If Aria had been raised by the servant woman like she had said, Aria’s clothes, manner, speech, rich healthy complexion, and immaculate penmanship, said differently. It chafed him to even think of it but it was clear – Aria was not who she said she was and Hector didn’t like to be played for a fool in that way…especially since he desired her.
He did know she was sincere in many other ways, though. Her concern for his missing brother was real and he could feel that. Her passion that had sparked alive after their second kiss was real, too, and he looked forward to stroking that flame into a blazing fire but he wanted to know the truth. He’d willingly blinded himself too much and for far too long.
“Donald,” Hector said after he had regained his breath, “D’ye ken yer able tae go wi’ me tae town? I need tae ask more questions.”
Donald’s eyes narrowed, “Ye do ken that if we ask more aboot tha Duke o’ Crowland people will get suspicious.”
“I ken,” Hector replied with a regretful grimace, “But I want tae ask aboot Aria, she told me an old woman raised her an’ I want tae prove it.”
“Ah,” Donald nodded, “Searching fer her history, that’s a canny move me friend. Aye, I agree, let’s clean up an’ go tae tha’ town.”
Quickly washing off and dressing into the horrid English clothes, Hector and Donald bade a quick farewell to Roran who was still arms deep in cleaning up rabbit entrails. Carrying some silver as means to getting information or even some goods, Hector strode with a decided purpose to the town. He needed to be sure that Aria was who she said she was.
The walk to the village was not long and they instantly went to the marketplace. Men and women were loudly hawking their goods and both men meandered through stalls filled with lumps of salted pork, plump potatoes, carrots, slender candles, tools like hammers and files, and even homespun cotton cloth.
With a discerning eye, Hector went to speak to an older woman who was peddling pins while Donald went to speak to a shoemaker. The woman waved a customer off, folded her dirt-streaked skirt around her legs and pocketed a few copper coins.
“Pin for ye lady, sirra?” she asked with her cigar-roughened voice while gesturing to a tray of homemade copper pins and a few silver ones.
“Nae,” Hector said, “D’ye ke– know of a lady named Aria around these parts?”
The old woman frowned, “No, never heard of an Aria ‘round here.”
“Are ye sure?” Hector asked, “Fair lass with a head o' golden hair, raised by an old woman?”
She shook her head, “No, sirra, never heard of one.”
“Thank ye,” Hector replied and move on to a bread seller and asked the same question only to get the same answer. Frowning to himself, he moved on and questioned two more people and was turned down twice.
His suspicions grew deeper and stronger with every rejection and by the time Donald reported his findings - or lack of, rather - Hector was getting convinced that Aria did not exist. Just as he was about to give up, he stopped his last person, a man who looked old enough to recall someone like the old woman Aria had told him mothered her.
“My guid man, do ye ke– know--” and how he hated saying that word, “Of a lass named Aria raised by an old woman after her mother passed?”
The man frowned, “I know plenty of old women who raised orphans but I don’t know of an Aria. Can you describe her?”
“Fair skin, long blond hair, an’ hae a genteel manner, fair tae look upon tae,” Hector added.
A spark lit up in the man’s eyes, “Are you speaking about Lady Victoria, whose mother died when she was a child? She is the only woman I know of with those features that lives around here.”
Now it was Hector’s time to frown, “Lady Victoria?”
“Yes,” the man replied with a sure nod, “Lady Victoria Moore. She was raised by an elderly woman named Ruth Willow, the family’s head-woman.”
Hector felt like he had just been backhanded with an iron-spiked mallet. Aria was Victoria…and suddenly the pieces all fell into place.
Nae wonder Aria is so beautifully dressed, all soft skin, perfect manners an’ so canny - she comes from money. Tha money o’ tha man I want tae hunt down like tha dug he is! Hector realized darkly.
“Thank ye, sir,” Hector replied while pressing a coin into his hand, spinning on his heel and striding out of the market place. Fury was boiling under his skin and his clipped stride showed it.
All this time she pretended tae not be one o’ them. No wonder she had tae leave at dusk, there were no husband or bairns tae look fer. She’s a Lady, it wouldnae look proper fer her tae stay oot late, an’ no wonder she ne’er spoke aboot her family - she’s tha murderer’s spawn!
So mired in his thoughts, Hector barely heard Donald calling his name until Donald, having no other choice, grabbed Hector and stopped him in his tracks.
“What?” Hector asked but instead of the stinging snap he usually had when disturbed, his voice was calm, deadly calm.
“Yer angry,” Donald replied, “I ken ye are but dinnae do anythin' rash, Hector. This Duke is nothin’ tae take lightly, he might be e’en more vicious than his sire.”
“I willnae lay a hand on tha’ lass, Donald.” Hector replied coolly, “If that’s what yer tryin’ tae find oot.”
The other man still looked worried even with Hector’s placation. “I believe ye, yer tae sensible fer that but take caution, it’s tae soon fer ye tae lose ground.”
