There was an awkward silence, and then he took two steps closer and prodded her with the bit of soap. “Come along and take it. You don’t need to be embarrassed, the sea serpent has his clothes on.”
The Irish lilt in his voice lent teeth to his teasing. She jerked her head around to glare at him while she took the soap and tooth powder. “Thank you,” she forced herself to say, and stood, her back rigid.
“Here,” he said and pulled off his shirt. “You can use this for a towel.”
She didn’t take the shirt from his hand or give him the benefit of comment but marched away, head high.
“I’ll keep watch,” he called, tossing the shirt aside.
Lyssa stopped. “You keep your eyes to yourself.”
“Yes, Miss Harrell,” he responded dutifully, and she knew he was implying that she hadn’t. She hurried down to the lake before he could see the heated glow on her cheeks.
However, close to an hour later, after a leisurely washing, she did feel better. Her breath was freshened and the soap had been a luxury after the past two days. She was a bit embarrassed she had little to return to him. Of course, she’d not jumped in the lake naked the way he had. No, she’d maintained some decorum…although as a child, she used to swim with her father. Even cold, the water had been inviting.
The space of time by the lake gave her back her poise. After all, other than a glimpse of bare buttocks and his naked chest, she’d seen nothing, well, damaging.
No, what held in her memory was waking up beside him, of having her body cradled in his warmth…and of feeling his obvious arousal.
She had been confused when she woke. She hadn’t realized what had happened. But after having tracked him to the lake, she instinctively understood exactly what had been poking into her backside—and she was not displeased.
Mr. Campion was the most handsome man she’d ever met. If he were in Society he’d be handsome enough to turn more than a few feminine heads amongst the ton, but nothing must happen between them. He was what she’d overheard one matron describe as a “guilty pleasure,” a man one could dally with after she’d given her husband an heir.
Of course, Lyssa had no doubt her father would murder her himself if she were to lie with, of all things, a penniless Irishman. Whether she was married or not.
In the way of those who hungered for social status, he’d become more of a stickler than the stick-lers.
However, such closeness as she and Mr. Campion had shared waking this morning was to be expected, she rationalized, and she was too honest to think he’d been taking liberties with her person. After all, she’d been the one determined to keep watch and he’d been right where she’d placed him the night before. If anything, she had been the one to move in her sleep toward him.
Mr. Campion had taken time in her absence to continue his toilet, and his clean-shaven jaw only served to make him more striking. He’d built a small fire to boil water for tea. Pulling a pouch with tea leaves from his magic knapsack, he brewed the tea in a tin cup.
“Would you like a cup?” he asked.
“It would be nice. What is for breakfast? Dried beef?”
“Funny you should be hungry for some,” he teased back, offering her a strip of it.
They shared the tin cup of tea, an act more intimate than waking in his arms. Lyssa watched the way his fingers curved around the cup handle. A man’s hands said a lot about him. His moved with grace and efficiency, whether he was putting out the fire or cleaning the tin cup. And his nails were clean.
They started walking. Her feet felt fine. The salve had done its trick and her shoes were breaking in.
The road did not make for easy walking. After last night’s rain, there was deep mud in many places but they managed to find ground high enough to travel.
She noticed he had slowed his pace a bit, a kindness she was truly thankful for. However, he didn’t seem in the mood for conversation. His earlier lightheartedness had vanished, replaced by his relentless determination to travel fast.
All right. She didn’t have to talk either.
However, after about a half hour of silence, she could bite her tongue no longer, and talking would make the time pass faster.
“Do you think we’ll make Amleth Hall by tomorrow?”
“It’s doubtful.”
More silence.
She fished her mind for something to draw him out. “I’m sorry I fell asleep last night. I meant to stand watch.”
A muscle hardened in his jaw. “I was the one keeping guard.”
“You can’t go days on end without sleep and expect your body not to rebel.”
“Making excuses for me, Miss Harrell?”
His cynical tone could have been a warning, but she sensed the anger wasn’t directed toward her. “No, I’m being factual, Mr. Campion. And no harm came of our lapse.”
“Do you always rationalize, Miss Harrell?”
Lyssa stumbled. “I beg your pardon?”
“Rationalize,” he said. “I haven’t known you long but—and please beg my pardon—I’m beginning to see a pattern. In mine, I see things as they are. It’s the only way I can survive. The world isn’t always safe or pleasant, but I know how to live with it. You, on the other hand, are like a character in one of your novels searching for adventure, the circumstances contrived of your own imagination. You believe you can change your lot. That you have control over your universe and that good triumphs over evil.” He finally looked at her. “It doesn’t.
Both his verbosity and his assessment caught her off guard. She didn’t know whether to be offended or flattered. “I believe I’m more grounded than you give me credit for.”
“Are you? Then why did you run away? Such a dramatic notion, that. And of course in the novels, all ends well, doesn’t it?” He stepped up to higher ground and took her elbow to help her up. “Let’s see, if you are the heroine, Viscount Grossett must be the villain who is keeping you from”—he paused for dramatic emphasis—“true Love.”
“What is your point, Mr. Campion?” she asked crisply.
