by Julia London
So Fiona amused herself for a time by counting the various crates and sacks and bundles surrounding her. When she tired of that, she thought of Sherri, hoping that she’d walked miles and miles before Mr. Ridley found her, but then began to fret that Mr. Ridley hadn’t found her, and that Sherri was wandering about the countryside, the potential victim of any number of predators.
After a time, she tried to lie on the bench, but every bump in the road required her to catch herself from falling.
Fiona finally sat up. This was really not to be borne. There were only the two of them, separated by a thin sheet of tarpaulin. Why should they pretend not to be in one another’s company? Because she was a lady and he was a— Honestly, she wasn’t precisely certain what he was, other than a very virile man, but he was a man who was a stranger to her. It wasn’t as if the rules of society had to be obeyed on this road or really beyond Edinburgh. They were two people traveling through a landscape so vast and remote that it was possible to believe they were the only two people in all the world.
Fiona twisted on her seat and looked at the tarpaulin, pulled taut over the wire frame. She leaned forward, saw where the tarpaulin was attached to the wagon, and gave it a pull. “Stop,” she said, her voice barely audible above the creaking and moaning of the wagon and its wheels. “Stop!” The wagon pitched along. “Stop!” she cried, and hit the tarpaulin with the flat of her palm. “Stop, stop, stop!”
The wagon lurched to a sudden halt, propelling her into the tarpaulin and back again, then tilting to one side as Mr. Duncan climbed off the bench. Fiona had scarcely turned herself around on her little bench when he appeared at the back of the wagon, looking at her through the opening as if he expected her to be bleeding. When he saw that she wasn’t hurt, the expression in his eyes melted into impatience.
“I canna’ abide riding in the bed of the wagon all day,” she said in response to his question before he could ask it. “I should like a proper airing.”
“An airing?” he echoed incredulously.
“Aye, an airing! Is it really too much to ask?” she demanded as she made her way forward. She tripped on the corner of a bag of grain and quickly righted herself. “It’s dangerous in here!”
“Mi Diah,” he cursed softly.
It had been some years since Fiona had heard Gaelic spoken, and it made her pulse leap a bit—there was nothing that brought her back to Scotland and home faster than the language of the Highlands. She’d grown up with Gaelic spoken around her, particularly by her father, who insisted she and Jack learn how to read and write it along with the languages of society and court, English and French, which they spoke every day.
Duncan’s speaking a bit of Gaelic now drew her to him like a magnet; she paused, looking down at him. “There are only the two of us, Mr. Duncan, and it seems rather pointless to continue on in complete silence, does it no’? I, for one, would prefer some company.” Even if he was the most taciturn man she’d ever met.
He sighed as if he was vexed beyond endurance—but he held up his hand to help her down.
Fiona smiled triumphantly, slipped her hand into his, and felt his thick fingers close tightly around hers. She slid one foot off the end of the wagon, looking for the undercarriage. But her foot missed it and she slipped; Duncan let go of her hand and caught her around the waist. Her fall was stopped by his unmovable body. He held her there, his eyes piercing hers. After a moment, he allowed her to slide, very slowly, down the length of him to her feet.
The contact was brief, but the effect was entirely intoxicating. This man was as hard-bodied and big as a tree, his grip as firm as a vise yet surprisingly gentle.
Fiona’s body was tingling all over. She stepped away, drew a quick but steadying breath, and glanced over her shoulder at him. Duncan’s startling gaze was filled with the look of a man’s hunger, a look of gnawing desire—Fiona knew it, because regrettably, she was feeling it, too.
A warm flush filled her cheeks, yet she pulled her cloak around her and adjusted her hood. “The air will do me good,” she said, apropos of nothing but a suddenly pressing need to fill the silence that seemed to crackle around them. She did not look at him, did not give him the chance to argue, and began walking to the front of the wagon.
Fortunately, there was a wooden step to help the driver up, of which Fiona availed herself. She settled on the driver’s bench, looking straight ahead, waiting for Duncan to ask her to come down, to go back into the little cave.
