Julia London - [Scandalous 02]

by Highland Scandal

“Ye only make yerself ill when ye become so angry, lass,” Mr. Newton said stoically.

  Lizzie looked with surprise at Charlotte. But Charlotte was waving a hand at him dismissively, her eyes on Lizzie. “Tell me, Lizzie. Tell me everything. What has Carson done?”

  Lizzie had not even opened her mouth when she heard the sound of a loud commotion in the corridor. There were raised voices, two of the dogs were barking, and the unmistakable sound of Jack’s boots striding down the hall followed that.

  “Elizabeth Beal, you’d best show yourself now!” he shouted.

  Charlotte gasped.

  The moment Jack crossed the threshold, Newton caught him and held him back with such force that the dogs scattered to the corners of the room, their tails between their legs.

  “Bloody hell, remove your hands from me!” Jack snapped.

  Newton shoved him up against the wall, pinning him there. Jack looked over the big Highlander’s shoulder and leveled a gaze so heated on Lizzie that she felt her belly flip with fear. “This would all be a damn sight easier if you’d no’ run off like you did, Lizzie!”

  “Who do you think you are,” Charlotte cried, “to come in here without announcement or invitation and speak to my sister in such an ungentlemanly manner?”

  Understanding dawned on Jack’s face the moment he looked at Charlotte, and Lizzie would be forever grateful to him that he did not make any outward sign of noticing Charlotte’s useless legs. He shoved hard against Newton, who let him go, but kept himself between Jack and Charlotte.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Beal,” he said with a murderous gaze for Newton as he yanked on the ends of his waistcoat, “but my freedom, and perhaps my very life, depends on your sister’s cooperation, and she bloody well knows it!”

  “Mind yer tongue, lad,” Newton warned him.

  “Diah, I did no’ mean to speak disrespectfully, sir, but Miss Elizabeth Beal and I have something of an unresolved and ongoing contretemps—”

  “And you think that allows you entry into our home? Your troubles are no’ ours. Please leave!” Charlotte said.

  “Lizzie,” Jack said sternly, but the Highlander was moving toward him, gesturing to the door. Jack glanced at the large man, then at Lizzie. “Ach, for the love of Christ,” he muttered, and with a look of great exasperation, he quickly dipped down and retrieved Lizzie’s dirk from his boot.

  “That’s mine!” she cried.

  He held it up to the Highlander, his eyes on that man. “Aye, that it is, but I rather thought—rightly, it would seem—that I might need it more than you. As for you, sir,” he said to Newton, “I’ve no dispute with you. I mean no harm. I mean only to keep my neck at its present length. The laird has sent Mr. Dougal along to ensure I am no’ parted from Lizzie.”

  “Dougal?” Newton said.

  “A relative of yours?” Jack asked wryly.

  “Newton, I donna want this man here!” Charlotte insisted. “I donna care what he wants, I should like him gone!”

  Amazingly, Newton moved to do just that. Jack lashed out with the knife, and from where Lizzie stood, it looked as if he nicked Newton. But Newton was a massive man, and even though Jack was big too, he was no match for the Highlander. They struggled, but in one swift movement, Newton swept a knife from his waist and shoved Jack against the door, his arm across his gullet, the knife under his chin.

  Lizzie cried out with alarm, but Jack was not cowed. If anything, it made him angrier. Pinned against the wall, it became apparent to him that he was about to be tossed out of Thorntree, and he pointed a finger around Newton at Lizzie. “Donna think you are done with this, madam! I do no’ intend to hang on your account!” he shouted as Newton struggled to take him out.

  Lizzie stood completely still; neither she nor Charlotte nor even the dogs so much as breathed as they listened to the shouting and scuffling in the hallway. When they heard the front door slam closed, Lizzie turned slowly and looked at Charlotte. She moved to her side, sank to her knees beside Charlotte’s chair, and laid her head on her lap.

  “Lizzie, what happened?” Charlotte put her hand on her sister’s head.

  “On my word, you’d no’ believe what I’ve endured,” she said, and the tension and every last detail of the last two days began to pour out of her in words and tears.

