Julia London - [Scandalous 02]

by Highland Scandal

  “A chiall, Lizzie! We must do as Lambourne suggests, do you no’ understand it? If you intend to be my wife, then we must do as he suggests, and if you donna agree to it, then we shall never be with one another, and I will believe that is what you prefer! Do me the honor of telling me truthfully—have you come to love him?”

  Lizzie sputtered guiltily at that suggestion. “Gavin! No, no, of course no’! Love him?” she cried, shaking her head and catching Gavin’s arms, which, she noticed madly, were not as thick as Jack’s. “Can you honestly believe I’d come to love a…rake? A wanted man? A scoundrel?” Oh, but she had come to love him, had come to love him deeply. “Of course no’! How can you question me like this?”

  “Because I must know,” he said firmly. “He is a charmer, aye, and it seems to me you’ve been charmed—”

  “Mi Diah! I’ve no’ been charmed!” she cried, and tried to wrench free of his grasp, but he held her tightly, forcing her to look at him.

  “Then you want to marry me yet?” he insisted. “For God knows I want to marry you, Lizzie. I’ve been entirely too fond of you since the day we met. I’ve stood by you through this scandal and I will stand by you forever—but I will no’ stand to be made a fool of.”

  Her heart warned her, pleaded with her not to lie, but Lizzie could not look at the man who had pledged himself to her, who had ignored the worst of scandals and promised to be with her yet and say otherwise. She could not ignore the fact that whatever she might feel for Jack—raw, unshaped feelings so strong they made her slightly ill—Gavin was her future. Gavin was the one who would be steadfast and keep her and Charlotte safe. Gavin would be at her side, in Scotland. He’d be steadfast and true.

  And while Jack stirred her blood like no man ever had, he would never—never—remain at Thorntree or want a provincial lass in London. He wanted to leave so badly he was willing to sacrifice his freedom, if not his life. How could she hope that he’d suddenly change his perspective on life and settle for a bucolic existence far from the glamour of the king’s court?

  “Lizzie?” Gavin asked, looking a bit alarmed.

  “Aye, Gavin,” she said softly, and forced her smile. “I’ll say it again. I want nothing more than to marry you.”

  He stared hard at her for a long moment, but a slow smile finally appeared on his lips. He kissed her. It was not the tender kiss he’d shown her days ago, but one that clearly conveyed his hunger for her. When he lifted his head, he stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “You must face what is true, Lizzie. You canna mistake this opportunity: if we are to be together, and no’ beholden to Carson Beal in any way, we must do as the earl suggests.”

  “But what of Charlotte?” Lizzie had protested. “I canna go off and leave her!”

  “Newton has said he’ll stay on to keep an eye on things.”

  “Newton!”

  “And Mr. and Mrs. Kincade are here.”

  “Aye, and what about me? I am to travel to London with two gentlemen?”

  “Lizzie—leannan—you are handfasted to the earl. It is perfectly acceptable. And think of it, lass,” he said, his eyes beginning to gleam. “It is London. It is a chance we might never have again, aye?”

  She looked into Gavin’s brown eyes and saw genuine affection for her, as well as his eagerness to see the brightest city in the world. Lizzie did the only she could do after all Gavin had done for her. She nodded.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  A new report from Dougal’s brother that more men had joined in the hunt for Jack, enticed by the higher bounty, forced the trio to slip of out Thorntree sooner than they might have liked.

  Jack regretted that they had to ride north, over a steep mountainous path and through a forest so thick that his greatcoat was torn in several places. He regretted that he had to abandon his mare in the small hamlet of Ardtalnaig and buy passage on a rickety old river barge guided by an old man whose face was creased with the deep grooves of his life. The old man carried two bags of wool to Perth, but if he was happy with what Jack considered an exorbitant fee, he gave no indication.

  Jack regretted that slow river trip seated next to Lizzie and Gordon, hearing their low, intimate conversations.

  He regretted it, too, when they disembarked from that old boat and made their way to Callendar, where they hired a carriage and the three of them stuffed themselves into it—Lizzie and Gordon on one bench, Jack directly across from them—and made do all the way to Glasgow.

