Free Amanda Scott by Reivers Bride Page B

said,
     “Fiona is a dear, loving girl. The man who weds her will delight in her if he is kind and does not frighten her.”
    “Then we will simply tell my uncle that he must cherish the lass.”
    “Unfortunately, Ashkirk—” She broke off, offering him a rueful smile. “Mercy, he’s not Ashkirk, is he? I usually call him
     Eustace, which irritates Olivia, but I was trying to be respectful, because he is your uncle.”
    “Oh, don’t be swayed by that. I told you, I never liked the fellow.”
    “Well, I expect it is you who are Ashkirk now, in any event, but I cannot wrap my mind around calling you that when… ” She
     hesitated, thinking it would be less than diplomatic to tell him that she had thought of the name with loathing from the moment
     she had first met his uncle. “What should I call him?”
    “I can think of several things,” he said, “but I don’t think I’d like hearing any of them from your lips. I don’t object to
     your calling him Eustace, but you may more properly call him Sir Eustace Chisholm—if you admire propriety. He holds a knighthood
     in his own right, although I’ve never understood why he should.”
    “Well, he is perfectly well aware of my cousin’s fear of him,” Anne said. “Indeed, I’m afraid he cultivates and takes delight
     in it.”
    “I see. Clearly, you know him better than I do. What other pleasing attributes does he possess?”
    “I don’t see them as pleasing or as attributes,” she said.
    “I spoke in jest.”
    She eyed him speculatively. “You did not sound as if you were jesting. There was a definite edge to your tone.”
    “Perhaps, but I’ll wager you can tell me more about him.”
    “Very well,” she said. “I dislike him, because he enjoys pinching young women’s cheeks and making ribald remarks calculated
     to shock them, and because he is the sort of man who catches and kisses maidservants on the stairs.”
    “Just how do you know that?”
    “Because, to my misfortune, he kissed me, having mistaken me for my cousin’s maid when he called on her shortly after my arrival
     at Mute Hill House.”
    “I see.”
    This time the grimness of his tone made her wish she could read his expression, but the deep dusk had darkened to moonless
     night and the starlight was barely enough to give a faint indication of the track ahead.
    She felt no concern that they might get lost, for they had covered more than half the remaining distance and would soon reach
     the crest of a hill overlooking Ewesdale, from which they would be able to see the lights of Mute Hill House.
    He did not speak again for some time, and she was content to remain silent, because the silence now was comfortable and gave
     her a chance to consider her odd reaction to the man. For it was certainly odd that his presence gave her comfort when she
     scarcely knew him and had little reason to think him wiser or more reassuring than the reiver she had seen when first they
     met.
    To be sure, he had a certain aura about him that instilled confidence. She had the distinct feeling that even if the English
     army should descend upon them at that moment, Sir Christopher would rout them single-handedly, easily, and without a blink.
     The notion was foolish, of course. Logic told her as much, but the confidence she felt remained undiminished.
    She felt as if she knew him, not factually, as in the details of his life, for she knew next to none of those. But the essence
     of him, his inner spirit, was another matter. The comfort she felt with him riding silently beside her was the comfort of
     riding with an old and trusted friend. And regardless of his warning earlier, Anne trusted her instincts.
    She had long realized that she possessed a gift in her ability to read people, to know good ones from bad, and the trustworthy
     ones from the untrustworthy. Her mother had called it intuition. Her father had called it other things, particularly after
     a ten-year-old Anne had told him that a man with