“Ye are the clumsiest lass I’ve ever seen.”
The words stung. Stiffening her muscles, she attempted to push away, but Bryce held tighter.
“I meant no offense to ye, lass.”
“Don’t worry about it. Now if you will release me, I’ll get out of your way. I wouldn’t want my clumsiness to ruin your project.”
Bryce picked up a strand of her hair and studied it. “How do ye make yer hair so soft?”
Lucy refused to be mollified and shrugged. “Simple. I wash it.”
He placed the strand to his face and sniffed. “How do ye make it smell so good?”
Lucy shifted uncomfortably. “I use scented soap.”
Tugging on the strand, he wrapped it around his finger. When released, it sprang upwards into a perfect ringlet. A smile graced his face. “Yer hair reminds me of chestnuts.”
Lucy gulped. “Is that good?”
“Aye. I like chestnuts.”
Her throat constricted as Bryce continued to favor her with compliments.
“And yer skin! How does it stay so smooth? It’s like the petals of a flower.”
Stumbling over her words, Lucy said, “I use a cream bath every so often.”
Bryce nodded. His large hand cupped her chin, angling it this way and that. “And look at yer face. The model of perfection. A sculptor couldn’t have chiseled one more flawless.”
Heat threatened to explode from her chest. His thumb ran across her bottom lip. “And yer lips. Most women have lips pressed into a thin line, always exhibiting some kind of displeasure, but not ye. Nay. Yer lips have the most curious habit of twitching at the corners in a winsome smile. And they are rosy red in color. Not too plump, not too thin, but just right.”
What was he trying to do? Give her heart failure?
“And yer eyes? Has anyone ever told ye they tilt upward like those from the Orient?”
“Aye. My maternal grandmother hailed from China.”
He opened his mouth as if to speak but instead he inched forward and laid his lips to hers. The kiss started slow and increased in intensity. His hands never strayed from her face no matter how much her body screamed for them to do so.
To get closer, Lucy moved her legs. When she did her foot contacted with one of the boards lying haphazardly around the room. This set off a chain reaction from whence they barely escaped unscathed.
The board bumped another, which bumped another, and like a stack of cards they came crashing down around the couple. Bryce used his hands and his back to protect her until the pieces landed around them and the dust settled. After the excitement of the kiss followed by the close call with the boards, the errands planned for the day were all but forgotten.
Chapter Thirty-One
And thus went the rest of the week. After the cupboard incident, Lucy tried to avoid Bryce, but he kept after her. Now that the dam had broken between them, he didn’t want the walls to be rebuilt.
Each day she discovered some “new” project only he could complete, and each day he would find a way to involve her. Just like a fish on a line, she came kicking and screaming, only to be still when he finally touched her.
The errands she’d talked about earlier in the week, which at first had seemed so important, never materialized, as Lucy was unable to leave the house alone. Most days she stood to the side, chewing on her nails and watching Bryce. He would direct a grin her way, and she would turn red from embarrassment and pretend she had been doing something else all along.
Neither one of them mentioned the potential for his departure. Bryce ignored the subject in hope it wouldn’t come to pass.
As the days wore on, Lucy became visibly restless. Increasingly she talked to herself. Sometimes she ticked her fingers off in the air as her lips moved. Lucy paced back and forth, agitated and preoccupied, and suffered bruises from desks and chairs in her path.
Bryce worried that his continued interference into her daily affairs was causing a mental breakdown of sorts. The lass certainly didn’t seem herself. Then one afternoon, while he’d come in for a drink, he saw her as if for the first time.
Lucy wore a gown of rich dark blue fabric, trimmed in lace, that reached to her feet and swished as she walked. Her long hair was pulled back from her face and clasped with a pearl clip.
She jumped, startled by his appearance. She opened her mouth but stuttered; it seemed she was trying to form a coherent sentence. Eventually Lucy gave up and said, “I’m going out.” Without a backward glance she walked out the door.
Bryce followed. By the time he reached the open door, she was seated inside a closed hackney coach and riding away. If he’d been in a different frame of mind, he would have grabbed the next carriage and followed after her.
Worry became his constant companion as he waited for her return. In a foreign city, Bryce knew not the first thing to do besides wait. So wait he did.
To occupy his time, he went to the study. The room had clearly been designed for a male. Bookcases, desk, tables, and chairs were made out of a deep, rich, dark wood. The shelves were filled with books on law, animals, hunting techniques, woodworking, philosophy, art, and other such pursuits.
A perusal of the tomes littering the tables revealed one Bryce had seen before. Several times in the Sinclair keep and once at Greenbriar this same book had come into his contact. It was a copy of the Bible in his native tongue.
The Catholic Church was against such things. But Martin Luther’s new ideas, his translation of the Bible from Latin into German, had changed things, giving a clear sign that the Word should and would be read in the future by the common man.
Even with his simple dreams of sheep farming, Bryce loved to read. People he’d met while traveling with Grant had taught and encouraged him. The Bible was his favorite book. The material within had molded his beliefs just as a potter molds the clay.
