“Your gowns are so lovely. It’s a treat jest to touch ‘em.” Haddie giggled.
“Thank you.”
“I’ll put another brick of peat in the fire. There’s a chill in the air this late in the day.”
“Is this the privy closet?” Lucy asked, reaching for the knob on a narrow door to the left of the hearth.
“No, miss. That’s the door to Mr. Alex’s room. There’s a chamber pot under the bed, and the privy closet is doon the hall. Shall I show ye?”
“Thank you, no.” Lucy stood contemplating the door. “Is it locked?”
Haddie stopped poking at the fire. “Pardon me, miss?”
“Is the door to Mr. Sinclair’s room locked?”
“Oh, aye. It’s locked from the other side. Shall I open it for you?” The maid’s eyebrows came together, nearly touching in the center of her forehead.
“Do you mean it doesn’t lock from this side? Mr. Alex could—I mean, he wouldn’t, but he could…”
Haddie’s brows relaxed, and she glanced around the room. Spotting one of Lucy’s trunks, she grabbed the side handle, and dragged the thing, empty but still very heavy, across the floor, then shoved it up against the door. She looked for confirmation from Lucy.
“Perfect.” Lucy smiled her relief. Haddie could read a person’s thoughts, an ideal quality in a maid.
Haddie lit a candle by the bed and closed the window shutters. “I’ll be back a’fore supper to help you get ready.” She left the room and closed the door without a sound.
At last, completely alone, yesterday’s bloody events seized her, the smells, the sounds, the dying cries of those men, the images and sensations as vivid as they had been a mere twenty-four hours ago. Lucy lay on the bed, her body racked with tremors. She had contributed to a man’s death. Was she guilty of committing a mortal sin? Would God ever forgive her?
“Oh, Hercules. I wish Nounou Phillipa were here.” Too exhausted to hold on to her tears, Lucy buried her face in her pillow and sobbed.
…
As road weary as he was, Alex could not relax. He lay on his bed, listening to the murmurs of female voices in the next room, Lucy’s bedchamber, where she would sleep, and dress, and bathe. Naked.
The sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor brought him up out of bed.
Thunk.
“She’s blocked the door, the wee bizzum.”
What did she think? That he would sneak in her room uninvited and take her maidenhead before they were married? The idea galled him.
He listened and waited. Silence. Hattie must have left the room. Then he heard muffled sobs. Lucy? Crying? He backed away from the door. She was unhappy here. Of course she would be. Alone among strangers in a strange place, no familiar faces anywhere, no kin, no friend, save a dog. On top of everything, she’d discovered her fiancé was an ass.
This was his doing. He had told her he was infinitely sorry, explained he’d been just as worried and nervous about their meeting as was she, that he had been wrong not to reveal himself immediately, but he hadn’t meant to trick her. The ploy was a way for him to know her before they were thrust into a relationship. But Lucy hadn’t heard a word he said. Or if she had, she didn’t care.
He would make an attempt to explain once again tonight after supper. If she still rejected him, he would release her. If she wished to break the engagement and go home, he would not object. He tried not to think of the humiliation his failure would cause his father, not to mention the jeopardy Balforss would face should his father lose their contract with the duke. With that connection broken, Alex wouldn’t be able to remain at Balforss and live with the shame. He would have to leave. Either re-activate his commission in the army or emigrate.
Unable to bear the pitiful sounding sobs from the next room, he stormed out of his bedchamber. He ignored his mother’s voice calling to him. His blood was too high. He couldn’t be civil to anyone in his current condition. Alex hurled himself down the stairs and out the front door. He strode purposefully to the only place he could be alone, the only spot on Balforss land where he could be with his thoughts, where he could compose himself and think clearly—the falls.
The soothing sound of water crashing and dancing down the multi-stepped falls reached his ears a moment before the mill came into view through the trees. Already he could feel his heartbeat slow; his breath came easier, the urge to strike someone abated. He wound down the cool, tree-lined path toward his safe haven, and descended the steep stone steps at a relaxed pace until he reached the swirling pool at the bottom of the falls.
