Chapter One

“Och. Ye willnae hold steady, will ye?” Ailis Murray huffed out a sigh as she repositioned the easel in front of her for at least the eighth time. “Haven’t I enough instability in my life without ye adding more? Fool thing!” But the wooden legs still wobbled on the stony, uneven ground of the Derbyshire pasture where she was attempting to station it.

On this day in early August the uncooperative easel was not her only source of frustration. Her art supplies lay waiting at the edge of the path behind her, and the afternoon sun was beginning to sink in the western sky. Every moment of delay changed the play of light and shadow dancing across the field and the particular specimen of wildflower—a field scabious, she was quite certain—that she had planned to capture in paint. But in addition, her aunt’s words less than an hour ago still echoed in her ears.

“Mind ye dinnae lose track o’ the time, Lissie.” Even after fifteen years of living in England, her aunt could still sound as Scottish as Lissie, at least in private. “Ye well ken we are invited to dine with Lady Anne and Squire Hammon tonight. ’Twould be an affront to them if we came late.”

The truth of the words did not make them any less annoying.

Lissie would far rather paint than spend time with people, especially strangers. She could easily lose track of the hour and would happily forgo the dinner. But her aunt was right, it would not do to offend the generous owners of this small English village, Little Macclow. More than a year ago they had given Aunt Maddie a new life here. Now Lissie had sought refuge here as well—temporarily—and these same strangers were extending welcome to her without knowing one thing about her save that she was Madeline MacLeith’s visiting niece.

She renewed her efforts to place the easel, pushing a few loose stones out of the way with the toe of her half-boot. “Can ye not just stand?” If positioning it took much longer she would have to give up the idea of painting altogether and settle for making a quick notebook sketch of the blossoming plant.

“Berating it does not seem to have solved the problem.”

The voice—the resonant male voice—seemed to come out of nowhere. Lissie’s heart nearly jumped out of her chest. She gasped and lost her grip on the wooden easel frame. In one long moment, that offending item tilted, toppled and landed with a sickening crash.

Was it broken now? Cheeks burning and frustrations boiling over, Lissie turned with a sharp set-down ready on her lips. But the words died there in the instant she viewed the intruder.

He stood relaxed with a fashionable tall-crowned hat in his hand. Closely fitted breeches and top boots revealed muscular legs. The flattering cut of his tailed dark green coat emphasized broad shoulders and a narrow waist. Beneath the coat he sported a figured burgundy waistcoat that appeared to be silk, with an intricately knotted cravat around his neck supporting collar points that reached his cheeks.

That snowy neckwear contrasted against sun-touched skin a little ruddier than fashion might dictate. Profuse brown curls spilled over a broad forehead. Dark slashing eyebrows and sharp aristocratic facial lines culminated in a strong, pointed chin, softened by a smile presently fixed upon her. The creases beside it suggested that dimples might show if the smile widened.

The finest specimen of a man she’d ever seen.

A stab of dismay shattered that judgment instantly. How could she think such a thing? Her beloved husband Iain had been the handsomest man to walk the earth. No matter how pleasingly tall or well-formed this fellow was, admiring him felt disloyal to the memories she held close in her heart. A rush of guilt joined the stew of other emotions already simmering inside her.

She directed a ferocious scowl at the stranger in stony silence, folding her arms tightly across her middle. Who was he? Not a villager, certainly. Far too elegant.

“By Jove, I do beg your forgiveness.” His deep voice seemed to strike notes within her, vibrating like a long-silenced chime. He raised those dramatic dark eyebrows. Beneath them, the eyes gazing at her were as intensely blue as a Scottish loch on a fine summer day. Faint smile-lines fanned out from their corners, although he did not appear much older than her own four-and-twenty years. This man had not led a soft life, but he apparently met its challenges with humor. Something buried inside her started to stir.

He moved towards her, gesturing at the fallen tripod. “I never meant to startle you, miss, or to cause a mishap. Allow me to set things right.”

Huh. Nothing was right in her world at present. She wouldn’t be here, otherwise. And nothing he could do would change that. Still, she stepped back off the path so he could pass her. “If ye had no mind tae startle someone, ye shouldnae creep along so quietly behind them that none may hear ye.” She deepened her scowl. “’Tis rude tae disturb a person’s solitude.”

Her sharp words caused him not a moment’s pause. “We can agree upon that last bit. I apologize, again. I came out walking to seek some solitude myself. I never expected to come across another soul out here.” He gestured, taking in the expanse of high pasture around them, empty save for some sheep grazing at the far end.

Bending easily (a tribute to his tailor’s skill), he picked up the fallen easel with one hand, inspected it and then cast a questioning glance at her.

Did he merely wish to know where to place the thing? It appeared to be undamaged. Or was he expecting an explanation of who she was, why she was here, and why she talked to inanimate objects?

None of that was any of his business.

“I had wanted it there,” she said, gesturing with her chin. “But there’s nae point now.” She glanced at the small watch pinned to the bodice of her very plain blue cotton gown. She still had some time left, but her concentration was as blown away as a dandelion clock in the wind. Blue eyes that danced with a dangerous spark of interest in them were all she was likely to envision on her blank paper now.

