Forget Me Not

by Melissa Lynne Blue

  Her golden brown eyes, soft and radiant, lifted without warning to lock on his. His heart stopped cold in his chest, the passage of time ceased, and he knew the all too familiar sense of being sucked into the vast oblivion of her eyes. God help him he wanted her, had to remind himself to breathe for his entire body forgot even the most basic of functions in her presence.

  When he looked into those honey butter eyes naught but the sweetest innocence reflected back to him. For years he’d told himself that coming face to face Lydia Covington—the woman he’d never manage to banish from his dreams—would shatter what remained of the illusion of her. Instead all desire intensified. Her hard headed vulnerability made it all the worse. After their brief encounter years before he’d tried over and again to convince himself the sense of falling in love was nothing more than an orphan’s romantic fancy, but to no avail. Watching her now the ache in his loins, be it from love or lust—with lust being the far more logical of the two—grew unbearably. If she proved to be the wanton flirt she’d behaved as four years ago he’d never manage to return her to Sir William intact. The act of such self-control would be deserving of sainthood. He was not prone to such acts.

  “Brian?”

  The combination of her sweet lilting voice and watching her perfectly plump lips form his name drove him to the brink… mind, body… perhaps even his soul was affected by the mere sound of her voice.

  “Brian? Is everything all right?”

  “We should be goin’,” he barked gruffly. Executing a crisp about face, he marched straight through the icy stream. If the winter runoff chilling the waters didn’t dampen the heat and throbbing in his trousers, nothing would. By Christ I’m in trouble.

  “What will we do next, Mr. Donnelly?”

  “Would ye stop callin’ me that?” he barked testily. “My name is Brian. Brian. Ye used me Christian name not thirty seconds ago. Please continue to do so. I hate to be called mister or sir.”

  “Very well, Brian,” she overemphasized so sarcastically he could imagine her eyes rolling. “Now, will you please tell me what you plan to do next?”

  He scrubbed a hand through his hair, chancing a glance in her direction. “I’ve not figured it all out yet,” he replied, glad for the distracting chatter. “I would like to travel as discreetly as possible back into central England. We don’t know who to trust and I’ll not take any chances with yer safety.”

  Lydia fell into stride to the left and slightly behind him. He could feel her there.

  She sighed gustily, and by damn he could feel that too. “Do you have any idea what is going on at Wheaton Abbey? You spend considerably more time there than I do, and I just cannot seem to wrap my head around any of what’s happened to us. I’ve never been shot at before.” The last was little more than a whisper.

  Brian glanced back to her, and unwittingly his heart softened. Lydia had calmed considerably after the chance to drink from the stream and splash water on her face, but the poor girl still looked stricken. Her milky skin was a shade too pale, her eyes drawn and tired. The world as she knew it had been thrown into upheaval. It struck him suddenly just how fragile she was… fragile and completely vulnerable. Lydia needed him in a way none ever had before…

  Oh, but he didn’t want to see her that way. Didn’t want to see her susceptibility or perceive her as delicate and breakable. Once that door opened he’d start to care, and not just about seeing her safely home, but about her. He didn’t want to care about her. Not anymore. All he wanted was to remind himself that she was nothing but an exceptionally spoiled chit—her insistence in running away proved that—who’d found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  But, in this moment, gazing into the warm liquid pools of her eyes his mind wouldn’t listen to reason.

  Lydia watched him expectantly. “Is there a reason we’ve stopped walking?”

  “Pardon?” Stopped? What was the girl talking about? They hadn’t sto— Brian tore his gaze away from her face to glance around the wood. Instead of walking in a southerly direction just in front of Lydia he had in fact stopped and turned to face her. Hell, Donnelly, you’re a blithering idiot! All the lass need do is look at you and you can’t manage to walk and talk at the same time. “Er, I was just, uh, checkin’ to be sure we’re headed in the right direction.”

