One ticket.
It was clear she wanted nothing more to do with him, and he couldn’t blame her.
Still, that didn’t stop him from buying a ticket himself and sliding into a seat across the aisle from her, though a few rows back. He could tell from the stiffness of her shoulders she knew he was there, but not once did she acknowledge him.
As the afternoon crept on, she ate, she drank, and she cried. Oh, she was subtle about it, her face turned toward the whizzing landscape, but he could tell what she was doing. A few people stopped to ask if they could help, and each time, Roland stiffened, bitter at the thought of her allowing someone else to comfort her. But each time, she thanked them politely and sent them on their way, and he glared as the interloper passed.
The train—and the landscape outside—was dark when she finally fell asleep, but Roland couldn’t do the same. Not when every bone in his body was urging him to go to her, to gather her in his arms, to take her sleeping weight on his shoulder and be content. He couldn’t, because he knew how much he’d hurt her, and he deserved this frustration, because of the pain he’d caused her.
They changed trains again at Edinburgh, and although he’d hovered nearby to ensure she’d had no trouble making the new train, he shouldn’t have bothered. Just as he’d told her, she was strong and capable, and judging from the tightness around her lips as she so thoroughly ignored him, she knew it.
After Inverness, neither of them slept. He watched her, watching the sky lighten in the east, and wondered what she was thinking. She was home a full day early, but she hadn’t found the sphaera she’d gone to York searching for.
And she’d been badly hurt.
By him.
They both stood as the train rolled to a stop at their station, and he was the one out the door first. It wasn’t quite dawn as he reached up to offer her a hand out of the train.
She stared at him for a long moment, then placed one slender, graceful hand in his and stepped down. She’d put no weight or pressure on him but had allowed him her hand as if she were the most elegant lady in the land, and not a woman with cracked fingernails and dirt worn into the creases of her palms.
Standing there on the station platform, in the cool morning darkness, Roland realized the truth: the dirt, the cosmetics, and the rough clothing did nothing to disguise the fact she was the most elegant lady in the land.
“Vanessa,” he began, but didn’t know how to continue.
She slid her hand from his. “Goodbye, Viscount Blabloblal.”
He hated how formal she sounded. He’d only been her Froggie for a short time, but the thought of going back to being Blabloblal now…?
He shook his head.
But before he could say anything—before he could think of anything to say—she’d hefted her bag and began walking away. Muttering a curse under his breath, more at himself than her, he followed.
“Vanessa, I’ll no’ allow ye to walk home alone in the dark.”
Without glancing his way, she said stiffly, “It is no’ yer place to concern yerself over me, milord.”
“Aye, it is,” he darkly vowed. He was beginning to suspect it would always be thus.
She was holding her skirts in one hand, walking fast enough it could almost be called a jog. They were nearing the inn. “Ye made it clear ye wanted nothing to do with me, remember? Because I certainly do.”
That was before!
Oh, aye, he clearly remembered how he’d purposefully snubbed her and had been rude to her while Phineas had tried to smooth the waters of social niceties. But that was before he’d realized who she really was.
She’d said those cruel things about Lyon, aye, but she wasn’t the vain and self-centered bitch he’d assumed.
Now, he followed her around to the rear of the inn. “Ye’ll be safe from here on,” he muttered, more to himself than her.
But she whirled around, and he was startled to realize there were more tear tracks on her cheeks. “I dinnae see why ye should start to worry about that now, milord.”
He reared back. “Yer safety has always been my concern, Vanessa. Why do ye think it was so important for me to go on this journey with ye?”
“How should I ken?” She swiped angrily at her eyes as she backed toward the gate to the kitchen garden. “Perhaps because ye wanted to make me dependent on ye, to fall in love with ye, before ye humiliated me.”
Is that what had happened?
“Nay,” he said quietly, one hand already reaching for her. “Nay, I only wanted to keep ye safe.”
Was that a lie?
“Well, ye failed,” she spit out, her breath catching on a sob. “Because ye couldnae keep me safe from ye.”
