“Oh, yes! Tell me every story you know, even if my papa came a cropper or got a birching. Children sometimes make mistakes, you know.”

“I would never have guessed.”

He gave Rowan a loose rein and cast back beyond the difficult years of adolescence to when he and Gordie had still been friends, confidantes, and conspirators. They’d run away together, tippled Papa’s brandy together—and gotten sick together as a result—and even tried smoking the old man’s cigars when they weren’t much older than Fiona.

He could see her getting into the spirits and trying to light cigars without even a sibling to limit her mischief. And while the house went up in flames, her aunts would scold her gently and blame themselves.

“Your father and I once came across a barn cat whose leg had got stuck in a trap,” he began. “We knew if your grandfather or the stable lads got wind of it, they’d shoot the thing. Gordie was young—probably about your age—and he thought we could take the animal to the local surgeon.”

The surgeon had humored them, and the damned cat had lived for years on three legs, too. Every time they’d come home from school, Gordie had gone looking for it, feeding it cheese and sneaking it up to their rooms.

“But what did you name the cat?” Fiona asked some minutes later. “He must have had a name?”

She asked for a detail, the kind of detail that would mean a great deal to a child. The kind of detail Tye had long since put from his adult mind.

“I didn’t want Gordie to name the cat. I told him when you name things, they mean more.”

“My papa named me.”

“Your father was sent to Canada before you were born. He could not possibly have named you.”

“Yes, he could.” Her certainty held an ominous note of impending upset. “He knew my mama was going to have me, and he said if I was a girl, I should have the name Fiona, because it was the prettiest name for a girl. He said if I was a boy, I should be named Lamartine, because it was the name of one of the finest men he knew. My mama told me this, and my papa said it.”

The horse had come to a halt while a strange sensation shivered over Tye’s skin. “I believe you, Fiona.” It seemed they had stories to tell each other. Tye nudged the horse forward.

“So what did my papa name the cat, Uncle Tye?”

He swallowed past the tightness in his throat. “He named her Fiona. Said it was the prettiest name he’d ever heard. She was his favorite, and came to him when he called her name.”

Never for Tye though. Not even when he brought the little beast cheese and tried for hours to coax her to his hand.

Five

“You two were gone most of the morning.” Hester watched while Fiona pitched off the big dark horse and into her uncle’s waiting arms. “I feared the rain might catch you.”

“Aunt Hester!” Fiona charged up and lashed her arms around Hester’s waist in the kind of spontaneous display of affection Hester still wasn’t accustomed to. “We jumped every stone wall between here and old Clooty MacIntyre’s, and Rowan was wonderful. We didn’t yodel, though Uncle Tye says there are foxes who yodel in Sweden.”

“Switzerland,” her uncle corrected, loosening the horse’s girth. He ran his stirrups up and brought the reins over the gelding’s neck. “And one might consider adopting a more decorous tone of voice, Fiona, lest you scare the hens off their boxes.”

Fiona let go of Hester’s waist and instead grabbed her hand. “The hens aren’t afraid of me. I pet them, and they let me take their eggs most mornings.”

Spathfoy passed Rowan’s reins off to a stable lad. “You’ve been petting Rowan, so why don’t you hie yourself to the house and wash your hands?”

If Hester had made the suggestion, Fiona would have argued that Rowan was a clean horse and wiping one’s hands on the grass would serve just fine and the house was too far away.

The girl pelted up the garden path, and Spathfoy watched her go.

“Fiona claims my horse enjoys hearing stories.”

Any animal with ears would enjoy hearing the man talk. “She can be about as subtle as a thunderstorm. My thanks for allowing us a morning of peace and quiet in her absence.”

His gaze shifted, taking a visual inventory of Hester. She wore an old high-waisted dress, a floppy straw hat, and gardening gloves.

“I was getting after some of the weeds. Mary Fran has high standards. Aunt Ariadne came out for a bit to supervise.”

“She came out to breathe the scent of heather, which I suspect is the secret to her happy old age. Might I hope luncheon will soon be served? Making up stories can leave a man hungry.”

He winged his arm at her as he spoke, and Hester took it.

“Now that our guest and the household princess have returned, luncheon will appear in not less than thirty minutes.”

