by Lauren Smith
“I’m quite accustomed to going without,” she murmured.
“Having to borrow a dress or two isn’t going without.” His tone was now angry and a fierce scowl crossed his face. It might have made her flinch, but she was safe and warm and fed for the first time in days, aside from her night spent in Anthony’s home. She wasn’t going to let Lachlan bully her, even with words.
“I have gone without,” she said, her tone as hard as steel. “Did your friend not tell you? He found me begging in the streets, my only gown ripped, my belly empty, and my limbs frozen.”
She paused. Her body practically shook with fury. How dare he assume she was some spoiled child who’d never faced hardship? “For the last two months, I would’ve given anything to have a roof and a dry place to lay my head. I was on the verge of…” She choked on the words, but his silent stare dared her to continue. “I was going that very night to a brothel, my last hope for food and a warm bed.” She drank the last of her wine in a long gulp and stared at him hard. “But Anthony found me. He rescued me before I made that mistake. Do not ever lecture me on going without, Lord Huntley. I have been ripped from my home. My life was destroyed because my father was careless and cavalier when it came to the law. I am paying for his sins. I only hope you, my future husband, will not judge me for them.”
She kept her composure as she turned her back and lay down on the bed she’d made. That tiny distance was the only barrier she could make between them and she hoped he would respect it.
Only then did the tears she’d held back begin to flow. She heard him mutter something that sounded like a curse before he lay down beside her and curled one arm around her waist. He pulled her back a few inches to nestle her into the curve of his body. Of course, he wouldn’t leave her alone. Even now, after all she had said, he wanted to remind her that he owned her. That she was bought and paid for. She tensed and tried to pull away from him, but she was tired and cold.
“I’m sorry, lass.”
The words surprised her, but only half as much as the kiss he placed upon her cheek. The tenderness of it startled her enough that she shifted onto her back to stare at him.
“Why must you be so cruel, Lord Huntley?”
His blue eyes filled with shadows. “I… I am angry. Very angry at someone and it keeps my temper short.” His cryptic response was apologetic, but it was clear he would speak no more on the matter.
“You shouldn’t hold on to anger, my lord. It doesn’t help.” She too had held onto anger for a long time. Anger at her father. But all too soon she realized anger didn’t provide shelter, get her friends back, and didn’t fill her belly.
“When a man’s heart is broken, sometimes anger is all he has left.” Lachlan’s words were hoarse with emotion. Was he speaking of the brother he’d lost? Or was there more? Had he loved a woman and lost her?
“Go to sleep.” His tone was even now. “We’ve a long journey ahead of us.”
Daphne was certain there was no way she could sleep, not with the frantic pulse of her thoughts, but somewhere close to dawn, sleep did claim her.
Nothing was going according to plan.
Lachlan scowled in the darkness of the loft as he held Daphne close for warmth. They had no proper room to share and neither of them had been able to bathe or change into nightclothes. They slept with animals. He’d wanted to be in control of her misery, to exact revenge on his terms, but the opportunities failed to appear.
Of course, after what she’d just told him, he couldn’t shake the guilt of wanting his revenge. The need to avenge William was as strong as ever, but now there was a compulsion to protect Daphne, to care for her, which warred with his need for vengeance.
How can I protect her from me? He should send her back to London and let Anthony find one of those other love-struck lads who bid on her and give her to one of them. But the thought of giving her away now? He couldn’t. She would be his wife.
The anger which had been a part of him since William’s death usually burned like wildfire, snapping and snarling as it devoured his soul in its greedy flames. But at this moment, that rage had become a single candle flame.
He nuzzled the nape of Daphne’s neck, inhaling her sweet scent and feeling the silken tresses of her hair slide against his cheek. She let out a soft sigh and scooted back against him. One of her hands touched his where he’d wrapped it around her waist, and she laced her fingers through his. She wasn’t awake, or she would not have done that, yet he almost smiled at the thought that she trusted him, at least in sleep.
