Julia London - [Scandalous 02] (19 page)

O
f course Gavin had come as soon as he’d received Lizzie’s letter. How could he not? He was a gentleman, and a gentleman did not ignore a lady’s cry for help. He was also a Highlander, and a Highlander had his honor—and the honor of his woman—to defend.

He was fond of Lizzie and always had been; she was a pretty Scotswoman with a lot of spunk. Granted, Gavin was three years her junior, but nevertheless, when he thought of conjugal felicity, and he thought of that quite a lot, Lizzie seemed perfectly suited to him.

Gavin was enraged by the bloody handfasting. He knew Carson Beal was a bastard, but this went beyond the pale. He could not imagine what Carson hoped to achieve by it. He agreed it was a ridiculous ploy to make him cry off, and he steadfastly believed Lizzie’s letter in which she’d written that nothing had happened between her and the earl.

If Carson Beal thought a handfasting would run Gavin off, he was mistaken. If anything, it had only heightened a stubborn determination to marry Lizzie.

Oddly enough, Gavin’s father wasn’t as bothered by the handfasting. He treated Gavin’s concerns about the recklessness, the impropriety, and the potential reflection on the Gordons lightly. But his father had agreed with
Gavin that he must go to Lizzie and confirm his commitment to her and attempt to have the forced handfasting set aside.

In Thorntree’s small library, Gavin admired Lizzie as she paced in her blue gown and with her hair tied loosely at her nape, her eyes wide and shining. His mind wandered briefly to the children they would have, with their mother’s auburn hair and blue eyes, and with his strength and stature and last name. He thought about the long, cold Highland nights and imagined Lizzie lying naked beside him, her eyes glittering with the satisfaction of lovemaking.

Those thoughts made him even angrier about the handfasting.

“Lizzie,” Gavin said, attempting to interrupt a very long discourse on the depraved animal her uncle Carson Beal had turned out to be.

“A
jackal,
” she said firmly. “That is the kindest thing that can be said for him.”

“Lizzie.”

She paused in her pacing, blinking at him. “Aye?”

“Where is this”—he waved his hand a bit—“earl?” he asked tightly.

“Oh. Him. Patching the roof. Or at least he was the last I saw him.” At Gavin’s startled look, she shrugged a bit. “I…I think he desired an occupation.”

Gavin would give the earl an occupation—shining his boots. He stood up and took Lizzie’s hand, leading her to a chair. “Sit, lass,” he said firmly.

Lizzie paled as she looked at the seat he indicated. She pressed her palms against her gown and carefully took the seat, sitting on the very edge of it, her hands folded in her lap, looking up at him with luminous blue eyes.

Gavin flipped the tails of his coat and sat across from
her. He reached out, put his hand on hers. “You need no’ look so fearful, Lizzie,” he said, trying to remain calm in spite of his anger. He did not want to frighten her. “I believe what you’ve told me. I believe Carson has done this to ruin any understanding between us. But I am no’ a coward, lass. I will no’ back down so easily.”

“Thank you,” she said, looking quite relieved.

“What is the arrangement here?” he asked.

Lizzie blinked.

“Where does he sleep?”

“Ah.
Ahem.
Ah…Mr. Newton p-put him in my rooms. But I have made him sleep in the sitting room,” she added quickly.

“Pardon?” Gavin asked.

Lizzie pressed her lips together.

“A sitting room that we use for storage.
Ahem…
adjacent to my bedroom.”

“Is this known to everyone?” he demanded, removing his hand.

“To Charlotte and the Kincades,” she said.

“Anyone else?”

She seemed to shrink. “The Sorley Beals and the McLennans.”

“
Mi Diah.”

“I must—”

“Donna say it,” he said, throwing up a hand. “Lizzie, he must cry off. I donna care that he is a wanted man, he must cry off.”

“Aye,” she said, nodding adamantly that he should. “We signed only one paper.”

“A paper.”

“We put our names to the vow,” she said weakly.

Gavin stood and walked to the window, looking out at the sunny day.

“What if…what if he will no’ cry off?” she asked.

“We’ll find another way to dissolve the handfasting,” he said gruffly. He had no idea how he might accomplish it, but he would find a way. He glanced over his shoulder at Lizzie. She seemed to have wilted in her chair.

