Heart in the Highlands by Heidi Kimball
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Kate opened her wardrobe, riffling through her things in search of her blue-and-white shawl, the one she knew matched her eyes. Then her stomach dropped. What if Callum opened the sketchbook without waiting for her? If he discovered the sketches of Charlotte’s birth . . . if he learned the truth Kate had kept from him . . . what fledgling trust had begun to form between them might well be shattered.
Would he be willing to forgive her? Or would he reject her outright? The hope that had begun to take root in her chest quaked a little and then seemed to crack, like an icy pond that hadn’t yet frozen enough to bear any weight. Callum couldn’t find out. Not yet. Not until she was certain he loved her wholeheartedly, without reservation. Not until she’d figured out the right way to tell him. She pulled her shawl from its resting place, threw it around her shoulders, and hurried downstairs.
When she reached his study, breathless, she realized she’d worried needlessly. The sketchbook was exactly where she’d left it, on the small table under the window. In her absence Callum had rearranged the room a little, edging everything back from the hearth, leaving a comfortable alcove where he stood. He held up two pokers and gestured to a tray on his desk, piled high with thick slices of bread and wedges of cheese. “Are ye hungry? Tonight I’m going to introduce ye to Scots rabbit.” He smiled, his teeth a flash of white against his tanned skin.
His smile went straight to her heart. It eased some of her fears, calmed her racing pulse, and made her believe that somehow everything could be made right between them. She nodded, and Callum gestured for her to take a seat on the large hearthrug on the floor. She did so, pulling at her skirts, trying with some difficulty to arrange her dress over herself modestly.
“I’ve seen your ankles before, Katie,” he said, a small tick in his cheek as he lay the tray down between them.
“Yes,” she replied, ducking her head, “you have.” The simple exchange filled the room with unexpected tension.
First, Callum placed the wedges of cheese in a flat black skillet that he arranged near the edge of the fire. “Once it’s melted and the edges are brown, the cheese is ready. And now for the toast.” His fingers brushed hers as he handed her a poker and showed her how to wiggle the bread onto it. “Now you take this and roast it on both sides. Keep it away from the flames; the coals are better for getting it evenly toasted.”
He put a slice of bread on his own poker, and they sat in silence for several minutes, bread toasting over the hearth, the soft crackle of the fire making it cozy. Kate glanced toward Callum and asked the question that had been bothering her since their visit to his aunt and uncle’s. “How long exactly has it been since you’ve had whisky?”
He worked his jaw, seemingly focused on the two pieces of bread toasting over the fire. “Here, yours is finished. Slide it off, like so.”
Kate waited in patience until he was ready to answer. He buttered her toast and showed her how to spread the roasted cheese over it. “Here, try it,” he said, holding it out for her.
She took a large bite. The strong cheddar flavor and the crisp edges of the cheese paired with the crunch of the toast—such simple ingredients, but her mouth watered in delight. “Heaven,” she pronounced it.
Callum gave her a wide grin, as if she’d announced Scotland superior to England. He got to his feet. “And now, in answer to your question . . .” After riffling through his desk he produced his journal. It took several minutes before he found the entry he was looking for. “Here,” he said, hand extended. “Take it.”
June 24, 1814
I attended a dinner at the Reynoldses’ home this evening. William is anxious to introduce me to all of his business associates, especially since he leaves for England next month and won’t be back until December. I didn’t mind the dinner conversation so much, though the women were both nosy and flirtatious. Once they left and it was only the men gathered around the table, talk gravitated toward business. William offered me some whisky.
I confess I’ve not touched the stuff since my wedding night. I’ll never forget how Katie raised the quaich to take a second drink, saying, “And may your wife learn to drink whisky like a proper Scot.” She likely had no idea what those words did to me, but I remember distinctly how those words went straight to my core, how want became need, how I pretended to be unaffected. With the utmost self-control I kissed her gently, as she deserved.
Needless to say, whisky has become irrevocably connected to Katie, and I declined William’s offer. “A Scot who doesn’t drink whisky?” he asked, incredulous.
I shook my head. “Not anymore.” I reached for the port instead.
When all the men were several drinks in, talk grew crass, their exploits and affairs spoken of so casually it sickened me, for more reasons than one. No matter how reprobate a husband I have been and no matter how many miles separate us, I will honor the vows I made to Katie.
Kate lay the open journal in her lap.