  In Glasgow they met Dougal, who had brought a fresh team of horses. Jack had thought it best to send Dougal with the horses on a different path, so as not to arouse suspicion in Glenalmond. It was a futile hope, he discovered, for Dougal was full of news. Carson had come to call shortly after they’d departed, and while Newton had done a fine job of denying any knowledge—Miss Charlotte, too—Carson had sent men in search of them.

  Jack regretted mightily that he was a fugitive once more, for nothing was quite as bothersome as having to hide. On the other hand, he was something of a veteran now, and quickly assembled Lizzie and Gordon into action. The three of them started out, Jack on his horse, the happy couple in the carriage.

  He regretted that, as well.

  And he regretted the dodgy public houses they were forced to sample on the weeklong journey, and the old carriage he’d felt compelled to purchase at a thievishly high cost when the driver refused to take them further than Glasgow. He regretted the long stretches of rutted road after Glasgow, where he rode silently alongside Gordon, who had taken up the reins of the carriage.

  He regretted that, having reached the outskirts of London, they were forced to wait, as Jack believed they must enter the city at night, if for no other reason than not to be seen, and thereby delay his hanging as long as was possible. And when they did cross into London in the dead of night, abandoning the old carriage in Southwark and riding into Mayfair on horseback, Jack regretted having Lizzie seated in front of him, her body pressed against his, her scent filling his senses.

  But Jack did not regret returning to London.

  Aye, he was surprisingly thrilled to be in the one place he felt he truly belonged, particularly after a long absence. He could feel the city’s rhythm in his veins, and even though they entered the city in the early morning hours, the sight of a pair of well-dressed, foxed gentlemen stumbling past massive town homes and a single, ornate coach gliding down a cobbled street made Jack feel quite at home.

  What he regretted most of all and to his very marrow was making love to Lizzie, because now he could not purge the sensation from his blood. He could not erase the memories or wash away the feel of her skin, or drink away the taste of her in his mouth. And he could not be so near her as he’d been during the interminable journey from Scotland and not touch her. It was as if bits of her were entwined in bits of him—she was impossible to let go.

  He watched the looks that flowed between her and Gordon and wished it were he. He bristled when Gordon called her leannan, and felt a dull pain when Lizzie smiled sweetly in return. He could not reveal his feelings; doing so would jeopardize her one chance to be happily married.

  The entire journey had been so bloody uncomfortable for Jack that he was uncharacteristically cross when they arrived at his town home on Audley Street and his butler was not awake to receive them.

  When Winston finally appeared at the door with his nightcap askew, a pair of footmen similarly dressed and scurrying about to light candles behind him, Jack stalked into the entrance hall. “We’ve guests, Winston,” he said, as if he’d been gone days instead of months. “We’ll need a pair of rooms for them.”

  Winston blinked at Jack, then at Lizzie as she walked in, her eyes wide as tea saucers as she took in Lambourne House. Gordon followed closely behind her, his eyes gleaming as he surveyed the entrance hall.

  Frankly, after several weeks in the Highlands, it all looked a wee bit ostentatious to Jack.

  “My lord?” Winston said.

  Jack glared at him, warning
him away from asking any questions. Winston knew him well. “Welcome home,” the butler said without further ado. “If I may, I will show the lady to her rooms?”

  “You may,” Jack said curtly.

  Winston bowed to Lizzie as if he were dressed in his full butler regalia. “If you will follow me, Miss…?”

  “Beal,” she said. “Miss Elizabeth Beal. Thank you, sir.”

  Jack pretended to be busy with his gloves and hat as Lizzie followed along behind Winston, but he glanced sidelong at her as she began to climb the curving staircase after the butler. She looked uncertain, almost cowed by his home. Her plain muslin gown seemed out of place in this city.

  “What is this, then, marble?” Gordon said behind him, tapping his foot on the floor.

  Jack reluctantly shifted his gaze to the younger man. “Aye,” he said.

