Magnus lifted his head from his bowl, glanced over his shoulder at Lucy, then back. “This is a terrible plan, Alex. Why not reveal yourself to her? You could be sitting at her table now, talking to her, instead of staring at the lass like a lovesick loon.”
“Quiet, ye numpty.” Declan elbowed Magnus. “It’s like reconnaissance, is it not, Alex? He’s got the advantage of watching her operate when she’s off her guard.”
“I ken that,” Magnus said irritably. “But what happens when we get to Balforss, and you reveal yourself? Will she no’ be angry about your deception?”
“In case you havenae noticed, she hasnae looked in our direction once,” Alex said. “We’re invisible to women of that rank. When we get to Balforss, I’ll put on my breeks, Da will introduce me, and she willnae ken I was the man riding at her side for three days.”
Declan laughed, but Magnus looked skeptical. At that very moment, Lucy strolled over to their table and all three shot to their feet.
“Good night, gentlemen.” Her fair face displayed the haughty superiority Alex had expected.
He and his cousins mumbled a chorus of, “G’night, miss.”
She inclined her head slightly to Declan and Magnus. Then turned and nodded to him. She lingered for a moment, eyes narrowing as if trying to place where she’d seen his face before. Alex’s heart thumped hard in his chest. Bloody hell. Would she recognize him from nine years ago? When they were but children?
Magnus broke the connection when he said, “Good night, wee Hercules.” For his attention, Lucy gave Magnus a brilliant smile.
“Thank you, Mister…?”
“Magnus Sinclair, miss. But you can call me Magnus.”
“Thank you, Magnus.” She swept away from the table and headed upstairs.
Once she was out of sight, Alex punched Magnus in the arm.
“Ow.” Magnus rubbed away the pain. “So much for being invisible,” he said, looking vindicated.
Blast Magnus.
His third discovery: be nice to Hercules and Lucy will be nice to you.
The next morning, Alex and Magnus entered the tavern room after having readied the horses for their journey. He found Lucy chatting amiably with a table of British soldiers. Bloody hell. They had to be Sutherland’s men. They were the only Redcoats around these parts.
“Where the hell are Fergus and Declan? They were supposed to be looking after Lucy.”
“I saw Fergus headed for the privy,” Magnus said. “I imagine Declan is making time with the kitchen maid.”
Alex bit back a curse and strode over to Lucy. “May I have a word, miss?” Hercules immediately started barking his head off. Alex took Lucy by the elbow and led her to a table on the far side of the tavern.
“I beg your pardon.” Lucy sounded affronted. He didn’t care. “Hush, Hercules. It’s all right, sweetheart.” She whispered a furious, “Why did you do that?”
Alex ground his back teeth together and breathed through his nose. When he was sufficiently calm, he said, “I would ask you to please refrain from conversations with strangers.”
“Why? They aren’t strangers. They’re my countrymen. I was glad to see friendly faces.”
“Oh. So you think just because someone is English, he cannae mean you harm?” Alex’s words were trimmed with more sarcasm than he had intended.
“But those men are soldiers.”
“My point exactly.” Again, that sarcastic edge he couldn’t control.
Lucy pressed her lips together. Fire raged behind her sparkling blue eyes. A fire he had ignited. A fire that heated his blood.
His fourth discovery: she was a feisty wee bizzum.
At last, she said in prim tones, “As you seem to be the person in command of our party, I will abide by your wishes. But I resent your implication that all Englishmen are untrustworthy.” She handed him her wee dog. “Look after Hercules while I see to my personal needs.”
Alex fumbled with the animal wriggling in his hands. He shifted Hercules until the dog settled into a crook in his arm. Alex watched Lucy’s back as she stomped through the rear door of the inn.
“Follow her,” he said to Magnus.
Magnus strode out the door, shaking his head and chuckling to himself. Alex resisted the impulse to kick Magnus in the arse on his way out.
The dog gazed up at him with large bulging brown eyes and emitted a plaintive whine. He scratched the wee beastie behind the ears. “Good dog.”
