by Julia Donner
“Two against six.” A voice with a slight burr came from behind. From over his shoulder, Max saw a brawny Scot rise up from his chair. He wore a swath of tartan across his chest, pinned to his shoulder, and a green tam cocked sideways on his silver hair. Three swaggering steps brought him to Max’s side.
“I’m no’ in favor of blackening a lady’s name anywhere, anytime. I’ll stand beside ye for yours.”
Since the Scot stood a full head taller than Max, some of Verman’s friends began to lose their bravado. Max reached into his inner breast pocket for a handful of cards to fling at their feet.
“So you know where to find me, and God help you if any of this reaches Sir Cameron’s ear. He’s learned more than I will ever know about retribution. At least with me, it will be quick.”
When no one else spoke up, and Verman’s group averted their gazes, Max turned and left. On the tavern’s doorstep, he felt the presence of someone following. He expected the man with the pistol and a shot in the spine but discovered the Scot.
Looking up at the smirking brute, Max said, “My thanks.”
The Scot waved it away. “Think nothing of it. I was looking for a wee bit o’ fun. And it sticks in my craw when a man thinks he has the right to besmirch another when they’re no’ present to stand for themselves.”
Max stuck out his hand. “Still, I do appreciate it. May I have your name?”
“Alasdair Gordon. Do I hear a bit of the United States in your speech?”
“From the state of Pennsylvania. Philadelphia.”
“Would you know of any McAdons that have come over the water? My mother’s people were run off their land and headed for the Colonies.”
Max silently laughed and slapped Gordon on the back. “Nary a one. It’s not a small country. The whole of England could fit in one of the states.”
“Well, now, I’m sorry we’ve left the taproom. I’d love to hear more.”
“Where are you staying?”
Gordon lifted a chin in the direction of the stable. “Yon loft. Inn’s filled to the rafters. There’s a mill and a race tomorrow.”
“Then come home with me. I’ve plenty of empty bedrooms. We’ll talk over a bottle of wine.”
The Scot winced. “Wouldn’t happen to have any whiskey, would ye?”
“Let’s get our horses. I bet there’s a bottle of that somewhere. Getting tired of nothing but wine or ale. Let’s swap stories, shall we?”
“I’m that grateful, and mayhap ye can help me. I’m looking for a lass. A particular one. A lady.”
Max headed across the cobbled yard, searching his pockets for a stray coin for the stable lad. “Not any at the Grange at the moment, but I’ve recently met a few who live in the neighborhood. Anyone specific, or is this a general request?”
“Oh, she’s specific. Caroline by name.”
“As long as she’s not named Agnes.”
Chapter 16
The incident in the taproom spread from the village to the outlying houses overnight. Embellishments to the story reached epic proportions by Saturday. Loyal personal maid, Smith, couldn’t hide reddened eyes and a nose made ruddy and shiny from weeping. Everyone in the household kept the tales from Mrs. Bradford, but by Sunday, there would be no avoiding it.
Humiliation convinced Agnes to not attend Sunday service. Her mother would first respond with a vehement rebuttal when the first person dared to speak of it, most likely Mrs. Marston. After her mother’s protective reaction calmed, Agnes would be forced to admit that there was some truth to the gossip. How she would explain, and how much, she couldn’t face just yet.
When called to join her mother and the servants on the short walk to church, Agnes told her mother that she had a headache. More time was needed to repair shattered courage. For this morning, she felt it best to avoid facing community censure, the furtive whispers about her conduct, the possible condemnation. Most wouldn’t openly insult the sister of their local hero, but she would sense it all around, feel keenly their thoughts of disgust, the sly sideways glances, the smirks and quickly concealed sneers.
Pacing her room didn’t help. She picked up a book of sermons but couldn’t concentrate on the theme. She went to the window to watch her mother walk with the servants down the lane to the church. A wave of impatience with her weakness rolled through her soul. How unforgivably pathetic she’d become. Suppressing and denying emotions only served to keep them dammed up until they overflowed.
She took down a bonnet from the wardrobe shelf, swiftly tied it on and went out. She lagged behind the group ahead, not wanting to enter with parishioners or sit with her family at the front of the church in the Loverton family pew.
The bells had ceased ringing when she stepped inside, the service already begun. A pew at the back was empty. She slid into place and reached for a hymnal. She’d found the place in the opening hymn when a large presence took a place next to her. Heart pounding, she watched his gloved hand place a Bible in the empty slot where the hymnal had rested.
Max had a magnificent sounding bass. Vibrant, it filled the space around them with mellow beauty. He broke off to lean down to whisper, “So glad you saved a space. Didn’t want to make a fuss by going down the aisle late.”
She continued to face forward, managed a nod and a stiff smile. He resumed his place in the hymn with the ease of a regular attendee. His melodic voice helped to soothe her, calm the dread of what might happen if she didn’t leave the church before the service ended, one of the reasons for sitting so near the entrance. He might hold her back to talk the pleasantries usually shared after service.
