Go ahead, say it.
I’m a lout. Scoundrel. Reprobate.
The worst sort of knave.
Balcomb stood, Lala clinging to his neck and György to one leg.
“Ye’d nae right.” Fists balled, György glowered at Lucan. “Yer nae better than the others.”
No. I’m not.
“György, hush dear.” Tasara awkwardly embraced her father around the children. “I’m thrilled to see you. Can we please go now? I’ve had quite enough of this place.”
“Aye, lass. Are ye unharmed?” Balcomb asked far more with the discreet question.
She gave one, short nod. “Aye.”
He smiled and tenderly touched her shoulder. “I’m proud of ye. Ye kept yer sister and brother safe.”
She patted Lala’s head and winked at György. “They were verra brave.”
Balcomb’s smile grew into an enthusiastic grin. “Did think my heart would stop when I saw ye lowerin’ Miss Ferguson from the window, though.”
“Yes, well, we hadn’t many other options.” Tasara laughed, low and melodious, happiness shimmering in her gaze. “None, truthfully.”
Utterly lovely.
She shoved her mass of curls behind a shoulder. “Miss Ferguson is the bravest woman I’ve ever met.”
One eye swollen shut, Lucan examined every inch of Tasara with the other. A desperate need grew to commit each angle of her face, every curve of her form, the lilt of her voice, and the music of her laughter to memory.
Absurd. Illogical. Ridiculous.
Yet, Lucan drank in her presence, uncaring that a moon-eyed beau gawked less.
Sethwick elevated a raven brow, his inquisitive gaze vacillating between Lucan and Tasara.
Tristan’s friend was too damned perceptive.
With a final probing look, Sethwick turned his attention to her. “I’d say you are every bit as brave as my sister, Miss Faas. Please permit me to introduce myself. Laird, Ewan McTavish, or if you prefer my English title, Viscount Sethwick.” Beaming, Sethwick bowed. “I’m forever in your debt for helping Isobel escape.”
Tasara curtsied, refusing to look in Lucan’s direction. Neck bent, she fingered the worn leather belt at her waist. Coppery highlights glinted on the crown of her head and flashed off the earrings dangling from her ears. Hard to believe this subdued goddess had done her best to render Lucan a human pincushion a few minutes ago.
How proficient was she with her blade?
He’d offended her mightily, and his conscience pelted him in the ribs every bit as fiercely.
I ought to be horsewhipped.
He never would have voiced such a loutish innuendo to a lady.
Why insult the gypsy lass, then?
Blister it if he knew what maggot squirming in his brain possessed him to act the arse.
Your brain’s not to blame. Look to your cock for the cause of your stupidity.
That hit the mark.
“If you,” Sethwick’s regard swept Balcomb and the other travellers, “ever have need of anything, you’ve only to ask. And, please know, you are always welcome on McTavish lands.”
“Thank ye, yer lairdship.” Balcomb shifted his daughter higher upon his hip before shaking Sethwick’s extended hand.
Sethwick cocked his head, his attention focused on Tasara. “Miss Faas, you bear a remarkable resemblance to an acquaintance of mine in London.”
He turned to Lucan and gestured toward her. “Doesn’t she look like Bridget Needham?”
Tasara flitted a glance Lucan’s way, but as swiftly lifted her perfect little nose in the air and looked away.
Well I’ll be hell-fired. Her eyes are as unique as she is.
It didn’t altogether surprise him. Nothing about this woman met his expectations.
Her wounded, gold-flecked violet eyes had seared his with accusation, and guilt scraped his conscience.
Precisely why he acted the cavalier around the ladies. He preferred chivalry’s mantle to uncouthness’s raw chafing.
Sethwick scratched his nose. “Uncanny, even her eyes. Do you not see the likeness?”
“Yes, their coloring and features are quite similar. Miss Faas could pass for Mrs. Needham’s daughter. However, I’ve been told I resemble Brummell.” Lucan pointed at his chest. “And I assure you, there is no relation there, thank God.” He smirked and lifted a shoulder. “Not quite sure they meant it as a compliment, in any event.”