“That the reality is, Miss Harrell, most arranged marriages are more satisfying than those based upon whims. You are a wealthy young woman. If you were my daughter, I wouldn’t leave anything to chance, either.”
“Is my father paying you to say this, too?” she demanded crossly. “Or are you expecting an extra bonus. And you know nothing of the literature I read.”
He jumped down from a rock and reached up to help her down. “Most men see eye to eye.”
She slapped his hand away and jumped down herself. “It’s a new day, Mr. Campion. Women have minds as well as bodies.”
“Yes, and it’s their bodies I most admire. Their minds, especially when they are attempting to be logical, are a pain in the arse.” He started walking down the road without waiting for her.
In three hurried steps, Lyssa caught his arm and pulled him to a halt. The muscles beneath the material were like tempered steel. They surprised her but she held her ground. Looking him in the eye, she said, “I am not chattel to be sold for a title. I want a man I can love and respect, and that man is not Robert.”
“Unfortunately, under the law you are chattel,” he replied blankly. “You can petition to change the law, Miss Harrell, but you might be wise to stay home to do it.”
Lyssa could have stomped her foot she was so angry. She almost preferred his silence! “Why are you being so provocative?”
He started walking again and she followed. “I was merely making an observation.”
“Yes, that you are sensible and I am not. That is what this conversation is about. How I should stay home, keep recipes, and do needlework.”
“You aren’t sensible,” he agreed. “Sensible women do not take up with the likes of Charley and ‘Bawd House’ Betty—”
“I thought they were a family of Gypsies.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “—or want to be adopted by a family of Gypsies.”
She followed hi
m in frustrated silence. He argued with the efficiency of a barrister.
They had traveled maybe a quarter of a mile farther before she said, “Why shouldn’t I have some adventure in my life? Why should I be expected to be happy attending a few routs, having a husband chosen for me, and then being carted off to some musty old estate to raise my children, count linens, and think of what to serve for dinner? Isn’t there more to life than that? After all, you are a man who has lived fully. Would you be happy with my lot in life?”
“Idealism is a waste of time, Miss Harrell. A dangerous waste of time.”
“And how would you know?” she challenged.
“I used to be idealistic.”
Lyssa lengthened her stride to keep shoulder to shoulder with him. “So what are you now?”
“Pragmatic.” He shifted the knapsack to his other shoulder, and taking her arm at the elbow, helped her jump a deep, water-filled rut in the road. Arushing stream curved close to this section of the way and it must have overfilled its banks during the night. The hem of her dress got wet. She ignored it.
“I can be pragmatic,” she refuted. “But if one can change one’s fate, why not try?”
“Because it is easier to flow with the current and not against.”
With a jolt, she sensed there was a wealth of the unspoken in his words. She studied him from beneath her lashes, attempting to picture a younger and idealistic Ian Campion. The task was impossible.
He must have felt her staring. He turned, meeting her eyes as if daring her to say more.
She accepted the challenge. “Do you speak out of experience or because you lack the imagination to try?”
Her insult forced a reluctant smile from him. “What do you think?”
Considering a moment, she said, “I’ve never imagined you for a dreamer, Mr. Campion.”
“All men are dreamers.”
“Not pragmatic men.”
“Touché,” he said softly—and all she could do was smile back, inordinately pleased with his approval.
They started walking again. In some corner of her mind, she cautioned herself that she was too aware of him for her own good, but that didn’t stop her from asking, “So what do you want?”
“Money,” he replied, shattering her romanticism.
“And nothing else?” She couldn’t keep the disgust from her voice.
“Plain and simple.”
“For your land,” she concluded.
“Exactly.”
“And what exactly will you do with this money?” she wondered, wanting him to have a higher motive.
“Buy a farm.”
Lyssa made an impatient sound. “That’s it? A farm?” Her father owned several. Everyone she knew owned several.
“Yes, a farm,” he said, mimicking her, and then elaborated, “A horse farm, like the one my grandfather owned.”
“What kind of horses did he raise?”
“Race horses. The finest in Ireland.”
“What happened to his farm?”
“It was taken for English taxes.”
Taxes, she understood. Her father complained about taxes. “I see,” she murmured.
“Do you?” he wondered aloud. “Do you really?” He stopped, turning to her, his gaze hard. “I doubt if you have the first inkling of what I’m talking about. You’ve lived a privileged existence, Miss Harrell, a life lived as it should be, with servants to bow and scrape for you. However, for the rest of us, life is damn hard. It’s like climbing a slope covered in ice. Some make it—some don’t. I’m trying to make sure I’m one of the ones who make it.”
“Don’t be so certain I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Campion. My father cut his teeth the same way—and I am my father’s daughter. Why else would I have struck out on my own?”
“Foolishness,” he hazarded and before she could think, Lyssa slapped him across the face.
She didn’t know who was more surprised— herself or him. Her hand stung from the force of her blow, although she doubted if she’d hurt him.
For a second, she struggled with the urge to cry. Instead, her voice shaking slightly, she said, “I can take care of myself. I was there when my parents lived modest lives. I’m not what everyone thinks of me.”
His gaze unreadable, he shrugged. “Perhaps.”
