He kissed her softly at first. When she kissed him back, and he felt her desire surge, he pressed on. Already aroused, he quickly became inflamed. He pulled her closer, closer. Christ, if only he could just get closer, strip aside the clothing that blocked his way to—
Lucy broke their connection. “You must stop. I can’t catch my breath. My heart is—”
“Banging in your chest like a drum? Aye. I can feel it beating as strong and hard for me as mine does for you. Christ, Lucy, when you rouse me like this I feel invincible.” He laughed. “Like Hercules.”
He picked her up by the waist and she shrieked. “Put me down, you brute.”
He set her down and steadied her.
“We will be married in less than one week,” she said tartly. “If you continue like this, you will exhaust your passion and leave me with nothing on my wedding night.”
“Never,” he protested.
“I can see I must ration you.”
“What?”
“One kiss a day. A chaste one.”
“That’s like asking me to live on one bite of food a day,” he said in mock horror. “I cannae survive.”
“I’m sorry it has to be this way. I know it’s going to be very difficult for you to resist me,” she teased. “But it’s for your own good.”
“Oh, aye. It will be difficult,” he said. “But not as difficult as it will be for you.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“I think maybe that you will have a harder time resisting my kisses.”
“I don’t have any trouble resisting a man who is full of himself.” Lucy turned her head.
“Oh, aye? Are you sure?” He lowered his voice and growled in her ear. “Because I think you like it when I let you feel how much I want you.”
She inhaled sharply. Not so much a reaction to his bold behavior as the gasp of a woman aroused. Disentangling herself, Lucy recovered quickly.
“Swaggering, self-centered, egotistical man.”
She marched off in a huff. Alex smiled. She was pretending.
As he undressed for bed, he thought he heard humming coming from the next room. He went to the door that connected their bedchambers and put his ear against it. Yes. Lucy was humming to herself. He spotted his boot on the floor, picked it up and dropped it with a thud. Returning to the door, he heard her lean against the opposite side.
“Lucy.”
“Yes, Alex.”
“Will you dream about me the night?”
“Perhaps. Will you dream about me?”
“Most definitely,” he said. “I’ll meet you there, in your dreams. And I’ll make love to you.”
“Promise?”
He grabbed himself reflexively. “Oh, God. I promise.”
Chapter Nine
Lucy woke to light footsteps across the carpet.
Haddie drew aside the bed curtains with a cheery, “Morning, Miss FitzHarris.”
She yawned and stretched and buried deeper under the covers. “Morning, Haddie.”
The shutters creaked, the window cracked, and birdsong drifted in. Autumn had arrived on the chilly morning breeze. Lucy sat up and watched the maid poke the fire to life.
“Since you call Mr. Sinclair, Mr. Alex, perhaps you could call me Miss Lucy.”
“Thank you, Miss Lucy.” Haddie beamed. “Good morning, my wee mannie.” She scooped Hercules off the bed and held him close to her face. Haddie had developed a fondness for Hercules, and he for her. The dog bestowed her with his kisses before she set him down on the carpet. “Will you be wanting the yellow gown this morning, miss?”
“I’ll be working today,” Lucy said with some pride. “The grey serge will do nicely.”
Anxious to break her fast and get to work, she made a hasty toilet and then allowed Haddie to pin her hair up in a simple twist under a white kertch. She held up her stays to be laced. “Not too tight. I need to move about while I’m working with Mother Flora.”
Haddie smiled, transforming her homely face into something almost lovely to look at. After slipping the gown over Lucy’s head and fastening the buttons, she stepped back to appraise her. “You look like a fine Highland lady, miss. Like you belong.”
Lucy recognized the compliment. “Em…is Mr. Alex awake, do you think?”
“Och, hours ago. I passed Himself in the yard whistling and smiling like a loon. I dinnae ken what you’ve done to the poor lad. He’s normally terrible crabbit in the mornings.”
“Crabbit?”
“Aye. Bad-tempered as a wet cat.” Indicating the dog, Haddie said, “Shall I take Hercules out to do his business?”
“I think he would like nothing better.”
