Page 4 of Falling For The Dowager

“Quite. I find myself in need of solitude and quiet after my time in London. Nothing could be more precious to me than the sanctuary of rural life. And now that I am here, I know I have come to the right place.” As she talked, she raised her left hand and pulled at the yellow ribbon that held her bonnet in place, yanking with some force the little hat off her head. He would have normally, or rather would have liked, to admire the fierce auburn waves of her hair, but instead Callum’s eyes were drawn to the neat diamond ring on her hand.

Bright annoyance suddenly flared in Callum, as it seemed to him, this woman’s tone and the proprietary gleam in her eye were particularly dismissive of the work and care that went into looking after the extensive grounds of her home. How like the aristocrats of books and papers, lording it over the rest of creation.

Surely, she had dozens of other properties to visit, and once this little game or sojourn was done, she would be off Mull before it was even October. The winters here would scare the bloom off such a woman, and he had no doubt she would be back in London by Christmas, full of stories of the wild Highlands she had endured.

“Then we won’t expect any more of your family to be joining us?” He asked what he deemed a suitable question, as none of the chambers had been prepared, and there was only a skeleton staff in residence at the keep. Would she wish to hire more staff, or could he expect with the next tide a dozen more maids, grooms, chiefs to descend upon the peaceful splendour of Dulbain?

“Oh no, my brother, Lord Toussaint, is staying in London.”

She was being deliberately obtuse. Perhaps this was the typical attitude and behaviour of the upper classes. Callum had no concept of what any of them should have done or would do. Such actions were foolish and not for the likes of him.

“This way, madam.” He moved forward, keen to direct her towards the easiest route through and into the keep. There was the more obvious entranceway, the imposing wooden drawbridge, that would only be lowered when a carriage needed to pass over the water. But if you knew your way through the underbelly and side parts of the keep, then it made more sense to make use of the wooden side door. Callum ushered her towards the small entryway, which abutted the gardens, and produced a key.

“Oh.” She made a disappointed noise as if she were a saddened child. “I think I have pictured the drawbridge being lowered and striding over it since I was a child and used to read about in Le Morte d’Arthur.” She let out a merry laugh as she stared around the space. “I see it’s not necessary though—a mere affectation—since one can just slip inside without it being lowered?”

“Some of the moat was filled in over the last hundred years. Then this door was included.” Callum added as he finally took up her discarded bags and entered the lower timbered hallway. “This way.” The lady followed him, either out of questions or too interested in her new surroundings.

Suddenly, and much to Callum’s surprise, her ungloved hand shot forward and sank into his shirt sleeve, rendering him still in an instant. They were still poised in the dark hallway. A spot where Callum would never normally have paused, for it was too dim, just an empty space between the outside world and the inner part of the keep.

The lady leant closer, so he could hear her breath catching, the noise light and intruding. He could tell she was excited and curious as her strangely bright blue eyes gleamed in the darkness, as if they were aware of some secret which he should know. He waited for her to speak, to utter some foolish comment, ask for some modern amenity he could never provide, or reveal how disappointed she already was in the whole of her family home. Instead, she looked up at his face and whispered, “What a wondrous place.”

CHAPTER 3

What an utterly strange but fascinating place. It could not line up with what Helena had imagined on the journey up here. Primarily, she must admit, because not for a moment had she pictured such a man before her. Nothing would have prepared her for a person like him. A man like him. Because she had never met someone who was so quintessentially masculine, whose inner calm strength radiated out with such ease.

Mr. Dickon was watching her now with a curious wariness, but there was a sharp-eyed perception that Helena did not normally associate with the way the working class had been trained or instructed to treat people of her class. It was refreshing in its boldness. A sweet balm she had not anticipated appreciating. He was not viewing her as a lady, but as something else… a woman, she thought wildly, and the idea was an oddly erotic one.

Not for Mr. Dickon, any lowered gaze, nor had his bow been what a countess was used to. He gave the distinct impression that he lowered himself for no one. Despite herself, Helena was rather charmed by the change. These manners would never be accepted amongst the beau monde. Perhaps this was what Edwina had meant when she’d suggested this remote island as the perfect escape away from the scandal that was brewing in Town.

