Page 3 of Falling For The Dowager

“I have it. What about your grandmother’s home?” Edwina asked, a look of excitement taking shape on her face. “Weren’t you telling Miss Stratford all about your Scottish heritage the last time you visited us? I am quite sure you said there was a family seat somewhere up in the Highlands. Why don’t you go there?”

CHAPTER 2

The Isle of Mull and the great red Dulbain Keep itself were spread out before Callum Dickon as if the place belonged to him. On his more fanciful days, he could almost pretend it did. It might as well in many ways be his since the family who owned the keep never visited here.

This land had kept its own for hundreds of years. That included the buildings close to the keep, and perhaps even the surrounding island’s forests too, and Callum believed it would be the same regardless of what human intervention he made. It was not just the thick walls that were firm in their standing and self-belief, but a similar current of stubbornness and self-confidence seemed riddled through the people of Mull. Make no mistake about that. Still, it made sense—after all, they lived in the most beautiful place on earth—it was bound to make one arrogant.

There was nothing more known and reassuring that Mull, with its distinct salty taste to the air or the crackle of wind at one’s back, felt to Callum as if today was going to be yet another rewarding, interesting, and satisfying day. As working steward, he had his papers to go through and tasks amongst the small array of staff to organise, but the thing that gave him true pleasure was the overseeing of the rambling keep’s gardens and vast stretching forest.

There was a reassurance in knowing he spent his time and purpose with something that had permanence. There was nothing he could imagine, either the invading French or the Viking hordes from centuries ago, that would ever manage to batter the thick, medieval walls of the keep. There was a certain sort of privilege in being the carer for such a stalwart.

Callum had always maintained there was a guiding hand in the inner workings of such a place. At least, he liked to think so. Given the small amount for maintenance he received from whoever owned the keep, his main role involved holding the wildness back, rather than letting it run riot.

The great bloom of August sunlight peeked optimistically down from the heavens, illuminating the rolling green hillock he stood on, which abutted the keep, and then raced down towards the glittery sea. It made for the best of walks, and cutting through the forest den before idling up towards the keep itself was Callum’s favourite. That way, he could enjoy the shaded canopy and the buzz of wildlife before reaching the formality of the keep’s walls. The sound of the woodpecker could be heard distantly pecking, and other birds were chirping close by.

For all his life, Callum had lived on the Isle of Mull, numbering around three hundred square miles in total. All of which Callum felt he knew better than the back of his own hand. To many, his brothers included, it had seemed far too small for the likes of them, but to Callum, it was home. Nothing in the world could compare to the blackberries or brambles, the sharp salt in the air from the sea, or the sheer knowledge he had accumulated in the last thirty-two years of living here.

One day, you’ll want to leave. That had been the prediction of both his parents. But so far, Callum was all too pleased to say he was settled here and had no intention of changing anytime soon. On occasion, he’d been referred to as a rock, an unmovable barrier, and in actual fact, Callum rather liked this moniker. It suited him. Sometimes, his mother mentioned the idea of him wedding one of the local girls, but Callum wasn’t certain he saw the point of marriage.

Reaching out a hand, Callum touched the nearest bark of an oak tree, enjoying the warmth of the wood through his calloused fingers. There was a certain wildness—the sweep of the woodland, thick velvet greens and rich walnuts and chestnut woods—and when he stood in the middle of this plush forest, it seemed to encircle and hold him.

A mile away was the snug little kitchen from where the elderly Mrs. Fuller would be baking bread, the dough rising and crisping no doubt already. Delicious when cut up and spread with salted butter. Callum smiled at the idea. He might pour himself a warmed ale and make the most of the recent visit from the boat of the in-circulation novel, whichever edition it was this month.

With this matter settled in his mind, Callum drew out his knife and cut back a few brambles. The bracken was thicker than he expected, and Callum had to hack more furiously at the twisting branches. It caught and scratched at him, even at one point loosening the tightness of his shirt and leaving some dust across his chest. As he walked through the woodland, he continued to use his knife, gathering up a collection of wildflowers for Mrs. Fuller to brighten up her kitchen.

