“Romantic?”
“To me, yes.” She didn’t miss how his eyes crinkled at the corners. “You think I am being silly.”
“No’ at all. I just do no’ see the romance of our phantom cat.”
“You did say he isn’t bad,” she said. “Doesn’t he only appear when things are not going well? When you or whoever is laird or heir in your family must stand tall and do something extraordinary to help the clan or estate?”
“Aye,” he admitted, his blue eyes warming again. “That’s the way of it. You listened well. I’d worried to bore you.”
You could never do that.
Everything about you fascinates me.
“And I am concerned about any scandal or hardship I might bring you,” she said, voicing her own worry. “I have made a bit of a name for myself in recent times. Nor will dealing with my stepmother be without difficulties.
“There are other matters as well.” The image of her carriage horses flickered across her mind, her heart squeezing to think of them, of how much they depended on her. “Things that I must see to, and quickly, while there is time.”
“Sweet lass…” He took her reins, urging both horses to a halt at the path’s edge. “Your worries are now mine. Anything that happens, or that needs tending, will be dealt with by me.”
“My troubles might be more than you-”
“Melissa.” He gave her a look that made her heart beat faster. “I have dealt with worse than prickly stepmothers and their spoiled offspring. My family stretches back to when blue-painted Picts ran across our territory, banishing enemies by the sheer ferocity of their appearance. In all that time, Lyongate has seen its share of trouble, as have I. From this point onward, I will look after you, and deal with any problems that may arise.”
“It isn’t just about me.”
“What then?” He lifted a brow. “Are you worried about your horses?”
She blinked. “You know of them?”
“All London speaks of them.” He looked at her as calmly as if her precious charges weren’t threatened at all, but simply grazing in a rich and peaceful pasture. “They, too, now stand in my care.”
Melissa swallowed, her heart rising to thicken her throat. Worse, her eyes began to sting. She blinked, but it was too late. His handsome face and the trees behind him went blurry.
Oh, no!
She did not cry.
Well, except for animals.
“Oh, dear…” She dashed at her cheek, embarrassed when she couldn’t stop the tears that leaked from her eyes. “I didn’t think… didn’t expect you to-”
“You thought I’d toss you over my shoulder and run away to Scotland with you and leave your horses behind?”
She swiped again at her cheek. “I don’t know what I thought, but-”
“You needn’t think at all, lass.” He leaned in and ran his thumb beneath first one of her eyes and then the other. “I will arrange for the horses to be shipped to Scotland. There is land aplenty for them at Lyongate.”
“My stepmother threatened to send them to Germany.” She shivered, the notion still terrifying her. “She said they’d be sold at a market there, that the Germans eat horsemeat.”
“They do, but they will not dine on yours.” He brushed back her hair, his words and his touch soothing her. “That, I promise you. They will be safe in Scotland, likely more content than ever before. I’ll have them gone from Cranleigh Manor as soon as possible.”
“They aren’t all there. I’ve already been trying to get them away. Five are at a safe place in Kent, Crickhollow Farm.”
“Then we shall have those five collected from there.” He made it sound so easy. “I will send a man to the farm, or visit the owner myself.”
“I meant to speak with him here.” She sat up straighter, hope filling her for the first time in ages. “He is Mr. Alan Steckles and his home is out on Hampstead Heath. I’d planned to tell Lady Clarice I wished to visit a certain perfumery. It is my favorite and she will think I wished to go there as I often do when we are in London.”
He gave her a slow smile. “So you are fond of perfume as well as aged horses?”
“The shop carries a special scent called Highland Mist that I quite love.” She wasn’t surprised when his smile broadened. “The coachman would not have betrayed me.”
“You trust Farmer Steckles?”
“I do. He has been helping me,” she explained. “He had someone remove the first five horses to Crickhollow. My plan for this trip was to offer him additional money if he’d act faster. I need the others rescued before my stepmother has them taken away.”
“You’ve paid him to keep the horses at his Kent farm?”
