For the Sake of a Scottish Rake

by Anna Bradley

  Chapter Seven

  One week later

  Four twenty-five in the morning

  The next week flew by in a blur of sand, ocean breezes, and plump, stubborn lips quirked in a smile. Ciaran spent every morning on the beach with Lucy, his back flat against the sand, spouting whatever nonsense came into his head.

  It was as if he’d known her forever. As if they’d been friends all his life.

  She never indulged or coddled him. Instead she scolded and challenged him, needled and poked and prodded until he couldn’t decide whether to tease her, shout at her, or dissolve into laughter. It felt good, all those impulses and emotions fluttering to the surface again, like blood surging under his skin.

  The only time in his day he didn’t feel either deadened or restless—the only time he felt he was exactly where he was supposed to be—were the moments when he was with her. During those dark, quiet mornings on the beach with Lucy, he found himself again. Not the man he’d become since he’d arrived in England, but the man he’d been before. The Scotsman who’d spent his childhood running free on the moors. The man who’d fallen in love with a dark-haired Scottish lass, and dreamed he’d marry her one day.

  He’d thought that man was gone forever, a ghost wandering the Great North Road, lost somewhere between Scotland and England. He’d grieved for that man—thought him long since dead and buried, along with all those childhood dreams he’d once cherished. But they weren’t dead. The spark had been there the whole time, just buried under layers of scar tissue.

  Lucy had brought that guttering spark to life again. He didn’t know why it had been her, or even how she’d done it. His own family had been trying to drag him back to life for months now, without any success. But then that was the way of things sometimes, wasn’t it? Sometimes a stranger could offer you something more than the family you loved ever could.

  Or maybe that wasn’t it at all. Maybe it was just her. Maybe it was just that it was impossible for a man to stay numb and frozen when he stood so close to a burning flame. She’d jarred him from his stupor, dragged him kicking and screaming back into the world of the living.

  She was the best friend he’d ever had.

  He couldn’t explain how Lucy had come to mean so much to him in so short a time. He didn’t even try to. It didn’t matter why. What mattered was he’d been letting the tide toss him from one wave to the next for months now, as if he were helpless to choose his own direction.

  He wasn’t helpless. That was a lie. A lie he might still believe, if it weren’t for Lucy.

  And so, this morning when she laid a hand gently on his arm and asked, “What is it you want most, Ciaran?” he wanted to tell her. He just had to find the words.

  When he didn’t answer right away, Lucy’s fingers tightened on his sleeve. “Whatever it is, all the drinking and wagering and debauchery in the world won’t take its place. If you don’t want to be in Brighton, or in Buckinghamshire, or in London, then where do you want to be?”

  Ciaran swallowed. It had taken him so long to admit the truth to himself the words felt awkward leaving his lips. “Scotland. I want to go back to northern Scotland, to the village where I was raised, and see if there’s anything left for me there.”

  As soon as he said it aloud, something gave way inside him. The tightness under his breastbone loosened with the words, and God, it felt good, that hesitant swell of hope that took its place.

  His brothers wouldn’t like it. Lachlan in particular had insisted they leave Scotland behind after their mother died, part of a past that was better forgotten. That they leave behind all the ugliness and betrayal of their final few months there.

  But when Lachlan left their home—the only home they’d ever known—he hadn’t left the woman he loved behind.

  Ciaran had.

  Dark-haired, blue-eyed Isobel, the lady he’d loved for as long as he’d been old enough to understand what love was. The lady he’d always thought he’d make his wife someday.

  The lady who’d betrayed him.

  Even now, so many months later, he still couldn’t believe she’d turned her back on him. Isobel had been his friend as well as his love. He’d trusted her. She’d been the first person he’d gone to after James Baird’s untimely death. When all their friends had been cursing Lachlan as a murderer and Isla as a whore, Ciaran had turned to Isobel for solace.

  He’d never dreamed she’d abandon him.