It proved impossible to pay attention until the homily started, based on the 23rd Psalm. The words kept revolving in her head, the promise that the Lord would be her Shepherd. She desperately needed those still waters, the guidance. She hadn’t realized how much of the sermon she’d missed until Max stood to sing the closing hymn. As she got to her feet, she swiped at a tear in a way that would look as if she brushed aside a stray hair.
Max began to sing again, this time without a hymnal. She debated how to get around him to leave before the benediction. Another tear crept down her cheek. That had to stop.
During the second verse, he startled her by wrapping his large hand around her wrist. His strength poured through her cuff and glove, spreading throughout her body, sinking to the bone. She swallowed. The hymnal she held in her left hand trembled a bit, making her grateful that he didn’t let go of his bracing grasp. So tall, straight-backed and as solid as a wall, he supported her without leaning against her, just with his steady hold on her wrist.
Before the last verse, she tugged for release. He looked down and she indicated with a gesture of her chin that she wanted to leave. He stepped out into the aisle and took her arm before she could escape. He held her still at the door, pausing as the benediction was given, then opened the door for her, following her out.
On the steps, he asked, “Are you ill?”
“No. I wish to be off before the parishioners congregate out here. They always do after service.”
“Very well, but I will walk you home.”
“That isn’t necessary. My mother and the servants—
“If you would wait just around the church corner, on the path that leads through the cemetery. That’s the way I came. I must say something to the minister. Will you wait there? We really must talk.”
She nodded and hurried up the path as the bells pealed and the doors opened. As she went around the corner, she glimpsed him greeting the minister, speaking with him, which he must of course do as the most prominent person in the county. She didn’t look forward to the subject he wished to discuss. It could be nothing else than what had occurred in the taproom and the inn.
Chapter 17
Max found her at the edge of the cemetery near a gate. She stood over a gravestone etched with her family name.
When he halted by her side, she explained, “My grandfather.” She waved to her right. “The rest of th
e Bradfords are over there. Where is your Bible?”
He glanced back at the church. “Must have forgotten it in the pew.”
They began to walk. The sun had decided to appear from behind clouds the color of slate. The subject of what had happened at the inn stretched tension between them. He felt cowardly for not breaking through it with a truthful discussion. He fell back on a safe topic. “Your family has lived here for a long time then?”
“Father’s side. Mother’s family is from the Stirling area.”
“If you wouldn’t mind my asking, how is it that your brother wasn’t in line for the title? You and Cameron share the Blayne eyes, and he looks more like the gallery portraits than I do.”
“Ah, yes. I forget that you weren’t born here. We in the district rarely give much thought to the other side of the blanket activities of prior barons.”
Max nodded. “I thought as much. So it really isn’t a ‘your family or mine’ sort of thing. We’re related on both sides. Nothing too recent, I take it?”
“No. Perhaps first cousins a hundred years ago. I’ve never bothered to pay much attention, especially since Cameron was not in line. There are more interesting activities and topics.”
Gathering his courage, Max touched her hand to signal her to stop. A ray of sunlight lit her lashes and glinted in her eyes when she looked up. The sweet curve of her cheek made his heart ache and stopped the words in his throat.
She tilted her head. Her smile looked forced, her expressive eyes bleak. “Is something amiss? May I help you in some way?”
Fortitude. This must be done. Perhaps she would forgive him. He forced the confession out. “Miss Bradford, I’ve done an unconscionable act in which I have connected your name with mine in an utterly false manner.”
Sadness darkened her gaze. She started to lift her gloved hand to his then returned it to her side. “The incident at the tavern. Yes, I heard.”
He closed his eyes, bowed his head. It was worse than he thought. She knew. Of course, she knew. Village and servant gossip spread in an instant, but Lark hadn’t said a word. He doubted that any of the staff at the Grange would.
“Miss Bradford, my behavior did not bring a favorable light to my position, nor my place in the community. More importantly, it was done so clumsily that your name was involved.”
She started walking. “My lord, you have the impression that you acted shamefully, when from my understanding, you made an attempt to champion my reputation.”
“You make it sound valiant, ma’am, when it was not.”
An electric frisson tingled down his spine when she laughed, a gentle, deliciously female sound. “And you suffer the impression that you did not comport yourself as a leader in the community should. Perhaps you might keep in mind that many in the peerage harbor no scruples in that regard.”
“Because others do not take pride in proper behavior doesn’t mean I should follow their example. I was reared to believe that women made the rules and men were duty bound to enforce them.”
She paused to stare up at him, eyes wide with amazement. “Truly? What a radical idea. Are all women in America extended this respect?”
“No. I was greatly influenced by the indigenous people. Father Berger believed in a well-rounded education. He agreed with my natural father regarding diversity.”
“You’re saying that you were mentored by Indians.”
“I lived with the Oneida for a time. Father Berger held the opinion that an understanding of their culture would help me in politics.”
“Oneida? I’ve never heard of them.”
“One of the two Iroquois nations who sided with the Colonists, but we’ve strayed from the reason I wished to speak to you alone.”
She started walking again, her head down so that the edge of her bonnet concealed her face. In a congested voice, she quickly said, “We could pretend the incident never happened, couldn’t we?”
“No, ma’am. That would not do. Will you please stop and look at me?”
