A Winter Wedding

‘I’m getting married,’ Ainsley blurted out.

Felicity’s dark brown eyes opened so wide as to appear quite round. ‘You’re doing what?’

‘I know, it’s a shock, but it’s not what you think. I can explain,’ Ainsley said, wondering now if she could. She’d hardly slept a wink these past few nights wondering if she had been an idiot, and coming here this morning had been a test she’d set herself, for if practical, outspoken, radical Felicity thought it was a good idea...

* * *

Half an hour and what seemed like a hundred questions later, her friend sat back at her desk, rummaging absent-mindedly for the pencil she had, as usual, lost in her heavy chignon of hair. ‘And you’re absolutely sure that this Mr Drummond has no ulterior motives?’

‘As sure as I can be. He’s started the process of paying all of John’s debts.’

‘At least you’d no longer be obliged to call yourself by that man’s name. Does he include the mortgage on Wemyss Place in the debts?’

Ainsley shook her head. ‘Innes wanted to pay it, but as far as I’m concerned, the creditors can have the house. It has nothing but unhappy memories for me. Besides, I have every intention of repaying it all when I inherit my trust fund, and that mortgage would take up nearly all of it.’

‘So, you are going to be a Highland lady. The chatelaine of a real Scottish castle.’ Felicity chuckled. ‘How will you like that, I wonder? You’ve never been out of Edinburgh.’

‘It’s only a temporary thing, until Innes decides what he wants to do with the place.’

‘And how long will that take?’

‘I don’t know. Weeks. Months? No more, though he must remain there for a year. I’m looking forward to the change of scenery. And to feeling useful.’

‘It all sounds too good to be true. Sadly, in my experience, things that are too good to be true almost always are,’ Felicity said drily.

‘Do you think it’s a mistake?’

‘I don’t know. I think you’re half-mad, but you’ve had a raw deal of it these past few years, and I’ve not seen you this animated for a long time. Perhaps getting away from Edinburgh will be good for you.’ Felicity finally located her pencil and pulled it out of her coiffure, along with a handful of bright copper hair. ‘What is he like, this laird? Are you sure he’ll not turn into some sort of savage Highlander who’ll drag you off to his lair and have his wicked way with you the minute you arrive on his lands?’

‘There is no question of him having his wicked way,’ Ainsley said, trying to ignore the vision of Innes in a plaid. The same one she’d had the first day she’d met him. With a claymore. And no beard.

‘You’re blushing,’ Felicity exclaimed. ‘How very interesting. Ainsley McBrayne, I do believe you would not be averse to your Highlander being very wicked indeed.’

‘Stop it! I haven’t the first idea what you mean by wicked, but...’

Felicity laughed. ‘I know you don’t,’ she said, ‘and frankly, it’s been the thing that’s worried me most about this idea of mine for Madame Hera’s personal letter service, but now I think you’ve solved the problem. I suppose you’ve already kissed him? Don’t deny it, that guilty look is a complete giveaway. Did you like it?’

‘Felicity!’

‘Well?’

‘Yes.’ Ainsley laughed. ‘Yes, I did.’

‘Was it a good kiss? The kind of kiss to give you confidence that your Mr Drummond would know what he was doing? The kind of kiss that made you want him to do more than kiss you?’

Ainsley put her hands to her heated cheeks. ‘Yes. If you must know, yes, it was! Goodness, the things you say. We did not— Our marriage is not— That sort of thing is not...’

‘You’re going to be out in the wilds. You’ve already said that you’re attracted to each other. It’s bound to come up, if you’ll forgive the dreadful double entendre. And when it does—provided you take care there are no consequences—then why not?’ Felicity said. ‘Do you want me to be blunt?’

‘What, even more than you’ve been already?’

‘Ainsley, from what you’ve told me—or not told me—about your marriage, it was not physically satisfying.’

‘I can’t talk about it.’

‘No, and you know I won’t push you, but you also know enough, surely, to realise that with the right man, lovemaking can be fun.’

‘Fun?’ Ainsley tried to imagine this, but her own experience, which was ultimately simply embarrassing, at times shameful, made this impossible.

‘Fun,’ Felicity repeated, ‘and pleasurable, too. It should not be an ordeal.’

Which was exactly how it had been, latterly, Ainsley thought, flushing, realising that Felicity had perceived a great deal more than she had ever revealed. ‘Is it fun and pleasurable for you, with your mystery man?’

‘If it were not, I would not be his mistress.’

