by Nichole Van
Ah.
And there he was.
Rakus lasciviosus, always true to form. Quick to flirt. Never sincere.
His words were as brisk as a dowsing in the river flowing at his back.
Once a rake, always a rake.
And if part of her had perked up at the thought of ‘frolicsome sport,’ well, that was simply her wayward biology showing its colors.
Fortunately, she was stronger than mere biology.
So she did not stoop to respond to his innuendo. Instead, she took a step back, forcing herself to meet his eyes.
She wasn’t sure what she expected to see. Continued amusement? Mocking irritation?
Instead, she found his eyes . . . thoughtful. Did he regret his words then?
Did she regret ordering James to place his valise beside her trunk?
Unbidden, her eyes drifted to that scar running down his cheek. How had that happened? Was it the result of ‘frolicsome sport’? Or something more sinister?
How little she truly knew this surprisingly complicated man.
She glanced beyond him at the incapacitated stagecoach. A local farmer had stopped and several passengers were loading their trunks into his wagon.
He followed her gaze, that same eyebrow going up, likely at the thought of hours jolting beside turnips.
Fortunately for him, spite was not one of her personal shortcomings.
Blunt frankness, however, was.
And so she said, “Someone recently commented on my over-eagerness to rescue pathetic things. Even those that resemble half-drowned felines.”
She dragged her eyes up and down his wet, dripping body, mostly to be annoying, but also because . . . wet, dripping body.
She walked around him, shooting a glance his way. “Your trunk is already on my chaise, Mr. Gordon. We’ll deposit you at the next coaching inn.”
She walked away, making no attempt to mask the smug look on her face.
14
Fifteen minutes and a change of kilt later, Rafe found himself heading north again in the one place he truly should not be—
Traveling with Lady Sophie.
They sat side-by-side in the chaise, the solitary seat only accommodating two. Martha, her ladyship’s maid, had been all too eager to sit outside with the handsome James.
Mainfeld had certainly lent Lady Sophie a carriage fit for an earl. The wheels were so well-sprung, the seat barely jostled along the rutted road, the cushions so stuffed, Rafe seemed to be floating upon pillows.
He could have said, No, and declined her offer, piled himself atop the turnips, and carried onward alone.
But Rafe had several years of his life shaved off between being shot at, half-drowning in the frigid river, and then watching Sophie inch down that branch as it dipped closer and closer. If the branch had broken and sent her tumbling into the churning water . . .
And so the thought of her journeying northward while there were highwaymen about had set him climbing out of his skin—
“How concerned should I be over those highwaymen?” Lady Sophie asked. “Are they likely to attack again today?”
Was the lady now reading minds, as well?
“The fact that highwaymen attacked us at all is . . . unnerving,” he said. “Not to mention, puzzling.”
“Unnerving, I can understand. By why puzzling?” she asked. “You yourself said that it was a possibility when I began this journey.”
True.
And yet . . .
“The fact of highwaymen, yes. However, highwaymen rarely attack a full stagecoach in broad daylight along a rather busy stretch of road.”
“Ah.” She tapped her lips. “That is . . . puzzling.”
“Precisely.”
A moment of silence. The harness jangled. The chaise rocked to and fro over the bumpy road.
Rafe considered the highwaymen, mentally reviewing the attack. No one had been seriously injured, none of the brigands’ shots finding a target. Which meant the highwaymen had either been desperate, unskilled, and green to the business. Or the ‘attack’ had been for a different purpose entirely.
But what?
Could it be tied to the letter he received? Someone clearly did not appreciate that he currently breathed. But surely there were easier ways to dispatch him than accosting a public stagecoach along a busy stretch of highway.
Besides, aside from Lady Sophie, who knew that he was traveling as Lennon Gordon? He employed the Scottish disguise from time to time, but it was not well-known. Tracking him in this situation would be unlikely (which was precisely why he used it).
But his scar did make him more recognizable, so Rafe struggled to dismiss the idea out of hand.
Sophie darted a glance at him. “My intuition tells me that you have an idea as to why the highwaymen attacked the stagecoach.”
What the he—?!
How did she sense his thoughts so clearly?
“Are ye sure ye are not part fey?” The words tumbled out before he could stop them.
“Fey? As in a sorceress?” She did not miss a beat. “What is the precise genus and species for that?”
He grinned.
Oh, but he had missed this woman.
“Femina maga?” he offered.
“Clever.” She nodded. “But . . . you haven’t yet answered my question.”
Mmmmm. She was tenacious, he supposed.
Rafe frowned before giving the only answer he could: “I honestly dinnae know, lass. As a scientist, I dinnae have enough evidence to estimate the likelihood of another attack.”
She gave a soft half-snort, half-sigh in reply.
They rode in silence for a while, both watching the postillion as he slowed the horses to skirt a rather large series of ruts in the road.
A town came into view up ahead.
“What will you do once I deposit you at the coaching inn?” Lady Sophie asked.
“Wait for the next stagecoach, I ken.” He scrubbed a hand over his chin.