She knew that many men dallied when away from hearth and home and that, for the most part, Society turned a blind eye so long as the matter was kept quiet. But that was never the kind of husband she’d wanted for herself, such behavior never how she’d interpreted God’s commandment for a husband to cleave unto his wife.
Yet Callum had been away for years. She hadn’t asked such questions, dreading the answers he might give. But now she stared at the last sentence, retracing the words that affirmed Callum had been faithful to her. The unvoiced fear that had loomed in the back of Kate’s mind for so long wisped away. She blinked rapidly, and the pages blurred as a large piece of her heart, long frozen, began to thaw.
Callum leaned closer, his lips near her ear, stirring a tendril of her hair. “There have been none but ye.”
Her pulse thrummed in her veins. She desperately wanted him to kiss her. But despite how easily he might have done so, he remained true to his word and made no effort to pressure her. Slowly, Kate edged toward him. Her gaze drifted toward his lips. How well she remembered the sensual curve of them. The intoxicating sensation of his mouth capturing hers. This time, it was not a frenzy of fear or a whirlwind of uncertainty that had Kate leaning toward Callum. It was not mere impulse or need or desire.
It was hope.
She turned her head a fraction of an inch and met his lips. The journal slipped from her lap as she turned, one hand levered back on the hearthrug. Callum returned the kiss cautiously, letting her take her time exploring, savoring, discovering. She pulled back a little to find him heavy-lidded, struggling to keep his breath even. Yet he waited patiently, and she knew he wanted this moment to be on her terms.
Much as she treasured his respect for her, she wanted some assurance that he was as undone by her as she was by him. She shifted to her knees and wove a hand around his neck, threading her fingers through his thick hair. She pressed her mouth to his with more fervency this time, and still he let her be the guide, choosing the tempo at which they forged ahead. Her other hand moved to cup his face, and she deepened the kiss, tracing the line of his jaw down to the folds of his neckcloth.
But then Callum eased back, not trying to disguise his stilted breathing or the need that darkened his eyes. And because of it, Kate knew he was not rejecting her but merely offering her a chance to think. Slowly, her heart rate returned to normal. Her breathing evened. The world came into focus once more.
“I don’t want tae stop, Katie. And I think that probably means we should.” He cracked a smile. “Unless ye are ready to give Charlotte a sibling.”
Kate jerked back, immediately tensing.
Callum placed a hand on her elbow, steadying her. “I didnae mean it. I know it might be a long while before ye—we—are ready for that.”
But the damage was done. The all-too-familiar shame pushed up and crowded out the warmth that had been there just seconds before. She looked away, reaching for another piece of bread as she tried to keep her hands busy.
“I’m sorry. I should have stopped sooner.” Callum sounded truly worried. “Please, Katie. I am doing the best I know how.”
Kate dropped her head, the truth on the tip of her tongue. It should have been easy to tell him. He had shown her his most intimate thoughts, written by his own hand. She had allowed him to see some of her darker memories, spilled out in ink and paint. But he hadn’t seen her very darkest yet, and she wasn’t ready for him to.
“It was nothing you did. You were a perfect gentleman, for which I am grateful. But you were right. I am not prepared for . . .” She smoothed her hair. “I need more time.”
He nodded. “If we are going to build something that will last, the timing must be right. And I can wait.”
Anxious for a distraction, she pulled her bread from the fire. But in the short time she’d neglected it, it had caught fire, and the toast was burned. A blackened, charred hunk. They both laughed, and Callum gave her his own piece.
Once they’d completed their meal, Kate retrieved her sketchbook and showed him a drawing of the rocking chair that had been her favorite place to sit during the last few months of her pregnancy. “I wish you could have felt Charlotte kick. She was like a wild horse, bucking and braying at all hours of the night.”
“Not so different from now, then,” he teased.
“I suppose not. But once she came, she was such a good-natured baby. She’d look up at me with her big gray eyes and squeeze her hand around my finger. Harriet was always telling me to sleep, but I never wanted to close my eyes because I was so afraid I would miss something.”
“Do ye have some drawings I could see, of her as a baby?”
The look on his face was so hopeful she tried for a smile. “Perhaps on her birthday?”
“Ah yes. We should show Charlotte as well. I’ve no doubt she’d love it,” he said. “And what are ye going to do with all the pictures ye’ve painted for her? Hang them in the nursery?” Callum shifted backward, laying his head back on the rug, his arms folded behind him.
