by Cara Elliott
“Be careful,” he cautioned again as he checked the street once more time. “I shall see you tomorrow.”
She started to ease by him, but Alec gripped her arm. “Think over what I said, Caro. We shall talk more about it soon.”
“There is no need,” she whispered.
“Be assured, the discussion is far from over.”
Leaning back against the bedpillows, Caro slipped her bare feet beneath the coverlet and drew her knees to her chest. A hot bath had helped warm the chill from her bones, but feathering a sponge over her naked body had been an all too visceral reminder of Alec’s caresses. She had shocked her poor maid by bursting into tears as a soft trickle of lavender-scented soap suds had slid between her breasts.
Claiming fatigue, she had immediately retreated to her bedchamber after drying off. Though she had been forced to invent several bouncers to explain her appearance, that statement hadn’t been a lie. She had never felt so utterly exhausted.
But then, it wasn’t every day that one became entangled in a dangerous adventure and lost one’s virginity.
Not even Anna’s intrepid storybook heroine, Emmalina Smythe, had managed that feat.
Chuffing a sigh, Caro wasn’t sure whether she wanted to giggle or sob at the absurdity of it.
Oh, how she wished her sisters were here to counsel her and offer advice on the mysteries of men.
And sex.
She suspected that Anna had… well, the Devil Davenport had a very roguish reputation. And as for Olivia, the Earl of Wrexham was said to be a paragon of propriety, but he had a certain gleam in his eye that hinted he wasn’t quite as proper as people thought.
But it wasn’t their handsome faces that haunted her mind’s eye. It was the lean, chiseled visage of her very own Highland hero.
Alec, with his storm-blue eyes and red-gold hair. His fire-bright smile and brandy-warm kisses, both of which he kept so well hidden behind a mask of flinty reserve.
Men.
She huffed a frustrated sigh. The jumble of conflicting emotions they set off was all so confusing. Did it ever get any easier to understand the mysteries of the heart?
Despite her fatigue, Caro felt too unsettled for sleep to come. Kicking back the coverlet, she decided to seek solace in paper and pen. Writing a letter to Anna would be comforting just for the sense of connecting with her sister rather than seeking any specific advice. Though Anna was sharp enough that she would likely read between the lines and guess that Cupid’s arrow had struck the youngest Hellion of High Street.
Love.
Caro paused for a moment to look out the window at the sliver of moon hovering just above the dark silhouette of the trees. It looked so fragile, a tiny glimmering of pale, pearlescent light winking against such a vast stretch of midnight black.
Did it ever feel lost and lonely as it made its arc through the faraway stars? Did the diamond-bright pinpoints…
Ah, but that was a subject for a poem.
For now, however, she would content herself with writing a simple missive describing the stay in Bath.
As she took a seat at her desk and reached for her inkwell, Caro spotted the crumpled piece of paper she had fished out from the bosom of her gown. It was probably just an old bill from Alec’s bootmaker or a list for his wine merchant. Still, it bore the faint trace of his scent—that beguiling whiff of bay rum and earthy spice that made her heart give a tiny lurch.
She inhaled a gulp of air and held the breath in her lungs for a moment before going on.
“I am a hopeless romantic,” she murmured wryly as she smoothed out the crinkles, imagining Alec’s fingers touching the same small stretch of foolscap. Drawing it closer she peered down at the faint script.
Caro recognized his handwriting, but the penciled lines were smudged and hard to read. To make out the words, she shifted the paper nearer to the branch of candles.
Light flickered over the paper as she slowly deciphered the scribbles. It was… a poem?
She leaned in, nose now nearly touching the paper, and skimmed over the stanzas.
Yes, a poem.
Caro read it again, and then again. Not just a poem, but a wonderful poem. Lyrical. Imaginative. Provocative.
And most of all, passionate.
Pressing her palms to the page, she drew a long, measured breath. He had such an artistic nature and mischievous spirit to go along with his chiseled strength and steely principles.