  But that was what had happened. He’d been stunned, heartbroken, and at an utter loss to understand why. Had she truly believed Lachlan was a murderer? Or had it simply been easier for her to condemn his family, just as all their other friends were? Had it been a moment of fear and weakness, or had she always been weak, and he’d been too blinded by love to see her for who she truly was?

  He had to return to Scotland. Nothing would ever be right for him until he did. He needed to see Isobel again, and find out why she’d left him when he needed her most. To hear, from her lips, whether there was any hope left for them. Otherwise he’d keep thrashing helplessly in the water, drowning in a sea of bitterness, confusion, and regret.

  How could he ever trust again while memories of the promises Isobel had made to him still haunted him? Promises she’d broken…

  Lachlan had a wife now, one he loved with all his heart. He had a life here with Hyacinth. He’d come to England, and all his dreams had come true. The same was true of their sister Isla, who’d found her own love in the Marquess of Pierce, who doted on her and made her blissfully happy.

  Only Ciaran had been left adrift. He’d never been able to turn his back on Scotland as his siblings had. He hadn’t been able to forget the past. Until he did—until he either forgot it or embraced it—he didn’t have any chance at a future.

  Lucy was right. He was wasting his time here.

  Her cold hand slid into his palm. “Then you should go. If that’s what will make you happy, Ciaran, you should do it.”

  Her voice was so quiet the wind tried to snatch it up and drown it in the waves, but Ciaran heard her. Without thinking, he laced their fingers together, squeezing gently to warm her. Her slim, elegant bones shifted slightly under his grip, and all at once a rush of gratitude rolled over him, so powerful it robbed him of his breath.

  He wanted to thank her. To tell her he’d leave Brighton a different man than he’d been when he arrived, and she was the reason why. Impulsively, he lifted her hand to his lips and brushed a soft kiss across her knuckles.

  Lucy sucked in a shaky breath, and gently drew her hand away. She was quiet for some time. When she did speak again, her voice was unnaturally bright. “Well, then. You’re for Scotland, and I’m for London for the rest of the season. I expect to be half-smothered with rules and restrictions once I’m there.”

  “You will be. I spent last season in London, for my sister’s debut. Thankfully she’s married now and I’m not obliged to go back.” Though it hadn’t been so awful, really, his one London season. He’d kept himself entertained well enough. But young, eligible gentlemen were in great demand, particularly those who were brother to the Marquess of Huntington. It was far more difficult for young ladies to navigate the season.

  Ciaran frowned. He couldn’t picture Lucy in London.

  She didn’t seem to be able to, either, because she let out a forlorn little sigh. “No prize-fights or brawls. No swimming. I confess I don’t fancy it, but I would like to see my cousin safely married. I suppose I’ll have to go everywhere with her, won’t I? It’s bound to be a trial. I don’t even know how to dance properly.”

  “Come to the ball at the New Assembly Rooms tonight, and I’ll teach you.” Ciaran brightened at the thought. It wasn’t much, but it was something he could do for her.

  Lucy’s dark eyes lit up, and her lips curved in a dazzling smile. “Will you? Oh, I’d love that above anything! I warn you though, Ciaran. It won’t be
easy. I’m truly dreadful.”

  Ciaran chuckled. He’d spent every evening of last season dancing with London’s wallflowers. He’d escorted so many neglected ladies to the floor the ton had dubbed him the Wallflower’s Gallant. Between one young lady and another, he’d quite literally seen all there was to see. “I’m not worried.”

  Then again, if there was one young lady in England who could surprise him, it was Lucy.

  * * * *

  He never got the chance to be surprised.

  Lucy didn’t come to the New Assembly Rooms that evening. Ciaran waited for her for hours, his eyes moving over the room again and again, straining for a glimpse of red hair.

  It was all in vain.

  She didn’t come, and neither did he see her pretty, dark-haired cousin or her aunt, the lady who’d accompanied them to the musical evening. Ciaran was disappointed not to have the chance to dance with Lucy, but he told himself any number of things could have happened to prevent her attendance.