She turned and slipped through the gate, but he followed, only to ensure she made it to the door safely, he told himself, but he recognized the lie. He wanted her to turn, to acknowledge him one last time.
She did stop at the door, her shoulders hunched as she dropped her hand to the latch. Silently, he prayed she’d turn, tell him she forgave him.
But of course she didn’t.
When she stepped inside the inn, Roland sighed and acknowledged he’d well and truly lost her.
* * *
If she’d considered it, Vanessa would’ve assumed Mrs. Oliphant, the cook, might’ve been in the kitchen, perhaps joined by Annie or one of the maids.
But she didn’t expect to be confronted by her mother as soon as she slipped inside.
“Where have ye been, young lady?”
The lash of her mother’s fury yanked Vanessa’s gaze to her mother’s face. The baroness was livid, judging from the two bright spots on her cheeks, and she was fully dressed, as if she were ready to face the day.
Or as if she hadn’t gone to sleep yet.
“I’ve made myself ill worrying over ye!” Mother shrieked, stepping around the table to stalk toward Vanessa. “Up half the night, wondering where ye were, and if I could risk yer reputation to call out the men to look for ye! This one would say nothing!” She jerked her thumb, and Vanessa peeked over her shoulder. Behind her, Bonnie hovered near the doorway, wearing her night wrapper, her arms around her middle and looking apologetic.
“I’m fine, Mother,” Vanessa confessed wearily, placing her bag on the table and wondering if she had the energy to unpack it.
“Fine? Fine?” screeched her mother, flapping her hands like some kind of big bird. Her shrill voice added to the simile. “Ye’ve been gone, with little concern for yer mother’s nerves, then waltz in dressed like—like that?” She flapped her hands at Vanessa’s clothing. “Like some kind of peasant? What if someone had seen ye?”
Vanessa sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. There’d been a time when her mother’s anger, and her rants, had terrified her. A time, not so long ago, when she’d craved her mother’s compliments and assurances of worth.
But the last few days had changed her, in more ways than one.
“Mother, nae one kenned who I was. I was safe. Ye werenae supposed to find out—”
“Och, I cannae believe ye think I’d be so stupid as to believe that menses excuse. I’m a woman as well, Vanessa! I ken good and well, nae matter how uncomfortable our courses can be, we’re expected to face the world with a smile and pretend our hormones arenae crippling us in pain or making us a big, raging ball of homicidal thoughts!”
Vanessa blinked. “Verra…accurate, Mother.”
“Now, where were ye, young lady?”
I spent the last two and a half days no’ being a young lady.
But Mother wouldn’t want to hear that. She wouldn’t want to hear about any of her realizations or epiphanies on the journey either, or the way Vanessa had had her heart broken.
Again.
So she just sighed and admitted. “I went to Fangfoss Manor in York.” She met Bonnie’s look of hope and had to sadly shake her head. Mother didn’t notice, but Bonnie’s expression carefully shuttered, which told Vanessa she’d understood the adventure had failed
.
“Ye went to York,” Mother repeated slowly, icily, “alone.”
“Nay, I had an escort,” Vanessa said without thinking. “His name was—”
The slap took her by surprise.
Her mother rarely raised a hand to her or Bonnie, although Ember had received more than her share of blows. But this slap was the kind which necessitated Mother winding up with her hand over her shoulder, letting go, and whipping Vanessa’s head clear around.
Her cheek burned, and there was a ringing in her ears, but Vanessa didn’t feel any pain. Nay, it was more shock that her mother had just slapped her.
When she was able to blink the room back into focus, she saw that Bonnie was gone—likely up to her room to mourn the lack of money the golden sphaera would bring—and her mother was glaring at her.
Coldly, the baroness hissed, “Ye’ve been away from home for days, Vanessa. And now I learn ye were with a man? Ye ken there’s a word for women like ye. Ye might as well no’ have returned at all if ye were going to shred yer reputation so thoroughly.”
