Chapter Two #2
‘Please. No need to apologise.’ Helene smiled to reassure the viscountess and Agnes.
‘He’s right. I should not have assumed there to be anything wrong.
From what you’ve told me, Lady Sutton, your nephew has had much to contend with of late, what with his mother’s recent ill health and a clan to care and cater for. ’
The carriage lurched forward, the wheels rolling at a steady pace.
Lady Sutton smiled as if in appreciation of Helene’s understanding, then her spirits seemed to soar again at the prospect of reuniting with her sister.
While Agnes engaged her mother in conversation, Helene peered through the window.
She made a quick study of Lachlan MacLanoch riding a short distance from, and adjacent to, the carriage.
He sat tall and proud in the saddle. Hair the colour of her Baltic amber teardrop earrings sat level with his linen stock tie.
A breeze fingered wavy locks, brushing the layers back from his face enough for her to observe him in profile.
A nose as straight as his dialogue and instruction; a strong chin and jawline that looked to be hewn from the same granite as Drumocher’s foundations.
He was every bit the Highland laird, armed and dressed in belted plaid, crisp linen shirt and necktie, waistcoat and a brown woollen hip-length coat.
Helene’s gaze sank lower, to the leather knee-high riding boots over long woollen socks.
Seeing exposed skin between the top of his boots and the hem of the skirted plaid immediately brought his scent to mind.
Fresh. His face soap-shaven. The aroma still lingering in her senses.
How different he smelled compared to some of the intolerably cloying odour equalizers worn by London’s nobility.
Lachlan MacLanoch smelled clean, natural, as if having bathed in a stream beneath a summer sun. Curiously, the very image of him doing so sent her stomach aflutter.
She lifted her gaze to catch him staring back at her. The scowl he wore wiped the smile from her face, and she pressed back against the plush squabs, no longer within his view.
Fool. You completely misread him.
His eyes had dilated when they’d stood face-to-face.
She knew now the reaction was not because he’d seen something he liked, but because she’d angered him.
Further validation of that had shown in his tight grip on her arms. Why then had her parted lips held his gaze if for no other reason than to contemplate kissing her?
They’d only just met and already she’d offended him. Something she must quickly remedy if her plan was to succeed.
The carriage rumbled through the castle’s wide entrance, beneath the outer and inner portcullis, and into a bustling stone courtyard.
Two carts lined the perimeter, one filled with hay, the other with chickens squawking in their caged confines.
A series of rough logged structures hugged the castle wall.
Within each, people busied themselves plying their trade, key to castle and clan needs and function.
In one, a cooper taught his apprentice the craft of barrel-making.
In another, several women clad in dark-brown homespun sat at a spinning wheel, their feet working the pedal while joining more fleece to yarn.
Next to them, a blacksmith toiled over an anvil, forging a weapon of lethal proportions.
A stark reminder of the barbarous Highlands.
Who would the blade claim as its first victim?
Helene shuddered. Poor wretch, whomever it might be.
All this was a far cry from the prestigious New Bond Street in London where the purveyors of luxury items peddled their wares in a more sophisticated manner to serve the beau monde.
A young woman’s happy squeal had Lady Sutton and Agnes exchange a knowing look. Simultaneously, they grinned and said, ‘Grizel.’
‘The laird’s sister?’ Helene enquired.
‘Yes. Sixteen and garrulous,’ explained Agnes.
‘My niece is an excitable delight,’ said Lady Sutton.
The carriage had barely come to a halt when its door opened, a stepping block put in place, and there, proffering a helping hand, was Lady Sutton’s son, Cuthbert.
‘At last,’ he beamed. ‘Mother. Agnes. Lady Helene. How thrilled you must be to have finally arrived. Come, Mother. Let me assist you first.’
Next, Cuthbert helped his sister alight the carriage. She swept instantly into the welcoming arms of her cousin Grizel, and then towards the unfolding joyous reunion between her mother and widowed auntie, Caitrin MacLanoch.
Cuthbert returned for Helene, took her hand in his, and gave it a squeeze. Something was wrong. It was written on his face. In his narrowed eyes and deep frown. In the way his lips pressed together to form one severe thin line.
She hastened to ask, ‘What is it?’
In a hushed voice, he said, ‘There’s been a change of plan.’
‘Oh?’
‘Lachlan has refused to play my little game.’
Helene’s stomach dropped; she feared her quest had ended before it had truly begun. Despair must have shown on her face, for Cuthbert was quick to reassure her.
‘You needn’t worry. All is not lost. Yet.
However, it seems my cousin is more intent on protecting you and your virtue, rather than making any attempt to seduce you.
Regardless, you and I will proceed as arranged, only now you must do whatever it takes to weaken his resolve.
Lead him astray, as it were. Hoodwink him into believing he has your interest and undivided attention, then turn him down and focus your efforts on me. ’
Helene didn’t try to understand the mind of a rake, nor what could only be egotistical games of one-upmanship. She kept her eye on the monetary prize, something Cuthbert reminded her of with his next breath.
‘I’m paying you handsomely to follow through.’
Helene grimaced when his grip on her grew fractionally tighter.
‘Fail me,’ he warned in a whisper, ‘and you’ll not leave here with my promissory note. Understand?’
She heard for the umpteenth time her sister’s scream inside her head. Helene had made not one promise, but two. She would honour both.
‘Yes,’ she whispered emphatically. ‘Whatever it takes.’