“Come on, then, poppet. Let’s see what Cook has put aside for my wee prince.” Hercules followed Haddie out without a backward glance. It seemed he, too, was settling into Balforss nicely.
Lucy met Flora in the hallway and they made their way down to breakfast, chatting about plans for finishing the candles in the morning and paying a visit to Aunt Agnes in the afternoon. When she stepped into the dining hall, she met Alex’s eyes right away. He gave her a sweet smile that made something flutter in her belly.
John and Uncle Fergus were also at the table, discussing business. The men rose when she and Flora entered the room.
“Good morning, dear wife,” John said to Flora. Lucy noticed an interesting exchange between the two. As if they shared a secret.
Flora smiled back at John. “Dear husband,” she said, and lowered her lashes.
Uncle Fergus greeted them with an individual nod. He took his leave, saying, “I’ll be taking Gunn and Eagan wi’ me to Thurso. Be back this afternoon.”
John held out a chair for Lucy while Alex held out his mother’s chair and received a kiss on the cheek for his troubles.
“Did you sleep well, Lucy?” John asked.
Lucy cast a furtive glance at Alex and met his shining grey eyes again. Her cheeks heated, but she managed a breathless response. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Seems everyone had a good sleep last night,” John said, eyes flicking up to his wife.
There was that look again, that wordless connection between them. Was it sexual? She stole another peek at Alex and felt a flutter in her belly again. He stared back. The look on his face was identical to that of his father’s, lean and hungry.
She hoped theirs would be like his parents’ union—strong, passionate, lasting. Mother Flora had said her marriage to John had been arranged. They hadn’t met until the day they were married, but they had come to love each other. Somehow. So it was possible.
John ladled porridge into Lucy’s bowl then pushed the saltcellar her way. “I almost forgot,” he said. “You have a letter.” He grinned and passed the missive to her.
A letter from home? From her father? Joy surged through Lucy’s body at the sight of the folded parchment and she gasped. Surprised by her involuntary reaction, she covered her mouth. “Do pardon me.”
“Dinnae fash, lass,” John said, amused. “I thought you would be glad to see it.”
The red wax bore an unfamiliar symbol, the head of a fox rather than the heraldic shield of her father’s house. She cracked the seal, unfolded the parchment, and read.
Dear Lucy,
I have made a terrible mistake. I pray this letter arrives in time…
Before she read any more, she skipped to the bottom. It was signed: Your Fool, Langley. The pulse in her temples jumped and throbbed in time with her heartbeat.
“Bad news?” Alex asked, concerned.
“No.” She didn’t dare read more in his company. “Please excuse me.” Lucy rose from the table, and the men stood. “I’m fine. Really. I just…excuse me.” She left the dining room, saw the door to the library open, and went inside. She closed the door and leaned against it, knees shaking, hands trembling. Gathering her strength, Lucy went to the window for better light.
Dear Lucy,
I have made a terrible mistake. I pray this letter arrives i
n time. Against the wishes of my father, I have broken my engagement to Miss Whitebridge. I am come to Scotland to beg your forgiveness and earnestly hope you still hold some affection for me, wretched man that I am. Lady Sutherland, my relation, has offered me shelter and solace, so aggrieved am I that you may wed another. Until I find you and hear my fate from your lips, I will harbor love’s hope.
Your Fool, Langley
Yes. She hadn’t been wrong. Langley did want her. He had defied his father, broken his engagement, and traveled to Scotland to retrieve her. Langley had come to make her his. The tiny crack the viscount had made in her pride disappeared.
Lucy stared at the sweeping, arrogant writing so like Langley. She suddenly realized she hadn’t thought about him for nearly two days. In fact, this letter was the last thing she had expected. She should feel elated, triumphant. She could return to Maidstone Hall vindicated, marry the viscount, and gracefully re-enter London Society.
Why, then, did she feel guilty? And why was she hiding from Alex? Had the letter arrived only two days ago, she would have been thrilled, would have waved it in Alex’s face, proof she was wanted by another. Now, the letter had an oddly disturbing effect on her conscience.
The door to the library opened, and Alex poked his head in. “Is ought amiss, Lucy?”
