“A Scot? Good grief! Do you know anything about him—well, other than what you already know. I mean, because of what you’ve seen and…oh, never mind.” She abruptly stops in frustration.
“I don’t know his name or anything else about him.” I walk across the room to distract myself from the feeling of guilt that comes over me every time I think about my parting words. “I told him to never speak to me again because he is a Scot, and that he is beneath me.”
“Oh, Ella, you didn’t... That is not like you. What on earth would make you say such a thing?” Her sympathy toward him makes me feel far worse.
“He was toying with me. He pushed it too far, and I let him know it shall not happen a second time. My intent was to make him dislike me so that he never speaks to me again. I am keeping my fingers crossed that it works. I can tell you this: my body does not feel like my own when he is around, and I will not have a man controlling me in such a way. Now he knows I am off-limits.” I feel somewhat triumphant after that speech. I only hope my wishes are met with success.
My hopes are short-lived as Trudy, one of my favorite maids, enters the room with a look of concern on her face. “A lovely morn to ye, m’lady.” She’s unusually quiet while peering over at Beatrice, then back at me. “Could I speak with ye privately in the hall, ma’am?”
“Of course,” I answer with confusion and undeniable trepidation.
Once in the hall, she turns to look both ways before speaking. “M’lady, someone from the household of Lord Alasdair Stewart just brought me an envelope and package. ’Tis quite heavy, I must say, and he asked to have it delivered to you with haste and discretion. To be honest, I wanted to run in the other direction. It’s not my place to receive such a thing, but the man who gave it to me was charming…and…and…good with words, so here I am, doing something I shouldn’t be.” She stops her stuttering and walks over to the nook just beyond my door, bringing me an envelope and a wrapped gift that is indeed quite heavy.
“You don’t know who gave this to you?” I ask, trying to hold back the nausea settling in my stomach.
“No ma’am. I don’t know who he was, but I would know him again if I saw him. He was quite…unforgettable.”
I’m admittedly perturbed by the sparkle that is obnoxiously evident within her eyes. Not to mention the wanton blush coloring her face a bright ruby red. Whoever this Lord Stewart sent as his delivery man was clearly well-chosen. Trudy is flirtatious by nature, but gullible to the wiles of a handsome, charming man. It must be in the air because the same thing happened to me.
“Thank you, Trudy. I appreciate your honesty. In the future, try not to be charmed so easily.” She bows and scurries away, leaving me with more than the weight of a mysterious package.
Once I’m back in my room, I rush to the window settee, bypassing Beatrice. I stare at the letter and gift smuggled to me by a man named Alasdair Stewart. That is a Scottish name if ever I heard one, and my body flushes with heat as I see his masculine script on the envelope.
Lady Ella Seymour
It reads, but somehow, seems to say so much more. Beyond that, I cannot ignore the strange sensation overwhelming me, knowing that the man who stirred desires in me like I’ve never known, wrote this letter to me. He held the paper in his strong hands, folded it with precision, and sealed it with the proud emblem of his noble family.
Opening the wax seal, I am surprised to find so many words. I glance over its structure, finding it to look like verses of a poem. With another flush of emotion, a slight dizziness overcomes me. I take a deep breath and start from the beginning.
Dear Lady Ella,
I hope this note finds you well as the sun brightens your morning. I indeed hope that your slumber was deep and rejuvenating. For me, sleep did not come easily as my mind was carried away to crystal-blue tropical waters and mythical creatures following me through the forest. It is a dichotomy to be sure. But one so lovely and poetic, it inspired images of a maiden beautiful and ethereal, proud and strong, fierce and tenacious.
I wrote this for you, Ella.
Could God, our creator, be considered an artist?
With a magical brush he dipped into the sea
Creating the crystal blue eyes of a maiden, that sparkle in the sun,
With unknown depths that capture the curiosity of men.
To use the petals of a rose that stain the lips he shaped with precision
Smiling upon only those deserving of their perfection.
To pull the rays of the sun from the sky and spin them into shiny golden locks
Flowing in long waves that frame the face of an angel.
He does not stop there
For he is more than a painter, but a sculptor as well,
Giving her the heart of a lioness,
Fearless and proud,