So close that he almost called to his coachman to halt so that he could fling open the carriage door, leap out, and run the remaining miles until he once again stood on Scottish soil.
Of course, he didn’t want to disturb Melissa’s rest, so he settled for simply easing up the window panel a bit more to enjoy a better view.
Unfortunately, the carriage hit a dip in the road at the same time, and the vehicle jostled, swayed, and bumped several times until the uneven track leveled out again.
“Mercy!” Melissa gasped, her eyes popping open. “I thought the earth was cracking open.”
“Just a dip in the road, sweeting.” Lucian slid his arm around her shoulders, steadying her.
She was already clutching his knee for balance, but her gaze was on the darkening moorland out the window, the ever-higher hills looming so near. Rugged, almost black in the fast-fading light, they were the northernmost Cheviots, the vast range of hills that marked where England ended and Scotland began. Or the other way around, depending on one’s journey.
“I see a star!” She leaned closer to the window, peering up to where the first one twinkled in the violet-shaded heavens. “O-o-oh, do you see it?”
“Aye,” he answered, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. “That wee star is winking down on Scotland, lass.”
“Scotland?” She whipped about to face him, her excitement doing terrible things to his Highland heart. “Are we there already?”
“No’ quite, but almost,” he told her, his gaze going past her to a distant croft house far across the moor.
Crouched low against the southern flank of huge, round-shouldered hills, the house’s whitewashed walls stood out like luminous pearl in the deepening twilight. Yellow pinpricks gleamed there, proving that someone within had lit candles for the night, and surely a peat fire as well.
Lucian didn’t know the croft’s owners, but he did know the house from passing this way.
It was the last house on English soil – or the first on Scottish, again depending on view.
Seeing it now made his heart swell.
He glanced at Melissa, her shining eyes almost making him wish he wasn’t Scottish so that he could experience such joy at seeing Scotland for the first time.
Alas…
He was Scottish, and he hoped his plans for the night would be as meaningful for her as they would be for him. So he drew her attention to the croft, his heart squeezing anew when she clapped a hand to her breast and smiled.
“It’s perfect,” she said, her voice catching. “Is that Scotland?”
“Aye, sweet.” He also smiled at the distant croft. “Thon house sits on the border.”
“Oh, my.” She blinked, but not before he saw the tears glistening in her eyes. “I never thought to see my mother’s homeland. The place that has called my soul for so many years. Cranleigh will always be home, but this, to be here at last...” Her voice cracked again and she swiped at her cheek. “I am quite overcome.”
“Sweet lass, I would be disappointed if you weren’t. Scotland is that special.”
“It is,” she agreed, peering again at the farmhouse against the now night-blackened hills.
Lucian reached to smooth back her hair and brush the tear tracks from her face.
“Wait until we reach the Highlands,” he said, wishing they were already at Lyongate. “If your heart is thumping now, you will lose it entirely then.”
“Pah!” She twisted round to beam at him, her eyes dancing. “I lost my heart to Scotland years ago, though never so much as in the Merrivales’ cloakroom when you spoke of your home. I knew then that I must get here, even if it meant crawling the whole way on my hands and knees.”
“That isn’t necessary,” he said, framing her face and kissing her. A long, deep kiss because even though they’d kissed more on this northward journey than he imagined most people kissed in a lifetime, he simply couldn’t get enough of her.
He also felt a powerful need to make her happy, so when he broke the kiss and sat back, he took her by the shoulders and caught her gaze, serious now.
“You, precious lass, will no’ crawl anywhere ever,” he vowed. “If the day ever comes when you cannae walk, I will sweep you in my arms and carry you.”
“Why do I think you mean that?”
“Because I do.”
She stared at him, looking almost stunned. “I still cannot believe any of this is happening. That I am even here, and with you…”
“I feel the same,” he admitted, also feeling more blessed than he would have believed even a very short time ago. “And because I am so happy to have you with me, I’ve planned a very special stop for us tonight.”