Alex was not accustomed to failure. He irritated his father all the time with his rash behavior and his penchant for fighting. But only once before had he failed on such a grand scale. Elizabeth Ulbster. Even then, her rejection hadn’t laid him as low as did Lucy’s now. Why?
He bent and selected a stone. With a flick of his wrist, the stone skipped one, two, three times across the pool before sinking.
Duty must be the reason. Nothing had been at stake when he had asked Elizabeth to marry him. Far more depended on the success of his and Lucy’s union. To fail with Lucy was to disappoint his father, break his oath to the duke, and jeopardize the lives of everyone who lived and worked on Balforss land. One hundred and fifty years of his family’s history rested on his shoulders.
And yet, that still didn’t adequately explain why he wanted to beg Lucy for her forgiveness. Why would her rejection hit him harder than Elizabeth’s? Why did he feel he had to regain her good favor before his heart—
Shit. His heart? Not possible. He barely knew the lass. No. No. He rejected the idea of love. What he felt must be desire. He wanted her. He wanted to marry her. Have her.
But did she want him?
There it was, the fear that made his insides churn. He wanted her, but she didn’t want him. Or did she? Perhaps he hadn’t lost her completely. Not yet. Yesterday evening, after the attack, holding her in his arms, there had been a moment between them when she’d cleaved to him. Later, by the fire, he had tried to ease her concern for having shot the man. Lucy’s eyes had met his, and he remembered how the firelight licked her smooth cheek. He would have kissed her then. He believed she would have let him, too, had he not cocked everything up with his foolishness. If only he had kissed her. A kiss would have bound her to him regardless of his deception.
A kiss. That was the answer. If he could calm her ire, if she would let him get close enough, if he could kiss her, he could win her.
Later that night, Lucy swept into the dining room on his mother’s arm, looking fresh and rested. No trace of her earlier distress. That was a good thing. She might be more receptive to his appeal with her mood improved. She had changed into a gown the color of a fawn, with pink stripes on the sleeves. Alex remembered his manners, thank God, and was quick to pull out her chair.
She smelled of the citrusy bergamot soap his mother made. Without her bonnet, he could see her hair wasn’t a true black, more the fathomless brown of Loch Calder. She had her curls pinned into a mass of twists and whirls. Shiny dark ringlets bounced against the back of her long white neck. He wanted to touch those curls, to feel the silkiness of them in his hands. He should have worn his kilt to supper. A kilt hid a man’s desire so much better than trousers.
Only the four of them were at table tonight, Ma, Da, Lucy, and he, which was unusual. Perhaps his mother didn’t want to overwhelm Lucy on her first day at Balforss. Or, more likely, they had things to discuss privately. Whatever the reason, with so few people at table, their voices echoed in the dining room, adding to his nervousness.
His parents took their usual seats at either end of the long table. Across from him, Lucy sat ramrod straight, eyes assiduously avoiding his.
“Is your bedchamber comfortable, Lucy?” his father asked.
“Yes. Very,” she answered with good grace. “The whole house is lovely.”
“I’ll show you ’round after supper, if you like,” Alex offered.
/> Without looking at him, she answered with a hollow, “If you like.”
His mother raised her eyebrows at him. Alex shrugged imperceptibly. She turned to her husband, and his father shook his head as if to say, I’ll tell you later.
“Papa sends his warm regards,” Lucy said, smiling at his father.
“They are warmly received. I trust he is in good health.”
“Oh yes. Very.”
Two kitchen maids entered, carrying steaming platters and bowls. They set them on the table then quietly exited. Lucy looked confused. She must be used to servants filling her plate, because she seemed at a loss as to how to serve herself.
Picking up a bowl of boiled potatoes within his reach, he asked, “May I?”
She nodded. He spooned a generous helping of potatoes onto her plate. Flora and John served themselves from different serving platters. When Flora passed her the platter of sliced roast duck, Lucy accepted it, hesitated for a moment, and then set the platter on the table. She fumbled with the serving tongs. Alex ached to help her but thought it best not to interfere. At last, she managed to get a slice of duck on her plate and returned the tongs to the platter with a clank. She glanced up at his father with a look of uncertainty.