  He told himself there was no reason to be concerned.

  It worked, at first.

  But any calm he’d felt the night of the ball deserted him the following morning, when he arrived at the beach for their usual rendezvous and found it empty. She wasn’t there the next day, either, or the one after that. He escorted Lady Chase and Lady Atherton to the Pump Room and to the assemblies each night, hoping he’d find Lucy, but she was never there.

  She didn’t seem to be anywhere.

  He didn’t admit to himself she’d left Brighton until he went to her lodgings, desperate to find her, and discovered the villa silent and empty. There was a notice on the door informing passersby that the rooms were to let.

  Lucy had disappeared.

  Ciaran spent the rest of that day on the beach, watching the waves rolling against the shore, thinking about Lucy. Now he’d made up his mind to return to Scotland he wanted to leave right away, yet…

  He thought about the first time he’d seen her, alone on a dark beach, risking her safety for a sunrise swim. Then the second time, the day of the prizefight at Brighton Racetrack, perched on a carriage wheel as a brawl raged around her. Even now, he wasn’t sure she understood how much danger she’d been in that day. How close she’d come to being pulled down into the crowd and trampled.

  Lucy might insist she could take care of herself, argue there was nothing scandalous in wanting to experience things, but Ciaran knew the ton wouldn’t see it that way. Lucy had no idea what she’d face in London, no real concept of how cruel people could be. Brighton was its own sort of jungle, but if she dared to set even a toe outside the line in London, the ton would pounce on her like wild animals. They’d tear her to pieces.

  And she would dare. He knew that without question, as surely as he knew the ton wouldn’t overlook the fact she was the Earl of Bellamy’s daughter.

  Barmy Bellamy. That was what the gossips in Brighton called Lucy’s father. Ciaran had heard it himself, whispered with malicious glee. He prayed Lucy didn’t know of it, but even if she’d escaped it here, she was sure to find more of the same in London.

  The same, or worse.

  He’d jumped into freezing sea water when he’d thought she was drowning. He’d risked a beating to snatch her free of a brawl. He’d taken blows to the face and chest, and gagged on the gushing river of blood she’d kicked from his nose.

  If Lucy were here, she’d tell him to go off to Scotland at once. She’d get angry with him, and insist she didn’t need saving. Maybe she didn’t, but Ciaran had already made up his mind. There was no way he could jaunt merrily off to Scotland until he was sure she was safe.

  By the time he rose from the sand, the sky above his head had gone dark and moonlight glittered on the crest of the waves. The long case clock on the second-floor landing was just announcing the ninth hour of the evening when Ciaran strolled through the entryway of their lodgings.

  “Home already, are you? I didn’t expect to see you until tomorrow afternoon.” Lady Chase stood at the bottom of the staircase, one hand on her cane and the other on her ample hip, glaring at him.

  “I can’t think why.” Ciaran closed the door behind him. “Brighton’s entertainments are dull enough.”

  Lady Chase gave him a sour look. “Well, you didn’t seem to find them so before tonight. Goodness knows you’ve spent enough of your time prowling about the darkened streets of Brighton, looking for whatever wicked entertainment is on offer.”

  A grin tugged at Ciaran’s lips. “Whatever is on offer here isn’t wicked enough, I’m afraid. I’m bored to death. No, if I want satisfying debauchery, I’ll have to go to London to find it.”

  “Now you listen to me, young scoundrel.” Lady Chase pointed her cane at him, ready to dress him down, but then she stopped short, eyeing him suspiciously. “Wait. Did you say London? You mean, you intend to go to London?”

  She looked tremendously pleased at this idea—so pleased Ciaran had to struggle not to roll his eyes. No doubt Lady Chase had developed this sudden, intense desire to see him in London because she hoped one of the young ladies out this season would catch his eye, he’d fall madly in love with her, and put his family out of their misery.

  He might have saved them the trouble. He’d only ever loved one woman. Whatever might happen in Scotland, that would never change. He might discover there was nothing left for him and Isobel, but he’d never love another.

