by Lauren Smith
“I still think you should be staying with Mr. Lennox. It’s not like I can escape. Where would I go?”
“I’ve underestimated your cunning once too often, lass. Besides, I have no interest in watching him take a tavern maid to bed a few feet from me.” He removed his boots, stockings, and trousers. Lydia stared at him like she’d never seen a man before, but perhaps she hadn’t. Not like this, at any rate. He couldn’t deny he was starting to think she was more innocent than she’d first led him to believe. But then, she wouldn’t be the first lass to profess more carnal knowledge than she actually possessed.
He slid into bed beside her, wearing nothing but his smallclothes. The candle on the table beside him flickered, casting shadows over her face.
“Don’t be scared, lass.” He reached up to cup her face, and she closed her eyes but didn’t pull away.
“I’m sorry, it’s just that last evening you were still calmed by the laudanum, and tonight you are not hampered by it. I fear you will . . .”
“I will not,” he vowed. “No matter how you tempt me.”
Her eyes opened, and a spark of fire flashed in them. “Tempt you? By simply being here? It isn’t a woman’s fault if a man is tempted by her mere presence. That is your fault and yours to control.”
“Aye, true. But you do tempt me, and I willna say otherwise.”
Her eyes cooled a little, and he saw a return to a reasonable expression now that she felt less threatened.
“Why don’t we talk a bit?” she asked. “Conversation will help you focus on being a gentleman.” Her tone sounded so calm, as though she were sitting with him in some drawing room and he’d come courting her with a bouquet of flowers like some lovestruck lad.
He chuckled. “Gentleman? You do say the most amusing things.” But she was right, talking would distract him, at least for a little while, from his fantasies of the pleasurable things he would like to do to her.
“Very well. What should we talk about?”
“Well, what about your home, or Scotland? I’ve never been and would like very much to hear you tell me about it.”
“You wish to hear about my home?” He hadn’t expected her to care about such things, but she’d enjoyed the Mungo Park expedition book he’d given her.
He rolled onto his back, his gaze fixed on the timbers above their heads.
“I come from the clan Kincade. We live in the southern part of Scotland. Some would call us Lowlanders, but we aren’t. Lowlanders are more English in their way of thinking. To a true scot, he can be a highlander even if he lives in the lowlands. All clans are different too, many would argue with the point I made just now.”
“What does that mean, to be in a clan?” Lydia asked. “It’s more than just a family, isn’t it?”
“In the old days, before the Battle of Culloden, it did mean one’s family. The word clan itself is from the Gaelic word clann, which means children.”
“Children?”
“Aye. A man in a distant time began a family, and his name was carried on in the lives of all of his family members. And the people of Scotland, even as divided as we are by names, are all like the wild deer herds that roam the remote glens and mountain passes. We, like the deer, appear and disappear, vanishing into the dense forests, only to reemerge whenever we wish. We are the Clann a’ Cheò.”
“What does that mean, Clann a’ Cheò?” Lydia moved a little closer, and he placed his hands beneath his head.
“It means ‘children of the mist.’”
A soft sigh came from her side of the bed. “It’s rather lovely, and it sounds fitting.” Her tone was filled with a quiet wonder that stirred a strange feeling within his chest.
“Scotland is lovely,” he agreed, and a sudden, undeniable need to be home filled him, making his chest tight. “Some call it a harsh land, because it has so few soft edges like England. But what is there—the cold lochs, the rocky mountains, the wooded glens and primeval forests—’tis stunning. All that is strong lives and grows in Scotland. There is a beauty to that.”
He closed his eyes, picturing the lands around Castle Kincade, the way the light gleamed upon the green hills where the castle perched and the way the sky reflected upon the still waters of the loch nearby.
“That does sound rather wonderful.”
“The land changes with the seasons. In spring, the fields are covered with wildflowers. In the summer, a heat settles thick upon the meadows until the storms come off the coast and carry away the humid air. And in the fall, as the leaves change and Samhuinn approaches . . .”