“Mmmm.”
Yes, Rafe would bid her adieu and wait for another stagecoach north.
That was the sensible choice. Wise. Safe.
Well, safer for him.
But what about Lady Sophie? a part of him whispered. How would she be safest?
He kicked back the words, but just the thought of letting her out of his sight had sent his blood racing and caused panic to settle in his gut.
There are highwaymen about. She could be hurt, that same voice whispered. Perhaps you should offer to accompany her to Edinburgh?
He suppressed a grunt and looked out the window.
Traveling with her would be . . .
A sort of glossy haze descended over his mind, and he saw their excursion in brilliant color. Spending hours . . . days . . . in her company, listening to the quirky ramblings of her scientific mind, basking in the lilt of her laughter, watching her nibble that bottom lip over and over—
Whoa.
Yes, traveling with Lady Sophie would be a very bad idea.
And yet his mind had seized on it with an almost maniacal frenzy, lunging at the opportunity like a slavering dog.
No. I cannot seriously be contemplating this—
But his mind, so eager to spend time with her, conjured up reason after reason to justify the decision.
Why not travel with her, ensure she arrives safely? You are far enough from London now—the risk of recognition low—so word is unlikely to reach Kendall.
Moreover, she is a widow. The rules of propriety are not as stringent for her. You can simply tell everyone that you are cousins.
Besides, your father will see you married off to someone else soon enough. You should enjoy her company one final time.
And who knows? Maybe spending more time with her will cure you of this ridiculous obsession once and for all.
Mmmm.
Those were all excellent points.
Without consciously making the decision, his mouth decided to act of its own will.
&nbs
p; “Lady Sophie,” he began.
She turned, those clear green eyes drilling into him. Her eyebrows raised, and she surveyed him from head-to-toe.
“I believe I know that look,” she said.
“Pardon? What look?” He shook his head.
“The look that says you’re going to ask to accompany me to Edinburgh.”
Huh.
She truly was reading minds now.
Rafe shrugged, not denying it. “Well, it isnae an entirely dreadful idea, ye must admit.”
“It is a fairly dreadful idea.”
“No. Not really. Ye are going to Edinburgh. I am going to Edinburgh. As the events of this afternoon prove, I am clearly not safe on my own.”
She rolled her eyes.
He grinned. “Ye just told me not an hour hence that ye have a habit of rescuing pathetic things.” He pointed to his bedraggled, still-wet hair. “Am I not pathetic enough for ye?”
She continued to stare at him, brows drawn down.
“I will be your humble Scottish cousin,”—he pressed a hand over his heart—“accompanying ye to visit relatives in Edinburgh.”
“Lord Rafe—”
“Lennon, lass. Cousin Lennon.”
She sent her gaze skyward, as if pleading for patience.
He grinned wider. He knew when he was getting to a lady. “I promise I’ll be no bother. I’ll keep to myself, not pester ye.”
“Don’t make promises you cannot keep.”
“I’ll keep this promise.” He crossed his heart. “I’ll leave ye in peace.”
Lady Sophie pursed her lips and then sighed. A deep, long-suffering sigh.
“I suppose it does make some sense. I have space in my carriage.” She looked around the plush interior. “There are known highwaymen about. And it is unlikely that we will encounter anyone from London. And even if we did, your disguise is most effective.” She said the words almost grudgingly. “No one would recognize you if they weren’t specifically looking for you.”
“Do ye truly think so?”
“Oh aye, laddie.”
Wait . . .
Had she just mocked his accent?
The cheeky minx.
She continued on, nearly making his case for him. “And unlike your father, my servants are excessively discreet.”
“They are?”
“You forget who my mother is,” she replied. “My father only retains servants who are utterly loyal.”
“Very well, Lady Sophie, ye’ve convinced me.” He let out a gusty sigh, as if this had been her idea from the beginning. “I will accompany ye to Edinburgh.”
She laughed and rolled her eyes. Was it his imagination, or did Lady Sophie relax at the thought?
“Very well.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “I think we should push on today and into the evening hours. If we manage to cover another forty miles before tucking into an inn for the night, we should be able to reach York by tomorrow afternoon.”
Six hours later, Rafe had begun to have some regrets.
The sun had just set, wrapping a cocoon of inky blackness around them, a hushed sort of privacy, as if they were vastly alone. Carriage blankets kept the autumn chill at bay.
Worse, he should have thought through how sitting next to Lady Sophie for hours on end in a rocking carriage would stoke, not diminish, his attraction to her. Every jolt and bump rocked the soft curves of her body against him and sent another waft of her rose scent his way.
He was an utter eejit.
How had he thought this situation would assuage his ardor?
Lady Sophie herself was no help in that regard. She had spent the passing hours asking questions about his natural science studies. They talked easily, jumping from topic to topic, ideas flowing effortlessly. She spoke of her clowder of feral barn cats and her theories on their behavior. Rafe described his finds in the New Hebrides and his research ideas.
