The Lady of the Lakes

by Josi S. Kilpack

  Intermission came far too soon, and Walter was forced to release her hand. As the audience shifted, Charlotte quickly put her glove back on. Walter caught Jane taking note of it, though she did not make a comment, and took her expression of disapproval as a bit of a challenge.

  They followed the Nicholsons to the foyer, where cheese and wine were being served. Walter had stepped toward the serving table when Charlotte took his hand. He looked at her and she glanced conspiratorially to a side door, away from the crowd.

  He understood in an instant that she, like him, wanted to continue what had begun in the concert hall. He nodded quickly and followed her, darting a glance around the company to be sure they weren’t noticed. She reached the door first, but he stepped past her and pushed it open with his free hand, allowing Charlotte to duck under his arm and slip inside. He glanced around the foyer once more and locked eyes with Mrs. Nicholson, who simply smiled and turned back to her conversation with Jane.

  Further encouraged, Walter slid around the door and closed it behind him.

  The dark room smelled of dust and leather, which made him think it was a storage room of sorts. Charlotte’s hand was still in his, otherwise he would not have known where she was. He opened his mouth, her name on the tip of his tongue, but he dared not speak it. The darkness was charged with a palpable excitement.

  With his free hand, he reached for her, finding her waist easily enough and gently pulling her toward him. He lifted her hand he held and removed her glove again, quickly tucking it into his coat pocket. He kissed the back of her bare hand and listened to her release a long, low, stuttering breath as though she, too, could barely contain what she felt. He then turned her hand and kissed the soft palm.

  The sound of the patrons on the other side of the door faded until all his senses were consumed with the scent of her hair, the feel of her skin against his. He released her fingers and trailed his hand up her arm, across her shoulder, to rest beside her neck. He traced her jaw with his fingers, running his thumb across her lips, which parted slightly at his touch. He met those parted lips with his own.

  He did not pause or wait for a reaction as he had last night. This time he pressed his lips against hers, allowing her to feel his passion, hoping it would spark her own. He did not have to wait long. Her hands reached up his chest and snaked around his neck. She stepped even closer. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her against him. Her fingers pushed through his hair. He backed up against the door. The kiss deepened still, and he felt what he had not felt the night before. What he had never felt before.

  Warmth spread from every point where their bodies touched, filling him up and sending his thoughts spinning. She made a sound low in her throat, and his chest felt near to bursting. After some time—he had no idea how long nor did he care—he pulled away, both of them breathless in the still and silent room.

  “Charlotte,” he whispered. “I—”

  She cut him off with a kiss of her own. “First is not always best,” she said when she pulled back, her voice heavy with the same wanting he felt. She kissed his chin, then followed the line of his jaw.

  The words had a double meaning to Walter’s mind, poignant. Mina had been his first love, his first kiss, his first expectation of a future. But she had chosen another path and that had put Walter on another path as well. A path that had led him here, to this woman who challenged him in ways he had never expected. Who complemented him in ways he still did not fully understand. Who ignited him in ways he had never felt before.

  “I think I’m falling in love with you, Charlotte Carpenter.”

  He felt her lips as they smiled against his cheek. Her fingers brushed though his hair again. “We have eight more days to know for sure.” She kissed him again, and the same slow, circling sensation seemed to hold the moment apart from the rest of the world. She pulled back just as he was once again forgetting where they were. “Can you stand the second half of dis concert?”

  Walter smiled in the darkness and ran the backs of his fingers along her jaw—he hoped he had not messed up her hair. He leaned down and kissed her neck, causing her to sigh deeply. He kissed her again. “I’d rather stay here with you.”

  “You do not like the music?” she teased, but turned her head so that he might kiss the place where her neck and shoulder met.

  Walter hated that he’d been so obvious, but there was no place for argument, and so, after one final kiss against her collarbone, he raised his head and pulled her into an embrace. Aside from her lips against his, was there a better sensation than her head against his shoulder? What had she asked him? Oh, yes, the concert. “I respect the dedication it takes to be proficient, but I have no ear for music.”

  “And I have no patience for many books.”

  “Perhaps we might better appreciate one another’s deficiencies because of our own, then.”

  She lifted her face, and he could feel her breath on his lips. “But we are not deficient in all things. I daresay we are very much the same in regard to some pursuits.”

  He only had to lean forward a fraction of an inch to meet her lips, capture them completely, and prove her point.

  A light knock on the door startled them, and Walter felt Charlotte’s body tense with the fear of discovery.

  “Intermission is over, but I have told everyone that Charlotte had a headache,” Mrs. Nicholson said through the door. “I expect her back at Nicholson Manor, unharmed, within the hour, Mr. Scott. I am investing a great deal of trust in your being a gentleman.”

  Walter cleared his throat. “Aye,” he said over his shoulder, his heart racing for two reasons now. “Thank you, Mrs. Nicholson.”

  “Within the hour,” she repeated, then moved away.

  Charlotte relaxed in his arms, but he didn’t dare kiss her again. Being alone with a woman who could kiss him as Charlotte just had, who could send his senses reeling, was dangerous ground.

