Page 5 of Hope in the Highlands (Seduced in Scotland #1)

Hope had gone straight to her room after Graham left, carefully avoiding the dining hall as she made her way through the stronghold. She wasn’t sure what to make of the ill-tempered highlander, but one thing was for certain.

She had never been more attracted to a person in her entire life.

It was embarrassing, really, to be bombarded with thoughts and feelings that she had never experienced before. Her mouth had gone dry the moment he touched her and all she could think about walking up to her room was how much she’d wanted his hand to move down around her neck before pulling her into a searing, soul-shattering kiss.

Goodness . What would Jacob think of her if he could see her now? He’d be appalled by what Mr. MacKinnon had said and done—and likely disgusted with her for being so aroused by it. Where gentlemen like Jacob had always been respectful and courteous, Graham appeared annoyed and somewhat charged, as if he had never learned or never cared about the propriety of social normality. It shouldn’t have made her blood heat—but it did.

He was big, but not only in stature. His presence, his personality seemed to draw the attention of everyone around him and Hope had certainly been caught up in his magnetism. And there was no denying the man was handsome, with his dark, reddish hair had a slight wave to it. The squareness of his chin was terribly appealing and Hope hadn’t been able to take her eyes off his mouth when he spoke.

Hope had always wanted a more physical relationship with Jacob, albeit, a proper one. A few dozen kisses would have been plenty, but he had always told her that such behavior was unattractive. There had been a kiss once—a kiss she had initiated and that Jacob had allowed for a moment before pushing her away. It had been, up until tonight, the most stirring event of her life. But it paled in comparison to what she and Graham had just shared. Even though Graham had pulled his hand away quickly, there was something different about his touch. It had scorched her, electrified her and she was rather ashamed at how much more she’d wanted to explore it further.

Her entire being had convulsed beneath his gentle brush of fingertips. She had never even shivered from Jacob’s kiss, let alone quivered.

Had Graham felt it? The shake in her body? Oh, what a humiliating thing to experience. Surely she would never be able to face Graham again.

Bringing her thumb up to her lip as she walked down the hallway, she unwittily traced over the skin, as if she could conjure up what it would have been like to kiss him. She had only her imagination to draw on, since her experience with Jacob had been so limited. After that first kiss, he had persistently rebuked her advances, calling them 'feminine wiles.’ He had explained that her attempts to lead him into temptation were evidence of the weak, sinful nature of women, and that once they were married, he could rein in her more sensual disposition.

Hope had spent many an hour wondering why, if it was the nature of women to be seductresses, Jacob was so very resistant to being seduced. She had stared at herself in the glass again and again, wondering if she lacked the face or figure to attract a man’s attention and desire. She had heard stories of aristocrat men who seemingly couldn’t help themselves when it came to the fairer sex. And while she knew she should be pleased that Jacob was too moral and upstanding to behave in such a manner, the truth was that she’d felt frustration at her own wants and wishes that she was forced to suppress.

Hope had wanted to kiss him, but her desire to kiss Graham now? Well, there was no comparison. Graham's sheer presence had been nearly overwhelming and oh, how she enjoyed it.

Hope leaned her back against the heavy wood door in her bedroom. This day was proving too stimulating for her.

What if he had actually kissed her? Heat began to prickle at her skin as she recalled her sister's foolishness that night at the Spotsmore ball. Had she felt like this? And was this feeling worth the sacrifice that they had all endured since? Hope knew the correct answer of course, but it was very strange that the correct answer and the true answer were not one in the same.

Because if she could feel this way from Graham doing nothing more than touching her, she might have sacrificed her entire life for a kiss. His kiss.

Her shoulders slumped as her desires turned to shame. What a dreadful thing to admit. But she couldn’t fault Grace if she had felt something similar that night. No wonder Jacob had been so worried about Hope’s concupiscence. Her family was one of scandal and wantonness, and everyone in London knew it ran in her blood.

Hope sighed as she began to pull out the pins in her hair. She placed them in a little porcelain dish, painted with purple roses, that sat on the vanity table.

She couldn’t believe her aunt had been the mistress to the late king. Moreover, that Belle had won Lismore Hall in a card game. A card game! How could she ever look Mr. MacKinnon in the eye? No wonder he’d seemed so ill-tempered when they first met. He probably secretly hated Belle—and, by connection, Hope as well.

