Rory didn’t immediately follow. Ned White knew him better than any other soul on earth. Better than the family in Edinburgh he’d left at eleven and had rarely seen since. So while he’d dearly love to dismiss the fellow’s ramblings as sentimental claptrap, somewhere deep in his soul, they struck true.
Instead of joining his tenants, he stood staring broodingly at Bess who continued to pass out instructions. Her blithe disregard for his presence rankled. And the fact that it rankled rankled even worse.
***
The day sped by in a welter of physical activity that reminded Rory of his days in the lower ranks, toiling like a slave on a warship. Of course, he could retreat to his library and let them get on with it, but where was the fun in that?
He only snatched rare seconds alone with Bess, but he had the privilege of observing her in action. By heaven, she was a fascinating creature. He could happily watch her all day.
If the wind set fair, he’d watch her for the rest of his life.
He didn’t realize other people had remarked his interest in the vicar’s bonnie daughter until he found himself in the library with the black-clad cove he’d noticed earlier. However the house ended up, Rory appreciated this chance to get to know his tenants. Obadiah Simpson was a retired doctor who had traveled the length o
f the country. A man of unusual sophistication for this backwater.
“She’s a fine lass, Miss Bess,” the old man said, stacking leather-bound volumes on the newly dusted shelves. Rory had just brought in another box of books from the barns.
“She is,” he said, curious where Simpson went with this. Casually he brushed cobwebs and dust off his sleeves. He’d thought the house was dirty, until he started grubbing around in the outbuildings.
“She’s very well liked in the village.”
Rory had seen that for himself. “Are you trying to warn me off, Dr. Simpson?”
The old man turned, a book clutched in his veined hand. “Not at all. I’m merely making conversation.”
“Like hell you are.”
“Well, perhaps not entirely.” He fastened piercing gray eyes on Rory. “Are you of a mind to woo the jewel of our small community?”
“That would be a rash decision when I only met the lassie yesterday.”
Simpson eyed him steadily. “You strike me as a fellow who makes up his mind without dillydallying.”
Simpson had that right. “I don’t even know if Miss Farrar likes me.”
“She does.”
The gratification that flooded Rory made him feel like a schoolboy mooning after a pretty girl. “Are you matchmaking?”
Simpson’s smile was knowing. “I doubt I need to exert myself much to put you two together.”
“We’ve hardly spoken all day,” Rory protested.
It was regrettably true. He’d imagined that with Bess under his roof, opportunities for dalliance would abound. He hadn’t counted on the crowds swarming through the house or Bess’s diligent attention to duty. She was too busy organizing cleaning and repairs and the placement of furniture to flirt.
“But you’ve looked.” Simpson paused. “So has she.”
“That’s good news.”
Simpson frowned. “Now, don’t go thinking she’s one of your London light skirts. Unless your intentions are honorable, you can set your sights elsewhere.”
Rory laughed again, unsure whether to be annoyed or touched at the old man’s interference. “Does it occur to you that you’re trespassing beyond your rights?”
Simpson gave a dismissive grunt and returned to shelving books. “I’ve known Bess all her life. Only a fool would mistake her forthright manner for boldness. If that fool did mistake her, she has people who will fight to protect her.”
“Including a father,” Rory said mildly. “Who surely should be saying these things to me if anyone must.”
“Ah, the vicar.” Simpson bent to lift another armful of books from the box at his feet.