would be very dashing.”
Peter giggled as only a boy of seven can. “Faither says I’ll grow new teeth a’ by myself.”
Lord Buchanan feigned shock. “Certainly not during the day, when people are watching.”
“Nae!” Peter cried. “At nicht while I sleep.”
All through their playful exchange, Marjory watched Anne’s gaze shift from Michael to Peter and back again, the love in her eyes unmistakable. Only a fool could have missed such a thing. And you, Marjory Kerr, are certainly that.
Anne piped up with a question. “Lord Buchanan, will you be needing our services for your next household supper?”
“Nae, madam, for I could not possibly expect all of you to serve me again. I’ve asked a half-dozen servants from the Philiphaugh estate to join us on the thirty-first.”
“And what o’ the fiddlers, milord?” Michael asked.
The admiral glanced at Elisabeth. “I’ve something different in mind for this month’s supper. After our dessert we shall move to the drawing room, where I’ve arranged for several musicians to play. Once we’ve banished the furniture, that is.”
“For dancing!” Elisabeth’s eyes sparkled. “Well done, milord.”
He tipped his head. “I believe you were the one who called for a reel or a jig.”
“Aye, but as a widow, I cannot dance.” Her careless shrug belied her feelings.
“I do not care for it myself,” Lord Buchanan confessed.
Whether he spoke the truth or meant simply to put Elisabeth at ease Marjory could not tell. She slipped her arm round Elisabeth’s shoulders. “Your dancing days are far from over, my dear. Half the year has already slipped through our fingers. Why, autumn is almost upon us. Isn’t that so, Admiral?”
He settled his gaze on Elisabeth. “I am counting the days, madam.”
Forty-Seven
My lord a-hunting he is gane,
But hounds or hawks wi’ him are nane.
ROBERT BURNS
or you, milord.” Roberts placed a slender letter in his hands.
Jack broke the thick seal, curious about the contents. “Do we know who it’s from?” He’d received little correspondence during his months in Selkirkshire. Once a navy man came ashore, his shipmates soon forgot him. Even the king had been quiet of late, though that sleeping giant could rouse at any moment.
Roberts opened the study curtains farther, bathing Jack’s desk in late afternoon sunlight. “Sir John Murray of Philiphaugh,” he informed him.
“Aye, here’s his signature.” Jack smoothed out the creases. “Remind me who is dining with us this eve?”
“The Chisholms of Broadmeadows, milord, with their daughter, Miss Susan Chisholm. If you care to review the menu—”
“I prefer to be surprised,” Jack said, already engrossed in reading. “But thank you, Roberts.” As the butler quietly departed, Jack settled back in his chair with Sir John’s brief letter.
To Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan
Bell Hill, Selkirkshire
Saturday, 2 August 1746
Lord Jack:
Might you care to join me for a fortnight of hunting in the Highlands? August is a fine month for deer stalking and grouse shooting. I can promise heather moorlands and waterfalls, golden eagles and peregrine falcons, and at our dinner table, venison, salmon, and pheasant.
Jack’s brows lifted. Well, sir. You have my attention. He scanned the rest of the letter, noting the details, all to his liking. A fine hunting lodge. Magnificent scenery. A gamekeeper to guide them. Hours of amiable conversation.
Had he not grown restless on occasion? Longing for the sea, missing his London companions? Having traveled no farther north in Scotland than Edinburgh, Jack knew at once how he’d respond to the man’s generous invitation. He dashed off a letter and put it in his butler’s hands a quarter hour later. “Have one of the stable lads deliver this for me,” he told Roberts, then headed for the turnpike stair leading down to the servants’ hall, Sir John’s letter in hand.
Jack paused halfway down the steps, a question nagging at him. When he had good or bad news to report, why was Elisabeth Kerr the first person who came to mind? The answer was patently obvious: she was always the first person who came to mind, from the moment he lifted his head each morning until his last waking thought at night.
A moment later Jack strolled through the door of her workroom, waving his letter like an eager schoolboy on his first outing. “I am soon bound for Braemar,” he told her. “With any luck I’ll bring home a brace of red grouse.”
She looked up, Charbon curled at her feet. “Is that so, milord?”
Jack saw at once she was troubled, though by what he could not imagine. He claimed the empty chair beside her, drawing it as near as he dared. “What