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Authors: Christina Dodd
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this project, she would be even more careful than usual. She would be helpful to Millicent and sell her wares to the guests, immediately receiving their payment. If Hepburn stepped one toe out of line, she would tell a fib about assisting Mistress Dubb with her face cream, ride into Freya Crags, pick up Amy, and take flight. That was her plan, and it was a good one.
Tight-lipped and mindful, she started after him.
And as she crossed through the gates, she suffered an almost preternatural jolt, as if she'd traversed a threshold and she could never return to the place where she'd been before.
She almost turned back. She almost did. But the thought of trying to survive the coming winter here in Scotland without enough food or coal, and the magistrate in England who would hang her if he could, drove her on. And always at the back of her mind Beaumontagne shimmered like a silver vision, drawing her forward.
Shaking off her trepidation, she rode into a half-tamed wilderness where giant oaks shivered in the spring breeze, and azaleas bloomed in clumps of blazing pink and virgin white. The scent of pine drifted through the air, and the spicy perfume lifted Clarice's spirits and put heart into her.
She'd done more difficult things. If all went well, if Hepburn kept his promise of payment, she and Amy would be free to take passage back to Beaumontagne, slip into the country and find their grandmother, and help her overthrow the last rebels. Perhaps Grandmamma was growing old and feeble, and that was why she hadn't sent word for them to return. Perhaps she was trying to protect them from harm. She didn't realize the fragile girl-children she had sent away had grown into adults capable of so much more than needlework and dancing. This ordeal with Hepburn was one of the final challenges Clarice would have to overcome, she was sure of it.
When she caught up with him at the top of the rise, she had, once more, become a courageous, rational woman.
His black leather gauntlet pointed the way. "There it is. MacKenzie Manor."
Seen from the main road, the four-story monolith had made her draw back. Seen across a sweep of lawn, through lacy-leafed trees, the gray stone rose abruptly from the soft green grass. Harsh and imposing, it seemed less of a home and more of an edifice designed to awe and humble those who visited the mighty Hepburns. No ivy softened its harsh facade, no flowers grew along its foundation no portico welcomed visitors. MacKenzie Manor eloquently spoke of wealth and prestige but said nothing of home and the gentle arts.
Once again the sense of being trapped overwhelmed her, and she glanced at the man beside her.
His appearance was as stark as his home.
The sunshine dappled his visage, yet the gently moving flickers of light and shadow didn't soften the harsh, jutting contours of bone against skin. His hair had been tossed back from his face by the ride, dipped into a stark widow's peak, and framed his face without alleviating the austerity of his features. The ripple and redness of a burn scarred one side of his forehead, a burn that must have caused much agony.
Yet he seemed not to require compassion for himself, and nothing about him hinted at warmth or pride in MacKenzie Manor. Instead, he watched it with the cool proprietary air of one who possessed without affection.
Then he turned that same assessing gaze on her.
She should have run. She should have escaped down the road and never looked back.
Instead, now she couldn't tear her gaze away from his.
All her life she had watched as other people suffered from unfortunate and precipitous passions and wondered at them, for she was a princess. She practiced control with every motion, every smile, every emotion. Passion was for lesser beings, and she had always believed her breeding and her training provided immunity.
Yet now, as she faced this man, she recognized the stirrings of disorderly infatuation.
His voice was low, reasonable, and civilized. "Please,
Tight-lipped and mindful, she started after him.
And as she crossed through the gates, she suffered an almost preternatural jolt, as if she'd traversed a threshold and she could never return to the place where she'd been before.
She almost turned back. She almost did. But the thought of trying to survive the coming winter here in Scotland without enough food or coal, and the magistrate in England who would hang her if he could, drove her on. And always at the back of her mind Beaumontagne shimmered like a silver vision, drawing her forward.
Shaking off her trepidation, she rode into a half-tamed wilderness where giant oaks shivered in the spring breeze, and azaleas bloomed in clumps of blazing pink and virgin white. The scent of pine drifted through the air, and the spicy perfume lifted Clarice's spirits and put heart into her.
She'd done more difficult things. If all went well, if Hepburn kept his promise of payment, she and Amy would be free to take passage back to Beaumontagne, slip into the country and find their grandmother, and help her overthrow the last rebels. Perhaps Grandmamma was growing old and feeble, and that was why she hadn't sent word for them to return. Perhaps she was trying to protect them from harm. She didn't realize the fragile girl-children she had sent away had grown into adults capable of so much more than needlework and dancing. This ordeal with Hepburn was one of the final challenges Clarice would have to overcome, she was sure of it.
When she caught up with him at the top of the rise, she had, once more, become a courageous, rational woman.
His black leather gauntlet pointed the way. "There it is. MacKenzie Manor."
Seen from the main road, the four-story monolith had made her draw back. Seen across a sweep of lawn, through lacy-leafed trees, the gray stone rose abruptly from the soft green grass. Harsh and imposing, it seemed less of a home and more of an edifice designed to awe and humble those who visited the mighty Hepburns. No ivy softened its harsh facade, no flowers grew along its foundation no portico welcomed visitors. MacKenzie Manor eloquently spoke of wealth and prestige but said nothing of home and the gentle arts.
Once again the sense of being trapped overwhelmed her, and she glanced at the man beside her.
His appearance was as stark as his home.
The sunshine dappled his visage, yet the gently moving flickers of light and shadow didn't soften the harsh, jutting contours of bone against skin. His hair had been tossed back from his face by the ride, dipped into a stark widow's peak, and framed his face without alleviating the austerity of his features. The ripple and redness of a burn scarred one side of his forehead, a burn that must have caused much agony.
Yet he seemed not to require compassion for himself, and nothing about him hinted at warmth or pride in MacKenzie Manor. Instead, he watched it with the cool proprietary air of one who possessed without affection.
Then he turned that same assessing gaze on her.
She should have run. She should have escaped down the road and never looked back.
Instead, now she couldn't tear her gaze away from his.
All her life she had watched as other people suffered from unfortunate and precipitous passions and wondered at them, for she was a princess. She practiced control with every motion, every smile, every emotion. Passion was for lesser beings, and she had always believed her breeding and her training provided immunity.
Yet now, as she faced this man, she recognized the stirrings of disorderly infatuation.
His voice was low, reasonable, and civilized. "Please,
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