“Have I made a mistake, lass?” he whispered, knowing she wouldn’t hear. “Because I want to keep you?” He wanted to keep her, yes, but for the wrong reasons.
Daphne slowly turned, still asleep, and wrapped herself around him, her face pressed to his chest, her leg slipping between his as she clung to him. A sharp pain burst close to his heart as he held her. How could he hurt this woman? She was not the spoiled brat he had hoped to torture by denying her material possessions. No, Daphne was a fighter, a survivor, like him.
Had she been anyone else’s daughter, he would have fallen in love with her then and there, but he couldn’t. She was the reminder of everything he’d lost. It would be an insult to William’s memory if Lachlan abandoned his revenge and fell in love with Westfall’s daughter.
So, I am damned either way...
Chapter 4
The following day, Daphne held her breath as she stepped out of the coach and faced Huntley Castle. It was a beautiful medieval grey stone house abutted by extensive gardens on either side. Much of what might have been old-fashioned in architectural style to some seemed classic to her, and not run down.
She wasn’t sure what she’d believed his home would look like. A dank, dreary place, perhaps? This home was certainly not any of those things. Rather, despite the winter, it appeared to be bustling with life and color. Candles were lit in windows and servants moved about the grounds tending the gardens, preparing them for the spring, still many months away.
“Not what you expected?” Lachlan asked.
She ducked her head, but couldn’t control her blush.
“I’m not quite sure what I was expecting, but it is lovely.” She admired the towers and the stained-glass windows along one wing. Statues lined the gravel pathway up to the front entryway. Rosebushes, now dormant in the winter, would be stunning come spring.
Lachlan instructed their driver to attend to his luggage. She had none.
“This way.” He didn’t offer his arm, but stayed close as they walked up to the house. The door opened and a fleet of servants came out to greet them. The faces Daphne glimpsed were cheerful and curious, despite the black bands of morning on the arms of their uniforms. Their positive response to her gave Daphne a flutter of hope.
They might like me as their new mistress. I might be happy here, after all.
“Ahh, here we are,” Lachlan greeted the servants warmly before he turned to her. “This is Mrs. Stewart, the housekeeper.” He nodded to a matronly woman and then to a man in a black suit. “And Mr. Frampton is the butler. This is Miss Daphne Westfall,” he informed the staff. “We are to be married as soon as possible.”
“Married?” An older woman emerged through the doorway, her face mired with confusion. “You only left for London five days ago!”
Daphne had a moment to study the woman at the top of the steps. Her dark blue dress was adorned with a white apron of fine lace, which signified she was a woman of high social standing. Daphne’s heart jumped into her throat as she recognized Lachlan’s features in this woman’s face.
“Daphne, this is my mother, Moira, the Dowager Countess of Huntley. Mother, this is Daphne Westfall.” Lachlan finally offered Daphne his arm as he escorted her up to meet his mother. Lachlan’s mother speared her son with a penetrating gaze, not hostile, but certainly unamused. Daphne might have laughed as she realized his mother was the one he’d inherited that intense stare from, but, at the moment, she was struggling to r
emember to breathe. Daphne resisted the urge to cling to Lachlan like a frightened child. It wasn’t that she was afraid, but the shame of who she was and her family situation made her shift restlessly.
“Lachlan, you went to London to attend to business. You made no mention of an intent to find a bride.” Lachlan’s mother turned toward Daphne and suddenly smiled with genuine warmth. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Daphne. I’m sorry we weren’t ready to greet you, my dear. My son, as usual, forgot his manners and didn’t send us any advanced notice.”
“Oh please, don’t be upset with him. We left London quickly and there wasn’t time to write. It’s nice to meet you.” She dipped into a curtsey.
“Ach, an English lass,” Moira chuckled and gave her son a rueful smile. “I suppose you never will do things as expected. Well, come inside, Miss Westfall. I’m sure you’re tired after the long journey.”
“Indeed, we are.”
