Jack knew the answer was in the hills north of Thorntree. He just had to find it. When the sun at last began to pinken the day, Jack set off to find the piece of slate for which he’d paid handsomely, and he intended to spend the better part of the day on the roof. Let Lizzie walk about the house with her hair down around her shoulders and her blue eyes glittering with the happy occupation of housework.
Jack found the slate easily enough; it was still beside the road where it had fallen. He also found the forest path, and leaving his horse behind, he walked up again.
Three quarters of an hour later, Jack returned to where he’d tethered the mare, lashed the slate on the horse’s rump, and set off in the direction of Thorntree. He’d found nothing when he’d gone farther up the hill. Where the men had disappeared to yesterday was an even bigger mystery today.
Fortunately, his ploy of sending Dougal along to ask about tar last evening had worked very well—Dougal and Kincade met him in the barn with a block of peat and a kettle. The ash from the peat would make the tar.
Dougal was quite agitated. “Ye’re no’ to go off without me, milord,” he said sternly.
“Aye. I apologize, Dougal,” Jack said, clapping him on the shoulder.
Dougal frowned. He clearly expected an argument, and when he didn’t have one from Jack, he gestured to the contents of the kettle and said cheerfully, “Far sight from yer normal occupation, aye, milord?”
“Mmm,” Jack said.
Dougal scratched his belly. “I fancy ye donna see the inside of a barn often, aye?”
“Rarely.”
“But have ye seen inside the king’s barns?” Mr. Kincade asked, peering up at him. “What’s it got, bits of ermine and mink for the horses to lay on?”
Dougal laughed, but Kincade’s expression never changed.
“No ermine or mink,” Jack said. “I’ve seen only one royal stable, mind you, and it didn’t seem very different from most, other than it was rather large.”
“Oh?” Dougal said, his eyes lighting with the hope of another tale. “The king rides, does he?”
Jack told them a little tale about hunting with the king. There was nothing remarkable about the story; it was really rather lackluster. But Dougal and Kincade were so enthralled with the image of the king hunting, particularly having heard from Jack that the prince was not an avid hunter, that Jack embellished the tale a wee bit for their benefit. In his version, the king brought down a stag instead of riding back to Balmoral empty-handed.
When the tar was of the thickness and texture Kincade deemed appropriate, Jack climbed up the ladder. It was quite strenuous, he discovered quickly. His shoulders and back burned with the repetition of the work, but Jack ignored it. This was something he could do, and would keep him away from Lizzie. With Dougal’s assistance, he moved methodically across the roof, patching holes.
After working a solid two hours, Jack sent Dougal in search of Kincade and more tar. He sat on the roof for a bit, admiring the view of the glen from his perch.
He’d forgotten how beautiful Scotland was. There was really no place quite like it. He felt drawn to the hills and the people in a way he’d never been drawn to London. Even his distaste for Lambourne Castle was a result of the memories there, not for the land itself. He closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun until a voice lifted him from his rumination.
His breath caught at the sight of Lizzie walking up from the hothouse, her hair around her shoulders. She was singing softly to herself, an old Highland tune he recognized from his youth. She wore a plain blue muslin gown, the arisaidh wrapped loosely around her arms, apparently unaware that the tails of it were dragging the ground behind her. On her arm she carried a basket filled with what looked like foxglove.
She suddenly paused and looked up, directly at him.
Jack raised his hand in greeting.
Lizzie shielded her eyes from the sun and took several steps forward. “Jack?”
“Good morning!” he called.
She hurried toward the house, disappearing from his view.
A moment later her curly auburn head popped up at the top of the ladder. “What are you doing up here?” she exclaimed.
“Patching your roof, which it desperately needs. You should no’ be on the ladder, lass. You could very well fall and break your neck. Go down, now,” he said, gesturing for her to go down.
But Lizzie wasn’t listening to him. She glanced around, noticed the freshly patched spots on the roof. “Did Dougal do this?” she asked, her voice full of confusion.
