“Anyway,” he continued, “one night one of my friends was beaten by English troops on his way to a meeting. I wasn’t there that night. My father had heard about my goings-on and had come to Dublin to see me. He lectured me for hours, but it was already too late. The others had one too many ales and decided to retaliate by beating an English guard. The next morning, my name was included with theirs as one of the culprits, and the hunt began.”
“They actually hunted for you? Couldn’t your father tell them you were not involved?”
“I suppose in an honest government.” He didn’t hide the bitterness from his voice. “There is no open voice in Ireland. All troublemakers are either hanged or transported, which is what happened to many of my friends. I wasn’t at my rooms when the English came for me, so a price was put on my head.”
A soft, distressed sound escaped her but she did not flinch. Instead, she asked, “What happened next?” as if dreading the answer.
“I would not turn myself in. I’m the only son and I felt my parents needed me. When one of my friends was found hanged in his prison cell, my father agreed.”
“He hanged himself?”
“Not Dónall. Someone had to have helped him.”
“I don’t see why you had to run from any of it,” she argued, her own strong sense of justice rising.
“You had nothing to do with the beating of the guard.”
“Oh, but I would have, Lyssa, if I’d been there. I was young, rash, and arrogant. I was as angry as the others. But my father knew better. He was a wise old bird who’d spent most of his life out-thinking the government. My future as a lawyer was gone. Even the Catholic lawyers in Ireland wouldn’t have been able to help me. And I knew if I was transported, I’d never see my family again.”
“So what did you do?”
“I join the British army. Father said the English would never find me there and he was right. Six years I served and the irony is I had a talent for it. I knew how to get things done and I know how to fight.”
For a moment he sat silent, remembering. “They took the land away from my parents as a way of punishing them for my sins. They claimed it was for taxes, but in truth we had Protestant neighbors with government friends who had coveted our pastures.”
“What became of your parents?”
“They moved to Dublin where my uncle lived. About two years later, they both came down with the pox and died within weeks of each other. Father always said he wasn’t meant to live in a city.”
“And all of this touched the lives of your sisters and their husbands, too, didn’t it? What of them?”
Ian nodded. “They had all lived off my family’s land, but it was no longer there. Cedric, Fiona’s husband, was always a daredevil, and he didn’t like to work. He thought the life of a soldier would be more interesting, and I was selfish enough to not want to go alone. Janet’s husband, Jamie, had no choice. He got caught lying to protect my whereabouts and my father’s solution was to ship him off to the army, too.”
“It’s not your fault they died,” she said softly.
“Yes, it is. I volunteered to be in the first attack at Talvera. There was a bounty paid to those who went in first and survived. I really didn’t care what happened to me back then. I told both of them to stay behind and we’d split the money. They didn’t listen. Each took a bullet.”
“And your view of life changed.”
He smiled at her. Wise Lyssa. “Yes, I suddenly had responsibilities beyond my imagination. But I survived.”
She tilted her head and asked, “Did you earn the extra money you risked your life for?”
“Umm-hmm,” he said. “I sent it to Janet. She used it to move herself and Fiona to London to wait for me. There was nothing for them in Ireland. Once we lost our parents, we lost everything, and the children were starving in Dublin. We thought there would be a better chance in London, or at least until I returned.”
“Has there been?”
“No.” Ian hated to admit it. “All we did was separate ourselves even more from our birthright. The children don’t even know their heritage.” He leaned forward. “That’s why someday, I’m going to re-create what I’ve lost and I don’t care where, provided we are free to speak out minds and never have to live in fear again.”
Lyssa shifted her weight, crossing her arms as if she were cold.
Something was wrong. He had told her the brutal truth to put her off him. Still…
“What is it?” he asked.
She gave him a little smile. “My father is paying you well to bring me home.”
“Very well.”
Her gaze dropped to her lap and he would have given his soul to know what she was thinking. He’d wager it wasn’t good. Lyssa Harrell was far too direct and honest to not feel guilt.
For one wild moment, he toyed with the idea of asking her to go with him.
He didn’t—because he had nothing to offer her…and because now that his story was done, she’d not said anything.
Ian had too much pride to be refused. It had been the risk he’d run by telling her all.
“Well, good night,” he said, surprised at how empty he felt inside. He’d given her all he had. Tomorrow he’d sort everything out.
Tonight, well, tonight was lost.
Lyssa murmured a “good night,” immediately sensing his withdrawal and not knowing how to react. She pretended to lie down and go to sleep; she was too troubled, however, to relax.
She knew why Ian had told her his story. He wasn’t just sharing his secrets. He was offering, in his own tight-lipped, cautious way, the possibility of something more between them.
More. The word haunted her.
And she was uncertain. Especially now. Because the truth be known—she was a coward.
It wasn’t just that he was completely unsuitable—without a doubt, her father would disown her—but because she didn’t know if she had the courage to love an Irishman, let alone a Catholic traitor.
Did she have the strength to go against all she’d known? To be an outcast?
And she did love her father.