It was only because she knew her so well that Ainsley noticed the faint withdrawal, the very slight tightening of her lips that betrayed her. Felicity claimed that being a mistress gave her the satisfaction of a lover without curtailing her freedom, but there were times when Ainsley wondered. She suspected the man was married, and loved her friend too much to pain her by asking. They both had their shameful secrets.

Ainsley picked up the latest stack of letters from the desk and began to flick through them. What Felicity said was absolutely true. As Madame Hera’s reputation spread, her post contained ever more intimate queries, and as things stood, Ainsley would be hard-pressed to answer some of them save in the vaguest of terms. She replaced the letters with a sigh. ‘No. Even if Innes was interested...’

‘You know perfectly well that he would be,’ Felicity interjected drily. ‘He’s a man, and, despite the fact that John McBrayne stripped you of every ounce of self-esteem, you’re an attractive woman. What else will you do to while away the dark nights in that godforsaken place?’

‘Regardless,’ Ainsley persisted, ‘it would be quite wrong of me to use Innes merely to acquire the experience that would allow Madame Hera to dispense better advice.’

‘Advice that would make such a difference to all these poor, tormented women,’ Felicity said, patting the pile of letters. ‘Wasn’t that exactly what you set out to do?’

‘Stop it. You cannot make me feel guilty enough to— Just stop it, Felicity. You know, sometimes I think you really are as ruthless an editor as you pretend.’

‘Trust me, I have to be, since I, too, am a mere woman. But we were talking about you, Ainsley. I agree, it would be wrong if you were only lying back and thinking of Scotland for the sake of Madame Hera and her clients. Though I hope you’ve more in mind than lying back and thinking of Scotland.’

‘Felicity!’

‘Fun and pleasure, my dear, require participation,’ her friend said with another of her mischievous smiles. ‘You see, now you are intrigued, and now you can admit it would not only be for Madame Hera, but yourself. Confess, you want him.’

‘Yes. No. I told you, it...’

‘Has no part in your arrangement. I heard you. Methinks you protest just a little too much.’

‘But do you approve?’ Ainsley said anxiously.

Felicity picked up her pencil again and began to twist it into her hair. ‘I approve of anything that will make you happy. When does the ceremony take place?’

‘The banns are being called on Sunday for the first time. The ceremony will be immediately after the last calling, in three weeks. Will you come, Felicity? I’d like to have you by my side.’

‘Will you promise me that if you change your mind before then, you will speak up? And if you are unhappy at this Strone Bridge place, you will come straight back here, regardless of whether you feel your obligations have been met?’

‘I promise.’

Felicity got to her feet. ‘Then I will be your attendant, if that’s what you want.’ She picked up the bundle of letters and held them out. ‘Make a start on these. I will draw up the advertisement, we’ll run it beside Madame’s column for this month and I will send you a note of the terms once I have them agreed. Will you be disclosing your alter ego to the laird?’

‘Absolutely not! Good grief, no, especially not if I am to— He will think...’

Felicity chuckled gleefully. ‘I see I’ve given you food for thought, at the least. I look forward to reading the results—in the form of Madame’s letters, I mean.’ She hugged Ainsley tightly. ‘I wish you luck. You will write to me, once you are there?’

Ainsley sniffed, kissing her friend on the cheek. ‘You’ll get sick of hearing from me.’ She tucked the letters into the folder, which was already stuffed with the bills she was to hand over to Mr Ballard, Innes’s lawyer.

‘Just one thing,’ Felicity called after her. ‘I’ll wager you five pounds that if your Highlander ever discovers that you are Madame Hera, he’ll be far more interested in finding problems for the pair of you to resolve together than taking umbrage.’

‘Since I shall take very good care that he never finds out, you will lose,’ Ainsley said, laughing as she closed the door behind her.

Chapter Three

Dear Madame Hera,

I have been married for three months to a man whose station in life is very superior to my own. Having moved from a small house with only two servants to a very large manor with a butler and a housekeeper, I find myself in a perfect tizzy some mornings, trying to understand who I should be asking to do what. My husband has suggested turning to his mother for advice, but she obviously thinks he has married beneath him and would see my need for guidance as evidence of this. As it is, I am sure the housekeeper is reporting my every failure in the domestic sphere to my mother-in-law. Only last week, when I committed the cardinal sin of asking the second housemaid to bring me a pot of tea, the woman actually chastised me as if I were a child. Apparently, such requests should be relayed through the footman, and I should not desire to take tea outside the usual hours, whatever these might be.