  “I had better take you home,” he whispered, running his hand up her back and feeling her shiver beneath his touch. The neckline of her dress ended just above her shoulder blades and he ran his fingertips beneath the fabric an inch, smiling when she shivered again. How powerful he felt to generate such a physical reaction, yet how powerless he felt at her touch as well.

  “Yes,” Charlotte said. “I tink that would be best.” But she’d no sooner said it than she kissed him again.

  September 27, 1797

  Walter woke up with one thought in his mind. Today was the fifteenth day. He stared at the ceiling of his tiny room and imagined Charlotte as she’d looked the night before at the Nicholsons’ dinner party, attended by some two dozen people from town. Charlotte had worn the same gold dress she’d worn to the concert last week—the concert that had changed everything. He was certain she’d worn it on purpose, and though he’d been tempted to press her for an answer when they had taken their usual turn through the garden, instead, he had taken her behind the hedges and kissed her breathless. He could not get enough of her. Dare he believe she felt equally hungry?

  He had only to consider how certain he’d been of Mina’s love to feel his giddiness subside. It was impossible for him to know Charlotte’s heart or her mind and yet . . . he loved her. He felt it completely—as completely as he’d ever loved Mina.

  He and Charlotte had enjoyed so much time together. So many conversations. So many kisses. He knew her history, her fears, her strengths, and she knew his. In just fifteen days—twenty-three if he counted the time in Gilsland—he had come to know her as well as he had known anyone in his life. And he loved her, deeply.

  Did she feel the same? Each time he dared think she did, he would remind himself of past folly. He hadn’t expected to fall in love with Charlotte, not so quickly, and yet he had. Which meant if she rejected him . . . He could not even consider the possibility for fear he would jump on Lenore and run for Edinburgh before he dared see her
again.

  He arose, brushed his coat and pants, and dressed with as much consideration as he ever did. He packed a saddlebag and then picked up his letter from the desk where he had left it last night. He stared at the paper, which now held his heart written in his finest hand. Would she dismiss it? Would his heart be thrown into the fire as it had been before?

  Taking a deep breath, he headed for the stable, determined not to let his anxiety get the best of him. It had rained during the night and although it was not raining now, the sky was gray and the air was chill. He would have preferred a bright and sunny day for the significant things that would happen today, but could instead only hope the weather would hold off long enough for the morning ride.

  By the time he reached Nicholson Manor, the first drops were falling. Charlotte would not want to ride in the rain. The only two days they had not ridden out together were on days of absolute downpours. On those occasions, Charlotte had sent a note ahead to the hotel. There had been no note today, but he worried she, like him, had simply been overly hopeful that the skies would be on their side.

  Walter stopped in his usual place on the road where they always met and was considering whether he should go to the door and ask after her when he saw her exit the stable on Jolie. She was dressed in the blue habit, his favorite, looking like a sapphire set against the gray sky and dull road. He felt a smile pull at his lips as he captured the image of her in his mind. Perhaps they would not ride far, but she had wanted to see him just as he had wanted to see her.

  Oh, she was as beautiful as any gem, any loch, any first flower of spring.

  She reached him and gave him a jaunty grin. “I fear we haven’t much time to be outdoors today, Walter. Which direction shall we go?”

  “Any direction you would like,” he said. “Though I fear the trails will be treacherous.”

  “How about Shaddongate Road?”

  “Perfect,” Walter said.

  They fell into an easy walk beside one another, their shared silence feeling almost reverent. The clouds seemed to be stretching toward the ground, sealing them in. The plan to exchange letters of answer today had been his idea, but now he questioned the wisdom of it. His letter tucked inside his coat pocket seemed to be burning through his clothing and searing his skin.

  The rain increased so slowly that it was almost imperceptible to Walter until he glanced at Charlotte to see her wipe the water from her face despite the brim of her hat that should have protected her. The tendrils of hair framing her face hung heavy but her smile was bright.

  “We should turn back,” Walter said, already turning Lenore.

  “No.” Charlotte shook her head. “Not on our last day.”

  Did she mean last day because she would not see him again? If that were the case, however, why would she prefer time with him in the rain over a return to the house where she would be warm and dry and free of him?

  He guided Lenore back into line with Jolie.

  She looked at him, then smiled slyly and leaned forward. Walter knew the look and the movement, but she couldn’t be thinking to—

  Charlotte suddenly kicked Jolie into a run and shot ahead, throwing mud up behind her, a bit of it landing squarely on the shoulder of Walter’s coat. He did not waste another moment before spurring Lenore to catch up.

  Lenore took his head and soon enough Walter was right on Jolie’s tail.

  Charlotte looked back, and the wind carried her tinkling laugh upon it, spurring him forward even faster. The rain pelted his face and soaked through his clothing. He was nearly side by side with her when she reached up and pulled the pin from her hat. The wind immediately claimed the article and whisked it away. She tossed the pin aside as those lovely dark curls unfurled from their containment, streaking behind her as they had the first day he’d seen her racing across the meadow in Gilsland. A banner, indeed.

