“It be the cat,” the hawker excused herself, the old woman’s voice oddly familiar.
Undeniably Scottish.
Melissa knew her, too, for the black-garbed crone was forever emblazoned across her memory.
“You! Wait…” She reached for the crone’s arm as she shuffled by, pushing her fish cart.
Melissa’s hand closed on thin air.
“No, come back!” she cried, shock raising gooseflesh over her skin. “Please…”
“Eh?” The old woman was suddenly there again, right before her. “Are you wanting some herring?”
Peering at Melissa, the gray-haired hawker looked nothing like the crone she’d seen at the Merrivales’ townhouse.
This old woman was taller and gaunt, her clothes not black, but a serviceable brown with a hodge-podge of colorful patches that seemingly held her garments together. Her shawl, once cream-colored, was now yellowed.
She wheeled her cart closer, her smile revealing a missing front tooth. “You’ll not find tastier herring in all London-town,” she said, her accent not at all Scottish. But her blue eyes twinkled, reminiscent of the crone.
Melissa frowned, shivering anew.
“The best, I tell you,” the old woman boasted.
Plucking a smoked herring from the cart, she waved it beneath Melissa’s nose. Golden-brown and dried to perfection, the herring did smell delicious.
“Caught in the north, my herring is,” she said, leaning toward Melissa. “Off the coast of Highland Scotland, there where he comes from,” she added, chuckling.
No, she cackled.
Melissa froze, her heart racing.
“Who are you?” She stared at her. “Why are you following me?”
“Ask him about the cat,” the old woman said, ignoring her questions as she dropped the herring onto the pile of them on her cart. “He’ll be along shortly.”
Then she was gone.
Or so Melissa thought until she spotted the tall, colorfully-clad hawker near a parked carriage a bit ahead of her. And as the woman pushed her cart around the vehicle’s horses, she hitched her skirts to avoid a pile of ‘horse apples’ on the cobbles. Morning sun glinted off her black boots, the bright light also shining on a twin set of red plaid laces.
Melissa blinked, her jaw slipping even more when the hawker emerged on the other side of the horses – and this time she appeared smaller and garbed in black, her cackle carrying on the wind as she disappeared into the crowd.
~*~
Melissa clapped a hand to her breast. “Oh, my stars…”
“Nae, lass, that is you.”
“Oh!” Her heart soared, the crone forgotten. “You did come.”
Spinning about, excitement swept her to see the Black Lyon so near, and smiling at her. Still mounted, he was only a few feet away, but now he swung down from a gorgeous bay gelding, the reins of a second horse in his hands.
“I keep my word.” He did look glad to see her. “And I say what I mean. You are the brightest light in this dreary city.”
“And you are a rogue.”
“Nae, a Scot, though some might say we’re all rogues.”
“Men apart, my mother insisted.”
His smile deepened. “And she was right.”
Melissa wasn’t about to argue.
How could she, anyway?
Not kilted, he was impeccably dressed in the style of a wealthy, well-bred London gentleman. Melissa flicked her gaze over him, noting everything from the expert tailoring of his black coat to the exquisiteness of his soft gray waistcoat, the snowiness of his shirt, and the sheen of his tall, polished boots. She didn’t linger too long in her perusal of his well-fitting dove-gray breeches.
Danger lurked there, so she quickly returned her attention to his face.
But that, too, was perilous. He was almost too dashing, his smile – and what it did to his eyes, to her – could lead to trouble.
Not that she was complaining.
Far from it, she felt a weakening in her knees. Indeed, he fired the most heated, wildest corners of her soul.
Had a man ever been more appealing?
She didn’t think so.
Only his dark hair was ‘mussed’ as the wind was picking up, but that slightly unruly touch added to his charm.
“Seeing you, sir, it is clear I am not the star here,” she heard herself saying. “Every woman near us is swooning. You may have ruined them for life.”
