Chapter One #3
Cuthbert downed his wine, only to then stare into the empty glass. His lips compressed into a thin line and a troubled expression marred his fine aristocratic features. ‘With all sincerity, and jesting aside, I hope nothing but the border ever separates us. No matter what the future holds.’
The pensive admission gave Lachlan pause. ‘Sombre words. ’Tis not like ye.’
Cuthbert twirled the glass stem between his fingers. ‘We’re kin. That will never change, but it would destroy me if anyone were to cause a rift between us.’
The confession took Lachlan aback. ‘What? A woman? Is that what ye’re referring to? If it’s our history of rakish rivalry that be playing on yer mind, I’ll have ye ken I’ll ne’er let a lass drive a wedge between us.’
‘I pray nothing and no one stands between us.’
Those ominous words shifted something in the air, the room silent save for the pop and crackle of the fire, rain tapping the windows, and the drumming of Cuthbert’s manicured fingernails against his empty glass.
‘Did ye not hear me?’
Cuthbert lifted his gaze to Lachlan. ‘Do I have your word on that?’
‘I cannae believe ye’re asking it of me. Aye! Ye have my word.’
‘Just making sure.’
A spark momentarily returned to Cuthbert’s pale-blue eyes and disappeared in a flash. There was something about him in his manner and conversation that seemed oddly out of place.
Lachlan rose from his chair under the pretence of reassessing the dismal weather outside.
At the window, he looked sidelong at his cousin sitting forlorn, shoulders slumped, and the empty glass tilted in his slack hand.
It was a curious if not worrying image of a man who was otherwise nothing less than the life of any gathering.
There was power in a pause, and by giving Cuthbert space to his thoughts, Lachlan hoped his cousin might voluntarily speak of what had deepened his frown and induced his thirst for claret.
The longer the silenced stretched, the more Cuthbert hunched his shoulders, resembling a man defeated and without purpose.
A pitiful sight.
Lachlan’s patience ran dry. ‘I ken ye too well not to ken something weighs heavy on yer mind. Will ye not tell me what it is?’
Cuthbert set the glass aside, made a half-hearted attempt to rise from the chair, and slumped back down into it. ‘The deuce and all! I can’t lie. Not to you.’
‘What are ye talking about? What lie?’
Cuthbert levelled his gaze at Lachlan. ‘You’re right. There’ll be no more salacious wagers between us. At least not that which has us vying to bed another woman.’ He heaved a deep sigh. ‘Father has given me an ultimatum.’ He buried his face in the palms of his hands.
Lachlan went to his side. ‘It cannae be that bad.’
‘You’ve no idea!’ Cuthbert sprang to his feet and took to pacing the floor. He stopped abruptly, hands on hips, looking out over the misty moors. His shoulders lifted, his back expanding with each deep draught of air he took into his lungs.
‘Out with it, man,’ said Lachlan.
Cuthbert swung around. ‘If I’m not married or at least engaged by this time next year, Father has threatened to cut me off and leave me penniless.’ He slapped a hand to his forehead. ‘Christ! I sure as hell don’t want a wife! I’m not ready for marriage!’
He resumed pacing the floor like an animal committed to eternity inside a cage. For all that Cuthbert had been born to privilege, his future was not secure unless he married with the hope of producing an heir.
Lachlan sat forward on the edge of his seat.
‘What is it?’ Cuthbert helped himself to more claret. ‘You look like you’ve been struck with an epiphany.’
‘Lady Helene!’
‘What about her?’
‘Marry Helene.’
Cuthbert choked on the sip he’d swallowed. He drew a square of folded pressed linen from his coat pocket and dabbed his mouth. ‘Marry her? What the deuce? Are you mad?’
‘Not mad. Practical. She’d be yer perfect match. Similar upbringing and connections. Yer fathers are in thick with each other and of a like mind. In fact . . .’ Lachlan stood.
‘I hate it when you do that,’ said Cuthbert.
‘Do what?’
‘Run a hand over your chin. Means you’re overthinking something.’ Cuthbert used the kerchief to wipe his brow.
‘I had questioned why a lass of her station would make the arduous journey north to Scotland. To a stone-walled castle with no prospect of invitations to grandiose balls or social frivolities. Wouldnae the Highlands be anathema to her ilk?’
‘Obviously not.’
‘Then perhaps it’s London and the marriage market she wishes to escape, or . . .’
Cuthbert rolled his eyes. ‘Or what?’
‘Do ye not think yer father and hers have set ye both up?’
Cuthbert’s face was a picture of confusion. ‘Where are you going with all this?’
‘Given yer father’s ultimatum and her father’s decision to let her travel to the Highlands, do ye not think it possible both men hope for a match between ye two?’
Cuthbert flinched as if Lachlan had slapped his face. In the next moment, he threw his head back and sputtered, through uncontrollable laughter, ‘Most intriguing, but you couldn’t be further from the truth.’
He poked a finger in Lachlan’s shoulder, and his face lit up with the dawning of a new idea.
‘We’ll make Helene our last conquest. Our last prize.
’ His eyes glittered with predatory excitement.
‘Don’t think for a moment she, or I, regard each other as marriage material, and besides, the chit thinks herself too good for any man.
For us, that makes the thrill of the chase even more challenging. ’
‘Enough!’ Lachlan took the glass from Cuthbert’s hand and set it out of reach. ‘Ye’re spewing nonsense. ’Twould be a conflict of interest. Ye said yersel’ that we’re to protect her. Not ruin her.’
‘I’m not suggesting we wager who’ll be first to bed her. More like, sample her. Stealing a kiss will suffice in claiming victory.’
‘Och! Ye’ve imbibed too much of my finest red. Let me make myself clear! Helene is nae prize to be had. If ye’ll not consider her for yer bride, then neither will we dally with her and tarnish her reputation.’
Cuthbert strolled back to the window, where he stood looking out, hands clasped behind his back.
‘The women will soon arrive. Before they do, I’m sure you’ll shave the stubble from your face and run a comb through that mop of thick hair.
I’ve no doubt you’ll present yourself to Helene not as some Highland heathen, but as the honourable laird of Clan MacLanoch.
Protector of your family, your clan, your livelihood. ’
He turned and walked casually towards the library door. With hand on handle, he looked over his shoulder at Lachlan. ‘If you won’t play our game one last time’—he shrugged—‘well then, you’ll have to protect Helene from me.’
It was impossible for Lachlan to take his cousin seriously. ‘Ye jest. Aye?’
Before leaving the library, Cuthbert flashed Lachlan a smug smile. ‘One last thing. May the best man win.’