Grabbing his sword, Hector felt his muscles tense with the sense of approaching confrontation. His eyes, now accustomed to the darkness, and his knowledge gained from years of training, and a good amount of battles, judged the person coming toward him and knew that he was not carrying a weapon. His anxiety lessened but he did not lose his readiness to fight.
“Halt,” Hector said, his hand clenching around his sword’s pommel. “Remove yer hood afore comin’ any closer.”
The person stopped and Hector stood on his spot, tense like a rod of iron. Slowly, hands rose, and Hector faltered; those hands were slender and delicate, like a lady’s. The hood was tugged off and dropped, and Hector lost his breath entirely.
The lady standing before him, her face and golden hair highlighted by the silvery rays above, was the most stunning lass he had ever seen in his life. Her face, oval and delicate with high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, and lips that begged to be kissed, posed a picture for him that his eyes grafted into the shelf of his mind.
“Lass…” Hector said softly, his word and tone steeped in disbelief. “Ye were tha one who sent me tha note?”
“Yes.” She replied, “I know about Andrew MacTavish, and I have spent a good few years trying to find him.”
The words she said registered, but Hector was still trying to digest that this lady, who he hadn’t expected, had come to meet him. Stepping closer, Hector reached up and knowing she might be skittish, halted his hand for a moment before he touched her shoulder.
Her tiny gasped breath told him of her nervousness, but she didn’t move away. When he did touch her, the firmness of her body told him he wasn’t dreaming as he had believed. She was there. Nevertheless, he was suspicious.
“Lass, what d’ye ken of me brother, Andrew?” Hector asked, “I only ken that bassa Barnard Moore had somethin’ tae do wi' his vanishin’.”
The maiden’s lower lip was caught in her mouth - a mouth that Hector felt the burgeoning need to taste. Her head bowed for a moment before she looked up with a bitter expression on her lovely face.
“He had.” She sighed, “But that Duke, Barnard Moore, died years ago. It was his daughter, Miss Emily, that fell in love with your father, Laird MacTavish. The Duke hated the Scots. This whole land does, in fact. It is an English poison that has not left out the people of Crowland.”
Hector snorted, “I cannae agree more but…ye… yer different, lass. Why d’ye care aboot this anyway? As far as I see it, me missin’ brother shouldnae be a problem o' yers.”
Her head shook, the motion dislodging a few locks of her angelic hair. “It is because I hate to see anyone deprived of his basic humanity like Andrew was, all because he was born of Scottish blood.”
Sagging against the tree, Hector massaged his brows. “What else d’ye ken aboot him, lass…an’ may I hae a name fer ye?”
The lady hesitated before replying, “You can call me…Aria.”
“Well, Aria,” Hector said, tasting the very word on his lips. Even the word felt sweet, “Tell me more.”
“It is not a tale that can be told in one hour or a night,” said she. “But I will tell you all I can now. I will have to leave soon.”
Anticipating that reply - as in truth two decades of time could not be told in one night - Hector nodded. “Tell me all ye can noo.”
The lass, Aria, wrapped her arms around herself and in a quiet and solemn voice told the heir about Lady Emily Moore, who had committed a “cardinal sin” in the eyes of Duke Barnard, by falling in love with a Scottish man.
As Aria narrated, Hector matched some of what she spoke about with what his father had told him. He trained a listening ear to her, but his eyes were on her face, enraptured by the expressions there.
Aria’s face spoke of delight, anger, disgust, torment, and finally regret as she came to a pause, “The baby was born alive, but he was destined to die…”
The moon had met its apex, and as Aria’s eyes darted to it, Hector knew she had to leave.
“When can ye tell me tha rest, Aria?” Hector asked softly, solidly captivated by the lady.
“I–I…” She faltered, “I don’t know how much time I have but I will try. Please look out for a note when I can do so. It won’t take much longer to tell the whole tale, but as I said, it cannot be done tonight.”
“Ye’d best be on yer way, then,” Hector replied, his words acknowledged by a nod.
“I must. Good night, Mr. MacTavish,” Aria replied and turned, but Hector could not stop himself. He reached out and touched her cheek, and just as he suspected, her skin was as soft as a rose petal. Under his touch, he felt her slight trembling, just as his eyes darted to her lips, plump and open as she took in deep breaths.
Goddamn it, he wanted to kiss her – but he didn’t. In all his years, he could not recall having such a gut-churning yearn to be with a lady, and this lass had done nothing but speak to him. What was it about this woman?
Running his callused thumb over her cheekbone, Hector nodded. “I’ll surely look oot fer yer note, Aria.”
Dropping his hand, Hector watched as she flicked up her hood and hurried away, her hands clasping the ends of her cloak. He sagged back on the tree and raked a hand through his hair before scrubbing over his face. It was frightening, though, how his lust had bombarded him like a swift blow to his stomach.
Levering himself from the tree, Hector got his wits about him, crossed the stretch of green, entered the inn, and went back to the room where, just as he had suspected, Donald was sitting up waiting for him, fully dressed with his sword on his knees.