  She gave him a queer look, tilted her face to the sky, and finally looked back to him. “Are we headed in the right direction?” More than a hint of skepticism laced her tone.

  “Of course. Shall we keep movin’ then?” He held out an arm, cursing his green behavior, and fell into stride beside her. “Now, to answer yer question—” What had she asked him about? “I’m not entirely certain what happened at the Abbey last night, though I am comin’ to believe Felix Keith is more dangerous than I have given him credit for in past dealings. Crooked as the moon is sure he is, but I never thought him to be more than a petite, hands off, sort of criminal.”

  “What sort of past dealings?”

  “I came to work fer your father a little over nine months ago in his stables. Keith was a frequent visitor. At first I didn’t think much of it, but as time went on I realized how much of the staff seemed to answer to Keith. After a couple of months I saw Keith paying a few of the men I worked with though I never knew for what.”

  “Did you never ask?”

  “Too many questions can cause a world of hurt, Miss Lydia. I’ve learned it often behooves a body to keep his eyes open but his mouth shut.”

  “Oh.” She seemed to contemplate the statement. “Did it work for you?”

  “Aye,” he nodded. “Three months ago I was approached by Roark about an opportunity to work for Felix Keith. Roark waved a heavy purse beneath me nose and said that Mr. Keith paid well for loyalty. I asked what type of loyalty, but in order to find out I was required to complete a series of tasks, and be deemed worthy of Mr. Keith’s employment. Needless to say I forwent the opportunity.”

  Her gaze locked seriously with his, worry dampened her eyes. “Do you think my father or the viscount could be involved?”

  Brian released a weighty sigh. “That I cannot tell ye, lass. Never did I see yer father conspirin’ with any of the men I knew to be Keith’s, at least not in anythin’ more than an everyday manner. On a personal note I do not believe yer father part of the criminal activities. He is an honorable man. As for Lord Northbridge, to be perfectly honest, and please, Miss Lydia, forgive my baldness, but his lordship has always seemed a rather dull sort.” Brian trained a handful of the viscount’s horses as well as Sir William’s.

  A burst of laughter escaped Lydia, she clasped a hand over her mouth. “I couldn’t agree with you more. The category of his interests seems to encompass his horses, his dogs, and, well, his dogs. Did you know when he speaks to me he uses one word commands, sit,” she masked her voice with a gruff quality,” or, stay? On occasion he might say sit, Miss Covington.” She smiled though the gesture did not reach her eyes. “As if I am one of his dogs.”

  “I say, deplorable manners for a man of such breeding.” He tried to smile at her humor, but it tweaked his conscious to no end that the man obviously had no appreciation for this woman. Spoiled or no Lydia possessed an excellent sense of humor. Hell, this little adventure may not be so bad if they could laugh a bit. “In any case, I know a man who may be able to help us, he lives near Wheaton Abbey.” He chanced a glance over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth quirked in a wry smile. “However, my first priority is finding you some suitable attire, unless of course you’d prefer to traipse along in your boy’s clothes.

  Eyes flashing with good humor, she hurried to match stride alongside him. “Some real clothing would be exceedingly preferable, but how do you propose we acquire said items seeing as we have no funds or supplies?”

  He grinned down at her. “Do ye still have it in you to trust me?”

  “I do,” she replied without hesitation, his heart warmed to hear such.

  “Then know I am not witho
ut my ways.” Squinting playfully into her eyes, he displayed both hands for her to see before brushing the right behind her ear and brandishing a silver coin.

  Her eyes widened with delight as she took the coin from his fingers.

  “I say, Miss Lydia, you rich girls are fairly drippin’ with money.”

  She giggled. “Very funny, Mr. Donnelly.”

  “Brian.”

  “Brian,” she conceded, biting her lip as though to conceal the grin spilling over her teeth. “Seeing as you can pull money from thin air I wonder if I couldn’t trouble you for some more suitable shoes.” She stuck out the heel of her battered brown boot. “I’m afraid these old boots don’t fit quite right.”

