Nicola Cornick - [Scottish Brides 01]

by The Ladyand the Laird

  The landlord turned to the gaping scullions. “Fetch my wife to conduct Lady Lucy to a room!” He clapped his hands sharply. “Now! Run!”

  He led them inside. Lucy was so tired and saddle sore that she could feel her legs trembling, but she forced herself to walk steadily and smile at the staring servants. There was the most delicious smell of roasting meat, and her stomach rumbled longingly. She wanted to dash down the passage to the kitchens and fall on it, no matter how unbecoming that might be to the daughter of a duke. That really would convince the landlord that she was a slattern.

  McLain bowed them into the dark-paneled parlor and murmured something about fetching refreshments. As soon as the door had closed behind him, Robert turned to her.

  “You’ll understand,” he said formally, “that I had no choice other than to introduce you as my betrothed. Not if I did not wish to show you dishonor in front of my people.”

  Lucy did understand, but she did not see why she should let him get away with such high-handed behavior.

  “I see,” she said coolly.

  Immediately the formality dropped from him and he grinned. “No need to take that frozen tone with me, my lady. I had no intention of accepting a third refusal.”

  “I am aware of that too,” Lucy said. This would be no convenient betrothal, made to save face and broken off when it had served its purpose. It was far too late for that now. She would be wedded—and bedded. She felt the smothering panic rising in her throat and forced it back down again.

  Robert’s eyes searched her face for a moment. She could feel his gaze on her for all that she kept her eyes stubbornly averted from his, and then he took her by surprise, leaning forward to give her a brief, hard kiss she felt all the way down to the tips of her toes.

  “We’ll talk about it over dinner,” he said.

  “Shall we?” Lucy said, refusing to yield.

  His smile widened. “Aye, we shall. And until then—” he was pulling the engraved signet ring from his finger “—you should have a betrothal ring, I think.”

  The ring was warm from his body and felt heavy and solid as he slid it onto Lucy’s finger. It was far too big and she instinctively closed her fingers about it to hold it in place.

  “I’ll buy you something prettier.” His voice was soft.

  “I like it very well.” She cleared her throat. She felt odd, as though he had finally claimed her, as though his protection enveloped her. “It feels strong and unyielding, like you.”

  “Ah, lass—” He moved so quickly she gasped and then she was in his arms and he was kissing her properly this time, with heat and passion and possession. For a long moment she yielded to the demand of his mouth before she remembered that nothing between them was settled and she could not wed him; that she had run and stolen and fought and lied in order to avoid marrying him. She wanted to draw back then, but it was too late because a stronger part of her wanted to be seduced, so she was struggling against her own desires as well as his.

  “Don’t fight me.” His whisper echoed her thoughts. “We are on the same side. You said so yourself.”

  He did not understand. He could not, of course. The fear beat against the sweetness of the kiss and she made a small sound of distress. Robert let her go at once.

  “Lucy—” he said, and her heart bounded because she knew he was going to ask her the cause of her distress and she did not know if she could answer truthfully. She had locked the truth away so tight and deep eight years ago and never permitted the light to expose it again.

  He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again, as there were voices in the passage directly outside the parlor door.

  “That will be Isobel,” he said. “Before I turn you over to her, can I get you anything else?”

  “I’d like some new clothes,” Lucy said. She glanced down at the filthy striped scarf. “Something a little more becoming.”

  “I’ll send out for something for you,” Robert said.

  “That makes me feel more like a mistress than a wife,” Lucy said tartly.

  The sudden heat in his eyes scorched her. “I can make you feel more like my mistress if you wish.”

  Lucy’s blush stung her cheeks. She could only be glad of the knock at the parlor door, snapping her out of the moment.

  “My lord?” A diminutive woman was standing there, much younger and altogether different from how Lucy would have imagined the landlady to be. Behind her bobbed a dark-haired, bright-eyed girl of no more than fourteen who was trying to peer around her mother to see what Lucy looked like.

  Robert enveloped the woman in a bear hug. “How are you, Isobel?”

  He stepped back, took both her hands and planted a kiss on her cheek. “You look well. And how is my goddaughter?”