She forced a smile and held the letter behind her back. “No. I’m fine.”
“Is that a letter from your father?”
“No.” Knowing what his next question would be, she answered before he asked. “It’s from Lord Langley.”
Alex’s eyes narrowed and the muscles in his jaw flexed. He would ask to see the letter. She panicked. Though, whether she feared his reaction to Langley’s intentions or her guilt for considering them, she didn’t know.
“A love letter?” He spoke the words through clenched teeth, his barely contained rage frightening. An image of him, face blood spattered and eyes wild, came to her.
Lucy crossed the room and tossed the letter into the fire. Facing Alex, she said, “There. It’s where it belongs.”
Even though the crease between his tawny brows vanished and his tight expression relaxed, she had to fight the urge to back away when he approached her.
“Do you have regrets about him?” he asked. He was struggling to be sympathetic, she thought. But she could detect a definite note of suppressed anger in his tone.
“No,” she said with as much certainty as she could muster.
“Good.” He gave her a hard look as if trying to read her thoughts. “Because I’ll kill anyone who tries to take you from me.”
She remembered the highwayman he had cut down, and the man he had stabbed in the throat with his dirk. He had butchered two men to save her life, but still, the hair prickled on the back of her neck, and she swallowed hard. Alex meant what he said. Given the chance, he would kill Langley.
…
Too enraged to remain in her company, he left Lucy in the library and set off in a blind fury. Some bloody Englishmen had the audacity to write a letter to his woman. And, yes, it had been a love letter. He knew it. There could be no other reason for her to throw the letter in the fire without showing it to him. Doubt hung over him like a dark cloud. Jesus, did she still want the bastard? Would she prove him false? Either leave Balforss and return to England, or worse, go through with their wedding and play the dutiful wife, all the while wishing she were married to another?
He stormed toward the stable, kicking anything in his path. “Peter!”
The boy came scurrying out. “Aye, sir?”
“Saddle Goliath for me, now.”
“Aye, sir.” Peter hunched his head down between his shoulders and ran back inside.
Alex paced in front of the paddock. If the sodding English viscount dared come for her—and he wished he would—he’d sink his dirk into the man’s heart and watch him die. He’d likely hang for it, but it would be worth the satisfaction.
Christ, what was in that letter? He couldn’t bring himself to ask Lucy. It would sound too much like jealousy, a weakness he despised. Yet, even now, he was drowning in it. He’d been infected with a mild case of jealousy once before when he’d been spurned by Elizabeth, but that didn’t compare to the madness he felt at this moment. The degree of one’s jealousy must be in direct proportion to the depth of one’s affections, for the desire he had felt for Elizabeth in no way compared to that which he felt for Lucy.
Peter led the horse into the yard, saddled and ready to ride. Goliath, named so because of his size, was the tallest thoroughbred anyone had ever seen. Seventeen hands high and a deep chestnut brown. Just seeing the spirited warmblood made Alex’s heart rate slow.
“Are you angry wi’ me, sir?”
He glanced at Peter. The boy was out of sorts. “God, no. Why would you think it, lad?”
“You shouted at me. I thought because I couldnae pull the girth tight, you wouldnae want me for your groom.” The boy’s chin quivered, and tears streaked his dirty cheeks.
Alex’s body strung like a bow suddenly relaxed, the tension evaporating, his rage dissolving into remorse. “Nae, lad, I wasnae angry with you. I think you’re a fine groom. You know that.” He searched for a way to make it up to the boy. “Here now,” he said. “Go and saddle Heather. I need your help inspecting the north pasture.”
“Me, sir?” Peter wiped his eyes with a filthy sleeve.
“Aye. Magnus and Declan are busy. I’ll need my next best man. Will you do it?”
“Aye, sir,” the boy said, the gap-toothed grin reappearing on his face.
“Good. Get yourself ready. I’ll go to the kitchen and find us some food to take along.”
He had intended to ride Goliath hard until he and the horse were lathered and spent. Instead, he and Peter strolled down the Seaward Trail toward the north pasture on horseback with two herding dogs named Raphe and Denny. Peter proved to be the perfect companion for Alex. He said nothing. Just smiled and swayed atop Heather, a fat lavender-grey pony with a sweet temperament.
