Her gaze clear and direct, Lydia gave a small, defeated smile. “Perhaps we should face the truth. We won’t ever be able to wed. Fate’s been against us from the onset.”
“I think it best if we wait to worry over that issue until I’ve seen Searón and the lad. I’ll leave within the hour, but I expect I’ll return by the end of the week. Or the beginnin’ of next.” Vise-like dread cramped his gut, far more for leaving Lydia than seeing his wayward wife after eight years.
Who would protect Lydia while he was away? He didn’t trust anyone other than himself to properly guard her. Until Ross had been captured and imprisoned, Alasdair couldn’t put his mind at ease. He’d ask his men to be extra vigilant.
“I’m positive that will relieve Da. Your decision to return, that is. I’m not sure what reason I’ll give for your absence. Unless you want me to tell him the truth?” A hint of anger lingered ’round the tattered fringes of her words. She hadn’t forgiven her father yet, and no small wonder. Likely, she wouldn’t for some time. Nonetheless, she loved him and wouldn’t cause Farnsworth undue distress in his weakened state.
“No sense worryin’ him unduly. Simply tell him Ewan summoned me regardin’ an urgent matter.” Alasdair permitted a ghost of a smile. A long-lost wife and secret child certainly qualified.
Throwing her tangled hair over her shoulder, she appeared deep in thought, her lips pressed tight and her brow furrowed. She cut him a somewhat distracted sidelong look. “Do you suppose McLeon would train my—the men while you’re gone? I feel quite certain he and Lennox could manage the task between them. Unless you think they haven’t any more need of training. In which case, you needn’t hurry back until Da—”
She swallowed audibly. “Well, ye ken.”
Alasdair framed her delicate jaw between his forefinger and thumb. “I promise, I’ll be back, Lydia. Nothin’ can keep me away from ye. Ye must ken I love ye.”
Tears welled in her almond-shaped eyes, a shade somewhere between sage green and umber at the moment. As unpredictable as she, they changed color depending on her mood and what she wore.
“I ken, Alasdair.” She blinked her tears away. “And I love ye too.”
She did?
“I oughtn’t to, I know. You’re married, and it’s wrong. And I did try so very hard not to fall in love with you.” She bent her mouth wistfully. “I seem unable to resist you.”
He swept her off her feet, lifting her high against his chest and pressed his face into her shoulder’s fragrant curve. “Then we will be together. I vow it to ye. Yer my heart, my passion, and I canna live my life without ye.”
Lydia twined her arms around his neck, clutching him to her. “I shall wait for you. No matter how long it takes. I shall wait. And no matter what Da decided about his successor, I shall be at your side.”
He slid her down his length before capturing her mouth in a blazing kiss. With each nip of teeth, and tangling of tongues against the velvety, honeyed cavern of her mouth, he conveyed his adoration and devotion.
She eagerly returned his kisses, sliding her fingers into his hair and dislodging the ribbon. Holding his head fast, she peppered his face with short, hot kisses, her breath warm and sweet.
Resting his forehead against hers, he ran his hands up and down her spine. “There’s nothin’ we canna overcome to be together, Lydia. Nothin’. Promise me ye’ll take guards with ye when ye leave the house. Until yer uncle be locked away—hopefully, for good—I shall fear fer yer safety.”
She nodded slowly, toying with his collar. “I shall, though I don’t think we’ll see him again. He’s greedy, but he was also terrified that night. I’ll be bound he’s decided to put as much distance between Tornbury, and us, as he humanly can. I doubt he was ever in Da’s chamber.”
“I wish I could be as certain, but I nae be.” Lifting her chin, he touched the small, square tip. “Given the events of today, I’d advise ye to go ahead and dismiss Jinnah at once. If Ross did get inside, she’s likely the culprit who aided him.”
“All right.” A sudden breeze ruffled both their hair, tangling his blond tresses with her dark strands, and she laughed softly before sighing and stepping from his embrace. “We should return. Da may have sent for one or both of us, and you must be on your way if you hope to make Craiglocky before nightfall.”
Taking her hand, he entwined her fingers with his as they swung toward the path. “I’ll miss ye, lass.”
A few feet down from the collapsed former pathway, he leapt onto the embankment.
Lydia accepted his extended palm, and light as a child, he lifted her to solid ground.
“Alasdair?”
“Aye, my darlin’?”
She blushed, a delightful rosy hue tinting her high cheekbones. “I rather like it when you call me that.”
“Then I shall every time we be together.” Reclaiming her hand, he steered them along the trail. He ought to hurry, but each step closer to the manor meant the sooner he’d have to leave her.
“Alasdair?” she said again, a tinge of hesitancy coloring her voice. “If the time comes and you’re a free man, I should like a proper proposal.”
Scooping her to his side, he planted a possessive kiss on her parted lips. “And ye shall have one. Complete with me kneeling before ye, worshiping ye like a Roman goddess.”
“I’d be satisfied with you actually asking me to be your wife.”
From the corner of his eye, he slanted her a doubtful look. “I’ve already asked ye.”
She shook her head, a smile teasing her plump lower lip. “No. You haven’t. True, we’ve discussed it, at length, but you’ve never actually asked me to marry you.”