  Ciaran gave Lady Chase a bland smile. “I’ll escort you and Lady Atherton to Buckinghamshire, then I’m off to London for the rest of the season. You did say my brother needed me at Huntington House.”

  “Yes, yes, so I did. Well, well, I always said you were a good boy, despite your lurid debaucheries.”

  “Is that why you waited up for me to come home this evening, my lady? To quiz me on my lurid debaucheries? Because I’d be happy to go into detail if you—”

  “Hush, you dreadful boy. I don’t care a whit for your debaucheries, as you put it, and I most certainly wasn’t waiting up for you. I just, er…came downstairs to fetch a book from the library.”

  Ciaran gave her a pointed look. “I don’t see any book.”

  Lady Chase huffed out a breath. “I couldn’t find what I wanted, if you insist on knowing every detail of my evening. I was on my way back to my bedchamber when you came in.”

  “May I take you up?”

  He offered her his arm, but she waved him off. “No, no. I’ll go myself.”

  He watched as Lady Chase shuffled up the stairs. Once she was gone, he let his head fall against the door at his back. He’d go to London, just as he’d told her he would. He’d stay long enough to make certain Lucy was safe. Before he left, he’d speak to Vale about keeping an eye on her once Ciaran was gone.

  What he didn’t tell Lady Chase—what he wouldn’t tell anyone in his family—was he didn’t intend to stay in London for the season. As soon as he reassured himself Lucy would be taken care of, he was bound for Scotland, to see if he could find anything to salvage in the wreckage of his past life.

  At best, he’d find love. If not, at least he’d find peace.

  Chapter Eight

  London, England

  Eight days later

  Le Pantalon, L’été, La Poule…

  Lucy studied the dancers as they moved through the figures of the quadrille, her heart sinking. She did her best to follow the steps, but all those prancing feet seemed to tangle together until all she could hear was her dancing master’s despairing voice echoing in her head.

  No, no, no, Lady Lucinda! Your entire set is falling into disarray!

  She glanced down in despair at the fan clasped between her gloved fingers. After her disappointing performances at Thomas Wilson’s Dancing Academy this past week, she and Eloisa had decided to write a few discreet dance instructions on the back of Lucy’s fan, in case she forgot the steps again.<
br />
  Well, she’d forgotten them, and the fan wasn’t any help at all.

  She darted a forlorn look at the blur of black-clad legs and pale skirts whirling across the ballroom, then back down at the tiny, cramped letters written on the bottom of her fan. Her brows drew together in bewilderment. She didn’t know how it was possible, but the steps made even less sense to her now than they had before yesterday’s ill-fated lesson with Monsieur Guilland. She’d made an utter fool of herself, stumbling about and tripping over her own feet as if she were a drunken lord.

  Now she was about to do it again, except this time it would happen in front of all of London. It was the very first ball of her very first London season, and it was already a farce in the making.

  Not for the first time since they’d arrived and taken up their lodgings in Portman Square, Lucy’s heart pinched with longing for Brighton. Everything had been so much simpler there—every day alive with the promise of something new. It had felt…miraculous, as if she were a bird, soaring through a wide-open blue sky for the first time.

  Now, here in London, her wings had been well and truly clipped.

  She missed the beach, the gentle splash of the waves kissing the shore, the smooth, cool glide of the ocean against her skin.

  She missed him.

  She’d known she would—that she’d miss him terribly—but as with so many things, the reality was far worse than anything she could have imagined. It was a sharp, painful ache deep inside her chest, the fissure there wide and empty even now. He should have become nothing more than a pleasant memory, but she still carried him with her everywhere.

  Lucy’s heart had never been broken before, but this felt just how she’d always imagined a broken heart would feel. Could it break your heart, to lose a friend? Or was it true, what her heart told her when she lay in her lonely bed at night, the house silent around her?

  It was a whisper still, but growing louder with every day that passed.

  Ciaran was more to her than a friend, so much more—