“What is Samhuinn?”
“Samhuinn signals the end of summer. We slaughter our fat cattle and preserve the meat for our long winter ahead. We also light bonfires to remember the old ways. Samhuinn Eve is the night when the shadow bodies of the dead walk once more amongst the living. That night, the veil between the worlds becomes as thin as gossamer. Many hills and ridges have special places where we set pyres ablaze to signal the start to a new year. It is said that this is where the living and the dead dance and sing in the flickering shadows together.”
Lydia turned on her side to face him. “Do you believe the dead rise again during Samhuinn?”
“I do,” Brodie replied, his tone quiet. “The first Samhuinn after my mother died, I was in the library. There was no candlelight—only moonlight filled the room. I saw a figure by the window. Her gown seemed to . . . I don’t know how to describe it, but it seemed to be blurred at the edges, like smudges or the tendrils of black smoke crawling up from a dying fire. I didna know who the woman was until I approached her. She turned toward me, only to vanish in silvery mist. But as she did, I saw her face as clearly as I see yours now. It was my mother.”
Lydia’s eyes widened. “Were you frightened?”
“Of my mother? Never. She was a woman who held only love in her heart. But now I fear that someday my father will come back as she did. I doubt that reunion will be as pleasant.”
“Your father is gone as well?”
“Aye, he is, and thank bloody Christ too.”
“You didn’t like your father?”
“No. I didna like him, and I certainly didna love the man. He was a cruel bastard. We buried him not too long ago, and I fear every approaching Samhuinn now that he will return. He would not be kind if he did. He would be angry and spiteful, and I dinna wish to see that.”
“I can understand that.” Lydia sighed, the sound so sorrowful it piqued his curiosity.
“I ken your father is alive, but what of your mother?”
“She’s been gone six years. I lost her when I was fourteen. Portia was only twelve, and it was very hard on her and Papa.”
Brodie kept still as he listened to her. He didn’t want her to know that he was trying to detect any hint of deception in her story.
“You loved her, then?”
“Very much.” Lydia’s smile was soft and bittersweet. “She was an exquisite beauty, like my sister. I look a little more like . . . well, a faded watercolor version of her, at least according to my great-aunt Cornelia. You might remember meeting her at the ball.”
“The old dragon who dragged you away at the ball?”
“Yes, but as I said, that wasn’t me.” Lydia’s eyes met his solemnly. “I know you don’t believe that, but I’m telling the truth. It was my sister. She’s only eighteen and so very young and innocent, at least in some respects. I didn’t know she would be so reckless, let alone that she would convince my father to do what he did.”
There was a genuine earnestness in her eyes, but he wasn’t convinced. “Even if I began to believe you, lass, your stories would do no good now. You are ruined, and you belong to me.”
Though the truth was, even if she was as innocent as she claimed, he would not let her go. Not anymore. She was his woman, and he simply had to convince her of that.
“Please . . . I know you don’t care about me. Let me go home, and I might still be able to find someone who would overlook my be
ing compromised.”
Brodie didn’t want to hear another word. “No, lass. Ask me that again and I will silence you with a kiss, and if we kiss, I cannot promise that we willna do other things.”
Lydia’s eyes widened, and she rolled away from him. A moment later he heard sniffling as she wiped her face.
Bloody Christ, the woman was crying. He reached out and gripped her waist, pulling her against his body. She struggled for a moment but then surrendered when she realized she wouldn’t get her way. He kissed her ear and then the crown of her hair, not to seduce but to soothe.
“You’ll be fine. I promise. I will care for you. You’ll have fine gowns, jewels, even a dainty white horse to ride. Whatever you wish.”
She trembled in his hold, still refusing to look at him.
“I want my life, my freedom, my family, and a husband to love me.”
Brodie was in that moment truly sorry, for he could give her none of those.
