Lady Rowena’s eyes went wide, fear dripping from them in place of tears. She stumbled back, but then her eyes widened more, her nostrils flared, and she collapsed to the ground with a high keen, hands on the injured ankle.
If she was faking the injury, she had a future on the stage.
Brice passed his fingers through his hair and turned back toward the circle, as if expecting their party to miraculously appear. No, Lochaber would have seen them well out of earshot. And what had he told Brice’s mother and sister? That he said he would meet them somewhere? Had they used the falling rain as a handy excuse, created a melee?
He must have had it well planned. Lead Brice off to where Rowena waited. Get the rest of them away. Leave them here, with no horse nor carriage, certainly no car, with darkness already upon them. The rain would only have helped his plan—and in the Highlands one could almost always count on rain.
No doubt he’d be waiting at the castle on the morrow, thunder in his brows and a demand for honor on his lips.
Brice spun back to the girl. “I’ll not be bullied. Know that now. Whatever plan this is, I’ll have no part of it, even if it means your supposed honor is besmirched. Am I understood?”
Perhaps pain addled her senses, for she looked at him as though he were daft. “Plan? I dinna ken what ye mean, Duke, though clearly ye’re fashed.”
The Highlands was so thick in her voice he could scarcely understand her. Evidence of strong feeling, he supposed.
He pointed in the general direction of the castle. “Our party has abandoned us. At dusk. When you were suspiciously alone, and I led astray by your father, to where you just happened to be. Will you try to tell me it is coincidence? Because I am not such a fool. But I have not carefully avoided such machinations from all of London’s slyest mothers just to go blithely along with it here and now. I’ll not be bullied into marriage.”
“Marriage?” Her bafflement seemed genuine. Which either spoke to her naiveté or outright stupidity.
Brice took a step closer, knowing well it would cause her another moment of fear to have him towering over her. But just then, he cared more for effect than her peace of mind. “I’ll ask you again, my lady. What were you doing out there alone?”
He watched the realization dawn through the pain, wasn’t surprised when her lips parted, when her eyes slid shut. What took him unawares was the way her shoulders slumped and she curled into herself like a lost kitten. “Lilias.”
“Pardon?”
“’Twas Lilias. My father’s cousin. She said she’d something to show me, and . . . and then she pushed me. Said it was for my good.”
Brice snorted, but he lowered to a crouch. “No doubt both she and your father think it for your good to make you a duchess. But though people often mistake my jesting for weakness, I repeat, my lady—I’ll not be bullied. And if this Lilias and your father think I will be, they are in for quite a surprise.”
She shrank still more. “Of course. I’ll not . . . You should go, sir. I canna walk so far, but if ye appear back at the castle alone, saying ye never saw me, they’ll have no choice but to relent and come looking for me. And willna be able to make any demands on you.”
And were the weather fair and the darkness not already so heavy, he perhaps would have done just that. But now he heaved a breath and shook his head. “I’ll never find the path in the dark. And I can’t leave you here in the rain.” He wouldn’t let an appeal to honor force him into marriage, but his own sense of it certainly wouldn’t permit him to leave a young lady helpless, injured, and alone.
Said young lady didn’t seem to grasp that. She shook her head and wrapped her arms around her middle. “Ye canna stay with me—ye’re right that it must be a scheme. But if we’re found well apart from each other . . . Ye can go to the abandoned crofter’s cottage. ’Tis the only real shelter within a mile. I’ll find a tree to shield me for the night.”
Blast that sense of honor—it grated and chafed at the very suggestion. “Leave the lady to the elements while I rest safe and warm? I think not. But I’ll see you to this cottage, my lady, and then find a place of my own.” Or wander about in search of one until he was chilled to the bone and soaked through.
A night of which was far better than a lifetime with a marriage he didn’t want. Why in thunder couldn’t overeager parents be content to let him choose his own bride?
He held out a hand. “Come. How far is this cottage?”