Lachlan and Daphne followed Moira into the house, which was even more beautiful than the outside. Cherrywood banisters with delicately carved spindles led to the upstairs corridors. High windows allowed sunlight to illuminate the portraits hanging on green satin walls. There was an unexpected brightness to the castle that surprised Daphne. With Lachlan’s anger and grim moods, she’d expected to arrive at a dark estate sinking into the moors, not this place of sunlight and fresh air. It was clear that the house matched Moira rather than her son. She was a warm, smiling woman who had laugh lines around her eyes and mouth.
“Where shall we put Miss Westfall?” Mr. Frampton inquired of Lachlan.
“The blue room in the east wing,” Moira said before her son could speak. Daphne didn’t miss Lachlan’s sudden frown. Was the blue room a good room or a bad one?
“If you follow me, miss,” Mrs. Stewart said to Daphne, “I’ll show you to your room.”
“Rest and have a bath, Miss Westfall,” Moira said. “We shall dine in an hour, if that suits you.”
“Yes, that would be fine, thank you.” Daphne peeked at Lachlan, but he was already striding away. The sight of his retreating form sent a flutter of panic through her. He was the only person in this castle she knew and he was already abandoning her.
“Don’t fret, my dear,” Moira gave her shoulder a motherly squeeze. “He’ll be back soon enough. He never likes to let the dust of travel linger and is likely going to have a bath himself.” Moira was still smiling but there was a hint of concern that transformed the laugh lines around her eyes into something akin to sorrow. Daphne knew why. She, too, sensed something wrong, but couldn’t put her finger on what it was.
She trailed after the housekeeper, who led her up a grand staircase and down a corridor. They passed through a drawing room with oak paneled walls and eighteenth- century furniture. The delicate chairs with gilded arms and embroidered upholstery were exquisite. The desk, which sat at the far end of the room, was covered with books, many open, their pages reflecting the early evening sunlight. Daphne could only imagine how beautiful this room would be with the fireplace and chandelier lit.
The room was far more beautiful than her father’s townhouse, and yet she remembered her father’s pride in their little house in Mayfair. She could still see his face as they entered the white painted entryway for the first time. She’d just turned fourteen and the thrill of living among titled peers and wealthy aristocrats had been exciting. It had been her father’s dream for years to live in that part of London.
“She’s beautiful, eh? We shall certainly fit in here, won’t we?” Her father’s brown eyes had twinkled merrily.
If only she had known how desperate he would become, trying to maintain that way of life, that he would destroy them both.
Daphne paused behind Mrs. Stewart as the housekeeper unlocked the bedroom door and smiled at her.
“In here, miss. This is the blue room.”
Daphne entered and glanced around. The bedroom had robin’s egg blue walls and a bright walnut, four poster bed. Framed watercolor sketches of Highland wildflowers hung on every wall. The warmth of the room was both feminine and welcoming.
“Once you and his lordship are wed, we shall move you to the chambers for the Countess of Huntley in the opposite wing. I’ll have the footmen fill your bath. Do you have luggage?” Mrs. Stewart was now surveying her closely, and Daphne had to swallow the sudden lump in her throat.
“She doesn’t have any clothes, Mrs. Stewart,” Lachlan said from behind her, making both ladies jump. “Mrs. Stewart, tomorrow, be so kind as to fetch the modiste from the village. I wish to have Miss Westfall fit for clothes. You might as well make inquiries about finding her a lady’s maid, as well, unless one of the upstairs maids will do?”
“We do have Mary. We can spare her if you wish to elevate her to a lady’s maid,” Mrs. Stewart said.
“That will be acceptable,” Lachlan replied, then glanced at Daphne. “Mrs. Stewart, you may return to your duties. I should like a moment alone with Miss Westfall.”
Daphne wrung her hands as the housekeeper left. Lachlan closed the bedroom door. They were alone in a bedroom, which shouldn’t have worried her. They were engaged, after all, and she had slept with him in a hay loft, yet this felt more…scandalous.
“We have to have a story,” he said quietly.
She tried not to appear restless under his intense stare. “A story?” she echoed.
