A Forbidden Liaison with Miss Grant Read online

  Smiling at the memory, Constance’s mood lifted a fraction. Pearl had given her a haven and Paul had breathed life back into her, giving her a purpose. For the last four years, she’d worked tirelessly alongside him, determined to convert hearts and minds to their cause, desperate to speak out on behalf of those diminishing numbers left in the Highlands who had no voice of their own to air their grievances. She’d been convinced that her voice would help turn the tide of public opinion, for if only people knew what was happening, they must surely call for it to end.

  But the Clearances had not ended. Far from it. Progress in the name of sheep farming was spreading inexorably through the Highlands and as a result, Paul was beginning to lose heart. Though his passion for their cause burned as brightly as ever, they had been shouting into a void for too long, he had insisted yesterday. Perhaps it was time to admit defeat. Constance had protested passionately, begging him not to give up, but something of his resigned acceptance had wormed its way into her mind overnight. Was she wasting her time? Had this crusade lost its purpose, leaving her in limbo, unable to give up on it, yet failing to make any headway? Six years she’d lived in Edinburgh, lost for most of the first two, pouring her heart and soul into her work for the last four, and all to no avail.

  She had sacrificed so much. Had it all been in vain? Six years was a big chunk of a life to be rootless and homeless, expending her time on a cause few cared about. What the so-called elite promoted as the tide of progress was proving impossible to turn. The old ways were being destroyed. Soon there would be no indigenous people left in the Highlands. The sheep would reign imperiously, unopposed.

  And she would be forty next week. Forty, and what did she have to show for it? The only kin she had ever known were buried at Clachan Bridge. What hopes she’d had for a family of her own had died there too, crushed at the hands of a man who had put his ambition before her. The nature of the work she did now forced her to keep her own counsel. Save for Pearl and Paul, she had no friends, and no confidant.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake, what was wrong with her? The day stretched out before her, and here she was indulging in a fit of the blues, rather than enjoying it. Her life might be uneventful, but it was still a life, and a damned sight more comfortable a life, she was willing to bet, than most of the others who’d left Clachan Bridge enjoyed. A life that was for living, not frittering away.

  As she began to walk along the sea wall, past the shuttered fish market and on to the entrance to the harbour, Constance made a determined effort to shake off her sombre mood, but for the first time in her life, she had the horrible feeling that time was inexorably ticking away.

  Age was just a number, she reminded herself firmly. She would wake on the morning of her birthday no different from the woman who had gone to bed the night before. Which was, it dawned on her, precisely the point! She didn’t want to dwindle slowly into middle age. She wanted to recapture the sparkle she’d once had, to wake up wondering what the day had in store for her, to look forward to it, rather than simply endure it. She wanted to make each day stand out, not blur one into the other in sepia tones. She wanted colour.

  Finally, Constance’s mood rallied. She had sacrificed too much to give up now. If the King came to Edinburgh, as seemed now to be extremely likely, then the eyes of the world would be on the city. It would be the perfect opportunity to make a song and dance that surely could not be ignored. Scotland’s aristocracy would flock to the city proudly sporting their clan colours, while the true Highlanders were being banished from their lands. No one could fail to see the hypocrisy of it. This visit could well be the catalyst for true change. One last chance to make people listen, to put an end to injustice. Now was not the time to be defeatist. If she must turn forty—forty!—then she would make it a turning point, a day to launch herself full-tilt at the future, rather than hide her head under her pillow and wish it over. She would persuade Paul not to give up. She would throw herself into making the most of the golden opportunity the royal visit presented.

  Smiling, her mood finally fit for the day, Constance decided to give herself a respite for the rest of it, from worrying about the future. She had reached the furthermost point of the harbour wall, where the incoming tide was already lapping at the entrance to the harbour. Constance closed her eyes and tilted her face up, giving herself over to the simple pleasure of the sun on her face.