Trying to ignore the pit of guilt that was growing in her stomach, Hope opened the wardrobe and crouched to rummage through the built-in drawers, reaching for her night rail. But when she pulled, it snagged. Stretching her arm further into the drawer, she groped along the wooden interior for the displaced nail or splintered wood that her nightgown must have caught on.

The pointed object grazed her fingertips. Gritting her teeth, she wrapped her hand around the fabric just beneath the snag and yanked it hard. When the garment came loose, she fell slightly backwards, only to frown at the fabric in her grip.

A dull, square piece of cloth sat above the crisp white fabric of her night rail. It was dingy and for a moment Hope thought to throw it away. But then her eyes caught on the pattern. Hope carried it over to the oil lamp on the edge of her vanity table. Squinting at the fabric as she held it next to the light, she distinguished a green and red plaid. It was the tartan worn by Fergus MacKinnon in the dining room portrait.

How very odd.

Inspecting the small piece of fabric, Hope wondered how long it had been lost in the back of the armoire's drawers. Whose bedchambers had these once been? Glancing around the room, she searched for clues, but nothing grabbed her attention.

Setting the piece of plaid on her nightstand, she decided to ask her aunt about it tomorrow. Hope was assisted by Una as she changed into her night shift. Once the maid dimmed the oil lamp, she left, and Hope climbed beneath the green satin brocade bedding that had been stitched with gold thread. It was far more luxurious than she had ever been accustomed to.

Closing her eyes, she tried to make her mind blank. But peace did not come.

Despite her exhaustion from the day, Hope was restless all night, unable to find a restful sleep. Her dreams were vague, with visions of doors slamming in her face while a thick gray fog surrounded her. She couldn’t see anything and the harder she strained her eyes, the darker it became. Her breath became shallow as she sensed a presence drawing closer to her. Then, a single cello string echoed around her. Her heart pounded and a voice sounded close to her ear, deep and heavily accented.

“Hope.”

Her eyes snapped open as she sat up in bed, pressing her hand to her beating heart. It hadn’t precisely been a nightmare and yet she couldn’t shake the sensation of been stalked. For several seconds she breathed heavily until her heartbeat settled. The gray light of dawn gave her room an unnatural glow. Though she was weary at still such an early hour, she pushed back the covers. Hope had no intention of returning to that unsettling dream.

Pulling out her most cheerful gown, colored bright yellow and crème, she began to dress. Thankfully it had a set of buttons going down the front, making it easier for her to dress alone. After braiding her hair and pinning it up in simple hoop, she rotated her body towards the mirror above the vanity. Agitation showed all over her face as she pressed the pad of her forefinger against the small crease between her brows. She would have a face full of wrinkles soon enough if she didn’t stop displaying every emotion she experienced on her face. Sighing, she decided to head downstairs, though she was already yawning and longing to return to her room by the time she reached the dining room.

Breakfast was a quiet affair. While her sisters seemed unbothered by all the revelations from yesterday, Hope couldn't quite come to terms with it. She pushed her porridge from one side to the other of the blue and white China bowl, preoccupied with her thoughts. On the one hand, Belle’s behavior as a young woman shocked her. But on the other, how could Hope stand in judgment against the person who had been their saving grace for years? Grandmother had certainly not approved of her sister’s lifestyle, and yet she had not quibbled about staying in Belle’s London home for all these years. Wouldn’t gratitude be a more appropriate response than condemnation? And yet, if Hope accepted it, it was as though she were betraying her grandmother in doing so. She had always told Hope and her sisters the importance of being a proper young lady, and Hope had agreed most of the time.

But maybe she wasn’t cut out for being a proper young lady.

“Are you feeling well, my dear?” Belle asked, stirring her tea.

Hope straightened her shoulders.

“Sorry,” she said, remembering that her grandmother had often corrected her when she would get lost in her thoughts.

“There’s no need to apologize,” Belle said.

Faith and Grace both stopped eating their toast and tarts.

“You do seem rather quiet,” Faith said, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

She didn’t wish to discuss her tumultuous feelings at the moment, especially when she was wrestling with what she felt versus how she thought she should feel. She wanted to know more about Belle’s history, but she worried that any questions she asked would sound critical.

“Nothing,” Hope said, forcing her tone to sound light.

Silence followed.

“Very well,” Belle said before addressing the other two. “I thought we would go to the village this morning so that you girls could explore your new surroundings.”

