Page 18 of The Indigo Heiress

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He that would live in peace not made out of his head to rule over him, nor out of his feet to be trampled upon by him, but out of his side to be equal with him, under his arm to be protected, and near his heart to be beloved...’”

Near his heart to be beloved.

The bruising words lingered. Ravenal spoke in low, thoughtful tones as Leith’s darkness intensified. He had not loved Havilah well. With his head and hands full of business, he had left her to herself. Once he had thought he loved her, but when he wooed her, he had failed to keep her. Somehow his beloved had become the bane of his existence. She had changed into another lass entirely, and to this day he couldn’t understand why. Her violent moods, her wish to harm herself at the end. He blamed himself foremost. He swallowed the bitter truth of it, something he’d not faced squarely before.

Ravenal lowered his head and began to pray. “Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name...”

Other voices joined, but Leith could not speak—or breathe. His hand shot to the stock around his throat. He pulled at it so savagely that it broke the back buckle. The silver piece skittered across the bare floor, but Ravenal continued his prayer. Leith took a deep, shuddering breath, fighting the impulse to bolt toward the door.

When Ravenal said “Amen,” he looked straight at him. “All well, Buchanan?”

“Aye,” Leith lied.

Dismounting in the parish churchyard the next morning, Leith and Ravenal waited for the coach carrying the ladies to arrive. Rain slicked the grass and the night’s wind had torn down leaves and branches, but dawn arrived clement with only a light breeze riffling his coattails.

Once again he couldn’t help but compare this small brick kirk in the middle of a field to the one he’d helped found in Glasgow. With its Spanish mahogany interior and immense spire, St. Mungo’s was more cathedral. But this little building in the midst of a sunburned meadow seemed impossibly quaint.

Hobbling his horse, he looked west as the Catesbys’ open carriage came into view. Juliet was easily spotted, wearing another indigo gown, her head topped with a jaunty, white-plumed hat. She’d been wearing blue in the miniature too.

Zipporah Payne left the carriage first, Juliet next. Leith waited to speak to her, but the Ravenal sisters moved in, linking arms with her and drawing her toward the kirk’s open doorway, thereby sabotaging any chance he had for private conversation. Nor did she give him so much as a glance.

“Mr. Buchanan, have you quite recovered from your winnings at ninepins?” Loveday smiled prettily as she passed by him, following after her sister without waiting for an answer.

“Our pastor is more shepherd than orator, but we’ve no cause to complain,” Ravenal said as they walked to the open doorway. “He’s abandoned the Anglican tradition of reading sermons, which seems another move toward independence even within the established church. All the parish seems to have turned out today.”

Was his host remembering what he’d said? In a rare moment of self-revelation, Leith had confessed he’d rather be a monk in a monastery than have to endure a throng. Parishioners were already eyeing him, the outlier in their midst. At home, Glaswegians often gawked at him. He didn’t like it here nor there.

“We’ve been invited to Royal Vale for dinner after service,” Ravenal told him as they passed into the shaded building smelling of dust and old wood and ... jasmine?

Aye, jasmine. The scent wafted toward him on the storm’s fading wind.

Leith sat with the Ravenals while Juliet sat directly in front of him between her father and sister. He looked toward the minister at the raised pulpit, then back at Juliet. Her head was bent, glossy coils draping her neck and the sheer lace fichu about her shoulders.

Had she recovered from whatever had kept her from the garden party?

An hour crawled by, and the minister droned on. “When our heads are fullest of care and our hands of business, yet we must not forget our religion, nor suffer ourselves to be indisposed for acts of devotion...”

Leith set his jaw, denying the urge to consult his watch. The crowded pews were stealing the very air he breathed. With the doors closed, the kirk air grew still and stale. No more jasmine wafted his way. He tried to keep his gaze from lingering on Juliet. To no avail.

He drew a deep, measured breath, the heave of his chest a bid to breathe. He pinned his gaze to the floor as if to anchor himself, feeling as fragile as the fly that whined about his head. He would do nearly anything to keep the darkness at bay. Anything to escape the shadows encroaching again despite broad daylight.

And then, when he thought he’d not weather another trice, a final prayer was said and parishioners hastened out of the building with greater zeal than when they’d come in. Dinner awaited. After a two-hour sermon, these congregants wouldn’t be denied.