There was something else to Mr. Dickon’s ruthless gaze, his hazel eyes and brown hair, to his hard, rugged features, to his wildness of his character that was only just contained within the dark suit of clothes he wore. In contrast, in one of his hands, he clasped a charmingly picked posey of wildflowers, of the sort that belonged in a romantic poem or a twee postcard print. It was a notable difference compared to the rest of him. Perhaps he had a sweetheart. Or a wife. Or both, Helena thought cynically, recalling her husband certainly had no boundaries when it came to his lovers.

She shot Mr. Dickon another fervent gaze, surprised more by her own reaction than the barely contained masculinity in the figure moving ahead of her along the corridor. Was this why her gaze kept flicking back to his form? It was so unlike her to look at another man in such a way, especially one who was in her brother’s employ.

Still, she rationalised this was in keeping with the medieval fortress they were in and the wild forestland they had just left.

“Mr. Dickon, Mr. Dickon,” a frantic feminine voice shouted loudly, and a round-faced, pleasant-looking woman hurried towards them. The older woman’s hair was bright silver, narrow little glasses perched on the end of her nose, and her expression fraught. She resembled a worried hen.

“This is Mrs. Fuller, the house’s cook,” Dickon said, indicating the woman who had paused and stared at Helena in confusion. “This is Lady Sidney. She is the sister of Lord Toussaint.” He added the latter part when Mrs. Fuller did not seem to be listening or acknowledging Helena’s presence.

“Oh, m’lady, welcome.” She bobbed a hasty curtsey whilst wringing her hands, which was quite the achievement. “You have come upon us at the most inopportune time I’m afraid. You see—” Helena watched as Mrs. Fuller glanced at Mr. Dickon. Even in the dark corridor, it was possible to see how flustered the woman was. “We are about to be delivered of puppies. And the household is in disarray.”

“I’m coming.” Mr. Dickon sped up, and Helena followed suit, hurrying after him. What she stepped into was the midst of a family kitchen, flooded with late afternoon sunlight. Far from the preconception of a medieval keep, this seemed to have a more modern aesthetic. Light danced off the impressively large stove and handsome, vast mahogany table, the kitchen tiles were a pleasing slate colour, and the patched blue curtains created a homey, comforting atmosphere. Which might explain why in one corner of the room, a dark space set apart from the table and chairs, there was the sound of soft, deep, rhythmic breathing. As Helena watched Mr. Dickon discard the flowers on the table and crouch down in the shadows, she heard the whine of a dog’s cry.

“Oh madam, the poor animal’s been pining for Mr. Dickon. He has a way with the animals around here.”

“You should have sent Anna to find me.”

“I can never find that blasted girl,” Mrs. Fuller said.

Helena moved closer and watched with surprise as Mr. Dickon rolled up his sleeves, seemingly entirely focused on the sheepdog’s discomfort as he knelt down before the animal. His touch, first on her head and then to the creature’s stomach, caused the mewing noise to cease, and the dog made a little whimper as if it was all she wanted in this world.

“Hot water,” he muttered, never taking his eyes off the dog, his hand gentle on the dog’s chocolate-brown fur. “Good girl.” The murmur to the animal made Helena feel acutely aware of her own body as she took her valise over and put it on the table. She looked at Mrs. Fuller, but the woman was shaking her head and backing out of the kitchen, muttering something about finding Anna.

Her eyes darting around the room, Helena decided she should at least make herself useful, and hopefully, this would be an ample distraction from the strange appeal of the young steward. With that in mind, she walked to the copper kettle, carried it to the sink, and set about filling it up. The stove itself was already warm, and when she placed the kettle atop, it was a familiar sound of heating water that greeted Helena. She was pleased she had not allowed her title to prevent her learning these necessaries when she summered or visited Edwina.

There was a movement from behind her, and then Mr. Dickon was standing next to her. His brow furrowed. “I did not think it was a task for you, my lady.”

“Is it a cause for concern?”