“That would be wonderful,” Grace said, leaning over the table slightly. “I was hoping to visit the bookshop.”

“Bookshop?” Belle repeated, a single silver brow arching upward. “Well, I wouldn’t call it a bookshop, but I’m sure you’ll find Haggarty’s an amusing shop.”

Grace’s smile faltered as Faith leaned forward.

“Might there be an art supply shop? I’ve managed to bring my watercolors, but I’m afraid I don’t have any canvases.”

“Oh, I believe there is. Right next to Rory’s blacksmiths,” Belle said, turning back to Hope. “Will you come, Hope?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, spooning some porridge into her mouth so she wouldn’t have to speak any further.

Thankfully, Belle nor Hope’s sisters pressed her. As soon as breakfast finished, they began to get ready. Her sisters wore similar brightly colored gowns, as did Belle, though hers was slightly old fashioned, with a more flowing cut at the waist. Rose also joined them, though she was wearing a rather plain, faded brown dress with small, yellow flowers stitched into the hem.

All five of them quickly clambered into the same large carriage that had delivered Hope and her sisters to Lismore the day before. Thankfully it was large enough to fit all five of them comfortably, since the village of Glencoe was over an hour away.

“Why is town so far?” Grace asked, surprised when Rose mentioned the time that it would take to get there.

“Well, there are a few establishments between here and Glencoe Village. Some homes as well.” Rose slipped on a pair of lace gloves as she spoke. “The Cock and Sparrow Inn is just about halfway, but I don't recommend any of you ladies to go there.”

“Why not?” Hope asked.

“The owner isn't fond of the English. To be honest, he isn't fond of anyone. I wouldn't go there myself unless it was absolutely necessary.”

“But why is the village so far?” Faith asked, peering out the carriage window as they rode. “I should think town would only be a few miles away. Something walkable.”

“I believe the MacKinnons who built Lismore Hall preferred solitude,” Belle said, clutching the cane planted before her. “Besides, the landscape of the mountains provides the castle with a good deal of protection.”

“The location was chosen so other clans couldn't attack?” Grace asked.

“Precisely,” Rose said.

Hope eyed her aunt curiously.

“May I ask you a question, Aunt Belle?”

“Of course, my dear.”

“Why did you take that bet, with Mr. MacKinnon’s father? Surely you knew it was made by a desperate man. It wasn't right.”

Belle shrugged; her clear eyes settled on a focal point.

“It's how kingdoms rise and fall, my dear. Desperate acts by desperate men have always molded the world we live in. I was simply a player. James MacKinnon didn't have to make that bet, but he did.”

“But he couldn't have been in the right state of mind,” Hope argued. “He had to be drunk or foolish, or—”

“My dear, you're putting too much blame at my feet. He was a grown man, responsible for his own decisions. It was not my fault that he gambled away his home. Why blame me for that man's mistake?”

Hope’s mouth pulled sideways in contemplation as she digested her words. It was true. Graham’s father had made his choices, and Belle was not to blame for them—even if allowing a man to gamble away his family home wasn't the Good Samaritan thing to do.

“I think she was were very clever to win Lismore Hall,” Faith said, her chin high. “Men have always been incompetent creatures. Why should Belle carry the burden for a fool?”

“But Mr. MacKinnon didn't deserve to have his birthright taken from him,” Hope said.

“No, but then his father should have had the foresight to take care of his offspring.”

“That's true,” Grace said. “If James MacKinnon cared about his family, he would have never put the hall up as collateral.”

“That's unfair to assume he didn't care,” Hope said, unsure why she was defending a dead man. “We cannot know what he was thinking. Perhaps he was ill or might have even been impaired in some way. Isn't it, well, unneighborly to take advantage of those less fortunate? It isn't honorable.”

A shuttered expression passed over Belle's stony face. The fine lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes deepened and she appeared much older than she ever had.

“My dear, I'm not the person to discuss honor and virtue. I've done things in my lifetime that would make most men blush. Now, I am certain your parents and grandmother raised each one of you to be good, kindhearted ladies, and I applaud that. Truly I do. But I am not, nor have I ever claimed to be a good lady. I've witnessed a humanity that would congratulate a monster and condemn a saint, all because society called for it. The hypocrisy was not for me, and so I chose to live outside of the strictures of society, on my own terms. However, I won't be made to into a villain because of my past. I am who I am, and I hold no guilt because of it. Do I make myself clear?”