“Perhaps those making the comparison weren’t referring to appearances but another characteristic.” Sethwick pulled on his earlobe, his mouth quivering suspiciously.
A raised voice ascended from below, and a shadow flitted across Balcomb’s face. He turned abruptly, thrusting Lala into Tasara’s arms then bent and scooped György into his. “Excuse us, sirs, but we must be off. I’m sure ye ken my wife be anxious for the return of our bairns.”
“Of course, Balcomb.” Sethwick nodded and smiled. “Remember what I said. If you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to seek me out. I am forever in yours and Miss Faas’s debt.”
“Thank ye.” Balcomb hustled the corridor’s distance, speedily ushering the girls before him. “Move along. Nae time to dally. We’ve a ride ahead of us.”
Their voices blended in low conversations, the travellers and Scots trailed after them, recounting the short battle’s highlights. Only Lucan and Sethwick remained before the chamber’s open door.
Would Tasara look back?
I hope she does.
What did it matter?
Does there have to be a reason?
Lucan would never see her again.
Shouldn’t bother me, but it does.
He’d return to his world and she to hers.
More’s the pity.
Lucifer playing a harp in heaven or Prinny remaining faithful to his wife seemed more probable than Tasara crossing his path again.
Fascinating—annoying—what a chance encounter could do to disrupt a structured life.
Lucan touched his puffy eye, now swollen worse than the time he’d been stung by four bees, and winced. He mentally shrugged and released a short sigh. Things would settle to normalcy again—as soon as he left the Scottish Highlands for England’s genteel familiarity.
The haut ton’s strict adherence to protocol proved beneficial at times. It left little room for surprises, which suited him fine at the moment. When his father had died unexpectedly, he’d learned that surprises escalated into full-fledged fiascoes.
God. He wasn’t dredging up that unpleasantness right now.
The subtle sway of Tasara’s hips as she sped along the passage, sleek and agile as a feline, her swinging hair teasing the crest of those supple mounds, caused his groin to contract and swell.
Confound it. Most unexpected and unwelcome.
Before she whisked around the corner, she peeked over her shoulder, her gaze meshing with his for a poignant instant in eternity. She buried her face in her sister’s hair and disappeared from his life.
A giddy smugness—for surely that’s what he felt flitting through his chest—encompassed Lucan.
She’d felt a connection too.
Sethwick stared after her, consternation etched upon his face. He cut Harcourt a sideways glance. “How old do you think she is?”
Lucan smothered a wave of unjust jealousy. Sethwick was blissfully married. So revoltingly happy, in fact, if they hadn’t been chums for a decade, Lucan would have been hard-put to not gag and poke fun.
“I don’t know.” Lucan rolled a shoulder. “Eighteen? Nineteen?”
“Think she might be as old as one and twenty?” Sethwick turned in the stairway’s direction.
“Perhaps, but Faas would have been a very young father. No
t impossible, though.”
Harcourt eyed a lopsided portrait, the canvas torn and curling at one corner. Ugly, hairy brute—
He squinted.
Egads, that’s a woman?
The Almighty hadn’t been kind to the Blackhalls.
“True. How old do you think Balcomb is?” Sethwick sidestepped a dead rat.
“Cannot be above forty.” Neatly avoiding the foul-smelling rodent, Lucan held his breath. “And I would guess he’s younger. Closer to eight and thirty.”
Descending the stairs, he flinched as his stiffening muscles protested the exertion he’d put them through. A hot bath and a finger or two of Scotch—perhaps an entire bottle—wouldn’t be amiss.
“Why? Aren’t they the same travellers who visit your lands annually? Surely, Sethwick, you’ve seen them before.”
“Aye, they are, and I have.” Sethwick gave a sharp nod as they maneuvered a bend in the narrow stairwell, their boots clacking atop the slabs. “But I don’t make it a habit to spend extensive time in the black tinkers’ encampments.”
