Enraptured (Mockingbird Square 2)

One of the shadows moved, and she was suddenly aware that there was someone outside, down in the street.

Instead of withdrawing, Margaret leaned further over the sill. Curiosity, as she knew from her father’s homilies, was one of her worst frailties.

The shadow moved closer into the lamplight, transforming into a shape. A man. She recognised the Earl of Monkstead in an evening suit with a top hat on his handsome head.

Margaret had an aversion to the earl. When she had first arrived in Mockingbird Square, she had heard a great deal about him and he had even held a brief fascination for her. He was good looking, certainly, and many females were intrigued by him. But lately she found his interference in the affairs of his neighbours irritating in the extreme. Who did he think he was? Just because his family had owned Mockingbird Square for generations did not mean he owned the people who lived in it. His actions had all the arrogant presumption of a Medieval king, someone who had total power over his men. And women.

Monkstead hadn’t passed beyond the lamp, he’d stopped, and was now standing quite still. Had he forgotten something? And then quite suddenly he turned his head and looked up.

Straight at Margaret.

She gave a gasp and stepped back. But it was too late. He’d seen her, and now he must be thinking her very strange indeed to have been secretly watching him. Or perhaps not, perhaps he was used to lonely spinsters daydreaming about him.

The thought made her even more cross, until she was distracted by Olivia’s voice, filtered by the walls of the town house. For a moment it rose shrilly, telling her husband to “Go away!” while Rory answered her in a deeper note. Then her cousin was sobbing again, as if her heart would break.

Margaret reached f

or William and held him close, and there they sat, waiting out the storm, just as they’d done for the last several nights.

Chapter Two

Six months earlier

Scotland

The water in the burn splashed, clear and cold, as Olivia’s pony made its way along the track that ran through the glen. She had grown weary of dawdling with the others and had ridden ahead. Olivia and her parents had been on a visit to the North of England, in the company of her father’s brother and sister in law, and their daughter Margaret, Olivia’s cousin, when they had decided to venture over the border into Scotland.

Olivia had been less than enthusiastic about this expedition into what must once have been enemy territory. Although the last Jacobite Rebellion was over seventy years ago, until recently Scotland had still been considered a dangerous and uncivilised country. But her mother was a devotee of romance novels, in particular Sir Walter Scott. Scott’s writing had heralded in a new era of romanticism, and now instead of being somewhere to stay away from, Scotland was a desirable destination.

On this particular day her parents had decided to remain at the inn, her mother already weary of ‘roughing it’, so Olivia went out with her uncle and aunt, and her cousin, and their guide.

At twenty years of age, Olivia Willoughby was a classic English beauty, with hair the colour of ripe corn and eyes of summer sky blue. She knew she was pretty and that gentlemen, upon first meeting, were often struck dumb. Sometimes she was amused by it, and sometimes she found it irritating. As yet none of her admirers had captured her interest—her heart remained whole and untouched—and there seemed to be no pressing reason for her to marry. Her parents gave her everything she wished for, and so it had been ever since she was born.

With such an upbringing, Olivia might have turned out to be selfish and self-centred, but she wasn’t. She was perhaps a little ignorant of the ways of the lower classes and the poor, but she was normally a generous girl with a kind heart. And she did her best to share her good fortune with Margaret.

Her cousin Margaret was a dark haired girl with an intimidating green eyed stare, and came from a very different sort of family. It was only because of Olivia’s intervention that Margaret had been able to join her on this trip into Scotland—the vicar, her father, would have preferred her to stay home and attend to his parishioners. As for Margaret’s mother, the vicar’s more dominant personality had beaten her down into a shadow of the woman she once was.

Poor Margaret, thought Olivia, glancing over her shoulder at the rest of the party someway behind her. She didn’t have a very happy life. Olivia decided that if it was the last thing she did, she would rescue her cousin from such drudgery. Margaret was clever and caring, while her unexpectedly wicked tongue often caused Olivia to laugh at the most inappropriate moments. She deserved better than the hand she had been dealt.

Deep in her own thoughts, Olivia wasn’t looking where she was going. It wasn’t until the barking dog brought her attention back to her surroundings that she realised that someone appeared to have fallen from his horse and was lying in the burn.

Olivia didn’t think about propriety or waiting for her uncle’s guidance on the matter. She trotted ahead and then slid from her pony to the ground.

There was a man wearing a kilt and he was lying in the water—the burn was not deep—and he was unmoving. She would have to wade into the stream to reach him, and she paused a moment, considering her skirt and boots. A glance over her shoulder showed her the others were still some way behind, and as the matter appeared urgent, she went to his aid. His face was very pale and his head was resting on one of the raised rocks that littered the area. Thankfully this rock was above the surface of the water, but the red mark on his temple seemed to suggest he had struck himself his head as he fell.

She rested her hand upon his cheek and found his skin cold, and for one awful moment she thought he was dead. Which would have been a shame in any circumstances, but as Olivia had now discovered, this was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. Dark hair and even features, and a broad shouldered, strong limbed body. And that kilt was something she had only ever read about in books—the green pattern wrapped about his slim hips, so that his strong and rather hairy legs were on display.

Completely inappropriate for her to be looking, of course, but Olivia didn’t care about that.

Margaret had reached her now and was standing on the bank. “Put your hand close to his mouth and see if you can feel him breathing, Livy,” her practical cousin suggested.

Olivia rested her fingers on the man’s soft lips and felt the warm huff of his breath. His dark eyelashes fluttered, he groaned softly as if he was in pain, and her heart bumped in relief. “He’s alive! But we must get him out of this water.”

By the time the Reverend Willoughby arrived, they were both tugging and heaving at the large and heavy man. The vicar’s face went bright red at the sight of the man’s kilt and the display of his lower limbs. It went redder when he realised his daughter and niece were standing in the water, their skirts and boots sopping wet and no doubt ruined.

So much for the milk of human kindness, Olivia thought as her uncle spoke in a loud and censorious voice.

“Margaret, come out of the water at once!”