Was there ever a more annoying man? “Perhaps what?” she demanded.
“Perhaps I deserved that.” He opened his arms, holding his palms out as if to show he had no tricks. “Satisfied?”
No, she wasn’t. If anything, she felt a little sick. “I wish you wouldn’t keep talking to me as if I were a child or have had no experience in the world. I’m trying, Mr. Campion. I am trying.”
He lowered his arms. “Well, there is something about the two of us that seems to bring out the worst in each other.”
“Do I make you angry?” she asked, surprised.
“No,” he hedged, then looked as if he was about to say something and changed his mind. He started walking. She fell into step beside him.
“What?” she prodded.
“Leave it.”
For a second, Lyssa couldn’t believe he’d spoken to her that way. Again, she wanted to lash out…and where would that get her?
Instead, she lifted her chin and, swinging her arms, charged forward, determined to leave him behind…and to prove to both him and herself that she could take on the world.
Ian watched her squared shoulders and tight back and knew she was fuming. That was just all right with him. Making her angry was the only way he knew to stave off the growing attraction between them. He didn’t know if he actually liked Miss Harrell, but he was certainly captivated by her. He found himself deliberately annoying her for no other reason than to see sparks spring to life in her green eyes.
Whether she realized it or not, they were on perilous ground. Necessity forced them to be together. However, he would not let himself take advantage of it, especially since, in spite of her age, Miss Harrell wasn’t truly knowledgeable in the ways of men. She thought she was, but she was no practiced flirt.
Still, she was curious. He’d caught a glimpse of the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t watching, and he couldn’t afford a mis-step. More dangerous, he’d always been a easy dupe for idealism. The combination of idealism and red hair could prove fatal.
Fortunately, their class differences kept a wall between them. Her passion and her willingness to live life fully were qualities he admired. She was also the first woman to charge to his rescue. When he recalled the sight of her wielding the ironstone pitcher, he had to chuckle.
She was still a snob and too much her father’s little girl for any man’s comfort. But he had to agree with her on one point—marriage to Viscount Grossett would be deadly dull, especially for someone as vibrant as herself.
The going grew tough. Miss Harrell was forced to slow her pace and he allowed himself to catch up with her. This time, she didn’t bother to initiate conversation, and kept her out-of-joint nose in the air.
The road wound up over a high hill. Beyond the trees, Ian could see the purple tops of mountains in the distance. That was the direction they were heading in and he hoped Amleth Hall was on this side of them.
They’d not met any other travelers. However, as they reached the crest of the hill, they heard a man shouting and the offended, exhausted snorts of horses.
Ian extended his arm in front of Miss Harrell, silently ordering her to stay put while he investigated.
Of course, she didn’t.
Fortunately there was no danger. At the bottom of the hill, a farmer’s wagon, heavily loaded with milled lumber, was mired in deep mud. The back wheels were buried to the axle.
Ian offered assistance. “Can I be of help?”
The farmer, who’d been too busy rebuking his horses to notice their approach, looked up. “These animals are mules. They weren’t watching where they were going and we went off the road. Before I knew it, I was done up…�
��
His voice trailed off as he caught sight of Miss Harrell. He pulled off his low brimmed hat and smiled as if she were Venus personified.
To her credit, Miss Harrell appeared embarrassed by the sudden attention. Ian was merely annoyed.
“I’ve experience with this kind of situation,” he said, drawing the farmer’s attention back to him. “In the army, sometimes the cannon would get stuck. Here, let me push two boards under the wheels and I’ll lift while you push the horses on. It should work.”
“I hope it does,” the farmer said fervently. “I promised my wife I’d be home well before nightfall. My uncle died and they are waking him tonight. It’s going to be a fine ceilidh if ever there was one, because there wasn’t a person in the village that could stand him. And I don’t want to miss it.”
At the mention of the word “wife,” Ian didn’t know whether to be relieved or alarmed. The farmer was a handsome man with sandy blond hair, a short nose, and strong shoulders and his gaze kept straying to Miss Harrell.
However, she didn’t seem to hear what he wanted her to hear. Instead, she looked to Ian. “Ceilidh?”
“Dance,” he translated.
“For a wake?” she asked, surprised.
“Aye, and it will be a bonnie good time, too,” the farmer added, giving Miss Harrell a wink.
Ian stepped in his line of sight. “Are you ready to move the wagon?”
The farmer grinned, unrepentant. He knew Ian considered him a threat. “Aye.”
Following Ian’s instructions, they had the wheels out of the mud in a thrice. The farmer held out his hand. “I’m Angus Anderson. I thank you for your help. Are you traveling this road for long?”
He had a melodic brogue, the sort that could probably set Miss Harrell’s romantic fantasies of Highlanders afire.
Ian wanted to get her away from him as soon as possible.
He was about to grunt a response, but Miss Harrell chirped happily, “We are on the way to Appin. My clan lives there.”
“Ah, so you are Scottish,” Anderson said with interest.
“My family is—” Miss Harrell answered and would have continued on, but Ian stepped in her way.
“We’ll be seeing you,” he said firmly.
Adventures of a Scottish Heiress Page 10