  The girl gave a little squeal of excitement. For a moment Lucy thought she was going to throw herself into Robert’s arms, but somehow she managed to restrain herself although she was almost jumping out of her skin with the effort. Robert took her hand and, a twinkle in his eye, bent his head to place a kiss on the back of it. The girl giggled.

  “Don’t put ideas in her head please, my lord,” Isobel said briskly, not one whit overawed by her guest. “She already thinks you are some sort of hero.”

  Robert glanced at Lucy, who was biting her lip in an effort not to smile. “Far be it from me to disabuse her of the idea,” he said. “Lady Lucy—” he drew Lucy forward “—may I present Mrs. Isobel McLain and her daughter Elizabeth?”

  “Bessie,” the girl said, dropping Lucy a deep curtsy. “My lady.” She raised frankly curious eyes to Lucy’s face. “You’re very pretty,” she said. “But what happened to your face?”

  Lucy saw Isobel stiffen. “Bessie! Hush.” She turned to Robert. “I’ll look after your lady well, my lord.” She gestured to Lucy. “If you would care to come with me, my lady.”

  “No need for me to act as lady’s maid, then,” Robert said lazily.

  “I am sure you rate that amongst your many talents, my lord,” Isobel McLain said tartly, “but Her Ladyship and I shall manage very well without you.”

  Lucy’s weariness returned as she struggled up the stairs in the landlady’s wake. Bessie skipped along lightly behind. Lucy could feel the girl’s eyes on her in frank appraisal, feel too the questions jostling on Bessie’s lips and the struggle she was having to keep them in.

  There was already a bath in the room; the air was scented with lavender and other herbs Lucy tried to identify. There was lemon balm and another fragrance, sweet and enticing.

  “Chamomile,” Isobel said, smiling. “For relaxation. There is a woman who lives out on the Thurso Road who makes herbal remedies.”

  “How wonderful,” Lucy said, heartfelt. “Just what I need.”

  As she slipped into the hot water and Isobel drew the screen around the bath, she was afraid she might fall asleep with the sheer pleasure of it. The water was deliciously soothing after the hard ride. Her aching muscles eased and she slid deeper to wash her hair, as well.

  Behind the scene she could hear Bessie whispering to Isobel, and Isobel hushing her irrepressible daughter.

  “You will not ask Lady Lucy any questions,” Isobel was saying severely. “It is very bad manners.”

  “I don’t mind,” Lucy said, opening her eyes. She squeezed the water from her hair. It felt soft and smelled gloriously sweet. She wrapped the bath sheet about her and padded over to the dressing table. The smooth worn boards of the floor felt warm beneath her bare feet.

  “We are still waiting for the clothes Lord Methven has sent out for, my lady,” Isobel said. “There’s only one dressmaker in Findon, and Lord knows if she has anything suitable.” She was eyeing Lucy carefully. “I wondered if I might lend you something in the meantime—we are of a height, I’m thinking—and my Sunday best would do.” She blushed. “But if you prefer not—”

  “That is very generous of you,” Lucy said, appreciating the offer and quick to put Isobel at her ease. “I’d be very happ
y for the loan of a gown.”

  Isobel beamed. “I did not think you would wish to keep those things,” she said, nodding toward the pile of dirty linen in the corner, “but if you do I can wash them—”

  “Good gracious, no, thank you,” Lucy said. “I can’t wait to see the back of them.”

  Bessie giggled. “We thought Lord Methven had brought home a circus performer as wife, my lady,” she volunteered.

  “I’m not surprised,” Lucy said. She looked at her reflection in the glass. Her hair spilled softly about her bare shoulders. It would take some combing to remove all the tangles. She looked tired and pale. Her gaze went to the livid bruise that was starting to form on her cheekbone. It looked an angry red, a reminder of Wilfred’s casual violence, his disregard for family loyalty, and the ruthlessness she had not even imagined was in him. She touched it gently. She would never forget and never forgive him. Nor would she forget the fury and protectiveness in Robert’s eyes as he had looked at her. There would be reckoning with Wilfred soon enough.