She nodded. “It seemed safer than having them at Cranleigh. He agreed. He is a great animal lover.”
“Then he will surely help you without further coin.”
“I did not ask him to gather them all at once.” She worried. “That will take extra men and a deal more trouble. He is a small landowner, not a wealthy man.”
“Where is he then?” He glanced at her. “I shall pay him a call this afternoon.”
Melissa blinked. Amazing how quickly he’d gone from simply dashing to someone willing to step in and help with problems that didn’t at all concern him.
“I am serious, sweet. Where can I find him?”
“His home is Frogbottom Cottage and is-”
“Frogbottom?”
“I told you he loves animals, and all of them.” Melissa smiled, drew her cloak tighter against the freshening wind. “His home is near one of the larger ponds not too far from the Spaniards Inn. I believe the pond was once a sand pit. There are many on the heath. The pond is a haven for frogs.”
“For Mr. Steckles as well?”
“I believe so. He says he appreciates the quiet out there. Along with farming, he does woodcarving. The heath inspires him, I imagine.”
Melissa started, just realizing that they’d ridden on and were fast approaching Hyde Park Corner.
“Oh, dear.” She threw a glance at Lucian. “We’re almost out of the park.”
“So we are.” He didn’t seem bothered by the end of their ride.
His brow creased. But then she blinked, and wasn’t sure. He glanced about and that didn’t surprise her. The earlier hectic of Hyde Park Corner was worse now, the crowd so thick she wondered how riders or carriages could push through the congestion. Noise had also swelled, the shouts of coachmen, hawkers, and an increasing number of ordinary city folk, tradesmen, and mounted gentlemen, all blended into a cacophony that hurt her ears.
She could only imagine what such a racket did to a Highlander.
A man who, by his own admission, made his home in place graced only by such ‘noise’ as the pounding of waves on rugged cliffs, the rushing of wind across empty moorland, and – she was sure – the patter or lash of rain.
Perhaps as well, the bah’ing of sheep and the soft crackle of a peat fire.
Heaven, to her mind.
Risking a longer glance at him, she supposed he, too, must be comparing his beloved Scotland to England’s greatest city and likely thought Londoners were mad to embrace such chaos, and to plunge themselves into it daily.
She felt crazed herself, but for different reasons.
An unpleasant hollowness was spreading through her. At the same time, she was also aware of a weight on her heart. She knew why…
She didn’t want them to part.
Somewhere deep inside, she suspected in her naked, unvarnished soul, she wanted them to swing their horses about and tear off back down Rotten Row. To gallop on and on, leaving the path to thunder past the clearing where they’d picnicked and then ever onward until they burst from the trees and found themselves magically transported to the ‘pristine remoteness’ of the Black Lyon’s distant Highlands.
It was a perfect plan.
But there was a fault…
She knew exactly what waited for them on the far side of Hyde Park, and it
wasn’t Scotland.
The truth was she could go there now, scour the teeming masses, and she wouldn’t find one man willing to stride into a London townhouse dinner, ball, or what-have-you, while wearing a kilt and all the other attendant Scottish regalia that make a well-dressed Highlander such a grand sight to behold.
And if she made such a suggestion, she knew she’d be met with scorn.
Like as not, laughter as well.
She didn’t care.
She only-
“Ho, lass, have a care…” Lucian tugged on her reins, jerking her horse away from the cabbage cart she’d almost ridden into. “We’re almost out of the worst of this mess.”
“Thank you,” she blurted, amazed she hadn’t seen the cabbage farmer.
Then again…
She waved a hand in the air. “Carts, riders, carriages, goats-” She broke off as a young boy herded five goats in front of them. “Everyone seems to be out this morning.”
Her Highlander only smiled and kept his grip on her reins, guiding them expertly out of the traffic.
“I’ll accompany you as far as the corner of the Merrivales’ townhouse,” he said, slowing their horses to a pace closer to a crawl than a walk. “You’ll have to continue on by foot.” He glanced at her. “Will you manage?”
