Unlaced by the Highland Duke

by Lara Temple

  She was too surprised to obey immediately. ‘It is cold.’

  Lochmore shifted Jamie’s sleeping form and reached under the seat to pull out a colourful afghan.

  ‘Here. Put that around you. Leave the curtain open.’

  She retied the sash and unfolded the blanket. The wool was fine and warm and she wrapped it about her, grateful but confused. Then annoyance struck her, a little late but welcome. She was not here to stay. She need not be compliant as she was at Uxmore.

  ‘Please,’ she said and he frowned.

  ‘Please, what?’

  ‘Please, Mrs Langdale, would you mind leaving the curtains open? I find it easier to brood while viewing the rain and gloom in all its glory.’

  His chest expanded, then his breath came out in a long hiss.

  ‘I used to consider Lady Theale an astute woman, but now I am doubtful—she assured me you would give me no cause for complaint, Mrs Langdale.’

  ‘I apologise for giving you cause for complaint, Your Grace.’

  He sighed and shook his head.

  ‘You should apologise for making me feel like a churlish fool.’

  ‘I only assume responsibility for my mistakes, Your Grace. Not for a state of affairs beyond my control.’

  It was a risk, but it paid off. The tension evident in the grooves in his cheeks eased into the glimmer of a smile.

  ‘Kicking a man while he is down is not sportsmanlike, Mrs Langdale.’

  ‘It may not be, but he is much easier to reach when he is, Your Grace.’

  He laughed and turned to inspect the passing scenery and, after a moment, Jo did the same.

  * * *

  The silence fell again but for the patter of rain and the sounds of the sleepers. Benneit watched the slide of green and grey beyond the rain, caught between amusement at Mrs Langdale’s impertinence and frustration at himself. How the devil did he always manage to come out the worst from their exchanges?

  She had a point, though. His reaction had been instinctive, but far too harsh. He usually controlled the outer manifestations of his condition, but sometimes when he was weary that control slipped. And when it did, it left this foul ache in his arms and chest, as if he had gone a dozen rounds sparring with Angus at his best. He shifted his shoulders, cursing his weakness. Thirty years had passed and he was still as cracked a vessel as ever.

  He glanced at Joane Langdale but she did not turn. She looked like an urchin, tucked into Mrs Merry’s blanket. His housekeeper had used every colour of wool she could find and the result bordered on disaster and yet was charming, like an English spring garden chopped up and woven together. Against its riot of colour Mrs Langdale’s delicate colouring was more ethereal than pixyish. Soft.

  She raised the shawl, brushing her cheek with it furtively, the way Jamie did when he was sneaking a tart from Mrs Merry. Even through the clop of the horses’ hooves and the creaking of the carriage, he thought he could hear the faint burr of fabric on flesh and his own cheek warmed, his fingers tingling as if making contact with the shawl, or her cheek. A snake of a shudder made him shift his legs in surprise and discomfort and he shoved his hands into his pockets and turned again to the blurry greyness outside.

  Boredom and a wayward mind were dangerous things. Especially after an exhausting week of travelling, his mind caught between Jamie’s ills and the daunting challenges awaiting him back home. He should keep his thoughts on those challenges, but the image lingered like a painting in a gallery one kept returning to inspect—the curve of her cheek just brushed with colour and the surprising lushness of her lower lip nestled against the blanket. His mind fixed on it like an eagle on prey—circling, honing in on every angle and aspect, trying to understand what on earth was so appealing and why his hands were hot and buzzing with discomfort that had nothing to do with his ancient weakness.

  He looked resolutely at Jamie, recalling his visit to McCrieff Castle the day before his departure for London. McCrieff preening like a prize cock, Lady Tessa calm and sweet, her generous figure presented in a slightly garish pink that spoke more of her mother’s tastes and ambitions than her own. She was intelligent, too—thoroughly aware of the political and financial import of such a union and clearly willing to undertake it. She was the perfect bride for the Duke of Lochmore.

