Page 13 of The Lady of Red River Valley (Ladies of the Wilderness #2)

She grew warm under his admiration and wished to change the subject. Her writing was personal and important to her. She liked his praise, but knew his criticism, if he offered it, would be just as powerful—and detrimental.

“Why are you awake?” she asked, longing to change the subject.

“I thought I heard something, so I came to check.” His smile slowly faded, but his eyes remained warm. “I told you I sleep light.”

“Light enough that you could hear the frantic scribbling of my pen?”

“Aye.” He nodded toward the traveling desk. “What are you writing about?”

She held the ends of her shawl together in one hand and laid the other on the desk in a self-conscious effort to protect her words. “Just things about my daily life.”

“Have you mentioned me in your journal?” His voice danced with something akin to teasing, and she was second-guessing her desire to rekindle their friendship. It was safer for him to keep a wall between them, because when it came down, it was far too easy to be drawn to him again.

A light perspiration gathered on Eleanor’s palms, but she tried hard not to reveal the truth. She would be mortified if he knew how much she had written about him in her journals over the years.

“You have written about me.” The teasing left his voice, and it deepened, almost imperceptibly.

“Well, of course I have.” She wanted to sound matter-of-fact. “I write about everyone I meet.”

“Did you write about Sean Campbell, then?”

Eleanor opened her mouth to respond in the affirmative but realized she had not written about Sean.

“And what of James McIntosh?” he asked, his voice a little lower, his brogue a little deeper. “Did you mention him?”

She swallowed and shook her head.

“And what of Colin Robertson or Angus Ferguson?” He continued to watch her closely, and she knew he was trying to sound as if he teased her—but the answer meant more to him than it should.

“I don’t write about everyone I meet.” She pulled her traveling desk closer to her. “Just those people in my life who are rather—rather important.”

“Am I important in your life?”

“Of course you are.”

“Because we’re friends?”

“Yes. And because—” She’d almost said because she’d been in love with him, but she stopped herself. “Because I’ve known you for a long time.”

The firelight danced in his eyes as he studied her. “So you only write about people once you’ve known them for a long time?”

“Yes.”

“When did you start writing about me?”

The night she’d met Arran, she could not wait to return to the quiet of her room at St. Mary’s Isle. She’d filled several pages about Arran MacLean. There was not an entry from that day on that did not mention him in some way or another—until he’d left Scotland.

But she would never tell him so. Her journal was a sacred place to confide. Sharing it with him would be like baring her heart, which would not be wise.

“It was so long ago,” she said, trying to evade the question.

He was quiet for a moment, though his eyes continued to search hers. He was so handsome and strong, her pulse picked up speed and she licked her lips, which had suddenly gone quite dry. Something had shifted in him.

“What of West?” he asked quietly. “Do you write about him in your journal?”

“William?” She lifted her eyebrows in surprise.

“Aye. William.” He overaccentuated the name. “Is he important in your life?”

She considered his question for a heartbeat. “Yes, of course. He’s Miriam’s father and my friend.”

“Just as I’m your friend?”

Eleanor frowned, uncertain of the course of his questions. “He’s been a good friend since I met him and Anne in England.”

“Nothing more?”

“Of course nothing more, though I do not see how it’s your concern.

” Frustration built in her chest as she sat straighter at the table.

“William is the only person who truly cares that I’m here.

He’s the only one who has treated me like an important member of this community.

He—he makes me feel needed and wanted. Perhaps it’s only because I care for Miriam, but he was just as kind and thoughtful before she was born. ”

Her words seemed to affect him, and he offered her the courtesy of looking down at his hands in contrition. “I’m sorry I dinna welcome you like I should have. I know now that it was wrong, and I want to make it right.” He lifted his gaze again. “Truth be told, I was shocked and confused.”

“And angry.”

“Aye.” He nodded. “And angry.”

A gust of wind rattled the windows and the soft snores of Semple were interrupted by a fit of coughing before he went back to sleep.

Eleanor studied Arran. There were a few more lines around his eyes and his skin was darkened by the sun. She spoke quietly, not wanting to disturb anyone else in the house as she asked, “Are you still angry?”

He regarded her for a moment. “Aye, there is still part of me that is angry, though ’tis not your fault, but mine.

” He lowered his arms to his sides and openly admired her.

“I ken this life well, Eleanor, and by the time the ground thaws, you will be begging to return to England. ’Tis not because you’re weak, or because you’re a woman.

I’ve watched dozens of strong men and women rush to leave this colony every year.

If I had not promised Lord Selkirk that I would see this colony survive and thrive, I would tell all the others to leave, as well.

Until things improve with the Nor’westers and the Bois-Br?lés, this place is too dangerous for a lady who is accustomed to the finer things in life.

They will do everything to destroy our homes, our food, and our lives.

If there is nothing to hold you here, you will leave, I promise you. ”

He was wrong. There were things in the Red River Valley that would hold her. Running a school and ensuring that the children in the colony could read and write had become her primary aim. But just as important was a man named Arran MacLean—as foolish as that might be.

“Good night, Lady Eleanor.” For the first time since that long-ago evening in St. Mary’s Isle, when he had asked her to marry him, Arran reached out and put his hand on her arm.

The touch was feather-soft, and lasted only a moment, but the feeling lingered long after he dropped his hand.

“I’m sorry I dinna welcome you properly when you came. I mean to right that wrong. This place might not be easy or safe for you, but you are needed and wanted. And I long to be friends, because I care about you. I always have and I always will.”

Butterflies took flight in her stomach as she held her breath to hear what he would say next.

“But that doesna mean you should stay, lass.”

She let out the breath and tasted the bitterness of his words.

“Good night,” he said again. “Try to sleep.”

And with those parting words, Arran left Eleanor alone once again.