A Borrowed Scot Page 21

  Dear Lord, she was going to be flying in only seconds.

  “Montgomery,” she said, about to beg him to help her out of the basket. He glanced over her shoulder at her, smiled reassuringly, and she changed her mind. She shook her head, and he signaled to the men holding the mooring ropes.

  One by one, they began to walk closer to him. The balloon ascended, and Veronica held on to one of the supports of the gondola as it gradually rose. Her stomach seemed fixed on the ground below and was refusing to make the journey.

  Montgomery began to pull the mooring ropes back into the basket until they were tethered only by the strength of two men holding one rope. He leaned over the basket, an utterly foolhardy move in her opinion, and shouted to Ralston.

  The men released the last rope, and they were aloft.

  The balloon sighed, fell some distance, and began to sway in the air. Montgomery pulled the rope into the gondola as they ascended still higher.

  She closed her eyes, grabbed the support with both arms, and pretended it was all a dream.

  The last time she’d asked for divine intervention because of a decision she’d made had been the night she’d attended the Society of the Mercaii meeting. She was in the same situation again. No one had forced her into this basket. No one had made her take this adventure unless it was her foolish pride.

  “You have to open your eyes,” he said, his tone amused. “Otherwise, you might just as well be sitting in your drawing room.”

  “At the moment,” she said between gritted teeth, “I wish I were.”

  “Veronica.”

  She opened her eyes to see him looking down at her, a smile on his face.

  “There’s your Scotland,” he said, extending his hand as if offering the panorama to her.

  She looked up, which was easier than looking down. A bird flew by, looking as startled at the sight of them as she was to be so close to him.

  She was flying, improbably and impossibly, flying. She might as well look.

  Her hands came up in the air, fingers splayed as if to press against an invisible barrier as she edged to the side.

  He laughed and grabbed her around the waist with one arm, pulling her closer to him.

  “You’re safer here than you would be walking on a London street. Or in a train.”

  “That’s not exceedingly reassuring,” she said. “Since we aren’t walking through London or in a train at the moment. We’re very, very high up.”

  With one hand, Montgomery reached over, increasing the flame.

  “What are you doing?” she said, panicked.

  “I’m ensuring that we’ll stay aloft,” he said, looking down at her.

  “How do we get down?”

  “See that rope?” he asked, pointing to a tightly wound rope on one of the gondola supports.

  She nodded, careful not to do so vehemently. Even her breathing was cautious.

  “It’s connected to a baffle on top of the envelope. I can release some of the hot air, which will allow us to land.”

  “Softly, I hope.”

  He only smiled.

  She parted her feet a little, the better to combat the balloon’s swaying sensation, and looked over the side again.

  They passed over Doncaster Hall, and she was startled to note the many chimneys, as well as the steep pitch of part of the roof. It seemed as if every person living at the Hall waved to them, and she held up one hand in greeting, feeling as if she were a queen greeting her subjects.

  The world lay before them, a panorama of incredible beauty. The sun, a blurry disk behind a shelf of clouds, was to their left as they headed west.

  She’d never thought to see the world from this perspective and was so fascinated she lost her fear after the first few moments. Granted, it helped that Montgomery had pulled her back against him, and his arms were wrapped around her waist. She tipped forward to see the sprawling countryside beneath her, slowly passing, as if they were still, and the world was on some sort of tumbrel.

  In the distance, three long mountain ranges stretched like indolent maidens, their limbs pointing toward Doncaster Hall, their heads in the north. Atop them was a mantle of white, a soft and downy blanket, warning of the winter to come.

  The River Tairn, an engorged silver snake, coiled back on itself, wrapped around Doncaster Hall and slithered through emerald glens. The sparse tufts of grass near the flocks of sheep became a lush green carpet and the sheep themselves no more than black faced clouds. The air was crisp and cold, as if winter had not yet folded over to spring.

  She was giddy with delight.