“As I recall,” his father said, “you had a different type of table service at Maidstone Hall. We are much more informal at Balforss.”
Lucy’s shoulders relaxed. The confusion she held earlier seemed to vanish. “I’m sure I will enjoy the change.”
Her response to his father seemed genuine, more than a polite reply. He felt a twinge of jealousy, yet another one of his shortcomings. His father knew exactly how to put Lucy at ease. Alex looked like a fumbling idiot by contrast. He should be grateful Laird John was a good host, because Alex wanted Lucy to be happy at Balforss.
There was a lull in the conversation as they ate. Lucy examined the contents of her plate cautiously.
“Try a little of Mrs. Swenson’s gooseberry preserve on the duck.” Alex passed her the jam pot. She dolloped a purple glob onto her meat. When she took a bite, he was certain she smiled a little.
“Perhaps we should discuss the wedding,” John said.
Lucy stopped chewing, swallowed, and set her knife and fork down, giving his father her full attention. But his mother spoke next.
“The wedding is set for a week from this Sunday.”
Lucy made no comment. Her eyes flicked in Alex’s direction. Did that mean he should say something?
“Erm,” Alex started. “I…we…I mean, Lucy and I will discuss it, aye. After supper.”
“Of course.” His mother’s sunny expression drooped. “Forgive me. I’m just so happy you’re here.”
Another lull in the conversation followed. Alex ate rapidly, wishing the meal to be over soon so he could talk to Lucy. He was about to suggest they excuse themselves when the kitchen maid entered with the clootie dumpling bathed in custard sauce. Normally, he would be thrilled at the rare sight of his favorite treat. Tonight, though, dessert was merely an annoyance.
He took some pleasure in watching Lucy inhale the heady aroma of cinnamon and ginger. Black currant cake sweetened with treacle and covered in sweet vanilla custard was undeniably irresistible. If he couldn’t convince Lucy to stay on his account, perhaps Mrs. Swenson’s food would. Ah. Another discovery: Lucy loved sweets.
Supper was about to reach a successful conclusion when his father said, “Alex tells me you had a bit of trouble on the way to Balforss.”
“Da,” Alex blurted.
The blood drained from Lucy’s face. “It’s all right,” Lucy said, sounding miserable. “I should tell you I’m so sorry, Laird Sinclair. I didn’t mean to…” Lucy’s voice quavered.
His father was quick to reassure her. “Dinnae fash yourself, a nighean. You had nae choice in the matter. The fault of the man’s death is on him.”
Lucy nodded and sniffed away threatening tears.
Flora looked from Lucy to John to Alex and back to John. “What’s amiss? Did something happen?”
“It’s nothing, Ma. I’ll tell you later.”
John reached out and patted Lucy’s arm. “Alex said you dealt with the man brawly. You’re quite handy with the bow, I hear.”
Lucy’s cheeks turned a ferocious red.
“Da, please stop,” Alex said, wanting to end a conversation that was upsetting Lucy.
His father spoke more carefully. “The soldiers you talked to at the public house. Did you happen to tell them who you were?”
“Really, John. This discussion is not for the supper table.” But his father paid no attention to his mother.
Lucy thought for a moment. “Yes. I introduced myself. Why?”
“No reason. Just wondering is all.” His father shrugged and spooned another bite of clootie dumpling into his mouth.
“Do you think their attack had something to do with me?” she asked, alarm evident in her tone.
“No,” Alex said quickly and definitively.
“Possibly,” his father contradicted.
“Da, you’ll frighten her needlessly.” Why was his father bent on provoking his bride? “There’s no need to worry, lass. You’re safe here.”
Flora’s response overlapped Alex’s with, “For goodness’ sake, John. She’ll have nightmares.”
“Why?” Lucy looked shaken. “Does someone want to—”
“Nae, lass,” he said, attempting to extinguish her worry. He could kick his father for making her anxious.