  If only he were not that Duke.

  Chapter Five

  It was early evening by the time they stopped. It wasn’t raining, but the courtyard was deep in puddles. Jamie ran ahead in Angus’s wake, heedless of the wet, but Jo—weary and stiff after the interminable week of travelling, but mindful of her one pair of inadequate boots—took the circuitous route around the collection of small lakes in the courtyard. It was only when sunlight crashed through the clouds on the horizon with the suddenness of a charging bull that she looked up from her careful manoeuvring.

  What she saw stopped her short. From within the fogbound confines of the carriage she had given up trying to make out the landscape and she was utterly unprepared. The inn stood between the road and a wide rushing stream and beyond it were mountains. Not hills. Mountains. Steep uncompromising eruptions that reached into the sky, the setting sun turning green into emerald and grey rock into gleaming obsidian. The peaks ruffled the clouds, turning the sky into something alive. She could well imagine that beyond those clouds in this strange land there would be another world, some place the valiant and brave could reach if they scaled these verdant monsters.

  She didn’t even notice Lochmore come to stand beside her.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ he asked, frowning up at the hills.

  ‘What? Oh, no. It is merely that I have never seen anything so magnificent. Ever.’

  He smiled and, though he looked as weary as she felt, this sudden softening of his features, and the flush of sunlight raising the green to prominence in his shadowed eyes and emphasising the raven silk of his hair, made her feel that her words would be as true for him as well. Otherworldly. Unreachable.

  ‘You like it.’

  It was such a mild reflection of the passion the sights aroused in her, but said with such uncharacteristic satisfaction that she laughed, warmed from within.

  ‘Yes, Your Grace. I like it very well indeed.’

  ‘That is good, most people find it...daunting. Too stark for their tastes. They miss the rolling English pastures.’

  They. She had heard as much from Bella when she visited Uxmore. Along with a host of other complaints. She looked away from him and back at the peaks. The clouds were tearing free of them, revealing more and more grey and green to the sun. They looked miles high, but also just within reach. It was dizzying.

  ‘It is stark, but that is precisely what is so magnificent. I love the English countryside, but it is a mild, warm kind of love. This is...different. Overwhelming. I don’t want to stop looking.’

  They stood for a moment in the quiet of the courtyard, looking. The water gurgled and rushed past, filling the silence with life. Then he sighed and took her elbow gently.

  ‘There will be plenty more mountains to see, I promise. But now we should feed Jamie and put him to bed. By the tone of his grumbling those last miles, we will be lucky to avoid a scene and I, for one, do not feel equal to it. It has been a very long day and even longer week.’

  She nodded, absurdly warmed by his casual hold on her arm and the assumption of intimacy in the way he shared his thoughts about Jamie. Perhaps if Alfred had lived, if they had had a family, she might one day have found herself at a similar moment. If... If... If...

  * * *

  The Duke’s prediction, unfortunately, proved accurate. Jamie’s grumbling and grizzling in the carriage were not calmed by the food. He kicked off his shoes, complained about the chair, the food, the fire and hovered precipitously on the verge of a full-blown tantrum.

  Jo wished it was her right to sweep the overtired boy into her arms
, yet all she could do was distract him and entertain him, but to no avail. A chance comment towards the end of the meal reminded him of his dog and his eyes, already red from weariness, glazed with tears.

  ‘I want to be home! Why didn’t we bring Flops? I wouldn’t be sad if I had Flops.’

  ‘We cannot bring a dog on such a trip, Jamie...’ the Duke replied. He, too, was losing the battle to remain calm and his voice sounded like gravel crunched underfoot.

  ‘Yes, we can,’ Jamie shot back. ‘I would care for him and he would sleep with me and I would hold him on my lap in the carriage.’

  ‘There is hardly any point to discussing it now, Jamie. In a few days we will be home.’

  ‘No, I want to be home now! I hate going to London.’

  ‘That isn’t what you said when we visited Astley’s and Gunter’s, the Menagerie at the Exeter Exchange and...’

