by Carmen Caine
She blurted, “You were misbehaving.”
“Was I?” he teased.
The seductive timber of his voice made her shiver. It was time to direct the conversation to safer territory. Biting her bottom lip yet again, she began, “It is my duty—”
“If you bite your lip one more time, Eliza, I will not be held accountable for my actions,” he warned.
She started, unable to look away, the raw hunger in his eyes holding her captive. He was going to kiss her. Her breath quickened as his arm tightened around her waist.
Neither moved.
A gull cawed in the skies overhead. The wind rustled through the trees, bringing with it the comforting rich scent of damp earth and wet leaves.
The pounding of horses’ hooves on the moist ground broke into the moment.
The realization that the horsemen were already upon them struck them both at the same time, and they turned their heads in unison to face the newcomers.
Nicholas arrived in a jingle of bits and creaking leather, three other riders in tow. The distinct twinkle in his blue eyes announced he’d just witnessed their near kiss and seen it for exactly what it was.
“A good day to you.” He grinned. “We’re out for a bit of hawking, my dear fellow. Care to join us?”
“Not at all,” Alistair answered mildly. “Please, as you were.” He backed his horse off the road and waved them on with an impatient hand.
Nicholas laughed, nodded farewell with an even wider grin, and trotted his horse down the road, his companions falling in line behind him. As the last horseman passed, Eliza stiffened.
Damnation. There he was again. Captain Edwards—with angry eyes and—she stifled a laugh—and a large, purple bruise on his nose. He shot her a glare and her amusement vanished. For one long, horrible moment, she feared he would stop and confront her. Instead, he stuck out his jaw and rode on.
Once out of earshot, Alistair remarked, “Captain Edwards seems quite taken with you.”
She snorted. “Hardly.” Perhaps she should let him know of the Captain’s advances last night. The man certainly deserved the consequences.
“Do you not find him an honorable, tall, strapping fellow? Rather fetching?” Alistair asked.
“Honorable?” she blurted. “He is a despicable man.” Realizing her mistake, she hurried to add, “Forgive me, my lord, I should not speak of your guest in that manner.”
He threw his head back and gave a deep laugh. When his eyes met hers once again, they were filled with obvious relief. “Please, I beg you, speak more ill of the man. It brightens my mood.”
She blinked, finding herself mirroring his smile. “Then…you do not care for him?”
“I cannot bear the pompous fool,” he admitted. “He’s a chaperone to Lady Brexley, nothing more.”
The pompous fool. Her mood shifted and she glanced away, knowing she had to tell the truth. “I was once engaged to him.” She kept her eyes directed at her lap. “Indeed, he is pompous beyond belief.”
“Were you madly in love?” he asked in a quiet voice.
She snapped her head up. “Devil take the man, but no. My father owed him a great deal of money. Truth be told, I was payment—and at sixteen years of age, I knew of nothing but how to agree.” She hesitated. “The scandalous circumstances surrounding my father’s death inspired the Captain to seek his freedom—for which I will ever be grateful. The man cares more for his reputation than anything else.”
“Ah, yes, the ten shillings.” Alistair snorted under his breath.
It took a moment for the words to sink in. She frowned, astonished. “How would you know that?”
His green eyes twinkled. “I heard this tale from your very own lips, Eliza.” His grin went lopsided. “That first night, when the highland whisky loosened your tongue.”
Her cheeks warmed.
He cocked a brow. “We’d best be off to Maidens for Lady Kennedy’s rouge, aye? We’ll make a quick ride of it. It’s not far.”
He kicked his horse’s flank, and the animal broke into a trot. Eliza threw her arms around Alistair’s neck. He laughed and urged the horse on as she buried her face against his shoulder and held on for dear life.
Ten minutes later, Alistair slowed the horse to a walk and Eliza surveyed the small fishing village of Maidens perched on the shores of the Firth of Clyde. Gulls circled overhead, riding the wind as Alistair clattered down the cobbled lane, past the market cross to the dye-shop just off the main square.
