then by any other convenient fiend.
“Harriet!” he shouted to the now gusting wind.
Tristan glanced at the gathering clouds that were moving in swiftly from the firth. His uneasiness grew.
Little idiot. What was she thinking wandering off like that
? He started backtracking the way they’d come. It took him at least a quarter hour to circle the bog. Just as he came back around to the bluff where he’d first happened upon Harriet with Sir Duncan earlier, the rain began to fall.
“Harriet, damn it, answer me!”
He turned and stared through the rain at the great rock face of the ancient peak before him. She could be anywhere up there among the countless crags and crevices and—
—
caves
.
Tristan turned and headed at once for the far path.
Harriet was lost in more ways than one.
She had allowed her curiosity to get the better of her, stupidly wandering off amid a place where each rock had begun to look like the next. Somehow, before she realized it, she’d gotten separated from the others. She was now sitting in the shelter of a secluded cave, watching the rain fall outside. She was freezing, her teeth chattering against the damp inside the cave. It had been so warm and pleasant that morning, she hadn’t bothered to bring a shawl. Thankfully, she had offered to carry the blanket after their picnic and so wrapped it around her shoulders to ward off the chill. She wasn’t too worried. She knew that once the rain stopped, she would find her way back down eventually. The city was, after all, plainly visible below. The question was what would she do when she got there? The twenty-ninth of February was but a day away, her last chance—maybe her only chance—in which to secure herself a husband. But
who
!
Sir Duncan was younger than her, yes, and everything that was amiable and kind. He seemed interested in the things she had to say, asking about her childhood at Rascarrel, the books she liked to read. He wasn’t given to any falsehood, freely admitting that his estate in Aberdeen was badly in need of repair. He’d admitted, too, that he hadn’t the funds to see to it. She knew if she asked him to marry, he’d likely accept, even if he didn’t love her. He was dependent upon his uncle and aunt, and to refuse Harriet and her dowry would be foolhardy.
So why not simply marry him?
The answer was clear in Tristan’s words echoing on the keening wind.
Will you think of me, of that kiss, when it is Sir Duncan who is holding you . . .
The truth was, in that urgent moment when Sir Duncan had so earnestly kissed her, Harriet had thought of nothing else but Tristan.
He had been right. Duncan’s kiss had not been the sort that would fill her days with excitement, looking forward to the moment when she might steal another. His had been a kiss of routine, of “this-is-what-I’m-supposed-to-do-so-I’ll-do-it.” And while she might spend hours cataloging Sir Duncan’s good points, assigning him qualities he himself probably wouldn’t admit to, in the end, Harriet still found herself thinking about, longing for, Tristan.
And she knew she always would.
Just a single look from him sent her heart racing to the clouds. When she looked at Sir Duncan, all she could think of was the fact that if they were to wed, she would thereafter be known as Lady Harriet Harrington.
That thought alone was enough to make one think twice.
Tristan knew her so well, so completely. He knew her thoughts without her ever having to speak them. He knew her dreams unlike any other. But could she risk the danger of the Macquair prophecy? Somehow history had to be mistaken? In her heart, Tristan was the man she was meant to know and love, whether he was born one minute, one hour, before her or after. All her life, Harriet had been told the story of the Macquair maiden, of the young lad who had unjustly been denied the hand of his beloved bride simply because of his youth. But wasn’t this the same injustice, the denial of true love
“Harriet!” he shouted to the now gusting wind.
Tristan glanced at the gathering clouds that were moving in swiftly from the firth. His uneasiness grew.
Little idiot. What was she thinking wandering off like that
? He started backtracking the way they’d come. It took him at least a quarter hour to circle the bog. Just as he came back around to the bluff where he’d first happened upon Harriet with Sir Duncan earlier, the rain began to fall.
“Harriet, damn it, answer me!”
He turned and stared through the rain at the great rock face of the ancient peak before him. She could be anywhere up there among the countless crags and crevices and—
—
caves
.
Tristan turned and headed at once for the far path.
Harriet was lost in more ways than one.
She had allowed her curiosity to get the better of her, stupidly wandering off amid a place where each rock had begun to look like the next. Somehow, before she realized it, she’d gotten separated from the others. She was now sitting in the shelter of a secluded cave, watching the rain fall outside. She was freezing, her teeth chattering against the damp inside the cave. It had been so warm and pleasant that morning, she hadn’t bothered to bring a shawl. Thankfully, she had offered to carry the blanket after their picnic and so wrapped it around her shoulders to ward off the chill. She wasn’t too worried. She knew that once the rain stopped, she would find her way back down eventually. The city was, after all, plainly visible below. The question was what would she do when she got there? The twenty-ninth of February was but a day away, her last chance—maybe her only chance—in which to secure herself a husband. But
who
!
Sir Duncan was younger than her, yes, and everything that was amiable and kind. He seemed interested in the things she had to say, asking about her childhood at Rascarrel, the books she liked to read. He wasn’t given to any falsehood, freely admitting that his estate in Aberdeen was badly in need of repair. He’d admitted, too, that he hadn’t the funds to see to it. She knew if she asked him to marry, he’d likely accept, even if he didn’t love her. He was dependent upon his uncle and aunt, and to refuse Harriet and her dowry would be foolhardy.
So why not simply marry him?
The answer was clear in Tristan’s words echoing on the keening wind.
Will you think of me, of that kiss, when it is Sir Duncan who is holding you . . .
The truth was, in that urgent moment when Sir Duncan had so earnestly kissed her, Harriet had thought of nothing else but Tristan.
He had been right. Duncan’s kiss had not been the sort that would fill her days with excitement, looking forward to the moment when she might steal another. His had been a kiss of routine, of “this-is-what-I’m-supposed-to-do-so-I’ll-do-it.” And while she might spend hours cataloging Sir Duncan’s good points, assigning him qualities he himself probably wouldn’t admit to, in the end, Harriet still found herself thinking about, longing for, Tristan.
And she knew she always would.
Just a single look from him sent her heart racing to the clouds. When she looked at Sir Duncan, all she could think of was the fact that if they were to wed, she would thereafter be known as Lady Harriet Harrington.
That thought alone was enough to make one think twice.
Tristan knew her so well, so completely. He knew her thoughts without her ever having to speak them. He knew her dreams unlike any other. But could she risk the danger of the Macquair prophecy? Somehow history had to be mistaken? In her heart, Tristan was the man she was meant to know and love, whether he was born one minute, one hour, before her or after. All her life, Harriet had been told the story of the Macquair maiden, of the young lad who had unjustly been denied the hand of his beloved bride simply because of his youth. But wasn’t this the same injustice, the denial of true love
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