Page 101 of To Wed a Wild Scot
Three days later
They traveled from Guildford to London, then continued north past Leeds and York. Then further north still, to Edinburgh and Perth, and from there to Dalwhinnie, Etteridge, Newtownmore, Aviemore, and, at last…
From Aviemore to the Sassy Lassie in Inverness.
Juliana had taken the same journey twice before. Once when she’d been on her quest to find Fitzwilliam, then again with Logan, except in reverse. They’d traveled this same route, on these same roads, and spent the night at the same inns along the way. It was astounding really, the sameness of it, when everything else in her life had changed so drastically.
The return to Scotland should have been a joyous occasion. If she’d been returning for any other reason than the one she was, she would have been ecstatic. In the short time she’d been at Castle Kinross she’d grown to love everything about it. Ruthven Burn, the Laburnum Arch, the wild blue poppies. Emilia and Fitzwilliam, the Robertson brothers, Mrs. Craig with her gooseberries, and Fiona, with her soft, woolly white head.
A return to Scotland should have filled her heart with delight, but as it was…
As it was, Logan had ruined everything.
Juliana glanced at him, seated across from her in the carriage. His mouth was tight, his blue eyes bleak. They hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words to each other during the entire journey. They stopped each evening at twilight, dined together, then bid each other a polite good night and retired to separate bedchambers. Juliana slept with Grace, and Logan slept alone.
“Grace.” Juliana tore her gaze from Logan’s face and turned to her niece. “Please stop kicking the seat. Be still, won’t you?”
Grace’s mouth pulled into a sulky line, but otherwise there was no reaction. Since they’d left Dalwhinnie early this morning, Grace hadn’t spoken a word to either Juliana or Logan, and now she made it clear she didn’t intend to listen to a word, either. The small foot continued to swing, the tip of Grace’s boot rhythmically striking the opposite cushion.
“Grace. Your aunt asked you to be still. You will do as she says.” Logan’s voice was stern.
Grace did as she was bid, but her little face crumpled. Juliana took Grace’s hand in hers, but for the first time in Grace’s young life, Juliana didn’t know what to say to comfort her.
She had no reassuring words for Grace, or for herself. She’d find the words again—tomorrow, perhaps—but at the moment she was simply too exhausted to come up with more than a half-hearted squeeze of Grace’s hand.
Grace had been thrilled when she’d found out they were going to Scotland. She’d spent the first few days of the journey bouncing excitedly on the seat, asking questions and chattering happily about every sight that passed by her window.
But like most children, Grace was sensitive to the moods of those around her. It hadn’t taken long before she became aware of the tension between Juliana and Logan. As the days dragged on, Grace’s spirits sank lower and lower. She grew quieter with every mile, until they’d reached Dalwhinnie. That was when her morose silence had disintegrated into open rebellion.
Grace had spent every minute since fretting over one thing or another. She kicked, squirmed, argued, and complained, and when that failed to relieve her hurt feelings, she wailed. In short, Grace was furious with both of them, and she threw her whole heart into making Juliana and Logan aware of her displeasure.
By the time the coach pulled into the inn yard at the Sassy Lassie, Juliana was so miserable she nearly leapt from the carriage before it stopped moving. Dusk had set in by then, but it wasn’t yet the dinner hour. The crowd was thin, but a handful of people were about, most of them locals who’d come for a pint of Fergus’s special dark ale and a game of chess or darts.
The first person Juliana saw when she entered the inn was Fergus McLaren, holding court behind the bar. The second was his daughter Alison, who was serving pints of ale and flirting with the customers.
Juliana’s mood darkened even further, especially when the beautiful raven-haired girl rushed over to greet Logan, her red lips curled in an inviting smile. “Logan! Ye’re back from England already? We didn’t expect to see ye this age.”
Juliana stiffened when Logan stopped to greet Alison, but she didn’t have the energy to fall into a temper over it. So, she simply turned her back on them, took Grace’s hand, and led her over to a small table in the corner.
Fergus came out from behind the bar, but to Juliana’s surprise he paused only for a moment to slap Logan’s back before he made his way over to her and Grace. “Well, Lady Juliana Bernard. Here ye are again. Who’s this pretty wee lassie with ye?”
Juliana managed a wan smile. “This is my niece, Miss Grace Bernard. Grace, this is Mr. McLaren. He’s a friend of Mr. Logan’s.”
“How do you do?” Grace gave Fergus a shy smile.
Fergus grinned down at her. “Ye don’t look much like yer auntie, little lass. With that dark hair, I’d say ye’ve a bit of the Scottish in ye.”
“I look like my mama,” Grace offered uncertainly. “Was my mama Scottish, Aunt Juliana?”
“No. Both your mama and papa were English, but Mr. McLaren is right. Many Scots have lovely dark hair, just like yours.”
Logan, for one. Alison McLaren, for another. If Juliana and Grace hadn’t been sitting right here, perhaps they’d be running their fingers through each other’s lovely Scottish hair even now.
Juliana blew out a breath. She was being ridiculous, of course, but the anger that had been simmering inside her for days was suddenly threatening to boil over. Perhaps she’d only been waiting for an excuse to indulge it.
Alison McLaren had just given her one.
It was much easier to be angry at Logan for flirting with Alison than for the real reason. Not fair, perhaps, especially since Logan wasn’t flirting with the girl at all, but after days of holding her tongue, Juliana no longer cared about being fair. If Logan could pretend to be angry about one thing when he was really angry about another, then so could she.