  The vision filled him with delicious fire that seemed to burn away the discomfort of the cold rain. He could not take his eyes off of her and felt Lenore slowing his pace.

  Charlotte looked back, her eyebrows coming together momentarily as she saw he was no longer racing. She turned to face him and began to slow as well. In a matter of yards they stopped, each of them trying to catch their breath as their horses huffed and stomped.

  Walter ached to touch her, to feel her skin against his own somehow. He could not believe this would be his last chance.

  He moved Lenore as close to Jolie as he could manage. Because of the blasted sidesaddle, Charlotte was turned slightly away from him—too much distance. For a moment he contemplated the setup, then made a decision. He dropped the reins and reached across the space between their horses. He put his hands around her slim waist and lifted her from the saddle.

  “Walter!” she exclaimed, but she didn’t resist as he pulled her over Jolie’s back and onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around her to steady them both as the last of her long skirts slid over Jolie’s back and fell alongside Lenore instead. Lenore sidestepped a moment and whickered at the increased burden, but he was a cavalry horse and capable of the load.

  Once settled on his lap, Charlotte opened her mouth, likely for another protest, but he kissed her before a word was said, capturing her mouth with his, and feeling the heat inside him burn even hotter. She did not resist him—she never did—and her arms wrapped around his neck. He pushed his hands into her hair, increased his ardor, and hoped the kiss spoke to her the way it spoke to him.

  They were right for each other, and he knew beyond anything fanciful and partial that they could make one another happier than any other people on the earth ever could.

  “Marry me, Charlotte,” he said when he pulled back enough to take a breath. “I can give you my letter, but that is what it says—that I want you and need you and love you with all the passion of my heart.”

  She lifted her chin, exposing her graceful neck, which he kissed, unable to resist. “Are you sure?” she asked, the breathlessness of her voice only fanning the flames. He pulled back and held her eyes as he freed one hand from her hair so he could stroke her cheek.

  “I love you, Charlotte, and I promise to spend every day of my life convincing you of just how much.”

  She was still breathing hard, but the look on her face was serious, contemplative. “Mina?”

  One word. One word that a few weeks ago would have unraveled him but today did nothing but prick his heart. He cupped her face with both hands and held her eyes so that she would see the truth he spoke. “Mina was my past. You are my future, my heart, my hope, my everything. Marry me, Charlotte. Be my wife and let us make a beautiful life together.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked again.

  Was she so unsure of his assurance? He kissed her again, just once, softly. “I am sure. Will you have me?”

  She held his eyes another moment, but then the seriousness softened and her eyes filled with tears. “You truly love me.”

  “Is it so hard to believe?”

  The tears overflowed, joining the rain on her face. “I wish it were not,” she whispered. “Your family . . .”

  “If they will not accept us, we shall find another place where we shall both be strangers.”

  She shook her head, and he knew what she was thinking, that he could never be happy away from Scotland.

  “But I believe they will embrace you,” he said softly, drawing her eye back to him. “My family and friends will see what I see—your goodness, your strength, and your faith—and they will love you for it. My family will become your family, Charlotte, my home, your home, and your happiness my own. Believe in me, in us, and in them.”

  “I gave up hope of such things a very long time ago.”

  He kissed her again, slower and with more intent. When he pulled away, he kept one arm clasped around her waist while he reached behind him with his free hand and pulled back the flap of the saddlebag. H
e took hold of the tightly woven fabric and pulled it from the bag. Holding her with one hand and the fabric with the other, he shook the article, unveiling the length of his plaid, then wrapped it around the both of them, clasping it together with one hand. She would not understand the symbolism of his wrapping her in his heritage, inviting her to share his name and clan, but she would know that he was sharing something sacred with her.

  “I love you, Charlotte Charpantier, and wish to be your husband. Will you marry me? Will you be my one, my only, my everything?”

  She smiled through her tears and reached a hand to his face. “I will marry you, Monsieur Scott, and love you all the days of my life.”

  December 23, 1797

  Walter rode hard despite the cold. The weather had already delayed him too long, and although he had sent a message when he’d arrived at the inn last night, he could only imagine that Charlotte was as anxious about his return as he was.

  He had left Carlisle almost two months ago, and while absence might make the heart grow fonder, letters were little nourishment. He had made the necessary arrangements in Edinburgh as quickly as he could after his time in Jedburgh and was now, finally, returning to his beloved as he’d promised. If only the roads had not been so poor and the storm from yesterday not so extreme. If not for those delays, he’d have been presenting himself yesterday afternoon as planned. Instead, here he was, riding into an absolute downpour and a freezing winter wind on the day before Christmas Eve, which was the day he and Charlotte were to be married at the Carlisle church, just the two of them except for the Nicholsons and Jane.

  Rather than go to his rooms to refresh himself after he reached Carlisle, Walter went directly to Nicholson Manor. Charlotte had stayed there these months, making her own arrangements for the extreme changes that would take place in her life. Jane had stayed with her, and the two women had repaired their friendship. Jane had found a teaching position in Bath and would begin at the first of the year.