She pointed at the Turkish rug in front of the fire, then arched a brow when he hesitated. “Too good for the floor these days, are ye?”
Arabel blew out an impatient breath. “Auntie, please—”
“The floor will do just fine,” he assured them.
Wanting to keep the peace and quiet—literally—Garrick snatched up two large pillows and a tartan throw from the settee, then gently took Arabel by the elbow to lead her toward the fireplace. When she tried to pull her arm away, he held tight.
“Won’t this be nice?” he commented meaningfully to her as he dropped the pillows onto the rug. “All of us sitting here in front of the fire, chatting quietly, while Lady Rowland grows sleepy.”
Her eyes narrowed on him, and she shook her head. “We’re not dressed,” she bit out, daring to dart her gaze from his bare chest down to his bare feet.
He quirked a grin, then gave her the same head-to-toe look she’d given him . . . except much more deliberate and blatantly lascivious. He drawled in a masculine purr, “We are certainly not.”
Her hands clenched into tiny fists, even as her arms still clasped over her chest. Regrettably.
“Here.” He slipped the throw over her shoulders to placate her.
“Thank you,” she grudgingly replied, then wrapped it tightly around herself.
“You’re welcome,” he returned, helping her unroll it around her neck. Although, if truth be told, it vexed him to cover her up, when what he wanted to do was peel the night rail from her body and stare at her in the firelight.
But if he’d have suggested that, she would have most likely slapped him.
Again.
“Arabel, sit.” Matilda gestured at the rug and then waved her hand toward the fireplace. “Townsend, stoke the fire.”
He leaned in close to Arabel’s ear as he helped her to the floor. “Your aunt does know that I’m an earl, correct?”
“An English earl,” she returned as she tucked her legs beneath the throw. She flashed a saccharine smile and waved her hand toward the fire with the same imperial gesture as her aunt. “Go on—stoke, stoke!”
He slid a narrowed glance at her, then took up the poker and lowered onto his heels to stir up the coals.
“Isn’t this nice?” With a thin smile, Matilda rested her capped head against the chair back. “Just like old times.”
Garrick tossed in two chunks of coal from the hearthside bucket, then glanced at the old woman over his shoulder. “Old times? When did I make up a fire for you in the past?” He added in a mutter, low enough that she wouldn’t hear, “Shirtless.”
Arabel bit her lip to keep from laughing.
“Och! Not the fire, lad.” Matilda looked at him if he’d gone mad. His lips twitched at the irony of it. “All of us together.”
He stole a questioning glance at Arabel, who held his gaze for a beat before looking away. He jabbed the poker at the coals as he asked casually, feigning disinterest, “When was that?”
“That summer before you left the highlands.”
“That was a long time ago.” He returned the poker to the rack and dusted off his hands on his trousers. He sat back, resting his forearm across his bent knee, and avoided glancing at Arabel, not wanting to see the regret that surely played across her features. “I’m surprised you haven’t forgotten all about it.”
Matilda shook a bony finger at him. “And you, lad? Have ye forgotten all about yer life here in the highlands ’fore ye turned English?”
He grimaced at that not-so-subtle chastisement. “No, my lady. I haven’t forgotten.”
“Seems to me ye have, so long ye’ve been gone.”
“I didn’t leave the highlands,” he corrected, daring to glance at Arabel, but he couldn’t read the emotions on her face. “The highlands left me.”
Matilda cackled. “The highlands never leave a man’s soul! Dinna ye learn that growing up here? They stay with a man no matter where he goes, who he becomes.” She shook her head. “The boys in Kincardine are born with tartan in their blood.”
“With thistles pricking their toes,” Arabel put in, the soft jab more teasing than biting.
“And heather in their hearts,” he answered in a low drawl.
He heard her soft intake of air and knew she understood his double-meaning. Good. She needed to realize the effect she once had on his life. The effect she still had.
“Aye,” Matilda continued. “Your roots are here, lad.”