She heard nothing. She looked up at the trees towering above them and the stone gray sky, breathing in the heavy scent of pine. When she at last risked a look at him, she discovered he wasn’t even there. But he appeared a moment later with a pair of furs tucked up beneath his bad arm. He pulled them out and tossed them up onto the bench. Fiona quickly moved them, spreading them over her lap while Duncan lifted himself gracefully onto the bench.
He did not look at her; he picked up the reins and wrapped them around his bad hand, then reached across himself to release the brake. With a whistle and a hitch of the reins, he sent the horses to trotting once more.
Fiona could not help but smile to herself. She’d put herself in a terribly shocking situation. Look at her, a woman who dined at the queen’s table, riding on a wagon’s bench with a servant or tenant of some sort! She could imagine herself relating this tale to the royal princesses, who would be all agog as they tried to imagine riding in a wagon in the company of a man they did not know.
Especially a man as enigmatic as Duncan. She stole a glance at him; he kept his gaze to the road. His eye creased in the corner with his squint; his jaw was square and strong. He had the growth of a beard that showed above his scarf that made him look even wilder than she imagined him to be. None of the gentlemen in London looked like this. None of them had so much as a curl out of place. None of them could handle a team of four with one hand, or catch her in one arm and hold her so effortlessly. . . .
Stop. This was insanity.
“Do you think we might reach Blackwood today?” she asked in an effort to make idle conversation that would take her mind from him.
“Aye.”
She spread her hands on her lap and looked at her fur-lined gloves, a gift from her aunt. “It seems a wee bit colder here than in London,” she remarked. “I didna remember it being quite so cold as this.”
He said nothing.
“Are you no’ cold, sir?”
“No.”
“Then your cloak must be a fine one indeed. Mine is lined with fur, yet still I feel a chill. When I was a girl, I never felt the chill. Then again, I was quite active, always out-of-doors, engaged in games with my brother. My father was of a mind that physical exercise was good for the body’s humors.” She looked at him for a response.
He kept his gaze on the road.
“What of you? Were you an active lad, then?”
He gave her a look that clearly indicated he found her prattle tiresome.
So did she, truthfully. But she had to talk. If she didn’t speak, she would dwell on the closeness of his deliciously masculine body, eyes the color of tea leaves, and unspeakable things. “Perhaps you were put to work at an early age,” she suggested. “Our housekeeper had three sons who worked alongside her. I shall never forget the sight of Ian standing on his brother’s shoulders to light the candles in the chandelier, as steady as you please.”
Duncan turned his head and seemed to be looking at the trees as they passed them.
“I was always rather fond of Ian, in truth. He was a very likable lad. I have no’ the slightest notion what has become of him, as I’ve no’ been home in some time.” She paused. “Eight years it is now.”
Duncan gave her a passing glance before turning his attention to the road again.
Fiona shivered. “No doubt you are wondering why I’ve been in London all this time, but it’s all rather complicated. There are times I long for Scotland, but then again, there’s little for me here.” She laughed. “I’d be living in my
brother’s home, Lambourne Castle, which, I can assure you, would be a trial. No one likes to be beholden, do they?” She looked at Duncan. “And besides, I should no’ admit it, for he’s my blood, but my brother is a wee bit of a rogue, he is, and always has been.” She smiled and looked forward again. He was a rogue, but she loved him dearly. “I followed him to London,” she announced, as if her mouth was suddenly connected to her thoughts. “Our parents were gone, and he’s my only family to speak of, really, save my aunt and uncle, but they are getting on in years, aye? I wanted to be close to Jack.”
For some reason, Duncan glanced at her when she said this.
“And now he’s the reason I’ve come back to Scotland,” she admitted, as if Duncan had asked her why. “I fear he’s gotten himself into awful trouble in London,” she added with a soft shake of her head. “Shall I tell you what he’s done? No, no . . . I should no’. The less you know, the better, I suspect. But if he’s no’ at Blackwood, I donna know what I shall do.”