Around him as the trees spaced out, the sunshine was golden and all-encompassing as it spilled down from the heavens. There was a sudden noise close by, a human one, loud and out of place, which jarred Callum entirely out of his reverie. The sprawling mass of green leaves, brambles, and rich thicket did not quite hide the woman who was walking along the formal pathway towards the keep. He spied her through the thick, curling branches and leaves.

The woman was straight backed, smartly dressed by Callum’s assumption, of the sort that looked excessively fashionable for this remote isle. A bright yellow ribbon encircled the straw bonnet, but she was otherwise clothed in what appeared to be mourning attire. Still, it was far beyond the style and elegance of what would be suited to life out here.

The neat little bonnet hid her face, but Callum could admire her figure from where he stood. He judged her to be taller than the average woman, perhaps only four inches shorter than his broad six-foot-tall frame. She had a generous bust and delicate hands, which he noticed holding a large valise in one grip, and the other flexed nervously by her side. It was a little strange to see she wasn’t wearing gloves, and he was seized with a bizarre urge to know what it would feel like to kiss the shell-like delicacy of one of her nails. To suck it into his mouth and…

Had she come to Mull to look for work? What would bring such a woman to a far-flung island? Surely, she had better things to do on the mainland for someone of her presence and style. Which left a few options as to why she might wish to hide herself away.

Without really realising what he was doing, Callum pushed aside the brambles and high-reaching grasses before stepping onto the pathway, a good ten feet behind the woman. On closer inspection, she looked all the more intriguing and inexplicable.

With his pace and lack of luggage, he would easily catch up with her, but as he drew closer, he recalled he still clasped in one hand the stub-ended knife and bent to put it away in his boot.

“If you mean to attack me, I think you should know my family owns that building.” She had heard him and turned around, staring him down with a challenge on her arresting face. There was a grit to her expression, and despite the prettiness of her features and the threat of her words, Callum found himself admiring her.

Her visage was a haughty one, built along aristocratic lines, Callum told himself. Far beyond the likes of him, but nonetheless, as he straightened up and looked over her, he was still rather charmed by her bright blue eyes and the glinting touch of auburn that peeked out from beneath her bonnet.

It hit him then, as if it had been uttered through thick cream, her words “my family owns that building.” She was his mistress, with the power to dismiss him and his parents. She was the true owner of the keep, no matter his pretensions or knowledge.

“Madam.” He should properly bow if what she said was true, but instead, he nodded his head in greeting, a moment of doubt lingering inside him. Why, after all, had he not received any communication on her arrival? “I’m Callum Dickon, ma’am. I⁠—”

“Oh yes,” she said in a great rush, hurrying closer and dropping her bag to proffer a hand for him to shake. “I have heard of you. They told me to ask for you directly. What a lucky coincidence to find you here. Now, are you the older one or the younger, as I wasn’t clear who was the steward here and which one was the gardener…” She paused all of a sudden, and a bloom of colour infused her cheeks. “I am rambling on. My brother is Baron Toussaint. I am Lady Sidney. Did you happen to receive his letter?”

“Not yet.”

“How strange. Because he sent it ahead of me, but then again, I did make excellent progress. Everyone is always saying how badly the coaches are run, and how dear it is to travel. But I for one…” She stopped herself as she approached him and seemed to pause, staring up into his face. A note of uncertainty played over her features, a gleam entering her blue eyes, which spoke of nerves or a sense of caution. “I suppose you don’t get many visitors here?”

“No, ma’am.” That was not a lie. The Isle of Mull was some one hundred miles from Glasgow and a farther fifty from Edinburgh.

The black bombazine she wore was creased and far too expensive for traipsing through the under paths of the keep’s buoyant and chaotic gardens. The little bonnet atop her head was dented, and a small circular fleck of mud had splashed onto the grey collar and left a freckle on her neck. If she were anyone else of his acquaintance, Callum would have made a gesture to indicate the mark, but something kept him still.

To his surprise, she turned on her heel and started towards the front of the keep, her back straight and determined. “That is exactly what I wanted to hear. Peace and quiet is precisely what is needed.”

“Ma’am?” She left him no choice but to follow her. Her quick steps and faster hands did not even allow him to be the one to carry her bags.