Page 22 of The Lady of Red River Valley (Ladies of the Wilderness #2)

There weren’t enough tables for everyone to sit and eat, so they would need to be pushed against the edges of the room where the meal would be served. Everyone would find a place to sit on the benches or on the floor, picnic style.

“Do you mind my help?” he asked, removing his hat.

His dark hair was so curly and untamed, her fingers tingled with the urge to run through the thick strands. She placed her hands behind her back and refused to think about his hair, or any other part of his well-formed body.

“Of course not. Thank you.”

He went to the table closest to him and began to push it toward the wall. She joined him and helped. Together, they made quick work of the room, leaving them more time than she anticipated before the others would arrive.

The sun had set, and the last blush of color rimmed the sky beyond the stockade. Eleanor quietly walked around the room and lit the lanterns on the walls, very conscious of Arran’s gaze following her.

“You’ve done well,” he said softly, admiration in his voice.

“With what?”

“With the school and the colonists.” He walked up to her and lifted one of the chimneys from a lantern so she could light it. The scars on his hands caught her attention, as they often did, but she did not let her thoughts linger there for long. “And with Miriam,” he added.

His praise was unexpected and filled her with a wealth of pleasure.

“There’s no one who could have done better than you.”

He stood close to her as she lit the wick of the lantern. She took her time, her hand trembling ever so slightly.

“Thank you,” she said just above a whisper.

She wanted to ask him if he was happy that she had come, or if he’d changed his mind about making her return to England, but neither one of the questions would move to her lips.

“I’ve never felt such joy and purpose as I have this past winter.

” It was true. For the first time in her life, she had felt like she was contributing to something bigger and better than herself. “Both with Miriam and the school.”

“You’ve also made a difference in the daily lives of the colonists. You’ve gained their respect and admiration, Eleanor, and eased their burdens.”

She wanted to know if she’d made a difference in his life, or if she had his respect and admiration now, but a simple glance at his face told her all she needed to know. She saw it there, as plain as if he’d said it.

“Aye.” He smiled. “And mine, too.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“You dinna need to ask. I saw the question in your bonnie eyes.”

Eleanor smiled, delighted that he could read her so well. “I have you to thank.” She blew out the match she’d been using to light the lanterns. “If it hadn’t been for you, no one would have given me a chance.”

“You have no one but yourself to thank.” He set the chimney back and leaned against the wall, the muscles of his arms rippling as he crossed them.

His statement wasn’t entirely true, but she wouldn’t debate it with him.

Instead, she looked around the room. “What else shall we do to fill the time?”

“Enjoy each other’s company.”

She hesitated for only a moment before asking, “Do you enjoy my company, Arran?”

A look, so deep and so powerful, came over his face, causing his entire countenance to change in an instant. “I dinna ken anyone I’ve ever enjoyed more than you, Eleanor.”

They still stood close to one another, and she feared he could hear the heavy thump of her heart as it beat against her breastbone.

“Are you happy I came?” she asked in a whisper.

He slowly took her hand in his, forcing her to meet his gaze. The look she saw there was bittersweet. “I am happy you came, but a part of me wishes you hadna.”

“Why?”

“Because it will break my heart to say goodbye to you again.”

“Arran, I don’t want to leave. I’ve found my place here, among the colonists. This is where I belong.”

“You should be back in England, with your own people, where it is safer and life is easier.”

“I have no people.” Her voice wobbled, but she would not cry. “My father is in prison, for life. This is now my home.”

“And what of your maither?”

She had never told him about her mother, had never spoken about her to anyone. It had hurt too much.

“She lives in France.”

“Can you not go to her?”

What was the harm in sharing her past? She was not in England anymore, and after her father’s scandal, she couldn’t ruin her reputation more than it had been.

Besides, she could trust Arran with the truth.

“My mother left my father for a man named Jean-Paul LeBlanc. He was the father of her second child, my half-brother, Marius. She left when I was nine and Marius was three.”

Arran didn’t speak, but he shook his head, as if he could deny the truth for her.