“I am truly sorry if that is my fault.” He was still holding the easel. “May I ask what you had planned to paint?”

She sniffed. “Nothing ye would likely have noticed. Just some flowers.” Scabiosa arvensis—a type that did not grow where she came from.

“I would have guessed a view of the whole field. It is quite a scenic spot.”

With an interesting rocky ledge at the farther end and a backdrop of higher hills rising beyond to the north, it did present an appealing prospect. “Aye, I’ll grant ye that. But landscapes are nae what I most enjoy painting. I prefer the miraculous small details of nature tae the grand design.”

Now why had she bothered to tell him that? Her reactions to him were unsettling. She didn’t want to find him interesting or attractive. Hadn’t men caused her enough trouble already? She turned away to gather up her materials. They should not be having a conversation at all. They had not been introduced, and beyond that, she was here alone. While he did not seem threatening, her susceptibility to him did.

She hoisted the large satchel of supplies onto her shoulder and stepped towards him, hands out to receive the easel. “I’ll be takin’ that.”

He recoiled as if she had hurled an insult at him. “As a gentleman, I think it the very least of my duty to offer to carry it for you.”

“Does a gentleman creep up behind people and startle them?”

Before he could react to the actual insult, she added, “Fine then. I shall consider the offer made, and ye may consider it declined.”

“But…”

Heedless of the risk of loosening her straw bonnet, she tossed her head. “I carried it here and am perfectly able tae carry it away again.” Of course, it had been folded and less unwieldy when she’d brought it. But she had no desire to take the time to fiddle with it now. “Ye are welcome tae yer solitude.”

So saying, she stepped closer so she could wrest the easel from his large, strong hand. When her bare fingers brushed his gloved ones for an instant, a surge of heat raced up her arm and down through her body.

Shocked and astonished, she steeled herself against betraying a reaction. She recognized what that flash of fire was—a keen and innate awareness she had never expected to feel again in this lifetime. It stabbed straight into her heart.

Oh, Iain! Even after a year, sometimes she missed him so much the pain was wretchedly physical. She forced her fingers to close on the wooden easel frame rather than recoil as if burned.

The stranger looked dubious as he released his hold. “If you are certain, miss?”

“I am that.” Completely certain. Whoever he was, he was provoking feelings in her that she had buried with her husband. An urgent need to get away from him pounded through her veins. She was moving towards a new life—one that Iain had made possible and that would be all her own. Her plans did not include a man. Any man.

Tucking the tripod under her arm, she set off down the footpath without another word. She walked as fast as she could manage without risking a stumble, the wretched easel bumping against her knee at every step.

*  *  *

Heart pounding as if he had just run a race, Charles Edward Reynell stood perfectly still while he watched the young Scottish woman retreat down the field. What was wrong with him? Certainly it had been a surprise to come across such a beautiful woman in what was literally the middle of nowhere—a pasture in a small village in the middle of the English midlands. But he had met lovely women in unlikely places before now.

As she continued on her dogged way, her bonnet slipped back, revealing a glorious head full of rich auburn hair. Her form was attractive even as she held her back rigid with—what? Pride? Indignation? Or panic?

Maybe all of those. Apparently startling her and causing her to drop the easel were not forgivable sins. Or was it that he had teased her about talking to it?

He had to admit that was not very well done on his part, baiting someone he had never even met. When the footpath had brought him out of the fringe of trees into the field, he had been nearly as startled as she was to find anyone there. But he’d already had a full moment to view and accept her presence before he heard her accosting the uncooperative frame.

That memory made him chuckle. She had fire, this Scottish maiden. Was it his fault she had been concentrating so hard on her task she did not hear his approach?

He didn’t remember anything from their actual exchange of words (one couldn’t truly call it a conversation) that should have upset her further; he’d only apologized (several times) and tried to be helpful after that first remark. Well, quite possibly he had been flirting. Who could blame him for that? Her fine hazel eyes and flawless alabaster skin had stunned him. But he was fairly certain he had never before in his life caused a woman to flee from his company as if he were the very devil.

How much that irked him should worry him. He had weighty personal matters to pursue while he was here in Little Macclow. Only the trifling matter of the path for his entire future. He had sought solitude to aid his contemplations. He was supposed to meet with the vicar tomorrow to discuss his plans. The last thing he needed was a tempting woman nearby to distract him—or worse, to divert him entirely from his purpose.

Still, it was only natural to admire a fine woman. He watched until she climbed the stile near the far corner of the field and disappeared from his view, blocked by trees and bushes along the stone wall. Every single thing about her—from her lithe shape, pretty face and flame-tinted curls to her equally fiery spirit—intrigued him. Even her adorable scowl and, surprisingly, her Scottish accent. Who was she?

He could try to guess, or he could simply ask his aunt. She knew everything that went on in Little Macclow. He would just need to express his curiosity in deliberately indifferent terms, or she might misread his interest as something more than passing.

And if his aunt suspected that, he would have to try very hard to make certain she was mistaken.