Snowy Night with a Stranger

Wherein a debutante searches for her scandalized brother in the wintry Scottish wilds, guided by a rugged Highlander who masks his scarred face—will fury or passion ignite when he reveals his identity?

    Lady Fiona was precisely where he’d left her, at the back of the wagon, stomping her feet for warmth.  When she saw him, she threw her arms wide and looked up at an increasingly dark sky, making a sound of relief.  “You scared the wits out of me, you did!” she blustered as he approached.  “For all I knew, you’d walked back to Edinburra as well, leaving me to stand here all night until the wolves came to feast upon my flesh!”

     Beneath his scarf, Duncan smiled.  “You’ve quite an imagination, lass."

    “And just where have you been, then?” she demanded as he reached around her into the wagon for the smallest of her portmanteaus.  “There’s hardly a village here at all—I canna imagine where you’ve been off to, but I hope it was in the pursuit of food.  On my word, I’ve never been so famished.  Have you brought us anything to eat?”

     He glanced at her has he hooked the handles of the portmanteau on his bad hand.  “No.” 

    “Aaah,” she exclaimed, bending backward a bit and closing her eyes.  “I would eat your glove were it presented on a proper plate.  Honestly, I would eat it were it presented on a stick.” 

    Duncan smiled in spite of himself.  “Have you what you need in here?” he asked, lifting up the portmanteau. 

    “What I need?  What I need for what, pray tell?  I can tell you this—there’s no’ as much as a morsel in there.”

    “Come,” he said, and began walking. 

     “Where?” she demanded, but fell quickly in with him, glancing over her shoulder at the wagon.  “Where are you taking me?  If any harm comes to me, sir, I can assure you my brother the earl will find you and exact the proper revenge!  He’s rather fierce when provoked.”
 
     “So you’ve said.  And said.”

     “What, then?” she asked with a shrug of her slight shoulders as she marched alongside him.  “I’ve quite a lot of cause for concern, really, if you consider it from my shoes.  My maid has deserted me, I’ve been left in the hands of a man I donna know, and really, you have no’ said where we are going.  Into the woods?  It looks as if this road curves into the woods.  I will grant you, it is dark, and I suppose it is possible there is more of the village around that bend, but…  Oh my, do you smell that, Mr. Duncan?” she asked, pausing mid-stride and putting a hand on his useless arm to stop him— “Do you?” she asked, smiling up at him.  “That is the most heavenly smell!” she exclaimed, clapping her gloved hands together at her breast.  “That is the smell of roasted venison.” 

     Duncan began to walk again, turning into the little gate of Mrs. Dillingham’s cottage. 

     “One might find that sort of venison only in Scotland,” Fiona continued to prattle, following closely behind him.  “The venison in London is rather stringy—even at the queen’s table, if you can believe it!  She’s awfully frugal, the queen, and will settle for stringy venison.”

     Duncan gave the door a quick rap with his knuckles.

     “I would never, were I queen.  When I was a girl, Cook used to make the most delicious venison stew.  She used potatoes and—”
 
     The door swung open and the smell of venison stew wafted across the tiny courtyard.  “Oh!” Mrs. Dillingham said, nervously patting her hair with her hand.  She suddenly remembered herself and curtsied a bit lopsidedly.  “How do you do, my lady?” 

     “Very well,” Fiona said, reaching to help her up.  “I beg your pardon, Mrs.…?”

     “Dillingham, your ladyship.  Mrs. Dillingham at your service.”

     Fiona looked past her into the small cottage.  “Something smells simply divine, Mrs. Dillingham.” 

     “Oh, that’s just a bit of stew I’ve got on the fire,” she said, stepping back to give Fiona entry.  “Come in, come in!  My home is right humble, but I think it a rather cozy.”   

     Fiona looked uncertainly at Duncan. 

     “Your lodgings,” he said.  “I’ll come for you in the morning.” 

     “My lodgings?” she said as Duncan deposited the portmanteau on the stoop.  “But what about you?”

      He tipped hat to Mrs. Dillingham and turned around, walking through the small yard and little gate.  He paused to latch it and glanced back—Mrs. Dillingham had her firmly by the elbow, but Fiona was looking at him.   Looking, he thought, a little worried for him.  It was a strange thing to see—no one worried about him. 

      Quite the opposite.