It was achingly sad to see him keep so much of his true self bottled up inside.
Why did he do so?
When she had first learned of his marriage, Caro had feared that it was because his heart still belonged to his late wife. However, she was beginning to suspect that the answer was not so simple. Though it might be unfair, she decided that she would quiz Isobel more on his marriage, in order to understand what demons were holding him hostage.
Slowly, slowly, she folded the creased paper and slipped it into her notebook.
Despite the fact that the distance was back between them, that his heart was not hers, Caro refused to give up on Alec quite yet. Whatever else had come between them, they were still friends, and she was determined to make him acknowledge the better side of himself.
Yes, I will make him see that strength and steel aren’t diminished by laughter and love.
Love.
Caro knew he didn’t love her. But perhaps in freeing himself from the shackles of his unhappy past he would find someone to love—truly love—in the future.
Alec deserves no less.
And so do I.
She wouldn’t settle for embers, she vowed. Not when she wanted the blaze of fire-bright flames.
“I will find passion,” she promised herself in a low whisper. “I will find love.”
After all, poetry was all about believing that light was stronger than darkness.
Chapter Sixteen
Dragging himself out of bed, Alec padded toward the washstand, careful to keep his eyes averted from the cheval glass. He didn’t need a glance at his own reflection to know that he looked like Hell.
No doubt the sight would show that a pair of scarlet horns had sprouted up to crown his head during the long, sleepless night.
Shame sluiced over his skin as he splashed a handful of cold water over his face. The Devil’s Disciple—the warning ought to be tattooed on his forehead in matching red letters to frighten off innocents.
Caro hadn’t been frightened, whispered one of the dreadful demons who had taken up residence in his head.
She had been willing.
Even more reason to have exercised gentlemanly restraint, he shot back. But instead, he had behaved like a snabbering, selfish beast, letting lust get the better of him.
He hadn’t been just a beast, he had been a fool.
Seating himself at his dressing table, he raked a comb through his hair, trying not to dwell on how damnably disappointed he was in himself. What made it worse was that she seemed to see a much more admirable Alec McClellan dwelling inside him than he did, one who was capable of laughter and love and passion.
That man didn’t exist anymore.
Alec finally forced his gaze to confront the looking glass.
Or did he?
Uncertain of how to answer, he dressed for a day of riding and went down to breakfast.
Isobel looked up, but tactfully refrained from commenting on his haggard looks. “Cook has fixed a platter of your favorite Yorkshire ham, and there are eggs in the chafing dish, made just the way you like them.” Her eyes lingered on his face. “Would you prefer coffee instead of tea?”
“A potful, please,” he muttered. “Scalding hot and dark as Beelzebub’s heart.”
“My, my, aren’t you in a cheerful mood.” Arching her brows, she buttered a sultana muffin. “Caro has just sent around a note saying that she and Andy—that is, Lord Andover—are planning to take a picnic to the Abbey ruins this afternoon, and I am invited to join them. I was going to ask you to accompany us�
�” Another probing look as she took a nibble of her pastry. “But I think I shall reconsider.”
“Just as well,” Alec answered brusquely. “I have business to attend to in Weston.” Without looking her way, he slouched into his seat and began toying with his empty cup.
“Is there a reason that you are acting like a bear with a thorn stuck in his arse?”
“Aside from the fact that my sister was recently attacked by unknown assailants who may still be at large?”
“Alec, your concern and protective instinct is most admirable—”
He gave an inward wince at the word “admirable.”
“But firstly, we have agreed the attack was a random one and that the danger has passed,” went on Isobel. “Secondly, I am tougher and more resilient than you seem to think, especially now that I am nearly recovered from my illness.”
Alec had to admit that she looked in the first bloom of health. “That may be so. But until I am satisfied that the threat is truly over, I shall remain on guard.” Given Edward Thayer’s actions yesterday, it appeared that extra vigilance was in order. However, with Andover serving as her escort for the afternoon picnic, he felt she would be safe enough.
