Chapter 1
The carriage wheels groaned as they rolled to a stop, the sound echoing through the misty Scottish hills. Cressida Cowper peered out of the window, her lips pressed into a thin line of distaste. Ballinbrae Manor looked before her, a hulking stone edifice that seemed to absorb what little warmth the weak sunlight offered.
With a resigned sigh, she stepped out of the carriage, her silk slippers immediately sinking into the muddy earth. She grimaced, lifting her skirts higher as she picked her way towards the entrance, where her aunt stood waiting.
"Welcome to Ballinbrae, my dear," Aunt Joanna said, her voice crisp and cool as the Highland air. "I trust your journey was…enlightening?"
Cressida forced a smile, though it felt more like a grimace. "Quite," she replied, voice clipped. The journey had been anything but enlightening—it had been an exercise in misery, each mile taking her further from the glittering ballrooms of Mayfair and closer to this…wasteland.
As she followed her aunt into the manor, Cressida's eyes darted about, taking in the faded tapestries and dusty portraits that adorned the walls. The air inside was thick with the scent of must and lavender, making her wrinkle her nose in distaste.
"Your room is upstairs, second door on the right," Aunt Joanna informed her, gesturing towards a narrow staircase. "I expect you'll want to rest after your journey. We dine at seven sharp."
With that, her aunt turned on her heel and marched away, leaving Cressida alone in the cavernous entryway. She trudged up the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last, until she reached her designated chamber.
The room was sparse, with only a narrow bed, a weathered writing desk, and a small wardrobe. A single window looked out over the rolling hills, dotted with grazing sheep that looked like little more than moving specks of wool against the green.
Cressida sank onto the bed, wincing as the mattress creaked beneath her weight. She closed her eyes, willing herself to wake up from this nightmare. But when she opened them again, she was still there, trapped in this dreary Scottish prison.
How had it come to this? Just weeks ago, she had been the toast of London society, reveling in the attention that came with her false claim of being the mysterious Lady Whistledown. It had seemed like such a clever plan at the time—a way to escape the arranged marriage to Lord Greer, a man old enough to be her grandfather and with a temperament to match his advanced years.
But her ruse had unraveled spectacularly, leaving her reputation in tatters and her family scrambling to salvage what little social standing they had left. And so, here she was, exiled to the furthest reaches of Scotland until the scandal died down.
A knock at the door startled her from her brooding. "Miss Cowper?" a maid's voice called. "I've brought your new wardrobe, as per your aunt's instructions."
Cressida opened the door, her heart sinking as she took in the pile of drab, shapeless dresses in the maid's arms. Gone were the vibrant silks and delicate laces she was accustomed to. In their place were garments that looked better suited to a nun than a young lady of fashion.
"And your aunt wishees me to help you with your hair," the maid added, producing a handful of plain pins from her apron pocket.
An hour later, Cressida stood before the small mirror above her desk, barely recognizing the girl who stared back at her. Her golden curls, once the envy of every debutante in London, were now pulled back into a severe bun that made her scalp ache. The high-necked, slate-gray dress she wore made her feel as if she were being slowly strangled.
As the days crawled by, Cressida found herself sinking deeper into melancholy. She was expected to rise early, assist with household chores, and spend her afternoons engaged in "improving activities" such as needlework and reading dry historical tomes. The highlight of her day became the few precious moments she could steal away to gaze out her bedroom window, watching the comings and goings of the farm hands as they tended to the sheep.
It was during one of these stolen moments that she first saw him. A young man, tall and broad-shouldered, striding across the field with an easy grace that belied his strength. His dark hair curled at the nape of his neck, and even from a distance, she could see the way his eyes crinkled at the corners as he laughed at something one of the other workers said.
Cressida found herself leaning closer to the window, her breath fogging the glass as she strained to get a better look. For the first time since her arrival, she felt a flicker of interest, a spark of something that broke through the monotony of her days.
As she watched him work, expertly guiding the sheep with gentle commands and deft movements, she couldn't help but compare him to the foppish young men she had known in London. There was something undeniably appealing about his quiet confidence, the way he moved with purpose and surety.
A common in the field drew her attention. One of the ewes had wandered away from the flock, its wooly form barely visible in the gathering mist. Without hesitation, the young farmer set off after it, disappearing into the fog.
Cressida found herself holding her breath, an irrational worry gnawing at her. What if he got lost out there? What if—
Her thoughts were interrupted by a triumphant shout. The mist parted, revealing the farmer striding back towards the flock, the wayward ewe cradled in his arms. As he gently set the animal down, Cressida felt an odd tightness in her chest.
For the first time, she found herself curious about life beyond the manor walls. What was it like to be so in tune with the land and the creatures that inhabited it? It was a world so far removed from the gossip and intrigue of London society that it might as well have been on another planet.
As she turned away from the window, her eyes fell on the stack of dull books her aunt had provided for her "edification." Among them, barely noticed until now, was a slim volume on Scottish folklore and legends.
