ask.”
“Of course, my lord.”
The corner of his mouth quirked with a weak smile. “Thank you. You’re too good for me, Olivia.”
“I’m really not.”
He cocked a dark brow. “Are you arguing with me again?”
Olivia couldn’t help but smile back. “It . . . it would seem so. But it shouldn’t really come as a surprise to you after last night. Didn’t you agree that I can be ‘difficult’ after you unceremoniously carted me back to my room?”
A spark of genuine amusement lit Hamish’s gaze. “Aye, I did, didn’t I? Well, off you go, my difficult-but-undeniably-kindhearted wife. Don’t make me unceremoniously cart you back to the carriage.”
If only you would. That was the thought uppermost in Olivia’s mind as she retraced her steps and Hudson handed her in. And would that I could somehow ease your pain.
An impossible feat considering Hamish appeared to be determined to keep her at arm’s length, no matter what.
CHAPTER 13
While they waited till the servant within should come to open the gates, she anxiously surveyed the edifice: but the gloom, that overspread it, allowed her to distinguish little more than a part of its outline, with the massy walls of the ramparts, and to know, that it was vast, ancient and dreary.
Ann Radcliffe, The Mysteries of Udolpho
Isle of Skye, Scotland
September 24, 1818
The next four days passed in a blur for Olivia. Seemingly endless hours spent alone in Hamish’s carriage with only Tilda for company—and then on horseback after they crossed by ferry from Glenelg over to the village of Kylerhea on the Isle of Skye—left her exhausted and aching. Poor Tilda was so tired, she slept for most of the final leg, rugged up in blankets in the back of the dogcart that Hudson drove over the vast tracts of rough moorland between Kylerhea and Muircliff Castle.
By the time their small traveling party reached the tiny village of Dunmuir on the very northwestern edge of the island, the afternoon had turned cold and dark. Sullen clouds threatened rain, and a chill, brine-laden wind tore at Olivia’s bonnet, traveling gown, and woolen cloak. When Hamish informed her they only had three miles left to travel, she was thankful the journey was almost over.
However, her relief was short-lived. The approach to Muircliff was along a narrow stony track, high above the hissing, roiling sea. Waves hurled themselves at the basalt cliffs and jagged black rocks below, sending plumes of spray and foam into the air. Olivia had learned to ride when she was a girl and felt comfortable in the saddle, but not at the present moment. Her stomach was a mass of tangled knots, and she kept a tight grip on the reins of her small gray mare as she followed Hamish. He rode his fine black gelding with practiced ease even though the cutting wind whipped his sable hair and the cape of his greatcoat all about.
Olivia wanted to glance back over her shoulder to see how Hudson was managing to steer the dogcart along the path, but she dared not in case she lost her seat. Daniels now sat with Tilda—he’d hopped into the back of the cart at Dunmuir—so she trusted the footman was taking care of her.
Some hours ago, as they’d clattered over a stone bridge spanning the shallow Sligachan River with the rugged Cuillin mountain range rising above the surrounding heather-covered moors, Hamish had explained to Olivia that Muircliff had been built by the MacQueens of Skye several centuries ago. “Even though various ancestors have added improvements over the years, it’s still a hulking pile of stone and essentially inhospitable,” he’d remarked without enthusiasm. “At least I think so. Although, you might disagree.”
As they gained the top of the headland and Muircliff loomed ahead, Olivia decided Hamish’s assessment was quite accurate: the medieval fortress was entirely unwelcoming. Its dark brooding mass, complete with sawtooth battlements and mismatched towers, crouched upon the cliff top like a great fossilized beast. A slain dragon, perhaps. Nothing relieved its bleak, menacing bulk. Not a tree, nor a trace of shrubbery. Every window Olivia could see was devoid of light.
There even appeared to be a ruined tower; the turret roof and part of the wall had collapsed, leaving a wide, misshapen scar along its side. Toppled brickwork and boulders lay like scattered, ancient bones among the clumps of wind-ravaged grass.
The castle’s and indeed the whole landscape’s forbidding air only worsened when a freezing rain blew in; sharpened by buffeting gusts straight off the sea, the icy needles