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Nicholas looked out over Torridon, watching the activity, but his mind was lingering on Josephine.

This was the first time he’d seen her since his uncle informed her of his plans for her, and he didn’t want to look at her too closely lest she see the pity in his eyes.

He knew about her betrothal to the earl because his uncle, the king, had gleefully told him of it the night before.

He’d known much longer than she had but he’d kept it to himself.

Having grown up at court, Nicholas was well aware of the political players and he knew Alphonse d’Vant.

He was a beast of a man, cruel and barbaric, and to think of sweet Josephine married to the man gave Nicholas a sour stomach.

But his uncle wanted to keep Alphonse and his three thousand man army happy, so the Ayr heiress had been a spectacular match.

At least, it was in Alexander’s opinion.

Nicholas hadn’t cared much about it until he actually met Josephine and, now, he felt a great deal of pity for her.

He knew his uncle to be a selfish, petty man, but now the man was adding cruelty to the list of his attributes.

As he sat there and worried over Josephine’s future, he heard her soft voice.

“Recite a piece of your poetry,” she asked.

Nicholas looked at her, surprised and somewhat embarrassed, as Donald snickered loudly.

“Is that what ye were doing?” he asked. “Writing poems?”

Nicholas nodded hesitantly as Josephine scowled. “Shut your mouth, Donald,” she said, then smiled at Nicholas. “Please? I should like to hear how talented you are.”

Nicholas nodded, quite chagrinned, and looked thoughtful as he peered down at his leather-bound book and tried to select a piece.

His poetry was very private to him, so close to his heart.

His uncle was so critical of his passion that he was tremendously reluctant to unveil it to anyone, but Josephine seemed very sincere in her interest. He took a deep breath.

“I know not where my destiny lies;

Beyond the blue horizon, or beyond my door; I know not.

Yet I know whatever may come, it is within my own power

To face the throes of the future

With the graceful dignity of the willow;

To bend, yet not break;

To sway, yet not fall.

My body may wither

My eyes may blind,

And my voice may silence;

But my soul will reach beyond the mortal boundaries of this world

To touch the hand of God.

I know where my destiny lies, it lies within me.”

Donald had stopped swinging his sword and was listening.

Josephine looked at Nicholas, astonished at the beauty of his words.

But somehow, she knew he had selected the piece of prose for her benefit, and she saw the message within it.

My destiny lies within me . It was so very true, something Andrew had been telling her as well.

She smiled gratefully at Nicholas.

“That was lovely, Nicholas,” she said. “You have a great talent.”

This time, Nicholas didn’t blush. He thanked her graciously. But Donald apparently didn’t like being left out; he sat down heavily on the hem of Josephine’s gown and kicked out his long legs.

“Touching,” he said. “Are all of yer poems as lighthearted and gay?”

Josephine shot him a withering look, but Nicholas seemed amused. “Not at all,” he replied. “Some are rather gloomy.”

Donald laid back on the grass and folded his arms beneath his head. “I like ye, de Londres,” he announced. “Ye’re not stuffy or insane like the rest of yer family. Ye have sense.”

Nicholas chuckled. Donald was correct in his observation of his family.

He looked back to his book to see if there might be any other passages she might like as Josephine used a long stalk of grass to tease Donald.

He slapped at it like an annoying gnat and she giggled.

Then she beat him on his swollen face with it, laughing. It was good to see her laugh.

“What is yer pleasure, Josephine?” Nicholas asked her. “What do ye like to do, other than annoy Donald?”

She shrugged as Donald ripped the grass out of her hand and tossed it away. “I have had little time to enjoy anything since my father was murdered,” she said. “But I used to like to paint and draw.”

Donald looked up at her. “I remember a skinny, serious young girl who loved to paint scenery,” he said. “And as I recall, ye were very good.”

She lifted her shoulders modestly. “Mayhap once, I was,” she said. “But that was before I assumed the responsibilities of Torridon. I have not painted since that time.”

“I would like to see yer paintings,” Nicholas said. “Do ye still have them?”

Josephine nodded. “Justine moved them all into the North Tower, into one of the rooms,” she said. “Every so often, she’ll go visit them, but I never do. They remind me too much of my carefree childhood. Somehow it hurts to remember.”