Hope’s wide eyes were locked on the old woman’s face. She nodded slowly. The way Belle saw things was completely foreign to Hope. Yet, even as she tried to rationalize it with her strict upbringing, Hope couldn't help but find truth in her aunt's words.

After a moment of silence, Faith leaned forward.

“Aunt Belle, how come grandmother never told us about your past?”

“I supposed she was embarrassed.” Belle shrugged, her hands tightening around the top of her walking stick. “And I know your parents weren't too fond of me, and even less when poor Willie passed away.”

“What was he like?” Faith asked, inching closer to Belle. “The king, I mean.”

A hush fell over the carriage at Faith’s question. All the ladies, including Rose, leaned a little closer to hear Belle’s response.

“He was exuberant,” Belle said, the hint of a smile appeared on her powdered face. “Lavish and relentless, but always very sweet to me. I remember the first time he asked me to marry him—”

“Marry him?” Grace exclaimed, sitting back. “You were going to be queen?”

“Heavens no, child. It was not meant to be,” Belle said. “He would have had to seek permission from the courts, as well as his father at the time. They would have never approved, not with all the political advantages a royal wedding was supposed to create—and that was back when no one expected Willie to ever become king, given that he had two elder brothers. But it didn't matter anyway. I would not be tamed by a marriage contract, even by a duke.”

“I hardly think becoming a member of the royal family would have restricted you,” Faith said with a calculating expression.

“Oh, no?” Belle quipped, brows raising. “You forget Queen Caroline then.”

King William’s elder brother, King George IV, had a terrible marriage, as was well documented. He had restricted Queen Caroline’s access to her family and friends early in their marriage and sought a divorce immediately after the birth of their daughter, Princess Charlotte. While Caroline had some support from the reformers, her banishment from his coronation had lasting effects on her popularity.

“But you cannot deny you interfered in King William and Queen Adelaide’s marriage,” Rose said. “You were his mistress after all.”

“I was one of his mistresses. Willie did enjoy his women. But I refuse to acknowledge any wrongdoing. He was a prince of the realm, and I held no sway over him.” Hope’s brow quirked up and Belle smirked. “Well, perhaps a little sway.”

“There were other mistresses?” Faith asked. Her mouth hung open and Hope watched her face twitch as though she were doing some advanced math problem in her head. “Can a man have more than one?”

“Perhaps that's a story for another day, Belle,” Hope said quickly, extending her hands up in an attempt to stop her from speaking. “As fascinating as your life has been, I'm afraid we are still rather innocent.”

“Innocent,” Belle repeated with a soft chuckle. Hope held her breath waiting for their aunt to say something cutting about the scandal they had all survived in London, but she only chuckled softly. “More than you know, my dears. More than you know.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence. While it was highly unusual to speak to unwed ladies about scandal, the incidents had taken place many years prior and therefore seemed more like history than current events.

Still, how sad that Belle had been sequestered for so long away from her family. Hope understood her grandmother's reasons, as she probably didn't wish to corrupt Hope or her sisters, but she doubted Belle would ever do anything to harm or hinder them.

Grateful when the carriage finally arrived at Glencoe Village, Hope emerged to find a bustling town filled with people. There were all sorts of shopkeepers and other townspeople who seemed as though they were setting up some sort of event. All manners of people seemed to line the street. Most of the men were wearing green and blue tartan kilts.

“Look, Hope. Kilts,” Faith said, wiggling her eyebrows.

Hope rolled her eyes. She had once made the comment saying that she thought kilts were dashing and Faith would never let her forget it.

“Yes, I see.”

“What's going on?” Grace asked Rose as they strolled down the lane. “There seems to be a great many people here.”

“Festival preparations for the games,” Rose answered, the hint of a smile hovering on her lips. “It's grown a bit over the past few years, but the McTavish clan loves to celebrate.”

“McTavish?” Hope repeated.

“Yes. These are McTavish lands.”

“I thought they were MacKinnon?”

“No, the MacKinnons lost their lands during the Tragedies. The McTavish clan had been a wee bit cleverer at hiding their involvement during the uprisings and were never officially declared an enemy of the crown.” She glanced around. “Laird McTavish is one of the few highland lairds to still retain much of his ancestors' lands.” Rose looked back to Hope. “He's a bit of a relic.”

“How so?”