  “Very fine marble it is,” Gordon said. “Very fine indeed.” He took one of the candles the footman had left on a console and wandered across the entrance hall, to a pair of Rococo paintings that hung side by side, perusing them as if he were standing in a museum somewhere. “Quite grand,” he muttered. “A sound investment, I understand.”

  Jack hardly cared what Gordon understood. He wished he’d never laid eyes on the man.

  “Winston will see to you, Gordon,” he said curtly. “I should like to retire if you donna mind.”

  Gordon did not respond but continued to admire the paintings as Jack strode to the stairs, almost colliding with a footman, who hurried to give him a candle.

  Aye, he was glad to be in London! This is where he would come to his senses! This is where he would welcome a private moment in his suite with his things around him and a fine Scots whisky to dull his memory. This was his life, not repairing some ramshackle roof in Scotland!

  Lizzie had understood Jack was a wealthy man—he was an earl, after all—but she’d had no idea he was this wealthy. Sumptuous surroundings such as this were beyond her ability to fathom.

  Mr. Winston, poor man, in his dressing gown and nightcap, had quickly turned down a bed stuffed with feathers and covered with a silk coverlet so fine Lizzie would very much have liked to have made a gown of it, and had promised her a lady’s maid to attend her first thing on the morrow. Lizzie had attempted to assure him she did not require a lady’s maid, but Mr. Winston seemed fairly determined that she would have one. “All of His Lordship’s lady guests have them,” he’d said firmly.

  When Winston had left her, and a footman had built a roaring fire—with wood, she noticed—Lizzie wandered around the room, her fingers trailing over the rich brocade fabric of the furniture, admiring the delicate carving of the vanity. There were three rooms: a bedroom, a dressing room, and the sort of enclosed privy closet she’d read about but had never seen. The rugs beneath her feet were so thick it was almost like walking on pillows, and the draperies’ woolen weave thick enough to keep out all drafts.

  Lizzie sat on the edge of the bed, then lay back. Above her head was a painting of heaven. Little wonder; this room seemed like heaven. She ached with exhaustion, but sleep had eluded her for days now. Her heart had warred constantly with her mind, and now, to see how he lived! The riches he was accustomed to, the servants who had risen in the middle of the night to do his bidding! Lizzie had not even a feather to fly with, but here she lay, a country woman who had had the grand misfortune to fall hopelessly in love with him!

  She could not possibly have fallen in love with a man more ill suited to her, and this beautiful room made that painfully obvious. She no more belonged in this house than an old cow, and he no more belonged at Thorntree than a fine piece of china.

  The next morning, Lizzie was awakened by a soft knock on the door. That was followed by the forceful opening of the door, and in scurried a young woman dressed in a maid’s uniform, followed by a woman who looked to be about Lizzie’s age, her brows furrowed in a disapproving vee.

  The maid quickly dipped a curtsey. The other woman—who looked vaguely familiar—folded her arms across her middle and eyed Lizzie critically. “Who have we here, if I may ask?”

  “I…” Lizzie wasn’t quite certain what to say.

  The pretty woman, with dark hair and lovely amber eyes, stepped closer. She was wearing a beautiful white and gold day gown that fit her superbly. From her lobes dangled marquis-cut ambers to match those that hung around her neck. She was the sort of woman Charlotte had dreamed of being—refined, sophisticated. She was lovely. And angry.

  “Lucy informs me that Winston instructed her in the middle of the night to tend to the earl’s guest, but, lassie, the earl is no’ here. I know what you are about, aye? You’d best gather your things and be on your way,” she said coldly.

  It dawned on Lizzie that this woman thought she was an intruder, an interloper. Or worse. “I beg your pardon!” Lizzie exclaimed, and quickly came up, throwing her arisaidh around her. “If I am to be sent home, it will be the earl who does it, aye? Did you speak to Mr. Winston? Did he tell you that the earl is the one who brought me here?”

  The young woman opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. She squinted at Lizzie. “You’re a Scot,” she said, perplexed.

  “Aye,” Lizzie said proudly.

  “A Scot! What do you mean, he brought you here? He is no’ here, is he? He best no’ be here! He is in Scotland!”

  “Either he is in London or his ghost escorted me here,” Lizzie retorted.