“And you have damaged me.” He reached out and touched her hair. “No ‘may’ about it.”
“Change the subject all you will, the fact remains you are causing a sensation.”
It was true.
Women were staring at him, some provocatively, their profession easy to guess by their scandalous apparel. Others whispered behind their hands, blushing. She even spotted one who produced a fan to chase the high color from her face.
The Scot looked at none of them, only her.
“My apologies for my tardiness,” he said, making her a slight bow. “One of the maids said she saw our Lyongate cat and was so beside herself, I was delayed in leaving.”
“A cat?” Melissa stared at him, his admirers forgotten. “A strange old woman, a herring hawker, just bumped me with her cart. She told me to ask you about a cat,” she said. She glanced round, then lowered her voice. “It was her, the Scottish crone.”
“Say you?” He lifted a brow.
She nodded. “I am sure, yes. At least, I think so. Then again-”
She broke off when a small cluster of the demimonde beauties began strolling toward them.
Seeing them as well, the Scot stepped closer and, before she could blink, he seized her by the waist and lifted her up onto the saddle of his second bay.
“We’ll speak of this shortly.” He made sure she was settled, and then swung up onto his own horse’s back. “After we’re deeper into the park, away from this crowd.”
Before she could agree – which she was about to do – he urged his horse forward, leaving her to follow him.
She did so gladly and they rode along the park’s famed equestrian path, Rotten Row. Within moments, it seemed, they were surrounded by silence. The chaotic bustle of Hyde Park Corner could have been on the far side of the world, as nothing reached their ears but the clopping of their horses’ hooves and the ever-thickening stillness.
And despite the eeriness of the deserted path, she felt safer in Lucian MacRae’s company than she had in some time.
Chapter Six
Half surprised she’d accompanied him this far, yet feeling equally so at ease with her that he hoped she felt the same about him, Lucian turned off Rotten Row and led them deeper into a lesser-frequented area of Hyde Park. A secluded and thickly wooded corner where, at this early hour, they’d be guaranteed peace and solitude.
He stopped in a clearing shielded by ancient oaks and maples, their leaves deeply red and gold, a scattering of them strewn across the grass. After dismounting, he helped Lady Melissa down from her own horse, then took a plaid from the back of his saddle. He also retrieved a small leather pouch, which he placed on the plaid after spreading it on the cold, autumn ground.
“I wouldn’t sit,” he said, straightening. “The grass is still is damp with dew. But” – he gestured to the pouch – “I wasn’t sure if you’d have breakfast, so I brought along some cold meat and cheese, a loaf of fresh-baked bread, and tea.”
She glanced at the plaid, then back to him, her smile going straight to his heart.
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Because I told you I mean to keep you safe?” He couldn’t stop his own smile. “That includes making sure you dinnae go hungry.”
“Thank you.” She bent to open the pouch, began lifting out the food and arranging it for them. “You are right. I did not eat, but now I am famished.”
“Then please enjoy.” He gestured to the offerings. “Perhaps as we eat, you can tell me about the crone.”
And she did, her account
striking him in the same way as her willingness to meet him alone, even accompany him into the loneliest wilds of Hyde Park.
She trusted him.
And though her story was fantastical, he believed every word.
How could he not? He’d been born into a family that lived with their own legends and a curse, accepting suchlike as much a part of their inheritance as Lyongate Hall and the family’s sometimes great, other times dwindling fortune?
He knew strange things existed, occurrences that couldn’t be explained.
For sure, in the Highlands. And perhaps, as well, in London.
Some things simply were.
So after helping himself to a good-sized chunk of bread and a generous serving of cold, sliced beef and cheese, he took a gulp of tea, and prepared to tell her a tale of his own…
“I have no idea who the old woman is, lass,” he said, pacing before the plaid. “But my gut tells me she hails from a time and place more distant than-”
“A time?”
He nodded. “Aye, just that.”