“Well, the clan system fell out of practice about a hundred years ago, but he still thinks that as the Laird, he needs to take care of his people. Even though many of the other lairds are clearing their lands for sheep and deer parks. Some are even paying their kin to emigrate to the Americas. Laird McTavish has tried to avoid having to do so. He's held on, but … the changing times are a force beyond his control.”

“That's so sad.”

“Aye, it is, but everyone does their best. Mr. MacKinnon's business, for example, has been able to employ several dozen people, and as he keeps his operations on McTavish lands, it's a benefit to the locals.”

“His business?” Hope asked.

“Aye, the beekeeping and whatnot. He's managed to create quite a success, what with all the honey, wax, and venom.”

“Venom?”

Rose smiled knowingly.

“I thought that might catch your attention. I thought he was quite mad when he was explaining it, but apparently Lady Belle's physician, Dr. Hall, has a use for it.”

“That would make sense,” Grace said. “There are dozens of primeval civilizations that used bee stings for medicinal purposes. I once read a book that mentioned an ancient text from China—”

“Ah!” Belle said, interrupting Grace as she flicked up her cane and pointed it through the crowd. “I see Douglas McTavish now. And Jared is with him.”

Belle waved her cane at a striking older man, with a short reddish white beard. He was wearing a cap on his head and the McTavish green and blue tartan. His eyes lit up with recognition as soon as Belle's cane caught his attention. A younger man who had the same squarish build followed him, and Hope knew instantly that they were related.

“Lady Belle!” the older man said through the crowd as he came to greet her. Douglas McTavish clasped her hand and kissed her knuckles. “I didn't expect to see you today.”

“My nieces wished to come to town to discover their new surroundings, as did Rose,” she said happily. “May I introduce Hope, Faith, and Grace Sharpe? Girls, this is Laird Douglas McTavish and his son, Mr. Jared McTavish.”

The sisters all curtsied. Hope was certain the elderly man's eyes lingered on her, as did his son, who bowed.

“A pleasure to meet you all,” Jared said.

“And to see you again, Miss Rose,” his father added.

Hope smiled at Rose, but she was surprised to see the young woman's face had gone pale and void of emotion as she stared at Jared McTavish.

“Lady Belle has proven a dear friend of the McTavish Clan,” Laird McTavish said, pulling Hope’s attention away from Rose. “Any kin of hers is full welcome here. We'd be honored to throw a party for you by the week's end, to celebrate your arrival.”

“That would be very kind of you, Laird McTavish,” Hope said, turning back to face him. “But we wouldn't want to be any trouble.”

“No trouble at all! Any excuse to have a ball,” he said, winking, which caused Belle to laugh.

Hope looked between the two and saw a bit of a connection between them. She wondered if they had ever acted on their obvious mutual attraction. Then, remembering who her aunt was, she blushed.

“Might I ask you where the ribbon shop is, Laird McTavish?” Hope asked.

“Just down the lane, to your left, right next to the kilt hire shop.”

“I'd be happy to escort you,” Jared said, coming forward.

“Ah, I'm actually in need of your assistance.” Belle lifted her hand, taking the young man’s arm as if he had offered it to her. “I've an appointment with Dr. Hall.”

Though he looked slightly deflated, Jared bowed courteously.

“Of course, Lady Belle.”

“Perhaps next time, Mr. McTavish,” Hope said as the young man escorted Belle in the opposite direction. She twisted back to her sisters and Rose. “Shall we?”

“I've an appointment with the butcher,” Rose said quickly, not making eye contact with any of them. “If you’ll excuse me.”

All three watched Rose hurried off. What had that been about?

“That was strange,” Grace said, careful not to bump into anyone in the crowded street. “Did Rose seem upset to anyone else just now?”

“I didn’t notice,” Faith said with a shrug.

“I did.”

“I wonder why,” Grace said quietly as they walked.

Hope wondered too, but as they reached the ribbon shop, she chose to shuffle her concern away as they browsed. There was a fine assortment of ribbon and Hope was rather surprised to see the varying displays, surprised to discover that Scotland had far more fine silks than she would have expected to find outside of London.

After several purchases, Hope and her sisters exited the shop. She saw the swinging wooden sign that spelt out Kilt Hire. She was curious about the piece of cloth she had found in her room. Knowing it belonged to the MacKinnon clan, she wanted to see if it could be restored.