“On barren rocky soil?” he taunted, softening his blunt words with a faint smile. “You know how hard life is here, even for the best families. You would fault a man for seeking his fortune elsewhere?”
“You’re a highlander.” She leaned forward in her chair, her old eyes blazing. “Make yer fortune elsewhere, if’n you must, but don’t spurn the wealth God gave ye.”
The old woman was mad as a March hare. God had given him nothing here. “I have not, my lady.”
She let out a humph and turned to Arabel. “And you, lass? Do ye believe him?”
“I don’t know what to believe about Lord Townsend,” Arabel offered with a bit of dissembling.
Garrick was certain she knew her own opinions in everything. Including him.
“You used to know a great deal ’bout him, that summer ’fore he left.”
Arabel stiffened, so slightly as to be unperceivable, but he felt her sudden tension, so aware was he of her. “Lord Townsend worked in the stables that summer when I stayed at Highburn. Of course, we often came into contact.”
“’Came into contact?’” Matilda shook with laughter. “Is that what the young ones these days call the way ye two were so infatuated with each other?”
Arabel turned scarlet in the firelight’s shadows. Garrick couldn’t help the grin that twisted his lips when she scolded, “Auntie, please! You are mistaken.”
She scoffed. “I’m old, lass, not senile!”
Garrick wasn’t so certain as he reclined against the pillow. Whatever Lady Rowland’s intentions for this conversation, the three of them were not going to bed anytime soon. And he didn’t trust her not to scale the curio cabinet to retrieve the pipes.
“I saw the way you looked at each other, speakin’ in whispers and smilin’ like a couple o’ cats who got into the cream. Do you think I dinna know when secrets were bein’ kept in my own household?” She shook a finger at both at them. “Young love’s too young to know it’s not being hid!”
“And old love’s too stubborn not to interfere,” he interjected pointedly.
“Somebody’s got to! Fine mess you’ve made of yer lives so far.”
He arched a brow. “I’m an earl. Some would say that’s quite a fine life.”
“Bah! An English earl.”
Beside him, Arabel choked back a laugh.
He muttered, “Better than a blacksmith’s son.”
The laughter died on Arabel’s lips.
“No, lad,” Lady Rowland assured, suddenly sympathetic. “Not better, just different. Isn’t that so, Arabel?”
“Yes,” she agreed quietly.
“Don’t tell me you believe that.” He pinned her with a disbelieving look. “Not with your family pedigree.”
Instead of raising her chin proudly, as he expected, she tucked it into the folds of the throw and lowered her gaze to the fire. “I’ve learned that the true measure of a man isn’t his name but his deeds.”
He didn’t know what to make of that answer.
“Aye,” Lady Rowland seconded. “An’ what good deeds have ye done, lad, since ye left the highlands?” She snorted. “If any.”
That pricked his masculine pride, and he bit out, “Far more than you realize, my lady.”
Her gray brow lifted silently in challenge to prove himself.
He obliged. “When I left Kincardine, I had no money, no prospects, no one to vouch for my character.” In other words . . . nothing. “But I survived.”
With Lady Rowland pretending to listen attentively—and Ara
bel listening attentively but pretending she wasn’t—he related the events of the last ten years, sparing few details. Lady Rowland wouldn’t want to be spared the more gruesome parts of that life, and Arabel didn’t deserve to be. He told them how he’d arrived in England and lived on the streets, stealing to survive and nearly starving before he stumbled across a proper job, then how he’d scrimped and saved to purchase an officer’s commission of the lowest rank.
Lady Rowland listened with her eyes closed, opening them only to take an occasional glance at Arabel, who listened raptly as he told how he’d volunteered for battle on the continent so he could put behind him all the memories of the highlands, purging by fire what time and distance hadn’t been able to. She didn’t shrink away from descriptions of the fighting and the horrors he’d witnessed.
When he finished, silence fell over them, interrupted only by the crackling of the flames and the soft howl of the wind through the eaves.