He opened his mouth, but she quickly placed two fingers over his lips.
“Not now. When we can actually wed. Then it will be real.”
Such a little romantic.
He pressed her fingers to his mouth and kissed the pads. “Aye. I’ll wait until I be a free man.”
An hour later, the sun high in the sky, Alasdair kicked Errol’s sides and galloped from Tornbury Fortress. Lydia stood on the stoop, the picture of poised serenity, her hands clasped before her. Nonetheless, her eyes, those mysterious, intelligent pools, gave her distress away.
He would return. No force on heaven or earth could prevent him doing so.
Rounding the bend that would take her from his sight, he glanced over his shoulder and waved his hand high in the air.
She waved back then slowly turned and walked into the house, her dejection tangible even at this distance. She’d not had an easy time of it, far harder than his life. Nevertheless, still she remained sweet and hopeful.
Today, though, might mean the end of her optimism.
Thoughts of her, her breathtaking smile, her lilting voice, the sheen of her raven hair, her incomparable spirit, kept him entertained the duration of his journey to Craiglocky.
As the sun gently kissed the horizon adieu, Errol trotted across Craiglocky’s drawbridge. Before Alasdair had dismounted, his parents, Gregor, and Ewan appeared at the gatehouse entrance, their expressions disturbingly bland.
So, they’d been watching for him.
Did that bode well or the reverse?
Likely Searón and her son’s arrival had set the castle tit over arse in commotion and confusion, since no one but his immediate family knew of her existence.
He’d rather have liked to have been here to see the hullabaloo.
Ewan reached him first, and slapped him on the shoulder. “Thank you for coming straightaway.”
“Yer summons didna leave me much choice.” Alasdair dutifully pecked the cheek his mother slanted upward. “Mother, Father.”
Gregor’s lopsided grin seemed half-hearted and forced. “Even I admit I be glad to see yer ugly face.”
�
�Since yers looks almost identical to mine, I suppose I canna take too much offense.” Alasdair embraced his twin then stretched his spine. “Well, which of ye has been delegated to fill me in on the sordid details?”
Ewan cupped his nape, veering a wary look. “We thought we all should.”
All four, hmm? So, they’d needed reinforcements.
Interesting. And troublesome.
“That bad, be it?” Trepidation marched across Alasdair’s shoulders.
What had Searón brought with her?
The black death? Typhus? Scarlet Fever?
Mother looped her hand through his arm and guided him up the steps.
His boots echoed hollowly on the centuries old, weather-worn stones. Odd he’d never noticed that before.
“Searón’s dying, Alasdair,” Mother said softly, leaning into him as if she wanted to offer comfort but wasn’t sure it was appropriate or needed. “Doctor Paterson has already been to see her, and there’s nothing he can do.”
Thank God, they hadn’t called her his wife.
Searón had stopped being that years ago, in his mind at least, and apparently in theirs as well.
“I assume she’s diseased?” He tried to summon some regret, some sorrow for her, for the pitiful way her life would end. However, relief, profound and immediate was his first response, immediately followed by profound guilt for his selfishness.
There’d be no scandalous divorce now, and by God, no mourning for a year either before he wed Lydia. He’d not pretend sorrow nor bow to mourning protocol. His wife had died, in his heart and mind, years before.
“It’s the pox, Dair, and she be far gone. It be a wonder she made it to Craiglocky alive.” Gregor searched the castle’s bailey, his attention resting on the stable for a lengthy moment. “The boy tied her to a pony, then led the pathetic beast from Inverness, askin’ fer directions and beggin’ fer food fer her, himself, and the beast along the way.”
“Aye. He’s a resourceful laddie. Smart and brave too. He said he sold every last possession they owned, includin’ his one pair of shoes to buy the animal.”
Likely some unconscionable cur had taken advantage of the whelp.
“I presume the child has a name?” Alasdair hid a wide yawn behind his hand. Two hours of sleep didna begin to suffice.
All four stopped and stared.
Father nodded and scratched a bushy eyebrow. “Aye. He be named Alasdair, though she calls him Al. And he be the spittin’ image of ye and yer brother as lads.”
Chapter 25
Lydia blew out a soft breath and pulled the shawl knotted across her chest a mite snugger as she surveyed the toasty kitchen.
Normally the scent of fresh oat bread and drying savory herbs enveloped her in nostalgic comfort, but today, her mind kept straying to Alasdair.
Gone but a week and she missed him dreadfully. And if she were completely honest, an onslaught of guilt had buffeted her since his departure. The more she considered their relationship, the more self-condemnation assailed her.
She coveted another woman’s husband.
Although inarguably justified in seeking a divorce, Alasdair oughtn’t to have become involved with her until he’d been made free from that encumbrance.
Not that Lydia placed the blame entirely at his feet, or at his feet at all. To do so would’ve been most unfair. She’d done nothing to discourage him, and had, in fact maneuvered the situation so he agreed to come to Tornbury.
Then again, life offered no guarantees, did it? And moments ought to be seized and cherished while they may, should they not?