“Shall we try a piece of ginger bread from that vendor over there?” Grace asked hopefully.

“Let’s go find the paint shop first,” Faith suggested.

“I'll meet you over there,” Hope said, walking towards the store.

“Where are you going?” Faith asked.

“I've a question that wants answering,” Hope said as she entered the shop.

A short little man with a lengthy mustache stood behind a table where a long piece of plaid was laid out. He seemed to be measuring the fabric when he glanced up. As soon as he spotted her, his eyes nearly popped out of his head.

“Hello!” he said enthusiastically, dropping his measuring tape as he came around the table. “How may I help you?”

“Hello,” she said. “I was just wondering if—”

“Oh, I don't have any ribbons. That's next door, lassie,” he interrupted, seeming almost offended.

“Yes, but I was wondering if you could—”

“Did ye no hear me?”

“Sir,” Hope said firmly as she reached into her reticule. She extracted the square of plaid and handed it to the little man. “I was wondering if you could repair this.”

He barely gave it a passing glance.

“It's a rag,” he said after a moment. “What do you want with it?”

“I would just like to see it restored and I didn't wish to harm it by cleaning it myself.

The man made a face and took it in hand to inspect it. After a long moment, his forehead puckered as he held it up.

“This is MacKinnon plaid,” he said, peering around it at her. “What do you want with MacKinnon plaid?”

“I simply wish for it to be cleaned, that's all,” she said, attempting to grab it. “If you are unable to do so, simply say as much.”

“No, that’s not it. I can restore it easily enough, though it's such a small piece it wouldn’t be fit to wear. Unless …”

The little man moved around his table and opened a drawer. Hope heard the tinging and clashing of metal when he drew out a sizable locket. He held it up to her, smiling as if she should be happy to see it.

“What is it?” she asked.

The man frowned.

“It's a pin brooch locket,” he said, circling the table to show her. “Usually worn with the fly plaid. But this one is particularly interesting.”

The man held out his hand to show a sizeable silver brooch that fit in his palm. It was in the shape of an intricate knot surrounded by a thistle. With a small tap of his thumb, the brooch popped open, revealing a secret compartment—one large enough to hold the plaid she had brought, if it was folded carefully. Was that what this man had in mind? She’d never heard of a plaid being kept in a brooch, but perhaps that was a common custom here?

“Oh,” Hope said.

He snapped it closed, and Hope glanced up at him.

“Come back in an hour, I'll have it cleaned up for you and put in here.”

“Oh, but that's not necessary,” she said as the front door opened.

“What isn't necessary?” a deep, masculine voice sounded behind her.

Hope whipped around to see Graham standing before her, his tall frame barely fitting in the little shop. He gave her an inquisitive stare beneath the auburn locks that fell over his forehead. Suddenly frantic, she twisted back to the shop owner.

“That's fine,” she said in a soft tone. “I'll be back in an hour for it.”

“But—”

Hope's brow lifted and, with wide eyes, she shook her head slightly. She didn’t wish to be caught with a piece of MacKinnon plaid in front of Graham. Understanding seemed to dawn on the man and he winked.

“Very good, my lady.”

“Back for what?” Graham asked.

“Belle wished for me to get her a swath of McTavish plaid, so that she might wear it during the ball,” Hope said quickly.

Graham eyed her suspiciously. “She never has before.”

Hope shrugged.

“You know Belle. She's a bit of a wild one, isn't she?” Hope said with a smile, hoping to distract him from the shop keeper.

It seemed to have worked because in a moment, Graham's gaze became heated. Hope flushed in response. She nodded and edged past him.

“If you'll excuse me,” she said to the shopkeeper before exiting the building. “Thank you!”

“Yes, my lady,” he said back as she hurried out the door.

“Not so fast,” Graham said, following her out into the crowded street. Hope did not wait. “Where are you going so quickly?”

Away from you , she thought.

“It's of no concern of yours, Mr. MacKinnon.”

“Aye, but it could be.”

She observed him as he fell into an easy stride alongside her. Her eyes dropped to his legs as they walked, and she couldn't contain her curiosity.

“Why were you in the kilt shop?”

He gave her a sideways glance.

“I was in need of a new kilt pin,” he said, though she wasn’t sure if she should believe him.

Once more, she peered down at his trouser covered legs.

“You’re not wearing a kilt.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Then why would you need a kilt pin?”