The worry swimming in her gaze twisted his heart. He felt his facial muscles tighten. Emotions of any sort turned his face to stone. He couldn’t help it and hoped his expression didn’t frighten her. It took all of his concentration to say what he had to say and not make a bungle of it. Agnes deserved so much more—someone with her talents and refinement.
When her worry melted into a pitying smile, he had to quell the urge to pull her into his arms, explain with words of tenderness about his love, but that would be as inappropriate and crude as his actions had been at the tavern. And more to the point, impossible to achieve. He didn’t know how to construe a pretty speech, but he had to try.
“Miss Bradford, I beg you to forgive me for taking the liberty of aligning your name with mine without your permission.”
Now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop. “You must know that I hold you in the highest regard. I most heartily beg your forgiveness for overstepping. If your brother were here, I have no doubt that he would call me to task in the strictest manner.”
The tenderness of her expression then the gentle resolve within her reply choked off the rest of his explanation. “My lord, it is quite a good thing that Cameron has gone to fetch his Allison. He would have championed me also, but I fear he would have done so in a method more deadly. He is not the brother I knew. His sojourn in captivity hardened his heart in some ways. It is quite likely that Lord Vernam’s body would have been found drifting with the tide or sprawled on the shore, having taken an inadvertent fall from a cliff.”
All he could do was stare down at her and struggle to find his way. Her candor, her complete understanding and acceptance of her brother left him boggled. Women didn’t usually comprehend what drove men to do and act how they did. She not only understood, she had more concern for losing her brother’s company than the extreme violence Cameron was capable of executing when provoked to protect his family.
She started walking again. “All is well, my lord, and I release you from any obligation you might be feeling or from any constraint in which you find yourself due to rescuing my honor.”
He matched his pace to hers. “It was poorly done, but what if I do not wish to be released?”
There, he’d confessed it. Heart in his throat, he waited.
Instead of answering his abysmal attempt to propose, she walked faster. A few strides brought him beside her, but he didn’t know how to proceed. Desperation swelled inside his chest. What a clumsy oaf. The veriest clod would’ve done a better job of it.
They walked in silence but the strain that stretched between them screamed a demand for relief. When the lane to Oakland came into view, desperation got the better of him.
“Miss Bradford, please, even though that was a clumsy attempt at making a proposal, would you do me the courtesy of an answer?”
She halted, looking down, still hiding her face. “You are serious, sir?”
“Decidedly so.”
Her voice sounded unfamiliar when she gruffly replied, “Sir, you do me too much honor. I thank you most sincerely, but must ask you to please, please not feel obligated.”
“Miss Bradford, Agnes, it has nothing to do with obligation.”
“But I must tell you something—”
He reached for her hand. “You must allow me to finish. I know I’ve made a hash of this, and if you’ll permit, I’ll start over. Get down on a knee, try to explain my heart, although I’m sure I’ll make a mess of that as well. Dash it all, but I have no skill at this, no experience.”
She gently withdrew her hand from his clasp. Her watery laugh stunned him to stillness. He felt like a fool standing on the edge of the road, sun glaring down. His determination returned, and he removed his hat. “Miss Agnes, I’m not making a jest. My feelings are most sincere.”
When she looked up, her cheeks were wet, her extraordinary eyes still spilling tears. “I’m so sorry. It’s just that it’s all so absurd. You saying that you had no experience at this, as if you were expected
to extend proposals to any number of females. Well, I expect that you may have not, but don’t you know that you appear to be the most self-assured man in the world? You positively shriek confidence, and here you are, trying to make me feel better by acting in the opposite. My lord, it isn’t necessary.”
His reply was to drop his hat, grab her upper arms and lift her up to his mouth. Heaven, damnation, and surging passion were between her lips. Lush heat and delicious wet sweetness. He went there without hesitation, using his tongue as substitute for what he’d dreamt about day and night since first sight of her. She hung in his grasp, pliant and accepting. Or maybe immobilized by terror.
The horror of what he was doing slammed into his brain. He released her and stepped back, now distraught and clenching his teeth to hold flying emotions at bay.
Agnes stared up at him, eyes wide, her tempting lips parted and shiny. Lust roared through him again. He clenched his fists.
On the verge of another apology, he was interrupted when she whispered, “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
He started walking before she changed her mind. She stopped him when she called, “Loverton?”
Dazed, embarrassed, he slowly turned. She joined him, extending his hat. He thanked her with a sharp nod. Unable to speak, he held out his wrist. She elected not to place her hand there but to tuck her fingers into the crook of his elbow instead. He snuggled her hand against his side and sternly told himself to not get emotional. Say nothing, but as always when around her, he couldn’t stay quiet.
He cleared his throat, struggled to sound rational. “I believe it’s customary to have the banns read at one’s parish church.”
“That is correct.”
Was that a smile he heard in her voice? He didn’t dare look or he’d cave and start kissing her again.
“Then, Agnes, if you have no objections, I shall ask the vicar to do so.”
“No objections whatsoever.”
“Excellent. And I presume your mother would like to take part in the arrangements.”
“How well you know Mother. Do you wish to start another portrait or wait until…later? After?”