Grace in Thine Eyes (30 page)

Davina’s throat tightened. Why must he say such things?

“And then I held you in my arms …”

Nae!
She did not want or need to remember.

“And then I kissed you.”

When he touched her sleeve, she jumped, startled first by his warmth and then by the earnestness of his gaze.

“In truth, Miss McKie, I’ve thought of nothing else but you since we parted.”

She wanted to glare at him but could not for the tears pooling in her eyes.
How dare you be so tender!

“Still her silent looks loudly reproached me,” he murmured. “Ovid’s words, not mine, though I see ’tis true.” With the tip of his gloved finger, he caught the teardrop that started down her cheek. “You’ve yet to say a word to me with your graceful hands. What am I to think? Though I’ve never proposed to a woman before, I always imagined there being a response, aye or nae.”

Aye, because I must
. Undone, she bowed her head, brushing away his hand.
Nae, because I cannot
.

He sighed heavily. “I would have you for my wife, Miss McKie. But only if you truly are willing. For I’ll not make that mistake again.”

Forty-Three

Mistake, error, is the discipline
through which we advance.
W
ILLIAM
E
LLERY
C
HANNING

S
omerled eyed Davina’s knot of curls and tried to forget the silky feel of her hair between his fingers. “Please, miss. If you do not look at me, I cannot guess your thoughts.”

Davina lifted her head at last, dabbing her nose with a handkerchief pulled from the sleeve of her gown. How could he not have marked her youth on Midsummer Eve? The firm line of her chin, the soft curve of her cheek, the smooth, lightly freckled brow.

He moved farther down the stone bench, giving her room. Giving her time to consider his offer of marriage. “You’ve brought a sketchbook, I see. Are you an artist as well as a musician, or do you write out words in conversation?”

When she began turning pages, he had his answer.
Both
. Finely rendered drawings of Arran’s peaks and glens flew past, with words and phrases scribbled in margins, and the occasional longer note by itself. Finally she stopped at a page covered with single lines in an angular script. Questions, by the look of them. She presented the sketchbook with some hesitancy and pointed to the first one on the list.

Why did you come to my rescue when His Grace asked me to speak?

An easy question, to begin. “You seemed flustered,” he said, hoping not to offend her. “I thought I might be of service. Though I do beg your pardon for the ‘Speechless Lassie’ remark. I did not realize—”

She turned her head, as if dismissing his apology.

“I can tell you this, Miss McKie. ’Twas not calculated, my intervening on your behalf.”

That seemed to placate her. She looked at him once more, then pointed to the next question.
Why did you ask to be my dinner escort?

“Ah. That
was
calculated.” He’d seldom been so honest with a woman. “From the moment I saw you, I wanted you.” When she blushed, he knew she understood. “Aye … just that.” He exhaled, wishing she did not need to hear the worst of it. But a lady deserved to know whom she was considering marrying. “I’ve made rather a career of seducing women.”

When her countenance fell, he was sorry he’d spoken so bluntly.

“ ’Tis my history, Miss McKie. Not my future, I promise you.” His conscience jabbed at him.
Truly? No other woman but this one?
Somerled jerked his chin, as if his opponent were there in the flesh.
A man can change his ways, can he not?

Davina interrupted his mental argument with a light tap on her sketchbook.

He glanced down and was taken aback at her question.

Why did you choose me rather than someone else?

“Do you truly not know?” The openness of her expression—still innocent, despite his savage behavior—touched him deeply. Had no man ever courted her? complimented her? Her mirror alone should have offered encouragement enough. But not all women believed what they saw in the glass.

“Miss McKie, you are a rare beauty. Yet ’tis not your appearance alone that makes you desirable. Your musical abilities are extraordinary. And now that I’ve had a glimpse of your drawings, I suspect there are more hidden talents I’ve yet to discover.” He paused, studying her for a moment. “You are more than worthy of a gentleman’s admiration. This one’s in particular.”

