Scottish Brides (37 page)

What Harriet called barbarism was no more than ignorance. While it was true she'd no knowledge of all the English table ceremony, she'd learned quickly. She wasn't a crude person. Her mother had been a parson's daughter, not schooled in the ways of gentry. But even if she had been it was doubtful that their three-room cottage would have boasted silver salvers and urns.

But that humble cottage had always looked more welcoming than this crowded house with its evidence of wealth.

Harriet said something, and she nodded, knowing an assent was necessary. In truth, she didn't hear the words, didn't care about them. All she was capable of was mastering her temper at this moment, holding it tight to her, so that it was not visible.

When finally the evening was done, she escaped to her room on the third floor and waited again. When she was certain the household was asleep, she tiptoed down the stairs and through the back parlor, into the hallway and to the garden walk beside the stables. Only then did she run. Toward the waterfall, toward Lachlan. And rebellion of the most daring sort.

 

He
was
daft; that's what he was. It was the only explanation for a man to stand outside a house waiting for a woman who might never appear. She hadn't, after all, said that she would come.

Was he going to make a practice of doing this for the next month?

He could go up those steps and demand to see her, but to do so would be to reveal his need for her. The squire was a canny man, and Lachlan had no doubt that he would savor the fact that the Scot who'd made his life miserable now pined for his daughter. He wouldn't put it past the man to extract his own revenge, possibly even delay the wedding, if only to balance the scales a bit.

He wished she would come to him now, before the night grew later. Every hour that passed was an hour wasted.

A few minutes later, she exited the house, slipping over the garden grass with the grace of an elf. He smiled even more broadly when he realized that she was going in the direction of the waterfall. She'd find a surprise there, his lass.

Six

 

 

 

The light of the full moon had made the path easier to
navigate the night before. But the moon waned now, and it took her twice as long to find her way to the waterfall. In fact, she was nearly at the pool before she realized it lay before her. It was the light that alerted her; the faint hint of fire sparkling behind the sheet of water.

She walked around the rim of the pool, stepped carefully over the two stepping stones, and ducked behind the waterfall. She entered the cave, then smiled at the sight in front of her. A blanket had been laid upon the stone floor, and a candle placed at one edge of it, its glow protected from the fine mist by a glass shield.

A bower for a princess. All it lacked was a flower and a prince.

A rose was extended over her shoulder, held out by a large, tanned hand. A perfect pink rose, no doubt purloined from Harriet's garden. Her smile broadened as she turned. A prince, then, darkly enchanting in this place.

The moon had made of him a statue of gray and black. In truth, he was crafted of earth colors. His hair was the color of oak, deeply brown and rich. His eyes were that of Scots whiskey, sparkling with depth and power. A strong face. No, the moon had not lied about that. But had she noticed before how strangely alluring his mouth was, or how squared his chin?

“Ealasaid,” he softly said, and the sound of it seemed to flow over her skin.

“Lachlan.” It was a simple greeting. Why, then, did it seem an entreaty?

He extended his hand. His grip was strong and warm and gentle. He led her to the blanket, and she sat upon it, silent in the face of her surprising sorrow. She did not know this man, had only spent a few hours over the course of two nights with him. But her waking hours had been filled with thoughts of him, and her dreams were rife with events that had never occurred and would never have a chance to happen now.

How silly she was. But was it so foolish to wish for something that made her heart leap and made her blood pulse? Even servant girls had dreams and wishes.

She folded up her knees, wrapped her arms around them, and looked outward toward the sheen of water. The air was damp, but not unpleasantly so. He did not speak, and she turned her head to find him studying her. He sat back against the stone, his arms crossed in front of him, one foot over the other. His boots were dusty; his trousers, the same. His shirt was dark, befitting a man engaged in illicit activities. His hair was worn long; his face appeared tanned even by the light of a lone candle.

He was a border raider, a reiver, and she sat alone with him in a secluded spot and felt no danger.

Oh, she was foolish, wasn't she? As he watched her, his face unsmiling, his gaze never leaving her, she felt the urge to smile. Her heart beat too loudly; her fingers trembled in the folds of her skirt. She should feel only shame for all her wicked thoughts. The first, that she should wish to be nowhere but here. The second, that she should wonder at the reason for his unerring study of her, or wish that she had a newer dress to wear, something edged with tatting or adorned with ribbons.

She brushed her hair away from her face. It was forever coming undone from its pins.

“What do you do during the day, lass? What occupations fill your hours?”

She tilted her head and looked at him. Women, not men, were supposed to be lovely in candlelight. But the flickering shadows seemed to make his breadth more solid and granted shading to the strong angles of his face. He looked like a man accustomed to the night, one who was familiar with the shape of it, the mystery of darkness. “Errands to the village, embroidery,” she said. “I confess to having little patience for fine needlework. I read when I can, and I make myself useful. And you, Lachlan? What do you do?”

“I wait impatiently for night,” he said, his voice soft. She looked away, her cheeks warming.

