He would ride over from Blackwood Park in the late afternoons, ostensibly to consult with MacLeod, or to review the progress. But soon, the pretenses fell away. He came to see Eleanor. They would walk the lands together, the conversation shifting from crop rotation and tenant rights to other things. Books, the changing face of the country, their childhoods.
He learned that her quietness was not shyness, but a habit of observation. She listened before she spoke. And when she did speak, her words had weight. She learned that his stern demeanor was a shield forged in a lonely youth to protect a deep sense of duty. He was a man who felt the weight of his title, not as a privilege, but as a profound and unending responsibility.
One crisp spring afternoon, they stood on a hill overlooking Oakhaven. The West Meadow, once a bog, was now green with new grass. The roof of the main house had been repaired. The slates a dark, solid gray against the sky. The house was breathing again.
"I received a letter from my solicitor this morning," Alister said, not looking at her. He watched a kestrel ride the wind over the valley. "Your cousin has withdrawn his challenge to the will. He has accepted a modest settlement to relinquish any future claim. " Eleanor stood very still. The wind whipped a strand of dark hair across her face.
She did not speak for a long time. The battle was over. She had won. "He's gone then," she said, her voice soft. "He has returned to London.
I do not imagine we shall be troubled by him again. " He finally turned to look at her. He had expected elation, triumph. Instead, he saw a profound, bone-deep weariness and a quiet, shimmering relief. The soldier coming home from the war. "Thank you, Alister," she said, her voice thick.
"You and MacLeod did the work, Eleanor. I merely provided the munitions. She smiled. A real smile that reached her eyes. The munitions were rather essential to the outcome.
He found himself smiling back. It felt unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. In her presence, he was not the Duke of Blackwood. He was simply Alister, a man who had found something he hadn't even known he was looking for. He had sent her a gift a month prior.
A beautiful, intelligent Connemara mare, spirited, but gentle. She had been touched, but he noticed that she still rode Perseus as often as not. The great grey horse was a reminder of where she had come from, of the battle she had fought and won. He took a step closer. The air between them felt charged.
"Oakhaven is safe," he said. "It is yours. Unconditionally. " "Yes," she whispered. And what will you do now, Miss Vance? He asked, his voice dropping lower.