  Newton would have tossed Jack in the river and been done with him had Dougal not stopped him. The two Highlanders talked in Gaelic. Jack’s Gaelic, which had never been more than rudimentary at best, was very rusty. The only thing he managed to ascertain was that the women did not want him at Thorntree.

  He did not know the Gaelic word for shed, or he would have protested quite vigorously. As it was, he was dragged to a small structure that had been built against the barn. For reasons that Jack could not begin to guess, the shed contained a small brazier, a cot, and chamber pot, as well as some gardening implements. “You canna mean to put me here!” he protested as they tossed him inside like a bag of seed. “This is no’ what I agreed to with your laird!”

  Dougal, at least, seemed a wee bit perplexed by the arrangements—but not enough to actually change them, Jack noted. “Is this it?” Jack asked as the two men moved to quit the lean-to. “I am to be locked within like an animal?”

  Dougal looked uncertainly at the man called Newton who glanced dispassionately at Jack. “Aye. At least until we’ve made proper accommodations, milord.”

  Proper accommodations sounded like a polite way of saying a grave. “Wait, wait,” Jack said hastily. “Sir…Newton, is it? You seem a reasonable man. I appeal to your good senses as a Highlander and a Scot. I did no’ ask to be put in this situation.” He looked at Dougal. “Tell him, Dougal. Tell him I was forced into it every bit as much as Lizzie.”

  The two Highlanders exchanged a look.

  “We’ll fetch ye when it’s time,” Newton said, pulling the shed door closed.

  “Time? Time for what?” Jack shouted. “Bloody bastard, you’ll no’ leave me here!” But the door slammed shut and he heard what sounded like something being pushed against the door. He kicked it with all his might, but the door did not budge.

  “Damn you!” he shouted, and kicked the door again for good measure. He was as furious as he’d ever been in his entire life, and this—this was the final straw for him. Carson Beal could do whatever he liked, but he was not going to subject Jack to such conditions or treat him like an animal.

  But as he fell onto the cot and threw an arm over his eyes, it was not his freedom he saw dancing about in his mind, but Lizzie Beal, straddling a horse.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lizzie tried to scrub the last two days from her skin. Failing that, she ended her bath and examined her wardrobe.

  For the first time since Papa had died, Lizzie was displeased with her gowns. It seemed as if she’d been in mourning for years, not months, and it had been an eternity since she had visited an actual seamstress, or, God in heaven, a modiste.

  Her life had changed dramatically in only a few short years. Not so long ago her greatest concern had been a proper coming-out. She had dreamed of a season in Edinburgh. Her mother had debuted there and used to regale Lizzie and Charlotte with tales of it. Lizzie had never been to Edinburgh, but Papa had promised to take her and Charlotte there.

  Lizzie also once believed that she and Charlotte would marry well and live near Papa, raising their children together, dabbling in Highland society and doing all those things Lizzie supposed young wives and mothers did. She never imagined they’d be making their home as a pair of spinsters, or trying to keep an estate afloat. To think of the money Papa had spent on pianoforte lessons for the two of them! A bit of training in husbandry would have been more useful, she thought with a wry smile.

  It was Charlotte’s accident that had brought Lizzie’s dreams to an abrupt halt. The doctor from Crieff had known the moment he saw her that she’d never walk again. Whether or not Charlotte could bear children was unknown, but Lizzie silently agreed with Charlotte that it h
ardly mattered, for no Highlander would have her now. An invalid was too daunting.

  The accident had changed their lives; Charlotte had slipped into despair and anger, and Lizzie…Lizzie felt entirely responsible. It was she who had begged Charlotte to ride with her that day, for Lizzie loved to ride. She loved the reckless release, the thrill of rushing headlong across the verdant land with a big sky overhead. That day, she’d convinced Charlotte to come along on the new Highland pony Papa had managed to obtain.

  Papa sold the pony two days after the accident.

  Charlotte had only just received her special chair when Papa died, and Lizzie’s life—or her last remaining dreams for it—had been washed away in her tears of sorrow.

  When Charlotte had wanted to extend their mourning of Papa into half mourning, Lizzie had scarcely given it a thought. Their situation left little room to be concerned about the sort or color of gown she wore, and Charlotte, dear Charlotte, was compelled to exert control in those little ways that she could. Lizzie understood it was Charlotte’s way of trying to remain viable in a world that had no use for cripples. But, for the first time since her accident, Lizzie didn’t want to do as Charlotte wished.

