by Eva Devon
Nodding, Clyde asked indulgently, “Are ye then?”
Edward nodded tightly, feeling more and more like a fool.
“Who is it with if I might be so bold?” Clyde’s eyes narrowed. “Ye seem oddly dedicated to it.”
Edward ground his teeth, unsure if he should admit it but he found he needed to tell someone. For he could no longer be as honest with his brothers as he longed for. They did not understand him. Not any longer. They all wished to forget the pain of a few years ago and pretend as if they had all moved on from it.
Well, he supposed, in truth, his brothers had. They’d all married. They all had lovely wives who they loved dearly. They all had babes in arms.
What did he have?
His damned club.
He’d never have more than that.
“Emmaline Trent,” he said quietly.
Clyde’s jaw all but dropped. “Ye canna be serious, mon!”
Edward nodded. “Oh, yes. I’m to give her advice on a business matter.”
Clyde blew out a stunned breath. “She seeks yer advice?”
Edward laughed dryly. “Sounds impossible, does it not? But it’s true. I have a particular expertise and she says she wishes us to begin anew.”
Clyde’s lips twisted with amusement. “Begin anew?”
That very amusement on Clyde’s face told him he was, indeed, being a fool to sit and wait and hope. “She doesn’t mean it, of course. She merely wishes us to get on in front of company.”
“Ye wish she meant it?” Clyde observed quietly. “Dinna ye?”
Edward stared at his gin. “We cannot go back.”
“Indeed, we canna, lad.” Clyde lifted the bottle and gave it a far more pensive look than it likely deserved. “The past is for those who wallow in drink and despair. Only forward, good Hart. Only forward. And lingering about waiting for her to call upon ye? I dinna suggest it.”
The duke clapped his hand on the table for emphasis. “Ye must live yer life.”
“I was,” Edward protested passionately then he sighed, his shoulders bowing. “I had been. But now she’s in London. . .”
“Ye can think of little else but her?” Clyde finished.
Edward gave a tight nod.
“Ye love her then?”
“No,” Edward gritted. “I proved I didn’t.”
“By casting her out?” Clyde offered. He shrugged his giant shoulders, which stretched his pristine black coat. “It was an ill-advised action, but ye must stop whipping yerself over it. Would ye do such a thing again?”
“I think not,” Edward ventured. “But how can I be certain?”
“Ye canna,” Clyde agreed, making no attempt to convince Edward what a good fellow he was. “In this life, nothing is certain. Now, ye come to Scotland. Breathe the Highland air and let yer mind clear.”
A strange look of what Edward was almost sure was anticipation shone in the Scot’s eyes.
Clyde lifted his bottle in salute. “Ye’ll feel a good deal better and know what needs to be done when ye return.”
“Don’t make promises, Clyde,” Edward warned. “They can’t be kept.”
“Och, I always keep mine, Hart.” Clyde swigged the gin. “I always keep mine.”
How Edward wished he could say the same, but a trip to Scotland? Yes, it was for the best. He had to decide on a course of action with Emmaline. For he had waited and waited. Now, it was time for him to do things differently and, in Scotland, he could decide exactly what course to take.
Chapter 13
After only a few weeks in London, it had surprised Emmaline how ready she was to take up an invitation to a house party. The Rivals Theater was an unparalleled success by any standard. After a run of productions that sold out every single night, she’d drawn a deep breath, looked about her, and realized she had not stopped to rest since she had escaped to Paris some time ago.
Yes, she very much deserved this time away.
The invitation from the Duke of Clyde had been most fortuitous and somewhat surprising.
The man had a reputation himself for a steely nature, dangerous temperament, and a face that looked like the devil had cast it. He was also known to be most unique, supporting the rights of women as well as men.
She’d been most intrigued.
Scotland.
The word fairly ricocheted about her mind like a promise of bliss.
A grin pulled at her lips as the exceptionally well-sprung coach bounced over the rough roads of the western Highlands.
