Lords, Ladies and Babies: A Regency Romance Set with Little Consequences

by Meara Platt

  “Have ye felt the little one moving aboot yet?”

  She shook her head.

  “I shouldna think it willna be too much longer.” She gathered some supplies and headed for the door. “I’ll see ye later this afternoon then.”

  Damaris finished dressing as her cousin went next door. It hadn’t taken her long to adopt the ease of Genevieve’s attire. And until recently, she’d been able to conceal her “condition” with stays and a carefully placed apron while assisting customers at the inn, but within the next month or so, she would be completely housebound.

  Then the true torture would begin.

  Thus far, she’d managed to keep herself occupied, although she had been limited to what she could do during the last of the winter months. But now she started work on the small garden behind the house, helped out hanging laundry, or even doing a bit of embroidery, something she had quite detested in London, whereas now, she was just grateful for the diversion it offered.

  Of course, Genevieve and Mac were wonderful companions. They did their best to make her feel comfortable in their little village, and on Saturdays, Gen, as she preferred to be called, would accompany her to the market where they would gather fresh fruits and vegetables for the week. Each Sunday they would attend services at the Church of the Holy Cross.

  Of course, Damaris assisted at the inn when needed, and business had steadily picked up at The Blue Duck over the spring. Men who worked the coal mine at Alston Moor, just a short distance down the River South Tyne, would send the metal ore downstream to the village to be loaded onto wagons to be shipped to either London or Edinburgh, whichever had the most need for it…or would pay the best price.

  It had also become something of a habit for Damaris to head down to Haltwhistle Burn, and now that the temperature was becoming warmer, her afternoon walks had turned into early morning ones. Other than the coalmine in Alston, this was where most of the town gained their economy to survive. There was a baize and weaving manufacturer here, as well as a spinning mill. But it was farther down the stream toward Hadrian’s Wall where Damaris spent most of her time.

  The Picts Wall, as some of the locals called it, was nothing more than a stone barrier, originally thought to have been built by the Romans as a sort of fortification against the barbarians who would take the lands for themselves. The grassy, rolling hills around the lake at Crag Lough, along Whin Sill had become her favorite place to sit and just…think.

  Usually, she thought of the father of her child, the nameless stranger who had unknowingly planted his seed within her. She wondered if she might see him again, and if so, what she might possibly say to him. ‘Thank you again for a rather delightful evening that night at the Cyprian’s Ball in London. Oh, and perchance, did you know you sired a son?’

  Of course, she had no idea what the sex of her child would be until it was born, but for some reason, she imagined that it would be a boy with her blue eyes and his father’s dark hair…

  You have to stop this! she told herself firmly. No good could come of such musings; they would only serve to put her into a melancholy mood.

  With a sigh, Damaris started to head back to the village when a commotion caught her attention. It wasn’t often that she was disturbed here, so naturally, her curiosity got the better of her.

  Near the lake she caught sight of four men hitting a small ball around a clearing with a club. She thought to take a closer look, but decided against it at the last moment. While she hadn’t had any trouble with the coal miners that passed through the village, there was no point in tempting fate.

  But as she turned to go, a Scottish voice called out to her.

  “Beannachdan, fair lassie!”

  Damaris watched as a rather large man with brown hair trotted up to where she stood. She eyed him warily, positioned to flee should he become too forward, but she was relieved when he stopped a short distance away and flashed a broad grin before bowing deeply in apparent respect.

  “My name is Gavin Murray of the Clan O’Donough.” He waved his hand to encompass the three other men who had paused in their play and were watching the byplay with interest. “I dinna suppose ye know o’ a course nearby?”

  “A course? For what?” she echoed curiously. “What sort of game are you playing?”

  His grin widened, if possible. “Why, have ye never played golf, Sassenach?”

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid I’ve never even heard of it.”

  He slapped a hand on his muscular thigh. “Well, then ye must join us for one round!” he said exuberantly.