Her brothers’ and Mother’s deaths—Esme’s parents, too—as well as Da’s rapidly deteriorating health confirmed that wretched truth.
Should two people, loving one another passionately and completely, ignore the blessing they’d been given? Weren’t they entitled to happiness, and shouldn’t they seize it while they may?
So says every man and woman trying to justify an illicit association.
Bah!
She vacillated like a clock’s pendulum—one moment wreathed in smiles and the next, wallowing in the blue devils.
For now, she’d tuck her guilt into a dark corner, and there it would lurk until Alasdair returned and they better knew what their future together heralded.
If they had a future together.
That dismal thought was promptly shoved into the same dank, remote niche as her remorse.
She twisted her mouth.
He’d not returned at the end of the week or the beginning of the next as he’d promised. No letter had arrived explaining his delay either.
What exactly had Alasdair found when he reached Craiglocky?
Why had his wife shown up after so many years? Probably not for any positive reason.
Was the child his?
Lydia hoped so. She truly did.
To know Searón mightn’t have killed their child after all surely brought him peace and joy. Verifying the parentage might prove a trifle difficult, however.
“Would ye care fer a cup of tea, Miss Lydia?” Anice, her graying hair secured beneath a cheerful blue cap, bobbed her head toward the cast iron stove. “I’ve the kettle on, and I’ve just sliced some black bun. I’d been saving it for a special occasion, but thought it might tempt the laird. It’s one of his favorites.”
His very favorite, truth to tell.
Anice’s troubled gaze flitted to the full tray Lydia had just set on the table.
“Yes, that would be lovely.” Lydia sank into one of the scuffed and scratched servants’ chairs paralleling either side of a long table upon which sat Da’s untouched tray.
Again.
Despondent and withdrawn, he hadn’t eaten enough to sustain a wraith since Alasdair left. Almost certainly that meant he’d left Tornbury Fortress to Ewan McTavish.
In her core, she feared the obvious, that Da had given up. He’d no more fight left in his frail form, no reserves in his defeated spirit.
All his clever planning and engineering had been for naught, and his greatest wish—that his clan and lairdship would carry on after he’d passed—had been thwarted.
It wouldn’t have been if he’d named me laird.
Ah, but too much had hinged on that, hadn’t it?
Primarily his lack of confidence in her as a female.
Her once vibrant and fierce father had shrunk into the doldrums, a feeble and pasty shadow of the warrior he’d once been.
Only once had she attempted to broach the subject.
He’d shut his eyes, turned his haggard face away, and in a paper-thin voice that the slightest breeze could tear asunder, whispered, “The matter be settled. There’ll be nae more discussion.”
He wreaked such anger and grief within her, and they warred, ferocious and determined, each fighting for supremacy.
Neither would win.
Lydia wouldn’t permit them their hard-won victory.
She would cherish this meager, treasured time with her father.
If she permitted disappointment to turn her surly and unforgiving, regret would tinge every day of her life after he was gone. She refused to entertain that nonsense.
Hope gave her strength.
Not that Da would live; he was in God’s hands now, and nothing she could do or say would change the outcome. Denying he had little time left and crying pails of tears changed nothing either.
Nor did an iota of hope remain that she’d be Tornbury’s laird. And honestly, after she’d gotten beyond the initial upset, relief had filled her.
The role wasn’t one she’d ever sought.
No, her hope rested in Alasdair’s return, and that someday, maybe months or years from now, they’d become man and wife.
Taki
ng in the kitchen’s familiar bustle, each item neatly stowed in its proper place, the serviceable, sturdy dishes stacked in the open cupboards, a budding smile tugged her mouth.
Maybe not here, any longer.
Lydia wasn’t sure where they’d live, but as long as they were together, did it matter? She loved Alasdair, more than she’d ever loved Flynn. And she would wait. For as long as it took.
Anice sprinkled a dark spice into something delicious smelling in a pot simmering atop the cookstove. She slowly stirred the contents, expertly adding another dash. “Have the last of the contenders departed, then, Miss Lydia?”
“Yes, the last left yesterday.” Stating Da’s ailing health as the reason, Lydia had cancelled the competition. Its purpose no longer existed, and she wanted the extra men gone and for Tornbury to return to a somewhat normal state.
Most had taken the news in stride.
However, a few of the more belligerent expressed their dissatisfaction. A stern glare from McLeon or Lennox sufficed to send the grumbling discontents promptly on their way, their entry fees refunded and stowed somewhere on their person.
Gordon would’ve loved to have seen her forced to marry one of their ilk, probably the reason he’d convinced Da to hold the competition to start with.
The McTavish men would remain on for the time being, but they’d leave soon enough too. Ewan McTavish had never promised them to Tornbury for the long term, and Lydia hadn’t the faintest notion what he’d decide to do when Tornbury became his.
It wasn’t her worry any longer.
The knowledge proved rather liberating. Perhaps she and Alasdair would travel together. Mum had left her a tidy amount, and Da might bequeath her something as well.
If not? She lifted a shoulder. Well, they’d make do.
Perusing the cozy kitchen once more, she smiled at Bernard neatly nibbling a chicken bone in the corner.
Passion and Plunder Page 19