Cobwebs hung from the windows, and a layer of dust, thick enough to plant vegetables in, lay upon the casements. Lucan stifled a sneeze.
Dounnich House needed a good scrub.
“You have to remember, until two years ago, I spent most of my time in London.” Sethwick knitted his brows. “And I vaguely recollect a conversation with Mrs. Needham about a niece who went missing about eighteen years ago.”
Chapter 4
Familiar sounds and smells—a crackling fire and sizzling meat—teased Tasara awake.
Coffee and bacon and wood smoke. Mmm.
She snuggled deeper into the comfortable bedding. Once slumber had claimed her last night, she’d slept dreamlessly and deeply, awakening in the same position she’d drifted to sleep in.
Falling asleep had presented a bit of a challenge.
Fine then, a dratted clash of exhaustion and lingering fear wrestling with newly awoken awareness.
A certain handsome, blond-haired, silver-eyed duke kept impolitely plowing his way into her thoughts. His grace wasn’t the man she’d dreamt of previously, though. That young man had possessed moss-green eyes and golden hair, the shade of wheat at harvest time. And he always laughed, not scowled or tried to steal kisses.
She lifted her hand and flexed the fingers. Her bruised knuckles protested. She’d never punched anyone before, and her uncharacteristic violence horrified her. But the pompous oaf had suggested . . . had essentially called her a promiscuous strumpet.
The gall.
Somehow she’d assumed he would prove different from the other gentry and lords who either visited the encampment or solicited the gypsy women when they ventured to a town or a city.
The duke hadn’t been the first to make such a crude insinuation, and sure as wintertime snow fell in the Scottish Highlands, he wouldn’t be the last.
Memories of the Blackhalls’ groping and pinching, grinding their groins against her buttocks and stomach, hissing the vilest filth imaginable . . .
She shuddered and drew the blankets closer.
It’s over. They’re dead. You’re safe.
For now. Until some other man fancied her.
Dat had rebuffed suitors and less honorable men on her behalf since shortly after she’d turned fifteen. Tasara would like to marry someday, but other than Rígán, who’d disappeared four years ago, no man had caught her interest.
She’d captured plenty of theirs, however, and more than one had extended her a dishonorable offer.
Idly rubbing her knuckles, she tried to soothe the soreness. Her disappointment in the duke made no sense. She didn’t know the man. Why did his character flaws grate and chafe?
Perhaps because the elite thought they could buy whatever they wanted, and when something couldn’t be bought, half the time, they took it anyway, as though entitled to whatever fleetingly snared their interest.
Thank God the duke didn’t seem to have a vengeful bent, or she might even now be jailed for striking a peer, even though she’d been defending her honor. Instead, the gypsy encampment safely ensconced her.
The travellers had moved their camp during her absence. After an hour’s ride, she and the rest of her family had finally reached the new site. Hugged and kissed until she squirmed and begged for reprieve, Tasara ate her fill of savory rabbit stew before bathing, scrubbing her hair, and crawling into bed.
The black tinkers lived a humble existence, absent of luxuries, but she wouldn’t trade her life for privileges and wealth. Nothing remotely pretentious could be claimed about her kin—humble and honest Highland folk. Generous and caring to a fault, they lavished on one another the thing they claimed in abundance. Love.
She breathed in the tangy scent of dried herbs hanging from grapevine hooks above her head. Dawn’s welcoming, pinkish-peach ribbons teased the sky through the bow tent’s parted opening.
Lala and György, their sable heads barely visible above the woven blankets piled atop them, slept on.
Her father and stepmother had risen already, no doubt enjoying a strong cup of coffee beside the fire as they often did. Long ago, Tasara began lingering abed to give her parents a few moments of rare and cherished privacy.
She reached for the book normally tucked beneath her pillow.
Nothing.
