“Corsets? I’ve done quite a study of them,” he said idly as he succeeded in fastening the button. “They’ve lain about most of the boudoirs I’ve had the pleasure of occupying.”
Her pulse leapt; she could kick herself for asking. The image of him lying in a woman’s bed, completely bare—as bare as he surely was beneath the kilt—suddenly towered before her in her mind’s eye. “There you are,” he said at last. “You are fitted as tight as a sausage in casing.”
Lizzie stepped away from him, her hand to her abdomen once more. The gown was stifling. She could not breathe.
“What, no thank you?”
“Thank you,” she managed to get out.
He bent his head to one side to peer in her face. “Are you all right, Lizzie Beal? You are flushed.”
She was flushed, but it had less to do with the gown than with the image of him that would not leave her now, no matter how hard she tried to erase it.
Out.
Out of this room was her only salvation, and she whirled around to the door, banging on it with her palm as if there was a fire at her back. “Dougal!” she cried.
“That wasn’t precisely what I had in mind when I said kind,” Jack drawled as the bolt slid from the lock and the door swung open.
On the other side of it, Dougal’s eyes widened as he looked at Lizzie’s gown.
“Diah, donna stand there gaping!” Lizzie cried, and pushed past him, into the narrow stairwell, thankful to have put at least a few feet between her and Jack.
“You must no’ mind her, lad,” Jack said as he followed her out. “She’s been in a state of high dudgeon all morning.” And with that, he calmly caught her hand, gave it a bit of a yank to slow her step, and pulled her back, forcing her to behave like a lady and allow him to escort her down the stairs.
Chapter Seven
Given that it was only eleven o’clock in the morning, Jack was surprised to see the number of people milling about the great hall…until he got a closer look at some of them. Judging by their bleary gazes, he assumed they hadn’t yet been to bed.
Nevertheless, the mood was just as festive now as it had been last night, which was hardly surprising given the strong stench of ale that pervaded the room.
“Oh no,” Lizzie muttered to the ceiling.
Jack looked at her inquiringly.
“’Tis a wedding feast,” she whispered angrily. “It’s customary to celebrate a wedding with a feast and a race and silly games.”
At the far end of the hall a long table had been set. Two large bowls graced the table, filled with fruit, which was a luxury at this time of year. At the center of the table sat Carson Beal in a chair that was fit for a king, and as they approached—hurried along by Dougal and two of his companions—Carson looked at Lizzie’s gown and rolled his eyes.
“You are your mother’s child, as contrary as the rose that blooms in winter,” he said when they reached the table.
“You’d no’ have me look the harlot, would you?” Lizzie asked. “And besides, I am in mourning still, which makes this gown perfectly appropriate.”
“No’ for a celebration.”
“I’m no’ celebrating.”
Carson grunted at that; Lizzie looked around them and asked, “This is a wedding feast, is it no’? What would you force us to do now, Uncle? Dance around like marionettes?”
“Sit,” Carson said, his eyes narrowing on his niece. “’Tis no’ a wedding feast, you foolish lass! Your clan has come from as far away as Aberdeen to wish you well.”
“Aberdeen?” Lizzie echoed, clearly surprised. Her brows knit as she glared at her uncle. “Just how long have you been planning this?”
Carson stood and pulled out a chair for her. “I am still your laird and your uncle. Now sit, Lizzie.”
With a snort of disdain, Lizzie sat.
Jack took a seat next to her.
“Now then,” Carson said. “When we’ve received the felicitations of your clansmen, we shall join the games in the lower bailey.”
“Aha!” Lizzie cried. “It is a wedding feast!”
“Diah,” Jack said, with a wave of sympathy for all the Beal grooms who were forced to endure three days of this.
Beal caught Lizzie’s hand and forced her attention to a young couple who stood across the table, beaming at her.
Jack settled back for what he thought would be a long, drawn-out affair of greeting the clan members. He was not wrong. A steady stream of them approached the table, offering traditional good wishes, as well as a few ribald ones, to the happy couple. Almost all of them assured Jack and Lizzie that they would find conjugal bliss and would want to make their union official in a year and a day.