The man locked his eyes with Hector’s. “So, how was it?”
Shaking his head, Hector sat, leaned his sword on the wall and clasped his hands between his legs, “Donald…yer no’ goin' tae believe me when I tell ye…”
Chapter 8
Riding back to the Manor in the dead of the night was more perilous than Victoria had even imagined, mainly because the majority of her faculties were reliving Hector’s touch to her cheek rather than controlling her horse.
A surge of warmth had sprung from his touch, spread through her chest, to settle in her stomach. Victoria had found herself speechless and motionless the moment his skin had met hers. His rough touch - so different from the softness of Englishmen - had spurred something inside her that felt dark and dangerous.
Upon arriving, Victoria had never expected to come across a man as handsome as Hector. His tall stature, broad shoulders, square face with stern jaw, hooded eyes under thick eyebrows, and thick hair that fell without care around his neck and ears, had defied her expectations. Everything about the man was the antithesis of Englishmen, and the fire that had run through her at his touch proved the very same.
The moonlight had given the Scotsman’s russet skin a darker tone and his eyes, a dark shade of green, which had not moved away from her during her tale, had been inordinately titillating. It wasn’t possible, but Victoria had sworn she felt his eyes cosseting her skin.
She guided Iris toward the same field she had taken earlier, and her heart started pounding again as she neared the manor. She slipped off the horse, opened the gate, and steered Iris back toward the stable.
Back in her stall, Victoria removed the saddle and blankets, and after brushing Iris’ coat, she closed the stall door and went back to the manor. Thanking Heaven the service door was still open, she slipped back inside.
Creeping up the stairs, Victoria got to her rooms and softly closed the door behind her. With a sigh of relief, she sank against the door and slid down it. Trembling, Victoria could not believe what she had just done. It was still unbelievable that she had snuck out, rode her horse to meet a Scottish Laird, and had come back, without any problems.
Victoria drew her legs up to her chin and used her right hand to gently touch her cheekbone where Hector’s thumb had traced over it. Remembering the look in his eyes when he had touched her sent another curl of warmth into her stomach.
Though she was a novi
ce in the ways of men, Victoria knew what she was feeling was an attraction. How could she have avoided it? The man had the profile of a Greek God, a husky voice that felt like a warm blanket wrapping around her, and an air of power that clung to his skin effortlessly.
But there was more to him than that. When Hector had asked her about his brother Andrew, Victoria had heard his voice dip, and had seen a fleeting flash of pain on his face. Hector’s patriotism, born from a tight family body, was the spur to find his missing and unknown kin.
She did not know Hector’s story but she wanted to, and she had no doubt that by telling him the rest of Andrew’s tale, she was going to learn about him. Getting up from the floor, Victoria started to disrobe, setting her cloak aside, and removed her boots. She then did away with the skirt and blouse and donned her nightgown.
Slipping into her bed, she once again pressed her hand to her cheek. The sensation of his touch was gone, but she wanted to believe it was still there. She had seen his eyes, too, how they had gone to her mouth, and stayed there. For once in her life, Victoria had yearned for a kiss and had braced herself for it, but he had pulled away, leaving her feeling bereft.
“Perhaps this is what Aunt Emily felt,” Victoria whispered to herself. “Perhaps this is the spell of the MacTavish Clan.”
With Hector’s face slipping in and out of her mind, Victoria fell asleep and did not wake until someone knocked at her door the next morning. Blearily, Victoria blinked her eyes open and they fell on her discarded muddy boots. Instantly, fright surged up into her system, and she was out of the bed faster than she had thought possible, with the tiredness still playing along the edges of her mind.
Grabbing her boots, she spun around and saw her armoire, yanked the bottom drawer open and dropped the boots inside. She then grabbed the cloak, skirt, and blouse and shoved them inside the cabinet. The knock came again.
“One moment,” Victoria called out weakly.
Gasping some deep breaths in, Victoria grabbed her robe and went to answer the door. Amelia was standing there with a breakfast tray, and her eyes went wide seeing her mistress’s bedraggled state.
“Your breakfast, My Lady,” Amelia squeaked before she cleared her throat. “Your sleep cap, My Lady, did it fall off during the night?”
‘It would have,’ Victoria thought wryly, ‘if I had thought to put it on.’
“Most likely, Amelia,” Victoria replied with a sigh. “Thank you for delivering my breakfast. How is your sister now?”
The maid’s face brightened as she set the tray down. “She’s on the mend, My Lady. Thank you again for your generosity.”
Waving Amelia’s words off, Victoria went to the vanity and had to stop her jaw from dropping – her hair was all over the place. Snagging a comb, she tried to set some order to the mess. “I’m glad.”
With her hair in some order, Victoria went to rinse her mouth and then sat at the table. “Vanillekipferl,” she smiled at the dish, “And peach preserves, my favorite dish.”
Taking up the warm cup of fragrant tea, Victoria wondered what more Providence would bring that day.