“Aye. How we met. I meant to discuss this with you in private before we arrived, but I’ve been distracted these last two days. My mother will not approve if she thinks we met at an auction.”
“Oh…yes. I understand.” Daphne relaxed a little. “Perhaps we ought to stick to the truth as close as we can? You met me through Anthony, a mutual friend. You heard I fell on troubled times, you thought marriage might be beneficial to us both.”
Lachlan placed his hands on his hips as his gaze roamed the lovely room, looking anywhere but at her.
“Aye, that might work, but my mother will be surprised I did not marry for love.”
At this Daphne had nothing to say. She too had wanted to marry for love, yet here they were, no love between them.
“Then tell her the truth, that you rescued me from the streets. I can bear the shame of my situation, if it eases your mind.”
He spun to face her. “Why must you always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Accept the shame of your condition? You never fight, lass, you simply…” He made a frustrated noise and raked a hand through his hair.
“Never fight?” she whispered. Her body vibrated with anger. “I have fought, Lord Huntley. I fought every day to keep myself clothed and to find a dry place to sleep. I begged every friend for work, I tried to find any employment I could, but…” Her voice trailed off.
“But what?”
“But my father committed a terrible crime, and was punished for it. The reach of his ruination went deep. Not even the street sweepers would take me on.”
A pause filled the air between them, and when Daphne spoke next, it was with a heavy air that almost dragged her to the floor. “I am tired, Lord Huntley. I am tired of fighting. When you rescued me, I thought…I thought perhaps I might have a moment of happiness, that I might have a home. And if not that, then perhaps a little peace. If I have caused you trouble, if I am not the woman you imagined I would be, then why not send me away?”
Daphne began to tug at the gown she wore, desperate to be free of it and everything else that did not belong to her. She’d made a grave mistake in agreeing to marry a stranger. She wasn’t going to stand here and take any more of his judgment when he didn’t know what it was like to starve and beg.
Just then, his hands clasped her face and tilted her head back. She had only a glimpse of the emotions that warred upon his face before he lowered his head and kissed her.
Lachlan’s mouth moved over hers, bruising her with his intensity, yet she welcomed the passion. The blaze of heat that flowed between them left her dizzy and she curled her arms aro
und his neck. She’d never been kissed before, but it felt wonderful, terrifying in a way, but absolutely wonderful. One of his hands fisted in her hair at the nape of her neck and the other gripped her hip possessively as he pulled her closer.
“God, you taste sweet,” he murmured between kisses. Daphne threaded her fingers through his hair, tugging on the strands as her body pulsed with a sudden awareness of Lachlan’s strength. He was so much taller. His strong arms could so easily harm her, but they held her gently, firmly, and he kissed her until she felt faint. It made her think of the first time she drank a glass of sherry—the delightful buzz, the warm tingling that flowed through her body, but there was something else, a sharp pain deep in her womb.
She rocked her hips, needing to be closer. “Lachlan, I feel…”
“I know, lass.” He lowered his lips to her neck and nipped her shoulder, which sent fiery tingles down her spine. His fingers played with the buttons of her gown and she couldn’t help but giggle. It was the first time in so long that she’d laughed.
The sound broke through whatever wildness seemed to hold him and his hands dropped from her body. He stepped back and the distance between them became a chasm.
“Apologies. That was presumptuous of me. Dinner is in one hour.” His tone was polite but distant.
She nodded, her heart now aching from his sudden coldness.
“Very good. I’ll fetch you then. I’ll have a maid find you something to wear this evening. The modiste will come tomorrow to fit you for some proper clothes.” He didn’t meet her eyes as he spoke, and his hands were curled into fists at his sides.
Was he angry? Why? What could she have done to upset him? Daphne bit her lip as she watched him leave. She’d never met a man so determined to walk away from her.
She collapsed onto the bed and stroked the blue satin coverlet as she tried not to cry.
He isn’t worth your tears, the voice inside her insisted, but it didn’t prevent the prick of those treacherous tears. She reached into the pocket of her gown and felt for the pearls, relieved as the silken beads slid between her fingers.