Jane Russell was glad to finally be out of the carriage after five hours. They needed to rest the horses before they could continue, and because night had fallen, it was best to stop and spend the night. Mr. Hunt exited the coach first and assisted her down. She stumbled on the uneven ground and fell against him. He caught her easily, and Jane’s breath caught in her throat. She’d forgotten what it was like to be held by a man like this, the feeling for a moment of being young and . . . She stopped the foolish thought before it could continue.
“Let’s get inside. I’m sure you’re hungry.” Mr. Hunt offered her his arm, and they walked into the coaching inn.
Once their rooms were secured and luggage seen to, they retired to a private room for supper.
“I spoke with the innkeeper. He said he saw two men fitting Mr. Lennox and Mr. Kincade’s description earlier. A young lady was seen with them. It must be Lydia.”
Mr. Hunt sighed, the sound world-weary, as he took a seat opposite Jane. “Thank heavens. It seems we guessed the right road to take.”
“It seems we did.”
He raked a hand through his light-brown hair and gave Jane a thoughtful look. “I want to thank you for accompanying me, Lady Rochester. I’m not sure I could have handled this on my own.”
Jane knew what he meant. He could have easily made the journey, but the worry for his child’s safety would weigh upon him. No doubt he’d have second-guessed his actions until he was driving in circles.
“I am not one to be idle, and Lydia is a sweet girl.”
Mr. Hunt nodded. “That she is. It’s something I fear I did not remind her of enough.”
Jane smiled. “You know . . . I had hoped earlier this spring of a match between her and my Lawrence.”
“Really? What happened?”
“I’m afraid my son’s affections were otherwise engaged. But I found myself exceedingly fond of your daughter.”
Mr. Hunt smiled sadly. “I fear I have been a terrible father. Ever since I lost my Marianna, I let myself behave blindly, favoring my youngest because she resembles her so. I have spoiled Portia and disadvantaged Lydia most unfairly.”
Jane reached across the table and covered his hand with hers. “It’s easy to favor a child who resembles someone you love. Of all my children, Avery . . . he is so like my husband. I strive every day to give all of my children equal attention, but I admit it isn’t easy. My two youngest seem to slip through my fingers at times.”
Mr. Hunt relaxed, his eyes crinkling with a broader smile. “I admit, it gives me a small measure of peace to know I’m not the only parent who struggles with these issues.”
“Indeed you are not.” Jane suddenly grinned. “Perhaps we ought to start a society, one for single parents who need support in the raising of their children.”
Mr. Hunt laughed, his good humor restored for the moment. “I would certainly join.”
A maid entered the private room and laid out a supper of roast lamb and truffle soup. The two conversed for nearly an hour, long after the candles had burned low and the empty dishes had been carried away.
“We should rest. We will have another long chase tomorrow,” Jane said finally.
Mr. Hunt stood and offered his arm to her and escorted her up the stairs and down the long corridor of rooms until they reached hers.
“I want to thank you again, Lady Rochester. Not only for your support in this affair, but for the amiable company you’ve provided. I had forgotten what it was like to spend time in the company of a lovely, charming woman.”
Jane felt a sudden unexpected flush of heat roll through her. “I . . .” For the first time in years, she was speechless.
“I’m sorry if I have spoken out of turn,” Mr. Hunt added hastily.
“No, it was just . . . I am shocked that I feel the same way. I hadn’t realized I had missed the company of a man until now.” She ducked her head, feeling shy in a way she hadn’t in a very long time.
Mr. Hunt gently lifted her chin as he stayed close to her. “Would you do me the honor of calling me Jackson?”
He was close enough to kiss her, and for a wild moment Jane pictured him doing so. It was a wonderful image.
“Jackson . . .” She found herself smiling. “Then you must call me Jane. We seem to be bound in this quest, so it is only fitting.”
“Indeed. Well, I shall bid you good night.” Jackson slowly stepped back and made a formal bow as she slipped into her room.
She closed the door, leaning back against it, her heart racing. It had been far too long since she had felt like a young woman. Far too long indeed.