He halted before a small, stone building, then dismounted and lifted her down from the saddle. Placing her lightly on her feet, he kept his strong hands around her waist until she looked up. He really did have the most unusual eyes, bright green, flecked with gray and blue and ringed with thick, dark lashes.
“My lord.” A male voice intruded upon the moment. “A good day to you.”
With a small smile playing over his lips, Alistair stepped back and Eliza faced an old man with snow-white hair standing in the door of his shop.
“A right good day to you, Sean,” Alistair replied.
“I’ve a message for Nicholas,” the old man said. “If you’d be so kind as to tell him. He asked me to keep an eye out for strange happenings in Maidens, no matter how small.”
Alistair lifted an inquisitive brow. “What have you found?”
“It’s Thomas, my lord, Thomas Graves. You’d recall him, I’d think.”
Alistair knit his brows in thought. “Thomas? The same Thomas Graves who worked my father’s estate as a footman when I was a wee lad?”
“Aye.” The old man nodded. “One and the same, my lord, though he’s always been a worthless fellow, a rabble rouser, drifting from fight to fight.” He shook his head in disgust.
“So, what has this Thomas to do with Nicholas?” Alistair prodded.
“He’s struck it rich,” the shopkeeper answered. “A man who’s not done a day’s honest work in years. ’Tis odd. How he came into money is a mystery, but ‘twill be no mystery in how he loses it, with all the drink he’s after.”
Alistair’s dark eyes turned speculative. “Where might Thomas be now?”
“The man rides off north every morning, but returns to Maidens drunk afore the sun sets.”
Alistair nodded his thanks and turned back to Eliza. He held out his hand and told the man, “We’ve come for Lady Kennedy’s rouge.”
“Ah, then step inside, step inside.” The shopkeeper waved for them to follow as he disappeared into his shop.
The pleasant scent of wet wool and dried lavender greeted Eliza as she stepped over the dye-shop’s threshold. A long worktable ran down the center of the room, holding a collection of black iron pots and wooden tubs filled with crushed leaves and water. Discarded stems littered the floor and skeins of wool hung from the rafters, intermixed with bundles of dried flowers, leaves, and herbs. A large set of wooden shelves lined one wall, filled with rows of tiny clay pots.
Near the back of the shop stood a small table stacked with books, and one book in particular drew Eliza—a leather-bound cookery book, like her mother’s. She picked the book off the shelf and slowly ran her fingers over the cover before leafing through a few pages. Emotion choked her.
“That’s fine workmanship there, lass,” the shopkeeper said as he shuffled through a mound of paper-wrapped packages on his worktable.
Eliza looked up and smiled. “My mother had one like this.” She blinked back tears, and turning, caught Alistair watching from his position near the door. She averted her eyes. Strange. She hadn’t wept over her mother in years. She had no wish to do so now in front of onlookers.
“Lady Kennedy’s rouge.” The shopkeeper picked up a small package from the counter on the left wall and offered it to Eliza.
Accepting it with a quick dip of thanks, she crossed the room and stepped out into the street as Alistair and the old man spoke.
The scattered clouds had vanished entirely, leaving the sky a rich, bright blue. Birds twittered from nearby
trees. A dog barked in the distance. She closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sunlight on her face and the distant lull of waves breaking on the rocky shore.
At the sound of a boot scraping wood behind her, Eliza glanced up as Alistair stepped from the store, a solemn smile on his lips.
“Shall we?” He nodded toward his horse.
The thought of sitting on his lap the entire way back both unnerved and excited her, but the notion was unwise. “I’ve been enough trouble, my lord—”
He closed the argument by plucking the rouge from her grasp.
The return journey was far more intimate. Alistair’s hand rested on her hip. He walked the horse at a slow pace. She hid a smile. He behaved like a green lad with a pretty girl. But he was no green lad. He felt so large and warm around her. She found it difficult to think of anything other than the toned muscles of his thighs flexing beneath her buttocks and the warm chest she leaned her shoulder against.
“Join me at dinner tonight,” he said suddenly.
She snapped her head up. “Dinner?” she repeated.
He shrugged. “Why no’? Culzean is my home and a governess joining the dinner table is common enough.”
