by Lily Maxton
Kissing. No, they hadn’t been discussing kissing, but that didn’t mean that she didn’t think about it…all the time.
“What are you doing here?” Mal asked flatly. Anything soft inside him, anything warm, had been pushed down during the walk between the desk and the door. All his vulnerabilities were locked away, somewhere Georgina couldn’t find them.
“I don’t know,” she finally said. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t know,” she said again. She shouldn’t care. He hadn’t forgiven her. Maybe he never would. Wanting his forgiveness with a nearly visceral ache was ludicrous. “Why are you playing at being a teacher? Are you going to retire from thievery?”
His mouth twisted. “Why would I do that?”
She lifted a shoulder. “I assume teachers have a longer life expectancy than thieves.”
“I’ve seen comrades fall around me. I lost my entire family in one blow. I’m not particularly afraid of dying, lass.” They both paused. He hadn’t called her “lass” since he’d found out who she really was. The sound of it caused a sweet ache in her chest.
“The music box…” she started, stopped. She was unsure—for what seemed the first time in her life—of what her next step should be. Of how to move forward. “It was my mother’s. When I had smallpox, she would play it for me. I barely remember the last few days of the illness, but I remember the sound of the music box. When I was better, she gave it to me, and she told me to keep it safe for her. And I did, for years. I did, until you took it.” She drew a deep breath. “I couldn’t let it go, Mal.”
“So that makes it all right—lying to us, making us care about you…” He trailed off angrily.
“I don’t know if it makes it all right, but that was the reason. It wasn’t a lark, and I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. I simply wanted it back.”
“Was any of it real?”
She understood what he was asking, but she didn’t know how to answer. Everything she’d felt had been real. But at the same time, the situation had been so unreal, so detached from everything she knew. That kind of emotion, inexorably mixed with the seduction of freedom, heightened by the thrill of danger…it wasn’t sustainable, was it?
She settled for saying, “It wasn’t a lie.”
For a long moment, Mal looked off into the distance. “Change feels so gradual until it’s happened, and then one day you look around you and wonder where the hell you are. This land is never going to be what it used to be.”
Georgina followed his gaze across the moors. The gray sky stretched endlessly overhead; white mist was collecting in the depths of the valleys. “My brother was a soldier, too,” she said suddenly.
Mal harbored such hatred of the aristocracy; she knew he looked at them and saw the landlord who’d shown no mercy to his family. But not all of them were heartless—her brother wasn’t. She wasn’t. She didn’t know why it seemed so important for him to realize that.
He turned back to her. “Arden?” he sounded surprised. “Did he have someone buy him an officer’s commission?”
That was what many wealthier people did, but they hadn’t been all that wealthy when Theo joined the army, and he had wanted to prove himself anyway.
“No. He was infantry, just like you.”
“Just like me,” he echoed. “I doubt that.”
“Perhaps you should talk to him and find out.”
“I’d rather not waste my time.” Just then, a loud shriek cut into their quiet conversation. Mal turned. “I need to go back before they kill each other.”
He disappeared into the schoolhouse, shutting the door firmly behind him. Georgina stood alone for a moment after he left. Stood alone, and wondered if that was the last time she would speak to him.
Chapter Eighteen
“What are you doing, Mal?”
It was late afternoon. Mal sat at the little round table in the schoolmaster’s cottage. There was also a bed, a washstand, pots and pans hanging over the hearth, windows with glass panes instead of empty recesses, and a wooden floor instead of a dirt one.
It wasn’t all that bad a place, considering.
Lachlan was perched on the corner of the bed. Mal had a sheet of foolscap in front of him, and he scribbled some notes about the next lesson.
“I’m working.”
Lachlan lifted an eyebrow. “I mean, what are you doing here?”
That was a very good question.
He had his answers. Well, he had most of his answers—he knew who she was, he knew why she’d done what she’d done. There were some things he’d probably never know, but he knew the important things. And he didn’t exactly trust her, perhaps, but he believed her about the music box. He remembered how carefully she’d held it, with a kind of gentle reverence he didn’t think even the most skilled actress could fake.
So she’d had a reason. A good one, maybe.
If someone had stolen his fiddle, he would have tried to get it back, too. There was no question that he wouldn’t have sat idly by.
Which meant she wasn’t some bored, spoiled brat, simply looking for adventure and not caring about whom she hurt along the way. But it still didn’t mean she was good for him.
“Are you planning something?”
Right now, all he was planning was a list of English words for the two Gaelic speakers to practice.
But he should be planning something. He was at Llynmore. The Townsends—well, everyone except Georgina—trusted him. He could slip into the castle and rob them blind. His fingers itched just thinking of the silver and crystal and porcelain, the wall hangings, the antique tapestries. All of that money at his fingertips. He could put it to good use.
He could finally make enough for his men to have a future.
Housebreaking wasn’t usually Mal’s style. He didn’t like being closed in. He preferred open spaces, places where he couldn’t be trapped. But sheep were out of the question for the time being, and Llynmore was sitting there like a ripe Christmas goose.
So what the hell was he doing taking notes?