I love my husband, but I am being made to feel like an upstart in my new home, and I dare not tell him for fear he will start to take on his mother’s opinion of me. Is there some sort of school for new wives I can attend? Please advise me, for I am beginning to wonder if my housekeeper would have made a better wife to my husband than I can.

Timid Mouse

Argyll, July 1840

It was cold here on the west coast. Despite the watery sunshine, a stiff breeze had blown up in the bay at Rhubodach. Innes shivered inside his heavy greatcoat. He’d forgotten how much colder it was here, and it would be colder still in the boat. Sitting on a bandbox a few feet away, Ainsley was reading a letter, clutching the folds of her travelling cloak tightly around her and staring out over the Kyles of Bute. These past three weeks there had been so much business to attend to they’d barely had time to exchange more than a few words. Standing before the altar beside him just a few days ago, she had been almost as complete a stranger to him as the day he’d proposed. Yet in a very short while, they’d be on Strone Bridge, playing the part of a happily married couple.

The dread had been taking a slow hold of him. It had settled inside him with the news of his father’s death. It had grown when he learned the terms of his inheritance, then became subdued when Ainsley agreed to marry him, and even suppressed as they made their arrangements and their vows. But on the coach from Edinburgh to Glasgow it had made itself known again. Then on the paddle steamer Rothesay Castle as they sailed from the Broomilaw docks to the Isle of Bute it took root, and by this afternoon’s journey from Rothesay town to the north part of the Isle of Bute where they now stood waiting, it had manifested itself in this horrible sick feeling, in this illogical but incredibly strong desire to turn tail and run, and to keep running, just as he had done fourteen years before.

He was Innes Drummond, self-made man of fortune and some fame in the business he called his own. He was a man who made his living building bridges, engineering solutions to problems, turning the impossible into reality. Yet standing here on the pebbled shores of Rhubodach bay, he felt as if none of this mattered. He was the second son, his father’s runt, the upstart who had no right to be coming back to Strone Bridge to claim a dead man’s property. The memories of his brother he had worked so long to suppress were lurking just across the water to claim him. On Strone Bridge, Malcolm’s absence would make his death impossible to deny. Guilt was that sick feeling eating away at his stomach. Fear was the hard, cold lump growing inside of him. He had no right to be here. He was afraid that when he arrived, he’d be subsumed, that all he thought he was would be peeled ruthlessly back to expose the pretender beneath.

Innes swore under his breath, long and viciously. And in Gaelic. He noticed that too late, and then swore again in the harsher, more familiar language of his construction workers. Picking up a handful of pebbles, he began to launch them one after the other into the water, noting with faint satisfaction that they fell far out.

‘Impressive.’

He hadn’t heard her moving. How long had she been standing there, watching him? ‘The boat is late.’ Innes made a show of shading his eyes to squint out at the Kyles.

‘You must be nervous,’ Ainsley said. ‘I know I would be, returning after such a long period of time. I expect you’ll be wondering how much has changed.’

Her tone was light, almost indifferent. She was studiously avoiding his gaze, looking out at the water, but he was not fooled. She was an astute observer. One of those people who studied faces, who seemed to have the knack of reading the thoughts of complete strangers. ‘Nothing will have changed,’ Innes said with heavy certainty. ‘My father prided himself on maintaining traditions that were hundreds of years old. You’ll feel as if you’ve stepped back into the eighteenth century.’

Her brows lifted in surprise. He could see the wheels turning in her clever brain, but she chose merely to nod, and perversely, though he knew he would not like it, he wanted to know what she was thinking. ‘Go on. Say it.’

‘It is nothing. Only—you are very much a man of the nineteenth century.’

‘You mean you’re not surprised I left such a backward place.’

‘Such a backward place must be crying out for a man like you.’ Ainsley pushed her windswept hair out of her eyes. ‘I meant that I am not surprised you and your father could not see eye to eye.’

She slipped her gloved hand into his, in the folds of his greatcoat. He twined his fingers around hers, glad of the contact. Ainsley Drummond, his wife. A stranger she might be, but he was glad of her presence, and when she smiled up at him like that, the dread contracted just a little. ‘I think that’s the boat,’ she said, pointing.

It was, and he could see already that Eoin was at the helm. With a determined effort, Innes threw off his black mood. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked, sliding his arm around Ainsley to anchor her to his side.

‘You sound like you’re standing under the gallows, if you don’t mind my saying.’