He took a seat at a table where he could keep an eye on the soldiers. All five cast furtive looks his way. One of the Redcoats mumbled a comment, and the others laughed uproariously. Alex narrowed his eyes at them. Only another twenty miles before his party would reach relative safety inside the borders of Caithness, Sinclair territory. These soldiers would have no authority there. Until then, his party was still a target for their devilry.
The dog wriggled in his arms again. Alex removed a piece of dried beef from his sporran and offered it to Hercules. “Here. Stop your footerin’ and settle down.”
After finishing the treat, Hercules stood on hind legs and placed his forepaws on Alex’s chest. The dog craned his little domed head up, bobbed tail wagging his whole body, and licked him on the chin. He smiled involuntarily.
The swish of a woman’s skirts announced Lucy’s approach. “I suppose if Hercules likes you, you can’t be all bad.” She sat across from Alex before he could rise.
Through the yeasty miasma of peat smoke and fried sausage, he caught her delicate fragrance—salty, citrusy, and rosemary.
His fifth discovery: she smelled nice, like something one would want to taste.
He yanked his thoughts from the carnal back to conversation. “I suppose you think we Highlanders are all savages and barbarians?”
“I’m sure you care little about what I think.” In a lowered tone, as if speaking to herself, she added, “No one seems to care about my opinion.”
Mrs. Ogilvy placed bowls of porridge in front of them. “I’ll be back with some ale.”
Lucy stared down at her bowl. “What is this?”
“Parritch,” Alex said. She gave him a blank look. “Cooked oats. Eat up. It’s good for you.”
“I’m not very hungry this morning.”
He salted his porridge before taking a bite. Hercules wriggled in his lap, desperate to get a sniff. “That’s no’ for you, ye wee gomeril.” He swallowed a spoonful and stole a glance at Lucy through his eyelashes. “You didnae wish to come to Scotland?”
“I hardly had a choice in the matter. In any case, it’s none of your business.”
His sixth discovery: she didnae want to be here. Which meant she didnae want to marry him.
Lucy furrowed her delicate eyebrows. “What is your name?”
“Sinclair.”
Her eyebrows lifted and Alex was quick to add, “We’re all three Sinclairs—my two cousins and I. It’s a common name in Caithness.”
Her brow relaxed again. “Oh. I see.”
Throughout their trip, Lucy had maintained a cool countenance. He was surprised when he saw her hands tremble. They betrayed nervousness behind her thin veneer of calm.
“You neednae be afraid,” Alex said.
“I’m not afraid.” She was too quick to respond and seemed to realize it. “I’m not afraid,” she said again. “I’m tired. I didn’t sleep well.”
He ought to tread carefully. He had piqued her anger, antagonized her with his questions. He gave her a lopsided grin. Perhaps an apology might mollify her. “I’m sorry. I didnae mean to be so harsh about the Redcoa—erm, soldiers,” he said. “But I’m responsible for your safety, ye ken.”
“I will tell my fiancé you executed your duties admirably.” Again, to herself, “As he didn’t care enough to attend to my safety himself.”
Her words hit him like a blow to the chest. She was offended. No, worse—hurt. Her fiancé had not come to escort her. Christ. He was an ass. Of course, she would expect her fiancé would meet her. And he h
ad, but how could she know?
This was his doing, or his undoing, unless he ended his ruse and set things straight. If he didn’t reveal himself now, everything he said from here on would be a lie. If he told her now, as he knew he should, sparks would fly, but he could pass the deception off as a mere misunderstanding.
Conscious of the soldiers on the other side of the room, now would not be a good time to have a heated disagreement with his charge. And, in any case, she had roused his curiosity. He couldn’t resist a few more minutes of this delicious conversation with Lucy.
“Are you fashed about meeting him?” he asked.
Lucy looked up at him, her eyes sharp, hawklike. “What does fashed mean?”
“Oh, erm, fretful. Worried.”
She relaxed back in her chair. “No. My father assured me he is a decent man. He once made an oath to protect me with his life.”
So, she remembers my oath.
She tilted her head and asked, “Do you know him well?”
“Aye. I ken him.” Not a complete untruth. He knew himself very well.
“Why didn’t he meet me in Inverness?” There was no guile in her question. It was an almost child-like appeal. He rubbed at the plucking sensation in his chest.