With a small smile, Cressida picked up the book and settled on to her bed. Perhaps, she thought, there might be more to learn about this place than she had initially believed. And if her newfound interest happened to provide an excuse to venture out onto the grounds, well…that was merely a happy coincidence.
The following afternoon found Cressida hurrying beyond the manor's manicured gardens, the tattered book of Scottish folklore clutched to her chest. She had stumbled upon a passage about rowan trees and their supposed magical properties—protection against witchcraft and evil spirits, if the tome was to be believed. It wasn't much, but it was enough of an excuse to escape the stifling confines of Ballinbrae.
As she picked her way across the uneven ground, her practical boots (a concession to the muddy terrain) sinking into the damp earth, cressida found herself scanning the horizon. The rolling hills were dotted with clusters of trees, but none that she could definitely identify as rowan. Her limited botanical knowledge was failing her spectacularly.
Just as she was about to admit defeat and return to the manor, a flash of white caught her eyes. In the distance, beneath the sprawling branches of an enormous oak tree, hung a simple rope swing. Cressida frowned, puzzled. It seemed entirely out of place—her austere Aunt Joanna would never condone such a frivolous addition to the property.
Intrigued despite herself, Cressida made her way towards the tree. As she drew closer, she could see that the swing was well-worn, the rope frayed in places but still sturdy. Without really meaning to, she found herself settling on to the wooden seat, her fingers curling around the rough hemp.
For a moment, she simply sat there, feeling foolish. Then, tentatively, she pushed off with her toes, allowing herself to sway gently back and forth. The motion was soothing, reminiscent of lazy summer afternoons in London parks, before everything had gone so terribly wrong.
Lost in thought, Cressida didn't notice the subtle rustling of leaves above her. It was until a voice rang out—"I wouldn't go much higher if I were you, miss"—that she realized she wasn't alone.
With a startled yelp, Cressida tumbled from the swing, landing in an undignified heap on the damp grass. She looked up, heart pounding, to see a familiar figure dropping gracefully from the lowest branches of the oak.
It was him—the farmer she had observed from her window. Up close, she could see that his eyes were a startling shade of green, crinkled at the corners with barely suppressed amusement.
"My apologies," he said, offering her a hand. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
Cressida ignored his outstretched palm, scrambling to her feet with as much dignity as she could muster. She brushed ineffectually at the grass stains on her skirt, her cheeks burning with embarrassment.
"You didn't frighten me," she snapped, tossing her head in a way that would have been much more impressive if her hair wasn't bound in its severe bun. "I was merely…startled. It's not every day one encounters a man lurking in trees like some sort of…of…"
"Squirrel?" he supplied helpfully, his lips twitching.
Cressida glared at him. "I was going to say brigand, but if you prefer to compare yourself to rodents, far be it from me to stop you."
To her annoyance, he laughed—a rich, warm sound that seemed to reverberate through the air around them. "Rodent, brigand, or humble farmer, I'm Alasdair MacLeod," he said, executing an exaggerated bow. "And you must be Miss Cowper. Your arrival has been the talk of the village for weeks."
"Charmed, I'm sure," Cressida replied icily, though a small part of her preened at the idea of being discussed, even in this backwater. "Tell me, Mr. MacLeod, do you make a habit of spying on unsuspecting young ladies?"
Alasdair's grin widened. "Only the ones who look as if they're searching for something," he said, nodding towards the book she had dropped in her tumble. He bent to retrieve it, brushing off a few blades of grass before handing it back to her. "Scottish Myths and Legends," he read from the cover. "Heavy reading for such a fine day."
Cressida snatched the book from his hands, clutching it to her chest like a shield. "I'll have you know that I am conducting important research," she said loftily. "Not that I'd expect someone like you to understand the value of academic pursuits."
Instead of being offended, Alasdair merely raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what exactly are you researching, Miss Cowper? How to charm the faeries? Or perhaps you're looking to brew a love potion?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Cressida scoffed, though she felt a traitorous blush creeping up her neck. "I was looking for information on rowan trees, if you must know. They're supposed to have protective properties."
"Ah, protection against witches and evil spirits," Alasdair nodded sagely. At Cressida's surprised look, he shrugged. "My grandmother was a great believer in the old ways. She taught me all about the rowan's magic."
Despite herself, Cressida felt a flicker of interest. "And do you believe in such things, Mr. MacLeod?"
Alasdair's expression turned thoughtful. "I believe there's more to this world than what we can see or touch," he said slowly. "Whether you call it magic or faith or simply the mysteries of nature…well, that's for each person to decide for themselves."
There was something in his tone, a quiet conviction, that made Cressida pause. It was so at odds with the superficial chatter she was used to in London society.
"In any case," Alasdair continued, his easy smile returning, "if it's rowan trees you're after, you're looking at the wrong place. There's a whole grove of them just over that rise." He pointed towards a gentle slope to their left.