  She glanced longingly at her best gown, a teal-colored silk that reminded Lizzie of the peacocks that once strutted about the grounds at Thorntree. It was gathered in the back and fell in soft folds, and the squared bodice was embroidered with a darker blue around the edges. She’d had the beautiful gown made for the annual harvest celebration, but she’d never had the opportunity to wear it. Papa had collapsed while tending the garden one afternoon. There was no sign of illness in him, yet in the blink of an eye he was gone.

  Lizzie toyed with the idea of wearing the gown. Having spent the last two days in various types of clothing that did not suit her, she wouldn’t mind in the least if Jack saw her in something pretty.

  “Ach, you’re mad!” she muttered to herself. Why should she care what he thought of her? She would end this absurd handfasting just as soon as she and Charlotte determined how.

  So Lizzie wore her gray gown, which was suitable for half mourning and spinsters (all that was missing was a fussy lace cap) and rejoined her sister in the drawing room, where two of the four dogs of Thorntree were sitting with her. Fingal and Tavish were a pair of sheepdogs, seldom used now that they had so few sheep. Red was a hunting dog that still went out with Mr. Kincade twice weekly. And Bean was a small Dinmont terrier with nothing more to recommend him than a cheeky personality.

  The day was growing cold; Lizzie wore a wool plaid around her shoulders and was glad to see that Mrs. Kincade had put a lap rug over Charlotte’s legs and rolled her chair closer to the fire.

  The last thing Papa had invested in before his death was the big wheeled chair in which Charlotte spent so many hours. It had come all the way from Glasgow and Papa had been inordinately proud of it, but Charlotte had been horrified. She argued she would do just as well in the chair in her room, where Lizzie suspected she wished to remain and never be seen, but Papa had insisted. Thank God that he had, thought Lizzie as she shooed Bean off the chair. She sat directly across from Charlotte and helped herself to tea.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Charlotte said as Lizzie stirred a bit of honey in her tea. They hadn’t had sugar at Thorntree in six months now. “The damage Uncle Carson thinks he might have inflicted may no’ be so great after all, aye?”

  Lizzie snorted. “It is irreparable.”

  “But think of it, Lizzie. Mr. Gordon is in Crieff just now. Even if news has reached him, he canna know what has truly happened, can he? If you write him, you may deliver the first true word, aye?”

  There was some validity to that—surely Mr. Gordon would treat whatever he might hear with a healthy dose of skepticism. After all, he’d spent quite a lot of time in Lizzie’s company since meeting her last year at the spring planting festival in Aberfeldy. She thought he was an industrious, hardworking, and handsome Highlander. She admired his plans to bring more sheep to his Highland farm; he believed sheep and the export of wool was the way to make his family prosper.

  Lizzie thought she and Mr. Gordon were compatible, and he’d said that he esteemed her. She esteemed him, too. He was a good man, a solid man—she would be quite fortunate to make a match with him.

  “But if you summon Mr. Gordon here, that man canna possibly remain, for then Mr. Gordon will have no choice but to cry off,” Charlotte pointed out. “That man must go home with Newton.”

  “Newton!” Lizzie exclaimed. “And where, precisely, does Newton live?”

  “I hardly care,” Charlotte said with an indifferent shrug. “But I am quite determined both men will leave Thorntree today.” She smiled, resolute in her decision, and her face was transformed from the usual frown she wore.

  Lizzie couldn’t help but admire her. Even when she was in something of a snit as she was now, Charlotte looked beautiful, with her long locks of cornsilk hair gathered artfully at her nape, and pale blue eyes. To Lizzie’s way of thinking, her beauty only made the tragedy of her broken back that much worse, for she would have had many more offers than Lizzie might ever hope to have, and all of them were lost.

  “What is it? Why do you look at me in that way?” Charlotte asked when Lizzie did not respond.

  “I would very much like for them to leave, Charlotte, but I hardly think they shall.”

  “Why no’? This is our home.”