  “Unfortunately my talents are limited to smaller items such as coins, but I vow to have ye properly shod, clothed, and fed before the day is out. We can’t be havin’ ye with blisters on yer feet.” He winked before turning his attention back to the terrain.

  “Brian?” she asked hesitantly. “Why are you doing this for me?” He looked back, directly into her raised eyes, and the swirling emotion he saw there caused his breath to catch. The air was thick with it. “You have risked your life to save mine, even when I proved more a hindrance than help, and I don’t know how to thank you for all you’ve done.”

  “No need for thanks. Any man would have done the same.”

  “No,” she breathed, “no, any man would not.”

  A rocky incline lay just ahead, saving him from the need to make an immediate answer. He was terrified of letting the raw truth of his feelings for her shine through. A woman like her would laugh at him for daring to desire her. She was to be a viscountess. Her station ranked so far above him it was a wonder she didn’t float above the grass. Reaching back he took her hand to help her across the incline, trying to ignore the warmth of her small fingers encased in his.

  “Now could I trouble you with a question, Miss Lydia?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Why are ye so intent upon runnin’ away?”

  She cast him a wary glance. “From now on I am making decisions for myself. I’m tired of being treated like a child.”

  A bark of hearty laughter escaped him. “And runnin’ away is yer idea of makin’ an adult decision?” He shook his head.

  She swatted irritably at the hand he extended to assist her over a drainage ditch, and glared. “No one takes me seriously. I wanted to start a new life.”

  “What? Marryin’ some high and mighty lord wasn’t grand enough? Just what sort of life were ye plannin’ to start in Scotland?”

  “I’ll have you know I planned to secure a governess position.”

  “A workin’ woman. Really? And who would hire the delinquent daughter of a powerful man?”

  A brilliant hue flamed to life in her cheeks. At least three shades of red. He rather enjoyed seeing her blush.

  “Ye hadn’t thought about that had ye?”

  The scarlet in her cheeks trickled down her neck and up into her hairline.

  Victory, he’d successfully called her bluff. “Miss Lydia, if ye want people to stop treatin’ ye like a child—” He paused for emphasis. “—don’t act like one.”

  “Oh!” Her brow arced regally. “How dare you presume to lecture me about matters you know nothing about? For your information I did have a plan, and money hidden away. You would never understand why I chose to leave, why I have no desire to marry Lord Northbridge or any other ‘high and mighty lord’ as you so aptly put it. Think what you will, sir, but I have no wish to discuss my childish behavior with you.”

  They stood not six inches apart glaring at one another in silence. After a long moment Lydia gave an imperial toss of her head, squared her shoulders, and swept past him as one squashing a bug beneath her shoe. It was official. He was beneath her notice.

  For hours the two of them trekked in silence through the woods paralleling the road their captors had likely driven along. Time and again he thought to apologize, but stubborn pride won out every time he began to open his mouth. Grudgingly he had to admit being impressed. Not once did Lydia protest to the pace or complain of the conditions, and few women of his acquaintance would have the moxie to ram a pitchfork through a grown man’s thigh. She seemed to trust in him completely, it was humbling and it was fostering an overwhelming need not to disappoint her.

  As the sun continued to travel across the afternoon sky Brian doubted his ability to fulfill the promise of food, clothing, and shelter before nightfall. He knew Lydia was tired and, if the ache in his belly was any indication, likely starving. More and more frequently he was required to prod her along to prevent her falling behind, she was much too delicate for this degree of hard travel. He shook his head, to think the lass planned to take off on horseback alone.

  “Wait here,” he commanded. “Stay in the trees.” He couldn’t believe his good fortune. A fork lay in the road just ahead. The battered remnant of a road sign was visible in the thick underbrush. With any luck it would direct them to the nearest village. He looked quickly left then right assuring no one was in the road and jogged to the sign. It was worn, the etching in the wood barely discernible, but if he was reading it correctly—

  “Where are we?” Lydia’s voice sounded directly behind him.

