Page 54 of The Scot Who Loved Me

“They never will, ma’am.”

Understanding ran deep, and that was a currency worth more than diamonds. Aunt Flora knew he’d live and die in his old boots.

“Let me see what I can do tae make them comfortable while you have tae wear them.” She turned on her seat. “Maude, would you be a dear and fetch Mr. Neville’s shoe forms? The largest pair, of course.”

The rhythmic shelling stopped. “But all his things are stored in the cellar.”

“I know that. You grumbled about it when you put them there. But wee Will needs his shoes stretched.” She held up the bigamist’s shoes as evidence. “They’re tight on his feet.”

Aunt Maude rose with a laborious huff and set her bowl on the table. She lit a taper and crossed the kitchen. “At least it’s no’ raining.”

She opened the cellar door and dank smells invaded the kitchen. Aunt Maude’s sturdy footsteps sounded her charge into the underbelly of the house.

Aunt Flora’s eyes twinkled under her mob cap. “It floods when’er there’s heavy rain.” She chuckled. “It floods in light rain too.”

The cellar’s dank air brought the ghost of another man into the kitchen. Will hooked the Mortlake jug on his finger and rested his elbows on his knees.

“Mr. Neville, he was a shoemaker?”

“His father was a cobbler. Mr. Neville apprenticed with a ship’s captain when he was fifteen. He saved his father’s things, for sentimental reasons, I suppose.”

“And what was Mr. Neville like?”

He was prying, which made him worse than a gossip, but he had to know about the man who gave his name, a house, and a warehouse to Anne. The bench jiggled. Aunt Flora was studying her jar of foul-smelling unguent, probably considering how to answer him.

“Well... he was older than me. A kindly, lonely man. He’d never married until Anne. They were introduced by her grandmother who, I think, wanted the union for Anne’s security.” Her mob cap’s frill fluttered from an emphatic nod in his side vision. “Yes, I am certain that was the reason.”

He took a casual swig. “Anne loved her grandmother, I collect.”

“Indeed. She doted on Anne. The issue of inheritance was, I think, a sore spot.”

“Oh?” He toed a crack in the floor.

Aunt Flora corked her unguent with care. “Her grandmother believed a woman’s fortune should be found with her husband. Her worldly goods passed on tae her sons, though she did bequeathgarnet earrings and a manageable old man as husband for Anne.”

“A pair of earrings and a docile husband. Every woman’s dream.”

A wise chuckle shook the bench. “Out with it, laddie. What exactly do you want tae know?”

He turned his head slowly and met mischievous blue eyes.

“Why do ye think I sent my sister tae the cellar when I coulda gone myself?”

“I didna want to be rude.”

The noise of clanking bottles rose from the bowels of Neville House.

“The clock is ticking. Ye best get on with yer askin’.”

He breathed deep, ribs swelling as if bursting with questions. Clamor from the cellar threatened to shove each question back into place. The odd pressure was astounding. Confusing. He wanted what he couldn’t have. What he could never have. All of Anne’s happiness, love, and passion. Oh, God help him, he wanted her passion. Her body against his. Her tart kisses and the sweet ones. He wanted her past, her present, and every bit of her future. And he wanted,needed, to atone for his grievous, youthful error—for unknowingly abandoning her.

Staring at the flagstone floor, he could almost see that August day unfold. The weapons and ammunition loaded. The two outriders, pressuring him to get going. Men were counting on him. Anne was too. He could picture her, wind-tossed hair, her determined legs cresting the ridge near Castle Tioram, the land empty.

And him, gone.

How could a man make right that wrong? It was a question for the ages while another nettled him.

“Did they love each other?”