Julia London - [Scandalous 02]

by Highland Scandal

But it was still a fantasy, for it would end soon. Too soon, considering how her heart still pounded in her chest and her breath still came in little snatches.

  Later that night, when she finally reached her bed, Lizzie tried to think of Mr. Gordon. But every conscious thought was obliterated by the memory of Jack’s hands on her body, the smoldering look in his eye. She could not stop imagining those hands on her bare skin, those eyes raking over her naked body….

  The room was stifling. Lizzie threw back the heavy covers and climbed out of bed. She looked at the dressing room door. Through that door, Jack lay sleeping. Lizzie padded across the rug to it and pressed her palm against it, just as he had pressed his palm against her back. She leaned forward, rested her cheek against it.

  Lizzie didn’t know what she expected, but she didn’t hear anything. Yet she stood there nonetheless, her eyes closed, her cheek against the door, reliving the waltz step by step. She toyed with the idea of stepping through, to him. But she lacked the courage and the desire to ruin herself completely.

  She returned to her bed restive and out of sorts. She sought sleep by whispering Mr. Gordon’s name over and over. He was her only hope, the only salve to the laceration Jack had lashed across her life. Before Jack had come into her life, she’d been happy—at least as happy as one could be, facing the poorhouse and the constant worry of how to care for Charlotte—she’d been free, and she’d been happy. But she’d felt an oddly enticing unrest since she’d been put upon that dais beside Jack.

  Mr. Gordon. Mr. Gordon needed to come soon, before Lizzie fell from grace and did something so wildly reckless that she would live to regret it all her days.

  In the dressing room, with Dougal just outside and Lizzie only God knew where, Jack lay with his arms folded, his hands behind his head, staring up into thick darkness.

  He was thinking of Lizzie, but not consciously. Of late Lizzie seemed intrinsically part of his being, whether he was fully aware of it or not. She was just…there, existing inside him somehow, her presence never far from his mind.

  Or his desires. Diah, he’d been spectacularly aroused by that waltz. Not so much in the flesh—not that he hadn’t felt the familiar stirrings of lust—but he’d discovered in that waltz a heightened sense of her. All of her. He was acutely aware of how she felt in his arms, her delicate frame, the small bones of her hand. And the rosy scent of her unruly hair and the soft glow of fine, smooth skin. And her eyes. Lord help him, her eyes seemed to reflect the lowest light, sparkling back at him, and making him believe he could feel that sparkle in his blood.

  It had been a waltz for the ages, the one dance he would never forget.

  But while he had Lizzie floating about his brain, it was Carson Beal who had Jack’s foremost attention. Whatever it was the man was hiding, whatever compelled him to keep Lizzie and Charlotte captives in their own home, Jack was increasingly determined to discover what it was.

  While the rest of the house lay in their beds, Newton stood at the windows in the old nursery that overlooked the sought lawn. He wore a thick wool cloak lined with shearling. There was no peat for this hearth. There was precious little peat for the entire house. Newton knew, for he’d gone to see for himself this afternoon.

  Despite the late hour, he felt oddly cross and very much awake. He stared down at the unkempt lawn, illuminated by a full Scottish moon, and pictured a gazebo there, into which Charlotte could be wheeled without trouble. One that overlooked the river and the hills, one to which ducks might wander up to be fed a bit of bread if Charlotte wished. He could picture her now, leaning over the arm of her wheeled chair, letting ducks—or dogs, or even children, perhaps—take food from the palm of her hand.

  Newton scratched his chin, thinking of the expense. The Beal lassies had no money, everyone knew that was so. But he’d put a little aside for emergencies. He mulled it over, standing at the window until he’d lost track of time, thinking of a beautiful woman cruelly bound to a chair.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Mrs. Kincade actually smiled—and warmly, at that—when Jack and the dogs Tavish and Red appeared in the kitchen in search of breakfast.

  He returned her smile, surprised and pleased, and asked if he might have a bit of food to break his fast. She was more than happy to prepare some porridge and eggs for him, and even shooed the dogs outside.