“You left out part of yer story, lad,” Lady Rowland admonished softly. “The part at the very beginning.”
Garrick tensed. How did the old woman know about that? Had MacTavish bragged about the way he’d sent him to England?
He darted a glance at Arabel. A soft expression of confusion pulled at her beautiful brow.
A cold realization sank over him, leaving a wash of pain and guilt in its wake. All these years, he’d blamed her for not loving him enough to choose him over her family, raged against her for setting them against him—
She had no idea what MacTavish had done to him that night, on her family’s orders.
His gut clenched with sharp remorse. No wonder she thought he was waging war against her, right along with the rest of the Rowlands. But if he revealed what happened, would she believe him? Or would she assume that he was once more attempting to come between her and her family?
He shook his head, dismissing the old woman’s comment along with the past. “Not important.”
Matilda’s eyes shined, seeing right through him. Thankfully, though, she let the comment drop. “Now yer back in the highlands,” she said instead. “Where ye belong.”
“My estate tenants might think differently, my lady,” he corrected with a bit of cheek. “Along with parliament.”
She cackled a raspy laugh. “That remains to be seen!”
He smiled grimly. “And the end of my good deeds.”
“So does that,” Arabel whispered, so softly that Lady Rowland didn’t hear.
But Garrick did, and the unbidden tingle stirred by her voice twined down his spine. She’d sounded as if she were proud of the man he’d become. He didn’t know what to make of her subtle compliment, but he’d gladly take it.
“Back to the village where ye were born an’ raised, back to Highburn where yer heart lives,” her aunt mused. Then she sang in a gravelly voice, “Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North . . . Wherever I wander, wherever I rove . . .” Her aunt stared boldly at him as she sang the last line, ”My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.”
Garrick said nothing, unprepared for the aching hollow in his chest. His mother used to sing that song when he was boy. But that was so long ago now that the memory felt as if it belonged to someone else.
“That’s beautiful, Auntie,” Arabel whispered, breaking the awkward stillness that had fallen over them.
Not moving her eyes away from Garrick, Lady Rowland leaned forward, her gnarled hands firmly clasping the chair arms. “But yer plannin’ to scurry south as soon as ye can, ain’t ye, Townsend?”
He clenched his jaw. Certainly, he’d had no intention of remaining in the highlands longer than necessary to secure the property, then put it up for sale . . . and to convince himself that his home was no longer here. To prove that his heart had healed enough that he was no longer affected by the sight of mountain crags and glens, that he no longer felt his belly tighten at the scent of heather.
He should have been immune by now. He was more Englishman than Scot, Lady Rowland was right about that. He’d even lost most of his brogue. Only from being back here did it creep into his voice. When it did, he’d expected to sound like a stranger, even to his own ears. But he didn’t. He sounded . . . familiar. Just as being back in Kincardine felt more like home than he wanted to admit. Cutting that connection to his youth had been more difficult than he’d ever imagined.
All because of Arabel.
“He’s back for revenge, actually,” Arabel put in, a world of hurt and anger in her soft voice. “Against the Rowlands.” She paused. “And me.”
“Not against you,” he corrected quietly.
“Then against my family.” She gave a dismissive sniff as she turned away to stare into the fire. “No difference.”
A world of difference. But how did he explain that to her? The Rowlands had exiled him from the highlands, while Arabel had stolen his heart. After ten years, he’d managed to claw his way back here, to finally hold the family accountable for what they’d done and to exact as much retribution as possible.
But would he ever retrieve his heart?
“Is that so?” Matilda asked.
Garrick tore his gaze from Arabel, then forced a grin for her aunt. “Surely you recognize me for the English devil I am, come to rain hellfire and destruction across the highlands.”
“Well, ye certainly have good cause,” Matilda mumbled with a small nod.
His heart stuttered. Good God. How much did the woman know about what happened that night when he was forced away from Highburn? How much did she know about him and Arabel?
