by Cara Elliott
“Unlike many men, I don’t have the gift of making myself pleasing to ladies.” His voice sounded a little rough, which only proved his point. “My tongue is unable to put a silvery shine on my words. But that said, Miss Caro, yes, I do consider us friends.”
Their gazes locked, and for a long, drawn-out moment, she seemed to be searching to see something.
God only knew what. Whatever the mysterious quality was, it must be lacking, or else…
No, he had vowed not to think of the past.
“Your words don’t need artificial glitter and gleam, sir,” said Caro softly. “Not every lady wishes to hear conversation so highly polished that all hint of individuality has been rubbed off it.”
Alec hardly dared breath. The breeze had stirred her scent and its softly sweet spice was making him feel a little woozy.
“Well, if you are looking for roughness,” he rasped, “you have certainly found it.”
She touched a fingertip to his jaw and traced a line to the tip of his chin. “Rough and smooth,” she murmured. “You are a man of very interesting textures, Lord Strathcona.”
Interesting?
At that, he flashed a rueful smile. “I would have thought you would choose a very different sort of adjective. ‘Prickly’ or ‘bristly’ are the first that come to mind.”
Her laugh—a sound that defied description—was almost lost in the ruffling of the emerald green needles.
“You forgot ‘thorny.’ Anyone who tries to touch you risks getting badly scratched.” Her hand, however, remained hovering in the air, keeping them physically joined.
By some strange alchemy, the current between them suddenly seemed to draw him closer.
Closer.
Her lips parted ever so slightly and he was lost.
Caro met his kiss eagerly. Wantonly. Wickedly.
Was it wicked to feel such an elemental connection to Alec?
She should care, but she didn’t. All that mattered was the jolt of fiery awareness sparked by the first touch of his mouth. His touch, his taste—somehow she was sure it was right, not wrong.
Her palms slid urgently over his shoulders, longing to imprint every nuanced contour of his shape to memory. They had maybe a moment or two, no more, before reason must reassert itself.
And Caro intended to savor every sweet second. She hugged him closer, feeling the starched folds of his cravat yield with a whispery crush to the pressure of her ardor. Through the layers of fabric—linen tangling with wool, muslin, and lacey petticoats—his heart was beating so hard that its thud was loud as cannonfire in her ears.
She shifted, sure the sparks were scorching her skin.
A fresh wave of pleasure shot through her as Alec’s kiss became hotter, hungrier. The deep, masculine sound rumbling in his throat—a growl or a groan, it didn’t matter—was reassurance that his tightly wound self-control had given way to passion.
Passion. Oh, yes, he was capable of passion, though it seemed to frighten the devil out of him.
His hands framed her face. Big, strong capable hands, with calloused palms that felt gentle as velvet against her skin.
He shifted, and the scrape of his boots on the gravel seemed to break the madness of the moment.
The fire, so quick to ignite, seemed to die away just as fast.
“What are you afraid of?”
“You. Me. Everything.”
“Oh, is that all?” quipped Caro with a tentative smile. “That shouldn’t be very hard to overcome.”
His lips gave a reluctant twitch. “Are you always such an optimist?”
“But of course! As you no doubt recall from the interlude at Dunbar Castle, my sister writes romance novels, and they always have a happily ever after.”
His expression hardened. “Well, real life rarely has the hero and heroine riding off in perfect bliss to a castle in the clouds. If you think otherwise, you are doomed to be disappointed.”
“Does that mean one shouldn’t dare to dream?”
He didn’t answer.
“What a bleak existence that would be,” she went on. “Of course there are disappointments in life. But if you are too frightened to pick yourself up off your arse when they knock you down and try again, why, then you deserve to be miserable.”
“I’m not miserable,” he protested.
“Yes,” she countered, “you are. You just refuse to admit it.”
He seemed to be searching for some reply when the crunch of steps on the graveled path announced that someone was approaching.
