Free Lady Barbara's Dilemma by Marjorie Farrell Page B

‘fash’ yourself,” said Barbara. “Not that you seem easily ‘fashed’!”
    “Ah, weel, what is a few feet more or less, lassie? Now come down off your high horse and have some breakfast with me.”
    Since her gelding was over sixteen hands, Barbara supposed the description was accurate, but she knew quite well that was not the way he had meant it. She couldn’t help smiling at the rogue, however, for he was charming. And Lord, the bacon smelled wonderful and she was hungry.
    She dismounted and tied her horse to a tree. The Scotsman was sitting in the middle of a long fallen tree, but he moved down and patted the space next to him. “This will be more comfortable than the ground, lassie, which is still a bit damp. I should know”—he grinned, rubbing his hip—“for I’ve been sleeping on it.”
    Barbara sat, but left a good foot between herself and the fiddler.
    “The bacon is almost ready. And I’ve got two eggs and a half a loaf of bread. I did well at the fair.”
    “Do you always sleep outdoors, Mr. Gower?” Barbara asked, wondering for the first time what it would be like to earn one’s living on the road.
    “When it is not cold or rainy I do. Too many comfortable nights in an inn and I might go hungry for a day or two.” Alec slid an egg and a few slices of bacon onto a battered tin plate and passed it to Barbara. There was an old coffeepot sitting almost in the fire, and he filled an equally battered cup with the strong liquid.
    “Ye’ll have to forgive me, lass, for eating wi’ ma fingers, but I hae only one knife and fork, alas.”
    “There you go again, with that exaggerated accent.”
    “Ach, I canna resist it. The sight of ye there, wi’ the mist in yer hair and yer cheeks flushed wi’ exercise, and yer red rosy lips wi’ a bit of egg clinging to them just soften ma tongue, lassie.”
    Before Barbara could move, Alec had reached out and gently removed the offending piece of egg with his finger, licking it off afterward.
    “You are incorrigible, Mr. Gower. Quite lacking in respect.” Barbara tried to keep her tone stern, but that bubble of joy, which had shrunk a bit overnight, was expanding again. She gave in to it and laughed. “I suppose that such a practiced charm is necessary in your business. I just cannot believe how easy it is to succumb to it. But I am surprised. I had heard that the Scots were dour and serious creatures.”
    “Aye, some of our Presbyterian brethren gie us a bad name. But not all of us are life-hating.”
    “You seem to thoroughly enjoy life, though yours must be a hard one.”
    “I do, Lady Barbara, I do,” said Gower with great seriousness and a touch of wonder. “Much more than I thought I would have,” he added, almost to himself.
    “Of course, you have your music. You are lucky to make your art your life,” said Barbara a bit wistfully.
    “You sound a wee bit envious, lass.”
    “I suppose I am. I am a musician myself, but I shall never be able to do anything serious with it.”
    “You play the pianoforte?”
    “It is either that or the harp for a gentlewoman, isn’t it? The pianoforte. But I have given up playing for the last few months. It seems pointless.”
    “Doing something you love is never pointless, my lady.”
    “That is an admirable philosophy, Mr. Gower, but hard to live up to. And anyway, after I am married, I will be too busy.” Barbara wasn’t sure why she had revealed so much of herself, but in addition to his easy charm, Gower had an air of sympathy about him.
    “And are you to be married soon, Lady Barbara?”
    “In the fall I will wed Peter Rushcliffe, Marquess of Wardour.” Giving his full title seemed to emphasize the social distance between them, something Barbara needed to do. She was feeling too comfortable with Gower.
    “And does the marquess not appreciate your talent?” he asked quietly.
    “Actually, although he was always quite complimentary whenever I played for him last year, I do not think he has a