  Damaris glanced over her shoulder toward the direction of the inn. And safety. “I’m not sure…”

  Gavin instantly put a hand over his heart. “I swear, on my honor as a Scotsman, that I willna hurt ye. It’s an honest invitation t’ join us. Besides,” he winked. “Ye looked rather lonely.”

  Damaris reluctantly felt a twitch of her lips. What was it about charming Scotsmen that she found so difficult to resist? “Very well. I accept.”

  He held out his arm and led her down to meet the other gentlemen gathered around. “This is my brother, Jamie Murray.” The man at her side indicated a red-haired man who closely resembled him, although, there was something rather familiar about him as well, a recognition that caused her brain to tingle. Of course, that was utter nonsense, for she had never met him before. “And these two rapscallions are Robert and Samuel Solomon, close neighbors with our clan.”

  After greetings were exchanged, Gavin said, “I told Miss Honeywell that she could play a few rounds with us, ye ken?”

  “It was a good enough sport for our Queen Mary,” Jamie spoke up. “And even though men dinna normally allow women t’ play, I’m willing t’ break the rules.”

  After Gavin gave her a brief description of the game, Damaris thought it sounded rather easy. Swing the club and hit a ball into a cup, or in this case, a small hole. Although, without the usual eighteen holes that were required for the sport, having only seven available from their makeshift course, they would have a shortened round or would have to play the holes more than once. She stood and took her aim. With a deep breath, she brought back the wooden club — and easily missed her first target.

  “Dinna hit it so hard, lassie,” Samuel Solomon told her. He had a patient manner about him. “Ye have t’ ease into it. Like this.” He demonstrated a stroke where the ball rolled forward neatly and then promptly fell into the first hole. He retrieved it and then set it back down in front of her and handed her the club.

  This time, when she hit the ball, it rolled more gently toward the hole, but fell short of the mark. “That’s good. Ye’re improving,” Gavin encouraged. “It just takes time t’ get the hang o’ it, but somethin’ tells me ye’ll be a natural.”

  And so it went all the way around the next six holes. Each time Damaris got a little bit closer, but it wasn’t until the final hole that she finally saw the ball disappear into the ground. She gave a shout of triumph and lifted her club into the air in victory. “I did it!”

  “I bet with a bit o’ practice ye’ll beat all of us,” Robert said with a grin.

  “It’s just too bad Callum wasna here t’ see it.” Jamie spoke up with a chuckle, causing the other men to laugh.

  “Who’s Callum?” Damaris asked curiously.

  “He’s our clan leader in the Highlands,” Gavin returned. “And our older brother. He likes t’ act as though he’s a master at the sport, but I canna imagine he would stand a chance with ye.”

  Damaris abruptly froze, but then forced herself to breathe calmly once more. There’s more than one clan in the Highlands. They’re not talking about him.

  She handed the club back to Gavin and glanced up at the sky. The sun was rather high, and she realized she’d been gone longer than she’d planned. It had just been so… nice to flirt and relax among people her own age for a change. “I should be going. But thank you all for a lovely time.” She wanted to repay their kindness, so she offered, “If you dr
op by The Blue Duck later, drinks are on me.”

  “Well, now that’s an offer we canna hardly refuse!” Jamie guffawed.

  Gavin was a bit more subtle with his wink. “Good day t’ ye, Miss Honeywell. Ye can bet we’ll be aboot later once Callum joins us. That is, if we can drag him away from the mines in Alston long enough. All he does is work anymore.”

  As Damaris walked away, she kept telling herself that Callum and her mystery man in London were two completely different men.

  And yet, the butterflies in her stomach refused to abate.

  “I met the woman for ye this afternoon, Callum! She’s sure t’ make yer troubles disappear.”

  Callum clenched his jaw as his brothers descended on him like a pair of large, matchmaking cupids. He had been in the middle of negotiating the cost for a shipload of ore that was being sent to Edinburgh where more of his interests lie, so this was the last thing he needed. If it hadn’t been for these continual interruptions in his life that caused him to leave the sanctity of Inverness, he would still be at Castle O’Donough and dreaming of his Sassenach.