Flopping onto her back, she sighed. She’d been too tired to put the worn volume there last night. Dat had insisted she learn how to read and write—quite unusual for a gypsy, let alone a woman.
Several years ago, a scholarly fellow married one of the tinker women and had taught Tasara. He’d also schooled her in basic geography, mathematics, and a smattering of French.
She’d not been the most accommodating pupil, preferring to run shoeless through the meadows or ride horses bareback. However, reading became one of her greatest passions—along with playing the violin—though, books were expensive and hard to come by.
A smile played around the corners of her mouth. The low murmurs of her parents’ voices soothed and wrapped her in contentment. More than once while captive she’d feared she’d never see them or the gypsy clan again.
“Balcomb, ye must consider Lala and György, and the rest of the clan. Jamie be concerned about retribution too.”
The band’s leader?
Tasara’s eyes flew open at the urgency in Edeena’s whisper.
Plump, kind, and perpetually smiling, her stepmother epitomized cheerfulness, and her earnestness unnerved Tasara.
“What of Tasara?” Dat’s question came from a greater distance.
He likely paced about their campsite. He always wandered when upset.
“If what ye say is true, Laird McTavish already suspects somethin’ be afoot,” Edeena said. “Jamie fears the tinkers will be blamed.”
A pan clanked, and the sizzling eased. Only nine years Tasara’s senior, her sweet-natured stepmother seldom argued with Dat.
“And she struck an English duke.” Edeena fairly hissed the final word. “Ye ken the hatred the Sassenach have for all things Scots, but especially we travellin’ folk.”
Ah, Dat had shared that unpleasantness.
Tasara pushed her hair from her face.
Should she interrupt them? Let them know she’d awoken? She didn’t want her parents to think she deliberately listened to their private conversation.
“I ken, but she thinks she’s my daughter.”
Tasara bolted upright, her hair swirling round her shoulders. Impatiently, she pushed the wavy mass behind her.
“She be younger than Lala when my first wife found her wanderin’ in the woods.”
Dya died twelve years ago giving birth to a stillborn son. Tasara had adored her mother, and though she loved Edeena, Dya would always be
the mother of her heart.
Dat’s voice broke. “We’d never camped in the glen before, but a woman went into labor and was havin’ a rough time birthin’ her bairn. Forba went in search of fairy flax to ease her pain. I’ve always thought God had his hand in her findin’ Tasara that day.”
On her knees now, Tasara peered through the opening at the two shadowy forms near the fire.
“We didn’t dare seek the authorities for fear of bein’ accused of stealin’ the lass.” Dat spread his hands, palms upward. “Ye ken gypsies have been accused of such many times with harsh repercussions.”
True. Only a few years ago, a clan had been sacked, their tribe members wounded and killed, and their possessions destroyed, when a couple had been arrested for abducting an infant.
The babe’s mother had accidentally smothered her child in her sleep, and terrified of her husband’s wrath, she buried the poor thing, claiming passing travellers had stolen the infant.
Neither the decimated gypsy clan, nor the falsely accused couple, received an apology or any restitution.
“Hmph, as if takin’ in abandoned and discarded children out of the goodness of our hearts be criminal.”
Edeena shook her head and clucked her tongue while sliding the bacon onto a plate. “The gadjo steal our tinkas and peddle them into indentured servitude. Or worse, sell them to brothels or medical laboratories. Have ye forgotten poor Rígán?”
What does Rígán have to do with this?
Casting a wary glance around the encampment, Edeena tempered her voice. “No one wants to say it, but we all be thinkin' that’s what happened to him.”
Tasara dug her fingernails into her thighs.
Too much.
She wasn’t a traveller. Dat wasn’t her father. For eighteen years she’d lived a lie, and Rígán—
God . . . Had a medical laboratory been his fate?
Scalding tears pricked her eyelids, but she refused to let them fall. Crying—nothing but a self-indulgent, useless waste of energy.
Heartbreak and Honor Page 3