Chloris attempted to hide her surprise. Had Jean made a deliberately provocative statement in order to gain an honest response, to get the truth? Jean looked quite sincere. “It was a challenge for him, taking responsibility for a grieving young woman. And it was most kind of him to do so, and to find me a respectable match when the time came.”
Jean’s eyebrows lifted. Apparently that was not what she’d expected to hear. It made Chloris curious. She did not want to pursue it lest it upset Jean. They had only just found common ground. Chloris did not want to lose that.
Was it true, though, that Tamhas spoke fondly of her? It was far from her experience. When she had been foisted on him as his ward, there were many difficult times. When she grieved her loved ones, he became annoyed. He ignored her and traveled abroad, leaving her to her books and memories. When Tamhas eventually returned, he was sure of himself and ambitious. He assumed control of her, then expected things she could not agree to. He began to hint at their union—first, a union of the flesh. If she pleased him, he might wed her. The pressure of such a proposition for an innocent, grieving woman with no guiding female in her life was immense. Tamhas gave her time, determined, it seemed, to have her. Ultimately Chloris could not warm to the terms, or to him. When his initial plan for her failed, Tamhas treated her as a pawn that he could barter with in order to gain prestige and power. By then she was already beyond the ideal age to wed and it took a while longer before he struck an agreement with Gavin Meldrum of Edinburgh. It was with relief that Chloris accepted Gavin’s proposal, unaware that the situation she would encounter in Edinburgh would be even worse than what she had known at Torquil.
It was because of her past relationship with Tamhas that Chloris had not visited Torquil before. Not until Gavin had insisted. However, Chloris found her cousin to be a more mellow master of the house, now that he was older and married. His ambition still drove him, but in matters of the household he seemed content to leave that to his wife.
As the carriage progressed toward the long-established heart of Saint Andrews Chloris observed the familiar streets. Thankfully they did not pass the house where she’d been born and lived, until the dreadful illness came upon her parents and many of their servants. Chloris had not been back to the place since then.
Jean pointed out the households she knew of, merchants and traders who Tamhas engaged with. As the streets grew more narrow so they grew busier, with farmers driving sheep and goats alongside the path. They grew closer to the sea, the air becoming sharper, and Chloris breathed the aroma in. It took her back to her childhood, to the fonder, earlier memories when she would be taken down to see the sea.
The coachman pulled up at a stable yard and secured their carriage there. Then he assisted the two women as they stepped down and he walked ahead of them at some distance, clearing a path.
Gulls wheeled overhead, their distinctive cries drawing her attention to their flight. How they soared as they observed the activity below, eager for pickings amongst the traders’ carts and wares. Chloris chuckled when Jean pointed out a brazen gull that flew low over the stalls, scouting. Jean’s mood must have reached her, for Chloris felt more alive than she had done in some time.
Or was there some other reason for it? The question flitted through her mind as memories of her illicit endeavor the night before crept up on her again. Now that she had put some distance between her and Torquil House she felt more at ease recalling her impetuous visit to the abode in the woods called Somerled. The whole experience had invigorated her. Safely away from the place, there was a thrill in remembering how brazen she’d been, how daring. Even if she did not pursue the purchase of a magic favor, she knew she would never forget her strange encounter with the master of Somerled. The intrigue and excitement she felt when recalling his actions were foreign emotions, and yet she knew it was the furthest thing from what she should have felt. How could she hold her head up in front of the minister on Sunday, knowing that she had sought out persons who were considered evil—no better than vermin—by good, God-fearing folk?
By her side, Jean was making observations on the chaos of the market.
Chloris nodded. “I do not recall Market Street being as busy as this. It appears Saint Andrews flourishes under the union with England?”
“You would do better to ask Tamhas, for he speaks a lot on the subject and comments frequently that we would do well to look at ways in which Scotland might prosper from the union, instead of raving about independence and civil war.” She leaned in and whispered to Chloris conspiratorially, linking her arm. “The truth of the matter is that the burgh is not what it was,” she added, “but Tamhas works with the council to bring more trade here.”
