She turned and smiled, and there was something about her smile that invited him to confide. “And you? Do you believe it, too?”
He’d meant to say that of course he believed it, but he stopped himself. The truth was he didn’t believe it, had not believed it since he was a child. There were so many stories and legends, passed down and told over and over again. Somewhere in the telling the tale began to change. Perhaps the Laird’s lady in their story had only threatened to throw his sword in the loch, or perhaps she really did, but would it lie there in the mud for all these years? He doubted it. And yet to admit to his doubts seemed disloyal to his father.
He met her eyes, and there was a stillness between them.
“Master Rory?”
Relieved he looked up and saw Mrs Muckleford lurking in the doorway.
“Will you dress for dinner?” she asked him. “And your bride too? Mr Maclean has insisted on a proper meal, in the formal dining room, to celebrate you and your bride’s return home.”
Chapter Nine
Summer 1816
Invermar Castle
Mrs Muckleford had excelled herself. The dining room was lit by the glow from branches of candles, set on the sideboard and the long table, the old wood polished to a soft gleam. It was set with an eclectic collection of china and cutlery. Olivia couldn’t help but notice that there didn’t seem to be anything that might grace her own parents’ table. Probably any items of monetary value would have been sold off to keep the bailiff from the door.
Archie told her that once upon a time there were portraits on the walls, the faces of his long dead ancestors. “Where are they now?” she’d asked, before she caught Rory’s warning glance. But his father surprised them both by grinning and tapping his nose. “Somewhere safe,” was all he would say.
Olivia sat opposite her husband. She was looking her best, with her fair hair swept up into a simple knot—all she could manage without her maid—while her pale yellow, high-waisted gown was flattering. She had worn it to a soiree at Lady Richmond’s house, and knew it became her. Now and again when she glanced up from their meal—salmon with some unfamiliar vegetables, followed by oatcakes, cheese and fruit—Rory was watching her. There was an expression in his eyes that made her heart beat faster and her blood heat in a way she had come to recognise.
He desired her.
She felt they had made progress today. He had spoken of his life here at Invermar, and although he probably didn’t realise it, he had unlocked some of his secrets for her. She was beginning to understand him, and Olivia felt that understanding Rory would be key to making their marriage work.
She lifted her glass and sipped the red wine. The bottle was Archie’s and when she complimented him on it he looked up from passing tidbits of salmon to his dog, lurking under the table. “I was saving it for a rainy day,” he said.
“It isn’t raining,” Rory replied.
“Ah, but it’s a special occasion, is it not?” his father retorted, and raised his glass to Olivia. “To my son’s beautiful wife.”
Rory glanced at his father, and although he smiled back, Olivia thought there was tension in his jaw and the set of his shoulders. Something was worrying him and she wondered what it could be. Apart from the obvious, of course—Invermar. This afternoon, listening to him talk and watching his face, she’d seen him transformed.
He loved Invermar. She had known it in her mind but now she knew it in her heart. Rory had married her for the sake of his castle, and although it still hurt, it no longer hurt nearly as much. She had even begun to compose a letter to her father, ready to send when she visited the nearby town, but she was having difficulty with the wording. She needed some of her fortune to be released to her, so that she could help Rory, but she also knew that her father would be suspicious.
How did one persuade a father who believed he was doing his best for his daughter by cossetting and protecting her that she was actually happier making her own way? And her own mistakes? Margaret had been right in that, too. Olivia didn’t want to be treated as a child anymore. She’d grown up, and she was a woman who knew her own mind.
“We will start on the north side tomorrow,” Archie Maclean was speaking with enthusiasm. “While the weather holds.”
“Surely you don’t dive all year around?” Olivia enquired. She glanced at Rory and her cheeks grew pink—she was remembering the sight of his wet unclothed body barely hidden by that inadequate undergarment.
He had noticed and paused in his reply, watching her curiously. She only hoped he wouldn’t ask what had disconcerted her.
“My father is a harsh taskmaster,” he said, his voice warming in a way that made her aware yet again of the strong bond of affection between father and son. “But even he wouldn’t send me into the loch when there’s ice upon it. We search in the summer, and only when the weather is clement. This has been a good year.”
“A good year, aye, but the summer is nearly over.” Archie sounded troubled, as if the passing of time was of particular concern to him.
Olivia’s eyes slid to Rory’s. “There will be plenty of good days,” he soothed, “to look in the places we haven’t looked.”
Archie seemed to catch himself and nodded with a return to his usual enthusiasm, but for the first time Olivia wondered if he genuinely believed he would find the sword. She remembered Rory’s expression when she asked him the same question. Perhaps neither of them believed it, and it was just a game they played.
&
nbsp; “The north side, father?” Rory prompted, but he was watching her now, his hazel eyes intent upon her lips, before sliding down her throat to the swell of her breasts above the neckline of her yellow gown. She imagined his fingers trailing across her skin, followed by his warm lips. Rory was very adept at undoing the hooks and buttons that held her clothing together. The delicious thought made her shiver.
“Aye, we’ll start along the shore and work outwards. There was some talk of the Laird’s lady standing on that outcrop that rises above the loch, when she tossed the sword in.”