Innes managed a rigid smile. ‘Judgement Day is what it feels like,’ he said wryly, ‘and I suspect it will be a harsh one.’

* * *

Looking out over the bay, Ainsley’s nerves made themselves known in the form of a fluttering stomach as she watched the little boat approaching. Until now, she had lost herself in the bustle of arrangements, the thrill of the journey. Her first time on a paddle steamer, her first time on the west coast and now her first time in a sailing boat was looming. Then would be her arrival at Strone Bridge with the man who was her husband. She worried at the plain gold band on her finger, inside her glove. She still couldn’t quite believe it. It did not feel at all real. She was now Mrs Drummond, wife of the laird of Strone Bridge, this stranger by her side whose dawning black mood had quite thrown her.

Innes didn’t want to be here, though he was now doing a good job of covering it up. There was a lot going on below the surface of that handsome countenance. Secrets? Or was it merely that he had left his past behind and didn’t want to be faced with it again? She could understand that. It was one of the reasons she’d been happy to leave Edinburgh for a while. Perhaps it was resentment, which was more than understandable, for unlike her, the life Innes was leaving behind was one he loved.

As he hefted their luggage down to the edge of the shoreline, Ainsley watched, distracted by the fluidity of his movements, the long stride over the pebbles, the smooth strength in the way he lifted even the heaviest pieces so effortlessly. She recalled Felicity’s joke about him being a wild Highlander, and wondered if he would wear a plaid when he was back at Strone Bridge. He had the legs for it. A prickle of heat low in her belly made her shiver.

‘Feasgar math.’ The bump of the boat against the tiny jetty made her jump.

Ainsley stared blankly at the man. ‘Good day to you, Mrs Drummond,’ he repeated in a softly lilting accent, at odds with the curt nod he gave her before starting to heave the luggage Innes was handing him into the boat.

‘Oh, good day,’ Ainsley replied.

‘This is Eoin Ferguson,’ Innes told her, ‘an old friend of mine. Eoin, this is my wife.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t speak any Gaelic,’ Ainsley said to the boatman.

‘Have the Gaelic,’ he said to her. ‘We don’t say speak it, we say have it.’

‘And there’s no need to worry, almost everyone on Strone Bridge speaks English,’ Innes said, frowning at the man he claimed for a friend, though Ainsley could see no trace of warmth between the two men.

‘I have never been to the Highlands,’ she said with a bright smile.

‘Strone Bridge is not far north of Glasgow as the crow flies,’ Eoin replied. ‘If you’re expecting us all to be wandering around in plaid and waving claymores, you’ll be disappointed. Are you getting in or not?’

‘Oh, right. Yes.’ She could feel herself flushing, mortified as if he had read her earlier thoughts. He made no move to help her. Seeing Innes’s frown deepen, Ainsley gave him a slight shake of the head, clambering awkwardly and with too much show of leg into the boat. Eoin watched impassively, indicating that she sit on the narrow bench at the front of the dinghy, making a point of folding his arms as she then proceeded to clamber over the luggage stacked mid-ship.

She tried not to feel either slighted or crushed, reminding herself she was a stranger, a Sassenach, a lowlander, who spoke—no, had—no Gaelic and knew nothing of their ways. Innes, his mouth drawn into a tight line, had leaped into the boat, and was deftly untying the rope from the jetty as Eoin tended the sail. She watched the pair of them working silently together as they set out into the water, the contrast between the harmony of their movements stark against the undercurrent of tension that ran between them. It spiked as Innes made to take the tiller.

‘The tide is against us, and I know the currents,’ Eoin said, keeping his hand on the polished wood.

‘I know them every bit as well as you.’

‘You used to.’ Eoin made no attempt to hide his enmity, but glared at Innes, his eyes, the same deep blue as Innes’s own, bright with challenge. ‘It’s been a long time.’

Innes’s fists clenched and unclenched. ‘I know exactly how long it’s been.’

A gust of wind took Eoin’s words away. When Innes spoke again, it was in a soft, menacing tone that made the hairs on the back of Ainsley’s neck stand on end. And it was in Gaelic. Eoin flinched and made to hand over the tiller, but Innes shook his head, joining Ainsley in the prow, turning away from her to stare out at the white wake, his face unreadable.