Staring into the dying embers of the campfire, she knew she’d not intended to be gone from him forever. With newfound maturity she realized that, in the back of her mind, she’d chosen a course that would not set him off from her forever. He would understand her wanting to return to her mother’s home. He would think her foolish, but he would forgive her.
She could also admit now that her secret desire to have him realize how important she was to him—even more important than his duchess—was not going to happen.
He had a new family now. As Ian had said, there were many kinds of love. She had one form, her stepmother another.
Her father could not choose her over his second wife and soon-to-be-born child. Such an act would not be honorable, and she was embarrassed that she’d harbored such a hope in the back of her mind.
Funny, how at three and twenty a woman could still grow up.
She did not know what would happen when she finally had to tell her father of her stepmother’s attempt to murder her. To lose two women he loved…?
But then, she was discovering love was about loss, too.
Lyssa raised her head and looked over to where Ian slept. He faced the fire, the shadowy light highlighting the strong, masculine lines of his face. If she stretched out her hand, she could have touched the top of his head and stroked his hair to see if it really was as silky to the touch as it appeared.
“You need a haircut,” she whispered.
He slept on, his conscience free of burden, dreaming of a place for his family where they were free to be who they were. She didn’t know if she was strong enough to be a part of that dream—and Ian had known it.
Now she understood why he’d refused to kiss her, why he’d not taken advantage of her…and she grew all the sadder.
It was a long time before she fell asleep.
Ian lifted his head and studied the woman close to
him who had finally fallen asleep. Something was bothering her. He’d been aware of the tension…and he would have given his right arm to know the cause.
Lyssa was headstrong and her silence was not a common occurrence.
Tonight, he’d opened his soul and she’d not said a word. No, instead, her redheaded brain had been busy working and he sensed it did not bode well for him.
He was glad he’d not been stupid enough to make some sort of romantic declaration.
Or to have kissed her.
Ian rose, uncertainties making him unable to sleep. Perhaps in a different place and a different time, he could have declared himself to Lyssa. But in this place and time, he had nothing to offer.
The fact did not set well. Not well at all.
Lyssa woke the next morning to the smell of cooking meat. Ian had poached a rabbit and was roasting it on a spit for their breakfast.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he said jovially, an emotion that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
He was so handsome, she couldn’t help but smile—until she remembered the decision she’d made the night before. It took all her courage to keep her smile pasted on her face.
And Ian seemed to react to her inner thoughts as if he knew she was forcing herself.
“We reach Amleth Hall today,” he reminded her.
Lyssa nodded dumbly.
“Is something the matter? I thought you would be happier.”
“I’m still not awake,” she murmured, and excused herself for a few moments alone. When she returned to their small camp, she had herself firmly in hand.
Watching him put out the fire and scatter the ashes, she told herself it was for the best. They were from different worlds. Her father would agree.
She recalled the start she’d had at finding the crucifix amongst his things, and it helped give her distance.
Not that Ian’s demeanor to her was overly friendly. There was a detached air about him, a distance bordering on coldness. She was happy when they started traveling.
They hadn’t walked far when their path crossed that of a Vicar George, from Appin. He was a pleasant companion and relieved some of the tension between her and Ian. Although the vicar did not know the Davidsons nor had he visited Amleth Hall, he knew something of its whereabouts.
“On the coast,” he said. “The north shore about a mile from Port Appin. I’ve seen it by boat. It has a westerly aspect with a magnificent view over Loch Linnhe. I imagine you can see Lismore and Moren, too.”
“Do the Davidsons so rarely come to town?” Lyssa wondered.
“I never see them,” was the reply. Then, as if feeling sorry for her, the vicar added, “I have laid eyes on the Davidson Stallion. He’s a beauty and he bears out his breeding. He’s going to be a fast one.”
Ian spoke up. “The Davidson Stallion?”
“Aye, he’s just turned three. They say Ramsey Davidson, the young laird, refused to let him run as a two-year-old. Knows his horses, he does. He doesn’t like to push them, and I agree.” The vicar nodded before adding, “When I saw him, he was the most docile I’ve ever seen. A temperament only a king could afford—and perhaps that is what Davidson has in mind. They boast he’s the finest in Scotland. Mayhap in England or anywhere else.”
“I didn’t know the Davidsons bred horses,” Ian said.
“For generations,” Vicar George assured him. “This stallion is out of—”
“Gealach.” The word had sprung into Lyssa’s mind unbidden and in her mother’s voice. She stopped, savoring the small memory.
“Yes, Gaelach, ‘the Moon,’ ” the vicar said approvingly. “They say she was silver white and could run as if kelpies were chasing her.” He laughed at his own description. “I heard that from John Islay, a local farmer who drinks more than he farms. I always fancied the image of kelpies chasing a horse.” Again, he had a chuckle.
“And is the stallion also white?”
“More a gray with black legs. Good-looking, solid racer,” the vicar answered.
Lyssa was elated. She leaned close to Ian, completely forgetting their earlier reserve. “My mother used to brag about Gaelach. She claimed the mare was the beginning of a dynasty—and now to learn she is.”