And Caro. Her courage and resourcefulness were undeniable, though he fervently hoped they would not be put to the test.
Pouring a cup of coffee from the steaming pot, he took a quick swallow, reminding himself that there was no need to worry. She would be alone with the antiquity only a scant hour or two before he contrived to join the excursion party. Then together they would find a hiding place for the stolen treasure until it could be returned to the Museum.
Which meant they would need to wander off on their own, for the others mustn’t have a clue as to what they were doing.
“You had better have something to eat,” counseled Isobel. “You are looking a little green around the gills.”
Alec forked a helping of eggs onto his plate. Perhaps he ought to wash it down with a dram of whisky to fortify himself for the coming meeting. The purloined eagle wasn’t the only serious issue they had to contend with. There was the matter of—
“Love,” intoned Isobel.
His head snapped up. “What?”
“Love,” she repeated softly.
He swallowed slowly. “What about it?”
“I can’t help but wonder if in real life it happens the way it does in novels, with a flash of brilliant, blinding light.” She crumbled a bit of muffin between her fingers before going on. “Or whether it creeps up on you slowly and softly, and, well, simply sneaks its way into your heart.”
“You are asking me? I am hardly the right person to comment on the subject,” he muttered.
A flush rose to her cheeks. “I’m so sorry—that was horribly tactless of me. I—I wasn’t thinking.”
He shrugged off the apology. “Don’t look so stricken. The mistake is long in the past.”
“Where it should stay,” she replied under her breath.
“May I ask what prompted your question?” he inquired quickly, intent on keeping the state of his own heart from coming under scrutiny. “Is there something your older brother ought to know?”
“N-not really,” she stammered, her color deepening to a telltale scarlet. “I was just curious, that’s all.”
“Andover seems like a pleasant fellow,” he commented, just to tease her a little.
“Yes, very pleasant.”
“I didn’t say ‘very.’ ”
“Oh, goodness, look at the time.” After darting a desperate look at the clock, she rose so quickly that she nearly knocked over her chair in the process. “I—I had better go check with Cook on the preparation of the picnic basket,” said Isobel, and then fled from the breakfast room.
A smile played over his lips, but only for a fleeting moment as his thoughts returned to his own predicament.
Love.
What Caro wanted in a marriage—poetry, fire, passion—was just an oblique way of phrasing it.
Love. He made himself say it again, and let the echoes reverberate inside his skull. Did he dare believe the sentiment could be rekindled in his heart? Or perhaps the more important question was whether he was brave enough to risk striking up a spark, lest he be burned again.
It was, of course, safer to stay at arm’s length from fire. But safety suddenly felt awfully cold and dark.
Alec chewed thoughtfully on the last bites of his breakfast, then pushed aside his plate and headed out the back entrance for the mews, still lost in his musings.
Checking once more that the stolen antiquity was well wrapped in oilskin and well hidden within her reticule, Caro ducked her head into the morning room to take leave of her mother, then set off to meet Isobel and Andover in front of the Pump House.
It promised to be a very pleasant walk, for her friends were always good company. As for the coming meeting with Alec, the sunny mood would likely give way to stormclouds in a hurry.
“What a lovely afternoon for an outing,” called Isobel, fluttering a cheery wave. “I am so glad you suggested it.”
“Indeed.” Andover flashed an amused grin as he nudged his boot against the hamper sitting on the pavement beside him. “Though Miss Urquehart’s cook seems to think we intend to be gone for days.”
“She’s still trying to fatten me up,” replied Isobel. “I vow, I am already plump as a Strasbourg goose.”
“On the contrary, you look quite perfectly formed to me,” said Andover gallantly.
Caro noted Isobel’s answering blush with an inward smile. Things seemed to be taking an interesting turn between her two friends. They were, she decided, very well suited and had every chance of being happy together should the relationship progress to a proposal.