“It seems their efforts are proving fruitful.”
Jean nodded. “I must confess, I find such talk of politics and trade tedious, but do not tell Tamhas I’ve said that.”
“I promise your secret is safe with me.” Chloris smiled, but she secretly wished her own husband would talk with her about such matters. As a landlord in Edinburgh, Gavin was much ingratiated with politicians and men of commerce, but he refused to discuss any such matters with her because she was a woman. Tamhas did share those things with Jean, but apparently Jean only feigned interest to please him.
The shared confidence bonded them somewhat and as they wended their way through the busy market, Jean continued to link arms with Chloris. The coachman was always ten paces away, in case they needed assistance. Jean chattered busily at Chloris’s side. They passed that way happily for half the length of Market Street, then Jean grasped Chloris’s forearm. “There, the lace merchant.”
The merchant swept a low bow when he saw them approach. “The finest Flemish lace for your perusal today.”
He gestured to the selection of garments and samples he had laid out on a trestle table. Jean examined each and every one, or so it seemed. It was a task Chloris trusted her own dressmaker to fulfill, but for Jean it was a pleasure. Chloris encouraged her and soon they had made purchase of a delicate lace cap as well as placing an order for a length of lace suitable for Jean’s dressmaker’s use.
When they set off, Jean was in high spirits, but then she froze and gestured to the other side of the cobbled path. “Quickly, there is someone we must avoid at all costs.”
Chloris did as instructed but glanced back, her curiosity aroused. When she saw that it was the man from the house in the woods, she inhaled sharply.
By firelight he had appeared attractive. In the light of day he made an even more striking figure than he had the night before. His presence was startling. From the top of his felt tricorne hat to the polished, buckled boots he wore, he was devastatingly handsome. Moreover, he cut a path through the crowd, standing a good head higher than most of those who passed.
Many of those he passed greeted him, which made it seem quite rude of Jean to move out of his path. Perhaps it was better that they had not encountered him directly, though, Chloris reflected, for she would not be able to acknowledge that she knew who he was.
As if aware of the scrutiny he turned his head her way.
His gaze locked on hers. He inclined his head.
Stumbling on the cobbles, she drew to a halt.
“Hold tight to me,” Jean advised. “The stones are uneven.”
Chloris could do no more than nod in response. From under her lashes she could see that the man continued to observe them, making no pretence about doing otherwise. His gaze flickered over them, as if he was eager to determine the nature of their friendship and the purpose of their outing. When he saw that Jean was guiding her away to the other side of the street while casting black looks back at him, his sensuous mouth moved. Apparently he was amused by that.
Inside her glove Chloris’s palm tingled. The sensitive skin there, where he had caressed her, seemed to be stimulated by a sensual memory at the sight of him. It was oddly seductive, and it made her senses rush. It also made her wish he was touching her again. Shocked at her own reaction
to the sight of the man, she asked herself how it could be. His nature, was that why? His curious powers and his wild ways? Flustered, she turned away, reminding herself that it was imperative Jean did not see her exchanging glances with the local Witch Master. However, his nearby presence and the nature of the situation meant she was quite unable to stop herself playing the innocent in order to question her cousin’s wife. “Who is it that we must avoid?”
“That man, Lennox Fingal. A questionable man if ever there was one.” Jean scowled.
Lennox. His name whispered around her mind. How well it suited him—strong, direct and memorable. She feigned confusion, hoping for more information. “Questionable?”
Jean leaned closer, lowering her voice. “They say he dabbles in witchcraft. There are a bunch of them around him and all are suspected of wrongdoings. Tamhas has been watching him.”