The wind that filled the sail blew in her face, whipping her hair from under her bonnet, making her eyes stream. Innes had not worn a hat today, a wise move, for it would surely have blown into the sea. Though he was, as ever, conservatively dressed, his trousers and coat dark blue, his linen pristine white; compared to Eoin’s rough tweed trews and heavy fisherman’s jumper, Innes looked like a dandy. She had watched the other man noticing this when he docked, but couldn’t decide whether the twitch of his mouth was contempt or envy.

The boat scudded along, the keel bumping over the waves of the outgoing tide. While the paddle steamer had felt—and smelled—rather like a train that ran on water instead of rails, in this dinghy, Ainsley was acutely conscious that only a few planks of wood and some tar separated her from the icy-cold strait. Spray made her lips salty. The sail snapped noisily. She began to feel nauseous, and looking up, catching a cold smile on Eoin’s face as the boat lifted out of the water and then slapped down again, began to suspect that he was making their voyage deliberately rough.

‘You’re from the city, I hear. You’ll not be used to the sea,’ he shouted.

Ainsley gripped the wooden seat with both hands, determined to hold on to the contents of her breakfast. She wished she hadn’t had the eggs. She mustn’t think about the eggs. ‘How did you know that?’ she asked.

‘Himself told Mhairi McIntosh, the housekeeper, in the letter he sent.’

Innes snapped his head round. ‘Well, it wouldn’t have done me any good to write to you.’

Eoin, to Ainsley’s surprise, turned a dull shade of red, and looked away. Innes swallowed whatever else he had been about to say and resumed his staring out at the sea. The undercurrent of emotion that ran between the two men was as strong as the ebb of the tide that was making their entrance into the bay a battle.

* * *

The pier was old and crumbling, extending far out into the bay. The low tide forced them to berth right at the very end of the structure, where Innes threw the rope neatly over a post to make fast. It was only as he put one foot on the first rung of the ladder that Eoin spoke, putting a hand on his shoulder, making him freeze.

‘You’ll find the place much changed.’

‘If you tell me once again that it’s been fourteen years...’ he said through gritted teeth.

‘It’s not that.’ Eoin pulled his hand away, a bleak look in his eyes. ‘You know Mhairi’s got the Home Farm ready for you? The big house—ach, you’ll see for yourself soon enough. Give Angus a shout; I can see he’s there with the cart. I’ll see to the luggage.’

Innes ascended the worn ladder quickly, then turned to help Ainsley. She was eyeing the gap between boat and pier with a trepidation she was trying—and failing—to disguise. Her cheeks were bright with the wind, her hair a tangle. She looked endearing. She was most likely wondering what the hell she’d let herself in for, with the enmity between himself and Eoin almost palpable. He swore under his breath. Whatever was going on in Eoin’s head, there would be time enough to sort it out. Right now, he needed to get poor Ainsley, who might well be his only ally, out of that boat before she fell out of it. ‘Put one foot on the bottom rung and give me your hand,’ he said, leaning down over the end of the pier.

She looked at the seaweed-slimed lower struts of the ladder pier dubiously. ‘I can’t swim.’

Innes went down on his knees and leaned over. ‘I can. If you fall, I promise I’ll dive in right behind you.’

‘And walk up the beach with me in your arms, dripping seawater and seaweed.’

‘Just like a mermaid.’

Ainsley chuckled. ‘More like a sea monster. Not the grand entrance that the laird and his lady are expected to make. It’s as well we’ve no audience.’

‘I told Mhairi—that’s the housekeeper—that we did not want a formal welcome until we were settled. I must admit, I’m surprised she listened, though,’ Innes said, looking about him. Save for Angus, making his lumbering way down the pier, there was not a soul in sight. Perhaps he’d maligned his friend after all. Eoin knew how much he hated the pomp and ceremony of the old ways that his father had gone to such pains to preserve. He looked over Ainsley’s shoulder to thank him, but Eoin was busying himself with the ropes.

Shrugging inwardly, Innes held out his hand to Ainsley, pulling her up without a hitch and catching her in his arms. ‘Welcome to Strone Bridge.’

She smiled weakly, clutching tight to him, her legs trembling on the wooden planking. ‘I’m sorry, I think my legs have turned to jelly.’

‘You don’t mean your heart? I’m not sure what you’ve let yourself in for here, but I am pretty certain things are in a bad way. I’ll understand if you want to go back to Edinburgh.’

‘Your people are expecting you to arrive with a wife. A fine impression it would make if she turned tail before she’d even stepped off the pier—or more accurately, judging by the state of it, stepped through it. Besides, we made a bargain, and I plan to stick to my part of it.’ Ainsley tilted her head up at him, her eyes narrowed, though she was smiling. ‘Are you having cold feet?’