He sat down and dropped his head into his hands. While not completely sure of Lucy’s beliefs, he felt certain she recognized the significance of the fish symbol. After all, she had been the one to draw it in the dirt.
Before they became closer, perhaps he should ask her some questions in this regard. To fall in love with someone of a different faith created a hardship he didn’t wish to bear.
Oh, who was he kidding? Falling in love? He was already there.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Lucy had planned to slip away while Bryce was occupied. After all the projects she’d designed for him, this should have been a simple task. But the enactment of this plan proved difficult.
All week she tried to get away, but he was always there, waiting. A sly glance, a brief touch, a chaste kiss. He wooed her. But to what end?
She wouldn’t, or rather couldn’t, return to Scotland with him, and he would never be satisfied in the city. What was the point of pursuing a relationship they knew would never work?
After rationalizing all this, she knew what she had to do. She had to fulfill her duty. There was no alternative.
She prepared for her trip and dressed like a fine English lady. Everything went as planned until Bryce walked in and saw her preparing to depart. The look of betrayal upon his face almost made her change her mind. Maybe he could come and she could slip away from him to do the deed. Nay, it would never work.
Lucy leaned back against the padded seat and watched the passing scenery. The carriage stopped outside a large white manse with tall Roman-style columns and a portico across the front. With any luck her task would be accomplished swiftly and she would be on her way home within the hour.
A footman opened the carriage door and escorted her into the home. With a nod in thanks, Lucy entered the main room. Artwork graced the walls. Patrons purveyed the work with a critical eye. Some bravely made comments about the artist’s character, causing Lucy to cringe.
“I heard he left France because of his ‘religion’.”
“As did I.”
“Imagine coming here to escape! Has he no common sense?”
“Maybe he is unaw
are of the change in venue?”
“Perhaps.”
The couple moved away and Lucy studied the painting. Emotion radiated from every stroke. A man and a woman held hands in the midst of a grassy field, with tall reeds blown sideways by the wind. They gazed at one another with such love and longing.
Looking away from the painting, she studied the room. She was impressed by the number of people willing to pay to visit this private collection. The coffers of the owners would indeed be lined after such a business venture, if the crowd was any indicator.
The private art showings were a recent institution, brought on by increased interest in purchasing and showcasing these beautiful collections. The popularity of these events and the overly large crowds created the perfect spot for a chance meeting.
Of course meeting here held certain risks, such as the recording of the function’s attendee list, which would make Lucy circumspect. However, the advantages far outweighed the risks. It was easier to pass a message in a room full of mingling and chatting people. For who would be crazy enough to leave an important slip of paper in a crowded room?
Cups of wine passed among the visitors, and it seemed each person sipped liberally. Too much wine caused a looseness of tongue, and Lucy needed to remain alert to fulfill her objective. So she merely touched the rim of the cup to her lips, and just the odor of the sweet concoction gave her a heady feeling.
Being without escort did present a few problems. Males in attendance with her same predicament sought her company more frequently than she would have liked. When they sauntered close, she would find someone else nearby, bat her eyelashes, smile and began to speak. This worked to keep those hounds at bay.
Within a few hours the group was soused. Lucy waited for her opportunity. She’d left her leather pouch at home, and instead carried one of blue embroidered silk. As the afternoon had progressed, Lucy made note of a myriad of places that would work to “carelessly leave” the object.
Separating from a group, Lucy studied a particular ancient piece of armor. From the corner of her eye she spotted movement. She spied a handsome man. It was Reginald Spalding. Honey-colored hair reached the nape of his neck. His blue eyes tilted upward at the corners. He attracted a crowd as he told a seemingly entertaining story.
The men guffawed at the ludicrous nature of the tale while the women fluttered their eyelashes and fanned with their hands. Indeed the man was a sight to behold. He had high cheekbones and a defined torso. The man wore a simple brown outfit that covered him from neck to knee. Even his riding boots matched in color. If one didn’t know better, they would believe him going on a hunting trip instead of attending a private art showing.
It was generally known that Reginald Spalding considered himself the cream of high society.
Peering over her glass, Lucy could understand the reason he held this belief. The man had a distinct charisma and charm, and even Lucy felt drawn to him.
Wine passed her lips, and the reason for her visit to the private collection retreated to the recesses of her mind as Reginald’s voice filled the room.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Bryce wondered what he’d done to make Lucy leave. Perhaps he’d come on too strongly? Maybe he shouldn’t have kissed her? He was hurt that she was gone without a word.
He stopped pacing and noticed his reflection in the looking glass. He wasn’t unattractive, or at least he didn’t think so. After all, he was a Cameron and his family was notorious for their good looks.
Bryce twitched his lips upward on the right side then threw his hands into the air. Who was he trying to fool? He should go back to shrugging. Any uses of his mouth of late had only gotten him in trouble.
Not wishing to remain idle, Bryce fed and brushed the horses. Then he cleaned out their stalls. Once finished, he looked around for other things to occupy his time.
The backyard appeared to have once held a garden. The rich earth was cut in a semblance of rows and a shed remained behind the house. Bryce found tools and began turning the soil. Thoughts about what he could plant occupied his mind.