Cressida bit her lip, torn between her desire to maintain her aloof demeanor and her genuine curiosity. "I don't suppose…" she began hesitantly, "that is, would you be willing to show me?"
Alasdair's eyes sparkled with something that might have been triumph. "It would be my pleasure, Miss Cowper," he said, offering her his arm with exaggerated gallantry. "Though I should warn you—the path can be a bit treacherous. You might want to hold on tight."
Cressida knew she should refuse, should turn on her heel and march straight back to the manor. Instead, she found herself placing her hand in the crook of his elbow, her fingers curling around the rough fabric of his shirt.
"Lead on, Mr. MacLeod," she said, lifting her chin. "But I'll have you know, I'm not some delicate flower. I'm perfectly capable of navigating a bit of uneven ground."
Alasdair chuckled, patting her hand where it rested on his arm. "I don't doubt it for a moment," he said. "Though I must say, you look far more suited to ballrooms than brambles."
Cressida felt her cheeks warm at his words. "I'll have you know I'm quite adaptable," she retorted, though there was less bit in her tone than before. "I've already mastered the art of avoiding cowpats, which I assure you is far more challenging than any quadrille."
Alasdair laughed, a rich sound that seemed to resonate through the hills. "A valuable skill indeed. Perhaps you'll be ready for sheep shearing by midsummer."
"I think not," Cressida sniffed, though her lips twitched with a hint of a smile. "I draw the line at manual labor."
As they set off towards the rowan grove, Cressida found herself relaxing despite her best efforts to remain aloof. There was something about Alasdair's easy manner that put her at ease, making her forget, if only for a moment, the scandal and shame that had driven her to this remote corner of Scotland.
They crested the hill and saw a grove of slender trees, their leaves rustling gently in the breeze. Cressida's eyes widened as she took in the delicate white flowers and clusters of bright red berries.
"The rowan trees," she breathed, her earlier haughtiness forgotten in the face of genuine wonder.
Alasdair nodded, his expression softening as he watched her. "Aye, beautiful, aren't they? The Gaelic name is 'caorunn'—it means 'the delight of the eye'."
Cressida found herself nodding in agreement. There was something almost ethereal about the grove, as if it existed in a world apart from the rest of the rugged Scottish landscape.
"Your book mentioned their protective properties," Alasdair continued, guiding her closer to the trees. "But did it tell you about their other uses? The berries can be made into a tart jelly, and the wood is prized for carving. It is said to bring luck to the home."
Cressida shook her head, oddly disappointed tha ther book had left out such interesting details. "I had no idea," she admitted. "I suppose there's more to learn about this place than I thought."
Alasdair's green eyes sparkled with amusement. "Careful, Miss Cowper. You're in danger of sounding like you might actually enjoy your time here."
She rolled her eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind the gesture. "Let's not get carried away, Mr. MacLeod. I'm merely…expanding my horizons."
"A noble pursuit," he replied solemnly, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "And what other horizons do you plan to expand while you're hear? Sheep herding? Haggis making?"
Cressida wrinkled her nose. "Good heavens, no. I think I'll stick to less…pungent pursuits, thank you very much."
"A pity,"Alasdair sighed dramatically. "I was so looking forward to seeing you in a léine."
The mental image his words conjured made Cressida laugh despite herself—a genuine, unguarded sound that surprised them both. For a moment, she was not a former socialite. Here, surrounded by the quiet beauty of the rowan grove, with the wind in her hair and the warmth of Alasdair's arm beneath her hand, she felt…free.
The realization was thrilling as it was terrifying.
Clearing her throat, Cressida took a step back, suddenly aware of how close they were standing. "Well, Mr. MacLeod, I thank you for the impromptu botany lesson. I should probably be getting back to the manor before my aunt sends out a search party."
Alasdair nodded, a flicker of something—disappointment?—crossing his face before his easy smile returned. "Of course. Though if you're interested in learning more, I'd be happy to show you around the estate. There's a lot more to see than just sheep and cowpats, I promise."
Cressida hesitated, torn between her instinct to retreat behind the walls of propriety and the undeniable pull of curiosity—and perhaps something more—that Alasdair stirred in her.
"I…I'll think about it," she said finally, smoothening nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt.
"That's all I ask," Alasdair replied, his tone gentle. He reached out, plucking a small sprig of rowan berries from a nearby branch and presented it to her. "For protection," he explained with a wink. "Against witches, evil spirits, and dull afternoons."
Cressida accepted the offering, her fingers brushing against his for the briefest of moments. The contact sent a jolt through her, as sudden and unexpected as summer lightning.
"Thank you," she murmured, tucking the sprig carefully into the pocket of her skirt.
As she made her way back towards Ballinbrae Manor, Cressida found her steps lighter than they had been in weeks. The rowan sprig seemed to burn against her palm, deep in her pocket, a tangible reminder of an afternoon that had been anything but dull or ordinary.
Cressida felt a spark of something like anticipation, a new, almost foreign feeling.