“He’ll no’ come for you!” Carson said disdainfully. “He does no’ know of it. He will no’ know of it until several days have passed and the whole glen has heard the news and seen the two of you together. He is in Crieff, Lizzie! By the time word reaches him, he canna possibly save you.”
Lizzie all but came out of her chair. Only the firm clamp of Lambourne’s hand kept her from lunging. “It would seem,” Lambourne said evenly, despite the grip he held on her arm, “that your plan has already worked beautifully, Laird. A handfasting witnessed by such a large party surely has tongues wagging up and down this lovely little glen. I’d no’ be the least surprised if Mr. Gordon hears of the happy news posthaste. Therefore, your niece’s chance at an engagement has been ruined, and she and I should be free to go.”
“Donna take me for a fool, Lambourne,” Carson said angrily. “You made your agreement with diabhal.”
“I made no agreement with the devil!” Lizzie cried, wrenching free of Lambourne’s grip by kicking him beneath the table.
Lambourne’s breath came out in a grunt of pain as Lizzie found her feet.
“You will remain at Castle Beal!” Carson said sternly, pointing a finger at her. “You will participate in the events I have planned to celebrate your handfasting! I’ll no’ have questions as to whether or no’ this handfasting is real, and you, sir,” he said, swinging the pointed finger to Lambourne, “will do quite well to keep this one in hand, do you understand? The prince’s men search for you yet and the bounty goes unclaimed. Any number of them can be here within a few hours.”
“I beg your pardon, but I am no’ a gamekeeper,” Lambourne said. “You did no’ tell me that the lass was a hellion.”
“What?” Lizzie cried, affronted.
Carson stood up and slammed his cup on the table. “You will not defy me, either of you, if you value your lives as you know them!” He pushed his chair back and stalked to the door. “I’ve some clothing for you to don. I’ll no’ have you dragging about in mourning clothes that should have been put away two months ago. I shall expect you both in the great hall to receive those who have come to offer their felicitations!”
“What of Charlotte?” Lizzie exclaimed as he opened the door. “You know I canna leave her alone, Uncle!”
“She’s no’ alone! She has Newton to watch over her and Mrs. Kincade to see to her needs. She will do well enough without you, Lizzie!” And with that, Carson walked out the door, letting it slam shut behind him. His pulse was pounding; his jaw clenched so tightly that it ached. There was not a more willful woman in all of Scotland, and by God, he intended to break her!
He had to—everything depended on it.
Chapter Six
Behind the breakfast room door, Lizzie glared at Jack.
“No’ a gamekeeper?” she repeated tetchily.
“The shoe fits your cheeky foot perfectly.”
“Ach! I canna suffer you now—I must get word to my sister,” she said, and pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead. Her head was reeling. She had to think. “She will fear something too horrible to speak of has befallen me.”
“I’ve no doubt that if the laird had hanged you, bells would be tolling far and wide in this glen,” Jack said, gesturing to the far and wide.
She gave him a withering look. “You are incapable of understanding, but my sister will be frantic with worry! I must get word to her!”
He leaned back in his chair and sighed heavenward. “Is she far from here?”
“Three miles down the glen.”
“Three miles?” he echoed incredulously, looking at her again. “Then she could bloody well walk up the hill and see for herself, aye?”
“No,” Lizzie said smartly, “for she has lost the use of her legs. She is an invalid, if you must know, and there is no one to look after her save Mr. and Mrs. Kincade, and they are quite elderly and lack the capacity to lift her properly, no’ to mention see that all her needs are met.”
At least Lambourne had the decency to look properly contrite. “I beg your pardon. I had no idea.”
But Lizzie waved a hand at him. She hardly cared what he said or did—she could think only of Charlotte, imagining her fear…particularly with Newton, or whoever he was. She stood from the table and walked to the window.
After a moment, Jack said, “All right, then. What foolhardy schemes are galloping through your head?”