He put the pencil down. “I’ll think of something.” It shouldn’t be too difficult to get in there, steal some things, and get out.
And once he did, he could finally leave these last few weeks behind. He could turn the pages, like a chapter in a book, and forget all about Georgina Townsend and the havoc she’d wreaked on his heart.
Lachlan cocked his head, looking skeptical.
“What?”
“That didna sound very enthusiastic. Are you…” He hesitated, like he couldn’t even wrap his mind around the possibility of what he was going to say next. “Are you settling down, Mal?”
“No,” he said. Lachlan was still peering at him. “No. If I was, I couldn’t do it here anyway. Eventually they’d find out I’m not Rochester.” Which was the least of his concerns. “And who do you think I am—Malcolm Stewart working for a lord? I’d shoot myself first.”
If he settled down only to be employed by an aristocrat, the last year would have meant nothing. His mother’s and sisters’ deaths would have meant nothing.
He couldn’t let that happen.
He stared down at his list of words.
It seemed a shame to make his students suffer because he chafed at the idea of working for a lord, though. They were Highlanders. They were the future of this place, no matter how bleak the future looked. And they were already behind on their studies.
He could stay another few days to make sure they were on the right path. The real Mr. Rochester didn’t seem to have any inclination to appear, and if he did…Mal was used to hasty exits. He wasn’t too worried that he could leave quickly if the tardy Mr. Rochester did deign to make an appearance.
The thought that staying a few days longer meant he didn’t have to say goodbye to Georgina just yet drifted through his mind and then was pushed out again, violently.
“Is she different here?”
Mal didn’t hav
e to ask who Lachlan was talking about. They were all a little bit in love with her.
“She’s different in some ways.” He thought of the silver combs in her hair, that star-spangled blue dress, how she’d sat at the piano, spine straight and regal, exuding a confident coolness that glittered like ice.
But then, she’d always been confident. And even in camp she could be a little cool, at times.
Maybe she wasn’t that different. Maybe all of the trappings around her had changed his perception.
But that was more difficult to contemplate.
“I can’t believe her name is Georgina,” Mal said after a moment, shaking his head. “After the mad king himself.”
“Aye.” Lachlan nodded solemnly. He pushed up from the bed. “We’re all getting a little restless, waiting for you. Let me know when you’ve come up with a plan.”
Lachlan let himself out, and Mal picked up his pencil and tapped it on the desk a few times, thoughtfully.
He would get back to the business of thieving soon.
He would.
Right now, though, he had a lesson to finish.
…
That night, they invited him for tea again, and this time Mal slung his fiddle case across his back. It was a sudden urge, startling in its strength. He wanted to play with Georgina. He wanted see her cast off her inhibitions and lose herself to the music.
One last time.
When Lady Arden and Mrs. Blair saw the instrument, they both seemed delighted, and Mrs. Blair surprised him by taking it when it was offered and playing a few notes from a song. She shook out her hand when she was done, smiling.
“I’m several years out of practice.”
He learned she’d been an actress and had picked up a few songs from one of her fellow actors…as well as some other things, if her wistful tone was any indication.
When Georgina came into the library and saw the fiddle, she stilled.
Mal stilled for an entirely different reason.
Tonight Georgina wore a red velvet dress with a deep-cut neckline. A ruby pendant dangled from a gold chain around her throat, glistening like a drop of blood.
The other night she’d been stars and ice—now she was fire and heat and desire.
He might have taken her for someone who favored bold colors, but he wouldn’t have taken her as the sort to wear silks and velvets. A week or two ago, he would have laughed if someone had even suggested she’d owned silks or velvets. But she was like a butterfly, changing whenever change was required. At ease wherever she went.
He envied her, he realized. He’d never been able to accept change quite so gracefully. No, when change came to the Highlanders, they railed against it, because, whether it was called progress or destruction, they knew whom it would help and whom it would hurt.
He also envied the fabric that hugged her form. He wondered what the velvet felt like against her skin. Wondered if she enjoyed the way it slid against her legs as she walked toward him.
“Are you going to play for us?” she asked.
He glanced toward the corner of the room, where her cittern rested, tucked in its leather case. “Only if you play with me.”
Her brother was scowling from his spot near the hearth. Though Mal wasn’t sure if it was because they were talking privately or because of his sister’s dress. Possibly, it was both.
“On the cittern,” he added. “Not that monstrous excuse for an instrument.”
She frowned slightly. “The pianoforte is very highly regarded,” she said, a little haughtily.
“I’ve no use for something I can’t carry. Anyway, you’re better on the cittern. You’re too stiff at the piano.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll show you stiff,” she muttered.
“Then you’ll play?”
“I’ll play,” she said, challenge in her eyes.
He very nearly smiled. This was the woman he’d missed.
She went to retrieve the instrument, then took up a spot on the sofa, resting the side of the cittern against her lap. Mal sat beside her, the cool wood of the fiddle pressed against his jaw. He let his fingers trace along the horsehair ribbon of the bow, calmed by the smooth, familiar feel of it.
“I suppose I’ll let you pick,” he said, trying not to sound too smug.