As his muscles stretched in work, he felt tension move out of his body. Time slipped by, but nagging worry remained.
Why had Lucy left so suddenly? Was she angry with him? Was she coming back? What was he going to do about his future?
Engrossed in his thoughts, he was surprised by a shaft of pain shooting across the back of his head. What sounded like a dozen cackling hens reached his ears.
****
“Dear sister, whatever will we do?”
“Winnie, I say we call the magistrate.”
“But Winifred, that puny man could never lift this monster. Besides, why would we call the magistrate?” asked Winnie.
“Because this man doesn’t belong here,” replied Winifred.
“But he is gardening. Hardly a threat to society.”
“Doesn’t matter. He shouldn’t be here.”
Bryce woke. Opening his eyes a fraction, he noted two tiny gray-haired women, or maybe it was one and he saw double? Whatever the case, they argued above him.
His head ached. After studying and listening, he realized there were definitely two women. They appeared to be in disagreement about what to do with him.
His hand trembled as he placed it to his head. A moan escaped his lips. The women rounded on him. One hefted a metal shovel set to descend upon him once more. Bryce shifted his hand to protect himself.
“Stop beating on the child, Winifred.”
“But Winnie—“
“Let me handle this.” Winnie faced him. He sat up, and his sitting stature almost reached the height of her standing position. “Now sonny, who are you and what are you doing in this yard?”
Winifred interrupted before he could respond.
“Now Winnie, you know he is going to lie. Why ask him anything? I say we hit him on the head again and get the magistrate to come and cart him away.”
“And I say we ask the lad to state his business.”
“Look at him! His breeches stop at his knees!”
“Winifred, my dear, those are Scottish trews.”
“Humph. Look like short breeches to me,” Winifred muttered under her breath. Louder she added, “I’m sorry I’m not as cultured as you. Father didn’t send all of us on an adventure.”
“Winifred Townsend! That was fifty years ago! And it wasn’t an adventure. Father sent me off to marry and when I met the man I ran away. The end. Now stop this nonsense so I can ask this man his business.”
Winifred crossed her arms over her tiny chest. Her wrinkled chin lifted upward in a snobbish air. Her eyes rolled back in her head. It was clear she distrusted Bryce.
Winnie turned back to him and said, “Now sonny, state your business and be quick about it. My sister will only hold her tongue for so long and then she will be off again.”
Bryce opened his mouth and moved his jaw back and forth. It felt locked, probably from the bump to the head. Once his voice returned, he said, “I’m a friend of Lucy Bard.”
Both women raised their eyebrows. Winnie questioned, “Lucy Bard?”
“Aye. I escorted her from Scotland.”
“See, I told you he’d lie,” said Winifred, glaring at him.
“Winifred, hush. Maybe you just hit him too hard. You have to admit the information is close to the truth.” Winnie tapped her finger to her head then pointed it straight into the air. “I know. The man needs tea. We will clear up this mess after a good pot of tea.”
“Winnie, tea won’t make this better. The man’s dangerous.”
“He’s a gardener, dear sis. You go make the tea and I’ll stay and talk with him. When he is ready I’ll bring him along.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Duly noted. Tea, please.”
Winifred left in a huff. The other lady placed a hand under his arm and attempted to lift him from the ground. Bryce found the effort risible and assisted before the woman injured herself.
“I believe Winifred was a wee bit overzealous when she struck you. But don’t be too angry with her. The poor dear is so immature. There is only so much that can be done with a youngster these days.”
The woman must have noticed his incredulous look, because she continued, “I’ll speak with her later, don’t you worry. She will be reprimanded.”
It took all his strength not to burst forth with laughter. Winnie appeared to be at least seventy years old. Her gray hair was pulled tightly back into a neat bun. Her face was covered in wrinkles, and her stern expression softened only when she smiled. Her sister, Winifred, who had been sent to make tea, was almost an exact copy of Winnie.
Bryce asked, “Are ye neighbors with Lucy?”
“Ooo, I love the Scottish burr. The trills of your r’s always did leave me breathless.” Winnie placed a conspiratorial hand on his arm. She looked around before speaking. “What I said earlier wasn’t exactly true. I mean about my adventure to Scotland. I did see the man.
“He was a huge, burly, attractive Scotsman. I would have stayed with him forever. But he took one look at me and declared I was too small to bear his children and sent me home. ‘Course I never told anyone what really happened. He was probably right. If I heard correctly, he had more than one wife die during childbirth. Besides, my sister needed me. I couldn’t leave her.
“Oh, you asked a question. Lucy, our neighbor? Not exactly. What I mean is the child is rarely ever home. So you couldn’t exactly call her a neighbor. Thomas, the old butler, comes every now and then and checks on the house and things hereabout. But no one has really lived here since old Mr. Lombard was murdered.”
“Mr. Lombard?”
“Aye, Lombard not Bard. He was a lawyer and someone shot ’em. Poor man. Took cases no one else would touch. Defended those who awaited burning for their faith. Or those set to lose their property for their beliefs. Didn’t win many of those cases, though.”
Beyond a Doubt Page 9