Chloris was not only startled by the vehemence with which Jean spoke, but also by the information she imparted. Tamhas was watching the man from the house in the forest? He’d often spoken out against witchcraft, and he’d been vehement about Eithne leaving, all those years ago. She hadn’t, however, been aware that he currently had suspicions about the people who met in the house in the forest. If she had known, she would never have ventured there. “He does not appear as I might have expected a witch to appear,” she said, giving her honest reaction.
“That is half the trickery. The man is a rogue, and even if it is not true about his evil ways...” She paused, and Chloris could see Jean wasn’t sure, or else didn’t want to believe it. “Even if it isn’t true, he lives a wild life up there in that house of his. He’s a handsome devil and many women are eager to be in his bed.”
Jean flushed and cleared her throat, as if stating the information would somehow tarnish her by association. Chloris had to suppress her amusement for she had the distinct feeling Jean wondered what it might be like to be in bed with a man such as Lennox.
“They say a woman is helpless under his spell, if he chooses to seduce her,” Jean said, blurting out the words. She wriggled her shoulders as if in distress, but Chloris noticed Jean kept glancing back for another look at him. “The shameless libertine,” she added, disapprovingly.
Chloris was not in a position to pass comment.
Across the shifting crowd Lennox lifted his hat and inclined his head at Jean, then at Chloris. His attention lingered on Chloris, and his gaze made her blood heat. He’s a handsome devil, and many women are eager to be in his bed. Jean had warned her, and those words stayed with her. It was wise that she’d left his house when she did. They say a woman is helpless under his spell, if he chooses to seduce her.
Nevertheless, Chloris couldn’t help herself, because this Lennox Fingal was now looking across the crowd at her and her alone, and it affected her oddly. He was staring into her eyes and beyond and she felt as if she should have been disturbed by that. For some reason she found her senses wildly aroused.
His eyes glittered oddly.
Beneath her clothing her skin grew hot. She felt restless, flooded by self-awareness as she was under his gaze.
Jean rattled on at her side, but Chloris could scarcely take the words in. “Just look at him, staring at us so rudely.”
He was indeed staring, pure, candid interest in his expression.
Chloris lowered her head, but she could not keep the smile from her lips, unbridled pleasure swelling in her. Then the crowded street seemed to grow busier still and a fearful noise sounded to their right-hand side. The dense crowd stopped moving.
Half a dozen chickens had escaped their coop and darted about in front of Jean, clucking loudly. Jean screeched, lifted her skirts and took flight, as if to pass by the chicken seller. When she did, she bumped against the owner of the chickens, who was trying to shoo them back toward their enclosure with one hand. In the chaos, Jean dislodged the basket of eggs the owner of the chickens had clasped in her other hand. The basket was dropped and several eggs were broken.
An argument broke out.
Chloris watched in dismay. Jean scolded the woman who was selling the eggs and refused to pay her for the broken ones, insisting that it was her fault for letting the chickens run free. The coachman was now at her side. Then the crowd thickened again and Chloris found herself isolated from her cousin’s wife by the flow of people, many of whom were gathering in front of her to observe the argument about the eggs.
That’s when she became aware of his stare, the man Jean had called Lennox, the Witch Master. He stood off to her left and he looked only at her, his smile lingering.
It struck her oddly. Did he have something to do with it? Surely not. But what if it were true about his abilities to effect change? She tried to shake the thought from her head, but as she stared at him in wonder she saw a remnant of that strange light flashing in his eyes. For the briefest moment it seemed as if those eyes of his were even more luminous, as if they reflected the sunlight itself. That couldn’t possibly be the case, for clouds flitted across the sun and his eyes were well shaded beneath his hat.
Chloris shivered.
Then it was gone.
He raised an eyebrow, making a connection with her.
It felt as if he were reminding her of their previous encounter, where—as he so rightly pointed out—she had sought him out. To her right side waves of laughter and jeering emanated from the area of the argument, the onlookers relishing the entertainment. Flustered and guilty, Chloris tried to catch sight of her cousin’s wife, her heart racing while Jean’s word of warning flitted through her mind—his notorious reputation with women, his dissolute ways, the rumors about dark beliefs.