  * * *

  Grayson Maddox surveyed the area of Leith docks known locally as The Shore, located within the protective wall that curved around the entrance to the harbour. Assuming that King George did come to Edinburgh, this was where he would probably land. The visit had yet to be officially confirmed, but Grayson knew, from his own sources, that His Majesty’s yacht was being made ready at Greenwich. Until the Royal George set sail, nothing was certain, he’d reminded Shona and Neil, but they’d been beside themselves with excitement. A visit to the capital city in the height of summer, to vie with thousands of others for a fleeting glimpse of a monarch Grayson had no time for was not his idea of fun, but his children saw the matter very differently, and it was a rare thing these days, for him to be able to please their increasingly sophisticated palates. He’d been sceptical, truth be told, when they begged him to make the trip to Edinburgh in order to secure accommodation in advance, but the thought of a few days purely to himself had been vastly appealing. So he’d journeyed east, arriving yesterday, astounded to find that his children had been in the right of it, for the city was already swollen with visitors, the atmosphere of excited anticipation almost tangible.

  Despite the fact that he’d decided to take a break from work and had no intentions of heading down to Leith when he set out for a walk this morning, Grayson had inevitably been drawn to the waterfront where, despite the workaday bustle, a soothing calm prevailed. He tried to picture the place filled with cheering crowds ready to welcome the King. He imagined a band playing a rousing march stationed by the Martello Tower which marked the entrance to the pier. The drawbridge would have to be raised so that the barge which would ferry the monarch from his yacht could enter the inner harbour. Grayson’s shoulders shook with laughter as he imagined the King, portly and red of face, dressed in one of his selection of garish ceremonial uniforms—an admiral, perhaps—clambering up from the barge, sweating and wheezing. They’d probably need a block and tackle from one of the nearby wharfs to hoist him on to the jetty, like a fishing boat landing a monster cod.

  Smiling to himself, he felt the tension he hadn’t even been aware of begin to ease from his shoulders. Much as he loved his children they were, contrary to his expectations, becoming more rather than less of a worry as they got older. And his precious shipyard too—it wasn’t a concern as such, for it was doing extremely well, but the fact remained that his business absorbed every moment that his offspring did not. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had even half a day to himself.

  What to do with the time? The question flummoxed him. He should probably return to the city and start on the task which had brought him here, seeking out a suitable hotel, but that held little appeal. So what then, did he want? Not a question anyone, himself included, had been interested in for a very long time. For heaven’s sake, he was more than a father and a shipbuilder, wasn’t he? The honest answer was, not any more. He had been a husband once, but tragedy, then the day-to-day business of simply getting by, and of seeing that those nearest and dearest to him did more than that, had taken its toll. He’d never seen it as a sacrifice. He wasn’t exactly a slave to his weans and his workers, for he’d chosen to take on a duty of care for both, and fought bloody hard in the case of Shona and Neil to shoulder the burden of their upbringing himself. Not that they were a burden, but...

  But it was good, it was damned good to be here by himself for a bit, Grayson acknowledged ruefully. He was past the age of kicking over the traces, but that was what he’d like to do. Forget the world. Do something daft. Something that would shock th
e living daylights out of those who knew him. Something that would divert him from the path other people expected him to tread, if only for a wee while.

  What though? Puzzling over this, he made his way across the bridge, meandering through the docks and quays that linked Leith and Newhaven, his practised eye unable to resist assessing the boats berthed there. Heading for the vantage point at the end of the harbour wall, his eyes drawn to the view it commanded out over the Firth of Forth to the flat coastland of Fife which seemed no more than a stone’s throw away, he didn’t see the woman standing in the shadow until it was too late to retreat gracefully.

  She was tall but slight, dressed plainly in a grey gown, a dark blue shawl and a straw poke bonnet. She could be any age between thirty and his own early forties. Shona would doubtless say her garb was outmoded, but he thought she had an elegance in the way she carried herself and an air of confident aloofness that intrigued him. ‘I beg your pardon, madam, I didn’t mean to intrude.’

  ‘It is a public jetty, sir, I cannot lay claim to it.’