“Not verra.” Her hand shook as she held it out to him. The cold, the wet? Or had he done too good of a job of scaring her?
Blast it, the idea chafed far more than wet wool ever could. Once he got her to her feet again, he fastened on a smile and prayed she could make it out in the dark. “You needn’t be fearful, my lady. So long as we are agreed that this scheme will come to naught, I’ve no argument with you.”
A fluttering smile touched her lips and flew away just as quickly. It wasn’t just her hand that shook, he realized as he slid his arm back around her waist, but her whole body. “I assure you,” she said, voice quavering too, “I’ve no desire to marry you, Duke.”
A breath of laughter slipped out. “Well now, I’m not as bad as all that. I’ll have you know that I’m the most eligible bachelor in all England.”
They hobbled a few steps, and he glanced down to find her silver eyes wide. “Ye can jest, even now?”
His usual grin found its place on his mouth. “It’s a gift.”
Her only response was a shake of her head. She indicated a path to the left once they were out of the circle, and true to her word, a cottage’s dark outline soon appeared. It looked as though it had seen better days, but the door opened when he pressed upon it, and the inside was dry . . . if it retained a faint smell of sheep.
Brice eased the lady to a seat on a rough wooden chair and headed for the fireplace. So little light remained that he had to feel around the mantel, but his fingers curled around matches, and striking one showed him tinder and peat waiting in the fireplace. “Convenient.” Had Lochaber set this up too?
“My father keeps it stocked, in case travelers need it. ’Tis a long and lonely winter up here.” Lady Rowena shifted, and a muted groan slipped out.
He got the fire going and then looked over to see she’d raised her injured ankle and slipped off her boot. Most young ladies he knew would never take off their stockings in the presence of a gentleman, but she didn’t hesitate. Even in the low light he could see the angry colors on her foot, and the swelling. He winced on her behalf—and then on his own when the rain went from gentle patter upon the roof to a full-fledged torrent.
Lady Rowena looked upward, her brow creased. “You had better wait it out, sir.”
A thought that obviously gave her more worry than pleasure. But surely such a downpour couldn’t last all that long—though the ground would be soaked now, even under the trees. He warded off the thought by poking around the cottage, soon finding a few rough-looking blankets and an oil lamp he promptly lit and set on the table to brighten the single room.
He draped one of the blankets over the shivering girl, taking the opportunity to get a closer look at her swollen foot. “We should wrap that, my lady. I can cut a strip off one of the blankets, perhaps—there is a pen knife on the shelf yonder I could use.”
“There may be a first-aid box somewhere with something better. I’ve helped fill them.”
Turning to do another search, he barely caught her next statement.
“I canna think why he would do this. He hates the English.”
“Revenge on my mother, perhaps.” There was a small wooden chest in the shadows of the corner, noticeable now with the lamplight, where he’d missed it with only the hearth’s fire. Two steps and he was able to lift the top and breathe a relieved sigh when he saw the box labeled FIRST-AID within.
“Yer mother? I dinna understand.”
“Apparently they were betrothed once, before my mother met my father. Yours didn’t much appreciate being tosse
d over for an Englishman.” He pulled out the box and then pulled out a length of bandage from within it. “There we are.”
When he turned, he found Lady Rowena gaping at him. “Betrothed?”
No surprise that Lochaber had been as silent on their history as Mother. “Mm. Though on the other hand, I can’t think, if he still harbored animosity toward us, he would want to make us family. So perhaps it is some other motive.”
She curled into herself again, turning those large eyes toward the fire. “He’d view it more as being rid of me than making you family.”
Her tone stopped him a step away. Such utter despair, such . . . emptiness. As if she were nothing, and expected to be nothing. He eased closer. Surely it was irrational, this sudden desire to soothe that welled up inside. Irrational—and foolish, besides. But there it was, and paired too with that familiar whisper that said it was more than what he wanted to do—it was what he ought.