When she looked back again, he was gone.
How did he disappear from view so quickly? While Chloris wondered on it she felt something tickle across the back of her neck. Instinctively, she reached back to brush the loose strands of hair away from her nape. Her body tensed. It wasn’t her hair. It was him. His breath on her, followed by the briefest touch of his mouth on her skin.
Even before she glanced over her shoulder, she knew it was him.
A hand rested briefly on her waist, as if to reassure her.
His face was so close to hers that when she looked back at him, her legs grew weak. Dangerously handsome and so willful, he was all but pressed against her back.
“Careful,” he whispered close to her ear. “Look toward your hostess while I speak to you.”
From the corner of her eye she saw that he nodded over at Jean. Chloris did as he said, her senses reeling from his presence so close against her back. It made her entire body tingle, her skin racing, her nerves alive and chaotic.
“You look very beautiful today, Mistress Chloris. If I might be so bold to mention it.”
Him making bold enough to comment on her appearance? Chloris withheld a smile. The man was bold in every way. A whispered comment was the least of it. But his hand remained on her waist, and it felt as if he was claiming her through that simple touch. She almost felt him scooping her up, walking away with her in his arms while everyone stared the other way. The wild notion shocked her. Where had it come from, and why did it make her want it to happen? Her vision blurred. She blinked, forcing herself to look as if she were watching the squabble unfolding before them. It was difficult because she could feel him, his hand at her waist, his legs against her skirts and his breath on her skin.
“Have you thought about our discussion?”
She had thought of little else, but she couldn’t admit that. To tell a man like him such a thing would empower him. Yet Chloris could not deny the arousing charge she experienced with him so close at her back, whispering to her, while all around were oblivious to their secret connection. It was madness but it was a delicious diversion all the same.
She turned her head slightly, to be sure he heard her whispered reply. “I have. However, I am afraid it is not wise for me to come to you again, because my hosts would disapprove.”
“Your cousin Tamhas Keavey?”
He gave a low chuckle.
She pursed her lips. She had not stated her family name the night before, yet he knew it. A man like him would have ways of finding out exactly who she was, she supposed.
“If you are afraid to come to Somerled,” he continued, “I could come to you in secret. It would be less dangerous for you.”
Chloris was astonished by his suggestion. “How? At Torquil House?”
That sounded even more dangerous. Perhaps that was his way, though—to court danger to amuse himself.
“I could easily come to you in the night. I know the lay of the place. It would be possible.”
Chloris felt light-headed. An image of him in her private chamber drifted through her mind. Him, approaching her. Him, touching her again. Her grasp on her surroundings was slipping away as she considered his words. “For the ritual you described?” she murmured.
“Of course. Why else?”
Was that amusement she heard in his voice again?
“You would be more comfortable in your quarters,” he added. He ran one finger down her spine from her hairline to where her gown began, reminding her of what he had said about laying hands on her.
Her head lolled back in reaction to his touch. It made her bones melt and filled her mind with thoughts she could scarcely believe she was having. Imagining herself turned in his hands she recalled that magical heat he had conjured in her very center, and she felt dizzy.
“I will call upon the rich vitality of the earth and the power of the seasons to flourish inside you.”
The seductive tone of his voice as he said those intimate words made her body heat, rapidly. More images assailed her, shocking her. She saw their two forms entwined while he imbued her body with magical prowess. She saw him hold her, set her alight. She swayed. Then she felt him begin to draw away.
An immense sense of loss swamped her.
“Your hostess is about to return,” he warned. “Give me a sign and I will come to you at midnight tonight.”
Shocked, she looked at where the crowd was breaking apart—where the Keavey coachman was counting coins into the chicken keeper’s hand, and where Jean turned on her heel and flounced away.
The Libertine Page 4