She was softening toward him. In her posture, in her expression, she was a bit less guarded. He’d not have blamed her if she’d appeared that afternoon wearing a suit of armor and bearing a steel mace, though her white eyelet gown was far more becoming.

“More questions, I see.” As he read the next one, his chest tightened.

Why did you not stop when I asked you to?

Davina had not protested with words but with actions. He knew that now. Had known it then but had pretended not to. Could he speak
the truth even if it hurt them both? “I did not stop, Miss McKie, because I did not want to.”

She sighed, then slowly touched her brow.
I know
.

His selfishness overwhelmed him, disgusted him. Somerled gripped the sketchbook, staring down at her list. Davina had already asked more of him than he cared to confess. But he was not prepared for this.

Did you intend to hurt me?

He felt the blood drain from his face. “I had no … that is, I did not …”

She slowly pulled aside the neckline of her gown and turned her head, giving him a clear view of her shoulder. Of a dark purplish bruise. The size of a man’s thumb.

Mine
.

“Oh, lass …” His stomach twisted at the sight of it. “By no means did I intend …” Even after she eased her gown back in place, he pictured the bruise and remembered pressing her against the stable floor. “Please … tell me there are no others.”

When she did not look at him, he knew the answer.
Others
.

God help me
. No wonder she didn’t leap at his offer of marriage and respectability. He had forced himself on her in every sense of the word. Knowing that fact was one thing and confessing it aloud another. But seeing her bruised body made his crime abundantly clear: He had raped her and could never plead otherwise.

He stared at the mossy ground, struggling to find the right words. “I dare not presume to ask your forgiveness, but … I truly am sorry, Miss McKie.”

Neither of them moved for a moment, the cheerful birdsong and brilliant sunshine a strange counterpoint to their discussion. There was no hiding the truth from such a woman. Or, any longer, from himself.

He turned back to her sketchbook with a heavy heart. The lines of script had grown uneven; such questions must have been very hard for her to write.

Why should I ever trust you again?

Why, indeed? As he looked up from the page, searching inside himself for an honest reply, he met her gaze. And saw in her eyes a tiny
flicker of hope. She wanted to trust him. And he wanted, more than anything he’d ever wanted, to be worthy of her trust.

“Miss McKie, ’tis a great deal to ask after all that I’ve done, but … might we begin again?” He held her gaze, wanting her to see that he meant every word. “I’ll not touch your hand without your permission nor kiss your cheek unless you offer it. Is that … acceptable to you?”

She nodded almost imperceptibly, then turned the page of her sketchbook. A single question remained, the most heartrending one of all.
What is to become of me now that I am ruined?

For this one, he had an answer.

Somerled closed her sketchbook and laid it on the bench, marshaling the strength to say what he must. “Miss McKie, please let me redeem what you have lost. Nae, what I have taken from you.” He knelt beside her, then held out his hands, letting her choose to rest hers there or not. “You need not answer me now. Only let me know of your willingness to think upon it.”

She examined his hands for some time, as if counting the stitches in his gloves, though he knew better; ’twas not his gloves that gave her pause.
Please, Davina
.

After a long, quiet moment, she sighed and placed her hands in his.

“Bless you.” Tears clouded his eyes as he held on tight. “I want you for my wife. You alone are meant to be Lady MacDonald.” Saying the name, he was even more convinced.
Aye. Only her. “
Please consider my offer of marriage. Not because ’tis the proper thing, the needful thing to be done, but because you would choose me for your husband.”

When he looked into her eyes, hoping to find his answer, he did not see
aye
or
nae
in their dark blue depths. But he did see a small measure of grace. The faint possibility of forgiveness. And hope for the future, which was far more than he deserved.

Forty-Four

I know not what inexplicable and fated power
that brought on this union.
M
ICHEL
E
YQUEM DE
M
ONTAIGNE

A
s yet, she has not consented to marry me, Father, but—”

“Consented?” Sir Harry spat out the word. “Son, have you not explained the gravity of her predicament? And the extent of our property?” He stamped about the flagstone floor, ignoring Dougal, who held out his coat, waiting to finish dressing him for dinner.