“Erm…he’s a very busy man.” He cursed himself for saying such a stupid thing. He had just implied her fiancé didn’t think she was important enough to merit his attention.
Lucy emitted a disgusted huff. She looked down at her small hands, soft and unmarked by hard work. “Is he the kind of man who would beat his wife?”
“God, no,” Alex said, shocked that she would harbor that fear. “No, miss. He would never raise a hand to a woman.”
She heaved a deep sigh of relief. “Good.” Her lips pursed. She was preparing another question. He waited. Her questions revealed her thoughts and fears. They fascinated him.
“Is he, um, disfigured in any way?”
Alex burst out laughing and Lucy flinched. “Sorry. Sorry.” He was a heel for having startled her. “No, miss.”
“Is he handsome, would you say?”
“Dinnae ken. He looks a lot like me.” It was a reckless thing to say, but so worth her brilliant smile.
“Oh. Good.”
Seventh discovery: she thinks me handsome.
Alex tensed when the soldiers rose to leave. As they filed past, they each bid Lucy good-bye, bowing and murmuring, “G’day, miss.” She nodded pleasantly at them.
The last soldier, their captain, paused and said, “That’s a ferocious dog you’ve got there, Scotchy. Take it rat hunting, do you?”
Alex shot to his feet, blood surging through his arms and legs, ready to take the insolent bastard apart. His hand flew to the hilt of his sword at the same time as the soldier’s.
“Gentlemen,” Lucy shouted. “Behave yourselves.”
Alex glared at the mirror image of his contained rage. He remembered his father’s caution not to draw attention to their party and checked himself.
The soldier broke away first. “I do beg your pardon, miss.” He made a deep bow before turning on his heel and marching out of the tavern.
Had he been alone, Alex would have beaten the man bloody and gladly suffered the consequences. However, his primary charge was his betrothed’s safety. When he had recovered his breathing, he thought, now is the time I should tell her who I really am. But she looked far too irritated with him. Best wait.
Mrs. Ogilvy returned to their table with two tankards of ale. “Something wrong with the parritch, lass?”
“No. It’s delicious.” Lucy lied for the woman’s benefit. A kindness Alex appreciated. Only she wasn’t very good at lying. “I…I just…”
“The travel’s curdled her wame,” Alex said, offering a plausible excuse for Lucy.
“Poor thing.” Mrs. Ogilvy’s voice was laden with genuine sympathy. After she turned and walked away, Lucy mouthed the words thank you to him.
The moment felt intimate. He liked the feeling. Very much. And he would have lingered there indefinitely, but Magnus poked his fat head through the door and cleared his throat.
“I must check on the others. We’ll be going soon.” Alex handed back her pet. “He’s a bonnie wee thing.” She gave him her dazzling smile. His ears flamed. God, he hated that he had no control over that aspect of his anatomy. And what the hell would she do when he told her he was her fiancé?
…
“Bonnie wee thing,” she murmured to herself as she watched the tall Scot leave the public house. The Highlander boy who had come to Maidstone Hall had used that phrase. That’s why she had taken a liking to him.
The Highlander boy with the tawny-colored hair and freckles was now a man. A man she would soon marry. The tall Sinclair escort—he hadn’t offered his Christian name—had the same coloring as the boy. Light red, almost blond hair, and blue-grey eyes. He’d said her fiancé looked a lot like him. The tall Sinclair was very handsome. If she were honest with herself, she wished Alexander Sinclair looked exactly like the tall one. That would suit her just fine.
She lifted the tankard of ale and sipped. She’d never drunk ale for breakfast, but the brew tasted smooth and seemed to settle her stomach, or her wame, as Mr. Sinclair had put it.
Back on the road again, the wagon jolted and jostled her until her teeth hurt. Sometimes the going was so rough she had difficulty staying seated. Tiny Hercules had no easier time, rolling off her lap a half dozen times. During the short stretches of smoother terrain, Lucy thought of Maidstone Hall, her brother George, Nounou Phillipa, and Papa. Her father would be in his library, reading the paper at this time of day. Was he thinking about her? Was he wondering if she was safe? Would he write to her?