“Because ye can never return,” Donald said softly, as if he, too, had experienced the same.

Nicholas watched her as she resumed poking Donald. “Nonetheless,” he said. “Someday I should like to see yer work.”

She thought a moment. “Then I shall show it to you before you leave.”

“Show me now. What else do ye have to do?”

He had a good point. Even though Josephine was supposed to be delivering butter to the cook, she assumed the cook had already sent someone else for it when she realized her mistress was not returning. Besides, she was enjoying the company of Nicholas and Donald.

“As I said, I have not visited them in a long time,” she said. “But if you wish to see them…”

“I do,” Nicholas said resolutely.

Since Nicholas had revealed some of his poetry, Josephine knew it was only right that she reveal her works of art to him.

She was a little apprehensive to view them, but with Donald and Nicholas as company, it wasn’t as if she would be viewing her paintings alone, free to relive the carefree days that she missed so much.

She would have some support in her two friends. With a nod, she clambered to her feet.

A breeze was picking up from the west as the three of them returned to Torridon just as the kitchen servants were bolting the postern gate, finished with their duties for the night.

But they let her in and the three of them headed across the yard and in through the kitchen entry where the cook was still harassing the servants around her.

The bedlam had only grown worse. Children were crying and the cook was raging.

Justine had vanished and the cook didn’t even notice when Josephine and Donald and Nicholas passed through.

She should have noticed when Donald stole a serpent-shaped oat cake, but she didn’t notice that, either.

Donald broke it in half and gave the other half to Nicholas as they scooted out of the kitchen before they were caught.

Josephine shook her head reproachfully at men acting like naughty boys as they wolfed down the cake.

They passed through the smoky hall and into the foyer but, instead of taking the stone steps to the living levels in the west wing, she took them over to a smaller stone staircase on the east side of the foyer, a spiral staircase that led them up into a single-level series of chambers that smelled very old and damp.

This was the east wing, one used only by the servants and for storage. Josephine sneezed as they ventured further into the chambers.

“I have not been up here in years,” she said, sneezing again. “I am not sure where Justine put my paintings, but she said she put them up here somewhere.”

The chambers were all adjoining on this level, linked together, filled with servant’s beds, trunks, and other things, old and uncared for and stashed away. Passing through a pair of chambers, they came to a corner room and, suddenly, a gala of color and images confronted them.

There were many colorful pictures lined up against the floor, painted on vellum that had been stretched onto wooden frames.

They were mostly of landscapes or flowers, and red roses and fields of white heather danced from the frame.

Nicholas took a knee besides a group of paintings depicting water lilies, among other things.

Carefully, he picked up a picture to look at it.

“These are exquisite, Josephine,” he said with some awe in his voice. “Such beautiful colors. Wherever did ye learn to paint like this?”

Josephine looked at her collected works; so many hours, so many years had gone into the paintings.

In truth, it wasn’t as hard to look at them as she thought it might have been.

In fact, it made her long to return to the hobby she loved so well.

Carefully, she sat down next to Nicholas as he inspected her paintings.

“My nurse was English,” she said. “The same woman who taught me to speak as the English do. She also taught me how to paint.”

Nicholas was studying a particular painting that had a red flower amidst a surreal background. “Ye have a genuine talent,” he said. “It is a tragedy that ye do not continue with yer painting.”

Josephine looked at the artwork in Nicholas’ hand.

“It was just something to become proficient at, and I did,” she said.

“I never saw it as my life’s work. But… but I do admit that I miss it.

Now that I see my paintings, I long for the feel of a brush in my hand again.

There is something satisfying in creating an image from my mind’s eye. ”

Nicholas set the painting down, carefully, and went to look at another. It was a tree against a stormy sky. “I understand,” he said. “That is how I feel about my poetry. It is as if my soul is speaking. But it is something I do not tell many people of.”

Josephine glanced at him, seeing some distress on his features. “Your uncle clearly disapproves,” she said. “He seemed very harsh with you about it on the night you arrived. Do you recall? We were speaking on it and he told you that you should be warring instead.”