by Lara Temple
‘What happened earlier was completely my fault. I never should have taken such advantage of your vulnerability. I did not even thank you properly for your show of bravery on Jamie’s behalf, however misguided. He has already been punished for disappearing, but tomorrow I will make it clear to him his behaviour could have resulted in tragedy.’
‘Oh, but you cannot tell him!’ Her outward calm vanished in a flash. She surged to her feet, her eyes wide and shocked, and the book thumped to the floor.
‘Naturally I must punish him for putting you in harm’s way, however unintentionally. He should learn that his actions have consequences.’
‘No! You cannot use my foolishness as an excuse to discipline him! He is far too young to worry a person’s life hangs in the balance of his actions. He could never have guessed I would make such a mistake simply because of his coat and shoes. He is not heedless.’
‘No? Then what the devil would you call it when he throws a tantrum and sends the whole castle into a panic the day we are trying to prepare for the one event a year where we have to expose ourselves to half the Highlands?’
‘Fear. He knows what is happening. He knows his world is changing and it frightens him. He is hardly more than a babe. Please. Please, Benneit. I am begging you.’
Her hands were clasped in front of her, her lips parted and her cheeks warm with colour and he wanted... He looked past her.
‘Oh, very well. I won’t tell him. I dare say you think the punishment I imposed on him already is inhuman enough,’ he said drily. ‘How will the lad survive without his beloved jam tarts until tomorrow? But next time try to think before you throw yourself into the waves or from the cliffs, will you? I shall see you downstairs for dinner.’
He left her parlour before the frustration licking at him like fire at a witch’s skirts engulfed him and made him do something or say something even more foolish. His nerves and his will were frayed to breaking and the temptation to continue their interrupted embrace was like a swarm of maddened bees inside him.
He paused halfway down the stairs, realising he had not even apologised for his outrageous behaviour on the path. He was damned if he was going back to her to do so. His life was complicated enough as it was—the last thing he needed was the pint-sized pixie needling his conscience, subverting his libido and taking complete control of almost every aspect of his life.
Why had he ever suggested she stay a month? Another week of this...
Dear God, he would be a gibbering wreck by the end of it. Now that he knew what she looked like underneath her grey armour, now that he had tasted her...his hands and body could feel her even now...
‘Daingead,’ he cursed as he made his way to his bedchamber. In a few hours he would be welcoming the woman he was to marry and he was as hard and hot as an oak in a forest fire for another woman. Not even at the height of his infatuation with Bella had he felt so torn, so utterly at the mercy of something he did not even understand.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘What?’ Beth exclaimed and then flushed at her very unservile exclamation. ‘But, Mrs Langdale, you must go to the ball! What of your beautiful dress?’
‘I have the headache. From the cold water,’ Jo said with dignity. She had been forced to tell Beth what had happened, at least part of it, to explain her salty, dishevelled and dressless state. Beth had muttered something about Jamie’s tantrums, but had said nothing else as she had ordered up a hot bath and had set about redeeming Jo’s hair from its salty tangle.
Beth planted her fists on her hips and surveyed Jo, her dark eyes like coals from the pits of hell.
‘I’ve not slaved an hour over your hair for you to sit in your room and sulk because the laird gave you the scold you deserved, lass! There’s been enough tantrums at Lochmore today!’
Tears stung Jo’s eyes, but she drew herself up.
‘I am not sulking. I am tired.’
Beth did not argue. Perhaps recalling her position, she merely curtsied and left the room, but the door closed with a distinct snap and Jo sank back on to the chair in front of the mirror. She could not explain it to Beth.
* * *
She had no idea how long she had sat there when the door bounced open and Benneit strode in without even knocking.
Jo stood and straightened her shoulders. She had been expecting some response, but not a personal appearance from a very irate Duke. Especially not after the events of that day.
It was not at all helpful that he looked utterly, breathtakingly handsome. She had seen him in a short kilt before when he was about the castle and the estate, but this was clearly full ceremonial dress, the orange-tartan kilt drawn over the dark blue coat and white shirt, its contrasting colours stretched across his formidable chest and over his shoulder, making him look even larger than usual, and the deep, burnt shades of orange accentuating the green of his eyes and his raven hair. She had thought him magnificent enough in evening dress, but the Duke of Lochmore in a long kilt was something else entirely.
The annoyance on his face faltered and his forward motion flagged. He stopped in the middle of the room, his gaze raking over her from her head to the tips of her kid slippers peeking from beneath the high embroidered flounce.
‘Your Grace?’ she prompted as he remained silent.
‘I...’ He took another step forward and stopped again, the frown returning. ‘What is this about not coming down?’
‘I have decided it is quite unnecessary.’
‘Unnecessary? What on earth does that have to say to anything? In less than an hour half of the Highlands will be gathering below.’
‘Precisely. One person more or less will hardly be noticed.’ She did not add—certainly not this person. ‘I am perfectly happy staying...’
Benneit drew himself up, clearly struggling to hold the reins of his temper.