The boy was no great horseman, but he had no fear of the beasts and liked being around them. Naturally, the horses sensed this and tolerated Peter’s attentions. Finding Peter was a lucky thing. Lucky for the boy, and lucky for Balforss.
Finding Peter had been a lucky thing for Alex, too. He was easily drawn to violence—the satisfaction of vanquishing the enemy, putting down an attacker, taking the life of a foe. That was why he had left the army. He was liking it a little too much. One shouldn’t enjoy killing. It was the darker side to his nature, the part of his soul that was tarnished black. Peter was the good part of him. Evidence he might still redeem his soul.
When they came upon Old Sam Crannoch’s croft, they dismounted and led the horses inside the gate to the crofter’s small unkempt yard. The door to the thatched-roof croft opened and Old Sam stepped out, stooped and withered, wearing a toothless grin.
“Hallo, Sam,” Alex called.
Sam lifted a hand and let it fall back to his side, the effort seeming to cost him something.
He took a wrapped bundle from his saddlebag. “Mrs. Swenson bid me bring you some of her honey cake. She asked after your health.”
Sam nodded appreciatively but said nothing.
“This is my friend Peter. He’s riding with me to the north pasture.”
Peter waved a hand. “Hallo, Mr. Sam.”
“You’ve got to speak louder, man. Old Sam cannae hear much.”
Peter repeated his greeting with more force.
Sam motioned for the two of them to enter. They followed the crofter, Alex nearly folding in half to clear the lintel. Inside, the air was thick with smoke from the peat fire. The room smelled strongly of a full chamber pot and Old Sam’s unwashed body. Alex was unable to stand up straight in the croft, so took a seat—the only seat—while Sam lay on the bed where he probably had been all day. Peter stood in the corner, twitching uneasily.
“Are you feeling poorly, Sam? Shall I tell Mrs. Swenson to come see to y
ou?”
Sam shook his head slightly and mumbled something in Gaelic. Peter spotted the chamber pot, picked it up, and went outside to empty it. Alex was mightily impressed with the boy’s courage, but supposed he might have removed the chamber pot, too, if it meant getting a gulp of fresh air. When the boy returned a few minutes later, Alex thanked him and gave him the water bucket to fill, as it was empty.
“I can see you’re tired, Sam. I’ll just leave the honey cake here on the table for you. I’ll tell Mrs. Swenson to stop by tomorrow. Perhaps she can make you more comfortable.”
Sam gestured with a claw of gnarled fingers, and Alex knelt by the old man’s bed. The linens were filthy, as were the clothes he wore. He must have stopped caring for himself months ago.
Sam exhaled his words on individual breaths. “Tell…your da…he’s a good…man.”
John Sinclair was a good man, but to be reminded how much his father was respected by one of his oldest crofters only made Alex wonder again if he would ever measure up. When the time came for him to assume his father’s role as Laird of Balforss, would he be equal to the task?
“I will, Sam. I’ll send Da to see you so you can tell him yourself.” He patted him on the shoulder.
Peter entered with the water bucket.
“Thanks, man. You’re a kind fellow. Let’s let Sam sleep now.”
Once they were out of the croft, Peter asked, “Will he be all right, sir?”
“Mrs. Swenson will see to him. She’s his niece, all the kin he has left in Scotland. His sons have gone to America. A place called Kentucky.”
Peter’s eyes widened. “Do they have red savages that roast people and eat them in Kentucky?”
He chuckled. “Aye. But Mrs. Swenson’s had a letter from her cousins, and the natives they’ve met thus far have been the decent sort.”
They ambled up the Seaward Trail on horseback toward the north pasture, while the dogs, eager to get to work, raced ahead. Alex spotted the flock of sheep in the distant corner of the field. When last he checked, there had been twenty-eight grazing in this pasture. Now would come the tedious task of herding the sheep out of the pasture and into a holding field for the purpose of counting and assessing their health.
Tying the Scot Page 13