They were different in too many ways, but they were so alike in others. She felt the siren call of the music as strongly as he did. He’d known she wouldn’t say no.
She tilted her head, the shadow of a smile on her face. “Do you know this one? It would probably be better on the piano, but I’m willing to try.” She plucked the first few notes, let them drift across the room and then go quiet, and he almost instantly recognized the tune.
“‘Silent, Oh Moyle’?” Another one of Moore’s downtrodden ballads. That man was like rain and clouds and children’s tears, all rolled into one.
She nodded.
He sighed. “If we must.”
But he didn’t really care what they played. He preferred upbeat songs, but for now, he just wanted to play with Georgina beside him. With the music reverberating through both their bodies, like a string that connected them.
For now, he wanted to pretend that she wasn’t Georgina Townsend, wasn’t the sister of an earl, wasn’t the woman who’d come into his life and turned everything upside down and then left. She was just a woman who loved music as much as he did.
He moved the bow across the strings in the first sweeping notes of the song.
Georgina came in a bit later, and it took Mal a moment to realize she was whispering the words, very softly, almost inaudibly. Her family wouldn’t be able to hear it.
But Mal could hear it. He leaned closer. She startled slightly. Their eyes met, but she didn’t look away. She just kept singing under her breath, as if she sang only to him, as if she sang for him.
Or maybe Mal only wanted her to.
It was a short, sad song; all too soon it was done, and Mal straightened as the Townsends clapped.
“You’re both so talented!” Lady Arden exclaimed. “Aren’t they talented?”
Mrs. Blair agreed. Lord Arden made a noncommittal noise.
“You play together so beautifully.” She cocked her head, considering. “You both play off the other…if that makes sense. It’s almost like your souls speak to each other.”
Lord Arden looked balefully at his wife. “Or perhaps they’re both well practiced.”
“If you want to be entirely unpoetic about it.”
Mrs. Blair stifled a laugh. “We know poetry isn’t Lord Arden’s strong suit.”
Lord Arden rolled his eyes, as if he was the only sane one among them. It was an expression Mal had seen on Georgina’s face before. In that instant, they looked very much like each other. It was a little jarring, the resemblance between the woman he’d thought he’d known and a man who owned no small portion of Scotland.
“Shall we play another?”
“Aye, lass.” That earned him a sharp glance from Lord Arden, but he ignored it. What was he going to do, dismiss Mal for impertinence from a job that wasn’t even his?
He met Georgina’s eyes again, pale above her red dress. Everything about her was bold—her impulses, her attitude, the tilt of her chin, the directness of her gaze. Even the slate gray of her eyes was striking, made starker by her dark hair and richly colored gown.
She began to play, still watching him as her hand moved deftly over the strings. And like a mortal caught by a fairy’s song, little by little, he fell, inexorably, under her spell.
Chapter Nineteen
“Do you have it?” Mal asked the maid, less than an hour later. She was showing him out of the castle, but she stopped when she saw the glint of a coin.
His fingertips still tingled from playing the fiddle. They’d done three more songs, and Mal had ended the evening feeling like he was in a daze. He didn’t know how, in spite of all the conflicting things he felt, he could still play with Georgina so easily, as if the music moved thr
ough both of them, like they were sharing the same breath.
The maid accepted the coin, and he waited while she disappeared into one of the castle’s narrow halls. She emerged from the shadows a minute later, clutching a paper bag. She looked around and then dropped the bag into his open hand.
He peeked inside. The scents of almond and sugar assaulted his nose, making him grimace.
“What is it?”
“Marzipan,” she said, like it should be obvious.
Mal had never had it, but he didn’t think it smelled very appetizing. Well, he supposed the little bastards just wanted the sugar. They probably didn’t care much about the flavor. Hopefully, it wouldn’t hurt their teeth too badly.
The maid tapped her foot. Held out her hand.
“What?”
“Cook wants her share.”
Mal sighed and pulled another coin from his sporran. “Tell her to make more next time.”
A flash of red caught his attention. Georgina was coming toward them. He tried not to notice the way the dress slithered around her hips when she moved, or the generous swell of her breasts just below that plunging neckline.
It was impossible. She could be wearing a burlap sack and he’d still notice every detail.
“You may go, Jane. I can show Mr. Rochester out.”
Jane dipped into a curtsy, leaving Mal and Georgina alone in the hall, facing each other.
“What did you just buy from our maid?”
If she was expecting something scandalous, she was going to be sorely disappointed. She moved aside the lip of the bag with her finger.
“Marzipan?”
“For the little bastards. It’s the easiest way to get them to shut up and do their work.”
“Oh, Mal.” She shook her head, lips quirking. “I thought you were better than that.”
“I’m not,” he said. “I’m the worst sort of blackguard. I don’t care if their teeth fall out, or even if they get a stomachache.”
“A true cad,” she said.
It occurred to him that there was some boundary between making polite conversation and flirting, and he was straddling it…if he hadn’t already crossed it. He wasn’t just a blackguard and a cad. He was an idiot. And still, he couldn’t seem to stop himself.