She realized that Duncan was looking at her curiously and she smiled. “He may be a rogue, but he’s always been right good to me. That’s why I followed him to London. Oh, aye, I suppose I would have remained here had there been any real prospects for me,” she continued, as if Duncan had inquired. “Society is rather small in the Highlands, is it no’?” she asked, thinking of her own coming-out. How many had been in attendance—perhaps one hundred people? That seemed so small in comparison to London gatherings, particularly those hosted by the Prince of Wales, which numbered well into the hundreds.
“It’s no’ that I had no prospects,” she added hastily with another shiver. “I had a few.” If one could count Mr. Carmag Calder a true prospect. He was a studious young man, interested in the Greek classics, and could name all of the Greek deities, which he had done for Fiona on more than one occasion. She admired him for his scholarly pursuits, but she’d also found conversation with him awfully dull.
Which, for some inexplicable reason, she decided to share with her driver. That, as well as some other startling moments in her life—such as the day she fell from the window at Lambourne Castle and broke her arm. And the night she was introduced to the Prince of Wales for the first time and couldn’t help but marvel at how intricately and perfectly his neckcloth had been tied. It was precise in a way that defied human nature, and she’d pictured a bevy of valets working on that neckcloth—until Jack nudged her with his elbow to make her stop gaping at the prince.
A hard dip in the road shook her and made her realize that she was indeed prattling on, and she suddenly felt rather silly sitting next to this man, speaking so openly about her life.
She watched the bare tree limbs that passed along over their heads for a moment, and then asked, “Have you been to London?”
“Once or twice.”
She waited for him to say more. I liked it very much or London is very crowded. But he said nothing. “Really, Mr. Duncan, I beg of you, please do stop nattering on!” she said. “Your endless chatter is beginning to wear on my poor nerves.”
She could see the skin around his eye crinkle. He was smiling.
“I’ve been to London, but that was several years ago,” he admitted.
“Aha!” she said brightly. “You are indeed capable of conversation!” He sounded, she thought, as though he belonged to the gentry. He was a tenant, she guessed—not a servant. She folded her arms tightly around her.
“Move closer,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“Move closer,” he said again. “You are cold. Sit close to me for warmth.” When she made no move to do so, but gaped at him, he put his arm around her waist and pulled her closer to him.
Fiona made a sound of surprise; he removed his arm.
But that didn’t remove the feeling of him. Their bodies were touching, her shoulder to his arm, her thigh against his large one, her lower leg against the smooth leather of his boot. She was aware of every inch of their bodies that came together. She did indeed feel warmer; in fact, she felt a deep warmth at the very core of her begin to spread, sliding out to her fingers and toes and tingling across her scalp.
It took her a moment to notice her fingers were digging into her palms.
Duncan glanced at her, and Fiona would have sworn he knew precisely the titillation she was feeling, because his eye seemed to glow with it. “Continue, then,” he said.
“Beg your pardon?”
“You were telling me of your life. Carry on, if you will.”
“Oh!” Her face felt flushed. She must sound perfectly absurd to him. “There’s really very little to say, actually. My life has been utterly uneventful.” She looked at him. “What of you, sir? How long have you been at Blackwood, if I may ask?”
She felt an almost imperceptible stiffening in his body and rather imagined it was because conditions at Blackwood were as bleak as she imagined, being under the thumb of such a reprehensible laird. He probably treated his tenants with complete disdain, walking over them as if they were objects instead of people and demanding exorbitant rents, whereas she had always taken care to treat her servants admirably. If Sherri were here, that bloody stupid girl, she would vouch for Fiona’s fair treatment, she was certain.
She looked at Duncan. “It’s quite all right—you may speak freely, you know,” she said. “I am well acquainted with the character of your laird,” she said with a slight roll of her eyes.
