by Lily Maxton
“I have the luck of the devil, lass. A bullet or two isn’t enough to stop me.”
She clenched her fists against the urge to reach out and shake him. To make him see reason.
“Everyone’s luck runs out at some point. You’re not indestructible, and if you really wanted change…” She trailed off. She knew he wasn’t going to like what she needed to say.
“What?”
“This isn’t the way to do it. You’re not changing anything, you’re just aggravating the landlords, and they only clamp down harder in response. And yes, some of them can be despicable, but that’s not always the case. The Highlands have never been very fertile, and now, with so many men returning from the war…”
“I know that,” he said. “I know it’s not a simple problem with a simple answer.”
“Then you know things will only get worse. If you truly wanted to help Highlanders, my brother knows men in the House of Lords—he could ask for favors. Maybe he could help you change laws to provide more protection for the tenants. Think of the good you could do if you worked together.”
“What makes you think I would ever let myself be beholden to an aristocrat?”
“He’s not just an aristocrat. He’s my brother.”
“He’s the earl of Arden. Christ, I’m not going to ask him for favors, and I sure as hell won’t ask him to ask other lords for favors.”
“That’s the way it’s done! That’s the way to make real change, not these petty rebellions,” she cried out, frustrated. “You’re just too proud and stubborn to acknowledge it.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “And you’re too scared to go with me.”
“I am not scared,” she said.
“Oh,” he said darkly, “you are. There’s no reason for all this armor otherwise. You love me, don’t you?”
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. It felt like her throat had seized up.
“And you have to know I love you. I tried to tell myself I came after you because I wanted answers. I tried to believe it. But that was a flimsy excuse. I wanted to see you again. That was all. I just wanted to see you. I missed you, when you left.”
Georgina’s eyes burned. “I missed you, too,” she whispered miserably. “But I don’t think…I don’t think—” Her voice broke. “If I go with you…I know how this will end.”
Mal turned away from her, and she wanted to cry out, she wanted to call his name, but she didn’t know what good it would do. Everything she’d said was true. And Mal could be so much more, he could do so much more than he thought—but he wasn’t going to accomplish anything unless he learned how to yield a little.
But she supposed neither of them had ever been very good at yielding.
He was as fierce as the land that had molded him, and maybe he was right about her, too—her strength wasn’t born, but built. A reaction to circumstances, a suit of armor that she’d needed once but didn’t know how to let go of now that she didn’t.
“I’m leaving,” he said. “In two days. I won’t come back.”
“I can’t go with you,” she said, voice raw and quiet.
“Then there’s nothing left to say.”
He walked out of his own cottage, and she flinched at the soft snick of the closing door, louder than a scream. Suddenly, her knees felt weak, and she had to brace herself against the back of a chair. Blindly, she lowered herself, pressing her face into her hands.
It felt like she’d jumped into cold water. Only a few minutes before, they’d been intimate, they’d been teasing each other. She’d been happy. Everything had unraveled so fast. And so irrevocably. The tangled threads were around her, and she didn’t know how to put them back together.
When she lifted her head, she couldn’t swallow past the sharp pain in her chest. For a frantic second, she forgot how to breathe. And then she had to bow her head, focus on drawing air in, on long exhales, until she calmed. It was only a minute or two, but it felt like an hour.
She would be all right, she told herself. She had her family and her home. She would be fine.
But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d just lost something irreplaceable. For the very last time.
…
“You look like a corpse,” Abigail said helpfully from the front row.
Mal was sitting at his desk. After a sleepless night and no coffee, he felt like a corpse. For hours, he’d gone over their fight in his mind. He’d thought about things he could have done differently. Things he should have said.
And after going round and round and round in an unending spiral, he still hadn’t reached any firm conclusions.
Was Georgina right? Was he going about everything the wrong way because he couldn’t let go of his pride? Was he truly helping other Highlanders, or was what he did only for himself?
He’d been a soldier for years. He’d had purpose. And suddenly his world had been yanked from beneath his feet, in one fell blow—the war ended. His family was gone. He’d needed purpose when he’d returned to the Highlands, to the remnants of a broken life. He’d been half mad with grief, and stealing sheep—the planning of it, the execution—had given him a way to clear his mind. Something to focus on.
And he knew it was dangerous. He knew, like Georgina had said, that his luck would run out eventually—it was a fact that had troubled him when he thought of his men, but not when he thought of himself. If Mal died thieving, then so be it. At least it would be on his own terms—not fighting in someone else’s war, or trapped on a ship, weak from disease.
So he’d started, and he hadn’t stopped. He’d never planned to stop.
And he tried to tell himself that he gave most of the profits back. That he was doing a good thing, in the end.
But when he examined himself, and his motivations, coldly, objectively, he wasn’t sure he liked what he saw.
“Did you finish what I assigned?” he asked Abigail, after too long a moment. His head felt muddied.
“Are you all right, sir?”
“Aye.”
She clearly didn’t believe him, and then, in a display that surprised him (and, if he was honest, touched him), she went to his desk, placing a square of marzipan on the corner.
“You won’t leave, will ye?” she asked.
