gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my days;
My Mary’s asleep by the murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Hunter’s deep tones spoke of a stinging, private grief more eloquently than any keening cry. Sophie watched from the wings and while the soft candlelight flickered across the smooth planes of his features, her eyes suddenly filled with tears. The shadows carved hollows beneath his cheekbones, imprinting his classic profile in her memory.
Sophie watched while several powdered ladies fumbled for their lace handkerchiefs. Their male companions looked heavenward and blinked hard. As the orchestra’s haunting theme faded, the only sound in the hall was the last mournful cadence stroked by Rory Robertson, his gnarled fingers caressing the harp strings in a Highland requiem for some missing piece of Hunter’s past.
In the dead silence that hung in the air, Hunter uttered the only words he’d spoken during his entire performance.
“Will ye no come back ag’in?”
It was the traditional Highland farewell. He bowed gravely and marched off stage, straight into Sophie’s outstretched arms. She had to stand on her very tiptoes to hug him properly, shouting her praise over the thunderous applause that rolled over the footcandles glowing at the lip of the stage. Hunter picked Sophie up under her arms and spun her around, emitting an ear-splitting Highland battle cry that could almost be heard over the din out front. Without warning, he leaned down and was within inches of kissing her on the lips. Then, just as quickly, he thrust her away from him with a look of chagrin. Before either could utter a word, David Beatt was thumping his protégé on the shoulder, urging him to return to the stage to take another bow. Hunter obliged, but regardless of how hard his newly won admirers clapped their hands, he merely grinned what Sophie now recognized was his performance smile and steadfastly, but charmingly, refused to perform an encore.
“Let them pay to hear more,” he declared as he headed toward the Greenroom, a chamber designed for accommodating actors and their admirers. The origins of the reception room’s name were lost, although some actors claimed it derived from the village green where strolling players traditionally performed.
Hunter collapsed into a straight-backed chair, looking suddenly exhausted. Sophie poured him a cup of whiskey from a jug on a nearby table and he drank it down. For a moment it was eerily quiet, and Sophie was too tongue-tied by what had almost happened between them in the wings to break the silence.
“Sophie, I—” Hunter began, taking another draft of spirits. Then he set his cup down, and shook his head ruefully. “I’m an impulsive rogue when it comes to the fair sex, and that’s a fact. I apologize for—”
“Oh, Hunter,” she replied quickly, attempting to find a safer topic. “You’ve a beautiful voice and an amazing… talent for… communing with your audience.”
“Communing, is it?” He laughed gruffly. “’Tis how angels speak with saints, is it not? That canna be what I do!”
“Truly,” she insisted, not to be deterred from speaking what was in her heart. “’Twas most remarkable, what you did tonight. You do know that, don’t you?”
“Why thank you, young miss,” he said, his handsome features animated by a gentleness far removed from the bold sensuality he had displayed on stage or his joyful abandon when he embraced her in the wings. “You’ve been a great friend, and ’tis that I treasure more than… all that hand-thumping out there.”
Sophie gave him a wry smile.
“Oh, I’m certain you’ll soon accustom yourself to the applause,” she said, aware that their private moment would be interrupted any moment by an avalanche of well-wishers. “And I’ll bet you your evening’s wages tonight that Beatt will offer you a position in his company next
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my days;
My Mary’s asleep by the murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Hunter’s deep tones spoke of a stinging, private grief more eloquently than any keening cry. Sophie watched from the wings and while the soft candlelight flickered across the smooth planes of his features, her eyes suddenly filled with tears. The shadows carved hollows beneath his cheekbones, imprinting his classic profile in her memory.
Sophie watched while several powdered ladies fumbled for their lace handkerchiefs. Their male companions looked heavenward and blinked hard. As the orchestra’s haunting theme faded, the only sound in the hall was the last mournful cadence stroked by Rory Robertson, his gnarled fingers caressing the harp strings in a Highland requiem for some missing piece of Hunter’s past.
In the dead silence that hung in the air, Hunter uttered the only words he’d spoken during his entire performance.
“Will ye no come back ag’in?”
It was the traditional Highland farewell. He bowed gravely and marched off stage, straight into Sophie’s outstretched arms. She had to stand on her very tiptoes to hug him properly, shouting her praise over the thunderous applause that rolled over the footcandles glowing at the lip of the stage. Hunter picked Sophie up under her arms and spun her around, emitting an ear-splitting Highland battle cry that could almost be heard over the din out front. Without warning, he leaned down and was within inches of kissing her on the lips. Then, just as quickly, he thrust her away from him with a look of chagrin. Before either could utter a word, David Beatt was thumping his protégé on the shoulder, urging him to return to the stage to take another bow. Hunter obliged, but regardless of how hard his newly won admirers clapped their hands, he merely grinned what Sophie now recognized was his performance smile and steadfastly, but charmingly, refused to perform an encore.
“Let them pay to hear more,” he declared as he headed toward the Greenroom, a chamber designed for accommodating actors and their admirers. The origins of the reception room’s name were lost, although some actors claimed it derived from the village green where strolling players traditionally performed.
Hunter collapsed into a straight-backed chair, looking suddenly exhausted. Sophie poured him a cup of whiskey from a jug on a nearby table and he drank it down. For a moment it was eerily quiet, and Sophie was too tongue-tied by what had almost happened between them in the wings to break the silence.
“Sophie, I—” Hunter began, taking another draft of spirits. Then he set his cup down, and shook his head ruefully. “I’m an impulsive rogue when it comes to the fair sex, and that’s a fact. I apologize for—”
“Oh, Hunter,” she replied quickly, attempting to find a safer topic. “You’ve a beautiful voice and an amazing… talent for… communing with your audience.”
“Communing, is it?” He laughed gruffly. “’Tis how angels speak with saints, is it not? That canna be what I do!”
“Truly,” she insisted, not to be deterred from speaking what was in her heart. “’Twas most remarkable, what you did tonight. You do know that, don’t you?”
“Why thank you, young miss,” he said, his handsome features animated by a gentleness far removed from the bold sensuality he had displayed on stage or his joyful abandon when he embraced her in the wings. “You’ve been a great friend, and ’tis that I treasure more than… all that hand-thumping out there.”
Sophie gave him a wry smile.
“Oh, I’m certain you’ll soon accustom yourself to the applause,” she said, aware that their private moment would be interrupted any moment by an avalanche of well-wishers. “And I’ll bet you your evening’s wages tonight that Beatt will offer you a position in his company next
Similar Books