A pang of loneliness prickled the corners of her eyes. Papa said she could always go home, but how? She’d never fit in. Even if she acquired a title through marriage, she’d never be accepted by London Society. Papa had said as much. But it was clear from the start, Scotland was no place for her. These people had no manners, no sense of propriety, no knowledge of what was considered civil behavior. She hugged Hercules tighter and wondered if she’d ever find a place where she felt accepted, admired, at home.
She hadn’t slept well the night before at the tavern. The mattress had been lumpy and smelly, and she’d been plagued by a recurring nightmare in which Langley and Virginia Whitebridge were laughing at her. When she would turn to run, a crowd of faces would block her way, all laughing, taunting, making rude remarks. There was no way to escape her humiliation. Twice she had awoken, calling for Nounou Phillipa. Each time, Hercules had comforted her with his little body.
The wagon slowed to a stop. She heard unfamiliar voices. Curious, Lucy leaned out the window opening to see what was amiss. The tall Sinclair man had dismounted to talk to a family of five—a man, two children under the age of ten, and a woman carrying an infant. She couldn’t make out their conversation. They all seemed to be speaking another language. Gaelic?
Magnus stopped his horse near her window and dismounted. “It’s all right, miss.”
“What are they saying?”
“They were ordered off their land. When they refused to leave, men set fire to their cottage. The family barely escaped with their lives.”
“What have they done to be treated thusly?”
“Nothing. They’re not the first to be cast out of their home. The whole of Sutherland County is being converted to pasture for sheep farming.”
“Why?”
“Wool brings in more money than tatties and neeps.”
“What?”
“Sorry. Potatoes and turnips.”
“Where will they go?” Lucy asked.
“They’re headed for a rocky patch of shoreline called Helmsdale. It’s where many of Sutherland’s homeless end up.”
Lucy let out a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness they have a place to make a new home.”
“I’ve seen Helmsdale, miss. It’s a place of misery and poverty.” Magnus’s cold and
empty voice gave her the shivers.
The baby cried, a weak, pitiful sound. The two children looked bone thin and wretched. The tall Scot reached into a bag hanging from his saddle, retrieved a cloth wrapped bundle, and handed it to the husband. Food. The woman blessed the tall one.
His gesture of sympathy spurred her into action. She must do something. Papa would help were he in her position. She opened her reticule and counted out ten pence.
“Magnus. Give these to the family. Tell them it’s a gift from…from the Duke of Chatham.”
Gleaming white teeth shone through Magnus’s burly black beard. “That’s kind of you, miss,” he said, and strode over to the family. As Magnus passed on her gift, the tall Sinclair fastened his eyes on her and made an approving nod. Good. She’d done the right thing.
Moments later, the wagon rattled past the family, their stunned faces turned up to her. She made a mental note to tell her future husband of this injustice once she reached Balforss. Perhaps he would do something to help the people of Helmsdale. Or was Alexander Sinclair the kind of laird who treated his tenants similarly?
Chapter Three
Alex relaxed fractionally once they were well within the borders of Caithness. They stopped for mid-day meal in Latheron, a village situated at the crossroad to Wick and Thurso. After their dinner, they would head north toward Balforss. Any chance of arriving there by nightfall had passed. They would have to make camp along the way.
Lucy FitzHarris had probably never slept rough in her life. He was rather looking forward to the temper tantrum she would undoubtedly throw when she found out. His pretty bride’s protest might prove entertaining. And yet, she had surprised him, even moved him, with her generosity toward the Sutherland family. At least she acknowledged her privilege through acts of charity. That weighed heavily in her favor.
He paused inside the tavern door of the Latheron Inn. After his eyes adjusted to the dark interior, he forgot how to breathe—Lucy was talking to Patrick Sellar, Lady Sutherland’s factor. He stood motionless, his right hand twitching above the hilt of his sword while the rat-faced bastard smiled and fawned over his woman. Sellar’s dull black eyes flicked his way. When Lucy turned to look at him, her delicate eyebrows drew together for a moment. Then she turned to Sellar again.
Tying the Scot Page 4