  Jamie surged to his feet, sweeping his plate from the table. It cracked into two half-moons and a flash of fear flickered through the storm on his face.

  Jo instinctively bent to retrieve the piece closest to her, but Benneit’s hand shot out and grabbed her arm, stopping her.

  ‘Pick up those pieces, Jamie.’

  She felt the rumble of his voice through the hand that held her arm. He was not exerting any force on her, but somehow she was incapable of extracting her arm so she sat there, watching the two Lochmores.

  Jamie breathed deeply and then the word came out like a puff of smoke. ‘Shan’t!’

  ‘James Hamish Lochmore. Pick them up now.’

  Jamie proceeded to kick the piece closest to him. As he was only in stockings this was not a wise move. The cut was not deep, but he stared at the tiny stain of red at the tip of his toe and ran into the small adjoining room where his cot was laid out, slamming the door behind him.

  She waited for the wails of crying, but though she heard the creaking of the cot as Jamie flung himself into it, there was no other sound, just the Duke’s breathing, harsh against his clenched teeth as he glared at the door. He had not let go of her arm and she was not about to draw attention to herself. So she watched his fingers on the grey wool of her pelisse. The lines across each knuckle, sharply drawn. She wished she could put her other hand on his, soothe the tension, tell him not to worry.

  His grip softened and though his gaze was fixed on the door as if engaged in a staring contest with it, his hand smoothed the fabric of her sleeve twice. Then he caught himself, looked down and drew his hand away. If she had not felt peculiarly bereft at his withdrawal, she might have smiled at the flush of embarrassment that marked his high cheekbones.

  ‘I apologise, Mrs Langdale. I did not want you to pick it up for him. He must learn to master these tantrums of his.’

  ‘Must he?’

  ‘Of course. He will one day have to assume serious responsibilities and there will be no room for such outbursts.’

  The silence fell again as she weighed her words.

  ‘What a pity one cannot hire children.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think two or three would do. Once we arrive we could send them back.’

  ‘What the devil are you talking about?’

  ‘I am talking about a four-year-old boy trapped for days on end in a carriage with three adults, all in various states of ill humour. Jamie’s only sin is that, unlike some of us, he has not yet learnt to mask his ill humour. Having often travelled with a herd of ill-behaved children in carriages, I can assure you Jamie’s brand of tantrums would have gone utterly unnoticed in the Uxmore carriage over a mere hour’s journey. So perhaps if we filled the carriage with other children, Jamie’s behaviour might not appear so offensive to you. Goodnight, Your Grace.’

  She didn’t wait for him to respond, but left the parlour. Running away before he could counter-attack was cowardly, but she, too, was tired and blue-devilled, and her arm was still pulsing from the warmth of his hand.

  * * *

  Benneit remained at the table, his mind searching for an appropriate response to Mrs Langdale’s lecture. He should at least have told her that it was inconceivably annoying how people who had no children always held such firm opinions about how to raise them.

  Devil take the woman.

  The silence from Jamie’s room was deafening and for a moment Benneit was struck with the horrid thought that Jamie had climbed out the window and disappeared. His heart squeezed and kicked as he stood and went to the door. It was ridiculous. Jamie was only four years old and, though he did sometimes wander off, he had never done anything truly dangerous.

  Four years old. Almost five now.

  Still only a whisper away from a babe, but already with a mind as sharp as a boy’s. He could see sometimes how confused that made Jamie, that internal struggle to place himself on either side. He thought himself a little man, ready to explore the world.

  Jamie did need children about him to remind him he was only a boy.

  Not hired children, blast and double-blast Joane Langdale. She had the uncanny ability to confound, embarrass and surprise him, all within the passing of an hour. She had surprised and touched him with that show of childlike passion about the mountains and he had felt quite in charity with her despite the difficult dinner. Perhaps that was why he had forgotten himself and... What had he been thinking to grab her arm like that? Certainly he should not have sat there holding her as if it was quite normal. It had been far too...intimate. Strangely, it had felt right. As if they truly were facing the conundrum of Jamie together.