10
Lydia was still not used to waking up next to a huge, muscled body, or any body, for that matter. The feel of Brodie behind her, one arm resting under her breast, made her body tense, though not necessarily in the ways she would have imagined. She was thankful that a layer of fabric, however thin, lay between his long, elegant fingers and her bare skin.
She began to carefully peel his fingers off her breast. With the last finger freed, she slowly moved his hand back to his own body. He suddenly sighed and shifted, placing his hand on her hip as he found a new position.
Blast the man!
She had a desperate need to use the chamber pot, and he wouldn’t release his hold on her. There was nothing for it but to speak to him.
“Mr. Kincade, if you please, I need to use the chamber pot.” She pinched his arm and repeated her demand when he still showed no signs of responding.
After the third time, Brodie groaned dramatically and rolled over.
“Fine, go,” he grumbled.
She scrambled from the bed and had just crouched over the pot when she realized he would hear her.
“Could . . . Could you leave the room for a minute?” she asked.
He started to sit up, and she dropped her chemise back down to cover her legs. “Leave the room?”
“I can’t go when you’re listening.”
He started to laugh but then choked down the sound. “I was sleeping, lass, not listening.”
“Well, you’re awake now.”
“I dinna care if you fill the pot and the vase on the dresser. Just go and be done with it.”
“Now I truly can’t go with you here,” she almost growled in frustration.
“I willna leave the room,” Brodie’s tone was just as gruff. “Go or not, ’tis your choice.”
Lydia glowered at him, not that he could see her. She needed so badly to go, but she couldn’t go as long as he was here. Tears pricked her eyes. Never had anyone made her feel so weak or helpless before.
“Fine. I’ll sing for you, lass. I swear, I willna be able to hear a thing.”
He then broke into a Scottish ballad as he rolled onto his side facing away from her. He even chuckled at his own bawdy lyrics, not that Lydia understood them, such was the heavy brogue he used in the song. Soon Lydia relaxed, and she was able to see to her needs and then wash up on the washstand. Only when she was done did his voice die away.
“You have a lovely si
nging voice, Mr. Kincade,” she said, trying to fill the silence. When she looked toward the bed through the reflection of the mirror on the washstand, she saw that he was watching her again. He was propped up on one elbow, his gray-blue eyes drifting over her body.
“I’m no songbird, not like my brother Aiden. He sings to his wee beasties when he thinks no one is around.”
“His wee beasties?” Lydia retrieved her wrap and covered her shoulders—and especially her breasts—as best she could. She’d never been concerned about the thinness of her chemises before, but then, she’d never been so close to a man in what she was now convinced was the thinnest fabric ever created.
“Aye. He has an affinity with animals. Ever since he was a wee tyke, he’s been able to gain any animal’s trust and companionship.”
“What sort of animals do you mean?” Lydia drew closer to the bed and sat down on the edge closest to him.
“Well, he has a badger. That one tends to sleep in Joanna’s bedroom, which is fine with her, since she and Brock always share his bed.”
Lydia flushed at the mention of her friend sharing a bed with a man, even if that man was her husband.
“We have an owl, a tawny one about the size of a pigeon. It made a nest in one of the taller bookshelves in our library. He’s a pretty fellow, very friendly. And then Aiden has a pair of otters, a pine marten, and a hedgehog.”
Lydia couldn’t resist smiling. “My, that is a lot of beasties.”
“They give him comfort. Our father” Brodie stopped speaking abruptly.
“What about your father?” Lydia scooted closer, sensing that whatever he had been about to say was a deep confession of something.
“My father was a brutal man, especially after our mother died.” He turned his shoulder to show her the scars on his back.
Lydia covered her mouth with one hand and reached out with the other to touch his skin. He didn’t flinch, but instead held very still while her fingers traced the knotted scars along his otherwise perfect, muscular back.
“How did he . . . ?” The words died on her tongue as she imagined how a man would make these marks, but she couldn’t fathom how any father could do that to his child.