He blinked.
“You’re the best teacher we’ve had. I’ve actually learned things since you’ve been here.”
“Any teacher could help you learn things,” he said.
“No.” She shook her head emphatically. “The second one, the one just before Frances and George, said I was too slow to learn figures. He didn’t even try to teach me.”
Mal’s fist clenched as unexpected fury shot through him. “He said you were too slow?”
She nodded, her cheeks a bright, painful red.
“Well. He was a right bastard, then,” Mal said. Abigail’s eyes widened. “Everyone learns at a different pace. It doesna mean you can’t learn.”
“I know that, now. And I like learning,” she said, stumbling over her words. “So it would be a shame if you left, too.” And then she stumbled over her feet, on her way back to the table, and practically plunged into her chair, looking down to hide her flushed face.
For the first time, Mal wondered about this Rochester. He might not even be a Highlander—the name certainly wasn’t Gaelic. Would he understand these students? Would he do his best to teach them, even when they struggled? Or would he, like the last teacher, simply give up on them?
When Mal left, would he be throwing them to the wolves?
But he shook his head. The fact of the matter was, he wasn’t Rochester. And he couldn’t pretend to be another person indefinitely.
“Abigail, what do your parents think of Lord and Lady Arden?”
She glanced up, her face now a rosy pink. “Oh, my ma and da like them a lot. They say they’re a lot better than the old earl. I don’t…I was young, then, you know”—Mal smiled at that—“but I think they used to worry before. They don’t worry l
ike that anymore.”
Mal felt his heart clench, his feelings muddled.
Maybe he was fighting the wrong battle, but if that was the case, he didn’t know how to change it. He didn’t know what path to take.
Later, after lessons were done and Mal was alone in his cottage, he was still mulling things over when his thoughts were interrupted rather explosively.
From a distance, he heard the crack of what was unmistakably a gunshot.
His head jerked toward the sound, pulse kicking up in response. Cautiously, he cracked the door to peek out and was somewhat puzzled by the tableau unfolding in front of him.
A carriage had halted some distance away, a boxy black shape on the horizon. And circling it was a man on horseback.
No, it wasn’t a horse. It was a Highland pony. He recognized the stockiness of the large creature. Come to think of it, he recognized the man—the glint of light hair, the obstinate set of his shoulders.
Everything came together like a flash of light. Dread pooled in his stomach.
Mal took off across the moors, heading like an arrow toward Lachlan, who appeared to be in the act of committing highway robbery.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Stop!”
Lachlan turned—his blue eyes flashed wide before they narrowed again.
“You need to go.”
Mal stared at the scene in front of him incredulously. The carriage—an expensive-looking, black-lacquered barouche—had one door hanging open haphazardly. An older man, thin with graying hair, was standing face-first against the carriage, and next to him was a shorter, stockier man—the coachman, Mal guessed, by his box coat and hat.
Lachlan stood directly behind them, out of view.
“I don’t have anything else,” the older man said. His voice was polished, English. But Mal noticed that for as expensive as the equipage must be, this man’s clothes didn’t match. They weren’t threadbare, but they weren’t exactly the height of fashion, either. And Mal had more experience with fine clothes lately, given his proximity to the Townsends.
“I don’t believe you,” Lachlan snarled.
“Look at his clothes,” Mal muttered.
Lachlan looked. “But the carriage—”
“Isn’t mine!” the man wheezed. “Lord Monteith was gracious enough to let me borrow it. I…I’m just a tutor. I don’t have anything else to give you!”
The pit in Mal’s stomach tightened. “Your name?”
“William Rochester!”
Mal saw everything coming apart, like someone had pulled at a thread of a tapestry. The pit in his stomach was turning to lead. “You need to let them go,” Mal told Lachlan.
Rochester squeaked, as if in agreement.
“What were you even thinking?”
“I wasn’t planning it this way,” Lachlan said.
Mal snorted. “I doubt you planned this at all. It’s broad daylight, and they don’t have anything, anyway.”
Lachlan lowered the pistol slightly, as if he’d forgotten about the two men he was currently terrorizing. “I saw Georgina go to you last night.”
Mal winced.
“It’s fine,” Lachlan said. “You should be happy. But I need something for us to live on without you. I was all set to break into Llynmore again, but I couldn’t do it.” He paused. “She’s one of us, even if she’s one of them, too. It didna seem right.”
Incredulous laughter bubbled in Mal’s chest.
She’s one of us, even if she’s one of them, too.
Lachlan, for all his idiocy, had shaped Mal’s confused feelings into a neat little answer. Because it was true. Somehow both things were true.
Mal had spent so much time trying to reconcile it, trying to figure how she could be two things at once, trying to look for the ways she’d tricked him. Because how she could be his wild Highland lass and a half-English aristocrat? But she was both. It was something that couldn’t be reconciled, and maybe it didn’t need to be.
“So you saw a fancy carriage, and you were desperate, and you leaped without thinking.” There was anger in Mal’s voice, but it was directed toward himself as much as it was Lachlan. The other man shouldn’t have been desperate in the first place.