She angled her head. “Gretna Green? Are you taking me there?”
“Nae, we’re no longer on the Old North Road. We veered off it, onto this track, some while ago. You were sleeping so soundly I didn’t want to waken you.”
“A track?” She threw another glance out the window, though little could be seen now except darkness and shadows.
A crescent moon was rising and cast some illumination, enough to cause the rocky track to gleam whitely and – Lucian’s lips quirked – to pick out a rather large gathering of hares hopping about near a tumble of boulders beside a stream.
“Aye, well, a road then,” he told her, stretching the truth. “You’ll see even worse ones the farther north we go.”
“It looks delightful to me.” She spotted the hares then and gripped the bottom of the window, smiling out at them. “Goodness, so many rabbits, and such big ones.”
Lucian chuckled. “They are hares, no’ rabbits. You will see many more before we reach our lodgings. This area is famous for them.”
“Oh, how perfect.” She settled back on the carriage seat, her hands clasped on her lap. “Scotland, and a wealth of plump, happy-looking hares.”
She slid him a look. “Perhaps I shall rescue them? Take them all with us to Lyongate to keep my carriage horses company.”
“Thon beasties wouldn’t thank you.” Lucian peered out at them, too. “They fare well enough here.” He looked again at her. “There is a local legend about them. I will tell it to you this evening over dinner at our inn.”
She smiled and leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Where will we be staying?”
“The inn that’s the reason we came this way.” He caught her hand and laced their fingers. “It’s called the One-Eyed Hare.”
~*~
Not too long later, after a good number of further bumps, bounces, and hare-spottings, the carriage finally rolled to a stop in the inn’s small courtyard. The two-storeyed, stone-built inn was long, thick-walled, and whitewashed, with a slate roof and small leaded windows. Smoke rose from two chimneys, one at each end of the inn, and flickering light shone through the windowpanes, adding a welcome touch on the cold and windy night.
A lantern hung over the door, making it easy to read the inn’s sign with its name, the One-Eyed-Hare, in gold letters above a large brown hare on a green background.
Naturally, the creature was depicted with only one eye.
At least, Melissa thought so.
Despite the lamp’s illumination, it was hard to tell with much of the courtyard in shadow.
She was able to read the claim that the inn was established in the fourteenth century. But then her attention was snagged by the many hares darting about on the grass beyond the edges of the courtyard.
There were more than she could count and the longer she looked, the more she saw.
“Mercy, you weren’t exaggerating.” She hurried to join Lucian who was just reaching to open the inn door. “I’ve never seen so many rabbits in my life.”
“Hares,” he reminded her. “There are vast differences. Just as” – he smiled – “you’ll soon see a very different world from the one you left behind in England.”
“I already do.” She smiled up at him as he escorted her over the threshold and into the One-Eyed Hare’s public room. “And I am most
enchanted.”
She was.
Stepping into the One-Eyed Hare brought the same waft of smoke-hazed air as entering an English taproom, but the scent of peat struck her as much more noticeable here. She also found it earthier and sweeter, more rich.
The cooking smells were also similar, and she noted a strong hint of ale, but laced with whisky.
What she didn’t catch was masculine sweat and she figured that was because of the colder air here, so much farther north. A rush of it had swept into the taproom with them, and she saw that some of the windows were open, allowing the brisk clean air to circulate.
Was it her imagination that she detected a hint of heather and icy, clean Scottish water, too?
She had spotted the glint of more than one rushing stream criss-crossing the moorland surrounding the inn.
Perhaps the streams were the reason for such freshness?
She didn’t know, but she liked the One-Eyed Hare and wished they’d stay here more than one night.
As if he’d peered into her mind – no, her heart – Lucian drew her aside before they went any deeper into the public room. Leaning in, he whispered in her ear…
“If we’re lucky, Dod Swanney, the innkeeper, will have his best room available,” he said, gently nipping her ear before he straightened. “I’ve ne’er slept there, but have seen it. He saves it for special occasions.”