  Unfortunately, business detained him at the most bothersome of times.

  As did his brothers.

  “I’m no’ interested,” he returned firmly.

  “But ye havena even heard what—” Jamie began, but Callum turned to him with narrowed eyes.

  “I said no.”

  When Gavin would have stepped forward to plead his case again, Robert Solomon wisely interceded. Thankfully, the Solomon family was close kin to the Murray clan and had no problem easing over a conflict. “Leave him be.” Callum was about to thank him for his intervention, until he added, “If he doesna want t’ meet a bonnie English lass who is particularly good at golf an’ has the most appealing honey-colored hair, then that’s his choice.”

  Callum instantly stopped what he was doing, suddenly finding it rather difficult to draw air into his lungs. It coudna be her.

  And yet…

  He turned to Gavin, who was the closest to him and demanded, “What did she look like?”

  His brother blinked, obviously surprised at the directness of the query, and then he said, “She was fair. A Sassenach. With blond hair as Robert said, and eyes the color o’ a cloudless day.”

  “Her name?” Although he knew Lady Chemistry had likely been a pseudonym in order to remain anonymous, he wanted to know who this woman was.

  “Damaris Honeywell,” Jamie replied. “She said she’ll be at The Blue Duck in Haltwhistle tonight, said drinks are o’ the house for teaching her t’ play golf.”

  Callum temporarily closed his eyes, thinking of how many times over the past several weeks that he’d been forced to ride to Alston, but not once had he bothered to stop in the small village, most of his business taking place directly at the Moor where he had also taken lodgings. To imagine that she might have been this close all that time…

  It’s not her! His inner voice chided. The woman you bedded and who’s had your heart bound for months is in London. Be reasonable.

  “In tha’ case.” Callum swallowed. “I wish ye well this evening.”

  Jamie frowned. “Ye won’t even consider coming with us?”

  “I have no need for alcohol when there are matters tha’ require a level head.” He glared at his brothers. “Someone has t’ be sensible.”

  “At least he’ll know where t’ find us,” Samuel quipped as he clapped Gavin on the shoulder and gently steered him away from Callum. “We canna make him do something he doesna want t’ do.”

  Callum watched the foursome walk away and turned back to the business at hand, determined to get back to work. Ignore them, ignore them, ignore them…

  But as the doubts began to swirl around in his brain, the intense desire to meet this Miss Honeywell eventually eclipsed all else, and he uttered a curse and spun away from the work site, jogging to catch up with the others. Amid several curious glances, they said nothing as he joined them.

  Damaris wiped a hand across her forehead at the perspiration that was gathering there. The evening was muggy and warm, the arrival of their largest crowd yet quickly filling up the interior of the taproom and turning the air nearly stifling. Between the unwelcome scents that their work-hardened bodies brought in and the fact she’d failed to eat any supper as her appetite had fled out of fear that her past would catch up to her and walk through the door, it was enough to make Damaris lightheaded.

  But she gritted her teeth and moved about the tables clearing glasses and plates, while Gen watched over the kitchens and Mac took orders at the bar, everyone doing their best to serve each order in a timely manner. In the end, Damaris pushed through the worst of her discomfort until everyone was happily partaking of a hearty meal and some ale. Unfortunately, all this work didn’t even count the rooms upstairs that had been rented out and the laundry that would be piled up and waiting for them in the morning. Thankfully, Damaris had never assisted with that part, for Gen had hired another village girl to dispense with that particular chore, the same one who tended the fires and made sure everything was neat and tidy for the next round of guests that would be taking advantage of the lodging.

  As the evening wore on, Damaris fought a sudden wave of dizziness, and she

  abruptly clutched the back of a chair as she passed a rather rowdy table. One of the men in the group must have thought she was hesitating for a different reason, for he grabbed her by the waist with a particularly lewd grin. “Are ye here for me, lovely?” he chuckled, as he tried to pull her onto his lap.

