Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,72

coat, feeling his own muscles straining.

When he finished, he stood back and rubbed a bare forearm across his damp brow. “Sponge him, lad, and see to his saddle. I’ll be taking a long ride this morning.”

Jack stepped into the coolness of the stables and bathed his face and hands in a clean bucket of water, then ran his wet fingers through his close-cropped hair before dropping his peruke back in place. Some days he missed the sea but not on a summer day like this. Before long he was astride Janvier heading for the orchards at an easy trot. Judging by the slant of the sun, the hour was no later than seven o’ the clock.

He kept to the edge of the orchard, not wanting to slow the laborers at their tasks or risk injuring Janvier on protruding roots. Jack lifted his hand to greet his head gardener, Gil Richardson, a local man who’d begun work on the property the moment it was purchased. Many of the trees were old, no doubt planted by his grandfather Buchanan, but some were newly added to the orchards and would not produce fruit for several seasons.

Richardson had chosen the varieties with care. The plums were imperial and damask, the apples golden pippin and autumn permain, and the pears, naturally, were red Buchanan. The trees marched along in neat rows, their branches covered with leaves but not yet heavy with fruit. Jack spotted buds of yellow, green, and a rosy amber. By summer’s end he’d have freshly picked fruit at table—a luxury few men in the Royal Navy ever knew.

Sensing Janvier growing restless, Jack turned round and began trotting at a good pace along the ridge of Bell Hill. He intended to explore the eastern marches of his property rather than head downhill toward the ribbon of track that ran between his home and Selkirk, where a certain young widow would be walking that very hour.

Elisabeth Kerr was an enigma. For a dressmaker she was exceptionally well educated and well mannered. They’d not discussed literature or history, but he suspected she was well read in those subjects as well as others. Clearly there was more to the young woman than met the eye, though that was impressive too.

He urged Janvier into a full gallop, seeking a distraction. While in his employ, Elisabeth Kerr deserved his respect, not his unwelcome attention.

Horse and rider covered the rolling terrain, jumping the occasional stone dyke with ease, then slowing to pick their way through the forested portions of his family’s estate. Had his grandfather marveled at the same view on summer mornings long ago? And had his father bothered to look back when he quit Bell Hill, filled with dreams of the sea?

“When I left Scotland,” William Buchanan once confessed, “I broke your grandfather’s heart.”

Remembering his words, Jack grimaced. And then you broke mine.

As a captain in the Royal Navy, his father had sailed the world’s oceans but seldom came into port, leaving behind his French wife and British son for months at a time until the loyal captain departed this world forever. Jacques Buchanan was seven when he lost his father, fourteen when Renée Buchanan drew her last breath.

Orphaned, he’d remained adrift in northern France until a naval friend of his father’s took him aboard the HMS Britannia to train at sea as Midshipman Jack Buchanan. He’d moved up the ranks more swiftly than most, unfettered by family responsibilities. His every waking moment was focused on claiming victories at sea and the prizes that inevitably followed.

According to his bankers in London and Edinburgh, his fortune was prodigious. But Jack knew the truth: he had nothing of genuine value. No wife, no son, and, until now, no true home. He’d remedied the last; Lord willing, the others would follow in swift order.

He pulled Janvier’s head round rather sharply and aimed toward Bell Hill. “Run, lad,” Jack called out, a command his horse knew well. They were soon galloping hard, the fields and pastures a green blur, the stables forgotten. Only when Jack started downhill toward Selkirk did he see Elisabeth Kerr climbing the narrow track. He brought his horse to an abrupt stop just before he reached her.

She looked up, her face shadowed by the brim of her hat. “Good morn, milord.”

“And to you, Mrs. Kerr.” He dismounted, then took the reins in hand and began walking beside her as she continued uphill. There was no point pretending he’d not hoped for such a rendezvous. A pity he