The corner of his mouth pulled up.

“For when I do wear one.”

“And when would that be?”

“You’re a somewhat forward thing, aren’t you?” he asked but before she could answer, he continued. “Do you think every Scotsman must wear a kilt at all times?”

“No. It’s just that the McTavishes wear them. It looks as though most of the men here in the village do. I was just curious as to why you don’t.”

“It's not practical to wear every day, particularly when I’m in Glasgow. I prefer trousers.”

Graham's words sounded practiced as if he had recited them often. What a strange thing to notice.

“Oh.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“Excuse me?” she asked, having lost her train of thought. “Oh no. It's just that, well, I think I had assumed everyone here wore kilts and plaids all the time.” Her cheeks warmed. “I supposed that's a bit foolish.”

“No,” he said, his tone low. “I don't think that's foolish at all.”

She gave him a self-deprecating grin.

“There's no need to tiptoe around me, Mr. MacKinnon. I'm quite aware of how ridiculous I can be sometimes. My imagination is extensive. My grandmother always told me that I should remain firmly in the present, as I tend to drift away in one of my daydreams.”

His green eyes glanced at her.

“I don't think a healthy imagination is ridiculous. It's natural to be curious. You had a dream and it was a Scottish dream, so I certainly can't fault you for that.”

She tried to smother her smile as she twisted away from him. It was amazing how nervous he made her, yet she felt equally excited.

Just then a young boy, no more than ten, came running by. Hoping to avoid returning to the kilt shoppe with Graham in tow, she stopped the boy.

“Excuse me?” she said, waving her hand a bit to catch the lad’s attention.

“Who? Me?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said bending slightly at the waist. Turning, she pointed to the gingerbread cart. “Would you be a dear and go tell those two ladies that their sister wishes for them to pick up her pin brooch locket from the kilt shop?” The boy made a face, as if to convey that he had far more important things to tend to. Reaching into her reticule, Hope pulled out a half crown coin. “Please?”

The youth’s bright eyes lit up as he took her offering.

“Yes, my lady!” he said with a quick nod, before bounding towards Hope’s sisters.

As she straightened up, she saw Graham giving her the strangest of looks.

“What?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Nothing. It’s just that you’re awfully trusting.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

He shrugged and continued watching her.

“It’s just not something one sees often. Especially from a Londoner.”

“Well, as I’m originally from Cornwall, I’ll forgive you that statement, but I assure you, I’ve rarely been given a reason not to trust people.”

“Which means you’ve been kept sheltered.”

Hope frowned slightly as they continued their walk.

“Not completely. It’s just that I’ve a strong belief that if people are given the benefit of the doubt, they’ll prove themselves worthy of it. For the most part, people do the right thing.”

“But not always?”

“No, but often enough to secure my view on humanity.”

“And what a view it must be,” he said, his deep tone tinged with sarcasm.

She glanced at him, eager to explain that an optimistic point of view, particularly in defiance of constant poor circumstances, was exactly the thing that had gave her the strength to carry on—but the teasing in his eyes made her forget her words.

The memory of his gentle touch flashed in her mind as she stepped into a shallow dirt hole, tripping. Instantly, the solid, muscular form of Graham caught her arm.

“Careful,” he said. She tried to pull her arm back, but he held her steadily. She peered over her shoulder to see who might be watching them, but he smirked at her worry. “Were you expecting people to gawk? Why would they? It’s the gentlemanly thing to do, isn’t it? Helping a lady walk.”

“I don’t need help walking.”

“Your feet say otherwise.”

“I’m merely unaccustomed to walking on dirt roads.”

“Ah, yes, because London cobblestone is so even.” Hope tried to scowl, but couldn’t help but smile. “Well, you needn’t worry about me accosting you in broad daylight.”

“I wasn’t worried about that. I’m just… not used to being escorted.”

“No?” he said, his brow furring. “Not even by your gentleman friend back in London?”

Hope found it a little forward for him to bring up Jacob, considering the last time they spoke she was crying over being thrown over by him, but surprisingly she didn’t mind it.

“No, actually. Mr. Pennington was very strict about touching. He avoided it as much as possible.”

Hope swallowed as Graham frowned.

“Why?”

“Well, because he was concerned for me, I supposed. He never wanted to overstep, least someone get the wrong idea, sullying my reputation as a result.”

“So, he never escorted you? In a park, or museum?”