Melissa looked at him, having heard only one thing.
“A room?” she asked, her heart thumping.
He’d arranged for two at the other inns they’d stopped at on the way north. Once, he’d even slept in the stable when the only available sleeping space for her was a shared room with four other women. Necessity had even seen the ladies – strangers, all – sleeping in the same bed.
“Aye, one room,” he said, taking her doubt. “Dod’s famous Scottish Night bedchamber.”
Rather than say more, he just smiled and took her elbow, leading her away from the entry and the cold air blowing through a half-opened window there.
Melissa glanced about as they moved through the candlelit room, passing crowded tables, but also arched entrances to nooks and crannies likewise filled with travelers and patrons. Unlike the public room’s whitewashed walls, these smaller areas were crafted of dark, glowing wood. The inn’s flagstone floor was well-swept and the coziness was increased by the dried bundles of golden gorse that hung from the taproom ceiling’s age-blackened beams.
Best of all were the two enormous stone fireplaces at either end of the remarkably long and well-polished bar.
And it was to one of those hearths that Lucian was leading her, for an empty table stood there. Surprisingly, it was already set for two with white linen, gleaming pewter plates and cutlery, and even a small cream-colored jug filled with heather.
“Heather on the table?” Melissa smiled at Lucian as he drew out her chair. “Now I know I’m in Scotland.”
“So you are, lass.” He leaned down to kiss her cheek. “And the best is yet to come.”
Chapter Twelve
“So! Welcome to the One-Eyed Hare.” A big-bearded giant of a man loomed at their table, appearing almost magically as Melissa hadn’t noticed his approach.
She blinked now, for the man wasn’t easy to miss. His face was ruddy, with his cheeks almost apple-red, and his blue eyes twinkled, while his rust-colored hair matched his beard. He wore a green apron tied around his girth, and his smile was almost as bright as the two extra candles he placed on their table.
He could only be the innkeeper, Dod Swanney, and Melissa adored him already.
But after greeting her with a nod and a politely uttered ‘My lady,’ he fixed a friendly but speculative look on Lucian.
“Here for a Scottish Night, are ye?” He smiled, his eyes twinkling even more.
“We are, indeed.” Lucian returned his smile. “Can you make arrangements?”
“Here at the Hare, we’re always prepared.” The innkeeper’s smile became a grin.
“Will you be dining first?” He glanced at the finely-dressed table, then back to Lucian. “We’ll start ye with whisky, oatcakes, and cheese,” he declared, glancing at Melissa. “Then oyster soup and fresh-baked bread served with sweet, creamy butter, and our own One-Eyed Hare heather ale, followed by a rich, red venison steak with all the trimmings, including curried oysters, and to end, a variety of our best cakes, a fine port, and Atholl Brose.”
“Excellent.” Lucian nodded.
Melissa sat dumbstruck. She couldn’t possibly eat so much.
And…
She waited until the innkeeper strode away, then turned back to Lucian. “What is Atholl Brose?”
“Aye, well, ‘tis a centuries-old specialty credited to the ducal family of Atholl in the Highlands,” he told her. “Basically, it’s a delicious blend of thickened cream, heather honey, toasted oatmeal, and a dash of whisky.”
“It does sound good.” It did. Her mouth even watered, imagining how the dessert would taste.
“You’ll enjoy everything. It’s all good, wholesome Scottish fare,” he said, then paused as a serving lass in an apron and cap brought their oatcakes and cheese. He waited until she’d also served their drams, then reached across the table to tap his whisky glass against hers.
“To bonnie lasses who attend London balls with unbound hair and crones with red plaid shoelaces.”
Melissa smiled, finding his toast perfect. “And to dashing Highlanders bold enough to wear their kilts to the same.”
“Dashing, am I?” He lifted a brow, sipped his dram.
“You know you are.” She held his gaze. “I am surprised every woman in London wasn’t running after you.”