An image flitted across her mind of shocked dinner guests ringing the table, their mouths dropping open upon hearing her flavorful brand of French. A snort of laughter escaped her lips before she quickly cleared her throat, and said, “Not I, my lord. I fear you would regret it.”
He lifted a brow. “Why? Are your manners uncouth? How do you eat? Do you snuffle the soup?” The corners of his mouth curved upwards. “I confess, now I am curious.”
Enjoying the lighthearted turn of the conversation, she replied, “My lord, I may very well astonish you by drinking the rose water from the fingerbowls. Trust me, your reputation is the better for not knowing.”
He gave a hearty chuckle, in which she joined, but then his gaze dropped to linger on her lips.
“What of the ball?” he asked, the amusement fading from his voice. “It will be thrown in my honor at the end of the month. Surely, you cannot refuse to attend?” He shifted beneath her and his hand slid lower on her hip.
Eliza swallowed. It was dangerous to be so close to the man. “Surely, my lord, you wouldn’t chance such a thing. I fear I dance like a—”
His dark lashes lowered and he shushed her with a finger on her lips. His finger lingered a moment before sliding down over her bottom lip in a decidedly suggestive manner.
“I’ve danced with you already, have I not?” he asked in a thick voice. “You were a feather in my arms, Eliza.”
Her heart thudded wildly.
Alistair suddenly pulled rein. He hugged her close, then swung his long leg over the pommel and slid from the saddle. They touched the ground and he lowered her feet until she stood. He stared a moment then pressed his palm into the small of her back, locking her into place against him. Eliza shivered at the hunger in his eyes. She was lost. She knew it. She couldn’t resist the man. He placed a finger beneath her chin and brushed the line of her jaw with his thumb.
He bent down and whispered over her lips, “I want to kiss you, Eliza.”
“Please,” she whispered back. Please.
He smiled. She closed her eyes, at first feeling awkward, but forgot everything with the first light brush of his mouth against hers. He pressed several soft kisses on her mouth, tasting her longer each time, while his thumb stroked her cheek.
“So sweet,” he murmured against her mouth, then his tongue traced the seam of her lips.
Her mind whirled when his fingers slid along the sensitive flesh of her neck, then cupped her nape. He flicked her bottom lip, softly at first but with an increasing, yet gentle intensity that coaxed her mouth open. She shivered at the press of her breasts against his chest.
His tongue skimmed the inner surface of her bottom lip before venturing deeper. She tensed, caught off guard. Captain Edwards had kissed her before, but never like this. The man had smashed his lips against hers and she’d been only relieved when he stopped. But this? She shuddered, savoring each brush of Alistair’s tongue dancing over hers.
She melted against him. He tightened his hold and plundered her mouth. Shiver after delicious shiver slid down her spine. Tentatively, she pushed the tip of her tongue between his lips to taste him. He moaned, his fingers sliding up her neck and tangled in her hair as his mouth devoured hers. His hand slid from the base of her spine up the line of her back and pressed her hard into him. The ridges of his chest pressed her breasts.
He tore his lips away abruptly. “Smoke,” he said in a hoarse whisper. He glanced over his shoulder. “Something’s burning.”
The next instant, her nostrils stung with the smell of smoke.
Alistair dashed to his grazing horse and vaulted into the saddle as Eliza whirled, searching the sky.
“There.” She pointed to a line of smoke rising through a break in the trees ahead.
“It’s the old icehouse,” he said. “Come, Eliza.”
She lunged toward him and Alistair stretched out a hand. She grabbed his arm and he swung her up into the saddle behind him.
“Hold tight,” he ordered.
She threw her arms about his waist and pressed her cheek to his back an instant before he kicked the horse into a mad gallop. The horse leapt forward, running so fast that the trees flew by in a blur. They went no more than a quarter mile before Alistair turned the animal from the road. The horse sailed over a low hedge and raced through the underbrush.
As they neared the fire, smoke hung heavy in the air. Alistair drew rein near what appeared to be a door carved into the side the stone hill. A column of black smoke funneled through the opening.