Lady Rowland rose from her chair with a yawn. One just as fake as her bagpipe practice. “Good luck to ye then, lad.” She cackled with laughter as she left the room. “You’ll need it!”
When she disappeared into the hall, Garrick muttered, “Mad as a hatter.”
“I know,” Arabel answered with a deep sigh, her love for her aunt evident in her voice. “But she’s my mad hatter.”
He couldn’t help a chuckle at that. Propping himself up on his elbow, he stretched out on the floor in front of the fire and turned onto his side to watch the flames. Surprisingly, he wasn’t eager to return to his room.
Neither, apparently, was Arabel.
She remained on the floor next to him, the tartan throw wrapped securely around her and her hair falling loose down her back. Warm, soft, and comfortable, she looked as if she belonged nowhere else in the world but sitting with him in front of the fire. Surrounded by the dark shadows just beyond the firelight’s reach, Garrick could easily imagine spending every night with her. Just like this.
“What did she mean,” Arabel ventured quietly, “that you have good cause to seek revenge against my family?”
“I assume she meant you,” he dodged quietly. There was no need to bring the truth down upon their heads, not when they’d found the first quiet moment together since he walked into the solicitor’s office and saw her, like a figure from a dream. He paused, then steered the conversation to what was nagging him most tonight. “Your family wanted you to marry the duke’s son. Why didn’t you?”
She tensed, and he felt the change in her the way old sailors felt oncoming storms in their bones. For a moment, she said nothing, and he expected her to keep the story to herself. After all, tonight was the first time they’d spoken about anything of worth since the afternoon at the cottage. They’d gone out of their way to avoid each other since then, with Arabel busying herself with her wedding plans and Garrick throwing himself into repairs to the house. Except for when they’d been forced into polite dinner conversations, they’d not spoken a word to each other.
And most likely they would have continued exactly like that if not for Lady Rowland’s bagpipe recital.
But now, he was given the first chance he’d had to learn more about her life since they parted. Truly, it was only fair, given how he’d laid bare everything about his life to the two women tonight.
Almost. He wasn’t certain now that she ever needed to know
about what else happened that night ten years ago. Nor should he care, as long as he received reparations for it.
Then her slender shoulders sagged, and she surprised him by admitting, “The Campbells refused.”
“Why?” he pressed gently.
“What else is a duke to do,” she answered with a small shrug of one shoulder, “when the family of his son’s fiancée is embroiled in scandal and ruin so horrific that it . . .” Her voice drifted away, but her lips remained parted, her gaze fixed on the fire.
“That it . . . what, Arabel?” he prompted, sitting up to bring himself closer to her.
“That is destroys lives,” she breathed out, barely a sound at all. “That it strips a family of its fortune, steals its legacy and pride . . . leaving nothing but ashes.”
A tear fell down her cheek, and his heart tore for her. Did she even realize that she was crying?
Cold dread swelled inside him, and he fought back the urge to reach for her, to pull her into his arms and comfort her. Good God . . . he’d never seen her look so forlorn before, never so vulnerable. So defeated.
“Arabel,” he whispered.
With a small shudder, she tore her gaze away from the fire and sent him a faint smile which looked all the more weak for her attempt at bravery. “Surely you’ve heard by now. If not in England, then from Mr. Davidson or one of the villagers . . .” She swiped a hand at her eyes. “I’m certain there are many people in Kincardine who thought the Rowlands got exactly what we deserved. Who wanted nothing more than to see us fall. Including you, Garrick.” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “Ironically, in the end it was love that did us in.”
He hadn’t heard a word about it. Whether the village gossips had held their tongues because they knew of his connection to the Rowlands or because they no longer considered him part of their highland world, no one had shared this with him. And he was glad of that, because he wanted to hear it from Arabel.
She hesitated, then said softly, “That night, when we were supposed to elope, I told you only part of the truth about why I couldn’t go with you.”
He frowned. “You said Samuel had gambled himself into debt.”
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