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Rory had been watching her to see what she thought, and she had been determined not to let him see the truth. How could she impress him with her courage if she burst into tears? “My goodness,” she’d said faintly, before rallying and stepping forward.
He hadn’t answered her but taking her arm in a firm grip—perhaps he thought she might turn and run—he had helped her across the uneven ground to the door. It was a solid door, the sort of door that would have kept Rory’s Maclean ancestors safe from their enemies. She might have said something about this, but by then Rory had pushed open the door and led her inside.
She hadn’t burst into tears then either. She’d managed to hold on until she was safe in her bedchamber, and then she had thrown herself on the ancient four poster bed with its faded hangings and, sobs silenced by the bolster, gave way to emotion.
Olivia had known her life had been very different from Rory’s, but until that moment she hadn’t realised just how different. To have shackled herself t
o a man who had nothing but an ancient name seemed foolish in hindsight.
Do you know how lucky you are to have married a man you love?
Margaret’s words echoed over the miles. They had had a profound effect on her at the time and even now they sent a frisson of strong emotion through her. Yes, she loved him, and yes she was fortunate, but he was a complicated and difficult man. She had come all this way to be with Rory, and she refused to go home again until she had done her utmost to save her marriage. If he was a stranger to her, then she would get to know him. If his life before she found him in the burn was a mystery to her, then she would unravel it. Surely it wasn’t so very difficult?
There were voices outside.
Pushing her unbrushed and unbound hair out of her eyes, Olivia sat up. Her body ached all over from the journey north. Rory, she was sure, hadn’t felt a thing—in fact every time she looked out of her coach window he’d seemed to be revelling in his freedom like some wild animal that until now had been caged and contained.
Was that how he had felt? she asked herself, as she slipped her legs from under the covers and stood up. Was that why when they were living in Mockingbird Square he was always outdoors? She hadn’t asked him, assuming that he was as happy with the situation as she, but now she knew she had been wilfully blind. She’d wanted to believe he was happy because it was easier for her to do so.
The shutters over the window needed some effort to open, and when she forced them back she was confronted by a sky of hazy blue and sunlight reflecting off the smooth waters of the long, narrow loch. She couldn’t remember noticing the loch yesterday, all her attention had been on the castle. Now here it was.
There was a rowing boat down there, and a man standing up in it. The voices she had heard were him calling to someone on the shore.
Olivia’s breath caught in her throat. The man was Rory and he was naked. Or nearly so. The muscles in his upper body were well defined, there was a line of dark hair trailing from his chest down to his flat stomach, and his legs were set apart to keep his balance. He was wearing some sort of linen undergarment which was wet and clinging and left very little to the imagination.
Since their wedding she’d been guilty of thinking of Rory as a tame London gentleman but there was nothing tame about the man in the boat. He was all male, and in response a current of desire rippled through her.
The voice from the shore called out. “That’s the right spot, laddie!”
Rory fingered back his dark hair. Olivia blinked, leaning forward, only just aware how precarious was her husband’s position and how small the rowing boat on the loch. What if he were to fall in? What if he were to drown? Suddenly she felt overcome by the fear of losing him.
Rory took a step and the muscles in his thighs bunched before he sprang out at full stretch. Olivia gave an involuntary cry as he dived gracefully into the water.
“Rory,” she whispered.
Just when she might have begun to fear the worst, he resurfaced, shaking the moisture from his hair. He laughed and for some reason that made her smile back, despite the fact he could not see her.
A moment later he was striking out toward the shore with an ease that made her gasp again. Now he was out of her sight, beneath the overhanging wall of the castle, and she was sorry for it. She would have liked to see Rory striding half naked from the water.
Olivia wanted him, she admitted it. He was the Laird of Invermar Castle and she was his lady. Every night since their passionate reunion in London, when he had lavished himself upon her like a man starved, she had wanted him. But for her it was more than a physical attraction. Somehow she must make him see her as more than just a delicate Englishwoman with a fortune, and someone he must look after. That she could in fact be his wife and lover and helpmate for the rest of his life.
With a sigh, she turned from the window and looked about the room. There was the antique bed and a wooden chest where she could place her few clothes. The night stand held a candle and a basin of cold water left from last night, in which to wash, with a towel—old but clean—on which to dry herself. There would be no need for elegant costumes or intricate hairstyles—she doubted the Macleans did much entertaining—so she would not miss the services of her maid. To do so would show a shallowness of character she was determined to overcome.
By the time Olivia had dressed and achieved a hairstyle that was acceptable, she was missing her maid. To make matters worse, she was late coming downstairs, and breakfast was over.
Mrs Muckleford, the cook and housekeeper, had already informed her last night that breakfast was at eight o’clock sharp. Although the woman had been overjoyed to see Rory, she had not seemed overly friendly toward Olivia.
“Ah, so this is your wife,” had been her response. “The English lady.”
For a plump, pink faced woman, Mrs Muckleford could be surprisingly caustic.
Olivia admitted it was rather a shock to face such disapproval when all her life people had loved her. How to manage someone who seemed to dislike her on sight, particularly when that someone was a servant? Servants should be blank faced, polite, standing in the background unless called upon to perform some task. But she sensed Mrs Muckleford was more like one of the family, and as such didn’t scruple to show her emotions.
Downstairs the kitchen was empty apart from Mr Maclean’s brown dog, which lifted its head and thumped its tail before closing its eyes in sleep again.
Olivia noted the large pot resting on the metal shelf in the fireplace; it was still warm. The kitchen probably hadn’t changed since Medieval times, she thought, noting the domed ceiling and thick stone walls. There was a low door on the opposite wall with a bolt across it, and she wondered if that led to the dungeon. Did Invermar have a dungeon? She rather thought it did. Would Rory, she wondered, show it to her if she asked him?
She returned to the pot, considering whether she should serve herself. When had been the last time she had fetched her own breakfast? She could not remember if she had done such a thing, ever. And how many times had she been in a kitchen before now? She had no need to in the town house. The menus were always brought to her sitting room, where they were looked over and discussed by herself and cook. There was no necessity to go below stairs into the domain of the servants, and nor would they want her to.
