Sabrina was the first to recover, though, and get back to her feet. The man was sitting there with his legs spread wide, looking somewhat dazed, or at least he was probably wondering what had happened. The horse wandered off, snorting, but not far. He took Sabrina's bonnet with him, still stuck to his foot as it was, and was now trying to eat the silk flowers he noticed on it.
It was a big man sitting there. She took note of that first, couldn't help but note it, the thickness of his short winter coat emphasizing it across some very broad shoulders. But it was his legs she stared at. She couldn't help it, they were somewhat bare, at least the knees were, between the kilt he wore and his high boots.
A kilt in winter—how unusual. She'd seen Scotsmen in kilts before, as they passed through Oxbow on their way south or back north, but only in the summer. Most of them preferred to dress warmer for the more brisk seasons. Did he not feel the cold?
She knew who he might be, Ophelia's fiancé. The kilt and the dark red hair suggested that he was at least Scottish, and Summers Glade, the direction he'd been heading, was expecting a Scotsman. And oh, my, was Ophelia going to be surprised and likely change her mind real quick about wanting to be rid of him. How could she not, when he was so very handsome, he took even Sabrina's breath away?
He stood up, surprising her that he wasn't just big, but very tall as well. And he dusted off his kilt in such a way that some thigh became visible, causing Sabrina to blush. He hadn't noticed her yet, though, and even so, her cheeks were likely pinkened enough by the wind for a blush not to make much difference.
"Are you all right?"
He swung about to face her. "Och, so there you are. I should be asking you that. I didna see you sitting there till it was almost tae late."
She smiled at him. His brogue was light and pleasant, if his voice somewhat deep. She liked the sound of it, though, strange to her ears, but lyrical. And those eyes, so dark a blue, quite disconcerting now that they were gazing directly at her.
"So I gathered."
"I mun apologize. The beastie and I dinna get along tae well," he said, giving the horse a disgruntled glower. "But then I'm no' much of a horsemon tae begin wi', preferring tae walk if the distance isna tae far."
How coincidental. Her sentiments exactly. She could ride, and very well. She'd been taught as a child as a matter of course, a rounding out of her accomplishments. She just found sidesaddles rather uncomfortable, and besides, she had two sturdy legs that the good Lord meant her to make use of.
His mention of distance prompted her to ask, "Are you just arriving then, to Summers Glade?"
He glanced down the hill at the house, which got another one of his glowers, before he said, "Nay, just needed tae work off a wee bit o' steam, and thought the stallion there could accommodate me. Silly notion. I should've known riding would cause me more aggravation than ease."
She chuckled. It caused Duncan to take a second look at her, more closely than his first.
She was a bedraggled wee lass, with her long brown hair gone all hither and yon, but he found her lack of decorum rather appealing. She was small, but even her long coat, covering her from neck to foot, couldn't hide the very plumpness of her breasts, though it did conceal the rest of her shape. He noted two buttons were missing. He noted the prettiest lilac eyes he'd ever seen.
A thought occurred to him and he voiced it abruptly. "Are you Lady Ophelia, by chance?"
"Good heavens, no, but you must be the Highland barbarian I've been hearing so much about."
For some reason, he didn't take offense. Perhaps because of the twinkle in her lovely eyes as she said it. She was obviously amused by the term "barbarian" used in context with him, and he was amused by her amusement.
Then, too, he'd donned the kilt, which he normally wouldn't wear in winter, to make a statement for Neville's benefit, that he preferred things Scottish to English. It could be seen as a barbaric statement, though, by others, considering the time of year, not that this paltry English cold could bother him. But that, too, was amusing, now that he was calm enough to think about it.
So he said with a bit of humor in his own tone, "Aye, that would be me."
"You're not as old as I thought you would be," she continued.
He raised an auburn brow at her, asking, "How auld was that?"
"Forty at least."
"Forty!" he roared.
Her peal of laughter was infectious. Duncan just managed to not chuckle with her and gave her what he hoped was a stern look instead.
"You were teasing me then?" he said.
"Was it obvious then?"
"There's no' many I know that brave."
She smiled at him. "I highly doubt you're the barbarian you've been reputed to be, but then I'm not the walking ghost I've been reputed to be either. Strange thing about rumors and gossip. They so rarely deal with the real facts, yet so often are taken as the literal truth."
"So Neville was expecting a barbarian, was he?" Duncan said.
She blinked at him, then laughed again. "Oh, my, I highly doubt it. He would know better, wouldn't he, since he knows you well enough, being your grandfather. No, no, it's those who haven't met you yet, but know of your coming, that might be predisposed to wonder about a Highland Scot, when so few ever come to England to prove that the Highlands of Scotland must be civilized by now, and goodness, that was quite a mouthful, wasn't it?"
Duncan had been about to growl in response. That assumption that his grandfather should know him had really rubbed him on the raw. But the rest of what she said he found so amusing, it actually put him at ease again, so much so that he felt like teasing her back, rather than seriously addressing what the Highlands were reputed to be.
"Must it be?" he said.
"What?"
"Civilized."
She appeared to give that some careful thought, then replied logically, "Well, it might not be quite as civilized as England, of course. But I seriously doubt it's still producing barbarians of the truly barbaric sort. Look at you, after all. Or did you forget to bring your war paint?"
He burst out laughing. He doubled over with it. He had to wipe tears from his eyes.
But when he wound down a bit, he noticed she was now frowning at him, and then she said so seriously, "You did, didn't you? You forgot it."
He fell over this time, he laughed so hard. And when he was done, he felt.. . almost normal, the bitterness that had been eating at him gone, at least for the moment. And he saw the impish grin she was now wearing, proving she'd been no more than teasing him again.
What a gem she was, this young girl, certainly not what he'd been expecting from English lasses. If the rest were like her, well, he might not find it so disagreeable to wed one after all.
Chapter Twelve
Neville's guests—and the number had grown considerably as the day progressed—had no idea that the only reason they hadn't been summarily sent on their way was that Neville was actually relieved that he wouldn't have to deal with his grandson alone again, after their disastrous first meeting. He was hoping that a house full of young people—and he'd been informed that most of those arriving were close to Duncan's age—would entertain the boy enough that he would feel more comfortable being there.
It had been obvious that that wasn't the case, that Duncan resented this trip to England. Oddly enough, Neville had never considered that his heir might not want to be his heir. He wasn't quite sure how to deal with that, or make his grandson more disposed to assuming the responsibilities that would come with his inheritance.
Duncan had much to learn, but perhaps immediately was not the time to begin. Getting the marriage accomplished and out of the way might be a better start, since Duncan did seem to be agreeable to that—for Archie’s sake.