‘The point is not to make you happy, Jo... Mrs Langdale. The point is that you are Bella’s cousin and it would be considered da—deuced odd of you to be hiding in the nursery while I entertained our neighbours, especially when they all naturally expect to see you. And Mrs Merry will be mortally offended that after all the effort she and Beth went to regarding your dress you might as well be feeding it to the sheep. If you wish to sit down to breakfast tomorrow with that on your conscience, then go and hide... No, that is not an option. You will come down right now and smile at the guests!’
He looked on the verge of stamping his foot like Jamie. She wished he would, because his upward spiral of annoyance was unravelling her discomfort. This, she was familiar with. The impossible embarrassment at the events on the beach receded, revealing the simple truth—she did not want to stay in her room. She wanted to go down into the light and the laughter, dressed in her beautiful gown. She might soon lose everything she cared for, but she could take some of it with her, gather her memories like Jamie gathered treasures, and for that she must be brave.
‘Very well.’
‘You will?’
She looked at herself in the mirror.
‘You are right. Mrs Merry and Beth would be very offended. It would probably affect Beth’s enjoyment of the ball.’
‘I had not realised she is attending the ball as well.’ There was that reluctant smile in his voice that always made her mouth want to curve in response. This time she allowed it.
‘Every servant in the castle house takes part in it, even if only by listening to what the footmen report when they go to the keep to fetch more food and wine. And Beth is very possessive of this dress, having had such a say in its creation. Apparently she has even asked Ewan to tell her who dances with her dress.’
‘You, I hope.’ His smile flashed, easing the glower further.
‘I am merely a vessel. Her dress will be the attraction. As such whoever dances with me becomes Beth’s possession.’
‘Good God, that is mawkish. I hope Mrs M
erry is keeping a tight leash on Beth’s imagination. I don’t want her falling into trouble.’
‘Beth is far too clever. She knows the difference between a dream and a loaf of bread. She has her sights on Angus.’
She did not add—far cleverer than I.
‘Does she? She will have her work cut out for her. He is convinced he is not marriage material with his scars.’
‘She is patient. And determined. She will wear him down in the end.’
‘I hope so.’ He hesitated and then held out his arm. ‘Come.’
She went, stepping into the lie that he wanted her there, that she looked lovely in her borrowed gown, that unlike those horrid balls years ago she would not be invisible, unremarked, overlooked. That she was not merely an impecunious widow-cum-governess invited to the ball as an act of casual kindness, but the Jo that Jamie saw in her—wondrous and wise and worth caring for.
Her head dipped and she watched the tips of her slippers. They were the only thing she wore that were originally hers and they were a little scuffed. There would be no hiding them, not even under her lovely dress.
He stopped abruptly at the head of the staircase and she wavered and almost slipped on the top stair. His other hand caught her at the waist.
‘Steady. Not even falling downstairs will be acceptable as an excuse not to attend. Look at me. Are you crying?’
Oh no. She could feel the tears straining to slide down her cheeks. She had not counted on sympathy. She was not experienced enough with it to counter it as she did indifference and criticism and anger. She shook her head.
He led her back to her parlour and her heart and mind raged. She had won her battle not to go to the ball, but she didn’t want to win. She did not quite understand what was growing inside her, but it was fierce and hot and it wanted to go to the ball. With him.
‘Here, look at me.’ His voice was soft and she closed her eyes and shook her head, but he raised her face and she felt the cool press of linen on her eyes and cheeks, absorbing her tears.
‘Is it so very bad?’ he asked. ‘I know you never enjoyed balls when Bella was coming out, but it is different now. You aren’t Miss Watkins, being shunted between relations. You are Mrs Langdale, and my guest. I won’t allow you to be slighted, you know.’
‘That isn’t it.’ She touched her fingertips to her eyelids, stopping the tears. She was growing weak. In the past she never would have allowed this to happen. It was his fault.
‘Then what?’ His voice was so gentle it ached.
‘It is foolish.’
‘Tell me anyway.’
She grasped for something, anything to say. Strangely what came was the truth, just not the whole truth.
‘I never had pretty dresses when I married Alfred. His mother died a week after the wedding and we wore mourning, and two weeks before the year was up he fell from his horse. I thought... I wish he might have seen me in such a dress...’
As the silence stretched on she forced herself to look. He was very close, she could see the peculiar grey-green of his eyes, the colours of the cliffs and sea beyond.
‘I am sorry for him, too. But he was a lucky man to have you even so briefly. A smart man, too.’
He raised her hand, just touching it with his lips, his hair dark against the pale orange of her skirts. His words rang inside her like the vibrations of a bell and she fisted her other hand against the impulse to touch the silk of his hair. It was not an effusive testimony to her transformation by the dress, but it struck her as so much more personal. Like Alfred, though in a different way, this man saw her. It was not enough, leagues and leagues from what she craved, but it still warmed her.
‘Thank you, Benneit.’
His hand tightened on hers as he straightened, but he dropped it and stepped back, holding out his arm as he had before.
‘You are welcome, Jo. Come. Now more than ever I will not allow you to hide. Once I do the perfunctory dances with the dragons and their offspring, we will share a dance for your Alfred. Tell me you can waltz.’