  Seated at the long wooden table with a steaming cup of coffee and eating some freshly baked bread, Jack asked if Lizzie was up and about. He imagined her chopping down a tree for firewood or herding a flock of sheep to the shearer or some such thing.

  “Oh, aye,” Mrs. Kincade said in a tone that suggested it was a ridiculous question. “She’s gone on to Aberfeldy this morning. She and Mr. Kincade took the old milk cow to market.”

  “Without me?” he asked, a little miffed that she’d taken his advice but not him.

  “They left well before dawn. We donna wait for the sun to rise up here, milord.”

  Jack disregarded her remark and continued with his porridge.

  “Milord, if you donna mind me saying…”

  The woman’s voice trailed off, and Jack glanced up from his bowl. Dear Lord, was he seeing things, or was she blushing?

  “Your dance,” she said, her blush deepening.

  “Aye?”

  “Mr. Kincade and I tried it ourselves and found it…well, we found it very much to our liking, then.”

  Jack put down his spoon. He grinned. “Why, Mrs. Kincade, you do scandalize me!”

  She laughed nervously and put a hand to her nape. “A bit of snow on the roof does no’ mean a lack of fire within.”

  “How happy I am to hear it,” he said, and laughed heartily.

  Mrs. Kincade laughed, too, the sound of it girlish.

  When Jack finished his breakfast, he left a smiling Mrs. Kincade to her chores. But with Newton undoubtedly moving Charlotte about, Jack faced another day with nothing to occupy him. He walked about the manor, noting again the repairs that needed to be made. The roof seemed to be in the most desperate need, judging by the number of stains on various ceilings.

  Jack donned his greatcoat and strode outside. It was a crisp day with a cobalt blue sky, and after walking around the perimeter of the house, he decided to climb up on the roof and have a look. He really had no notion of how to go about repairing a roof, but as a lad he’d followed behind Mr. Maxwell, the groundskeeper at Lambourne Castle, and had learned a thing or two, he reckoned.

  He also fancied himself a clever man, and as he and Fingal headed for the outbuildings in search of a ladder, Dougal trailing lazily behind, Jack imagined that repairing a roof could not be so difficult.

  He’d imagined incorrectly.

  While Fingal, and eventually Tavish and Red, napped at the foot of the ladder, Jack discovered several places that needed patching, and two through which he could put his gloved fist. The roof was made of slate, and many of the tiles were broken or missing. He needed ash and tar to patch the worst holes and slate tiles to replace those that were broken.

  When he had inched his way across the top of the roof back to the ladder, he found Newton standing at the base, one large foot on the bottom rung, his look condemning.

  “You have that look about you of wanting to accuse me of nefarious deeds, sir,” Jack said amicably. “But you’d be in the wrong. I’m only having a look at the roof. It leaks.”

  “Aye, it leaks. What can ye do about it, then?” Newton asked in a tone that suggested he believed Jack entirely incapable of patching a roof.

  “I can repair it,” Jack shot back. “If I had the proper materials, that is. Where might I find slate and tar?”

  “You’re no’ serious, aye?”

  “Aye, I am! “Jack said impatiently. “Now look here, Newton, I should think Kincade would have some tar about, so where might I find slate?”

  Newton shook his head. “It’s no’ mined round here, milord, but ye might inquire of Old McIntosh up glen. He often has such things as slate tile lyin
g about that he’d be happy to give over for a few coins.”

  “What do you mean, it’s no’ mined here? This roof is slate.”

  “Aye,” Newton said patiently, as if speaking to an imbecile. “There was a bit of mining many years ago, but that mine was depleted.”

  “McIntosh, is it?” Jack asked curtly and swung one leg onto the ladder. He came down quickly, landing before Newton. He calmly dusted his hands together as if he lived on ladders and scampered up and down them at will, and said, “Thank you. You’ve been quite helpful. I should like my horse brought round, and one for Dougal, I suppose.”

  If Jack wasn’t mistaken, the growl in Newton’s chest was a laugh. “No need to send Dougal with ye, milord. Ye’ll return to us soon enough, ye will.”