“I’ll have a word with the earl,” Gavin said authoritatively. “You’ve been through quite enough as it is, and really, this is a man’s business.”

Lizzie drew a breath as if she intended to speak.

He looked curiously at her. “Aye?”

“I…I’d no’ consider it…
completely,
that is…only a…a
man’s
business.”

“Pardon?”

“Well,” she said, squirming a bit, “it would seem that it is
all
of our business…would it no’?”

That was one thing he admired about Lizzie. She was intelligent and appreciated her independence. He returned to her side, took her hand, and squeezed it. “This is between me and the earl, lass. And once I’ve dispatched him, we may turn our attention to our future.”

She blinked again. Her plump lips formed a perfect
O,
and her gaze darted to the window, then to him. “Ah,” she said. And smiled. “Thank you.”

Such a lovely smile. He ran his hand up her arm, to her cheek. “I’ve missed you, Lizzie,” he said softly. “It seems that sometimes we are separated by an ocean instead of a few hills, aye? I should like a way to see you more frequently until we can begin our life together.”

“I would welcome that,” she said.

He wanted to say more, but the earl was looming in his mind. He could not think of the future with the man about. “Where are Carson’s men?”

“Mr. Newton and Mr. Dougal donna know you’ve come. Once word reaches Carson…”

“Donna fret—I’ll have this all tidied up for you in no time.”

She nodded and smiled, but the smile did not radiate through her eyes. Ah, well, she fretted yet. As far as Gavin was concerned, this charade was coming to an end. “Where is the earl?” he asked.

Lizzie stood up and looked at him with clear blue eyes. “On the roof,” she reminded him quietly. “Thank you, Mr. Gordon. You are too kind to have come so quickly to my rescue. I shall never be able to thank you properly.”

Gavin smiled warmly, imagining all the ways that she might thank him properly.

Once the business of this handfasting was done, naturally.

The roof patched, and the instruments of his labor returned to the barn, Jack glanced down at his hands and clothing. He was covered with the soot of ashes and streaks of tar.

“You’ve a bit of tar on your face, milord,” Kincade noted.

“Mmm,” Jack said.

“’Tis a heavenly foresight ye must have, then, to patch that old roof, milord, for the missus feels snow in her bones again.”

“Oh?” Jack asked casually as he tried to wipe his hands with a cloth. “And do her bones portend when?”

“A day or two, milord.” He handed Jack a cake of lye soap. “Ye canna wipe the tar.”

Jack took the cake of soap and the cloth. “Tell me, Mr. Kincade, what magic must a man possess to have a hot bath drawn here?”

“I’ll ask me wife, milord, but she’ll be about the business of the evening meal and need the kettle for that.”

In other words, she’d not be very happy to turn the kettle over to the task of heating water. Jack sighed. He took the cake of soap and the cloth and headed to the icy waters of the river.

He cleaned himself as best he could—he would insist on a hot bath this evening if he had to draw it himself—and started back to the house. As he trudged up the path to the unkempt back lawn, he thought he heard the sound of laughter and paused.

His first thought was Lizzie with her bloody knight. How quickly she’d found the time and place to entice him! He moved immediately toward the laughter, abandoning the path and following the sound, picking his way around the detritus of the forest floor until he could see a stretch of grassy bank of the river. But instead of finding Lizzie laughing and carrying on with her knight as he fully expected, what he saw took his breath away.

Charlotte was seated in a chair at the river’s edge, holding a fishing pole of all things. Behind her the prodigious Newton was leaning over her shoulder, instructing her how to hold the pole, how to bring the line in.

In the course of his instruction, something caught Charlotte’s line. She gave a squeal of delight at the tug as Newton scrambled around her chair and steadied her pole. Charlotte laughed at him, and the sound of it was so sweet, so full of unexpected joy, that Jack was moved by it.

He slowly backed up and quietly returned to the path that led up to the lawn. He walked with his head down, his thoughts on Charlotte. The most remarkable thing about Charlotte on the banks of the river was not her gay laugh, but the fact that she was smiling. Genuinely
smiling
.

As he was thinking of that glorious smile, Jack did
not sense that anyone shared the path with him until he heard someone clear his throat. His head snapped up and his gaze landed on the young man who had ridden so recklessly to the gate.

The man’s gaze narrowed menacingly, and Jack suppressed a tedious sigh.