  Peace radiated from Montgomery instead of the horrible pain she’d felt from him for so long. Peace and something else, perhaps joy. For that, alone, she’d come up in his balloon again. To share his happiness was worth any type of fear.

  She wrapped her arms around her waist, her hands gripping Montgomery’s wrists. She relished his warmth but almost forgot he was there in the wonder she saw before her.

  The only sound was the noise of the burner and the thump of her heart. Otherwise, the world was still and perfect.

  They crossed the road and several more glens. A farmer, in his wagon, stopped his team of mules to stare up at them. A carriage on the road halted as well.

  “Does everybody stare?” she asked.

  He leaned close, spoke near her ear.

  “They’re fascinated. Wouldn’t you be?”

  She nodded. “And a little envious,” she admitted. Yet she was the one in the balloon, experiencing it all, seeing it all.

  A few cottages sat together, like a frightened clutch of geese. She knew, suddenly, where they were, traveling northwest, toward Lollybroch. She wanted to close her eyes, to block out the sights so familiar to her. Yet, at the same time, she couldn’t quite deny herself the recollection of all of those warm and lovely memories.

  Near the main road in Lollybroch was the Presbyterian church, its spire unassuming as if afraid to call too much attention to itself.

  “I didn’t know we had a village so prosperous this close to us,” he said.

  “That’s Lollybroch,” she said.

  “Your home.”

  She nodded, surprised he’d remembered.

  “Where did you live?” he asked, leaning forward to look at the cottages tucked into the rolling glen.

  “There,” she said, extending her arm and pointing toward McNaren’s Hill. “On the other side.”

  She took a step away from him as if to distance herself from her memories. For several long moments, she didn’t say anything, afraid she couldn’t speak over the sudden constriction of her throat.

  “Must we go there?” she finally asked, glancing over her shoulder at him. “I’d rather not,” she said softly. “Please.”

  “I’m working on a way to guide my airship, Veronica,” he said. “Until then, we’re at the mercy of the wind.”

  She nodded her understanding, facing forward again. This time, when he came to stand behind her, he didn’t wrap his arms around her. She stood alone, watching the approach of McNaren’s Hill, feeling herself grow colder as they neared her home.

  Whether or not she saw her house, that night was forever emblazoned in her mind. All she had to do to relive it was allow herself to think about it. Normally, she pushed away the memories the moment they came. Otherwise, she’d be immobilized by pain.

  There, the lane leading to the house. Another signpost, the tree struck by lightning when she was seven. The creek, the grove, all landmarks she’d known from her childhood.

  The only sign a two-story house had once stood in that spot was a soot-darkened brick half wall and the remnants of the kitchen fireplace. Saplings poked up through the blackened earth, as if the forest was attempting to reclaim the spot, healing it with new growth.

  A swift breeze skittered across her face like an icy hand.

  Veronica closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe calmly, slowly, deeply.

  “What happened?” Montgome
ry asked.

  She didn’t open her eyes.

  “A fire.”

  She would have stepped away from him had the gondola been larger.

  He didn’t speak, didn’t pry, granting her the privacy of her past she’d denied him. They hovered over the site until a gust carried them eastward. In those moments, it felt as if God were testing her. As if He wanted her to feel everything she’d successfully hidden all this time.

  Because she’d been so insistent that Montgomery share his secrets with her, could she do otherwise?

  “My father woke me,” she said, pushing the words free. “He was shouting. He put his strongbox in my hand and said something, I never did understand what. Then he went back inside to get my mother.”

  Montgomery remained silent.

  “They never came out. I tried to get to them,” she said, glancing down at the scars on her palms. “I couldn’t get the door open. I stood there and watched as the house burned, and I couldn’t do anything.”