Was this what the Lord had been urging him to, then? Helping her somehow realize her own worth?
A large task for an hour.
He sat on the chair beside hers and handed her the bandage. “You are his daughter, his heir. I can’t think he would want to be rid of you.”
But the bruises peeked out when she reached toward her ankle, and her nostrils flared. “My stepmother is with child. If it’s a boy, then I’m nothing. And even if a girl, then I’m replaceable.”
His breath eased out. He could see, from a practical standpoint, why her father would want to secure her a match before the pregnancy was known, if he were only angling for the best possible one. Men aplenty would be happy to marry an heiress, one with a title coming to her, who they wouldn’t be interested in if she were a mere daughter with a dowry.
But Rowena was hardly some dowdy old maid. Though her clothes were out of mode, she was young. Pretty. Even more than pretty with the firelight catching the locks that had tumbled free of their chignon and turning them to golden honey. With her eyes gleaming silver.
“Still, I’m surprised your father would resort to this. You’re a lovely young lady, and for now his heir. Surely there have been young lords clamoring for your hand for years.”
She wound the bandage around her ankle, down over her foot, back up. Her hands still shook, but it didn’t hinder her in her task. “The lords are all from English families. Father has never had any use for them.”
Until now. Even with revenge as a motive, it made little sense. Brice leaned back in his chair and stared into the dancing flames. “Scottish lairds, then. Surely they have been clamoring for your hand.”
Even without looking at her, he felt her stiffen, heard the catch in her breath. “One. But he . . .”
Now he turned her way again—and regretted his probing when he saw the look in her eyes. The only words he could think of to describe it were abject terror. “Not a good man, I take it?”
She spat something in Gaelic and tied the bandage.
Obviously a touchy subject. And as he didn’t yet know whether she was the type to start throwing handy items at the nearest target, he decided it best to nudge the topic slightly. “This cousin that led you off tonight. You’re close to her?”
Lady Rowena’s face softened, though not entirely. “Lilias. Aye. She’s been more a mother to me than my own often was, in those last few years. She came to the castle the same year my parents wed—her own marriage having ended with her husband’s death and a world of debt. My mother took her on as lady’s maid. Now she’s mine.”
Cousins as lady’s maids? Odd—he’d seen them as housekeepers, of course, but that was the highest position on the staff. But Lochaber probably considered any Kinnaird a cousin and had proven himself more likely to help a clansman than anyone else.
“So . . . she wants you to advance socially? Is that what this is about? Or is it—” he reached forward, caught the hand still fussing with the bandage. Stretching as her arms were, the sleeves had pulled up, revealing the bruises—“something else?”
She jerked her arm away so quickly, so forcefully that she nearly sent herself tumbling off the bench. Perhaps she had anticipated resistance from his fingers, but he’d no intention of holding on to her. Even so, he ought to have known better.
No, this young lady wasn’t one who appreciated the touch of a man, however innocent. He held up the offending hand, palm out. “My apologies, my lady, I didn’t mean to startle you.” But he wasn’t about to pretend he hadn’t noticed the marks. He nodded toward them, keeping his gaze locked with hers. “You need to get away from here. That’s it, isn’t it.”
Lady Rowena tugged her sleeves down and turned her silver eyes away. “Not like this. Lilias . . . she means well, but I canna fathom why she’d think this the answer.”
“Well.” His grin might have been forced, but hopefully it would put her at ease. “Obviously she has heard the legends of my unfathomable good looks and unfailing good humor and thought no better man could possibly exist the world over for her darling girl.”
The beginnings of a smile touched the corners of her mouth. “Ye’re incorrigible, aren’t you, Duke?”
He leaned forward a bit, the grin feeling at home now. “The word you’re looking for, my dear lady, is charming.”
“No.” But a bit of life had lit her eyes, and her lips curved up a bit more. “I’ll stick with incorrigible.”
“Oh, cruel creature, you have plunged your daggers straight into my heart.” He splayed a dramatic hand over his chest in illustration—and considered it a victory when she loosed a low chuckle.