“Forgive me.” Thayer stopped short, “Am I interrupting a private tête-à-tête?”
“Not at all,” said Alec brusquely. “We were just leaving. This particular path is a dead end.”
“Ah.” Thayer remained where he was, blocking the way out. “A wrong turn is hardly surprising.”
It was said lightly and with a smile, but Alec’s already dark expression turned even blacker. Suppressed rage pulsed from every pore.
Caro had never seen him look so… dangerous. She wondered once again what had caused such bad blood between the men.
Thayer flashed an apologetic smile at her. “It seems my presence is unwelcome, so I shall take myself off.”
It was a gracefully done apology, and he did sound contrite. Perhaps Alec was exaggerating the man’s faults.
Thayer started to turn and then hesitated. “If you are attending the Assembly tonight, Miss Caro, might I ask for the honor of a dance?”
The request took her by surprise. Unable to think of an excuse, she allowed good manners to dictate her response. “Yes. Of course.”
“Excellent,” he said. “I shall look forward to making up for my misstep here.”
Again, a handsome apology. After adding a polite tip of his hat, he strolled away.
Alec’s jaw was clenched so tightly that she expected to hear molars crack at any moment. He stared straight ahead at the dense wall of yew needles, and she counted to ten before he finally relaxed enough to speak.
“Why the devil did you agree to dance with him? I thought you said you weren’t blinded by his false charm.”
“I’m not,” she said, a little stung by his sharp tone. “But good manners dictated that I do so.” That and the fact the she didn’t wish to alienate Thayer quite yet.
“Allow me to repeat my earlier warning, Miss Caro. You should stay away from Thayer.”
“It would help if you explained why you dislike him so,” she replied.
“I am not at liberty to say,” he answered.
Huffing an exasperated sigh, Caro said, “That’s not an answer, that’s an evasion. Surely you can trust me with more than that.”
The molars began to grind again.
“Stop that. You’ll break your jaw.”
“I’d rather break Thayer’s,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “And then pound it into a thousand little shards of bone.”
“That’s clear,” she replied. “But the reason isn’t.”
“You don’t need to know it.”
Hot and cold—his mercurial moods had her body thrumming with confusion. “Fine. Keep me in the dark.” Caro’s patience, already dangerously frayed, suddenly snapped. “I’ll just have to decide for myself whether he is as evil as you imply.”
Fisting her skirts, she turned away.
“Wait. I’ll escort you to the entrance.”
“There’s no need. I can find my own way,” she said testily.
“Wait.” He had moved so swiftly and silently that Caro wasn’t aware he was right behind her until his arm hooked around her waist and yanked her to a halt.
Furious, she wrenched free, only to have her cry of outrage swallowed in a kiss that took her breath away.
Drat the man for making her insides turn as soft and sloshy as boiled oats!
“Please. I ask that you trust me for now,” he said softly, after pulling back from the all-too-short embrace.
“Wh-why should I?” she stammered.
“Because I am your friend and he is the enemy.” His eyes were dark as a stormblown Scottish loch, the swirl of slate-blue hues impenetrable.
Trust? It was a lot to ask when God only knew what secrets were hidden beneath the churning surface.
Alec didn’t wait for a reply. Taking her hand, he placed it on the interwoven yew branches leaves. “Keep touching the left side of the hedge and it will lead you out of the maze.”
With that, he turned and disappeared into the shadows.
Chapter Ten
The candleflames swayed in the soft, jasmine-scented breeze wafting in from the open windows of the Assembly Room. Music serenaded the trilling laughter and the clinking cups of claret punch, adding an extra note of gaiety to the cheerful chatter of the crowd.
Caro stood alone in one of the alcoves, trying to lift her spirits to match the mood of the evening. The afternoon had left her unsettled.
A poet must suffer doubts and uncertainty for the sake of art, she told herself.
So maybe I should consign art to Satan, since the cloven-hoofed demon seems bent on bedeviling me with emotions and desires that defy description.