“I have a right to know.” Lucy glared at him.
He sat back in his chair and cast a withering look at his father, the implication being see what you’ve done now?
“She’s right,” his father said. “Will you tell her, or shall I?”
Alex gritted his teeth. Barely able to control the anger boiling up inside him. “Fine. I’ll tell her.” To Lucy, he softened. “I’ll tell you my da’s concerns after.”
Flora said, “Let’s everyone enjoy Mrs. Swenson’s pudding.”
He shot his father another angry look and stabbed at his clootie dumpling.
When they left the house, a dusky light bathed the grounds around Balforss. Soft breezes tossed the leaves in the trees, making a pleasant rustling sound, a background to Balforss settling down for the night. They walked side by side at a casual pace toward the paddock. He pointed out things that might interest Lucy. The forge, the candle shed, the washhouse. She nodded without comment.
Lucy had wrapped herself in a green shawl decorated with leaf patterns.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Many people unaccustomed to Highland weather complain of the cold,” he said. “Not you, though. I ken you’re one of those rare individuals who adjusts to her surroundings no matter the circumstance.”
She glanced up at him for the first time. “If that’s a compliment, then thank you.”
“I meant it as a compliment.”
She dipped her head. Was she hiding a smile?
Peter met them outside the stables and handed him a lantern.
“This is your new mistress, Miss FitzHarris.”
“How do you do, Peter,” Lucy said.
“Miss.” Peter bobbed his head.
“Do you look after all these horses yourself?” she asked.
“Oh, no, ma’am. I mean, miss.” Peter shifted from foot-to-foot like a boy in need of a chamber pot. “I’m just a stable lad.”
“A good one, too.” Alex gave him an affectionate pat on the back. Peter grinned a gap-tooth smile. “Go along to your bed, now. I’ll put out the lantern when we’re done.”
“G’night, miss.” Peter trotted off.
They entered the stables and walked down the line of horses, taking their time.
A chestnut mare named Bella stuck a curious nose out of her stall. Lucy stepped clear of the horse’s reach.
“It’s all right. Bella likes to be pet on her nose.”
She
held out a hesitant hand. Was she afraid of the horse? She stroked Bella’s velvety muzzle with the tips of her fingers. When the horse snuffled, she jerked her hand away and let out a nervous laugh. She was afraid of horses.
“Is Peter a relation?” Lucy asked stepping away from Bella’s stall.
“Nae. I found him sleeping in a corner of the market one day in Thurso. He looked terrible. Dirty, starving, flea infested. Yet the wee laddie was feeding the remains of a piece of bread to a stray dog.” Alex leaned a shoulder against a stall wall. “It made me think of the Bible story. Mark, I think it is: For they all gave out of their abundance, but she, out of her poverty, gave all that she had. I asked the lad where were his parents, and he said he didnae have any that he could recall. I asked if he’d like to come work for me, and he said he would. So he did.”
“That was kind of you.”
Alex hung the lantern on its hook and opened the flame, casting a golden glow on the wooden stalls.
“Was it a great enough kindness to make up for the disservice I’ve done you?”
“That was a very nasty trick, you know.” She sounded peevish, an improvement over her earlier wrath.
“I told you,” he said. “I was fashed about meeting you. You were nervous about meeting me, too. You told me so.”
“When?” Lucy’s brow crinkled.
“In the public house. You asked me if I knew Alexander—”
“And you lied to me.”
“You said I was handsome.” He felt as though he had just won whatever argument they were having and grinned at her.
“I most certainly did not,” Lucy said, cocking an offended eyebrow.
“You most certainly did,” he said, raising his own eyebrows in response. “You asked if he was handsome and I said he looked like me, and you said ‘good.’”
Lucy sputtered and stuttered. “That’s…that’s not the same as…I wasn’t implying that you were…” She stopped, took a breath, and restarted. “I was only relieved that he, you, had no gross deformities. You, in your arrogance, misinterpreted my meaning.”
Tying the Scot Page 9