“Oh, Sadie, is that the postman? I have a few letters to go out,” a very familiar female voice called.
“No, Miss Catriona. It’s the visitor the MacBranains have been expecting,” the servant woman called back.
His eyebrows rose at the unusual familiarity with which the servant addressed her mistress. Such a thing wasn’t normally done in high society homes, not even up here in the North.
“Ah, excellent! I am eager to meet him,” the woman called above the echo of narrow heels clicking on marble.
It couldn’t possibly be whom it sounded like. Surely, his mind was merely playing tricks on him. She rounded the corner and his eyes confirmed what his ears suspected. Long red hair swung unfettered about shoulders that were far more slender than they had looked beneath her shawl a few days ago. Green satin and black lace hugged curves that bordered on being skinny, all save for a bosom with deliciously deep cleavage. Blue eyes widened, her gaze skittering across his frame, catching on the wine bottle in his arm, to his muddy boots, and back to his face.
Pasting on a badly faked smile, she touched the servant’s arm in a casual way that suggested they might be friends. “I am afraid you are mistaken, Sadie.”
The smile dropped and her top lip pulled back from her teeth as she turned to him. “It seems quite counterproductive to track mud all over one’s floor while coming to apologize.”
“’Tis you who are mistaken, ma’am. I am indeed here to see the MacBranains.”
Triumph shot through him when a blush stained her cheeks. “You are Corporal Fergusson?” she demanded.
He nodded. “None other.”
“No,” she insisted.
Hands out, palms up, he looked down at himself. “Yes.”
Her eyes widened. “No!”
Emitting a wordless cry, she spun and stormed out of the room, heels clicking out a battle rhythm as if launching an assault on the marble floor.
“Truly, I am,” he called after her, which elicited another wordless cry of frustration.
He turned to the servant woman only to find her regarding him from beneath raised brows, head cocked. “You as puzzled as I am by that, Miss Sadie?”
Her full lips began to twitch with a coming grin. “Perhaps not as much.” She nodded toward the bottle of wine tucked into the crook of his arm. “Is that from Bailey’s Spirits?”
Not sure why it was relevant, but not seeing any reason to withhold the information, he nodded.
“Well, Mr. Fergusson, I fear Miss Catriona’s reaction will not be your only surprise of the day,” she said.
Even as he contemplated the strange words, his eyes followed the redhead as she disappeared around a corner. A fiery name to match a fiery personality. He liked both far more than he wanted to. Words raised in a heated discussion centered around him drifted back into the room. Among them were both Catriona’s voice and the gentle, soothing voice of a friend he remembered oh so well. Not wanting to track mud all across the foyer, he leaned to the left as far as he could, trying to see around the corner.
The back side of a man clothed in a fine suit appeared in the opening, pulling double doors closed behind him. The feminine voices were all but cut off. Spinning on a heel, the man turned toward him. Though his hair was shorter and a scar marred his forehead, the confidence and self-awareness made him instantly recognizable. Cheeks aching from a grin so huge it had to look maniacal, Fergusson took a step toward the man.
“Sergeant!” he said as he advanced, forgetting his muddy boots.
The man grinned just as wide in response. They met in the middle of the floor, embraced heartily, and pulled back apart.
“’Tis just Sean now, me friend,” he insisted.
Fergusson grunted. “It will always be Sergeant.”
Waving the comment off, Sean grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. “Come now, Rick, let’s dispense of such things. Tell me, how on Earth did you manage to make such an impression on Catriona already?”
“I have a talent, I suppose.” He held the bottle of wine out to Sean, who accepted it with an impressed look. “A late congratulations on your wedding. Sorry I couldn’t be there, but, you know, war to finish and all that.”
Sean tapped the scar on the side of his head. “Sorry I couldn’t be there to finish it with you. Head wound and all that.”
Fergusson clapped him on the shoulder a bit more vigorously than he intended too, making his friend stumble a step. Laughing, Sean shook his head and motioned to the door.
“Walk with me a bit. I have something for you in the carriage house. It will give the ladies time to talk things through,” Sean said.
Before they reached the door, Sadie pulled it open. The clip clop of horses and grind of wagon wheels against cobblestone drifted in from the busy street not far beyond the front garden of the house. Pattering beneath it all like the erratic rhythm of an untalented drummer boy was the constant deluge of rain. Nose wrinkling from the stench of wet horse manure, oil lamps, and far too many people, Fergusson stepped out before Sean. He flipped his collar up and ducked his head low so that his almost shoulder-length brown hair kept the rain from running down the back of his coat.
On the way out the door Sean paused and handed Sadie the bottle of wine. “Would you please put this on ice for when we get back?”
“Of course, Mr. MacBranain.”
Following a stone pathway that cut through the garden and around the side of the expansive brick house, Rick spared a glance back at Sean. “Ice, in June? Damn, Sarge, you really did marry into money.”
From behind him, Sean called up. “I did, but as you might guess, Ashlinn is the true treasure.”
“True enough, she is at that. So I trust the marriage has gotten off to a good start?”
Catching up and passing him, Sean opened the wrought iron gate that led around to the side of the house. “Aye, you could say that.”
Though he couldn’t see his face, Rick could hear the smile upon it.
“No little ’uns yet, though?”
“Not yet, but it has only been a bit over a year. All in due time.”
A slight overhang kept the rain from them as they made their way along the path to the huge carriage house. Sean opened a man door beside the double doors and motioned for Rick to go first. The scents of hay and horses enveloped him in a rush of warm air as he stepped inside. Behind Sean the door clicked shut, muting the sound of the falling rain. An inquisitive, young-sounding bark punctuated the noises of horses eating and rustling about in their stalls. It brought to mind the massive Irish wolfhound that had followed Ashlinn and Sean everywhere during the war. He had nearly forgotten that the hound was pregnant the last time he had seen her, and that he had asked for one of the pups.
A childlike joy he hadn’t felt since long before the war swelled within his chest at the sound of clawed feet pattering against cobblestone. But it had been a little more than two years since then. There was no way the youthful bark he had just heard could be from a two-year-old dog. He shot Sean a questioning look, but his friend only grinned. Another soft bark of greeting sounded.
Rounding the corner that led down to the horses’ stalls came a canine that already stood at least two and a half feet at the shoulder but still had that young pup look