Ha! A fine poet she was if she couldn’t find words to express her feelings.
“Such beauty shouldn’t be hiding under a bush.” Thayer pushed aside a handful of palm fronds. “So I’ve come to lead you out to the center of the dance floor, where I shall bask in your reflected brilliance under the glittering lights of the chandeliers. Though in truth, the candles will look dim in comparison.”
She pinched a polite smile, though the effusive comment rubbed a little raw. It wasn’t his fault. Men were expected to mouth such flatteries, and women were expected to appreciate them. That way, Society sailed along smoothly on unrippled waters.
God forbid that unconventionality stirred up any waves.
“You look a little pensive,” he murmured, coming to stand beside her. “Would you rather forego capering across the dance floor?”
That he sensed her mood chased away her irritation. Not many men, she mused, would have noticed. “I confess that I would,” she replied quietly. “That is, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” He blew out a sigh. “If you must know, I find it a trifle fatiguing to constantly be dancing through all the proper steps of social convention.”
The fluttering blur of leaves and shadows seemed to mirror her own uncertainties. Perhaps she had misjudged him after all. As Alec had said himself, things were rarely black or white.
“So I am quite happy to just stay here and talk.” He made a wry face. “That is, if you don’t mind.”
This time, her answering smile was unforced. “I should like that very much,” she answered sincerely.
“Do you find the quiet pace of Bath a welcome change from the gaiety of London?” he asked after a fraction of a pause.
It was a solid, sensible question, and for the next little while they compared the differences between a large, bustling city and a quiet spa town.
“Good heavens, it sounds as if you danced until dawn every night of the week,” said Thayer, in response to her description of the past Season in London. “No wonder you welcome a respite from the social whirl.”
“Surely Glasgow has its own glittering array of parties and balls,” replied Caro.
“It does,” he said softly. “But I…” Thayer cleared his throat. “To be honest, I avoid attending many of them. It is a world aswirl in falsehoods and flatteries that can lead to trouble if one is not very careful. I find that a little dangerous.”
How true.
“Yes,” agreed Caro. “I know what you mean. One must be on guard against those whose intentions are not always honorable.”
“Speaking of being on guard…” He hesitated, tactfully waiting for her permission to go on.
She gave a small nod.
“I can’t help but notice that you are spending time with Lord Strathcona,” he said.
“Yes,” answered Caro warily, keeping in mind the words she had just uttered.
“Might I ask how well you know him?”
Her mouth gave an involuntary quirk. “A good question.” She thought for a moment before adding, “Strathcona is a very private man. He does not share a great deal about himself.”
“No, he does not.”
She waited. Clearly he wished to make some revelation, but she decided to make him do so on his own.
“He was married, you know,” confided Thayer in a low voice. “Though it’s all kept rather hush-hush.”
Married? Alec was married?
“It wasn’t for long. His wife died in a carriage accident fleeing a dreadfully unhappy situation—or at least that is the story,” he went on. “There are rumors that the truth is even more ugly.”
A slow, painful swallow loosened her throat just enough to allow a shallow whisper. “Indeed?” she said, unable to summon any other response. Her mind was still reeling.
He nodded. “It was a scandal, though his title and his family connections allowed him to cover up the sordid details. The poor girl was English, and had few friends in Scotland to defend her from his cruelty.”
The implied accusation speared Caro into finding her voice. “I—I can’t believe Lord Strathcona is such a monster as that.”
“Which of course does you credit, Miss Caro.” Thayer blew out a mournful sigh. “Alec McClellan is a man well versed in disguising his true persona with a multitude of… layers.”
Left unspoken, but resonating in the still air loud and clear was the word “lies.”
“I wouldn’t say anything, save for the fact that I have noticed him paying attention to you,” continued Thayer. “So I feel beholden to offer a warning to be on your guard. He has secret vices.”
Which include devouring innocent young ladies for breakfast, along with a plate of kippered herrings?