  “No,” Damaris said, but her denial was weak, her strength quickly waning. She glanced about for Mac, who usually took care of the few unwanted situations like this that she’d had to endure in the past, but he was nowhere to be found. “Let me go,” she tried to say a bit more forcefully, as she struggled to rise.

  “Aww, come on now, dinna be treating ol’ Davy tha’ way,” he cajoled. “I promise I’ll take good care o’ ye.”

  As he tried to kiss her, Damaris pushed against his chest. “Release me at once!”

  He laughed, as if it was merely a game of cat and mouse. “Ye dinna have t’ play hard t’ get, lassie, I—”

  “Ye heard th’ lady.” A commanding voice said from behind her, one that sounded hauntingly familiar. “I dinna think she appreciates yer rough handling.”

  Damaris was instantly released. “I dinna mean any harm, Laird O’Donough,” the man said almost petulantly. “I was just having a bit o’ fun.”

  “Then why dinna ye try it with someone more willin’ next time.” The laird’s voice was dark with warning.

  Damaris didn’t want to face the stranger, warned herself what would happen if she did, because she knew what she would find as surely as she knew her own name.

  As if time stood still, she slowly turned her head, and her entire world instantly tilted. Dear God, it’s him. The Scotsman from the Cyprian’s ball, the father of her unborn child was here, standing before her in the same red and black tartan kilt that had been burned upon her memory. But instead of the formal wear he’d worn that night, he wore a plain white shirt, slightly open at the neckline, giving her a glimpse at that same broad, muscular chest with its light sprinkling of dark hair. The gleaming broadsword he wore at his hip was a new addition, and it made him appear like a warrior of old, some Medieval knight come to rescue the damsel in distress.

  He was just as terribly handsome as her memory recalled, and as she lifted her eyes to his dark brown gaze, she saw the instant recognition take hold. “Sassenach,” he breathed.

  Damaris opened her mouth to say something, whether to admit or deny the claim, but her eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed in a dead faint.

  Callum wasn’t quite sure what to do with the unconscious woman that he now held in his arms — other than spirit her away to his castle as soon as possible. However, a short, rotund woman came striding forward and took the choice from him. She took one look at Damaris and shook her head. “The p
oor gel.” She looked at Callum in a stern manner that brooked no argument. “Follow me.”

  He glanced back at his brothers and the Solomon cousins who all wore equal expressions of surprise at what had just happened. Callum said, “I’ll be back, ye ken?”

  They all shook their heads mutely, as he followed the older woman out the back door of the inn and continued next door to a modest cottage. He held Miss Honeywell close to his chest and had no doubt this was the same woman his brothers had wanted him to meet. He was just thankful that he’d listened to his instincts and decided to join them tonight. Otherwise, he might never have been reunited with his Lady Chemistry.

  He didn’t get much of a glance at the interior as the older woman led him up a set of stairs. She opened a door and pointed to the bed. “Lay her down. I’ll fetch a rag an’ some cool water.”

  Callum gently placed his mystery woman on the bed. But then, this woman who had haunted his dreams and his waking hours for the past several months finally had a name. He brushed the hair out of her face, the same honey-gold shade that he remembered. And although the clothes she wore now were plain and outdated, a faded blue skirt with a white peasant blouse and a black, laced corset over the top, she was still just as beautiful as he remembered.

  His delicate English rose.

  When the older woman returned with a bowl of water, he stood aside as she laid a cloth on his Sassenach’s forehead. “I shoulda known no’ t’ work ye so hard in yer condition,” she murmured with a shake of her head.

  Callum wondered if she even realized he was still in the room. “What’s wrong with her?” he spoke up.

  With a heavy sigh, she kept her attention on the lass, but said softly, “She’s expecting a babe.”

  His eyebrows rose at this. “Then where’s her husband t’ make her suffer such conditions?” he demanded.

  She finally turned to glare at him. “She’s unwed, ye brute. Her parents sent her here from London t’ stay with me when they found out, so I’d appreciate it if ye would mind yer own affairs.” She turned back to her charge, abruptly dismissing him.