“Miss Graham isnae a spy, Hamish. She is…” His voice trailed off as he contemplated the right way to describe the lady who would soon be his wife and the Lady of Dunalasdair. “She is…”
Clearly unable to keep his lips sealed, Hamish released an anguished groan. “Daenae let Lady Intrigue turn yer head, Al.”
A stiff breeze ripped through the nearby pines then and Alasdair lifted his chin to inhale the clean scent. When he looked to the left of the woodlands, toward a spot where the sun shone on a patch of earth, he spied a hardy shrub with flowering bursts of orange and red clinging to the branches.
Witch hazel.
He recalled the way Miss Graham’s eyes looked while they’d read the play the night before. In the low candlelight, sitting with their elbows pressed together and their fingertips touching, he had been able to discern every fiery spark of brilliance in thoselight brown eyes of hers. Daring yellow, rich gold, and vibrant red hues had gleamed with mirth at times only to wink out sadly when the drama took its inevitable turns toward the tragic end.
I must pick some for her.
After dismounting from Rionnag, Alasdair patted the beast’s side, then strode toward the bush.
“What are ye doin’ now?” Hamish asked as he dropped out of his saddle. His boots thudded loudly as his feet hit the ground.
Alasdair unsheathed his dirk, wrapped his free hand around one of the branches on the shrub, then cut it clear away from the rest.
“Did the healer ask ye to do her gatherin’?”
There was no mistaking the sarcasm which dripped from Hamish’s words. For a moment, while he hacked clean another branch of witch hazel, Alasdair ignored not just Hamish’s question but also his pointed stare.
When he reached for the shrub a third time, Hamish sighed heavily then said, “Why? Why are ye botherin’ with all this?”
Slowly, Alasdair twisted his head to survey his friend’s befuddled countenance. “These flowers are for me Lady,” he replied in a quiet tone. “They remind me of her.”
A muscle in Hamish’s jaw ticked. “I figured that might be yer answer. But why, Al? Why are ye pickin’ posies for yer bride?”
Warmth flooded through Alasdair’s chest when he thought of how Miss Graham would smile at him when he presented her with this bouquet later. She might even tease or taunt him…two characteristics of hers he already admired greatly.
“She’s an English lady,” Alasdair explained slowly, piecing together his answer pensively. “She will expect to be courted by a gentleman.” He nodded at the witch hazel clutched between his fingers.
“Yer no English gentleman,” Hamish grumbled. “Yer the Laird of Dunalasdair. Yer a warrior. Yer…”
“I ken who I am, Hamish,” Alasdair interrupted. “But this…me actions…I’m nae thinkin’ of what matters to me. I’m tryin’ to please me Lady.”
“Why?”
The question this time carried less resistance and debate but held more pure and genuine curiosity.
Alasdair chanced a glance over his shoulder, toward the direction of the castle in the distance. “If I had just met Miss Graham at a dance, I’d have asked her to join me in a reel. If we’d been introduced by our parents or someone else that we trusted, I’d have called upon her and brought her bundles ofwildflowers.” He paused, then turned back to face his friend. “Miss Graham and I may be forced into this union, but I willnae cheat the lass of the courtin’ experience.”
Hamish’s blue eyes studied Alasdair face for a long moment, then he let loose another long, aggravated sigh.
Alasdair felt as if, even though he’d explained himself well enough, his clansmen still did not fully understand why spending time with Miss Graham and doing things that might bring her joy were vitally important. So, he shrugged off Hamish’s discontent and lifted his dirk to cut another bunch of witch hazel.
“Stop,” Hamish said before he could slash away more of the plant.
“Hamish, I…”
“I heard what ye said, me Laird,” Hamish interjected. “And while I can tell ye to proceed with caution until I’m blue in the face, I cannae make this decision for ye. If ye trust Miss Graham and want to proceed with yer marriage to her, I willnae stand in your way.”
One of Alasdair’s eyebrows hooked high on his forehead. He stared at Hamish expectantly. “If you dinnae mean to hinder me, why did ye tell me to stop?”
“Daenae cut anymore witch hazel, me Laird.” Hamish tipped his head to the side, toward other shrubs that grew just a few steps away. “The lassies daenae care so much for those flowers. They prefer these with the bonnie petals.”
Alasdair eyed the crimson and white wildflowers, then he smirked at his friend. “What would ye ken about a lassie’s preferences?”
“I ken enough.” Hamish’s smile appeared. “I’ve never seen a lassie wear witch hazel in her hair and yer sister leaves vases of fresh posies all over the castle. But I’ve yet to see any witch hazel in the mix.”