“Your mother?” the vicar prompted.
“She was Isobel Davidson, the old laird’s daughter.”
The clergyman frowned. “I’d not heard of her.”
“She left long ago, before I was born.”
“Still, you would think her name would have been mentioned.” The vicar shrugged. “Ah, well, the Davidsons are an odd lot. Ramsey Davidson doesn’t mix much with the locals. No offense, please.”
“None taken,” Lyssa answered and then she changed the subject to ask about the vicar’s wife and children. But she did not forget his verdict, especially when she and Ian finally reached the drive to Amleth Hall.
The drive was almost completely overgrown by hawthorn bushes, of all things. The woods were dense here when compared to the rest of the landscape. If they hadn’t been carefully looking for the drive, they would have passed right by it.
Ian glanced at her. “Are you ready?”
She nodded. “I believe so.”
He took her arm. The drive was really no more than wagon ruts with stone paving here and there. Lyssa grew uncertain. Something was in the air here, something she hadn’t anticipated. It was like a humming in her ears. And was it her imagination or did the air smell different?
She realized it must be the mist coming in off Loch Linnhe. Or was it?
Even the colors of the plants and trees seemed darker and more foreboding.
“Are you feeling well?” Ian’s voice startled her and she realized she was giving into some outlandish fancies.
“I’m fine. Just excited. I have waited a long time to meet these people.”
“Well, let us hope they make us welcome,” he said.
The drive was a good mile long. Just as she started to wonder if the house even existed, they came around a bend and there it was, Amleth Hall, its stone walls blackened with age.
Lyssa halted, stunned to be here at last. As if in blessing, the sun came out from behind a cloud and reflected off the glass window panes, giving the house an unworldly glow. The chimneys, almost too numerous to count, were of all shapes and size. Beyond the house stretched Loch Linnhe, the water so deep and cold it shimmered in the light.
Lyssa took in every nuance of this moment.
“Is it how you imagined it?” Ian asked.
“It’s better,” she whispered. “The house is exactly as my mother described it. Do you see the first-floor window on the far right?”
He nodded.
“That was her room. When she told her father she wanted to marry my father, she was confined to her room with a guard placed at the door. My father scaled those walls to reach her and then the two of them climbed the same way down to run away.”
“He climbed the wall for her?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not overly fond of heights, or crashing down to the ground.”
“She always said she was never more frightened in her life than she was that night climbing down the dark walls of Amleth Hall, but she loved my father and refused to live without him. They both made it down safely and escaped in a boat smaller than a dinghy my father had hidden by the loch.”
“And did they sail all the way to London?”
“Yes,” she told him proudly.
“Well, I hope we make good time, too,” he answered. “I have little more than a week to see you home safe. A boat may be quickest.”
Lyssa kept her own counsel, the romance of the moment destroyed, and she saw the house as it really was. The grounds were completely overgrown and scraggly. The windows were filthy and there was an unkempt air about the place, almost a sense of desertion.
Lyssa took a step forward, anxious. She could not have come all this way only to find no one here. For a horrible moment, she feared she would swoon. To have
traveled this distance, to have defied her father and to have held fast to a belief in a place that might not exist—
Ian took her arm by the elbow. “Steady,” he said. “Don’t give up.”
At that moment, the narrow, paneled front door opened.
Chapter Thirteen
A young girl of perhaps sixteen came out the door. She did not wear a bonnet and her hair was unbound down around her shoulders in the Scottish way. The girl’s hair was straight instead of curly and blonde rather than red, but she and Lyssa could otherwise have passed for sisters.
Here was family, the fragile connection Lyssa had longed for since her mother’s death.
Her feet moved of their own will. In two steps, she wasn’t walking but running. Behind her, Ian followed at his own pace.
The girl noticed them and hesitated, watching them approach.
Lyssa was suddenly aware of her appearance and forced herself to slow down. Her clothes were certainly the worse for wear, her curls were absolutely unruly from going for days without a brush to tame them, and she knew her complexion must be a sight from being out in the sun without a bonnet.
She stopped, embarrassed. This was not the way she had pictured meeting her Davidson relatives for the first time.
Ian came up beside her. Sensing her reticence, he took the lead, approaching the young woman.
“I’m Ian Campion and we’re here to pay our respects to Laird Davidson.”
The girl’s gaze honed in on Ian with feminine appraisal, and she liked what she saw. Lyssa realized the girl was actually older than she’d first thought. Indeed she was a woman, and several years older than Lyssa herself.
“The Laird is my cousin,” she said in a voice made all the more musical by its soft lilt.
“Will you tell him Miss Lyssa Harrell of London, a relative of his, wishes to pay her respects?”
“I didn’t know we were expecting company,” the woman countered.
“We were unable to announce our travel plans,” Ian answered.
The woman’s gaze swung back to Lyssa. The color of their eyes were different. Lyssa’s were green like her father’s. Her cousin’s were a guileless blue, and yet, Lyssa felt a hint of uneasiness. She wondered if Ian experienced the same.
Adventures of a Scottish Heiress Page 16