Still stunned, Vanessa shook her head, trying to clear the fuzziness in her brain. “Mother, nae one kens—”
“Shut up. Shut up!” Mother was pacing now, waving her hands in agitation. “I’ll no’ allow ye to ruin what I’ve worked so hard to build!”
The inn?
Vanessa’s fingers rose to her warm, swollen cheek. “What’s that, Mother?”
“Yer reputation!” the baroness shrieked, as she whirled back around to point a long finger at Vanessa’s nose. “Yer reputation as the most desirable marriage prospect in a generation! And if word of yer folly were to somehow escape these walls, and it was discovered ye’re no’ quite as virginal as everyone thinks—”
Vanessa gasped. “But I am! We didnae do anything, I swear it!”
Nothing more than kissing. Nothing more than having her heart opened, then shattered.
Mother’s sneer told her she didn’t care for the protests. “It matters no’. If word gets out ye were alone with a man, even yer beauty couldnae save ye. And then where would I be? Left with merely Bonnie to try to marry off and better my lot in life!” She threw up her hands. “Daughters!” She wailed theatrically, as she whirled back toward the corridor to the rest of the inn. “My penance in life is daughters who cannae bring me the wealth I deserve!”
As she watched her mother stomp out of the room, muttering about beauty and men and bargains, Vanessa’s eyes clouded with tears.
Yesterday in York, Roland had said her worth was more than just her beauty. He’d said such wonderful things about her, and in that moment, Vanessa knew the truth: she’d gladly give up her beauty, if it meant she could have him.
Not as Roland, and not as Froggie, but as both. She’d thought she loved Roland, with his charm and wealth and grace and handsome face, but when he’d snubbed her, she’d realized those things alone weren’t worth loving him.
It had taken Froggie—with his coarse dress and easy-going attitude and fun-loving smile—to show her what she wanted in life. What she wanted to be, and who she wanted to be with.
Her head hurt, and her cheek throbbed in time with the ache in her heart and the heaviness of her eyes. Choking back a sob, she allowed herself to sink to the table beside her bag.
She’d failed in her reason for going to York, but she’d learned so much more. She’d learned about herself, and about him, and now she knew what she wanted.
Starting today, she’d no longer allow her mother to control her life. She would no longer rely on her beauty to make her way in the world. She’d take what Roland—nay, what Froggie had taught her, and she’d strive to make life better for those around her.
That’s what he’d said he liked about her after all: her caring nature. Well, from now on, Vanessa vowed she’d share more of that and less of her beauty.
She’d learned how, thanks to him.
Dropping her forehead to her hands, Vanessa allowed the tears to start anew.
He’d changed her life, and she couldn’t even thank him.
* * *
How could Lyon stand to live in a place like this?
Roland rested his head on the arm of the cushioned settee and scowled up at the exposed ceiling beams, darkened from centuries of smoky fires. Oliphant Castle was something out of the Dark Ages, and it was no wonder its lord had gotten a reputation as a barbarian.
Ye’re sounding like Vanessa now.
Aye, but Lyon was his brother, and he was allowed to call him a barbarian.
Because he is one.
Grunting in irritation at his own stupid rationalizations, Roland lifted his brandy.
“That stuff’ll kill ye,” growled his brother from behind him.
Lazily, Roland swung his gaze to rest on Lyon, who stood in the doorway.
Without a shirt.
Cocking a brow at his brother, Roland settled back against the settee. “Then why do ye keep it in yer study?”
Lyon grunted as he stalked across the room. “As a test.”
True to his reputation as the Beast of the Oliphants, Lyon’s words were as short as his temper. He stopped beside the nook which held the shelf and the brandy decanter, and Roland watched him stare at the liquor hard, before swiping up the crystal pitcher of cold water and pour himself a glass.
“I failed yer test then, brother,” Roland admitted, staring down at his third glass.
“Not a test for ye. For me.”
Ah.
“Where’ve ye been? I’ve been waiting.”
“Out.” Lyon rested his hip against his desk. “Why are ye here?”