  She’d stood there for hours and hours, waiting for her parents to appear. They never had, and when the roof had fallen, she’d known they were dead. When three of the four walls caved in, she’d remained there, clutching the strongbox tightly as if her father’s spirit were trapped inside. Finally, a few of the villagers had urged her to come away, and she had. She’d seen to it that they were buried in the churchyard only days before Uncle Bertrand had arrived to take her to London.

  Her heart felt as if it had been carved open by a spoon.

  Montgomery put his hands on her shoulders, moved closer.

  She didn’t want his pity or even his comfort. If he was kind to her, she’d begin to cry. Everyone had wanted her to be so strong, and she had been. Her uncle considered excessive emotion a character flaw, announcing that tears would not honor her father or her mother.

  At her uncle’s house, there had been few opportunities for her to give in to her grief. But seeing what was left of the house nearly overwhelmed her.

  She lowered her head.

  “I’m sorry, Veronica.”

  She nodded.

  He squeezed his hands on her shoulders. She closed her eyes on her tears, felt the sway of the gondola in the wind. God Himself might have been cradling her in apology for His earlier test.

  “My parents died of fever,” he said. “I still miss them.”

  She nodded, wanting to thank him for sharing that information with her. The reason he did so wasn’t hard to understand. He’d seen her grief and wanted to ease it. But it wasn’t just grief she felt.

  “It was Cook’s half day,” she said, her voice flat. “By afternoon, she still hadn’t returned. I wanted a cup of tea, so I put the kettle on. I don’t remember if I took it off the stove.”

  He nodded, his chin brushing against her hair. “So all this time you’ve thought you were responsible for the fire.”

  She nodded.

  “You’ll never know, Veronica.”

  She nodded again.

  “We all feel guilt for something,” he said. “Regret for acts done or undone. Or for a word spoken in cruelty or kindness.”

  He extended his arms around her again, and she laid her head back against his shoulder, trading her view of the land for that of the sky.

  She wanted to thank him for his attempt to ease her grief. Thank him, too, for the gift of this day, this perfect experience of flying.

  “The sky is darkening toward the south,” he said, after a few moments of silence. “It might be an approaching storm. We should put down.”

  Montgomery reached up and grabbed one of the ropes. A second later, the gondola lurched to the left.

  She closed her eyes and began praying.

  “It’s all right, Veronica,” he said, amusement threading through his voice. “It’s nothing unusual. It’s just the air leaving the envelope.”

  She opened her eyes, looked up at him. “Then I shall attempt to be a little more courageous. You’ll tell me if anything goes wrong?”

  He nodded. “What do you think of your first voyage?”

  “It’s been wonderful,” she said, and meant it.

  “Does that mean you’ll go flying with me again?”

  “I should like to, very much.”

  “You’re a constant surprise,” he said, smiling at her, dimples leading the way to his beautiful blue eyes.

  She was stunned by the feeling suddenly sweeping through her. She’d never considered that love might slip up on her unawares, that she might feel her heart open in the span of an instant.

  He frustrated her, worried her, and could make her angrier than anyone, including Amanda. She’d felt ecstasy in his arms, and now excitement in his balloon. But she’d never thought to love him as easily as this, as instantly as this.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She shook her head and moved to stand beside him. He extended an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer, and she wrapped one arm around his waist, surveying Scotland spread before her.

  When she was a little girl, she’d loved gloaming, the time just before darkness bathed the earth. The air grew misty, as if seen through gauze. This morning, turning to midday, was even more perfect.

  Saturated with emotion, nearly giddy with it, she laid her cheek against Montgomery’s chest as they began to descend.

  “We’ve visitors,” he said, his tone suddenly cold.

  She peered over the edge of the gondola to see three carriages, each of them horribly familiar, and felt her heart sink to her toes. Three carriages: one for Uncle Bertrand and the boys; one for Aunt Lilly and the girls, and the third for all their trunks.

  “Uncle Bertrand,” she said.

  “And the entirety of your family,” Montgomery added.

  She turned helpless eyes to him. “I’m very much afraid you’re right.”