“Lambourne?” he asked coldly, bracing his legs apart, his fists at his sides, as if he were prepared to grapple with Jack should the need arise.

“You must be Lizzie’s knight, then,” Jack said.

The knight’s gaze raked over Jack’s soiled clothing, the wet ends of his neckcloth, and the soap and cloth he carried. “I’ll ask only once. Who are you?”

“I am Jankin Haines, Earl of Lambourne, at your service,” Jack said, and clicked his heels, bowing low with an exaggerated flourish.

“I thought as much,” the young man said, his voice dripping with derision.

“And you, sir knight? Have you a proper name, other than Lizzie’s savior?”

“I am no’ a
knight,
” the young man said. “I am Gavin Gordon of Glencochill.”

“How do you do, Mr. Gordon,” Jack said. “And now that we’ve made the inevitable and unavoidable introductions, will you please excuse me? I’ve had a rather long day and I should like a bath.” Jack moved to step around Gordon.

But Mr. Gordon was indeed Lizzie’s knight, for he threw up his hand, his palm facing Jack. “You are too hasty, milord. I would have a word. The situation in which Miss Beal finds herself with you is insupportable and must be dealt with straightaway.”

“I could no’ possibly agree more,” Jack said, and attempted to step around him again.

“You must cry off,” Gordon said sternly. “You must cry off and leave Thorntree at once. After the damage you’ve wrought, it is the only gentlemanly thing you might do.”

All right, then, Jack was prepared to let this young buck feel his oats, but he would not stand for
that.
“The damage
I
have wrought? The only gentlemanly thing I might
do
? Do you think, Mr. Gordon, that I somehow concocted this ridiculous scheme to steal your precious Lizzie from you?”

“Donna speak about Miss Beal as if you are a close acquaintance, sir,” Gordon snapped. “You may no’ have concocted this scheme, but you are a man and you should no’ have agreed to the handfasting if Miss Beal did no’ desire it. Your actions could very well have ruined her.”

Jack turned to face him fully, looking him over head to foot, assessing him. He was at least ten years younger and not without good looks. He had a strong build, but he was not as muscular as Jack, or as tall. His clothing was not of the first cut, but it was suitable. At the very least, Jack reckoned the knight would keep food on a table and a roof over Lizzie’s head. And he did possess a bit of mettle. He’d need that in order to go toe-to-toe with her.

Aye, Jack supposed Gordon would do for Lizzie in the absence of any suitable man in Glenalmond. “Lad,” he said, “you need no’ fear my intentions. There is naugh’ at Thorntree that could possibly entice me to stay. As soon as I might slip away without causing a bit of trouble up the hill, I’ll be gone.” He gave him a smile and stepped around him.

Gordon caught his arm. “You’ll cry off and you’ll go,” he said flatly.

His grip was strong, and that infuriated Jack. With a violent jerk, he freed his arm. “Do no’ presume to tell me what to do.”

“You will remove your presence from her private rooms, put yourself on a horse, and go.”

“I may as well hand myself over to bounty hunters,” Jack said.

“Hand yourself over to the
diabhal
for all that I care,” Gordon said icily. “Just leave.”

“Bloody simpleton, suppose I did precisely that?” Jack said angrily. “You’ll still be left with the issue of Carson’s desire to have Thorntree. Are you prepared to marry her without that as a dowry, Gordon?”

Gordon blinked.

“As I thought,” Jack said acidly. Gordon was playing the part of the noble gentleman quite well, out to protect the virtue of the woman who would, by all indications, become his wife…unless the dowry should slip away. Jack ignored the sharp prick that thought gave him and decided that the best way to soothe the young man’s ruffled feathers was to allow him to think he’d won the battle and perhaps even the war.

“I happen to agree that Miss Lizzie deserves better than the likes of me.” He smiled down the small irritation to his conscience that remark caused him. “I’d be gone from Thorntree now if I could but determine what it is that Carson Beal wants from it.”

Gordon’s face mottled with his confusion.

“Aye, there is something at Thorntree that he wants,” Jack continued. “Something he’d have for himself, something that he is loath to leave to Miss Lizzie…or her future husband.”

“What do you mean?” Gordon demanded.

“I donna rightly know. But once I’ve determined what it is he wants, I might negotiate with him, aye? Perhaps I might save my neck and Lizzie’s reputation.”