“I found a small shop in town that will bind them into a book,” Kate said. “I need only to pen a short verse for the page with the cats.”
“Trust ye to come up with something that will outshine the pony I’ve purchased for her.”
“You are going to spoil her,” she scolded.
“It’s merely an excuse to spend more time with her,” he said and drew in a breath. “I want to be the one who teaches her to ride.”
“In that case, I’ll allow it,” she said teasingly, but her throat grew tight. Her gaze moved from the fire’s flames to the man beside her. His love for Charlotte was no act, no grand gesture to try to win her approval. It was a tangible thing she witnessed day by day.
A knock sounded at the door, and instinctively Kate leaned away from Callum. Would she ever grow accustomed to the fact that they were married and didn’t require a chaperone?
Harriet peeked in. “There are several things I wanted to discuss with the two of you. Is now a good time?”
“Yes, come in,” Callum said, getting to his feet. He extended a hand and helped Kate up as well. “What is it?”
As always, he directed a charming smile toward Harriet, determined to be on his best behavior.
Harriet held out a pair of scissors, the gleaming blades catching the light of the fire.
“Is that a new pair of scissors, Harriet?” Kate asked. In all their years together, Kate had seen her use only an old pair of blunt and rusted scissors that could hardly cut thread, even when sharpened.
“These new shears made their way into my sewing basket,” Harriet acknowledged. She looked directly at Callum. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” Her tone was accusatory, as though some terrible crime had been committed.
Callum looked closely at the scissors. “Can’t say that I do. I wouldn’t know where tae purchase a pair of shears, let alone where ye keep your sewing basket.” But there was a telling tightening of his jaw, a hint of laughter in the lines around his eyes.
Her brow furrowed. “A likely story,” she grumbled, sliding the scissors into her apron pocket. “And now for the other matter. The duke has asked if Charlotte can have breakfast with him tomorrow morning. As she was unsure of your response, the duchess asked that I bring the matter to you.”
“Charlotte visit my father?” Callum’s entire countenance darkened. “Absolutely not. I’ll not have her anywhere near him.”
Kate set a hand on his sleeve, hoping to calm him. “She enjoys visiting him, Callum. He is very sweet with her. If one of us were with her, would there be any harm—?”
“I’ll not have him poison her,” Callum said, no hint of giving in his voice. “She—she has visited him before?” His expression turned to frost. “You knew?”
Kate’s insides froze, every ounce of the warmth they’d enjoyed together a few minutes before vanquished by the ice in his tone.
Harriet sent him a scathing glare. “I’ll let you discuss the matter with the duchess,” she said, taking her leave.
“The answer is no,” Callum said to Kate before Harriet had closed the door. “No more visits.”
“It certainly is not.” Kate bristled. “What of your promise to treat me as an equal? Does it only extend so far as you find it convenient?”
“Katie, ye dinnae ken the man like I do. I cannae stomach the thought of him manipulating our daughter, diminishing her worth because she is a girl and not an heir—”
“Have you taken the time to find out whether he has changed?” she challenged, knowing he had not.
The lifelessness of Callum’s features frightened her. “He has not changed, nor will he.”
“And yet somehow I am to believe that you have?” She shook her head.
“Katie, listen.”
He grabbed for her wrist, but she shook him free, for once grateful she’d kept her heart just out of his reach. “No, you listen. I read what you wrote in your journal. You believed yourself incapable of love. What made you change your mind? What made you believe you might possibly be capable of loving again?”
They stood a hand’s width apart, his features ragged and his eyes smoky, her breathing hard.
He worked his jaw. “Seeing Charlotte,” he finally answered. “I loved her at once. ’Twas not even a choice.”
“Yet forgiveness is a choice. I believe you are capable of love, Callum. Great love.” She shook her head. “But not when your heart is choked with hatred.” She took a step back. Despite the pain lancing through her heart, a strange calmness stole over her. Now Callum would never need to know the truth. She could bury her guilt and move past the constant fear that he might reject her. It was the safest way. “I have wrestled with forgiving you. Agonized over letting go of the past. And now?” The words came as a surprise even to her. “You are forgiven, Callum.”
His jaw went slack. “Katie, I—”
She held up a hand, trying very hard to keep her voice even. “But I will not love a man who cannot extend the same mercy. Your bitterness destroyed our marriage from its very foundation. I’ll not lose my heart to you a second time. Not when you are as full of poison now as you were then.”