his eyes.

He made an impatient sound. “Ach, don’t get all uppity. I dinnae mean to offend ye, but ye ought not… I just… I have had a good deal to drink, ye ken?”

“I know,” she said, turning to give him a quizzical glance. “I was there.”

“Well, then.” He said it as if that ought to answer everything.

“Well, then, what?” she asked, puzzled.

“Well, then, don’t go looking at me like that. Ye might get more than ye bargained for.”

Luella opened her mouth and closed it again. “How was I looking at you, and what might I get?” she asked, too intrigued to leave well enough alone.

He stopped, turning to face her. “Ye were looking at me like ye wanted me to kiss ye, and perhaps a good deal besides.”

His voice was low, a rumble that seemed to resonate through her, disrupting her heart and her mind until both were in complete disorder. She could hear something else now, too, the soft edges to his words that told her he spoke true; he was not half so sober as he might appear.

“I… I did not,” she protested, though it was a blatant lie. Her face burned with mortification.