“Of course.” She smiled as brightly as she could. “Crowded as the streets are, everyone is too busy with their own business to concern themselves with me. Though…”
“Aye?”
“Someone may well have seen us together by now.”
“I dinnae think so, sweet,” he disagreed, and his lips quirked as if amused. “All things considered, it might work in our favor if someone did spot us.”
She shook her head. “Tongues already wag about me. But I would not cause any scandal against you or your family.”
To her surprise, or perhaps not, his smile flashed.
“Sweetness, I dinnae care about your London gossips. Indeed, there isn’t much here I worry about at all.” His smile deepened. “I am no’ a man to concern myself with the strictures of English society.”
“I suspect you are more a gentleman than any man in London.”
He leaned toward her, his eyes twinkling. “I am a Highlander. That is enough.”
It is more than enough.
It is everything.
Melissa kept her opinion to herself, for he’d reined in and was dismounting. They’d reached the corner where he’d leave her. Sure enough, before she even realized what he was doing, he’d seized her waist and plucked her off the horse, setting her lightly onto the edge of the cobbled road.
“I will follow you at a discreet distance,” he said, strengthening her regard of him. “No one will know I’ve my eye on you, but you’ll no’ leave my sight until the Merrivales’ door closes safely behind you.”
“I thank you,” she said again, her heart fluttering. “But…”
She let the words tail off, brushed at her cloak, straightening its folds. “What happens next?”
She had to know.
He swung back up onto his horse before answering, the reins of her borrowed steed still in his hand.
“I will ride out to Hampstead Heath to meet with Farmer Steckles,” he said, his eyes warming as he looked down at her. “And when you and family leave London…” This time he paused, waiting as a particularly large carriage rumbled past. “You are heading back to Cranleigh Manor in two days, is that still so?”
She blinked. “I didn’t mention our plans. How did you know?”
He lifted a brow. “I thought you knew Highlanders are curious?”
“I forgot.” She smiled.
You steal my wits, see you?
My wits, my heart, my composure, just everything…
As if he heard her unspoken words, he leaned down and took her hand, lifting it to his lips. Holding her gaze, he kissed first her knuckles and then her fingers.
“You will no’ see me again until Cranleigh,” he said, releasing her hand. “But I will see you. I’ll ride along a good ways behind your carriage, using my own. Once you’ve reached your home, I will come for you.
“And when I do” – he straightened in his saddle – “you must go along with everything I say.”
“I will,” she promised.
“You must also be prepared for anything I might do.”
“I will be,” she agreed.
“I may have to kiss you.”
“I will not mind.” Her heart leapt, the feelings he stirred in her making her want him to kiss her now. “You may kiss me all you wish,” she said before she could stop herself. “I mean-”
“I will remember that, lovely lady.” He nodded, his blue eyes alight again. “Now just one more thing…”
She waited, felt the heat blooming on her cheeks.
“There are quite a few cottages out on Hampstead Heath, and good number of ancient sand-pit ponds,” he said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Is there anywhere else I can reach Steckles if I cannot find his home?”
“Well, he delivers milk, cheese, and eggs to the Spaniards Inn quite often. He stays for a meal and ale when he does. If he isn’t home, you can catch him there.”
He nodded. “I will remember that. But I hope to speak with him in private. The pond near his cottage is the largest in the area, you said?”
“It is,” she confirmed. “But you will not miss Frogbottom. It is very easy to find. Just watch for his badger.”
“His badger?”
“Yes.” She smiled.
He looked skeptical. “A man named Steckles who calls his home Frogbottom and who keep a pet badger.”
Melissa shrugged. “He is a good soul.”
“Aye,” he chuckled. “And we Scots ken the truth. Ye English are addled.”
Chapter Eight
Lucian knew he’d made an error in judgment the moment he entered the Spaniards Inn.