Judging from the sheen of sweat across his brother’s shoulders, and the way his kilt hung low on his hips, Roland guessed he’d been sparring with his butler again. Lyon’s devotion to his exercise regimen was legendary.
And warranted, considering it had changed his life.
“I…” Sighing, Roland pushed himself upright. “I needed to speak with ye.”
“Speak then,” grunted Lyon, as he lowered himself to the floor and began to push himself up using only the muscles in his arms. “I’ll listen.”
Lyon wasn’t being rude, it was just who he was.
And Vanessa’s observations weren’t completely wrong, were they?
He found himself telling his older brother everything. Well, perhaps not everything; there was no need to explain how her scent caused his cock to harden, and how her lips were positively sinful, nor how he ached to possess her. But he explained the scheme he’d concocted with Phin’s help, and how he’d set it into motion.
And how it had been an utter success.
And an utter disaster.
“And now the lass willnae speak to ye?” Lyon growled, sitting on his arse on the worn rug atop the stone floor, with his arms resting on his knees.
“Would ye, if ye were in her position?”
“I try no’ to talk to ye now, as it is.”
Roland rolled his eyes at his brother’s attempt at humor. “And I so appreciate ye interrupting yer busy schedule of moping and beating the shite out of poor Owen.”
“What do ye want me to say, Roland?”
“I want…” Shrugging, Roland stared down at his almost-empty glass. “I guess I want advice.”
“On how to woo the lass?” Lyon rolled gracefully to his feet, the candlelight—I swear, it’s like he’s living four centuries in the past!—throwing the scars up the left side of his body in sharp shadows. “Ye want her back, I assume?”
Roland blew out a breath and met his brother’s eyes. “I do. I shouldnae have done what I did.”
Lyon shrugged. “Then tell her that. Ask her forgiveness.”
“But…” Shaking his head, Roland pushed himself to his feet, and was surprised when he stumbled slightly. “She said those things about ye. Terrible things,” he muttered, even knowing the words she’d said didn’t define her.
Lyon shrugged, and as Roland moved past him on his way to the bran
dy, he stood. Before Roland could pass, Lyon snatched the glass from his hand.
As Roland blinked woozily down at his empty hand, his brother asked, “What sorts of things?”
“She said ye…” Why couldn’t he recall exactly what she’d said now? “She’d called ye barbaric for wearing that kilt. She said ye were scarred and brutal and didnae speak, but grunted.”
Instead of being offended, Lyon shrugged and turned away—taking the brandy glass with him, damnation. “All those things are true.”
“What?”
Lyon took his time to replace the glass on the shelf, then turned back, crossing his arms in front of his chest, and planting himself between Roland and the brandy. Not at all subtly, to Roland’s way of thinking.
“All those things she said about me are true. Ye ken it. I ken it. The Oliphants ken it.”
Does he just shout cold commands?
Vanessa had asked her sister that, and Roland had bristled, even though he’d seen his older brother grow colder and less alive since his wife’s death.
Lyon was watching him, and dipped his chin in acknowledgement when he saw Roland understood his reasoning. “Dinnae blame her for speaking the truth, even if it was rude.”
“I did though,” Roland whispered, hating this guilt. He turned away from Lyon and stumbled back to the settee. “I did blame her. I set out to hurt her.”
“Then ye owe her an apology.”
“She’ll no’ accept it.” Roland wouldn’t accept it if she’d been deliberately cruel to him as he had to her. But then, now that he knew Vanessa, he couldn’t imagine her being deliberately cruel.
Oh, shite.
“Ye dinnae ken a woman’s mind, wee brother.” A ghost of a smile touched Lyon’s lips before he shook his head and moved to his desk. “If ye care about her—”
“I love her.”
It took Roland a moment to realize the words had come from his lips, and between one breath and the next, he knew they were the truth. He loved Vanessa Oliphant in a way he hadn’t expected to when dancing with her at the ball. He loved her, and he wanted a future with her.
The Lass Who Kissed a Frog Page 12