“You lied, lass,” he said, a smile softening his words. “You've eyes the color of a loch. And hair that's almost red.”

“Is that why you brought the candle? To see me more clearly?”

“A brownie did it,” he teased. “Frowned at me quite bitterly when I said I much preferred the dark.”

“Do you?”

“No. But until you come to my land, this will have to do.”

Grief speared her so quickly, she had no warning of it. She wanted to tell him that she would not be coming, that there would be nothing further between them but these moments. She would never see Scotland again, never see the land of the Sinclairs. But she did not, unwilling to mar these moments with him. There would be time enough to long for what could not be. She would not waste these moments.

She looked around at the dimensions of the cave, made more clear by candlelight. It was deeper than she'd thought, a cozy nook for anyone escaping from the border patrols. When she said as much, he only smiled.

“Did you have no thought of this place, lass? Never?”

“I've never explored this far,” she confessed.

One of his eyebrows arched upward. His smile seemed to follow it. “A man might think you timid, Ealasaid. But your presence here gives lie to that.”

“A maiden and a reiver?”

“I've given up my past,” he said, his smile growing in scope, his eyes seeming to spark in the candle's light. “I've been naught but proper for nearly a month now.”

Of course, he would be, especially if his laird was due to marry Harriet. It would not be a proper thing to steal from the laird's future wife.

“Could you not be coaxed to being improper again?”

His laughter surprised her. “Those are words a man should say to a maid, Ealasaid. What matter of impropriety would you urge on me?”

“What is it like, being a reiver?”

His look was almost kind. “Occasionally terrifying, lass. If I sought excitement for the fact of it, it wouldn't be to steal a cow.”

“Then it isn't exciting?”

“I didn't say that. It has its moments. Especially when the patrols are not far away.” A small smile played on his lips as if he knew what she hinted at, the daring question she ached to ask him.

Finally, it slipped free. “Would you take me raiding?”

“And what would we raid?”

“Is there no fat cow you could take home as prize? If it's beef you're tired of, then I know where the henhouse is. Or the sty.”

He did laugh then, the booming sound of it echoing through the cave and beyond, to the night-shrouded land-scape.

“What a picture you would paint of me, lass, a few fine squawking hens tied to my saddle, or holding a pig on my lap.”

Her smile was rueful. In all honesty, she could see nothing of the sort. He seemed the type, instead, to carry a dirk between his teeth or be the vanguard of a raiding party, screaming a curse at the top of his lungs in warning to all who might doubt their murderous intent. Another reason she should not have felt so comfortable sitting here with him.

“I think what you want is not so much adventure, Ealasaid, as a touch of danger itself.”

“Next you'll say that's why I'm here.”

His eyes met hers. “Isn't it? Search your mind for the truth of it, lass.”

“You make me sound too innocent.”

He shrugged. “I've seen naught to lead me to think otherwise. In truth, I would not want you jaded.”

“An innocent would not be here with you, Lachlan.”

“Do you wish my word as a border raider that you are safe with me?”

She tilted her head and studied him. “That's a contradiction, isn't it?”

“Perhaps. Shall I pledge my clan's honor, instead?”

“Should I make you? Would an innocent take your word so easily?”

“Yes,” he said, “but then, so would a woman well versed in adventure and danger.”

“I'll never be that.”

“Come,” he said to her surprise. He stood and held out his hand. “If you would wish to be a woman experienced in excitement, we shall attempt to find some for you.”

She stood and tucked her hand in his. “Truly?”

He looked down at her. She thought he was going to say something, but he clamped his lips over the words. Instead, he smiled. “Truly, lass.”

Seven

 

 

 

She looked so happy approaching there with a smile on
her face, as if he'd given her the moon and all the stars. Did she know how little he was actually bringing to her? A rundown castle, worn-out land, a distillery that didn't distill, all countered by his intelligence and the strength of his limbs and an almost maniacal belief in the optimism of the future. But would that be enough?

Perhaps that was why he led her to his horse and helped her mount. To give her something that she wanted. Or maybe he'd simply breathed in too many of the noxious fumes in the cavern this morning.

Either way, they were on their way deeper into England before he could recite the Sinclair motto.
Bi gleidhteach air do dheagh run.
Be guarded with your good intentions.

He found the herd in a pasture not far away. He wasn't sure if they belonged to her father or not. At this point, it didn't matter. One Englishman's cow was going to be sacrificed.

They stood on the edge of the field, looking at the night-darkened shapes. It was something out of an eerie nightmare. Occasionally, one of the cows would make a sound, a cross between a moo and a grunt. Another would echo it. Then one would slowly walk a few feet, disturbing the sleep of a group huddled beneath a tree. And through it all, Ealasaid sat silent behind him.

“Are you going to charge them?” she whispered.

“Hush, I'm thinking.”

“Are you waiting for something?”

“Not courage, if that's what you imagine.”

“I didn't, really. I just wondered what your next action might be.”

“Wondering if I'm daft indeed,” he said, looking about him. “I've normally a few men with me.”