“What do you mean?” She looked at him, her eyes wide. “Are you saying she’s a ghost?”
“No’ at all. But she is something.”
“Something?” she echoed again.
“Sweet lass…” He went over to her and took her gently by the shoulders. “The crone’s appearance goes along with everything my family, and others like us, have always known. Scotland, the Highlands in particular, is a place of myth and legend, deeply entrenched in superstition and belief in the old ways. Ghosts, beasties, magic, call such things what you will.
“By whatever name, such mysteries float about our hills and glens just like our famed Highland mist.” He paused, pleased when she didn’t argue. “We accept that an uncanny, ancient world exists alongside, or just beneath the surface of our own. And sometimes…”
He waited.
“They mesh,” she said, answering as he’d hoped. “The veil between them thins.”
“So we believe.”
She glanced at the trees, then back to him. “You think the old woman comes from such a place?”
He nodded. “I’ve no’ doubt.”
“Then I will believe so, too. I just wish we knew who she was.”
“We might yet find out.” He topped her tea and also refilled his own cup. “Then again, she may remain a mystery, her name and purpose forever lost to us.”
She sipped her tea, looking thoughtful.
“I think she wanted us to meet.” She smiled and lowered the cup. “A meddlesome and well-meaning soul, come here on a swirl of magic to right wrongs and do a bit of good.”
“Perhaps,” he agreed, pleased she’d accepted his explanation.
He doubted many English would, though he knew that the gentry in their stately homes and even the owners of many London residences did believe in ghosts.
They made no secret of it, many claiming their homes were long haunted, often by numerous spirits.
His family had Conley’s gate-stone and a shadow cat.
“Do you like cats?” He’d best settle this now.
“I love all animals.” She glanced back the way they’d come. “Speaking of which, I hear horses heading this way.”
Lucian listened, agreeing. “We should be going.”
She didn’t budge. “Why did you ask about cats?”
“Because two are near to my heart,” he said, his words true enough. “I will tell you of them on the ride out of the park. But first…”
He stepped closer, taking her by the arm and drawing her behind his two horses, moving her out of sight as two older gentlemen rode past the clearing. When the men were out of hearing range, he released her and helped her mount.
She glanced after the riders. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d care if we were seen?”
“I don’t, as you’ll see soon enough.”
“I will?”
He smiled, liking the amusement in her eyes. “Nary a doubt about it.”
Turning away from her, he gathered his plaid and the remains of their picnic. He put everything back into the leather pouch, and then fastened it to the back of his saddle. That done, he swung up onto his horse.
“I’d no’ alarm you, but I had reason for no’ wanting you seen,” he said, serious again. “The truth is, until you’re out of the reach of your stepmother, I’ll no’ risk anything that might draw her wrath.”
“Visiting Hyde Park so early in the morning, and alone, already did that. Being here with you-”
“Riding along Rotten Row is no’ so worrisome as being spotted in a copse of trees deep inside the park. Now…”
He reached over and clapped her mount’s rump, then kneed his own horse. Well-trained, the two bays adopted a smooth, leisurely pace as they left the clearing and started back through the more wooded section of the park, toward the popular bridle path.
“We were speaking of cats.” He glanced at her. “Tell me what you were doing when the crone mentioned one to you.”
“H’mmm…” She considered.
“You were in the middle of the crush at Hyde Park Corner,” he reminded her. “I was a bit late because one of my maids saw our Lyongate cat. You said the crone told you to ‘ask me about the cat,’ and then said ‘I’d be along shortly.’”
“That’s right. She clearly meant you.”
“So it seems.”
“I remember!” She clasped a hand to her breast. “I was worried because you weren’t there and wondering what to do. I was about to leave when the old woman bumped me with her cart.”
The hairs on Lucian’s nape stood on end, but his heart thumped.
“That’s the answer.” He smiled at her. “She was indeed the crone from the Merrivale townhouse, the old Scottish woman with the red plaid laces.”
