“Forgive me, milord, I only meant…that is, I shouldnae have…”
Blair held up a hand to stay the housekeeper’s fumbling. “It is all right, truly, Mrs. Drummond. I did not mean to extract any…sensitive information from ye, nor is it my intent to find the maker of this fine malt, only to pass along my compliments. In fact, I have an unmarked bottle of my own in the back of a desk drawer in Edinburgh. There were similar such…arrangements at Brenmore, before…”
Blair cleared his throat again. Though he didn’t finish, the rest of his words hung in the air. Before the crofters were cleared. Amelia nearly winced. They may not have been run off because of their bootlegged whisky, but those farmers had been removed—some against their will—all the same.
“Thank ye, milord,” Mrs. Drummond said, ducking her chin.
“Enjoy the rest of yer evening, Mrs. Drummond.”
That seemed to be Blair’s way of absolving the flustered housekeeper from any further discomfort. With a grateful bob, she hastened through the kitchen door, leaving Blair and Amelia alone once more.
“Perhaps I should turn in as well,” Amelia said. All that talk of illegal whisky and clearing crofters was like a wet blanket thrown over a fire. As if she needed another reminder of the dire future that awaited Glenrose once Blair had finalized the arrangements.
Blair frowned and opened his mouth, but no words came out. The furrow between his brows deepening, he placed his glass of whisky on a side table and stood stiffly. “I’ll see ye to the stairs.”
Leaving her glass beside his, she accepted his extended hand and rose. To her surprise, he did not release her fingers once she was on her feet. Instead, he tucked her hand through his arm and placed it on the back of his wrist.
Her pulse leapt wildly as he walked her slowly across the drawing room and toward the entrance hall. His wrist was rigid beneath her fingertips, yet she could feel the warmth of him beneath the sleeve of his midnight-blue frock coat.
Just as they crossed through the wide passageway that delineated the drawing room from the entrance hall, Blair halted abruptly.
“I do not wish it to be this way, ye understand.”
At his agitated tone, she looked up at him. She found his eyes filled with a tempest of anguish.
“I want—nay, I need ye to know that. I take no pleasure in what must be done here.”
So struck by Blair’s distress was Amelia that no words would come to her. Had he spent the whole evening wrestling with what he was trying to say now? Struggling with uncertainty in silence, as she had?
“Ye and Livie want me to remember—remember the Highlands, the spirit of the season, the way things used to be,” he barreled on. “But not all my memories are pleasant ones.”
“That is why you’ve stayed away all these years,” she surmised quietly.
He gave a single curt nod. His jaw worked, his eyes turning flinty as he picked his next words.
“There has been nothing to come back to except sheep. My father spent every moment of his final years trying to save the estate—and nearly ran it into the ground in the process. But it didn’t work. The physicians said he died of complications from pneumonia, but I believe it was from a broken heart. To lose both my mother and Brenmore, his family’s legacy going back seven generations…”
Blair’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I do not enjoy dismantling Glenrose, but nor do I want its people—or Livie, or ye—to suffer as those at Brenmore did in a drawn-out decline and eventual death of this place. And I want…”
“What?” she breathed. “What do you want?”
His eyes were like blue fire as they touched hers. “I want to believe, as ye do. I want to feel the love ye feel for this place. I want yer certainty, yer faith. I want to be swept away by the magic of it all, as ye and Livie have intended. I want to hope.”
It felt as though Amelia’s heart would burst from her chest, so hard was it straining against her ribs—toward Blair. “Why can’t you?”
“Because I saw what blind hope without a realistic plan did to my father—and to Brenmore,” he answered, his voice low and ragged. “I do not want to hope for Glenrose, and…and for ye…and have it all taken away.”
A breath froze in her lungs. Was he saying… Could he mean that he cared for her? It felt as though a caged bird flapped frantically in her stomach.
“I do not want to lose Glenrose, either.” Amelia gulped air to slow the spinning of her head. “Or you.”
Shock, followed quickly by elation, flashed through his translucent blue eyes. Slowly, he released a breath. “But one is bound to the other, is it not? God Almighty, what a fine mess this is.”
“Your solicitor isn’t here yet,” she pointed out. “Nothing is finalized.”
“Aye, but what could possibly change in the next few days before he arrives?”
Despite the suddenly somber turn of their conversation, Amelia couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips. “You never know. This is a season of magic and miracles, after all.”
He grunted, but at the loosening of the frown knotting his brow, she added, “The fact is, we do have at least a few more days before the outside world forces such impossible circumstances upon us once more.”
“Aye,” he said, giving her a cautiously curious look. “And how do ye suggest we pass the time until then?”
Warmth rushed over her at the suggestion in his tone. “For starters, I believe we have one more tradition to celebrate,” she commented evenly, hoping her voice did not reveal just how flustered she was inside. “And after that…”
She tilted back her head as if to coyly ponder her next words,