“She chose Jean-Paul and Marius over me.” Even though it had been fourteen years, and she had told herself it no longer hurt, it felt as if the sting of rejection had happened only yesterday.

“My father told me they were living in France, but she never wrote. Not once. After she walked away, she forgot about me, as if I had never existed. I don’t even know if she’s still alive. ”

Arran moved closer to her and took her other hand in his.

“I’m sorry, lass.” He ran his thumbs over the tops of her hands.

The feather-soft touch grounded her in the present, pulling her from the abyss of the distant pass.

But it was the look of fire in his eyes that captured her.

“If I could heal the wounds inflicted by those who hurt you, I would. I’d do anything to keep you safe and protected. ”

She looked down at her hands, remembering all the times he’d held them in the gardens at St. Mary’s Isle.

His touch had a way of igniting a sense of longing that burned deep within her heart.

It had been there, from the moment their hands had brushed accidentally in the gardens, until now, when she yearned to be loved by him more than anything.

The scars on his hands were so vivid, she couldn’t help whispering, “If I could heal the wounds in your past, I would do so in a heartbeat.” She turned her hands so their palms were facing each other.

It was her turn to run her thumbs over the tops of his scars.

“What about you?” she asked. “Where are your parents?”

His muscles tensed, and for a moment, she thought he might pull away, but he allowed her to continue tracing his scars with her thumbs.

Arran had never spoken of his past to anyone. He saw how people looked at his hands and had never wanted to tell anyone what had happened, for fear they would think he was just as ugly on the inside as he was on the outside.

But Eleanor was different. She had a way of seeing past the scars, the ugliness, the discomforts, and the hardships to find the best in everyone and everything. He wanted her to see past the scars, to reassure him that he was more than his past mistakes.

The soft and gentle touch of her hands was the last straw to break his resolve.

“When I was a lad,” he said slowly, uncertain where to begin, “we left Inverness and moved to Nova Scotia. My grandda had been killed in the battle at Culloden and there was nothing left for us in Scotland. On Prince Edward Island, my da was a farmer, though he struggled to put food on the table. I was the oldest of my three brothers and a lot of the responsibilities were on my shoulders. My maither was often sick, lying in bed for days at a time. We couldna send for the doctor, because we had no money to pay him.”

He wasn’t sure if she realized it, but she had moved closer to him.

She looked up at him, affection in her warm brown eyes.

It was enough to undo him. If he wasn’t in the middle of telling her the hardest thing he’d ever had to share, he was certain he would have pulled her into his arms and kissed her until she was breathless.

Instead, he focused on the story. “When I was fourteen, my da went to town and left me in charge, making me promise to watch after everything. We had been planting for days and I was tired. He gave me a list of chores to complete, but I went to the creek to fish instead. I must have fallen asleep, because when I woke up—” He paused, trying not to let his voice quaver with the strength of emotions he felt at the memory.

“There was a great haze of smoke in the distance. By the time I made it back to the farm, the house was engulfed in flames.”

Eleanor’s lips parted in shock.

“My brothers were outside, but they said Ma was still in her bed.” He swallowed, and for a second, he felt like a scared young man again.

“I ran into the house, but the smoke was so strong, I couldna breathe or see. I remembered the promise I made to my da, but I couldna get to my maither. I ran outside and dinna ken what to do. I was so frightened and ill-prepared to deal with the magnitude of the problem. I went to the back of the house to break open her window and pull her out. There was nothing nearby—” He paused and held up his hands.

The scars were deep and puckered, hurting now at the memory.

“So I did the only thing I could and used my fists.”

“Arran.” Tears glistened in her eyes, and she reached out to place her hands on his forearms.

“I tried to get to her,” he continued, a bit faster now.

Finally talking about his past made him want to share it all.

“The shattered glass tore at my hands and arms, but the smoke was so thick, and the rafters of the house were already falling in. It was too hard. I started to fear I would die, too—so I-I gave up.” He looked away from Eleanor, the emotions so strong, he was afraid he couldn’t tell her the rest. But it was the final part that he had carried with him every day of his life.

“When my maither needed me most, I failed her.”

“You were only a boy. You couldn’t have done anything more.”