Page 62 of Single Desire
Alec’s attention snapped back. “A woman, Thomas. The former Lady Maura O’Donnell.” He took a deep breath. “My wife.”
Chapter Fifteen
Alec returned to Gleneden late the following afternoon. He found himself impatient—he refused to call it eagerness—to see his wife. But his estate manager was waiting in his study with papers to be signed.
Atop a day’s worth of post was a letter from his mother. Alec hesitated, then tore it open. He felt a niggle of guilt and made a mental note to write her. It was time…no, past time that he wrote. He pictured her dainty mouth pursed in astonishment upon discovering he was married. No doubt there would be a subtle inquiry as to when he would produce an heir.
A smile on his lips, he exited his study and hailed Mrs. Yates in the great hall. No, the housekeeper hadn’t seen her grace since luncheon.
One of the downstairs maids piped up. “I saw ’er grace on the terrace some time ago, yer grace.”
Alec headed outside. Perhaps she’d gone to the loch. Or maybe she’d gone riding. Perhaps to the cove.
Where the devil was his errant wife?
In the midst of that thought came a sight that brought him up short.
He saw her outside the courtyard, down where the slope of lawn leveled out. She sat beneath the shade of an oak tree.
Eagerness. Longing. Desire. All of those things flooded him. He reminded himself that there was much he didn’t know. Too much his lovely Irish lass kept hidden. Deliberately concealed.
Yet in that moment none of it mattered.
There was an odd catch in the rhythm of Alec’s heart. Only Maura would have sat thusly on the ground, careless and heedless that grass might stain her dress. A group of the servants’ children sat in a half circle before her.
Maura’s back was to him. Alec advanced silently, holding his finger up to his lips when one little boy caught sight of him.
Lord, she looked sweet. Heat coiled deep in his belly. Her head bent low when a little girl with curly hair and apple-red cheeks crawled into her lap.
The children stared at her raptly.
As did Alec. She told a tale filled with myth and magic. And when she was done, they all cried for another.
She tossed her hair over her shoulder. It was loose and unbound, held away from her face by a ribbon.
He listened as she spoke with her lilting, Irish brogue. “There is a place in this world,” said she, “a place where the wind meets the sky, and the sky meets the earth—”
“Scotland,” said he, declaring his presence.
“Ireland,” declared she, decrying it. She twisted around to glare up at him. “Perhaps you should continue with the telling of this tale, your grace.” Her eyes sizzled, but her tone was honey sweet.
Alec glanced at the children. “Oh, I believe Her Grace is much more suited to the telling of tales than I.”
Maura stiffened. What the devil did he mean by that?
“And her grace is certainly much prettier than I, don’t you think?”
A dozen vigorous nods and giggles affirmed it. Alec planted his shoulder against the tree trunk and folded his arms. “I shall interfere no more, Duchess. Pray continue.”
And she did, ignoring him. As for Alec, he was only half aware of the story. All the while she spoke, his gaze wandered over her. When the story finally ended, she glanced at her audience. “Would any of you like a sprinkling of fairy dust?”
Shouts and hands went up.
Her laughter was like the tinkling of little silver bells. Reaching into the pocket of her gown, she withdrew a velvet pouch. Alec vaguely recalled seeing it on her bureau a few times.
She reached in, pretending to pull something out. Then she waggled and waved her fingertips. “There! You wear a cloak of fairy dust, my doves. It will protect you and keep you safe and warm and happy!”
“Another story, your grace,” begged a little girl. The stable master’s youngest child.
