A Winter Wedding: Strangers at the Altar / The Warrior's Winter Bride. Marguerite Kaye

How can you seriously think that would make me more likely to stay here?’

      Eoin shook his head. ‘But you could have come back, at least to visit,’ he said stubbornly. ‘You would have seen how things were going. Gradual it was. I didn’t notice at first. And then— Well, like I said, I thought you deserved it. That was wrong of me. It’s why I’ve been avoiding you. You’re not the only one who feels guilty, Innes. I should have done something. I’m sorry. I should have done something, and now it’s far too late. I truly am sorry.’

      He held out his hand. Hesitating only a moment, Innes gripped it. ‘I’m here now,’ he said, ‘and I need your help.’

      Eoin nodded, returning the grip equally painfully. They sat together in silence on the stone bench. ‘I did write,’ Innes said eventually. ‘Only once, but I did write to my father.’

      ‘I didn’t know that,’ Eoin said. ‘Mhairi would surely have told me, so she can’t have known, either.’

      ‘Why should she?’

      Eoin looked surprised. ‘She was his wife in all but name.’ He laughed. ‘You did not know?’

      ‘No— I— No.’ Innes shook his head in astonishment. ‘He left no provision for her in his will.’

      ‘Oh, he took care of that years ago. There’s an annuity, you’ll probably not have noticed it yet unless you’ve gone through the accounts, and she owns the farm over at Cairndow.’

      ‘Then what the devil is she doing working for me when she does not have to?’

      ‘Innes, for someone so far-sighted, you can be awfully blind. She’s looking out for you. She’s about the only one who is. She was ever on your side, you know, it’s the one thing she and the laird had words about, but even she thinks you should have come back. I’m not saying it’s right, I’m saying that’s how it is.’

      ‘I’m here now. Why can’t they see that as a step in the right direction?’

      ‘Maybe because they’re wondering how long it will be before you go again.’ Eoin got to his feet. ‘Think about it from their point of view, Innes. The laird obviously believed he would be the last, else he would not have been so destructive.’

      ‘He obviously thought I’d come back here simply to rid myself of the place. His will specifies I must remain here a year,’ Innes conceded.

      ‘The auld bugger obviously hoped being here would change your mind. Will you?’

      Innes shook his head. ‘I haven’t a clue what I’m going to do,’ he admitted ruefully, ‘but I don’t want to sell. I’ve spent every day, since I got off that boat of yours, going round the lands, making endless lists of things that need to be done.’

      Eoin laughed. ‘People think you’ve been sizing up the assets to sell.’

      ‘For heaven’s sake, why did no one tell me that?’

      ‘Why didn’t you say anything yourself, tell people your plans?’

      Innes shook his head. ‘Because I don’t know what they are yet.’

      ‘This is not one of your projects, where you have to have your blueprints and your costs and—I don’t know—your list of materials all sorted out before you make your bid, Innes. Plans change, we all know that, but people would like to hear that they exist. They’d like to know you’re not going to sell the roof over their heads.’ Eoin got to his feet. ‘I’m glad we talked. It’s been eating away at me, the way we were when you arrived.’

      This time it was Innes who held out his hand. ‘It is good to see you, Eoin. I’ve not missed this place, but I’ve missed you. I would value your input to what needs done.’

      ‘You know you have only to ask.’

      ‘I wouldn’t have, if it were not for Ainsley. She is the one who pushed me into this.’

      Eoin smiled. ‘Then I owe her. I look forward to meeting her properly.’

      ‘You will do soon. She’s planning a Rescinding.’ Innes shook his head. ‘Don’t ask, because I’m not quite sure what it is myself, save that it will involve everyone.’

      ‘Then I hope you will make sure not to let the water of life run dry. I must go, but we’ll talk again.’

      Innes watched his friend walk away. He felt as if his mind had been put through a washtub and then a mangle. Striding along the path that led round the front of the castle, he spotted the ramshackle pier and came to a sudden halt. Here was something he could do, and it was something, moreover, that Strone Bridge urgently needed, for it would allow paddle steamers to dock. He couldn’t understand why he hadn’t thought of it before. Vastly relieved to be able to focus on a project that was entirely within his control, Innes made his way down to the bay and began a survey of the jetty with the critical eye of the engineer it had cost him and, it seemed, the people of Strone Bridge, so much to become.

      * * *

      Dear Madame Hera,

      I am a twenty-eight-year-old woman, married with two small children and absolutely bored stiff. My husband is a wealthy man and insists that our house is taken care of by servants and our children by a nanny, but this leaves me with nothing to do. I try to count my blessings, but even that occupation has become tedious. One of my friends suggested taking a lover would amply occupy my free afternoons, but lying convincingly is not one of my accomplishments. What shall I do?

      Yours sincerely, Mrs A

      Ainsley smiled to herself as she read this missive. Many of Madame Hera’s correspondents complained of boredom, though none had suggested this novel answer. ‘Take charge,’ Ainsley wrote, ‘of your children, of your housework, of your life!’ She put the pen down, frowning. Mrs A’s husband was doing exactly what was expected of him. More, in fact, than many could or would. Mrs A’s friends might well even envy her. If Mrs A were to dismiss the nanny, or take over the housework, her husband would most likely be insulted. Or offended.

      Ainsley looked at the clock. It was gone two. Innes had left before breakfast this morning, and she had not seen him since. Was he avoiding her? In the days since he had agreed to hold the Rescinding ceremony, he had continued with his visits to various farms and tenants, his poring over documents late into the night. True, she too had been very busy—too busy, in fact, to have any time to devote to anything else, but still, the niggling feeling that she was being pushed to one side would not go away.

      With a sigh of frustration, Ainsley pushed Madame Hera’s half-finished letter to one side and picked up the heavy bunch of castle keys from the desk, intending to consult the tome she had now christened the Drummond Self-Help Manual in the library once more, before taking another look at the Great Hall. Outside, as ever, it was blowy. There were several fishing boats in the bay. She paused to drink in her favourite view and spotted a figure down on the pier. Black coat with long skirts birling in the breeze. Long boots. All the Strone Bridge men wore trews and fishing jumpers or short tweed jackets. Tucking the keys into her pocket beside the notebook and pencil she had brought, Ainsley began to pick her way carefully down the steep path.

      * * *

      The tide was far enough out for Innes to have clambered down underneath the pier when she arrived. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ she asked, peering through one of the planks down at him.

      ‘I was inspecting the struts,’ he said, looking up at her, ‘but now that you’re here, there’s a much nicer view.’

      ‘Innes!’ Scandalised, laughing, she clutched her skirts tightly around her.

      Laughing, he appeared a few moments later on the beach, climbing up the ancient wooden supports of the pier fluidly. ‘Do you always match your garters to your gown?’

      ‘What kind of question is that?’

      ‘One you needn’t answer if you don’t