This was the Lady Sophie of his memory, the woman who delighted him with her unexpected comments, with her ability to always be three thoughts ahead of him.
He couldn’t remember a time when he had enjoyed someone’s company more.
What had he said to her at the inn the other day?
I might take tae calling ye my bird.
It was an absurd thought. Bird was Scottish cant for sweetheart. A lass became your bird when courting and then your hen once married—
He took a slow breath.
He needed to cease these runaway thoughts. Lady Sophie could never be his bird. Too much was at stake.
As the carriage rocked through yet another sleepy village, he almost thought Lady Sophie asleep, but then she stirred, a soft sigh escaping.
“Are you awake?” she asked.
“Aye.” His frayed nerves were far too agitated for sleep.
The carriage swayed over a bump, harnesses jangling. They had changed horses nearly two hours ago, the carriage pulling into an inn coach yard and grooms swapping out the team.
They rode in silence for a moment.
“Lord Rafe—”
“Lennon, lass.”
Was it his imagination, or did she heave a sigh?
“Do you like playing the Scot?” She waved a hand in the dim light. “It is only us two in the carriage, and yet you still maintain this Highlander act with the accent and . . . everything. You inhabit the role so thoroughly, it seems innate.”
Huh.
That was . . . discerning.
“I do think of myself as Scottish,” he murmured, his accent sliding from a broad brogue to a more aristocratic burr. His mother’s Ayrshire accent, he supposed. “I ken more tae my mother’s folk.”
The ever-present loathing of his father reared up. Rafe detested that he heard his father’s voice in his own clipped aristocratic English accent.
Though he knew his affinity for Scotland was more than simply a rejection of his father’s English heritage.
Rafe felt Scottish. As if all the thick Gaelic blood that ran in his mother’s veins had transferred itself straight to him. He loved the smell of haggis, hot and steaming from the oven. The sound of the bagpipes stirred his soul. And, oddly, the bite of a brisk ocean wind would always say home to his heart.
It was no surprise that he had chosen to attend university at St. Andrews in Fife. Or that all those he counted as close friends were Scottish.
“Do you think it inevitable that you would become a rake?” Her random question broke through his musings.
As usual, her mind made leaps and connections that left him grasping.
“Pardon?”
“You being a rake. Was it inevitable from the beginning? You are named Rafe, after all.”
“Lennon, lass. It’s Lennon, remember?”
He could practically hear her eyes rolling.
“Rafe is only one letter off of rake,” she continued, undeterred. “Have you ever considered that your mind may have unconsciously substituted the second consonant at some point?”
“That isn’t how raking starts, I’m afraid.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite.”
Silence.
“Raking isn’t a matter of vocabulary,” he clarified.
“Mmmm. I am not entirely convinced.”
Rafe snorted. “Actions are not tied tae a label. Taxonomy alone doesn’t determine behavior. A wolf is a wolf no matter what word we use tae describe the animal. The name alone doesn’t call up its form. How did Shakespeare phrase it? What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” he quoted.
“Perhaps, but we aren’t discussing tangibles like those of genus Rosa. We are contemplating malleables, like behavior. You grew up listening to a Scottish mother, and so you think of yourself as Scottish. You hear your name, Rafe, and think of raking—”
“We label the behavior when it arises, not the other way around,” he countered.
“Yes, at times. But that is not always the case. If a friend or parent repeatedly call
s you a dunce, at what point do you begin to believe it, despite the label’s lack of veracity?”
This woman. Why did she have to be so clever?
He was supposed to be discovering her faults here, not falling deeper in love.
“So if enough people called me a rake,” he said, following the trail of her logic, “eventually I would adopt the behaviors of one, regardless of my own inclinations?”
“The idea has merit, I think.”
It did, indeed. She was closer to the truth than she could ever know.
“Or,” she continued, “if you label yourself as Scottish in your head, you will eventually come to believe it. Taxonomy can call forth behavior in the end.”
The low husk of her voice wrapped around him in the silken darkness. He valiantly pushed away the thought that compared it to a lover’s caress.
“You have a distinct fondness for taxonomy,” he said.
A moment’s pause. And then—
“I like certainty. I appreciate logic and rational thought.”
“Why is that, lass?”
A longer pause.
“It creates order out of chaos. It gives things a place, a space where they are wanted.”
“Ah. And that is important tae ye?”
More silence.
Rafe almost thought she had fallen asleep, but then she shifted again, her skirts rubbing against his bare knee and sending heat through his body. Bloody kilts, leaving skin exposed.
“What’s in a name?” she repeated his quote from earlier. “Scottish isn’t necessarily a negative label—”
“It is tae some,” he snorted.
“Oh, perhaps. But with the popularity of Walter Scott’s works and his recovery of the Scottish Honors last year, public opinion about what it means to be Scottish is rapidly changing. I doubt anyone has ever disparaged you because of your mother’s heritage.”
“Lady Sophie—”
“People have many names for my mother, none of which are as complimentary. Shall I list the ones some have said to my face?”