  They exchanged a glance.

  “Can’t we just stay up here?”

  His mouth quirked in a smile. “For a little while, but we have to land eventually. We might as well face them.”

  “I would much rather stare fear in the face, Montgomery,” she said. “Than the whole of my family.”

  Chapter 22

  “You need to discipline your staff, Veronica,” Aunt Lilly said. “One of the maids actually had the temerity to smile at me this morning.” She lifted the lid of each of the chafing dishes, frowning. “What is this penchant the Scottish have for oats?” she asked. “A good dish of herring is what’s needed in the morning. Don’t you agree, my dear?”

  Veronica knew better than to assume the last statement had been directed toward her. Uncle Bertrand looked up absently, then nodded.

  Her father hadn’t liked oatmeal, either, and it had become a loving jest around their house. If you don’t finish weeding the garden today, Veronica, you’ll have porridge for supper. Her mother used the threat against her father: If your father isn’t done with his writings in an hour, I shall give him a porridge instead of this lovely stew.

  She didn’t share that story with her aunt. Neither Aunt Lilly nor Uncle Bertrand liked to speak of her parents, as if not mentioning them would somehow erase them from her mind.

  Montgomery, seated on the other side of the breakfast table from her uncle, glanced at her. She didn’t need any sort of Gift to know what he was thinking. Her relatives annoyed him.

  At least he was there, at breakfast, preventing her from having to suffer through a meal with her family alone, a gesture for which she was exceedingly grateful.

  “I’m sorry you don’t find anything to your satisfaction, Aunt Lilly,” she said. “Perhaps if you would let me know what you’d prefer, I’ll inform Cook. Tomorrow morning, we’ll be better prepared for you.”

  Dear God, how long were they staying?

  “A good hostess is prepared for all contingencies, my dear,” Aunt Lilly said, returning to the table. For someone who hadn’t found anything palatable, she’d certainly filled her plate.

  “Why, exactly, have you
decided to grace us with a visit?” Montgomery asked.

  She glanced at Montgomery, then Aunt Lilly. If she’d made that remark, she’d have been chastised for the effrontery of it. With so many people at the table ready to castigate her for one gaffe or another, it was a miracle food hadn’t curdled in her stomach.

  Aunt Lilly only smiled at Montgomery.

  “We are not simply visitors, my dear boy. We’re family. I didn’t realize we required an invitation to feel welcome in your home.” She smiled again. “But then, we didn’t know that you would be engaged in . . .” Her hands fluttered in the air as her words trailed away.

  Her family had been shocked to see the balloon, so much so that they’d stared at Montgomery all during dinner as if he were some sort of winged creature invited into the drawing room. Breakfast didn’t look to be any better.

  Of the two episodes—flying in Montgomery’s balloon and welcoming her family to Doncaster Hall—she much preferred flying.

  She stood before Aunt Lilly could say anything further.

  “Of course you’re welcome at Doncaster Hall, Aunt Lilly,” she said, signaling Montgomery with a glance. She then did something she’d never had the courage to do in London.

  She left the room.

  Montgomery met her outside the family dining room.

  “How could they simply appear?” she asked. “Am I to hear her criticisms until they leave? And when are they leaving?”

  “Since they’re your relatives, I couldn’t venture to guess,” he said. “Have you considered asking them?”

  “She’ll just pat me on the head, tell me not to worry, then proceed to order the kitchen staff about. The only reason breakfast was halfway bearable was because my cousins decided to take a tray in their rooms. Five trays, Montgomery. We don’t have an infinite number of staff. Every maid was pressed into service this morning. Even Mrs. Brody was ferrying trays up and down the steps.”

  “You had no idea they were coming?”

  “I had no idea they were coming. And if we don’t do something now, Montgomery, they will continue to come. Every few months. And stay.”

  The look on his face mirrored her inward horror. Emigrating to America was almost preferable to endless visits from Uncle Bertrand and his family.