Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [111]
He was on his feet and walking toward her before he had time to think of what he might say or do. He wanted to kill the man, but Donald Kerr was already dead. He wanted to take Elisabeth in his arms, though for all the wrong reasons. He wanted to—
“Forgive me, milord.” She turned round just as he reached her, then, startled, lost her balance and began falling backward toward the fire.
“Bess!” He caught her in his embrace, meaning only to spare her. For an instant he felt her heart beating against his chest and her warm breath on his cheek.
“Pardon me,” she murmured, quickly pulling free. “I did not realize you were so close.”
Jack looked down at the floor, at his boots, at Charbon. Anything to clear his mind. The last thing Elisabeth Kerr needed was a gentleman making advances toward her, however unintentionally. “Your husband’s behavior was unconscionable,” he said in a low voice, fighting to control his emotions. “Not all men are unfaithful.”
After a long silence she said, “At least my father honored his vows to my mother.”
Jack nodded, his anger and frustration beginning to abate. “I would have expected no less from the man who fathered you.”
She reclaimed her chair and began sewing again, her needle moving in and out of the fabric. The steady rhythm seemed to calm her. Perhaps his fortnight in the Highlands would be a blessing for Elisabeth. A relief simply to sew and not have a retired admiral seeking her company at every turn.
Watching her, Jack tallied her labors thus far. Nine gowns were finished. Nine gowns remained. And then what, Lord? Shall I find her more work come Saint Andrew’s Day? Or must I bid her farewell?
No decision was required at the moment. He would go a-hunting in Braemar and perhaps learn something of her family. “I shall depart two days hence,” Jack told her, trying to gauge her reaction, “and will return long before month’s end.”
Elisabeth’s hands stilled. “Then you’ll not be here for Saint Lawrence Fair.”
“I’m afraid not. But with the marketplace below your window, you and your family won’t miss a moment.”
“Nae, I suppose not.” Her needle began moving again. “But we will miss you, milord.”
Forty-Eight
Came but for friendship,
and took away love.
THOMAS MOORE
lisabeth gazed down at the flood of strangers pouring into Selkirk and imagined eight days of eating and drinking, bartering and trading, dancing and merrymaking. Lord Jack was right: they could hardly miss the fair with its colorful sights, pungent smells, and riotous sounds hovering over the town like a low bank of thunderclouds, charging the air with electricity.
Anne joined her at the window, her shoulder pressing against Elisabeth’s arm. “The town council threw open the ports at dawn and will not close them again ’til Monday next.”
“However will we sleep at night?” Elisabeth wondered.
“With the windows closed,” Marjory said firmly, “and wool in our ears.” Standing at the hearth, she neatly turned over a barley bannock, despite working with a hot girdle and a thin cake the size of a dinner plate.
“I’ll not mind the wool,” Anne agreed, “but ’tis too warm for closed windows.”
Elisabeth moved toward the washstand and away from the fire. She was already overheated, and the August day had barely begun. They’d not don their gowns until absolutely necessary—one of the advantages of living in a house with three women. Stays, chemises, stockings, and shoes were covering enough for the moment.
As she splashed cool water on her face, Elisabeth thought of Lord Jack doing the same in some sparkling Highland burn. He’d already been gone a full week, though it seemed even longer. Bell Hill felt empty without him. So did the kirk yesterday morning. Elisabeth tried not to speak of him, lest someone misunderstand. They were simply friends. Good friends. Very good friends.
The same could not be said of Cousin Anne and Michael Dalgliesh, who’d traded friendship for courtship nearly two months past. Michael came calling most evenings, bringing Peter along with a treat from the market to add to their supper. A new spice. Honey