“She knew I was about to go,” she spoke his mind. “She knew your cat had something to do with your lateness. And so-”
“She comes from that hazy realm we spoke of.”
“Oh, my.”
“Indeed.” Lucian agreed, feeling chills himself. “There’s only one more thing to mention. The reason my maid was so upset was because the Lyongate cat isn’t of this world,” he said, watching her carefully. “He’s a shadow cat, part of a legend attached to my family.”
“How fascinating,” she said, seeming more intrigued than shocked or frightened.
“He’s quite large,” Lucian told her. “We believe he’s tied to a lion once rescued by a distant ancestor.”
She didn’t blink, her great blue eyes lighting with interest.
“I think we should slow our horses,” she said, already doing so. “I must hear all about him. I am fond of lions.”
And I am growing fond of you.
Lucian kept that to himself, but he did begin to talk, telling her everything he knew about the first laird of Lyongate Hall, Renton MacRae, and how he saved Conley the Lion. He finished with the lion-faced stone at the gate, the shadow cat, and even his family’s triumphs and travails over the years.
He’d tell her later about his uncle and his father. Just now, only one thing mattered…
Lady Melissa.
The half-English, half-Scottish woman he suspected would soon be his wife.
Chapter Seven
A short while later, they slowed their horses from a comfortable trot to an easy walk. This was done without voiced agreement, a happenstance Melissa took as a sign. After all, the trees were thinning now and not too far ahead, riders could be seen on Rotten Row. Not a large number as the hour remained indecently early for the fine sort of folk who visited Hyde Park for pleasure rather than to hawk wares or engage in other activities, the likes of which she did not care to consider.
Either way they would soon return to the famous equestrian path and that meant their inevitable arrival back at Hyde Park Corner.
And so the mutual delaying of their farewells struck her as significant.
Her heart fluttered.
Clearl
y he was also reluctant to part. Or did he simply have more to tell her? He’d already shared revelations about his family and home all the way back into the mists of time, or so it seemed to her. And she’d loved every word. His tales of Lyongate Hall and his ancestors fascinated her. She’d especially liked Conley the Lion.
His descriptions of the Highlands spoke to her soul and made her pulse quicken. She could listen all day as he talked of the rugged, mist-cloaked mountains he obviously loved so much. The sheer cliffs he said felt like the world’s end, and then the deep and mysterious glens, the heather-clad moors, and sparkling lochs.
How could he bear to be anywhere else?
She didn’t know. But she was glad he was here.
Edging her horse closer, she reached over and touched his arm. “You made me feel as if I have already been to Scotland,” she said. “I can smell the peat smoke and feel the cold wind, see the mist curling down the hillsides, and even the deer high on the moors.”
He glanced at her. “No words can compare, lass. Wait till you set foot there. You will lose your heart.”
“Scotland has always had my heart.” She smiled, almost giddy with excitement. “I want to see Lyongate, too. Meet Budge and everyone else. Your family-”
“My family is pretty much nonexistent, sweeting.” A shadow passed over his face, or perhaps a cloud had blocked the morning sun. “My father passed no’ too long ago, and too many others left us long before him. Lyongate is mostly filled with echoes and shadows these days. I’ll no’ hide that from you.
“It’s a lonely place,” he added, then waited as a small group of young men rode past them. “Remote splendor as some poets call it, isn’t for everyone.”
“You have your shadow cat,” Melissa reminded him when they were again alone on the path. “I wouldn’t mind such a companion, otherworldly or not. I’d love to see him. I wish my family had an enchanted cat rather than Lady Clarice and her daughters.”
“Ah well…” He shifted in his saddle, considering. “At the least, they will no’ plague your family for all time. Our shadow cat has been slinking around Lyongate for centuries. He will likely continue long after you and I are no more.”
“That makes him all the more romantic.”
A Rake Like No Other (Regency Rendezvous Book 12) Page 5