  “You’re bloody certain of it, are you?” Jack asked testily.

  “Aye. ’Tis wild country north of here, naugh’ but wild country for miles. If you think to escape, ye’ll no’ last a day without provisions, especially during the height of winter. One snow, and the trail is lost. And if ye head south, ye’ll no’ escape the bounty hunters, aye?”

  “Donna tempt me, lad,” Jack said.

  Newton laughed again. He picked up the ladder with one hand and balanced it against his shoulder. “I’ll handle the ladder for you, if you’d like.”

  “Thank you,” Jack said, and strode away, the dogs trotting behind him once again as he headed for the barn.

  The dogs were not of a mind to go any further than the manor grounds, however, as they stopped at the edge of the drive and sat, their heads cocked as they curiously watched Jack and the mare trot down the only road that led deep in the glen.

  Newton hadn’t been entirely certain where Jack might find McIntosh, but he was right about the terrain. There was scarcely a trail at all, and what was there was rough and overgrown. Aye, but someone had been along this trail recently. Jack knew Carson had been; he sincerely hoped Carson and his men were the only ones to come along this path, as he did not relish the thought of encountering the bounty men.

  The ride seemed long, but if Jack had a talent, it was hunting and tracking. If there was a McIntosh to be found in this glen, Jack would find him.

  He rode for a half hour and came upon a fork in the path. A smaller, rougher path led into the forest, while the main fork carried on north. As his mare sauntered past, Jack noticed a mark in the mud on the smaller trail. It looked fresh, and that interested him. He wondered what sort of game might be wandering this glen and reined his mount up, swung off, and walked onto the path, crouching down on one knee to look at the marks.

  It wasn’t game at all but the marks of horses. Four, Jack counted, all of them shod. He stood up, peering up the path. From where he stood, the path seemed to get narrower and the terrain wilder. He seated himself on the mare once more and turned her onto that rough path to follow the trail.

  He lost the tracks at a stream. He dismounted and crossed the stream, looking carefully at the ground. The tracks led right, but they were lost in the thick heather. Jack looked around him. The stream ran down a particularly steep hill. There was no place for horses to go, really, but up, and that seemed unlikely. Even Highland ponies weren’t that sure-footed, particularly in heather as thick as this and climbs so steep.

  Perplexed by the tracks of four horses that seemed to disappear, Jack returned the way he came. It was exceedingly strange; he decided he’d have another look once he found this McIntosh fellow and divested him of his slate.

  As it happened, McIntosh found Jack when Jack stopped to water the mare. The old man appeared out of the woods, a grimy rucksack over his shoulder, a gun carried loosely in his hand, eyeing Jack suspiciously.

  “How is the hunting, then?” Jack asked casually.

  “Two hares,” the man said, his accent so rustic that Jack could hardly make out the words. He squatted down next to the creek to wash his hands.

  “You’re McIntosh, are you?”

  The man glanced up. “Who’s asking, then? Are you an authority?”

  “Hardly,” Jack drawled.

  McIntosh did indeed have a sheet of slate for sale, a broken piece left behind by carpenters in some hamlet, he said. The old man had seen the value in it and carried it back to his home—which, Jack discovered, was a hovel deep in the forest.

  McIntosh took two shillings for the piece. Jack thought the price outrageous, but he couldn’t help but notice the disrepair of the man’s hovel. He handed over the two shillings, strapped the slate onto the mare’s rump with a bit of rope, and started back for Thorntree.

  The day had warmed considerably, the sun shining brightly and a crisp breeze rustling the tops of the pines. As Jack neared the spot where the path diverged, the mysterious fork going up into the hills, he heard the sound of an approaching rider.

  His heart skipped. He didn’t want to meet the rider head-on—the last time he’d met riders in the woods, they’d deprived him of his liberty and his gun. Jack quickly dismounted and led the mare into a copse of pines.

  The rider was pushing hard and rode by so fast that Jack could scarcely make out the identity, but the bouncing bonnet and flying auburn curls gave Lizzie away. “Lizzie!” Jack shouted, and threw himself up onto his horse, spurring her out of the trees and after Lizzie.