Hope opened her mouth and then closed it. It had seemed a perfectly respectable thing for Jacob to always keep his distance back when it was happening, but now, holding onto Graham’s arm, she found she wasn’t scandalized at all. Why had she let Jacob convince her that it was so wrong? Nothing about this felt wrong at all.

“No, he didn’t,” she said. “He told me that he didn’t want to appear as a Casanova.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“A Casanova? From holding your hand?” he repeated humorously. The word sounded delightful with his accent. “He’d have to be a true lady-killer if he thought he hand holding would make you swoon. And did he call himself that? A Casanova?”

Hope opened her mouth to explain when the sudden yelps and shouts of young men caught her attention. Graham shifted his head and leaned over the side of the bridge. Hope leaned over the side as well and beheld several young men swimming in their underclothes. Shirtsleeves, plaids, and trousers were strewn across the rocky edge of the stream which pooled into a good-size swimming hole at the base of the bridge. Hope turned around quickly, her blush deepening.

“Tis only a swim,” Graham said, noticing how fast she rotated from the scene below. “Surely, you've gone swimming before?”

“As a child, but not as an adult,” she said over her shoulder.

“You should try it.”

“No, thank you.”

“Och!” he yelled down at the young men. Hope snuck a peek at them. “Put some clothes on! There are ladies present.”

Some lads hooted and hollered while others sank deeper into the water in an attempt to hide their bodies. Graham laughed, and Hope’s attention landed on him. His relaxed grin seemed to melt away slightly as he regarded her. A warm, fuzzy feeling settled in her stomach and she swallowed, nodding back towards the waters below.

“Who are they?”

“My cousins actually,” he said leaning his back against the stone bridge. “You'll meet them at the ball.”

“Oh no,” she said. “But you've embarrassed them.”

“That? No,” he said, shaking his head. “They shan't be embarrassed by that. But if they are, they have only themselves to blame. They shouldn't have been so in a position of being caught near naked.”

“You are never caught in such compromising positions?”

“No,” he answered, his tone surprisingly solemn. “I wouldn’t allow it.”

“You wouldn’t allow it?” she repeated. “Are you afraid of being embarrassed?”

“Afraid? No, but I don't know anyone who enjoys it,” he said.

Hope wondered if he was ashamed of his father's loss of Lismore Hall. She wished she could ask about it, but it seemed too private, too personal a matter to broach with him. Deciding to keep their conversation light, she walked away from him, knowing he'd follow.

“I don't like being embarrassed either,” Hope said, her eyes dropping down. “But I don’t consider vulnerability a weakness.”

“Vulnerability is a synonym for weakness.”

“It is not,” she countered. “Why, I know of a story about a musical conductor whose vulnerability saved his life.”

Graham gave her a skeptical look.

“I don't believe it.”

“It's true. You see, the conductor was so in love with his wife that he wrote her a melody that was meant for only her to hear.”

“It this a story—”

“It would be if you didn’t interrupt,” she quipped before continuing. “Now unfortunately, some years later, the conductor found himself on hard times and had to sell his composition. Though he thought he would be mortified to release to the public this deeply personal piece of music, he was rather regaled as one of the great musicians of his time.” She glanced around, watching a pair of squirrels chasing each other around the base of a tree. “All because he had decided to be vulnerable.”

He was quiet for a long time before he spoke.

“That's a load of hogwash,” Graham said.

Hope frowned. It had been a story that Jacob had told her during their courtship.

“It is not; it's true.”

“That sounds like some romantic swill a man would tell to a lady he's trying to…” He broke off as he saw her face. “Ochs. I didn't mean to say that.”

“Yes, you did,” she said, her gaze on the ground before them.

“Well, perhaps. You're not mad about it, though, are you?”

“No.”

A pause followed. When she glanced up, she saw a rather infuriating smirk tugged at his lips.

“You are. Why? Because I called you a romantic?”

“I must be going, Mr. MacKinnon. Thank you for escorting me.”

“Wait—”

“I really must be off.”

And with that, she faded into the crowd, eager to be out of his presence. What did he know about romance? It was obvious that Graham had never been in love. Therefore, he had no idea what he was talking about. He had obviously never desired anyone, never yearned to be held and cherished, and…

Shame slammed into Hope. Her insides crumbled as her shoulders slumped. Perhaps Jacob had been correct. Perhaps she really was as wanton as her family.