It was the height of insanity, Jack thought. Who among these fools actually believed that he and Lizzie would be anywhere near each other in a year’s time? Even if Jack could not find his way out of this mess, he would cry off—marriage was not for him. His parents had had a rotten marriage, and he would not subject himself to such unhappiness.
Lizzie endeavored—earnestly—to assure anyone who would listen that this ridiculous and illegal handfasting would never last, and that she’d never agreed to it.
Jack, on the other hand, smiled and spoke when spoken to but spent his time fantasizing about his return to civilization. London. Necessity would dictate he begin with a call to the prince to disabuse him of any lingering doubts about Jack’s innocence. Better yet, he’d have his good friend the Duke of Darlington go and make his case beforehand—and then he’d perhaps host a ball to announce this return to society. Ah yes, he thought idly as he peeled an apple with the little dirk he’d managed to coax from Lizzie in between her impassioned speeches, there would be a new crop of lovely debutantes—
“Ouch,” he said, the moment her heel made contact with his ankle under the table. He turned a murderous gaze to Lizzie, who smiled sweetly and nodded to her right.
Jack looked to his right. The chambermaid was at a sideboard, refilling pitchers of water.
“Milord, would you be so kind as to bring me a cup of water?” she purred.
“There is water at your elbow,” Jack said, nodding to the cup.
Lizzie’s lovely winged brows dipped into a frown. “But I should like fresh water. From that pitcher,” she added, looking pointedly at the chambermaid.
“Ah,” Jack said, remembering his task. “Very well then.” He gained his feet. “You will excuse me, Laird,” he said over Lizzie’s head, “if I fetch my lovely bride-to-be a cup of fresh water?” He did not wait for Carson’s permission, merely smiled at Lizzie’s glare, and began striding in the direction of the chambermaid.
The maid gave him a tremulous smile as he joined her at the sideboard. He stole a sidelong glimpse of Lizzie; she was speaking to another woman, but her eyes were on him. He smiled charmingly at Lizzie, then turned that smile to the chambermaid. “Madainn mhath,” he said, greeting her.
“Madainn mhath,” she muttered as a blush spread from her neck to her cheek.
Jack glanced around at the people milling about. “Quite a crowd, aye?”
“Aye, milord,” she said shyly.
“A man can work up quite a thirst,” he sighed, and glanced at the water. Would that there were something a bit stronger, such as whisky. He guessed Carson Beal had a store of fine whisky stashed somewhere in this drafty old heap of stones.
“Shall I pour you a cup?”
“Two, please,” Jack said.
The chambermaid picked up the pitcher. It slipped in her hand; Jack caught it with one hand on her elbow, the other beneath the pitcher. The maid looked up at him with widened brown eyes.
“Thank you…what is your name?”
“Brigit, milord.”
“Brigit,” he said, nodding as if he found that much to his liking. “Brigit…may I make a personal inquiry of you?”
Brigit nodded, her gaze locked on his.
“Do you,” he said softly, pausing to caress her elbow with the pad of
his thumb, “perchance know the lad Lachlan?”
She nodded again.
Jack smiled and gave her elbow a gentle squeeze. “Lovely. Could you send him round to me, then?”
She swallowed; her gaze flitted to Carson Beal.
“Donna fret about him,” Jack said reassuringly. “You’ll send the lad round, aye?”
“Aye,” she murmured.
“There’s a good lass,” he said, and took his hand from her elbow, picked up two glasses, and nodded, indicating she should pour. When she’d filled the cups, he winked at her and turned back to the dais.
He hoped he was correct in assuming that Lachlan would run a small errand for a half pence. Contrary to what little Miss Lizzie might believe, Jack was not in the habit of seducing young maids for nefarious purposes. And, as luck would have it, Carson had taken his weapons, but he’d not taken his purse.
“We came down from the hills to the village ye ken, on a pair of mules me old father had borrowed from the Camerons. Ach, but ye’ve no’ seen a sight such as that, lass…. ‘”
Old Mr. Mungo Beattie was chatting up Lizzie about his own handfasting, which, Lizzie could only surmise, given his ancient age, had occurred five hundred years ago when perhaps handfastings were legal.