She chafed at that, for she had just thought of climbing out the turret window again. “You hardly care,” she said. Perhaps she could bribe someone. But with what? It wasn’t as if she’d come with a purse to this little ceremony.
“Oh, but that is where you are wrong,” he said. “I do care, and very much, for my neck depends on it. Just tell me—”
The door opened, interrupting him. Lizzie turned around to see the same henchman who had come for them this morning. “The laird says you are to dress for the day,” he said to her. “You’re to come with me.”
“I will no’!”
Jack grinned at her obvious displeasure until the man said, “And you, milord.”
“Pardon—me?” he said, his grin fading as he twisted around to look at the Highlander. The man nodded. Jack groaned, dropped his head back, and closed his eyes a moment. “Am I in hell, sir? Tell me true—am I, then?”
Predictably, the Highlander did not answer.
“I’ll no’ be ordered about,” Lizzie said with great indignation.
Jack leveled a gaze on her. “This has all the markings of a very vexing day,” he warned her, as if it were somehow her fault, and came to his feet. “Come then, Lizzie. Let us no’ fall on our swords at every opportunity.”
He was infuriatingly right. Lizzie reluctantly followed him.
They were escorted to their little room in the turret. On their way up, they encountered a chambermaid. The lass stepped aside, her head lowered, but as they passed, she coyly glanced up and smiled at Jack. And he, Lizzie further noticed, quickly returned her smile with one so warm that it certainly melted the girl’s stockings right off her legs.
A thought occurred to Lizzie—suddenly, she had an idea how to get word to Charlotte.
Not only did the hellion seem bound and determined to make trouble, but she now took issue with the clothing that Beal wanted her to wear. What was it about the feminine mind that failed to see the reasonable course in most matters? Why did they always make things more complicated than necessary?
Not that he was terribly pleased with the idea that he must don a Beal plaid, but he didn’t take issue with the kilt itself.
Lizzie, however, held out the offending garment to Jack, who was lounging on the bed now, having recalled, with some difficulty, the proper way to wear a kilt. “My uncle can no’ expect me to wear this!” she insisted.
It was dark ruby red with long sleeves, which, he thought, given the bitter cold outside, was appropriate. He looked at her blue eyes, glittering with her anger. “Seems perfectly fine.”
She gaped at him as if he were an imbecile. “It is red, milord. Red! Entirely unsuitable for day wear in the best of circumstances, and hardly ever suitable for evening wear! But be that as it may, it is quite impossible that it be worn by a woman who is still mourning the death of her father!”
“Mi Diah,” Jack muttered.
“Ach!” she cried, and whirled away from him. She marched to the door and banged loudly. The Highland beast whose name they had learned was Dougal opened it, and Lizzie thrust the gown in his face. “Do please tell the laird that this will no’ do!” she said firmly. “Do please remind him that I am mourning the passing of my father, his brother!”
A startled Dougal took the gown. “Aye, mu’um.” He shut the door and locked it again.
“Well. This should all be speedily resolved, aye?” Jack asked, pillowing his hands behind his head. “Did you heed anything I said in suggesting we take Dougal under our wing and befriend him? We might have at least convinced him to keep the door unlocked.”
/> “I will not befriend a troll,” Lizzie said snippily, crossing her arms and pacing the small room.
“Madam,” Jack said wearily, “you’re no’ helping matters in the least.”
“Oh, and you are making astonishing progress in freeing us, is that it?”
“Perhaps if I just had a wee bit of help.”
“Help! I’ve only tried to help in every imaginable way, yet you seem to enjoy all this lounging about. It’s neither here nor there, really, for I’ve thought of a way you may atone for your lack of decisive action by helping me get word to my sister,” she suggested as she paced.
“I beg your pardon, my what?”
“I was thinking,” she continued, gliding past her little cut, “that perhaps you might seduce a chambermaid…”
“Now see here,” Jack said sternly, coming up off the bed. “I’m no’ loose in the haft.”