  She looked up and met his eyes, and Grayson felt a jolt of something like recognition. Yet they had never met, he was sure of it. Her voice was low, with the distinctive soft lilt of the Highlands. Her skin was clear, pale with a dusting of freckles across her nose and her brow. She had ordinary brown hair, unremarkable features save for her eyes, which were almond-shaped and green. He would have remembered her if he’d met her before and besides, it wasn’t familiarity he was feeling but something far more visceral.

  Her smile faltered. ‘Do I know you?’

  He dragged his eyes from her face, shaking his head. She’d be utterly appalled if she knew the effect she was having on him. He was appalled himself. Mostly. ‘The light today is so bright,’ Grayson said, ‘I am convinced I can see all the way to Stirling.’

  ‘Dunfermline anyway, I will grant you,’ she answered.

  ‘I’ve never been here before.’ He stood beside her, his eyes on the Fife coastline, acutely aware of her at his side. Desire was a rare and rarely persistent visitor in his life, easily quashed or sated if the circumstances allowed. This was something very different. ‘I didn’t intend to end up in Leith, when I set out,’ Grayson said, risking a glance in her direction.

  ‘I did not have Newhaven in mind either.’

  She met his eyes only briefly, but he felt it again. A physical jolt of awareness. Like drawn to like. Did she feel it too? ‘I only arrived in Edinburgh yesterday,’ he said. ‘I’m from Glasgow.’

  He was granted another smile, and this time she didn’t look away. ‘I gathered as much from your accent. What brings you to Edinburgh, Mr...?’

  ‘Maddox. Grayson Maddox.’ He held out his hand, and she took it. Unlike him, she was wearing gloves, but his fingers tingled at the contact all the same. ‘How do you do, Mrs...?’

  ‘Grant. Constance Grant. And it’s Miss.’

  Miss! Daft of him to be so ridiculously pleased by the fact she wasn’t married, and preposterous to imagine it mattered one way or the other. But it did matter, because if she was married then what he was feeling, looking into her eyes and holding her hand, was inappropriate. But if she wasn’t married, the fact that Miss Constance Grant looked as if she was feeling it too was...

  Ah, but that was wishful thinking on his part. And he was still holding her hand. ‘I’m in Edinburgh to make arrangements for the King’s visit,’ Grayson said, letting her go. ‘I mean, I’m not personally interested if I’m honest, but Shona and Neil are, and they’ve been on at me to make sure we secure somewhere decent to stay, and though I thought there was no rush, it turns out they were right and I was wrong, and—and so that’s why I’m here. In Edinburgh, I mean. I didn’t plan to come to Leith, but the docks—I build ships, you see. Maddox Shipyards on the Clyde, though why you should—and why I am—’ He broke off, realising he was babbling. ‘You did ask.’

  ‘I did. Shona and Neil, they are your children, I take it?’

  ‘Aye.’ He was surely mistaken in taking that look for disappointment. ‘Their mother, my wife, she died some time ago.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Indeed, and so am I. I never planned on being a widower, or having to raise two motherless children. But we can’t always have what we want, can we? It was eight years ago, and now I’ve been single almost as long as I was married. Pardon me, Miss Grant, I haven’t the faintest idea why I’m telling you all this.’

  He had certainly shattered the mood, for she was looking at him quite differently now. Perhaps it was as well. ‘I’ll leave you to enjoy the view,’ he said, regretfully.

  ‘No. Don’t go.’ She put her hand on his arm to stay him, surprising them both. ‘I myself moved to Edinburgh six years ago. Until then, I was a teacher in a school in the Highlands. I had planned to marry, to settle there, but the laird cleared the lands for sheep. You can’t teach in an empty school, and as it turned out, I couldn’t marry either because—it doesn’t matter why.’ Surprised at herself, she withdrew her hand, looking down at the water, which was rolling in through the harbour opening. ‘What I’m trying to say, Mr Maddox, is that I understand what you mean when you say we can’t always have what we want.’