“’Twas a Wednesday, it was…No, no, now, I’ve misspoke. A Tuesday, it was.” He paused and pressed a finger thoughtfully alongside his nose. “Now, there I’ve misspoke again. ’Twas a Wednesday, for Tuesday we’d had a spot of rain….”
As Mr. Beattie nattered on, Lizzie watched Jack from the corner of her eye. He is standing awfully close to the maid, is he no’? she thought. The hand on the elbow might be the way things are done in London, but here it is too bold…. Really, look at how she smiles at him! Ah, but she’s a blessed fool if she is charmed as easily as that! It’s no’ but a wee bit of flirting, for heaven’s sake! Can she no’ see him for what he is? He’s a roué, wanted for something so awful that he might very well be hanged! Will you be looking at him so moon-eyed when he swings on the end of a hangman’s noose?
“Wednesday,” Mr. Beattie said emphatically. “And I recall to this day the color. It was dove gray—nay, nay, it was blue. Aye, blue, it was,” he said, scratching his chin. “A blue blanket beneath her saddle, a gift from our laird….”
How long does one need to send a chambermaid on an errand? Perhaps he might handfast himself to her when I’ve rid myself of him. Aye, bind yourself to her, then!
“…and the vicar was a wee little man, no more than knee high, on me honor. Smallest man I ever did lay eyes on, that he was. But he knew the ceremony well enough, I suppose, for he bound us together like the feet of a dead hen left to drain….”
Lord help me! Had I known he’d intended to court the maid, I’d no’ sent him, would I? I’d have gone myself! I could walk to Thorntree and back by the time he finishes his bit of flirting—oh, dear. Lizzie! What in heaven’s name is the matter with you, then? Why should you give a fig what he’s about? In a few days’ time you’ll never see him again or remember his name.
She turned back to Mungo Beattie and smiled. Let him marry the wench if he so desires.
“Did I already say that?” Mungo said, looking confused. “I canna rightly recall now.”
“You did,” Lizzie said kindly, having lost track of his tale completely.
“Ah. Well,” he said with a shrug, “no point in repeating myself, then, aye? The point is this, lass, that if yer marriage prospects are whittled down to the point a lowly handfasting is the best ye might hope for, ye must no’ despair, for a handfasting might well lead ye to the best years of yer life. I’ll tell you a wee secret—love comes from the most unlikely places when ye are least expecting it.”
Lizzie smiled thinly and clasped her hands together, squeezing them tightly in her lap to keep from saying anything that might alarm the old Highlander. “Thank you for your kind thoughts, Mr. Beattie.”
“Me pleasure,” he said with a flick of his wrist. “Here’s one last piece of advice I’ll offer ye. If ye want him to treat ye like a man ought to treat the woman he loves, then keep him well fed, and well loved, but above all, let a man be a man, aye?”
She had no idea what that meant but smiled and nodded all the same. As Lizzie watched him wander off, a touch to her arm startled her. Jack reclaimed his seat beside her.
“Well?” she demanded.
“Do you honestly expect me to divulge my intimate conversation?” he asked with a lopsided smile.
Oh, how he vexed her! “Did you do it?” she whispered impatiently.
“Aye.”
“You’re quite certain?”
“Lizzie,” he said with an exceedingly warm laugh, and leaned forward, so that his face was only inches from hers, his lips only a breath from hers. He casually stroked her arm with his finger. “I am Jack Haines, no? The deed,” he said, his gaze drifting down to her mouth, “is bloody well done.”
There it was, that indescribably strange warmth flowing through her. She looked away and said pertly, “Well, then! You’ve proven yourself useful after all, milord.”
“Jack. Aye, but that was child’s play, lass. I look forward to demonstrating my particular use the day you ask for it politely,” he said, and grinned in a way that made Lizzie feel light-headed.
“I would no’ hold my breath, were I you,” she murmured.
“I regret that I must interrupt your private conversation, lovebirds,” Carson said, startling them both by suddenly leaning over Lizzie’s shoulder, “but it is time that the games begin.”