Despite the sardonic quip that jumped to mind, Caro felt as if a huge lead weight had settled in her stomach. Much as she found it nigh on impossible to imagine Alec as a conniving dastard, Thayer’s earlier question echoed uncomfortably inside her head.
How well did she really know him?
Thayer was right about one thing—Alec kept himself shrouded in many layers. And for the most part, much of his portrait had been painted by the brush of her own imagination.
A sound of dismay must have leaked from her lips, for he gave her a sympathetic look. “I am sorry to upset you,” he responded softly. “It’s shocking, I know.” A pause. “And to be truthful, that’s not the worst of it.”
She stared at him blankly, still stunned by the initial revelation.
“There is a reason I am here in Bath. It is feared that McClellan—that is, Strathcona—may be up to no good here in England, and I have been asked to keep an eye on the situation.” He darted a quick look around. “I cannot say any more than that on the situation, save to stress that you would be wise to keep your distance from the baron.”
Truth and lies.
Caro suddenly felt a little light-headed. Her thoughts were spinning in dizzying circles, tangling light and shadows into a whirling dervish blur of light and dark.
“I can see that you would prefer to forego our upcoming dance.” Thayer gave a swift, solicitous squeeze to her hand. “You look a little shaken. May I fetch you a glass of punch?”
“N-no, thank you,” she replied. “If you don’t mind, I would simply prefer a few moments alone.”
“Of course.” He stepped back with an apologetic shrug. “I truly regret causing you such distress. But gentlemanly scruples demanded that I warn you, before it was too late.”
She managed a curt nod, which thankfully he took as a signal to withdraw without further ado.
Alec had been married, and his wife was now dead.
Caro stared unseeing at the fluttering palm fronds. A small voice in her head said there was no earthly reason why he would have told her such intimate details of his life. Why would he? And yet, a louder shout
—a chorus of bruised feelings—piped up in protest.
Damnation! He had spoken of trust, of friendship. And he had kissed her, with a passion that seemed to promise that the connection between them was very real.
Caro clasped her hands together in a fist and forced herself to breath. Her lungs seemed to be having trouble moving in and out on their own.
He should have shared such a fact…
Shifting within the shadows, Caro searched the crowd, hoping to spot Isobel. If anyone could confirm the veracity of Thayer’s story, it was Alec’s sister.
To her relief, Caro spotted her dancing with Andover in the group near the doors to the terrace. Skirting slowly around the perimeter of the room, she waited for the music to end.
“Isobel,” she called, as the laughing couple headed toward the refreshment table.
“Oh, there you are!” Isobel’s flushed face wreathed in an even brighter smile. “We were looking for you on the dance floor—I thought you were engaged for the set.”
“I was.” She forced back the hurt welling up in her throat. “But Mr. Thayer and I ended up talking instead. Which was just as well. It seems overly warm in here tonight and I find myself a little fatigued.”
Isobel fanned herself. “Oh, as do I.”
Seizing the opportunity, Caro indicated a stone bench by the terrace railing just outside the open doors. “Why don’t we sit and catch a breath of fresh air while Andy fetches us some punch.”
Andover grinned. “Which is feminine code for ‘go away for a bit while we ladies enjoy a bit of gossip.’ ”
“I take it you have sisters, sir,” teased Isobel.
“Two,” he answered. “Like Miss Caro, I too am contemplating writing a book. Not, I hasten to add, one composed of lyric verses, but rather a compendium of all the diabolical wiles that ladies use to twist us men around their little fingers.”
“How very ungentlemanly of you to think of exposing our secrets,” murmured Caro. “You gentlemen have enough of an unfair advantage over us as it is.”
“Ha!” he retorted, though he seemed to sense something in her tone that made his brows tweak up in query.
She turned away and took Isobel’s arm before he could ask any questions. Andover’s affable manner and self-deprecating sense of humor fooled many people into thinking he was a pleasantly slow-witted fellow. But in truth, he was sharp as a tack.