  “I have tincture of arnica for your bruises, my lady,” Isobel said. There was a shadow of something in her eyes and suddenly Lucy understood. She put her hand on the other woman’s arm.

  “You mustn’t think—” She stopped. “This was not Lord Methven’s doing. My cousin, the Earl of Cardross, and some of his clansmen attacked us on the road.”

  The jar fell from Isobel’s hand to clatter on the floor and roll away. “Lord save us, you are the earl’s cousin?” She had gone a shade paler. Bessie was staring now, her mouth open, a mixture of shock and fright in her wide eyes.

  “I’m afraid so,” Lucy said. “Well, second cousin. But I am nothing like him. Really I am not.” Wilfred’s name was probably enough to give children nightmares in these parts. Looking from Isobel’s set face to Bessie’s scared one, she felt shocked. She had never liked Wilfred, but the face he had shown to his family was vastly different from the one she was seeing now.

  “Mercy me,” Isobel said. “We are safe from Cardross now because Lord Methven protects us, but a few years back, in the old laird’s day, there were many incursions into the land. They burned the town once and drove off all the livestock.”

  “He burns his own lands,” Bessie said, “when the people anger him.”

  Lucy felt chilled. “The law—” she started to say, but Isobel shook her head.

  “Cardross was the law in these parts,” she said simply. “The old laird left us to fend for ourselves, but then he died and Lord Methven came back.”

  “He fought for us,” Bessie said. Her eyes were shining. “Like a hero from the old stories.”

  Lucy smiled, but beneath it she felt a sharp pang of shame. She realized that she had been so wrapped up in her books at Forres and in Edinburgh that she had had no idea of what life had been like for people such as these. She had lived in a gilded bubble, remote from the villagers she had met that morning, who scratched a living so close to poverty and starvation, or Isobel and her family who worked hard to make their business successful. Suddenly she could see why Robert fought so hard for the welfare and future of his clan and why he had been prepared to do anything to secure that future. These people mattered to him. Their livelihood mattered to him. And Wilfred’s violence and cruelty could not be permitted to triumph.

  Isobel sat down on the edge of the bed. “We heard rumors the laird had to wed a kinswoman of Cardross in order to fulfill the terms of his inheritance,” she said. “We thought it a great sacrifice to make for our future, begging your pardon, my lady.”

  Lucy laughed. “I think it probably is.”

  Isobel shook her head again, her eyes alight with amusement this time. “I think it is probably not, judging by the way he looks at you, my lady.” Then, as Lucy blushed, she added slyly, “No sacrifice at all, I’m thinking.”

  “Was it a sudden engagement?” Bessie was all that was inquisitive. Her gaze had gone to Lucy’s hand, where she turned and turned the heavy gold band. Lucy half expected Isobel McLain to reprove her daughter, but when she looked at her, Isobel had an identical expression of curiosity on her face. Lucy laughed at the mirror image.

  “Not really,” she said. “Lord Methven has asked me three times to wed him.”

  “He’s a determined man,” Isobel said dryly. “When he believes in something.”

  Lucy felt a lump in her throat. Robert Methven certainly believed in protecting those he cared for. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Yes, he is.”

  “And such a handsome one,” Bessie piped up, making Lucy laugh.

  “I won’t argue with that,” she said.

  “He likes you, my lady,” Bessie said. “He likes you very much.”

  Isobel reached for the comb. “I’ll dress your hair, my lady,” she said, “and Bessie can run along and fetch my blue muslin.”

  “Please, there’s no need to wait on me,” Lucy said hastily. “I can do it myself and you must have so much work to do about the inn.”

  Isobel’s eyes warmed. “Bless you, my lady, that’s kind, but there is no more important task than looking after Lord Methven’s lady.” She started gently to untangle the knots in Lucy’s hair. “Once this is done you can join Lord Methven for dinner. You’ll be hungry, I don’t doubt.”

  “Yes,” Lucy said. “I haven’t eaten all day.” She remembered Robert saying that they would discuss their betrothal over dinner. Suddenly her appetite was gone, for what could she say, what could she do? All choices were made, all chance of escape was lost.

