was one he loved.
As he hefted their luggage down to the edge of the shoreline, Ainsley watched, distracted by the fluidity of his movements, the long stride over the pebbles, the smooth strength in the way he lifted even the heaviest pieces so effortlessly. She recalled Felicity’s joke about him being a wild Highlander, and wondered if he would wear a plaid when he was back at Strone Bridge. He had the legs for it. A prickle of heat low in her belly made her shiver.
‘Feasgar math.’ The bump of the boat against the tiny jetty made her jump.
Ainsley stared blankly at the man. ‘Good day to you, Mrs Drummond,’ he repeated in a softly lilting accent, at odds with the curt nod he gave her before starting to heave the luggage Innes was handing him into the boat.
‘Oh, good day,’ Ainsley replied.
‘This is Eoin Ferguson,’ Innes told her, ‘an old friend of mine. Eoin, this is my wife.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t speak any Gaelic,’ Ainsley said to the boatman.
‘Have the Gaelic,’ he said to her. ‘We don’t say speak it, we say have it.’
‘And there’s no need to worry, almost everyone on Strone Bridge speaks English,’ Innes said, frowning at the man he claimed for a friend, though Ainsley could see no trace of warmth between the two men.
‘I have never been to the Highlands,’ she said with a bright smile.
‘Strone Bridge is not far north of Glasgow as the crow flies,’ Eoin replied. ‘If you’re expecting us all to be wandering around in plaid and waving claymores, you’ll be disappointed. Are you getting in or not?’
‘Oh, right. Yes.’ She could feel herself flushing, mortified as if he had read her earlier thoughts. He made no move to help her. Seeing Innes’s frown deepen, Ainsley gave him a slight shake of the head, clambering awkwardly and with too much show of leg into the boat. Eoin watched impassively, indicating that she sit on the narrow bench at the front of the dinghy, making a point of folding his arms as she then proceeded to clamber over the luggage stacked mid-ship.
She tried not to feel either slighted or crushed, reminding herself she was a stranger, a Sassenach, a lowlander, who spoke—no, had—no Gaelic and knew nothing of their ways. Innes, his mouth drawn into a tight line, had leaped into the boat, and was deftly untying the rope from the jetty as Eoin tended the sail. She watched the pair of them working silently together as they set out into the water, the contrast between the harmony of their movements stark against the undercurrent of tension that ran between them. It spiked as Innes made to take the tiller.
‘The tide is against us, and I know the currents,’ Eoin said, keeping his hand on the polished wood.
‘I know them every bit as well as you.’
‘You used to.’ Eoin made no attempt to hide his enmity, but glared at Innes, his eyes, the same deep blue as Innes’s own, bright with challenge. ‘It’s been a long time.’
Innes’s fists clenched and unclenched. ‘I know exactly how long it’s been.’
A gust of wind took Eoin’s words away. When Innes spoke again, it was in a soft, menacing tone that made the hairs on the back of Ainsley’s neck stand on end. And it was in Gaelic. Eoin flinched and made to hand over the tiller, but Innes shook his head, joining Ainsley in the prow, turning away from her to stare out at the white wake, his face unreadable.
The wind that filled the sail blew in her face, whipping her hair from under her bonnet, making her eyes stream. Innes had not worn a hat today, a wise move, for it would surely have blown into the sea. Though he was, as ever, conservatively dressed, his trousers and coat dark blue, his linen pristine white; compared to Eoin’s rough tweed trews and heavy fisherman’s jumper, Innes looked like a dandy. She had watched the other man noticing this when he docked, but couldn’t decide whether the twitch of his mouth was contempt or envy.
The boat scudded along, the keel bumping over the waves of the outgoing tide. While the paddle steamer had felt—and smelled—rather like a train that ran on water instead of rails, in this dinghy, Ainsley was acutely conscious that only a few planks of wood and some tar separated her from the icy-cold strait. Spray made her lips salty. The sail snapped noisily. She began to feel nauseous, and looking up, catching a cold smile on Eoin’s face as the boat lifted out of the water and then slapped down again, began to suspect that he was making their voyage deliberately rough.
‘You’re from the city, I hear. You’ll not be used to the sea,’ he shouted.
Ainsley gripped the wooden seat with both hands, determined to hold on to the contents of her breakfast. She wished she hadn’t had the eggs. She mustn’t think about the eggs. ‘How did you know that?’ she asked.
‘Himself told Mhairi McIntosh, the housekeeper, in the letter he sent.’
Innes snapped his head round. ‘Well, it wouldn’t have done me any good to write to you.’
Eoin, to Ainsley’s surprise, turned a dull shade of red, and looked away. Innes swallowed whatever else he had been about to say and resumed his staring out at the sea. The undercurrent of emotion that ran between the two men was as strong as the ebb of the tide that was making their entrance into the bay a battle.
* * *
The pier was old and crumbling, extending far out into the bay. The low tide forced them to berth right at the very end of the structure, where Innes threw the rope neatly over a post to make fast. It was only as he put one foot on the first rung of the ladder that Eoin spoke, putting a hand on his shoulder, making him freeze.
‘You’ll find the place much changed.’
‘If you tell me once again that it’s been fourteen years...’ he said through gritted teeth.
‘It’s not that.’ Eoin pulled his hand away, a bleak look in his eyes. ‘You know Mhairi’s got the Home Farm ready for you? The big house—ach, you’ll see for yourself soon enough. Give Angus a shout; I can see he’s there with the cart. I’ll see to the luggage.’
Innes ascended the worn ladder quickly, then turned to help Ainsley. She was eyeing the gap between boat and pier with a trepidation she was trying—and failing—to disguise. Her cheeks were bright with the wind, her hair a tangle. She looked endearing. She was most likely wondering what the hell she’d let herself in for, with the enmity between himself and Eoin almost palpable. He swore under his breath. Whatever was going on in Eoin’s head, there would be time enough to sort it out. Right now, he needed to get poor Ainsley, who might well be his only ally, out of that boat before she fell out of it. ‘Put one foot on the bottom rung and give me your hand,’ he said, leaning down over the end of the pier.
She looked at the seaweed-slimed lower struts of the ladder pier dubiously. ‘I can’t swim.’
Innes went down on his knees and leaned over. ‘I can. If you fall, I promise I’ll dive in right behind you.’
‘And walk up the beach with me in your arms, dripping seawater and seaweed.’
‘Just like a mermaid.’
Ainsley chuckled. ‘More like a sea monster. Not the grand entrance that the laird and his lady are expected to make. It’s as well we’ve no audience.’
‘I told Mhairi—that’s the housekeeper—that we did not want a formal welcome until we were settled. I must admit, I’m surprised she listened, though,’ Innes said, looking about him. Save for Angus, making his lumbering way down the pier, there was not a soul in sight. Perhaps he’d maligned his friend after all. Eoin knew how much he hated the pomp and ceremony of the old ways that his father had gone to such pains to preserve. He looked over Ainsley’s shoulder to thank him, but Eoin was busying himself with the ropes.
Shrugging inwardly, Innes held out his hand to Ainsley, pulling her up without a hitch and catching her in his arms. ‘Welcome to Strone Bridge.’
She