“Perhaps because you English hold us for being grumpy and dour?”
“I am half Scottish,” she reminded him, her words recalling something else…
“I really would like to put my stepmother and her daughters behind me before we journey even another mile into Scotland,” she said, not wanting their taint to follow them, sticking to her, and Lucian, even though so many miles stretched between them.
Leaning forward, she reached across the table to clutch his wrist. “Are you quite sure they will stay at your townhouse? Do you really believe they will leave me be now, not come chasing after us, hoping to ruin us or to pester you for more?”
“Aye, I am sure, sweeting.” He didn’t hesitate with an answer, and that made her feel better. “At the end of the day, all cowards slink off into the mist when confronted with their villainy. Their own backs are all that matters to them and they will do anything to preserve themselves.
“Lady Clarice knows we can ruin her, and her daughters, in an eye-blink.” He slipped free of her grasp and brought her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles. “She will appreciate having a fine roof over her head still, even if my townhouse is no’ so grand as Cranleigh Manor. She will no’ risk losing that security, and so neither she nor her girls will trouble us,” he said. “Certainly no’ here, in Scotland.”
“I hope you are right.” She sat back, not entirely sure.
“I am, sweetness.”
“You do sound certain.”
“That isn’t surprising,” he said, and a shadow crossed his face. “I know something of family trouble. I have told you some of the trials and tribulations that have plagued the MacRaes of Lyongate. Conley the Lion and his ‘curse,’ and the hardships and pitfalls that have befallen some of my ancestors.”
“I know of many such tales,” she spoke true. “Every house in England that is owned by a family dating back more than a hundred years, has story upon story of triumphs and also tragedies. Good fortune, and wretched luck.
“Why should Lyongate and your family be any different?” She smiled at him, not liking the sudden seriousness of his mood. “I would be surprised if you didn’t have the odd skeleton buried beneath the floorboards.”
To her surprise, he blanched.
“My dear Melissa,” he said, his color returning only
slowly. “Can it be that the sight runs in your mother’s family?”
“Not that I’m aware. Why?”
“Because, sweeting, the floorboards-skeleton in my family wasn’t buried centuries ago,” he said, and his voice was dull, flat with the weight of his words. “He was my uncle, the true laird, and he was killed by my father’s hand some years ago. Uncle Alastair didn’t want the lairdship and he wanted Lyongate Hall even less. He detested the remoteness of our lands, the wild and savage beauty most MacRaes love so much and thrive on.
“His greatest dream was turning his back on what he called ‘cold and dreary Scotland’ and absconding to the Caribbean with his lady love, a singer and dancer at an Aberdeen dockside tavern.
“To do that, he decided to sell the estate in its entirety,” he said, then reached for and drained his whisky. “His fatal mistake was to inform my father. He loved Lyongate with a fierceness that fringed on unholy, and so, to prevent his brother, the laird, from selling out, he-”
“He killed him.” Melissa saw the truth in his eyes, her heart breaking for him.
He set down his dram glass and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “A single dirk thrust to the ribs and the deed was done. Uncle Alastair was buried beneath the Lyongate stables and none of us knew until my father had a carriage accident and used his last breath to confess what he’d done.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, shook his head. “He’d even forged a letter my uncle supposed penned, bidding us all ‘farewell’ as he was away to Jamaica. We all believed it, too.”
“I am so sorry.” Melissa didn’t know what else to say. “It seems you do have experience with such sad matters.”
He nodded, the shadows still clouding his eyes. “So I do. I’m afraid my father even had my uncle’s mistress murdered, though we will never be able to prove that.”
“Dear heavens.” Melissa’s heart clenched. “The poor woman.”
“So she was, aye.” Lucian lifted the decanter, poured them each a fresh dram. “I believe she truly loved my uncle. She fought for him, coming to Lyongate in a fury when my uncle went missing. She insisted something had happened to him.
A Rake Like No Other (Regency Rendezvous Book 12) Page 10