  ‘That is obvious, though I have to say not many people would have been so frank.’

  ‘Nor would I be, normally. I’m not in the habit of talking to strangers, you know. Or to talk in such a personal vein at all, God’s honest truth. You’ve caught me in a very strange mood.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I have a birthday next week, one of those ones that are momentous, though they shouldn’t be, and I find myself wanting to rail against it by doing something a bit daft, you know, throw over the traces?’

  Grayson laughed. ‘Would you believe me if I told you that I’d been thinking the very same thing a wee minute ago?’

  ‘You have a significant birthday looming too?’

  ‘No, though I suppose I was thinking how fast the years had been flying past and how precious little of the time I’d had to myself. Mind you, now I have the time to myself,’ he added with a wry smile, ‘I’m struggling to decide what I want to do with it. Maybe the fates decided what I needed was you.’

  She gave a little huff of laughter. ‘And in turn, they decided that what I needed at this moment was to meet you?’

  Grayson smiled. ‘Maybe they did.’

  ‘You don’t look to me like a man who believes in letting the fates dictate his life.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not. I’m a man at an unexpected loose end, wanting something novel from the day.’ It was back again. A connection. Not recognition exactly, not so simple as desire, though that was part of it. And she felt it too, he was sure of it. He decided to stop wondering where it might lead and simply enjoy it. ‘So here you are, at a loose end too, wishing for a change. It must be the fates who decided to match us up, don’t you think, for what else are we to make of the fact that I didn’t intend to walk to Leith and you didn’t intend to walk to Newhaven—assuming you did walk?’

  ‘I did.’ She smiled. Bloody hell, but she had a lovely smile. ‘I walked all the way from the New Town.’

  ‘In this heat! You must be thirsty, I reckon. Maybe even hungry?’

  ‘Do you know, Mr Maddox, I think you may be right. About the fates intervening, I mean, though I am hungry.’

  ‘So if I asked you, Miss Grant, to take a bite to eat with me and honour me with a little more of your company, you wouldn’t take it amiss?’

  ‘I would not. Though if you can find somewhere in Newhaven that serves anything other than navy rum to fishermen, I shall be seriously impressed.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘Wait here, I’ll go and see what they can rustle up for us.’

  Grayson Maddox disappeared into the tavern, and Constance took a seat on the bench outside. She’d thought at first she
was imagining it, the hint of interest in his eyes, but she was sure now that she was not. She reckoned he must be in his early forties, not too much older than herself. He was tall, a good head above her, and leanly built, though not scrawny. Rangy, that was the word. He had the look of a man who spent his life outdoors. Maddox Shipyards, he’d said, though she didn’t think he actually built the ships. His clothes were not those of a labourer. The coat and waistcoat were plain, but the cloth was fine wool, and his boots were soft leather, the sort that only a man who did not have to mind about wearing them out or getting them dirty and scratched would buy. His linen too was pristine, and his watch fob was gold.

  A well-to-do man, though not born to money, not with that accent. He wore neither hat nor gloves. Not a man who aspired to be labelled a gentleman, then. She liked that. She liked the way he looked too. A strong-featured face, the deep-set grey-blue eyes crinkled at the corners, framed by dark lashes. His hair was black, streaked with grey at the temples, cut far too short to be fashionable. A practical style, like the practical tailoring of his clothes. What on earth did a man like him see in a woman like her? If any other stranger had tried to strike up a conversation with her on the harbour wall on any other day, she’d have spurned him. Maybe the fates had indeed intervened to bring two kindred spirits together, in which case it would be unwise of her not to follow their lead.

  ‘Bread, cheese and coffee.’ Mr Maddox returned, bearing a tray which he set down on the bench between them before taking a seat.

  His accent had a rough edge to it that he made no attempt to disguise. Not harsh, but soft, a low growl that Constance found distractingly arousing. ‘What happened to the tot of rum?’ she asked.

  He thumped his forehead. ‘What an eejit I am, I totally forgot to order some.’