  She was too far ahead to hear him, at least two lengths, but as the trail grew uneven, her mount slowed, and Jack was able to close the distance. “Lizzie!” he shouted again. She bent over the neck of the horse and glanced back, but when she saw it was Jack, she reined the horse hard, forcing it to wheel about.

  Jack reined hard, too, to avoid a collision with her. “What the devil!” he exclaimed as the mare danced around in a tight circle to face her again.

  “Are you following me?” she demanded.

  “No!” he exclaimed, affronted, and looked back to assure himself the slate had remained on the mare’s rump. It had not. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, and looked crossly at Lizzie. “Is Thorntree burning? Has the sun fallen from the sky? Do the English invade?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You’re riding recklessly, lass! Too recklessly—you might have been thrown and seriously harmed!”

  “I was no’!” she protested, and pulled up her bonnet—which was quite possibly the strangest bonnet Jack had ever seen. While the bonnets in London were demurely festooned with ribbons and sprigs of violets, this one boasted all manner of clusters of silk fruits and showy flowers.

  “What are you doing out here? Where is Dougal? Are you escaping?” she demanded.

  When Jack did not answer straightaway, she put a hand to her bonnet. “What?” she asked accusingly.

  “I…” He dragged his gaze from her bonnet to her face. “Of course I am no’ plotting an escape,” he said, perturbed by the implication, when that was precisely what he might have done only two days ago. “I would no’ go north were I to escape.”

  “Aye, for everyone knows all the good escape routes lie south,” she said smartly.

  “And so do bounty hunters,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “What of you? I was told that you’d followed my excellent advice and had toddled off to sell a cow.”

  She colored. “What of it?”

  “You are welcome,” he said, enjoying the high color in her cheeks. “I’d wager you got a very good price for it. So good, in fact, that you treated yourself to a new bonnet.”

  She gasped. Her cheeks turned even rosier. He was right, he could see that he was right—but of all the bonnets in Scotland, why on earth would the lass choose that one?

  She suddenly lifted her chin and straightened the brim of her godawful bonnet. “If you have had your fill of interrogating me—”

  “I have no’. Why are you riding so hard?”

  “You are presumptuous, questioning me!” she exclaimed in disbelief.

  “I am handfasted to you, lest you’ve forgotten it, although I can hardly see how you might, given our performance as the happy couple last night. But in
the event that you have taken complete leave of your senses, allow me to remind you that were I your husband, I would do no less.”

  “You would never be my husband.”

  “What, then, you would refuse the offer of an earl?” he scoffed.

  “Are you offering?” she asked mockingly.

  “If I were mad enough to do so,” he said, gliding over her challenge, “would you have me believe you would refuse it?”

  “In the space of a heartbeat,” she said pertly. “I am no’ one of your London mistresses, Jack.”

  Truer words were never spoken—she was nothing like those women, nothing at all. “Aye, you are different, I will gladly grant you that, but show me a woman who does no’ seek to improve her situation by marriage and I will show you an old widow with more than she can spend.”

  Lizzie laughed. “That’s outrageous!”

  “No’ as outrageous as you might think. But if you donna seek to improve your situation, then what exactly do you seek, Lizzie?”

  She was just beginning to rant, if the square of her shoulders and the puff of her chest were any indication, but his question jolted her somewhat.

  “What do you seek in exchange for your heart?” he demanded, spurring his mount a step or two closer. He was surprised by his own words, but he suddenly needed to know.

  She looked unnerved by the question. “Why?” she demanded.

  Why? He had no idea, but it seemed of the utmost importance. “Answer, if you dare.”

  “You must believe I am afraid to admit it. But I’m no’, Lambourne. I want love, if you must know. I want the promise of forever,” she added, looking wildly about. “To know that there is one person who loves and respects me above all others, one person who will come into my heart and fill all the holes and patch all the cracks and make it sing as it ought! No’ a bloody castle or a husband who will honor his vows only with his purse!”

  “Poetic,” Jack said, nodding appreciatively.