“Something like that.” Lachlan cocked his head. “I could still take the horses. They’d fetch a good price.”
“But we’ll be stranded if you take the horses! We could starve to death,” Rochester cried, face still pressed to the shiny carriage surface. Mal didn’t point out that he was within walking distance of the schoolhouse. “I’d heard rumors of the Highlands being lawless, but this is beyond my reckoning.”
“The Highlands aren’t lawless,” Mal said tiredly. “It’s only us.”
There were no bandits anymore. No cattle thieves. He saw it now with more clarity than he ever had before. They were alone. And this…this was ridiculous. Rochester was scared witless and the coachman was shaking like a leaf, and they didn’t even have any riches to speak of. Mal didn’t feel like an outlaw. He felt like a bully.
The halcyon days, indeed.
Georgina had been right.
When change came, you had to change, too. It was either that or get left behind.
Mal glanced up to the sound of horse hooves. Someone was riding toward them—and they were coming up fast.
The coachman, fueled by adrenaline or some newfound strength of will, lashed out behind him with his fist, connecting with Lachlan’s jaw. Lachlan grunted, dropping the pistol, and the coachman dived for it.
Mal tackled him before he could reach it, but the coachman didn’t accept defeat. He elbowed Mal in the stomach, wriggling out from under him to crawl for the gun. Mal’s hand shot out, closing around the man’s ankle.
“Go!” he shouted to Lachlan.
“But—”
“Now!”
Mal had already failed his men once—he wasn’t going to fail them again.
After a taut moment, he heard the sound of hoofbeats gathering speed, moving away from them. The man kicked out, and this time Mal let him go. He collapsed on the ground, relief making him weak. Lachlan would be all right.
He’d be fine.
There was a click near his ear—the coachman was holding Lachlan’s pistol in shaking hands, and aiming it dangerously close to Mal’s head. Mal felt a curious numbness settle over his skin, and underneath that numbness, he found himself thinking about Georgina.
It would be a goddamn travesty if the last words between them were an argument. He shouldn’t have stormed out like that, the night before. He should have stayed and talked things through. And he sure as hell shouldn’t have given her an ultimatum—him or her family. It wasn’t fair to ask her to choose simply because he didn’t want to be reminded of who she was.
What had he been thinking?
He hadn’t, he realized. He’d let his anger get the best of him. He closed his eyes against a sudden sting, hoping that he’d have a chance to apologize. He knew, better than anyone, how fragile these moments were.
Mal had always assumed he didn’t fear death. Some part of him had practically dared it to come for him. It had taken his comrades, his family—why should he care if it came for him next?
But the cold hand that gripped his heart when he realized he might not get a chance to speak to Georgina again, to make things right, told a very different tale.
His chest caught on a broken breath.
Oh, what a fool he’d been.
Suddenly, a gust of warm, rank breath washed over Mal, and he blinked. A horse nuzzled at his face curiously, as if he thought Mal might be an interesting patch of grass, and when he pushed its head out of the way, he saw the earl of Arden frowning down at him, expression dark.
He knew how bizarre this scene must appear—Rochester was still by the carriage. The coachman, who looked like he’d never held a gun in his life, was currently holding a pistol as far away from his body as humanly possible, practically touching it with just his fingertips. And Mal was lyi
ng on his back in the dirt.
“What the devil is going on here?”
“Arden.” He nodded. “Good afternoon.”
Yes, Lachlan would be fine, but Mal wasn’t so sure about himself.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Georgina returned to Llynmore when the heavy, low-hanging clouds started to spit rain, threatening a more violent downpour soon enough. The great hall was empty, as was the drawing room. She followed the distant sound of hushed conversation to the library and pushed open the door. The conversation halted abruptly. Georgina stopped in the doorway. Her brother and sister-in-law were not alone, as she’d expected—there was an older man sitting in the armchair by the fire, a glass of whisky in his hand.
Annabel stood, coming to Georgina with arms outstretched. There was something sympathetic in her eyes that made a prickle of unease travel down Georgina’s spine.
“This is Mr. Rochester.”
Georgina jolted. “Mr. Rochester? The teacher?”
“It seems the man we knew as Mr. Rochester was not who he said he was.”
“He was probably planning to rob us,” Theo cut in, caustically.
“Well…where is he?” Georgina asked, heart pounding.
“He’s in Oban, in the gaol.”
“What?”
“Why do you sound so dismayed?” Theo asked. “He was a criminal.”
“He tried to rob Mr. Rochester’s carriage this afternoon,” Annabel said softly. “Luckily, he was stopped.”
No. Georgina didn’t believe it. It wasn’t Mal’s style to rob a carriage. And doing it in broad daylight with no clear plan certainly didn’t sound like him. If anything, it sounded like something Lachlan might do…especially if he was desperate…
Georgina remembered running into the other man when she’d gone to Mal’s cottage. She hadn’t dwelled on it at the time, but there’d been the strangest expression on his face…almost…wistful. Like he was letting go of something he’d held on to for too long.
Her hands balled into fists.
And Mal would never leave Lachlan behind if he thought he was in trouble.
