He would have to figure it out. Surprisingly, the sun was peeking out from behind the ever-present clouds, and he let the water bead up and dry on his skin before dressing in the clean, rough clothes he’d brought with him—breeches and a loose shirt, plus a long waistcoat to keep out the chill. It was a relief not to have to deal with all the fussiness of fashionable clothing—the cravats and tight-fitting coats, the fancy shoes and ridiculous trousers that would rip the moment he went into the woods. He’d learned to get used to them to them—after all, he’d spent most of his life in London and the family estates in the south. At eighteen he’d been a regular dandy.
He’d do whatever was needed. Whether he liked it or not, he wasn’t going to spend any more time here than necessary. Noonan was infinitely capable of taking care of things, for all he liked to pretend he was a simple Irish peasant, and he was proving surprisingly amenable to the notion of staying behind. Brandon knew he could leave with a clear mind and conscience.
Noonan was older than he looked, and their breakneck pace of the last week must have taken its toll. Perhaps he was finally learning to accept the inevitable limitations age demanded.
“You’re looking all bright and shiny,” Noonan observed sourly. There was still no coffee, much to Brandon’s sorrow, but there were bannocks on the kitchen dresser that looked fresh, and he picked one up, biting into it with pleasure.
“I’m going back,” he announced. “Today.”
“Are ye, now?”
He’d expected a more dramatic reaction from the old man, but Noonan continued as he was, puffing on an evil-looking meerschaum pipe.
“And you’re staying behind. I need someone to keep an eye on things, make certain the tenants are doing well, check the land, see to Tammas if he ever returns. He’s a good dog but he’s too much of a burden for the Wallaces to take on.”
“The dog’s no burden—he earns his keep,” Noonan said, mildly outraged. “And he’ll turn up, I promise you. He’s your devoted slave—an Irish dog would be more discerning.” Noonan was taking this all too casually—something was up.
Brandon narrowed his eyes. “You’re not coming with me.”
“So you said,” Noonan replied, unruffled.
Was the man sick? Noonan never gave up without a fight. “It would be too much for you,” Brandon added deliberately, waiting for the explosion.
“That it might be,” Noonan said amiably.
Brandon slammed his fists on the table. “That’s it—you’re dying! Why didn’t you tell me?”.
Noonan’s look of withering disdain was a small reassurance. “Don’t be daft! What turned you into such a girl all of a sudden? Did that strumpet cut off your bollocks after all? She’s got the skills.” He glowered at Brandon. “Go on and hit me then. I can tell you want to, and I’m not some frail old man . . . oof.”
Brandon pulled his punch, letting out just enough of his frustration to convince Noonan. “Call her one more name and I’ll hold you down while she practices her cutting skills on you.”
Noonan let out a rusty chuckle, a truly bizarre occurrence. Noonan never laughed. “Before you go off on your grand adventure you ought to hike down to the big house. Ballykeep’s been lying empty for a long time, and if you’re off to find your str. . . your true love,” he corrected himself with a mock flourish, “then you’d best to see to your duties first.”
“I leave that up to you.”
Noonan snorted. “Happen I went for a walk last night while you were sleeping. Someone’s definitely been in the house.”
“See to it,” Brandon said briefly. “You’re my steward when I’m gone.”
“You’re not gone yet. Besides, I thought I saw yon Tammas down there. If you don’t get him he’ll go off looking for you and you’ll never see him again.”
Brandon hesitated. It was still early—he could reach Ayrshire if he left immediately.
But Ballykeep was more than a responsibility—he loved the old place, every mottled stone, every dirt-streaked window. Nor could he simply walk away from Tammas. When he’d first taken the tiny pup home with him he’d made a promise, not to the tenant farmer who’d bred him, but to the spaniel. He was no longer the man who ignored his responsibilities, he reminded himself. One day wasn’t going to make any difference in how fast he was going to find Emma.
“I’ll leave tomorrow.” He reached for another bannock, then took two. “Where did these come from? They’re certainly not from your miserable cooking.”
Noonan didn’t take offense. “Same place as the clean sheets and the flowers came from.”
“And where would that be?” he demanded.
“Go find your damned dog.”
The estate of Ballykeep had more than a thousand acres of well-kept tenant farms, for very little had been turned over to the sheep as had been on other estates in Scotland—a move that was profitable for the landowners and so devastating to the crofters and tenant farmers. For all their generations of notorious fecklessness, the Rohans had managed to amass a fairly staggering amount of land and capital, with large estates in Ireland, France, Italy and South America as well as the properties in Scotland and England. Ballykeep was neither the largest nor the most impressive, but he loved it, and his father had given it to him on his twenty-first birthday.
The road from the gamekeeper’s cottage was a long, gently sloping drive that led to an impressive first view of the main house. He didn’t need to see Ballykeep that way—he knew it in his heart, and instead he took the well-trodden path through the forest, calling for Tammas as he went. His frantic heart had calmed now that he had a plan. He would leave, and he would find her. It was that simple—no other outcome was imaginable. Leaving here again, so soon after he’d returned, would kill him, but he would do it for her. He’d do anything for her.
He crested the rise overlooking the house, and for a shocked moment he was dazzled. The sun, which