  It was not smart to depend on her on that front. Jamie was his to raise and soon Tessa McCrieff would be standing by his side, to help and to support.

  Benneit tried to impose Tessa McCrieff’s image over that of Joane Langdale’s slim pixie figure but his mind was probably tired because the image remained stubbornly elusive. He shoved those empty thoughts away and entered the small room, sitting cautiously on the bed next to the mound under the blanket.

  ‘I didn’t mean to break it.’ The words were hardly audible through the wool.

  ‘I know, Jamie.’

  ‘Will they be cross with us?’

  ‘Maybe a little, but if we tell them we are sorry, I think they will forgive us. Do you know, I read somewhere that in Ancient Greece breaking plates was a good thing?’

  The blanket eased back a little.

  ‘It is?’

  ‘That was how people showed they were wealthy—by breaking plates after a banquet.’

  Jamie looked around the small room with its low roof.

  ‘I don’t think the people here are wealthy like those Greeks.’

  ‘Probably not. Which is why we will pay for that plate.’

  Jamie turned over towards Benneit.

  ‘I have the coin I found on the beach. I can give them that.’

  ‘I think you should keep that. You might need it for when you break something really large.’

  Jamie giggled, but then the smile dimmed again.

  ‘I wish we were home already, Papa.’

  ‘I know, Jamie. Just a few more days. You’ve been a brave lad.’

  ‘You’re not angry?’

  ‘No, Son. We’re all tired and we do foolish things when we are.’

  ‘You growl when you’re tired.’

  ‘So I do. I’m sorry I growled at you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, too, Papa. I promise I won’t throw things again. Or growl.’

  ‘Don’t promise, Jamie. We might need you to growl at a monster to send him running. If you promise, then where will we be?’

  ‘In a monster’s belly.’ Jamie’s chuckle became a yawn and he turned over with a sigh. Benneit looked at the soft rise of his son’s cheek, the dark feathering of his eyelashes. He looked more like a grown boy with each day. He could hardly remember the baby Jamie. Would this image, too, fade in
a few years? It was hard to believe that possible, but it probably would. He didn’t want that to happen. Peculiarly enough, he wanted to remain precisely at this moment. There was a clarity to it. His father was gone, Bella was gone. It was only Jamie and him now. He could live with that.

  ‘Sleep well, Son.’

  Nurse Moody was waiting in the parlour and he stood aside to allow her entry to Jamie’s room. The door leading to the other small bedroom where Mrs Langdale was to stay was still open and the room empty.

  ‘Where is Mrs Langdale?’ he asked Moody as she passed and she stopped.

  ‘Outside. Said something about putting the mountains to bed.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To bed. Angus went after her. Goodnight, Your Grace.’

  She closed the door and Benneit remained immobile for a moment. One door away there was a lovely fire crackling in his bedroom and a well-aired bed.

  Blast the woman.

  It was dark outside and he frowned, trying to make out the shapes across the courtyard. The distinctive scent of Angus’s pipe guided him towards a row of trees that lined the stream and Angus turned at his approach, removed his pipe and raised his finger to his lips before pointing it in the direction of the water. On a large boulder by the water’s edge, Benneit made out the line of a hooded figure, the sliver of a moon giving its contours a faint glow.

  ‘I’ll see she comes inside safe and all,’ Angus murmured, his voice a low grumble beneath the sound of the water.

  ‘What the devil is she doing?’

  ‘Come to see the mountains, she said.’

  Benneit shook his head and followed the path down to the stream. With all due respect to Angus, he was not comfortable with a woman under his protection standing outside in the pitch black. It was not precisely the proper behaviour of a dowdy widow or even the temporary companion to a future Duke. He stopped at the foot of the boulder.

  ‘What are you doing? Come inside.’

  She shook her head, but he was not certain she had heard him.