  His eyes rolled to the heavens. “Are ye capable of obeyin’ orders? I told you to wait in the trees, Lydia. It may not be safe in the open.”

  She crossed her arms, clearly indicating she didn’t particularly care what he told her. “Are we in Scotland?”

  “Not far from it. I gather we’re in Cumberland.”

  “Too bad.” A wan smile quirked her lips.

  “Why is that?”

  “I should have liked to say I’ve been outside of England.”

  “One day ye shall.” He winked, his damnably fickle heart softening once again. “If we take this fork we should come to a village err long. Are ye agreeable to a change in course?”

  “I’m agreeable to whatever gets us food and shelter before dark.”

  Within a quarter hour Brian came to be convinced there was in fact a God, and that he was smiling upon them. As his head crested a small rise a modest sheep farm with a charming stone cottage at the center came into view.

  “Oh, thank God,” Lydia mimicked his thoughts, and set off down the hill ahead of him.

  Within moments a man stepped through the front door of the charming stone cottage with an arm raised in greeting. “Good evening,” he called.

  “And to you, sir,” Brian returned, breathing a sigh of relief. Drawing closer to the man he could not shed an uncanny sense of familiarity.

  A grin split the man’s face. “Captain Donnelly? Is that you?”

  “Harvey Baker?” He shook his head in disbelief, striding eagerly forward to clasp the outstretched hand of his old friend. “I don’t believe this. I’d taken you for dead two years ago.”

  “It’ll take more than the French to do the likes of me in. Anna,” Harvey bellowed. “Come on out here, you’ll never believe who stumbled upon our doorstep.”

  A pretty blonde woman with a hint of gray about the ears appeared behind Harvey on the stoop. “Just what are you blathering on about old man? You’ll wake the neighbors with your racket.”

  “Neighbors woman? There isn’t another house within twenty miles.”

  “My point exactly.”

  Harvey rolled his eyes, and shot Brian a do you see what I have to put up with look. “Anna, I’d like you to meet the man I owe my very life, Brian Donnelly. Brian, my wife.”

  “Oh, my lord in heaven.” Anna’s hands flew to her mouth as she looked from her husband to Brian. “Mr. Donnelly, you have no idea how long I’ve waited to thank you for the safe return of my Harvey. I should never have survived without him.” Without warning she stepped forward, threw her arms around his neck, and planted a kiss square on his mouth.

  Brian laughed, unsure how else to respond to the open display of gratitude, and wiped a hand across his chin. �
��No thanks necessary I assure you, Mrs. Baker. Knowin’ Harvey the stories of our exploits have been embellished by half.” Stepping back he held an arm out to Lydia. “Please let me introduce—”

  “Lydia Donnelly.” She stepped into his arm, smiling sweetly, a mischievous twinkle lighting her eye. “His wife.”

  Chapter Four

  If Brian was perturbed by her declaration he made no indication. Instead he glanced at her, a flash of good humor—or, perhaps it was mischief—skimming the surface of his eyes. “My wife,” he repeated, clamping an arm about her waist.

  Lydia breathed a mental sigh of relief that he played along. She couldn’t have him introducing her as the future Viscountess of Northbridge or the daughter of General William Covington. Especially in her filthy boy’s outfit.

  “Ah, hell,” Harvey scoffed, “it’s too late to save you, Brian.”

  “That’ll be enough out of you, Mr. Baker.” Anna scowled at her husband before bestowing a dazzling smile on Brian. “Would you and your wife care to come inside, Mr. Donnelly?” Her eyes flicked the length of Lydia’s odd attire. Fortunately enough dust and mud caked the trousers to mask Lucas MacGregor’s blood stain. Briefly Anna’s gaze met Lydia’s, and while it didn’t convey open disapproval it was questioningly cool.

  Lydia gulped, leaning into Brian for strength.

  Brian gave her a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “That would be lovely, Mrs. Baker.”