Lizzie snorted and continued to pace. “Do no’ pretend that you are a defender of propriety and virtue, sir. And I donna mean to suggest you take the poor lass to…to…” Her face pinkened; she couldn’t bring herself to say it.
“My bed?” he said for her.
“Precisely,” she said, flicking her wrist as she stole a look at his legs beneath his kilt, “but perhaps if you just smiled in that way you have she might be inclined to do you a favor.”
Jack put his hands on his hips, trying to understand her. “Pardon?”
Lizzie sighed impatiently. “Ask a certain favor of her—the favor being, of course, that she take word to my sister that I am well.”
“No’ that,” Jack said. “Before that,” he added, making a circular motion with his hand. “After the pretending to defend propriety and virtue and before asking a favor.”
Lizzie paused. Recognition dawned on her pretty face and she seemed thrown by what she’d said. “You know very well what I meant,” she tried.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, I donna know what you meant at all. Please explain.”
“Just…just persuade her in any way you can to take a message to my sister!”
But Jack wasn’t letting it go so easily. He smiled at Lizzie—that smile—and watched the blush in her cheeks begin to spread to her neck.
He stepped closer; she turned awkwardly from him and put a hand to her nape. “It is very important that Charlotte know I am all right.” She glanced back at Jack, and he saw something in her eyes that gave him pause. “Please, milord.”
Bloody hell, the hellion was truly worried about her sister. And he could hardly deny her request, given that he had a weakness for big blue eyes, particularly when they were imploring him to help. “All right,” he agreed, but pointed a finger at her. “With one condition.”
She nodded fervently.
“You must call me Jack. I canna abide the milords and sirs when we are practically forced to live as man and wife.”
“Agreed,” she said, holding out her hand.
Jack glanced at her hand.
“We should shake on it. A man’s word is sealed with his handshake.”
“Where do you hear these things?” he asked irritably, but he took her hand nonetheless, her small, fine-boned hand with the callus on the palm. He looked in her eyes as he shook it, and the lass actually smiled at him.
Ach, that smile, that smile. It disturbed Jack, for it was terribly alluring. On a barmy Highland lass that smile and those eyes were a dangerous combination when used in such close quarters, and Jack quickly withdrew his hand from hers and stuffed it into his pocket. All he needed was that smile cast upon him throughout the day to make his blood run hot with want. “Where do you suggest I find this chambermaid?” he asked, turning round, walking to the table.
“Oh, I’ll be happy to point you in the right direction when the time comes. Once we’ve sent word to Charlotte, then we might get on with the task of escaping, aye?”
“Yes, well, in that regard, do try and be kind to Dougal, will you?” Jack asked, and glanced over his shoulder at her. She was nodding vigorously and had succeeded in knocking another curl loose from her bandeau.
Yes, danger abounded in this room.
Lizzie took Jack’s advice to heart, for when Dougal returned—this time carrying an ancient dark blue bombazine lacking only the panniers—she smiled and thanked him and even apologized for being short earlier, but she’d been mortified to think of wearing red while in mourning.
Dougal nodded dumbly and pulled the door shut.
The moment it was shut, Lizzie whirled around to Jack and held up the old garment. “Will you look?” she demanded, wrinkling her nose at the musty smell. “I know this gown well—it belonged to my aunt Una—she wore it for two years after my uncle Robert died. She was a wee woman,” she said, holding her forefinger and thumb up to show just how wee.
Jack looked at the gown, then at her. He seemed perplexed. “It’s no’ red,” he said.
“Aye, but it is old,” Lizzie said, trying to explain it to him.
He stared blankly at the gown.
“Ach,” she said, with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “Uncle Carson means to shame me. But I donna shame so easily as that,” she said, and stalked to the other side of the bed. Jack was still looking at her. She motioned for him to turn around. He sighed, took a seat at the table with his back to her. She began to unbutton her gown, but Jack turned his head slightly.