Perhaps, if the rain kept up, it wouldn’t be so tormenting an evening after all.
Six
It was a wonder the waters hadn’t carried them straight into the loch last eve. Rowena rubbed her neck, sore from falling asleep leaning against the wall, and noted that the sound of pounding rain had finally ceased. She was as accustomed to rain as the next Highlander, but last night had gone beyond the norm. A leak had revealed itself in the far corner of the cottage, and smoke from the fire had at one point backed down the chimney and choked them.
A miserable night. Yet she couldn’t deny that part of her was relieved Nottingham hadn’t braved the deluge and left her alone with her throbbing ankle and unanswerable questions. Which only caused her more consternation. Why should she have felt so safe with him? Perhaps he wasn’t like her father, dictating to her when she could take a breath. Perhaps he wasn’t like Malcolm, forcing himself upon her when the opportunity was given him.
But that didn’t mean he was good, didn’t mean he was kind to the core. It only meant that he was too much a gentleman to show his true colors to a young lady he had just met.
What had Lilias been thinking, working with the Kinnaird to set this up?
Rowena rubbed the sleep from her eyes, knowledge hovering there beyond the question. Lilias was thinking of the possibility of a bairn, the need for a husband if it were true. She was trying to find an answer that didn’t include Malcolm.
But if she thought Rowena would thank her for injuring her and trying to force her to a stranger’s bed, then she was in for a rude awakening.
The duke stirred, stretched. And yes, beneath the wariness of him, Rowena felt a stirring too. He was quite possibly the handsomest man she had ever met. If things were different . . .
If things were different, he would never have looked twice at her. He hadn’t before this little farce, had he? A few offhanded compliments to her eyes, but otherwise he had regarded her only with suspicion. He was the type for glossy, statuesque ladies fit to grace magazine ads—was probably friends with those she had seen staring back at her in all their painted glory from the circulars.
No. Lilias may have meant well, but she was foolish to try something like this. Even were Nottingham able to be manipulated . . . Rowena was not, could not, be duchess material. And so, it was best to ensure her father couldn’t force the matter. “Duke?” Her throat sounded scratchy, no doubt from the smoke-inspired coughin
g last night. “Daylight is upon us, sir. Ye’d best go.”
The duke, bleary eyes open, nodded and pushed himself to his feet. He had fallen asleep against the wall opposite her, as far away as possible in the tiny shack. “Right. Sorry to have intruded so much longer than expected.”
“Ye could hardly go out in such rain, not for so long.” She watched him stretch the kinks out of his back, run his hands through his hair, and turn resolutely toward the door. “Duke . . . thank you. For being kind in such a trying situation.”
He flashed her a grin as if it were nothing—as if her family wasn’t trying to ruin his life—and reached for the latch. “And thank you, my lady, for not being privy to their plans, or it would have been even more trying.”
And he wouldn’t have been so kind? Probably not. Rowena shifted, biting back a moan at the screaming pain in her foot when she did. She’d have to look at it, take off the bandage, see if daylight shed anything new upon the injury. She’d wait until she was alone though. Only belatedly had she realized last night that she oughtn’t to bare her ankles before Nottingham. Elspeth would be horrified that she had, but she was so accustomed to shedding shoes and stockings to dip her toes into the icy loch . . .
“Are you all right, my lady? Your ankle?”
Rowena opened the eyes that had slid closed with the onslaught of pain and forced a smile. “I’ll be just fine, sir.”
He focused on her in that way that made her want to squirm—that way that surely saw too much, too well. But if he recognized her bluff, he opted not to call her on it. With a nod, he tugged open the door. “Farewell then. I imagine we’ll meet again at the castle.”
“Aye.” She could hear the dread in her voice. Her father would try to force a wedding. And the duke would, of course, fight him on it. It would prove an ugly scene, she was sure. One she rather hoped she missed.
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