“Games?” Lizzie echoed absently, her gaze still on Jack’s mouth.
“Aye, the games to celebrate your handfasting. Stand up now.” He stood and announced that the earl would take challenges, which, judging by Jack’s dark frown, was not the sort of game he was expecting.
Charlotte saw Lachlan walking toward the house through the field where they grazed the dairy cows, his hands shoved in his pockets, his hat pulled low over his eyes. The lad did not look as if he even noticed where he was stepping. When she realized he meant to come to the front door, Charlotte twisted in her seat as far as her useless body would allow. “Mr. Kincade!” she cried. “Do no’ let the ragamuffin in the door! He’s up to his ankles in…in mud!”
Mr. Kincade did not answer. She heard voices and watched the door. When it opened, Newton strode through.
With a groan of exasperation, Charlotte gestured for him to move away from the door.
“What is it, lass?”
“Please move away, if you can manage it,” she snapped, just as Mr. Kincade entered the room. Behind him was Lachlan. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Charlotte cried.
“Master Lachlan to see you, mu’um,” Mr. Kincade said, coming to a halt and assuming his perpetual bend to the right at the waist, the result of a particularly bad back.
“Master Lachlan,” Charlotte said sternly, “look at your feet! You’ve tracked mud into the room, have you no’?”
Lachlan looked curiously at his feet. “Aye,” he agreed. “Beg your pardon, Miss Charlotte.”
That did not appease her. “What has Carson done with my sister?” she demanded.
“Woman, curb your tongue. He’s but a lad,” Newton said gruffly.
“I am aware he is a lad, Highlander, but he is also Carson’s ward.” She shifted a narrowed gaze to Lachlan. “What has he done with her?”
Lachlan shrugged. “I donna know, Miss Charlotte.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because the earl give me a halfpence to deliver a message to you,” Lachlan said, moving around to stand where Charlotte could see him without twisting about.
“Who?” Charlotte asked, confused.
“The earl,” Lachlan repeated.
The earl! Such nonsense! Charlotte looked him up and down. Behind Lachlan, Newton rolled his eyes. “Take off your hat,” she commanded.
Lachlan quickly doffed his hat.
“Now then, let us beg
in again. Who is this earl?”
“Donna remember his name,” Lachlan said. “But he’s the one that married Miss Lizzie.”
Charlotte gasped. And then she couldn’t draw a breath, and instantly put a hand to her heart to see if it was still beating.
“He said I’m to tell you that Miss Lizzie is quite all right and you’re no’ to worry,” Lachlan continued, undisturbed by her dramatic reaction.
“What?” Charlotte cried. “Are you deranged, lad? Do you think it is somehow humorous—”
“Miss Beal,” Newton said firmly.
But Charlotte was outraged. It was obviously some sort of cruel joke, Carson’s idea of intimidation.
And it was working brilliantly. Charlotte felt as impotent as she’d ever felt since the accident. She was exposed and helpless, and she wasn’t even aware that she was beginning to breathe strangely until Newton put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it.
“Thank you, lad. You might be on your way, then,” he said in an authoritative voice that riled Charlotte even further.
“Aye,” he said, already moving for the door.
“Wait!” Charlotte exclaimed. “Where is Lizzie?”
But Lachlan was already at the door.
“Come back here, young man!” Charlotte shouted, but the mountain that was Newton blocked her view of the door.
She collapsed against her chair as tears filled her eyes. What would she do? What could she do?
Newton eased himself into a chair near her, and Charlotte cried out in anger. She waved her hand at him. “Leave me!”
“She is no’ officially married,” he said calmly. “She was handfasted to him.”
It took a moment or two for the meaning of that word to penetrate Charlotte’s anxiety. “A handfasting?” she repeated slowly.
Newton nodded.
She impatiently motioned that he should continue, and quickly. And Charlotte sat in silent disbelief as the bear explained that Lizzie had been handfasted to the Earl of Lambourne when he had become…available.
When Newton finished, Charlotte had a single, overriding thought—if she had a gun, she would shoot Carson first, Newton second.
Julia London - [Scandalous 02] Page 6