Hector gently removed Donald’s hand from his shoulder, “Ye hae nothin’ tae worry aboot, man. I’ll be calm when I meet her this eve.”
The two arrived at Roran’s home where Hector gladly discarded the English pants for his kilt and went back outside to sit in the calm evening until he took the forest trail, stepped on the Moore property, and went to the guardhouse to find it empty.
Aria – or Victoria, rather – wasn’t there, but that was no problem to Hector, so he sat down to wait. The eve was steadily climbing to night when he heard her approach. Looking up, he realized there was something…off about her but he didn’t know what. She did look harried, though.
“Hector,” she sighed in relief, “My apologies, I was terribly busy all day.”
The Laird tilted his head and said, “I unnerstan'…Aria – or is it Victoria - Victoria Moore?”
Victoria stumbled back and barely caught herself on the remains of the crumbling wall. Her face was pale, and she was trembling. Hector stepped forward and wasn’t surprised when she stepped back with visible fear in the lines of her face.
“Are ye or are ye no’ Victoria Moore?” Hector asked slowly and darkly, “The sole daughter of Geoffrey Moore, tha bastard Duke tha’ I’ve been seekin’?”
Her blond head bowed before she straightened and with a stiff line to her jaw looked him straight in his eye, “I am she.”
Victoria’s defiance and honesty did make some marks for bravery in Hector’s book but still, she had lied about her whole nature. He stepped close to her, a mere handbreadth from her face, that held sweet lips he had kissed but glared into her eyes. “Why dinnae ye tell me?”
Blue eyes held his green in a steady, daring gaze, “Would you have trusted me if I had told you who I was? Be honest, would you have spoken to the daughter of your enemy?”
Hector’s jaw worked, as her question provoked some disturbing thoughts. Would he have trusted her?
“Nae,” Hector replied in bare honesty, “I would hae thrown ye in wi’ yer faither - an evildoer who has nae mind fer others.”
Victoria sagged against the broken wall and her face was haunted, “Hector, please, I cannot take this now. Too much has happened today. Do you believe me when I told you I do have compassion for your brother? He’s my cousin, he’s family!”
“But no’ yer blood!” Hector recounted harshly, “Yer Grandfaither said tha boy was a bastard. Tha’ disnae count as makin’ him yer blood tae me! Yer family disowned him from birth so how is tha' family tae ye?”
“He is to me!” V
ictoria cried out, “I am not my grandfather, Hector. I do not hate you or your blood.”
“Yer a deceiver,” Hector replied stiffly while moving away, “I cannae trust anythin’ ye say.”
“I told you the truth about everything!” Victoria called at his back, her voice strained and broken. “I would not lie about something that haunted me for years!”
Spinning around, Hector felt a twinge of remorse for the lady standing before him, clearly in distress. In truth, one he didn’t want to admit to even himself, his anger was more directed to himself than her. He had begun to feel certain emotions for her, passions that he shouldn’t have for a Sassenach.
“Mine haunted me from birth,” Hector replied as he melted into the tree line. “There’s nae comparison.”
The sensations running through him as he made his way back to Roran’s cottage felt more tumultuous than a sky being ripped apart by a thunder storm and his feelings shifted between anger and distraught. He had wanted something with Ari –Victoria no matter how his common sense had told him it wasn’t possible.
It had all started the moment she had come to him under the moonlit sky, alone but brave enough to take a lonely road under dark skies to see him. He had never imagined an English lady would dare such a thing, as he only believed women of his own kin would have done such. Her bravery, her beauty, and her entire self, had drawn him in.
Tasting her once had not been enough for him but he had held back knowing she was untried. When she had kissed him, every notion of holding back had disappeared. To his amazement - and probably his shame - Hector had never felt his manhood fill so quickly. It would have been so easy and so natural to just lay her down and bed her, but he hadn’t.
A bare sliver of rationality had stalled him even though he wanted to remove her dress, fill his hands with her bare breasts, kiss her flushed skin, and slide himself deep into her tight warmth.
He reached Roran’s property but didn’t go any further and rested his back on a tree where he could see the flickering candlelight in the house. The half-moon above was a cruel reminder of his first sight of Aria - goddamn it! - Victoria and he remembered being enraptured just looking at her.
“Bloody hell,” Hector swore under his breath while gently knocking his head back on the tree. “No Scottish lady was guid enough fer ye so ye had tae go get all cocked up fer a Sassenach, ye bloody git.”
Shoving his riotous feelings for Victoria away, Hector tried to focus on what she had told him about Andrew and more importantly, this messenger who was tasked to carry the boy back to Scotland. Could it be that he, whoever he was, had taken the boy for himself?
But Victoria had said that they hadn’t seen or heard of the man again. So even if he had taken the boy, they could be anywhere between Crowland and Glasgow, and Hector could easily spend months searching the towns between.
Was all this for naught, then? Had his father sent him on an unwinnable quest? Suddenly, he felt tired. Everything was just not right and he needed rest. He probably would have a cleared head after getting some sleep.