Lizzie paused to let down the bed curtains, putting them between her and his curious gaze. It was ridiculous, but just a glance from him was enough to make her insides swirl, particularly since he’d donned a kilt. A kilt! Of course Lizzie had seen men wear them all her life, but she’d never realized how a blasted kilt could make a heart beat faster. His legs, muscular and shapely beneath it, and the breadth of his shoulders in the short-cropped, tightly fitting coat, all of it—it was enough to give a woman vapors if she were inclined to them.
She changed quickly and, as she’d feared, the gown was too small. The hem reached the top of her boots, and the skirt—the skirt was far too large for today’s fashion and made her look as if she were all hip. That wasn’t the worst of it—the worst was the bodice. Lord, it was tight! Lizzie could scarcely breathe. She struggled to fasten the old buttons without a hook, but she could not manage the last two.
There was nothing to be done for it. She’d exhausted herself trying to button the bloody thing, and in a fit of frustration she stepped out behind the curtain. Jack had turned his chair around and was watching the curtains. He took one look at the gown and burst out laughing.
“Stop that!” she cried, which only served to make his laughter worse. “Stop this instant! You must help me, Jack.”
“I canna help you, Lizzie. No one can help you. You need a seamstress. Were we in London, I’d march you to Bond Street and demand that someone—anyone—repair…that,” he said, gesturing to her gown. “Are you certain the red won’t suit?”
“No’ another word!” she cried, mortified. “I will wear my mourning gown—”
“Which is hardly an improvement. It looks as if the last woman who wore it crawled out of a turret window. The hem is muddied, there is a mysterious streak of black on the back, and it is badly wrinkled.”
Lizzie glanced at her gown, draped across the end of the bed. It was indeed in worse shape than the one she was wearing. But this one—to be paraded about in front of God and everyone in this old thing? It was almost more than she could bear. Abduction, handfasting, a night spent in a room with a strange man…in a kilt…. The gown was the last straw, and she was mortified when tears suddenly filled her eyes.
“No, no, here now,” Jack said soothingly. “You are far too spirited to be brought down by a gown, aye? And besides, you look radiant, leannan, as beautiful in mourning as a woman dares to be.”
His compliment was false, and the endearment was absurd…but it warmed her nonetheless. “It’s hideous,” she moaned.
He did not disagree. “No one will ever see the gown, for your smile is
far too bright and captivating.”
She looked at him suspiciously, but Jack nodded firmly. “Would I lie?” he asked with a lopsided grin.
She couldn’t help but smile, too. “I am certain you would never lie,” she said with mock sincerity. She glanced down at the gown. At least it was clean. She sighed and peeked up at Jack. “I need your help,” she admitted.
“Aye, they all come round eventually,” he said, arching a devilish brow. “What may I do for you?”
“The buttons,” she said, gesturing vaguely at her back. “I could no’ reach them all.”
“Ah. Allow me. Turn round, then.”
Lizzie warily did so. He stepped behind her. She could feel Jack at her back, but when he laid his hands on her shoulders, she gasped.
“It is rather tight,” he agreed, and deliberately traced his fingers over the bare skin of her upper back, to the top of the gown. Her skin tingled beneath his fingers; she pressed her hand to her abdomen and drew a deep breath. His knuckles brushed against her as the tugged the gown together. “Diah,” he muttered.
“What? What is it?”
He responded by putting his hands on her shoulder, his fingers on her neck, and gently pressed his palms against her back, forcing her to stand straighter. “Take a deep breath,” he instructed her, “and hold it.”
Lizzie put her hands on her hips and took another deep breath.
He managed to get one of the buttons fastened. “I’d consider a corset, were I you.”
She gasped. “I am wearing a corset,” she snapped. “And—ouch!”
“Pardon.” He paused in his work on the button to put his hands on her shoulder once more, pulling them back slightly so that she would stand even straighter, then went to work on the button again.
She was keenly aware of his body so close to hers, his hands on her skin. The sensation was surprisingly provocative. “What do you know of corsets?” she asked peevishly, trying to put something between them—indignation at the very least.
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