  “Aye,” Lizzie said carefully. “But Newton will no’ depart until Carson gives him leave. Carson would no’ send a man who gave him less than complete fealty. As for the other one…” She sighed. “He’ll no’ go until he can be certain he’ll no’ hang.”

  “Would he really hang?”

  Lizzie shrugged. “He must believe it is a possibility. Why else would have have agreed to this handfasting?”

  “Then what are we to do?” Charlotte demanded. “What will Mr. Gordon think if that man remains here with you?”

  Lizzie tried to smile to put Charlotte at ease, but it felt odd. “I fear it is too late to fret overmuch, Charlotte,” she said briskly. “What’s done is done.”

  Charlotte eyed her skeptically. “Pray tell, what is done?”

  “Pardon?”

  “What is done, Lizzie?” Charlotte said, leaning forward. “You were handfasted, so that surely means—”

  “No!” Lizzie cried as heat rushed into her cheeks. “Honestly, Charlotte!”

  “Then what?” her sister persisted.

  “I—We did no’ sleep in the same bed, if that is what you mean.”

  “Did he kiss you, then?”

  “No!” Lizzie cried, but had the absurd notion that she wished he had.

  “Then what happened?” Charlotte whispered excitedly.

  “Nothing,” Lizzie said firmly. Charlotte frowned dubiously, and Lizzie sighed. “He…he was a gentleman. In a manner of speaking. Given the…the circumstances,” she added uncertainly.

  “Aye, and?”

  “And he is no’ as modest as he ought to be,” Lizzie said flatly.

  Charlotte smiled. “He is very handsome, is he no’?”

  “Aye, but he is English for all intents and purposes.”

  “But he is an earl as well, and he is rather dashing, and—”

  “Are you forgetting Mr. Gordon?” Lizzie demanded.

  “No’ at all,” Charlotte said with a wicked grin. “I was merely wondering if you had…if even for a moment.”

  A moment? Many moments. So many, in fact, that Lizzie had wished once or twice for the fairy potion their grandmother used to pretend to give them when they were wee lassies to keep their thoughts chaste and pure. “Of course no’,” she said briskly. “I’ve thought only of what we are to do now that this calamity has been put upon us.”

  “Now, you must write Mr. Gordon,” Charlotte said firmly.

  Lizzie frowned.

  “You must! He has only your word that he may trust, and only you can explain what truly happened behin
d closed doors. Honestly, Lizzie! Mr. Gordon esteems you greatly! I think this the one time you could put propriety aside.”

  Charlotte was right, of course. Carson had forced her to put propriety aside.

  “You must write him, and Mr. Gordon will come,” Charlotte said firmly. “But what are we to do with him until Mr. Gordon arrives?”

  Another excellent question, and one Lizzie could not answer.

  Charlotte sighed impatiently at Lizzie. “He is handsome, Lizzie, but he’s also cocksure, and there will be trouble as long as he is under the same roof as you, mark me.”

  “Pardon?” Lizzie exclaimed, almost spilling her tea. “What do you mean to imply?”

  “Just that he is handsome, Lizzie, and you…you are very adventuresome, and you’ve been put away here like a spinster with very few prospects when you ought to have been out in society, and he is the sort of man who would tempt any woman and I can see in your eyes that you were tempted, no matter how vigorously you may protest.”

  “I was no’ in the least!”

  “Oh no? Then why are you wearing pearls? I canna recall the last time I saw you wearing pearls, and your hair all bound up with the bandeau so prettily. It surely is no’ for my benefit.”

  Lizzie could feel herself color slightly. “Does it occur to you that perhaps I wanted to dress a bit having spent the last two days in dusty old gowns and trousers?”

  “I only know that were I locked in a tower with him for two full days, I might very well be tempted and more.”

  Lizzie put down her teacup with a clatter. “Charlotte, there are times I think you’ve taken complete leave of your senses! I am no’ so easily tempted by a handsome face! There is far more at stake here, and honestly, what does he offer other than his good looks? He’s a wanted man, for heaven’s sake!”

  Apparently unconvinced, Charlotte pursed her lips together. Lizzie rolled her eyes and picked up her tea. “You need no’ worry after me, sister. You’d best exert your imagination in coming up with another plan, for Lambourne will no’ toddle off to Newton’s or the barn, you may trust me.”