Though happiness did seem to be something that was deucedly difficult and daunting to define. Perhaps that was because Life felt so cursedly complicated at times, with no easy answers…
Caro quickly shook off such maudlin thoughts, determined to match her mood to the sunny skies and smiling faces of her friends.
Her feelings about Alec were best dealt with in… the velvet darkness of the midnight hours.
“Shall we be off?” Andover hefted the hamper and slanted a look at Isobel. “You are sure you don’t mind walking? I could easily fetch my curricle. The three of us could squeeze in quite nicely on the driver’s bench.”
“Ha!” murmured Caro. “I shall refrain from asking who should be put in the middle.”
Isobel’s face now looked on fire.
“I am simply trying to be a gentleman,” protested Andover, though a tiny twinkle did flash in his eyes.
“We’ll walk, Andy,” she replied. But then, on recalling the twilight attack and Thayer’s ominous behavior, she decided to err on caution. “On second thought, the curricle might be a good idea. We may feel a bit fatigued after an afternoon of exploring and welcome a ride home.”
“An excellent point,” he agreed. “Why don’t you ladies wait here with the hamper. I shall not be long.”
“I hope you did not feel obliged on my account to forego the walk,” said Isobel softly, after he had hurried away. “I dislike being thought of as too delicate to carry my own weight.” She paused. “Or too lily-livered to defend myself from peril.”
“I think neither,” assured Caro. She did not wish to alarm her friend. But nor did she wish to treat her like a helpless child. “The truth is, we still do not know whether we were attacked at random, or for a reason. So I believe it is wise to exercise caution.”
“Alec said much the same thing this morning.”
“He cares very much about you,” she replied.
“He is the very best of brothers, even if he does tend to be overprotective. I only wish…” Her words trailed off in a sigh.
After a moment’s hesitation, Caro seized the opening. “Forgive me if I am prying, but your brother has hinted to me that his marriage was not a happy one.”
“Alec mentioned his marriage to you?”
“He did, but gave very few details.” Caro paused to choose her words carefully. “He said only that it had been a mistake. I did not wish to press him on it, but…”
The rattle of carriages jostling over the paving stones filled the ensuing silence, and for a long moment it seemed that Isobel would not respond.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—” began Caro, at the same time that her friend finally spoke up.
“He finds it very difficult to speak of it,” said Isobel, her voice barely audible above the street sounds. “Men seem to think they aren’t supposed to feel pain or hurt.”
Caro sucked in her breath, wondering if she really wanted to hear the details. Perhaps her suspicions were wrong. Perhaps Alec had been madly in love with his wife, and his heart was still wedded to a ghost.
“I—I have decided that I would like you to know the real story, not the nasty hints that Mr. Thayer has told you, because…” Isobel looked up from plucking nervously at her skirts. “Because I feel you should know the truth, and I fear my buffle-headed brother is too stoic to do it himself.”
“He can be vexingly stubborn about certain things,” murmured Caro. “As can I.”
That drew a fleeting smile from her friend before she cleared her throat with a cough. “Elizabeth Caldwell was… well, in short, she was selfish and manipulative,” explained Isobel. “Alec had gone down to Oxford for his studies—at nineteen, he was hardly more than a boy! She was beautiful, charming, and vivacious…”
A tremor took hold of her voice. “And in dire need of money, for she and her secret lover had very extravagant tastes. Alec, it seems, presented a very appealing target. He was wealthy and titled, but being Scottish, he was far enough beneath the notice of the English aristocracy that any scandal that might swirl around his name would be ignored.”
“I take it Elizabeth was English,” said Caro.
“Yes. A baronet’s daughter, though we later learned that her father had fled to the Continent to avoid debtor’s prison.”
The reason for Alec’s aversion to all things English was suddenly becoming clearer.
“As you no doubt have guessed by now, she exerted herself to seduce my brother. I—I don’t think it was a very hard task. You might not guess it, but beneath his steely, self-assured strength, Alec possesses a very sweet and sensitive soul.”