  “Oh no,” the young woman said, shaking her head. “Oh no, no, no, he canna be in London! Does the bloody fool wish to hang?” She whirled around and fled for the door, leaving it open as she hurried down the hall calling Jack’s name.

  Lizzie put a hand to her heart and looked at the maid. “Who was that?”

  “Lady Fiona,” the maid said, dipping another curtsey. “The earl’s sister. I’m Lucy, mu’um. I’m to be your lady’s maid.”

  A maid and a sister? Jack Haines had failed to mention a sister in London, and for that, Lizzie would very much like to kick him.

  Jack didn’t mention his sister because he was not aware Fiona was in London. The last he’d seen her, she’d announced her unlikely and very surprising engagement to Duncan Buchanan, the Laird of Blackwood, and then gave Jack the news that the prince’s men were looking for him. She sent Jack into the hills with a warning that he’d hang if he lingered, and Jack had been on the run since.

  When Fiona burst into his room, she startled him so badly that he almost cut his own throat with the razor.

  “Jack!” she cried. “Mi Diah, what have you done? Are you mad? Do you have a secret wish to die?”

  “Good morning, Fiona,” Jack said, and took a deep breath, put down his razor, and dabbed at his face with a towel before turning to face her.

  His sister’s eyes were blazing.

  “What in the devil are you doing in London?” he asked. “Please tell me you’ve come to your senses and cried off from Buchanan.”

  “No, you wretched man,” she said, frowning at him. “Duncan and I are to be married on May Day! I have come to London to be fitted for a dress.”

  “Is Buchanan with you?”

  “No, of course no’! He’s got quite a lot to do in the rebuilding of Blackwood, but that is neither here nor there, Jack! You should no’ be in London! You could be hanged!”

  “No one will hang me,” he said, and opened his arms with a grin. “Come here, Fi.”

  She sailed into his arms, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing his cheek. “They will indeed hang you—they hanged Sir Wilkes last month.”

  Jack suddenly grabbed her shoulders and pushed her back. “Then it is true? I thought…” He’d thought perhaps Carson had been lying in an effort to intimidate him.

  “Aye, it’s true,” Fiona said. “He did something awful that I canna even bear to repeat. You must leave! Things have only gone worse between the prince and princess, and no one is safe from accusation!”

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “You must tell me ev
erything,” he said, and grabbed up his neckcloth. “I’ll have every last word of all that’s happened.”

  “Aye, you will,” she said, pushing his hands away to tie his neckcloth for him. “But first you will tell me what she is doing here.”

  Damn it all to hell, but Jack felt himself flush slightly.

  “Jack?” Fiona said, peering up at him. “Who is she? A chiall, she’s wearing an arisaidh like a country woman! Where did you find her? Mi Diah, tell me she’s no’ someone’s daughter and you’ve done something you ought no’ to have done—”

  “Fiona! Mind your tongue. The woman is…She’s…I’ve never met…” Words utterly failed him.

  Fiona’s hands stilled. She gaped at him. “Heaven as my witness, you’ve risked your life for a woman.”

  “Diah, donna be so bloody dramatic.”

  “Do you love her?” Fiona asked, pulling the neckcloth a bit too tightly.

  “For God’s sake, Fi!” he rumbled, slapping her hands away and turning to the mirror to tie his own bloody neckcloth. “Still as mad as a March hare, are you? Lizzie is naugh’ to me, but only one more problem with which I must contend!”

  His sister did not speak. When Jack had finished tying his neckcloth, he turned round again. She was standing with her arms folded, one brow cocked high above the other. “Lizzie,” she said, drawing the name out.

  “Donna do that,” he said, pointing at her.

  “Whatever do you mean?” she asked innocently.

  “You know very well what. You’ve wrapped your silly imagination around some fantastic notion,” he said, fluttering his fingers at his head. “I owe the woman a small debt. She’s come with her fiancé, and he is most decidedly no’ me. Come, then. I’ll have the news about Wilkes.” He began striding out of the room.

  “You may no’ be her fiancé,” Fiona said smartly. “But you wish you were.”