Duncan looked as if he wanted to inquire, but being a Buchanan man, he just clenched his jaw and stared straight ahead. Highlanders were notoriously loyal.
“Tell me, Duncan, is Mrs. Nance still in the laird’s employ? I—”
Her question was lost when the wagon hit something hard, sending it skidding behind the team and riding very rough.
“Ho, there, ho, ho!” Duncan shouted at the horses, reining hard. When he’d pulled the team to a stop, he quickly unwrapped the reins from his left hand and jumped off the bench in one fluid movement. He strode around the back of the wagon and around to Fiona’s side. With his hand on his hip, he stared down at the wheel, then muttered a Gaelic oath that, fortunately, Fiona could not make out.
“The wheel is damaged,” he said with a hard kick to the offending wheel.
She gasped and leaned over, bracing herself against the wooden armrest as she peered down at the wheel. She could see one of the spokes jutting out, perpendicular to the wheel. “Oh no.”
Mr. Duncan squatted down to have a closer look. Fiona could only see the crown of his hat and the wide rim. The hat was dark brown, and when the first fat snowflake fell and landed on the brim, it was so large it made her think of dandelions. But when another followed it, and another, she looked up to see that snow had indeed begun to fall.
“Oh, look!” she said with all the brightness one typically feels at the sight of new snow. “It’s begun to snow!”
Duncan lifted his head and looked up at the sky and said something in Gaelic that, if Fiona’s memory could be trusted, was loosely translated to mean Bloody, bloody hell.
Chapter Six
The sight of the broken spoke was bad enough, but when snow began to fall, a very bad feeling invaded Duncan. It likely would be impossible to reach Blackwood by nightfall now. Frankly, he feared they would not reach any place by nightfall.
He sent Fiona into the trees to gather wood before it became too wet from the snow in the event they needed to build a fire. He had her stack it in the back of the wagon, under the tarpaulin awning. He was both amazed and relieved that she did not argue, but only voiced her opinion that she was being sent on a fool’s errand so that she’d not be underfoot while he tried to repair the wheel, and went off cheerfully to do as he’d asked.
She wasn’t wrong. It was difficult enough to repair a spoke in the wheel cog, particularly when one arm refused to cooperate. It took him much longer than it would an able-bodied man, and as a result, the lady had stuffed the wagon with as much wood as she could find without wandering too deep into the wo
ods, and was now sitting on a rock beneath the bows of a towering Scots pine. From his position on his back beneath the wagon, where he was working to force a spare spoke into the fittings on the wheel, Duncan could see a pair of ankle-high boots that were attached to a pair of very shapely legs covered in thick woolen stockings. Legs that disappeared beneath the dirtied hem of her gown and cloak.
Her arms were wrapped around her knees, drawn up to the chest, and her chin perched atop her knees. She watched him work, chattering on about something to do with a ball in London. He’d been unable to follow her conversation as his attention was diverted by the task at hand and that pair of shapely legs peeking out at him from beneath her skirts.
He might have gone on all day stealing glimpses of that tantalizing view, but she suddenly dipped her head, catching his attention. “I said, I’d never been to a proper ball before I attended the one at Gloucester.”
Duncan had no idea what he should say to that and grunted. He’d positioned himself around the wheel, tucking it in between his body and his bad arm so that he could keep it from moving. With his good arm, he worked to set the spare spoke into the notches of the wheel.
Fiona stood and began to pace just beyond the wheel, kicking what was, fortunately, a light accumulation of snow. “I rather thought London would be different somehow,” she said. “I rather thought the whole of society would be different, but it’s really rather remarkably similar to society in the Highlands—what wee bit exists here, that is.”
He could not imagine that the Highlands were anything like London. Her small boots passed by his face, turned sharply, and passed again. “I truly believed there would be some sort of enlightenment in London,” she continued, one hand waving airily. “But I discovered that while there are good souls to be found in London society, there are others who can be as mean-spirited and churlish as the Laird of Blackwood.”
There it was again, her complete disdain for the man that he’d been.