“Dougal?” he responded indignantly.
“Newton, then?”
“I beg your pardon, but I am perfectly capable of patching a roof!”
“Are you?” she asked, peering at him curiously. “I would no’ have thought it.”
Jack sighed, exasperated. “Tea and crumpets again?”
“Well…now that you mention it,” she said with a winsome smile. “But you need no’ patch our roof, Jack.”
“Leannan, you are in dire need a new roof altogether. Frankly, all of Thorntree is in need of repair.”
“Aye, I am aware,” she said with a sigh. She glanced around the roof, then turned to him with a smile so sunny that he felt a little weak for it. “How shall I ever thank you?”
He could think of a way or two, but said, “Ach,” and flicked his wrist.
“It is quite something, all this work, for a man who is unaccustomed to…well, to working,” she said gingerly.
“Might you say it in a way that does no’ make me seem such a wastrel?”
“Thank you,” she said, still beaming. “And before the spring rains! Charlotte will be so pleased no’ to worry over leaks.”
“Ho, there, milord!” Dougal called from below. “More tar!”
“I’ll be down straightaway, Mr. Dougal!” Lizzie called down, then looked at Jack. “I am learning,” she said with a smile as she started down, “that you are no’ as underfoot as I’d feared.”
He wished she wouldn’t smile. At least not that particular smile, the one punctuated by pretty dimples on her face, for it warmed him like a good wine. In all honesty, he was mortally afraid of what he might do for the favor of that smile. “Your flattery is obvious and will earn you naugh’,” he said with a smile. “Mind that you have a care going down.”
She waved her fingers at him, and just before her head dipped below the eaves, Jack waved his fingers at her, already wishing she’d come back.
He didn’t see Lizzie again that afternoon, not until he’d finished the last hole and stood up, straddling the roof’s ridge, to stretch his aching back. The sound of an approaching horseman reached him and Jack looked up the road toward Castle Beal. The rider was moving far too fast on the pitted road. He assumed it was Carson or one of his henchmen, come to ensure his stranglehold on Thorntree and renew his threats to Jack of hanging and ruin. But as the rider neared, Jack could see it was not Carson.
Bounty hunter, he thought.
A feminine cry of delight just below startled him. Lizzie ran out onto the drive and up to the iron gate, clinging to the bars, craning to see around the posts.
The rider came to a hard stop outside the gates, and the man threw himself off the horse and strode toward her. He was a tall, well-built man. He had golden brown hair, and clothes that suggested he had some means.
As he neared the gate, Lizzie flung it open, and while Jack stood on the roof feeling like an arse, Lizzie ran to that man, threw her arms around him, and hugged him tightly. They exchanged words that Jack could not make out, the man kissed Lizzie’s forehead, and then, with their arms wrapped around each other’s waists, they hurried to the house, disappearing from his view again.
A strange weight suddenly descended on him and Jack sat heavily on the roof, drew his knees up, and planted his arms on them, staring out into blue sky. It was ridiculous that he should feel so cross of a sudden, but he did, monstrously so.
Lizzie’s knight had arrived.
Chapter Twenty-six
Of course Gavin had come as soon as he’d received Lizzie’s letter. How could he not? He was a gentleman, and a gentleman did not ignore a lady’s cry for help. He was also a Highlander, and a Highlander had his honor—and the honor of his woman—to defend.
He was fond of Lizzie and always had been; she was a pretty Scotswoman with a lot of spunk. Granted, Gavin was three years her junior, but nevertheless, when he thought of conjugal felicity, and he thought of that quite a lot, Lizzie seemed perfectly suited to him.
Gavin was enraged by the bloody handfasting. He knew Carson Beal was a bastard, but this went beyond the pale. He could not imagine what Carson hoped to achieve by it. He agreed it was a ridiculous ploy to make him cry off, and he steadfastly believed Lizzie’s letter in which she’d written that nothing had happened between her and the earl.