‘Yes, Your Grace, I can waltz.’
‘Good. Your fate is sealed.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
It had been foolish to worry.
He watched Jo standing between Donald MacGregor and Duncan McCrieff and wondered again at her transformation. She was laughing, her cheeks warm from the dance and her lovely mouth curved in an enticing smile. The two men were both leaning towards her like rods of metal towards a lodestone, clearly enchanted. She was nothing like the stiff and repressive girl of six years ago—the simple green bud had released the lush rose bloom within and the insects were circling, he thought with a stab of resentment, trying to feel happy for her.
‘She’s wearing Lochmore colours.’
He turned at his aunt’s raspy voice. Her scent of whisky usually warned him she was within hailing distance, but he had been distracted.
‘She is part of Bella’s family.’
‘Aye, but she isn’t a Lochmore any more than that spoilt piece of spun sugar was.’
He laughed at the absurdity of calling Bella anything so whimsical. Morag grunted.
‘Fair enough. She was hard as nails, your countess. But still spoilt. The McCrieffs won’t like another of your Englishwomen wearing orange, you know.’
‘Since when do you care about clan politics?’
‘Since Hamish died. He never had the nerve to dislodge me from my tower, but a new mistress might. Not a McCrieff, though—she would respect Lochmore heritage and not try to clear out the inconvenient womenfolk like your previous wife would have done had she outlived Hamish. So if you must wed it might as well be a McCrieff. Your English widow will have to go, though. Lady Aberwyld won’t like another young woman living here once her daughter is made Duchess, especially not if she sees you watching her that way.’
He resisted the urge to move away from Morag and her bitterness. She was and had always been ruled by her fears.
‘Mrs Langdale never intended to remain at Lochmore beyond a month. She has her own plans. When I wed...’ The words ran dry, soaked up by a throat as parched as any of Jamie’s deserts. It was inevitable, it was already in motion. Every movement of the guests in this great grey room was a testimony to that wedding-to-be. The melding of the tribes, the burying of hatchets, the creation of a new future for Jamie. It was as unstoppable as any Greek fable told—running from your fate served no purpose but delaying the inevitable.
‘Aye. When you wed. That bone is sticking in your gullet, isn’t it?’ Morag said, her voice ripe with spite.
The music began again and he moved away from Morag. Hell was not always fire and brimstone. Sometimes it was a well-appointed ballroom with the music spinning you closer to the rest of your lonely life.
He deserved a little escape from his fast-approaching fate, he told himself as he approached Jo. He was almost upon her when Malcolm and Donald nodded in his direction and she turned. The fairy-light fabric spread and gathered again about her legs and gold glinted in the embroidered stars along her bodice. He already had a very fair impression of her breasts from their interlude on the beach path, but under the warm glow of the candlelit chandeliers he could see how perfectly they curved above her bodice. They would be warm and soft and fit into his palms and... God in heaven, he had better stop now or his erection would pitch a tent in his kilt.
‘You promised me a waltz, Mrs Langdale.’
‘Unfair! I was trying to convince her of the same, Lochmore.’ MacGregor laughed.
‘You’ve already had a dance and that orange clashes with your tartan, MacGregor,’ Duncan McCrieff said with ponderous joviality. ‘Besides, I’m the better dancer.’
‘Nevertheless, as host I claim precedence. Mrs Langdale?’ He held out his hand and, though her smile was a little forced, she came to him. He wondered if perhaps she was interested in eithe
r of those foppish fribbles. She had every right. Perhaps it would even suit her to secure herself a husband here rather than attempt to strike out on her own as a schoolmistress. It was certainly a more sensible choice and he had no right to object, certainly none to feel such a burn of jealousy.
‘Enjoying yourself?’ He tried to keep his voice level, but she noticed the edge, her hand twitching under his where he held it to his arm.
‘Very much, Your Grace.’
‘I gather from your becoming colour they have been plying you with compliments.’
‘Everyone has been very kind.’
‘Was that kindness on exhibit there just now? It looked like something far less uninterested.’
She tried to draw her hand from his arm, but he pressed it there more firmly. He was being an ill-tempered idiot, but it was beyond him. He did not like those men fawning over her and he did not like not liking it. Perhaps if he said nothing...
‘Why are you angry, Your Grace? Is something wrong?’ She spoke softly, with real concern, which only fed his self-disgust.
‘Damn it, Jo. Why can you not get angry when you ought? I know I am behaving like an ill-mannered idiot.’
‘Yes, you are, but my dress is lovely and has danced with many lovely kilts and coats and so I forgive you.’
She smiled and he wished they could just stop. Stop everything. Send everyone away. Or go back to the day before he was fool enough to step across the line in the sand. He didn’t want this.
‘I trust Beth will be pleased with your dress’s performance.’ He smiled. ‘MacGregor certainly seemed pleased, or was that his kilt?’
He had not expected her to catch the lewd import of his comment, but her eyes widened and she burst into her gurgling laughter. He was so tempted to pull her out on to the terrace, spread out his kilt on the grass and bare her beautiful body to the moon and stars and his touch and taste.
‘Jo.’