  She was still staring blankly at the mirror long after Isobel had finished her hair.

  * * *

  THE METHVEN ARMS was buzzing that night, but Isobel led Lucy down to a private parlor—evidently the best parlor—that had been put aside for their sole use. It was an intimate little space, warm, paneled in oak and lit by a merry fire and several stands of candles. Robert was waiting for her. He too had had time to bathe and shave and find fresh clothes. He stood up as Lucy went into the parlor, tossed aside his newspaper as though it no longer held any interest for him and held a chair for her at the little circular table.

  “You look lovely,” he said quietly.

  Lucy smoothed her skirts, suddenly self-conscious. For a moment she felt so shy she could not look at him but concentrated instead on the deep red wine he was pouring into the crystal glasses for them. At least her appetite had returned. The table was positively groaning beneath the weight of food: a pot of steaming stew, delicious fresh rolls that smelled sweet, slices of beef and ham and crowdie cheese that looked rich and creamy. Lucy wondered if it would look too greedy to fall upon it immediately.

  “The landlord keeps a good table,” she said.

  “Iain McLain used to be coachman at Methven until he was injured in a carriage accident,” Robert said. “My grandfather set him up here and he has made a great success of it.”

  He raised his glass and touched it to hers. “Slainthe mhath,” he said. “A toast to my very beautiful and very talented comrade in arms.”

  His eyes were deep blue as they dwelt on her face. His expression made Lucy feel very hot.

  “I’ve told Isobel we will serve ourselves,” Robert said, “so that we shall not be disturbed.”

  Lucy reached for a bread roll, smothering it in butter. There was a vast pot of beef stew; she ladled some eagerly onto her plate.

  “What was your grandfather like?” she asked. “He was laird before you, wasn’t he?”

  Robert paused. He did not smile and Lucy felt a ripple of disquiet, sensing something amiss but not quite sure what it might be. She knew so little about him. She wore his ring and she was going to wed him, but of the man himself she knew almost nothing. He gave so little away.

  “My grandfather was fierce and proud and steeped in the old ways,” Robert said, after a moment. He took the ladle from her, helping himself to the stew. His expression was clear. If it had not been for that momentary hesitation, she would have thought there was nothing amis
s. “He remembered the rebellion of forty-five,” he said. “He hated the English and their kings and could not understand how the world had changed.”

  “Did you like him?” Lucy asked.

  Again she felt that flicker of hesitation in him before he answered, “No, I did not like him. There were many matters on which we disagreed. He neglected his estates shamefully in his later years, which allowed your cousin Cardross to stake a claim here. Since I returned I’ve worked damned hard to put matters right.” He tilted his wineglass to his lips, took a deep swallow. “I am sure he is spinning in his grave to see my methods. He disapproved of me badly and did not wish me to succeed him, but there was nothing he could do to prevent it.”

  “And your grandmother?” Lucy asked. “She is fierce too.”

  This time Robert did smile. “Oh, Grandmama has a soft heart for all her sharpness.” His voice had changed, softened. “She was the only one—” He stopped. Lucy waited. When he resumed, his voice was smooth again and had no expression. “Methven was never meant to be mine,” he said. “I had an elder brother. Gregor. He was to be the next laird.”

  Lucy laid down her fork. “He died,” she said, remembering, feeling quick sympathy. “I am sorry.” She, with her painful memories of losing Alice, was immediately alive to wondering how he had felt to lose his brother, the heir. It could not have been anything other than terrible.

  “Thank you.” She could see that her words had not reached him. He did not meet her eyes. “It was a long time ago.”

  “You quarreled with your family and went abroad after your brother’s death, didn’t you?” It was all coming back to Lucy now. In those dark days after Alice had died, she had been scarcely aware of anything else happening at all, but she could remember her father mentioning that there had been a terrible tragedy and that Robert Methven had left the country and gone to Canada.

  “Why did you go?” she asked.

  Robert looked at her. His blue eyes were blank. “My grandfather considered me unworthy to succeed him.” His voice was cool. Only the white of his knuckles on the fork betrayed him. “We quarreled badly over his plans for me. I decided to try and prove myself elsewhere.”