If Carson Beal thought a handfasting would run Gavin off, he was mistaken. If anything, it had only heightened a stubborn determination to marry Lizzie.
Oddly enough, Gavin’s father wasn’t as bothered by the handfasting. He treated Gavin’s concerns about the recklessness, the impropriety, and the potential reflection on the Gordons lightly. But his father had agreed with Gavin that he must go to Lizzie and confirm his commitment to her and attempt to have the forced handfasting set aside.
In Thorntree’s small library, Gavin admired Lizzie as she paced in her blue gown and with her hair tied loosely at her nape, her eyes wide and shining. His mind wandered briefly to the children they would have, with their mother’s auburn hair and blue eyes, and with his strength and stature and last name. He thought about the long, cold Highland nights and imagined Lizzie lying naked beside him, her eyes glittering with the satisfaction of lovemaking.
Those thoughts made him even angrier about the handfasting.
“Lizzie,” Gavin said, attempting to interrupt a very long discourse on the depraved animal her uncle Carson Beal had turned out to be.
“A jackal,” she said firmly. “That is the kindest thing that can be said for him.”
“Lizzie.”
She paused in her pacing, blinking at him. “Aye?”
“Where is this”—he waved his hand a bit—“earl?” he asked tightly.
“Oh. Him. Patching the roof. Or at least he was the last I saw him.” At Gavin’s startled look, she shrugged a bit. “I…I think he desired an occupation.”
Gavin would give the earl an occupation—shining his boots. He stood up and took Lizzie’s hand, leading her to a chair. “Sit, lass,” he said firmly.
Lizzie paled as she looked at the seat he indicated. She pressed her palms against her gown and carefully took the seat, sitting on the very edge of it, her hands folded in her lap, looking up at him with luminous blue eyes.
Gavin flipped the tails of his coat and sat across from her. He reached out, put his hand on hers. “You need no’ look so fearful, Lizzie,” he said, trying to remain calm in spite of his anger. He did not want to frighten her. “I believe what you’ve told me. I believe Carson has done this to ruin any understanding between us. But I am no’ a coward, lass. I will no’ back down so easily.”
“Thank you,” she said, looking quite relieved.
“What is the arrangement here?” he asked.
Lizzie blinked.
“Where does he sleep?”
“Ah. Ahem. Ah…Mr. Newton p-put him in my rooms. But I have made him sleep in the sitting room,” she added quickly.
“Pardon?” Gavin asked.
Lizzie pressed her lips together.
“A sitting room that we use for storage. Ahem… adjacent to my bedroom.”
“Is this known to everyone?” he demanded, removing his hand.
“To Charlotte and the Kincades,” she said.
“Anyone else?”
She seemed to shrink. “The Sorley Beals and the McLennans.”
“Mi Diah.”
“I must—”
“Donna say it,” he said, throwing up a hand. “Lizzie, he must cry off. I donna care that he is a wanted man, he must cry off.”
“Aye,” she said, nodding adamantly that he should. “We signed only one paper.”
“A paper.”
“We put our names to the vow,” she said weakly.
Gavin stood and walked to the window, looking out at the sunny day.
“What if…what if he will no’ cry off?” she asked.
“We’ll find another way to dissolve the handfasting,” he said gruffly. He had no idea how he might accomplish it, but he would find a way. He glanced over his shoulder at Lizzie. She seemed to have wilted in her chair.
“I’ll have a word with the earl,” Gavin said authoritatively. “You’ve been through quite enough as it is, and really, this is a man’s business.”
Lizzie drew a breath as if she intended to speak.
He looked curiously at her. “Aye?”
“I…I’d no’ consider it…completely, that is…only a…a man’s business.”
“Pardon?”
“Well,” she said, squirming a bit, “it would seem that it is all of our business…would it no’?”
That was one thing he admired about Lizzie. She was intelligent and appreciated her independence. He returned to her side, took her hand, and squeezed it. “This is between me and the earl, lass. And once I’ve dispatched him, we may turn our attention to our future.”