Pushing off the tree’s trunk with a weary sigh, Hector went to the cottage and pushed the unlatched door in. Finding his bed, he blearily took off his boots, shucked his shirt, and laid down, hoping, vainly, that he would wake up to find all this was just a long, torturous nightmare.
This was about the seventh time Hector caught himself looking toward the direction of Monstall Manor and forced his eyes back. Five days had gone from when he had confronted Victoria about her real identity and from when she had told him who she was, and Hector had become much more pensive than he normally was.
Up from the break of dawn, Hector had foraged with Roran and Donald in the forest for fresh fruits and other forest foods. He still sparred with the two but after his calming bath he took the forest trails again and stayed until nearly nightfall.
Donald had once tried to ask Hector what he was doing out there for so long but the steely eyes Hector had given him had made Donald know not to broach the subject again.
The Laird was constantly questioning his presence and his actions. Did it make sense to stay in Crowland when there were other places he should be searching? And if he did stay, what was he hoping for? A reconciliation with Victoria?
No matter how he tried to deny that he was still captivated with the lady, he woke daily from dreams of her. Dreams that ranged from softly holding her to ones of her naked under him.
“Hector,” Donald called over as Hector’s eyes once again shifted toward Monstall Manor. “Me friend, ye need tae go an’ talk tae her, ye hae no’ been yerself an’ ye might hate me fer sayin’ this but tha Hector I’m seeing noo is a pale embarrassment tae tha Hector I kent. Ye already ken ye want this lady, stop denyin’ it an’ make her yers.”
Green eyes shot over to the man sitting easily on the edge of his bed. Did Donald even realize what he had just said?
“Make…her…mine.” Hector replied quietly before his eyes narrowed, “D’ye ken tha' fer me tae do so would be recreatin’ me Faither’s life? Another MacTavish takin’ a Moore tae make more war an’ more problems? Are ye mad, Donald?”
“No,” Donald replied steely, “But ye’d be, tae not e’en try.”
“I cannae.” Hector replied stonily, “I’d brin’ more war tae me people.”
“The people can handle war,” Donald recounted. “But can ye handle missin’ oot on no’ havin’ tha one thin' ye hae wanted fer yerself? I’ve kent ye me whole life, man, an’ I hae ne’er seen ye so hung over on a lady. Maybe it’s yer Da’s curse but maybe it was destined fer ye tae close tha circle. Are ye goin’ tae be a Jessie an’ no' e’en try?”
“I’m nae coward.” Hector snapped, “This is just tae complicated.”
“Tae complicated tae ease yer heart?” Donald snorted while turning away, “Or are ye goin' tae live wi’ regrets fer tha rest o' yer life?”
Hector couldn’t answer that question if he tried. He knew he wanted Victoria - her lineage be damned - but what was he going to do about it?
Chapter 14
“Amelia,” Victoria said quietly, as she tightened her robe around her and looked at her maid. “Just tea this morning, thank you.”
She had tried her best to adhere to her normal routine for the last five days, but she knew she was slipping. A blank look, lackluster emotion for reading, and her waning appetite were markers that she just wasn’t herself.
An unknown level of lethargy had overtaken her the next day, after Hector had found out who she was. It was as if some unknown mystic creature had sucked all her energy and vigor out of her. She had tried going to bed earlier but woke up the next morning even more tired than when she had gone to bed.
She had wanted to keep this charade with the Scottish Laird for a good while, to have this rebellion and revel in it, only to have her pretense ripped away from her like dry chaff.
Those few days with Hector had sent a spark of life through her. Not only the one that had crippled her with his kiss, but being around a man who didn’t heed to the pretenses of society had been so refreshing. Victoria had found a revitalizing well and had drank deeply of it.
Wrapping her robe closer, she mourned the warmth of Hector’s arms when he pressed her to his side; no cloth, however thick, could compare to his heat.
“My Lady,” Amelia said quietly, while placing the tray of tea and a card before her, “This was just received for you.”
Taking a single look to the white card, Victoria felt her spirits plunge into an abyss. It was Mr. Keating with another request for an audience.
Christ save me, Victoria sighed. What have I done to suffer so?
Taking the card, she looked balefully at Mr. Keating’s signature and felt a vicious desire to throw it into the smoldering fireplace at the other end of the room and watch it burn to curling ashes. She knew she had it in her power to refuse his request but also knew if she did so, she would shame her father. A bachelor with this sort of money and means deserved at
least three visits, even if his character didn’t.
“Amelia,” Victoria said, while spooning some honey into her tea, “Please ready a muslin dress for this afternoon. And get my bath ready, also.”
“Yes, My Lady,” Amelia said while going to the armoire at the end of the room.
Sipping the warm tea, Victoria felt a strange sensation of hollowness in her stomach even though the tea warmed her.
It’s a hollowness of the soul, Victoria thought bleakly. I am doomed to marry one who is nothing but a glory-seeker, only interested in affairs of pomp and position. No doubt Mr. Keating is going to flatter and praise me to get my affections but what regard can I have for a sweet-talker?
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