Crisp, cool air slipped in through the open window. She’d been surprised to discover she’d required a light blanket upon her lap despite the late-summer months.
All the books she’d brought to entertain her upon her trip lay next to Mrs. Barton, who was napping, a silk scarf over her eyes.
The further north they had traveled, the more Emmaline had been unable to tear her gaze away from the landscape. In fact, she’d all but rested her arms on the ledge, stuck her head out and gaped.
She’d given away any ideas of dignity the moment they’d left Stirling, abandoned the Lowlands and begun to climb.
Some might have loathed the days of travel to reach a party.
Not she. Oh! What bliss, to be mostly alone and stare at the wild glories of the world.
Her soul fairly sang with it. Over the years, she’d spent so much time in cities, surrounded by their teeming masses, their pungent aromas, and driven nature. One rarely paused in the rush of life in London or Paris.
But here? One could watch a hawk fly or a rabbit dart across the heather.
Much to her astonishment, she’d even spotted deer and a great buck with horns that were almost as wide as she was tall.
The majesty of it all stole her breath. Just when she’d begun to believe she could be no more awed, they ventured over a heather-covered ben to spot a silver sea loch which shone like diamonds under a perfect blue sky.
In the distance, a castle stood proud and imposing. It hugged the mountain, the ben, like an old warrior that had hunkered down and would never be convinced to give way to history, wind, or man.
The parapets were adorned with flags whipping in the wind and, for one moment, she could have sworn she heard the call of a Highland bagpipe singing on the sea wind, calling the clansmen to battle.
The coach rattled down to the narrow road which ran along the loch and, before long, they were crossing a stone bridge which led to the castle.
She could scarcely blink at the towering stone walls and shining glass windows, most in the shape of slits meant for a day when archers ruled warfare.
“Goodness, have I awoken in the fourteen hundreds?” Mrs. Barton inquired.
Emmaline laughed merrily. “One might think so.”
Mrs. Barton blinked and leaned forward. “It’s exceptionally grand.”
“Is it not?” Emmaline all but shook with excitement. She could not wait to discover the corridors and hideaways that the castle had to offer.
“Do you think we shall find a few braw Highlanders?” Mrs. Barton asked, her voice deep and full of teasing.
“If we do, you may keep them all,” Emmaline said sincerely. She had no time for such nonsense. No, she was here to be restored not shaken apart.
Mrs. Barton laughed. “My dear, at some point surely you will find a lover.”
“I think I am done with the male sex except for friendship.” She shivered dramatically. “Really, they are far too much trouble.”
“They can make up for it in certain ways,” Mrs. Barton reminded. “Oh, I say. Do you think Clyde wears a kilt when he’s at home?”
Emmaline nibbled her lip. She’d never seen a man in a kilt. The very idea seemed astounding. A man going about with his limbs exposed to the elements.
“I suppose we will soon find out,” Emmaline replied, unable to stop smiling.
“I think we have,” Mrs. Barton whispered, gesturing to the towering arched doorway with its portcullis that had been cranked up, its teeth bare
ly exposed.
A giant of a man, several inches over six feet, stood in the stone corridor. Wild, black hair framed his face. A face that looked as if it had been split in two. For one side was the face of a god. Hard, sculpted, swarthy, with a perfectly-shaped aquiline eye. The other was raked, destroyed by a blade and a barbarous surgeon was unable to put it back to rights.
Though it took effort, Emmaline tore her gaze away from his scarred face. The Duke of Clyde stood with the sort of imperious strength of a man born to power and who would keep it come what may.
A dark green jacket clung to his broad shoulders. Its tails skimmed a. . . Kilt. The green wool had been folded and folded again, creating the most intricate look, but the fabric was not stiff. Oh, no. It swung about the man’s tree-like legs.
“My goodness, he is made of earth, do you think, or some stronger metal?” Mrs. Barton all but purred.
“Surely he walks the ground like the rest of us,” Emmaline said, but she almost didn’t believe herself.