She blinked again. Her plump lips formed a perfect O, and her gaze darted to the window, then to him. “Ah,” she said. And smiled. “Thank you.”
Such a lovely smile. He ran his hand up her arm, to her cheek. “I’ve missed you, Lizzie,” he said softly. “It seems that sometimes we are separated by an ocean instead of a few hills, aye? I should like a way to see you more frequently until we can begin our life together.”
“I would welcome that,” she said.
He wanted to say more, but the earl was looming in his mind. He could not think of the future with the man about. “Where are Carson’s men?”
“Mr. Newton and Mr. Dougal donna know you’ve come. Once word reaches Carson…”
“Donna fret—I’ll have this all tidied up for you in no time.”
She nodded and smiled, but the smile did not radiate through her eyes. Ah, well, she fretted yet. As far as Gavin was concerned, this charade was coming to an end. “Where is the earl?” he asked.
Lizzie stood up and looked at him with clear blue eyes. “On the roof,” she reminded him quietly. “Thank you, Mr. Gordon. You are too kind to have come so quickly to my rescue. I shall never be able to thank you properly.”
Gavin smiled warmly, imagining all the ways that she might thank him properly.
Once the business of this handfasting was done, naturally.
The roof patched, and the instruments of his labor returned to the barn, Jack glanced down at his hands and clothing. He was covered with the soot of ashes and streaks of tar.
“You’ve a bit of tar on your face, milord,” Kincade noted.
“Mmm,” Jack said.
“’Tis a heavenly foresight ye must have, then, to patch that old roof, milord, for the missus feels snow in her bones again.”
“Oh?” Jack asked casually as he tried to wipe his hands with a cloth. “And do her bones portend when?”
“A day or two, milord.” He handed Jack a cake of lye soap. “Ye canna wipe the tar.”
Jack took the cake of soap and the cloth. “Tell me, Mr. Kincade, what magic must a man possess to have a hot bath drawn here?”
“I’ll ask me wife, milord, but she’ll be about the business of the evening meal and need the kettle for that.”
In other words, she’d not be very happy to turn the kettle over to the task of heating water. Jack sighed. He took the cake of soap and the cloth and headed to the icy waters of the river.
He cleaned himself as best he could—he would insist on a hot bath this evening if he had to draw it himself—and started back to the house. As
he trudged up the path to the unkempt back lawn, he thought he heard the sound of laughter and paused.
His first thought was Lizzie with her bloody knight. How quickly she’d found the time and place to entice him! He moved immediately toward the laughter, abandoning the path and following the sound, picking his way around the detritus of the forest floor until he could see a stretch of grassy bank of the river. But instead of finding Lizzie laughing and carrying on with her knight as he fully expected, what he saw took his breath away.
Charlotte was seated in a chair at the river’s edge, holding a fishing pole of all things. Behind her the prodigious Newton was leaning over her shoulder, instructing her how to hold the pole, how to bring the line in.
In the course of his instruction, something caught Charlotte’s line. She gave a squeal of delight at the tug as Newton scrambled around her chair and steadied her pole. Charlotte laughed at him, and the sound of it was so sweet, so full of unexpected joy, that Jack was moved by it.
He slowly backed up and quietly returned to the path that led up to the lawn. He walked with his head down, his thoughts on Charlotte. The most remarkable thing about Charlotte on the banks of the river was not her gay laugh, but the fact that she was smiling. Genuinely smiling.
As he was thinking of that glorious smile, Jack did not sense that anyone shared the path with him until he heard someone clear his throat. His head snapped up and his gaze landed on the young man who had ridden so recklessly to the gate.
The man’s gaze narrowed menacingly, and Jack suppressed a tedious sigh.
“Lambourne?” he asked coldly, bracing his legs apart, his fists at his sides, as if he were prepared to grapple with Jack should the need arise.
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