‘Not about you.’ He hadn’t meant it to sound the way it did, like the words of a lover, but it was too late to retract. He pulled her roughly against him, and he kissed her, forgetting all about his resolution to do no such thing. Her lips were freezing. She tasted of salt. The thump of luggage being tossed with no regard for its contents from the boat to the pier made them spring apart.

Ainsley flushed. ‘It is a shame we don’t have more of an audience, for I feel sure that was quite convincing.’

Innes laughed. ‘I won’t pretend that had anything to do with acting the part of your husband. The truth is, you have a very kissable mouth, and I’ve been thinking about kissing you again since the first time all those weeks ago. And before you say it, it’s got nothing to do with my needing an emotional safety valve either, and everything to do with the fact that I thoroughly enjoyed it, though I know perfectly well it’s not part of our bargain.’

‘Save that it can do no harm to put on a show, now and then,’ Ainsley said with a teasing smile.

‘Does that mean you’ll only kiss me in public? I know there are men who like that sort of thing, but I confess I prefer to do my lovemaking in private.’

‘Innes! I am sure we can persuade the people of Strone Bridge we are husband and wife without resorting to—to engaging in public marital relations.’

He gave a shout of laughter. ‘Good grief, I hope not. That makes it sound like a meeting of foreign ministers.’

‘It does? Really?’ They began to make their way slowly to the head of the pier.

‘Really,’ Innes said.

‘Oh. What is your opinion on undergoing a husband’s ministrations?’

‘That it sounds as if the husband is to carry out some sort of unsavoury medical procedure. You may as well talk about performing hymeneal duties, which is the sort of mealy-mouthed and utterly uninformative phrase I imagine any number of poor girls hear from their mothers on the eve of their wedding. They probably think they’re going to be sacrificed on the matrimonial altar. Whatever they imagine, you can be damned sure they won’t be looking forward to it.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t agree more. The belief that innocence and ignorance must go hand in hand seems to me quite perverse. I wonder sometimes if there is a conspiracy by society to keep young girls uninformed in order to encourage them into marriages they would not otherwise make.’

The sparkle had returned to her hazel eyes, but it was no longer teasing. Rather, Innes thought, studying her in some surprise, it was martial. ‘Are you speaking from experience?’

‘My mother died when I was twelve, and I had no other female relative close enough to divulge the pertinent facts before my wedding night. It was a—a shock.’

He was appalled, but she was bristling like a porcupine. ‘Perhaps there should be some sort of guidebook. An introduction to married life; or something of that sort.’

He meant it as a joke, but Ainsley seemed much struck. ‘That is an excellent idea.’

‘Though if what you say about the conspiracy is true, then mothers will surely forbid their daughters from reading it.’

‘More likely fathers would.’

Most definitely martial. Intrigued, he could not resist pushing her. ‘Since the shops that would sell such a thing are the kind frequented by men and not women, then your plan is defeated by the outset,’ Innes said.

‘That shows how little you know,’ Ainsley said with a superior smile. ‘Shops are not the only outlet for such information.’

Above them the white clouds had given way to iron-grey. The wind was picking up as the tide turned, making white crests on the water, which was turning the same colour as the sky. While they’d been talking, the luggage had been loaded onto the cart, where Angus was now waiting patiently. Of Eoin there was no sign. Reluctantly, Innes abandoned this intriguing conversation. ‘Whatever else has changed,’ he said, ‘the weather is still as reliably fickle as ever. Come on, let’s get out of this wind before you catch a cold.’

* * *

Ainsley woke with a start and sat up, staring around her at the unfamiliar surroundings. The room was panelled and sparsely furnished. It had the look of a place hastily put together, and it felt as if the fires had not been lit for some time. Shivering as she threw back the covers and stepped onto the bare floorboards, she could feel the cold begin to seep into her bones.

Though it was July, it felt more like April. She made haste with her ablutions. Without the help of a maid, she laced her corsets loosely and tied her hair into a simple knot before pulling a woollen dress from her trunk. The colours, broad stripes of cream and turquoise, made her think of a summer sky that bore no resemblance to the one she could see through the window. The narrow sleeves were long, the tight-fitting bodice made doubly warm with the overlapping kerchief-style collar that came to a point at her waist. Woollen stockings and boots completed her toilette in record time. Reluctantly, she abandoned the idea of wrapping her cloak around her, telling herself that a lesson in hardiness was in order.