The coach rolled to a halt before him.
No smile cracked his face but he raised a hand in greeting and instead of waiting for one of the footmen to jump down and open the coach door, he strode forward and did the task himself.
“Welcome to Castle Clyde, ladies.”
His rich Scottish brogue rolled over them like an ancient brandy. No, not brandy. Surely whisky. He was rougher than brandy.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Emmaline replied quickly as she took his offered hand.
For one brief moment, she prayed she would feel sparks at his touch.
His hand, after all, was as big and magnificent as the rest of him.
Alas, the ground did not shake upon their touch, which she supposed was for the best. She was here to rest, not to swoon about after a duke.
He helped her down as though she was but a feather.
And once her boots had touched the slick cobbles, he reached out to Mrs. Barton.
As though such a thing was commonplace, Mrs. Barton exited the coach, her long, sapphire skirts swooshing about her legs. She gazed up at the duke and smiled, a smile which shook lesser men. “How kind of you to invite us, Your Grace. No doubt, we are the luckiest actresses in the world to be given such a treat.”
“I’ve no doubt, Mrs. Barton, that ye are accustomed to the best,” Clyde observed. “And it is I who am lucky to have two such ladies grace my home. Now, let’s get ye settled. Such a journey is not an easy one.”
“Oh, we are made of stern stuff,” Emmaline replied, unable to stop gazing about. “I find I am eager to explore.”
He stared at her for a long moment. “Are ye, indeed? Ye’re no’ tired?”
“Life is too short and precarious to be tired,” Emmaline said easily, for she felt it to be true. “At least, too tired to take in such a place as this. For I have never seen the likes of it in all my days.”
“Are ye sure there isna a Scot somewhere in yer lineage,” the duke teased. “If ye love this place so well so soon?”
Emmaline allowed him to take a step back and gesture for them to proceed through to the courtyard.
“Your Grace, my lineage is not overly long,” Emmaline pointed out. There wasn’t an aristocratic bone in her body, after all. “I think my family is only recorded for a few generations, unlike your own, so it is very possible.”
“Och, aye,” Clyde mused. “Well, I can count every member of my clan back for seven hundred years. How wonderful that ye might, in fact, be one of us.”
How she wished she could reply that, in fact, she was one of no one. Not anymore. She’d been forced to give all that up. But now was not a time for such thoughts.
“Perhaps ye require some refreshment before yer adventure begins,” he said as they mounted the steps into the castle proper.
Emmaline gasped as they entered a massive hall.
She’d seen many great houses and chateaus over the years, but none like this. None that seemed to have the ancients written into every stone.
No prancing, lace wearing, powdered fools had ever ruled this fortress. Of that, she was certain. No, this was a place that required hard men, yet it was beautiful.
The towering ceiling overhead bore wooden timbers older than her own theater. Elaborate, colorful banners of the duke’s sworn men and armies hung from them, their colors fluttering ever so lightly as the sea air swept inside from behind them.
Stained glass filled a great window at the opposite end of the long hall, sending reds, blues, greens and purples dancing over the polished wood floors.
Great swords and axes hung upon the walls as well as tapestries that showed scenes of maidens fair in forests at ease with unicorns and other fairy beasts.
“It is beautiful,” she breathed.
“It’s a grand old room,” the Duke of Clyde said with simple pride. “That banner, the first there, it was the banner of the first great Clyde who marched with The Bruce.”
She allowed her gaze to trail along the banners until she came to the newest ones. . . The ones that had, no doubt, flown over Culloden Field. How had his family survived such a thing? His clan?
For even she knew that most great families had not survived the razing of Scotland.
The Clydes were a clan of survivors. That was clear.
“Come,” Clyde urged, remarkably genial for such an intimidating specimen. “Ye must become acquainted with some of my other guests. I ken they are most eager to ken who they shall be feasting with over the next days.”
She nodded and he and Mrs. Barton began to engage in chatter.