They strolled past the very bench where Spathfoy had kissed her the night before. Kissed her and held her in his arms and heard all manner of difficult things from her.

“You should garden more often, Miss Daniels. It puts roses in your cheeks.”

She enjoyed the compliment. Didn’t look for innuendo in it, didn’t suspect it of having false motives. She let his words bring her a smile and then waft away on the gathering breeze.

“I like to dig in the dirt. I hadn’t realized this until my father died and I was practically immured in the Kentish countryside for months. Gardening let me escape my mother’s eye. Did you have to make up stories for Fiona?”

He gestured to a shady bench. “No, actually. Shall we sit?”

The ease of his invitation warmed Hester’s insides agreeably. The morning was still trying to be pretty, though overhead, the clouds were forming into increasingly massive gray banks between shafts of sunshine.

“I told Fiona of her father.”

She hadn’t expected him to say that. He took a seat beside her, the feel of him on the bench comfortable and comforting. “I’m not sure she knows very much about him, my lord. Mary Fran and Gordie were not well acquainted when Fiona was conceived.”

“Gordie wrote to me about Lady Mary Frances. Said he’d encountered a young Scottish goddess.”

This was perhaps a confidence, but more likely a reminiscence. “And did your younger brother encounter goddesses often?”

“He encountered women frequently, not goddesses. Mary Frances hasn’t tarnished his memory for the child. I’m grateful for that.”

And that was neither reminiscence nor confidence, but rather a revelation, probably to him too. “She’s very fair-minded, Mary Fran is. Fiona has some of the same quality.”

“I told her as many flattering stories about her papa as the time allowed. I’d forgotten some of them myself.”

“Was it difficult to speak of your brother?”

They weren’t talking about her, they were talking about him, his family, and his role as an uncle. His willingness to do so was intriguing and suggested a trust in her Hester tried to ignore.

“Yes and no. My parents separated shortly after Gordie’s death. My father’s manner of coping was the proverbial stiff upper lip. His drinking certainly picked up, though.”

She wanted to take his hand. “And how did you cope?”

“Not by writing letters to my only niece about her papa’s brave boyhood exploits. It was some time before I even knew of Fiona’s existence.”

A dodge. Hester was surprised he hadn’t dodged any sooner in this unusual conversation. “What did you do?”

“I managed my sisters. I dealt with the estates, since his lordship seemed disinclined to do aught but ride his hunters over the property at breakneck paces. The solicitors turned to me as well, and there is no putting those fellows off for long when the press of business is upon them. I suspect the year of mourning is very different for men than it is for women.”

“Maybe not. I’m sure Fiona will treasure the stories you gave her. She’ll tell them to her children and to her grandchildren.”

He was silent for a moment, while a fat bee assayed the roses one by one. “I have Gordie’s old journals. Someday, Fiona might want to read them.”

This was a purely selfless thought, one that confirmed Spathfoy was by no means as cool and indifferent to others as his English diction and uncompromising nose might suggest. Hester slipped off her glove, and between them, linked her fingers with his.

“You were good to give Fee those stories. No one else could have done that. They’re the kind of stories my sister will have to tell on me. My parents don’t know those stories, Matthew doesn’t know them.”

“I felt a little guilty for bringing them up.” He did not take his hand from hers, but his gaze was fixed on the distant purple hills and the tall crags beyond them.

“Guilty because you’d forgotten them?”

He gave her an odd look. “That too.” They remained thus, hands linked in a peculiar sort of quiet, until Hester felt a raindrop hit her cheek. Spathfoy dropped his coat around her shoulders and very properly escorted her into the house.

* * *

Tye was limited to writing letters, because the staff at the telegraph office in Ballater was unlikely to keep the contents of any wires confidential.

And because he was so easily distracted by the sound of Fiona’s little feet thumping down the corridors, or the slow tattoo of Lady Ariadne’s cane, he was limited to writing his letters late at night when the house had finally gone quiet—though even the quiet was a maddening kind of distraction.

Riding with Fiona had been intended to foster the child’s trust, to tantalize her with the pleasures she craved most, and it had likely achieved those ends. It had achieved other ends as well, inconvenient, complicated ends, like making Tye aware of Fiona not as a pawn in the ongoing chess match with his father, but as a child who missed her mother.