“No! Please!” cried a faint voice.
Eliza froze. “Oliver!” she gasped in horror. “He’s inside. But how—”
Alistair leapt from the saddle, then raced to the door. Eliza slid from the saddle. Her heart nearly stopped. There was too much smoke. He would never make it out. Oliver—A sob clogged her throat. Alistair reached the door. Flames licked the doorway. Alistair yanked his arm up to shield his face.
Fear nearly buckled her legs. The flames, he was so close to the flame. Tears streamed down her face. She stumbled toward him. Alistair whipped off his coat and swung it over his head. Her heart thundered. Eliza spotted movement in the trees near the door. No. It couldn’t be. She veered toward the trees.
Oliver lunged from within the trees. “No!” he shouted, and raced toward Alistair.
Eliza whipped in the direction of Alistair. “Stop!” she shouted.
He ducked his head in readiness to dash into the smoke.
“Alistair!” she shouted as loud as she could.
He twisted and looked at her. She pointed to his right. He turned in that direction—then flung his coat aside and shot toward Oliver.
Alistair reached Oliver and swung the boy up into her arms, then crashed to his knees, Oliver sobbing. Eliza reached them and cried out at sight of a smoldering spot on the upper sleeve of Alistair’s shirt. She dropped to her knees beside them and slapped at the cloth until it no longer smoked. A raw, red burn marred the muscled flesh on his upper arm.
“You’ll live,” she told him in a matter-of-fact voice, despite the thudding of her heart. “Painful, to be sure, but not life-threatening. Thank heavens.” She suddenly felt weak, and plopped down onto her backside beside them.
A crash sounded inside the cavern. Eliza cried out and yanked her gaze on the open doorway.
The fire cannot hurt us,” Alistair said. “It will burn out inside the cavern.”
To her surprise, flames no longer tried to escape. Alistair held Oliver close as the sobbing boy clung to him as if he would never let go.
Finally, Alistair stirred. “What happened, lad?” he asked.
Oliver buried his face in Alistair’s shoulder and sobbed, “Why does my father hate me?”
Alistair frowned. “Hate you? I do not—”
�
�Not you,” Oliver lifted his head, his tears leaving trails on his soot-covered cheeks. “My father. Charles.”
Alistair closed his eyes.
Eliza frowned.
“I know who you are,” Oliver whispered, his fingers gripping Alistair’s shirt so tightly his knuckles turned white. “You’re my uncle.”
Eliza stared, stunned.
Uncle?
Chapter Eleven
More than One Kind of Fire
You’re my uncle.
Alistair sighed. So, the lad knew the truth. “Who told you I wasn’t your father?” he asked softly. “How long have you known?”
Oliver’s lips trembled and tears streaked his grimy cheeks. “My mum. She always told me my da’s name was Charles. When she…” He blanched. “He left us at Lady Prescott’s door, told us you’d come and that you were a good man, unlike himself. Said you’d see us raised good and proper…” The sobs took over then, racking his thin shoulders.
Alistair gathered him closer. So, the boy had known from the start. It explained the sullen challenges and the refusal to participate. It even answered why he’d crept into Charles’ bedchamber. What of Charles? At least he’d seen his children to Lady Prescott’s door before running off who-knew-where.
“It’s no matter, lad.” Alistair patted his nephew’s shoulder. “Fathers are the men who rear you.” It had been that way for him, anyway, with Foster.
Oliver wiggled out of his grasp. “Why didn’t you deny us?” he asked.
He met the boy’s gaze steadily. “I know how dangerous it is to live without roots. I may not have fathered you, Oliver, but I’ll be a father to you now. I swear it.”
To his surprise, the lad vehemently shook his head. “Father,” he spat, looking angry at the mere word. “No. I’d rather call you Uncle.”
“Aye, then.” Alistair nodded in understanding. Clamping his hand on the lad’s shoulder, he said, “It doesn’t matter what name I’m called. You’re home. Where you belong. You’re a Kennedy, of my own blood, and a member of the clan, and that’s all there’s to say on the matter.”