“Oh, My Lady,” Amelia blurted while digging into her large pocket in her apron, “My apologies. This arrived for you this morning.”
Amelia then settled a calling card near Victoria’s tray and, with hesitation, the young lady picked it up. The cream-colored card was heavy, thick and luxurious to the touch. It read: Sir. John Keating, Elsworth Manor. From the touch, she felt that something was written on the back and she flipped it over to read – It was my honor to meet you at my banquet, Lady Victoria. May I be allowed to visit you this evening?
Victoria stopped the unladylike curse that had nearly slipped from her mouth. She had absolutely no desire to see this man, and furthermore, her father was out of town. Though her father had appointed Ruth as her chaperone, she wasn’t going to make the man any the wiser.
“Thank you, Amelia,” Victoria replied while dropping the card back to its place. “Would you please see if Miss Ruth is awake and if she would please lend me her ear?”
“Right away, My Lady,” Amelia replied before curtseying and leaving the room.
“Lady Victoria?”
“Please join me, Ruth,” Victoria replied not looking up from her breakfast.
The older woman sat, and with her free hand, Victoria nudged the card over to her before finishing off her treat. Ruth took the card up and read it, with a delighted look to her face.
“But this is wonderful, Lady Victoria,” Ruth exclaimed. “I have no doubt this is what His Grace would have wanted for you.”
Dusting the remainder of the flaky crust off from her fingers Victoria replied, “That may be, but this is not what I want. The man is conceited and snobbish, and his manners, though well-bred, are sly, and are not inviting. Even with his ten thousand pounds per year and an education from Oxford, the man is insufferable.”
Ruth cleared her throat and folded her hands on her lap. “What do you want, my child?”
For a split moment, Victoria considered telling Ruth about her activities last night but thought it was wiser to keep it to herself.
“Someone who is not so conformed to the dictations of society, Ruth,” Victoria sighed and looked at her half-finished tray with a sudden lack of appetite. “An individual who can act without incurring the scorn of the people around him - I do not need a glory-seeker like Mr. Keating.”
The silence that followed Victoria’s emphatic declaration hummed in the air. With her eyes down on her lap, Victoria felt all her ire at Mr. Keating build up in her system. So caught up in her emotion, it took Victoria a while to sense Ruth’s eyes on her.
She looked to see the older woman with a patient, but amused look on her face and Victoria felt both ashamed for her outburst and curious about the look she was getting from Ruth.
“I’m sorry,” Victoria sighed, “I did not mean to turn my anger on you.”
Ruth shook her head and hummed, “It is not your fault, child. It is just that your words reminded me of Lady Emily when she was alive. She, too, wanted something other than the regular stock.”
Again, the feeling to tell Ruth about her deed came over Victoria, but once more she refused it, “Perhaps it’s a family trait.”
Ruth’s eyes were shrewd and knowing, “Perhaps, but all I can advise you to do, child, is to follow where your heart leads you.”
Again, Ruth’s sage words seemed to be leading Victoria to some conclusion, but for the life of her, Victoria had no idea what that was. Darting an anxious look up Victoria replied, “Many would confess that being led by the heart is dangerous and leads only to sorrow.”
“But at least you would have no regrets then, child,” Ruth replied strongly while standing up. “May I take your tray and send for your bathwater?”
“Yes, please,” Victoria smiled and stood up too, “Thank you. You always give me sage advice.”
“It’s my role in life,” Ruth replied. “And to protect and guide you, come what may.”
With the woman out the door, Victoria crossed her room, opened her writing table’s drawer, and took out a card of her own. With a quill and a few quick lines, she declined Mr. Keating’s request for a visit.
Mr. Keating,
I have received your note, and though I admire your interest, I must decline your proposal for a visit. My father is away, and he is my chaperone. I cannot in good manners hold a visit with you as we are both unmarried and the fear of scandal for my house is an ever-present dread.
Lady Victoria Moore.
Just as she finished writing the note and was folding it over to be sealed, the door was knocked on and the maids Ruth had requested came in, bearing her bathwater.
When one maid had finished emptying her pail, Victoria stopped her and handed her the card with three silver coins, “Please give this to Percy and tell him to deliver it to the master of the Manor at Elsworth. Thank you.”
Satisfied that she had put this man off for a mo
ment, she put Mr. Keating out of her mind entirely and moved to the screen for her bath.
Chapter 9
Hector’s arms were braced on the window sill in the inn’s room as he stared, blankly, out through the stretch of forestry that he now knew as the back end of the Moore’s estate grounds. If he strained his eyes, he could even see the tips of Monstall Manor’s roofs arching over the tree line. The vista toward it was splendid, but even the golden sunset that was coming in paled in comparison to Aria – the lady who had met him three nights ago under the ethereal moonlight.
The lady was a mystery, a complete and unfathomable one. Where had she come from, and how did she know about Andrew? If this was such a well-kept secret as he was told, how did she know about the scandal?
Highlander's Forbidden Soulmate Page 7