“I have made her aware of both those things, sir.” Somerled was relieved the other guests were well out of earshot, for he would not have them thinking ill of Davina. Nor of him, if he could manage it. “In the meantime, perhaps you could approach her father. At breakfast I spoke with Randall Keith, a Lowlander who knows something of her family. By his description, I’d say James McKie of Glentrool is a reasonable man.”

“Aye, with three sons,” his father said with a grunt. “Brothers do not take kindly to a sister being ravished.”

Ravished
. Somerled loathed the word. Hated that it was true. “For her sake, I thought ’twould be best not to tell the McKies that—”

“What?” His father whirled round, his face turning purple. “And pay the full bride price for used goods?”

“Used by me, sir.” Somerled fought to keep his temper in check. “The family must be compensated for their loss.”

“Och!” Sir Harry shoved his arms into his coat, nearly knocking Dougal over in the process. “ ’Tis no way to negotiate a marriage, lad. You have the position of strength. In a plight such as this, society punishes the woman far more than the man.”

Somerled bit his tongue rather than engage his father in a lengthy debate. “I wish to marry her,” he said in a low voice, “not punish her. I will not have her reputation ruined for the sake of silver.”

“You sound like a besotted suitor,” Sir Harry said gruffly, standing still long enough for Dougal to tie his neckcloth. “Who’s to say whether the tongue-tackit lass was willing or unwilling?”

“Miss McKie was decidedly
not
willing,” Somerled shot back. “Which is why I shall spend the balance of my days on Arran trying to regain her trust. And why you shall pay whatever amount is necessary to meet her family’s expectations.” He pulled a sealed letter from his waistcoat pocket and forced himself to sound polite. “Sir Harry, if you would, kindly write a letter to Mr. McKie at once and express our intentions. I’ve already written one for you to include—”

“Aye, aye.” He cut him off, snatching the letter from his hand and tossing it onto the bed. “And since you insist, I’ll mention nothing of the sordid situation. Only that my son met his daughter on Arran and cannot abide the thought of living without her by his side at Brenfield House. Will that suit you?”

More than you know, Father
. Somerled could not explain his growing feelings for Davina McKie any more than he could deny them.
Besotted? Quite
.

He followed Sir Harry to the dining room, anticipation coursing through his veins. Davina was expected at seven o’clock. They had parted well, he thought. The wariness in her demeanor had eased slightly by the time he’d taken his leave. Still, she was far from won, and he had less than a fortnight left.

Somerled looked about his surroundings with new eyes, wondering what Davina would think of Brodick castle. Commodious, aye, but not lavish. Cromwell had housed his army here in the seventeenth century; the place still bore the look of a fortress. The rough walls were constructed of red sandstone, cut but not dressed, and the floors made of the same rose-colored stone in large, uneven squares, mortared together. The furniture was sparse, the carpets few, the ceiling beams exposed, yet the windows commanded an impressive view—from the lapping waters of Brodick Bay to the bank of firs leading up to the castle, perched on its high plateau. The walled garden was well tended, the meals more than adequate, and His Grace had gone to great lengths to make his visitors comfortable.

Somerled took his place at the massive table, watching for one visitor in particular. The door on the ground floor closed with a muffled bang. Women’s footsteps moved up the turnpike stair. Two maidservants were chattering. And then Davina appeared, fiddle in hand, wearing the same eyelet gown and the same winsome expression.

For a fleeting moment her gaze sought his. A good sign.

“Miss McKie!” The duke welcomed her with obvious pleasure, seating her on his right, the place of honor. “Glad to see you are in good health. We shall feed you well and then hear you play for us, aye?”

Somerled sat with his father on the opposite side of the table, several places down from His Grace and too far away from Davina. A brown-haired servant from Kilmichael was on hand as her chaperon. An
ill-faured
woman, but she could not help the sharpness of her nose or her thin-lipped frown. If Davina was to be his wife—and she was—no one must be given a reason to blether about improprieties.