If he had any doubts – which he didn’t – the quiet that descended as soon as he’d stepped into the cozy and popular inn was proof enough. As were the stares every patron seemed to feel obliged to aim his way. Clearly, strangers didn’t often visit the establishment, unlikely as that seemed.
Or they’d somehow guessed he was Scottish and they weren’t fond of their northern neighbors.
He strode deeper into the inn’s crowded public room, not really caring.
No, that wasn’t quite true. He did wish he’d worn his kilt. Better yet, his grandfather’s rough-spun great plaid. And that he’d strapped on a claymore.
As things were, he was dressed no differently than any London gentleman, and perhaps that was the problem. He didn’t see anyone who even remotely resembled the gentry. The smoke haze drifting about the long, low-ceilinged taproom revealed only a motley assortment of good fellows, farmers and villagers. As well, a handful of ancients who didn’t seem to have noticed him, and a few flushed and harried-looking serving wenches dashing about with trays of delicious-smelling food and brimming tankards of ale.
Several large, shaggy dogs had claimed a place before the hearth fire on the far wall, their snores making the only sound – except the rushing wind that rattled the ancient windowpanes and seemed determined to make every timber creak like the brittle bones of a two-hundred year old woman.
No matter, the English wind hadn’t been raised that could touch a good Highland gale.
And being at home in a place where, more times than not, his only companions were rocks, heather, mist, and the sea, Lucian wasn’t overly troubled if the inn’s regulars didn’t like him.
He’d conduct his business and go, leaving them to their ale and meat pies.
So he strode on past the rough-planked tables to where a gaggle of men stood at the bar, his gaze locking on the big, burly innkeeper. The man had been polishing tankards, but at Lucian’s approach, he tossed aside the cloth and greeted him with a scowl.
“We know why you’re here,” he said, slapping his hands on the bar and leaning forwar
d, aggressively. “And you can turn around and leave now. You’ll not be finding Bagley Crumb here.”
“Bagley Crumb?” Lucian blinked.
Alan Steckles’ Frogbottom came to mind and it was all he could do not to laugh.
But Scots were known to have more courtesy than most and so he tamped down the urge and met the innkeeper’s glare with no more than the lift of an enquiring brow.
“I am no’ here seeking such a soul,” he said, not wanting to risk speaking the name aloud a second time.
He also pretended not to see the red-faced, weatherworn man in patched clothes who was tip-toeing toward the stairs in a back corner of the taproom, clearing hoping to escape to a hiding place on the floor above.
Bagley Crumb, Lucian was sure.
“Bagley’s done up and left – hours ago!” called a small, bald-pated man from his corner seat by the fire. “He won’t be going home either. Knows better, he does! We heard your lord was sending you, a fine and dandy solicitor all the way from London-town to squeeze the last coins for rent from Bagley’s empty purse.”
“And could be Bagley’s cottage will burn before your lord can rent it to another poor sod,” someone else barked. “Poof!” The man held up his hand and snapped his fingers. “There goes your lord’s chance to milk the blood from another of us.”
Lucian shook his head, the reason for his cold reception now clear.
“See here, gentleman,” he said, glancing round at them all. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else.” He turned to the innkeeper, quickly plunking a handful of coins on the bar. “Ales for everyone,” he declared. “Meat pies and some of thon thick chicken soup and brown bread I just saw one of your serving maids carry past. Large portions, for anyone who might be hungry.”
The innkeeper’s face lightened. “You’re a Scot.”
“A Highlander,” Lucian corrected with a smile. “And I dinnae have a lord, but I am a laird. Lucian MacRae of Lyongate Hall in the far north of Scotland.”
“The far north of Scotland…” Everywhere, men repeated his words, heads bobbing and stares now turning curious.
“So why are you here?” The innkeeper poured him an ale and slid it toward him across the bar. “If not to harass poor Bagley, what’s your business? Just passing through?
A Rake Like No Other (Regency Rendezvous Book 12) Page 6
