Miranda by Susan Wiggs

Miranda,” he said, an edge of surprise in his voice. “Aye, my love, you already have.”
    * * *
    â€œTake me to see Scotland,” Miranda said to Ian the next day.
    Miranda’s request startled Ian out of his brooding contemplation of the village that lay beyond the kitchen garden. In spite of himself, he let a smile curve his mouth.
    â€œTo see Scotland.” He imitated her British accent. “’Tis all you Sassenach want, to come and sketch pictures of our landscape and cry, ‘Oh, how quaint!’” He punctuated the statement with a limp-wristed gesture.
    â€œI do remember my history,” she said, a trace of laughter in her voice. “Scotland has not always been considered quaint.”
    He spread his arms. “And what of me? Am I quaint?”
    Her gaze raked him boldly. “Hardly, sir. But I’ve come a very long way, and since you insist I’m to become your wife, I should learn the sort of place Scotland is.”
    Her words stung him with panic, but only for a moment. All would be well, he told himself. Surely soon she would remember. It was all a question of putting her mind at ease, making her feel safe, lulling her until the memories flowed back into her.
    He took her hand. “Come along, then. I’ll show you the sights.”
    They left through the rear door of the cottage, tiptoeing past Mary’s quarters. Ian saw a jar of freshly picked wildflowers on the shelf outside his mother’s room, and his heart lifted a little. Robbie, uncritical and too young to make judgments, had decided that Mary MacVane simply needed a bit of cheering up. He had vowed to gather flowers for her each day until she got better.
    How simple the world appeared through the eyes of a child.
    Ian and Miranda climbed a slope above Crough na Muir. “It means ‘hills by the sea,’” Ian said. “They say it was first given the name by pagan priests who worshiped the trees.”
    â€œCrough na Muir,” Miranda recited. “It’s a lovely name.”
    Halfway up, he stopped and pointed across the glen. “Innes Manor,” he said. To Ian, the gabled house of gray-green stone, with its slender fluted chimneys and banks of tall windows, used to seem like a dwelling out of a storybook. High on the shoulder of a mountain called Ben Innes, the manor rose above the mist, a kingdom in the clouds.
    â€œIt used to be the laird’s house,” he said.
    â€œWho lives there now?”
    â€œNo one. The butcher who took over the district sometimes sends guests up for grouse hunting.”
    â€œIt’s so lovely.” Miranda smiled up at him. “I wonder what it would be like to live in such a place.”
    The odd thing was, he could picture her at Innes Manor, walking along the stately garden paths like a figure in a Watteau painting. “Perhaps you’ll find out one day.”
    â€œWe.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œPerhaps we will find out one day.”
    The reminder jolted him. “Idle talk.” He had long since ceased to question his own motives when it came to indulging Miranda’s whims. It had become simply something he did, with no rhyme or reason other than his own guilt about playing her false. So he did not pause when he found himself leading her ever higher, to a place he had not visited since he was a boy.
    He had not put on his gloves today, and he noticed her looking at the stump of his finger. When she saw that she’d been caught, she glanced away, blushing.
    â€œIt’s all right,” he said.
    â€œI don’t...remember that.”
    â€œAn accident. Happened when I was very young.” And for the first time in his life, it was all right. Almost.
    He kept hold of her hand, though she needed no help. With her skirts bunched in one fist, she climbed with a sturdy gait. Her hardiness appealed to him. He had gone too long entertaining fan-fluttering London beauties whose tight corsets