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“Our thanks to the two cooks who have brought us this grand feast!” proclaimed William.
They rose as one from their seats to praise the two women. “To the cooks!”
Nash wondered what Robbie was about. First, he had left the parlor and—Nash was quite certain—the house, and then, all during dinner, he had flirted outrageously with Ailie. After dinner, there had been games in the parlor. Not satisfied to have kissed Muriel under the bough, when Robbie guessed Ailie’s riddle in a game of rhyming charades, he had dared to claim a kiss from her as forfeit. Rogue indeed!
Back in their chamber, Nash confronted his twin. “Good Lord. Did you have to kiss her?”
“It was a circumspect kiss,” Robbie insisted. “Mark that I also kissed Muriel, who seemed to enjoy the attention. I do like the dowager countess. She has a quick mind.”
“I daresay it was not Ailie’s mind that made you want to kiss her, intelligent though she is. And how could it be circumspect when you made Ailie blush?”
“That blush did not result from my kiss, Brother, but what I said after.”
Nash fumed. “Just what was that?”
“I told her there were more kisses where that one came from. She had only to ask.”
Nash snorted. “Hardly circumspect. More like provocative.”
“I was merely teasing the lass. Now, do you want to know why I was late to dinner?”
Nash took off his coat and sat on his bed, pulling off his boots, still miffed. “Do tell.”
Robbie loosened his cravat and let out a sigh. “Seeing as you were occupied with the Mistress of the Setters, I thought to determine if anyone was watching the house or the shipyard. After this morning’s encounter at St Mary’s, it occurred to me they might have followed us home and posted a watch. Our direction could be easily ascertained.”
Somewhat mollified, Nash said, “I’m grateful you thought of that. I would not want our business in Arbroath to bring harm to our family or friends. Learn anything?”
“No. All was quiet. But, of course, they might have been here and gone. The Panmure sails tomorrow afternoon so perhaps they are unconcerned about any interference at this point.”
Nash experienced a foreboding, much like the one he’d had that terrible day on St Peter’s Field. “I don’t suppose I can dissuade you from your intended course?”
In a parody of Nash’s own words, Robbie tossed back, “Not a chance. And you’d best develop a plan. Recall that Emily said after presenting boxes to the servants, she intends to take baskets to Arbroath’s poor. The ladies, including Ailie, are going with her, which puts them in town when we’ll be on Marketgate waiting for Kinloch to depart for the ship.”
Nash stared into the fire. He had a plan, but it might not be one Robbie would approve.
Ailie sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair, the blue tartan shawl warming her shoulders. Underneath it, she wore only her shift. The girl looking back at her from the mirror glowed with happiness, her eyes filled with tears of joy.
The cause wasn’t the evening, which had been most pleasant, or the English food, which she had quite liked, or even the games played with her new friends. No, the reason for the tears of joy filling her eyes could be explained only by Nash Powell.
She could tell him apart from his twin now, even when they wore the same clothes. It was not just his unique mannerisms, his dry humor—so different than Robbie’s overt charm—or the lock of dark hair that often fell onto his forehead, teasing her to touch it. Rather, it was the way Nash looked at her, his thoughtfulness toward her and his kisses.
They shared glances only they understood, and they shared their love of ships and simple pleasures. Her heart had become inexorably intertwined with his. Was it so important that he was English and she a Scot? That he was an Anglican and she Presbyterian? Or that they had different views on the current politics?
Other than a few bouts of calf-love as a young girl, Ailie had never been in love, but she was certain what she felt for Nash was the stuff of which Rabbie Burns wrote in A Red, Red Rose. Nash had become a sweet melody to her, playing in her mind. Was it too much to think her love for him would endure “till all the seas ran dry”?
She remembered his laughter, his face set aglow by the firelight, his glorious hazel eyes shining with mirth. When he kissed her, her blood sang in her veins. She wanted to see his face every day. She wanted to share a bed with him every night.
Knowing she must record her thoughts this Christmas, she took a seat at her writing desk, dipping her quill in the ink.
25 December
A Happy Christmas, as the English say, made more so because I spent the day with Nash Powell. To please Emily and her friends—who are now my friends, too—we attended St Mary’s. It felt so right to be sitting in church with Nash. Afterward, we shared wassail and the Christmas feast. Yes, he is English, but he understands me and believes in my dream of one day seeing the Ossian sail. His very touch has me tingling in places I have never tingled before. I long for his kisses. It is hard to say goodnight when I must part from him. His words make me think he, too, has such thoughts.
We have a week before he sails for London. Will he ask me to go as Muriel’s companion, or possibly something more? I could not bear it if he asked not at all.