She paid little attention to them as she looked about while they headed towards another part of the castle. She really had very little interest in feasting, though she did adore a good meal. Oh, no, she could not wait to walk the parapets, to feel the sea wind in her hair, to walk the hills, and feel what she knew was in the air flow through her bones.
Magic.
This was a place of magic where anything could happen.
They stepped over a threshold and into a room as large as the hall they had entered. But it held less of a medieval bent.
Oh, tapestries decorated all the walls. The ceiling did soar. But here, there were also paintings by the great masters of the Enlightenment upon the wall. A rich Axeminster rug of the deepest green stretched along the floor.
Several Chippendale tables and chairs filled the space, inviting guests to sit and make discourse. A fire, despite the summer months, blazed in the great hearth. Unlike what she had expected, the mantel was carved of Italian marble with flowers so vibrant she felt she could almost smell their fragrance in the air. But then she realized several vases of roses and heather were strategically placed about the room. Light filled the space, spilling in through paned glass, mullioned windows.
A few guests were already imbibing in claret at the far end in a corner of the room which bore a table meant for playing cards.
The strains of a soft Highland tune filled the room and she sought out its source. A pianoforte sat in an opposing corner. Instead of a lady, as she had expected, a tall man sat playing it, his fingers all but spinning over the ivory keys. At the angle he was sitting, she could not make out his face.
A strange sensation danced through her belly.
There was something about the way his head was inclined as he played, in the breadth of his shoulder, and the russet color of his hair which was quite untamed.
She swallowed. “I think. . . I think I prefer to rest,” she whispered.
“I thought ye were no’ tired,” the Duke of Clyde boomed gaily. “Come have a glass of wine to restore yerself.”
And as soon as the duke spoke, the music stopped and the man at the piano turned.
Emmaline could not draw breath. She’d traveled hundreds of miles out of the city, away from this man. She’d been happy to avoid him. To avoid the feelings he’d set ablaze within her. Yet, here he was.
Edward Hart met her gaze and, though she tried to fight it, heat sto
le through her body, dancing along her skin, and slipping straight to her belly.
Good Lord, he was beautiful. Now that all boyhood had escaped him, his strong face which bore no smile at present, was the most appealing she’d ever seen.
Unlike his unreadable face, his eyes, his penetrating eyes, blazed with emotion.
Mine, a voice inside her seemed to whisper that he did, indeed, belong to her, no matter what reason might insist. And she longed to scream at her traitorous self. A self that seemed determined to ignore all sense.
Edward Hart was here in the Highlands of Scotland where magic was in everything. And she longed to rail at the gods for putting her here with him.
A sudden thought hit her and, with it, a shocking dose of calm acceptance.
It was time to stop railing. For no matter what she did, she and Edward seemed destined to be thrown together.
London had been of her choosing.
A meeting at Castle Clyde?
That bespoke of fate and it felt at long last that she was tired of resisting. Perhaps, it was time to do as she had always wished. To know Edward Hart. To know every bit of him, his skin, his muscled body. Yes. . . Now that she wasn’t a lady, there was no reason for either of them to resist.
Not ever again.
Chapter 14
Edward was going to kill Clyde. Slowly. Whilst it sounded mad, he’d known. . . The moment she’d entered the room. He’d felt it in his very bones.
Oh, he’d been playing the beautiful pianoforte, eyes closed, lost in the beauty of the Skye Boat song. As he entered the soulful strains of the chorus, his body had begun to hum, much as the keys beneath his fingers.
He’d refused to look back at first, certain he had lost his wits. Certain he was simply haunted by thoughts of her. For not a night had gone by that she had not haunted his dreams. He could not sit by himself without thoughts of Emmaline slipping into them. But then her voice had echoed across the room and he had no choice but to turn and witness her presence.
After traveling hundreds of miles to escape his club across from her theater, just so he might decide what to do next, he was in the same room with her. And because of that, he could no longer make a perfect plan. He could not linger over the details of how best to win her.