Chapter Three
Helene had not spent what seemed like an eternity cooped up in a carriage traversing the countryside only to discover the laird of Clan MacLanoch had suddenly developed a moral conscience.
Stalwart determination would not be thwarted just because he’d sworn to her father that she’d be well protected.
Her father had read aloud to her that oath, pledged in the laird’s own hand.
Without it, the earl would not have consented to her visiting the Highlands.
It went without saying that virtue and reputation were key for an eligible, unmarried woman of good fortune. It therefore begged the question, what recompense had the laird guaranteed should he fail to keep good on his promise? Helene’s father had not conveyed to her that part of the agreement.
Regardless, it remained a moot point. Her father had played into her plans, and that was all that mattered.
If in fulfilling her one objective she returned to him safe but with the faintest whiff of scandal, then so be it.
It didn’t matter. She cared naught for, and did not seek, the good opinion of London society, or whether she was, or was not, deemed to be marriageable goods.
If she secured Cuthbert’s promissory note, she’d have money to be used as she wished.
As for her dowry? Her opinion on the matter was both cynical and realistic.
Marry, and her husband would do with her dowry as he wished.
She’d not receive control over one penny of it.
If she chose spinsterhood, her father would mete out an allowance as he saw fit.
Either way she’d have no control over how and when her money would be spent.
Helene turned her mind to the art of flirtatious behaviour.
A novice she might be, but she’d wield inexperience to her advantage like a weapon.
All she need do was trip like a child learning to walk in hope of the laird taking her hand to guide her.
If Lachlan MacLanoch determined not to seduce her, then she’d set about seducing him.
She the spider. He the fly. He was no different to every other man who weakened to lustful temptation.
Helene glanced over Cuthbert’s shoulder to see the laird swing out of the saddle.
A stable lad instantly took up the halter of the horse and caught the reins the laird tossed him.
Helene took stock of what she must do. Cuthbert’s sudden firm grip on her hand came as a sober reminder that failure had no place in her plans.
‘Mind your step,’ he warned, commanding her focus. ‘I wouldn’t want you to trip.’
‘Aye, lass,’ said the laird on approach. ‘Lest ye fall into the wrong hands.’
Cuthbert gave a startled laugh. ‘Ah, cousin. Impeccable timing, as always. Who better than the laird of Drumocher to formally welcome the lovely Lady Helene Beckett?’ He stepped aside and out of their way.
The laird appeared wary and switched his gaze from his cousin to Helene. ‘I’ve already had the pleasure of doing so.’ He seemed to notice the hand she rubbed. ‘Are ye all right, lass?’
‘Yes. Of course. Would you be so kind as to help me down?’
Before she could reach for him, he took her by the waist as he’d done before, forcing her need to grip his shoulders.
He lifted her from the carriage, setting her down and clear of the muddy ground surrounding the stepping block.
Helene searched the planes of his face, taking in the shape and serious set of his mouth.
She held on to him longer than propriety required.
Of course, he could have removed his hands from her waist, and yet, curiously enough, he didn’t, instead waiting for her to initiate their separation. When she did, Helene averted her gaze to pretend interest in her surrounds and took in the portcullis under which they’d entered the courtyard.
He followed her gaze, explaining, ‘We’ve accessed Drumocher from the north via a passage beneath the lord’s tower.’
‘The lord’s tower?’ asked Helene, marvelling at the imposing height of hewn stone.
‘Aye. A private set of principal rooms, including the lord’s hall and three storeys of family bedchambers. Ye’ve been assigned a chamber there.’
Her gaze fell to his face. Sudden awareness, together with his steady regard, left her with a feeling of unease.
Not because she feared for her personal protection, but because, for the first time in her life, a sensation akin to pins and needles afflicted her body in the most private of parts. She flinched at the shock of it.
‘Ye needn’t have cause for concern, Lady Helene. This tower and its chambers are secure.’
Oh dear. How to explain? Helene swallowed and dragged her gaze from his. Another mistake, for he interpreted her dismissal of him as a personal affront.
‘Ye doubt me again, lass?’
She looked him in the eyes, quick to placate any misunderstanding. ‘No. Not at all. I merely wished to ask’—she pointed to the north and north-west walls—‘where those two sets of external stairs lead.’
He considered her for a moment before indicating with a nod of his head. ‘Over there, adjacent to the lord’s tower, are stairs leading into the great hall, and the stairs there’—he pointed to the second tower to the west—‘lead into the kitchens.’
‘I see.’ She refrained from asking what occupied the levels on the tower above the kitchen. There’d be plenty of time to explore.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘My mother and sister anxiously await yer acquaintance.’
To her side, Helene caught the hint of a smile tug at one corner of Cuthbert’s mouth.
He sent her a scarcely perceptible nod, as if secretly approving of her discourse and coquettish ploy to feign attraction to and interest in their host. It made her feel dirty, unclean, as if he were a brothel-keeper pushing his whore towards the next client in line.
And just like a whore, her reward was monetary gain from Cuthbert’s purse.
Helene had long absolved herself of any guilt, safe in the knowledge she’d hatched a plan born of moral conviction, of a fundamental sense of doing what was humane and what was right by her sister.
There was no price she wouldn’t pay to secure her sibling’s freedom from an institution destined to mistreat, destroy, if not kill her.
Cuthbert’s smile twisted into a smirk. The smirk of a shallow rake.
Was it his plan to best his cousin—by duplicitous means—in the art of seducing a woman?
If so, how abhorrent to think a man would go to such great lengths to save face when his masculinity, pride, or ego was at stake. In this case, it served her purpose.
Helene moved forward with the laird at her side, mindful of the gathering crowd’s curious stares.
Any grave fears she harboured in thinking the clan displeased over having a Sassenach in their midst was quickly put to rest when a woman, unmistakeably Lady Sutton’s twin, standing on the threshold of the lord’s tower lifted her arms in greeting and beckoned Helene forth.
‘My mother,’ whispered the laird, by way of preparing her for their meeting.
Helene spared him a glance and was taken by his expression—filled with as much pride and affection for his mother as was spoken in his words.
This quality of character surprised Helene.
It struck something deep inside her, almost endearing the laird to her.
What was it her mother had always said? If a man is good to his mother, he’ll be good to his wife.
Most inconvenient. She wasn’t here to form attachments.
He was a rake and no better than his cousin.
The young excitable delight, as Lady Sutton had described her, turned from her conversation with Agnes and looked towards Helene. Her eyes lit up like lanterns, and she went at once to stand at her mother’s side.
‘Your sister?’ Helene enquired in a whisper to the laird.
‘Aye.’
‘So beautiful.’
‘And wild,’ he said under his breath moments before making introductions. ‘It is my great pleasure to introduce ye to my mother, Lady Caitrin MacLanoch, and my sister, Grizel.’
Spoken with the love and devotion of a laird prepared to lay down his life for kin. Blast the man! Rakes weren’t meant to show any manner of decency. They had a reputation for debauchery, breaking hearts, and ruining, without a care, virtuous women.
This introduction made things even more difficult. Helene had a conscience even if he did not. She hadn’t expected to feel so culpable over her reasons for being here. Duping the laird was one thing, but to deceive his mother and sister?
No turning back now. Besides, what man seeks his mother or sister’s comfort when he loses a conquest to another hellraiser? When all was said and done, his wounded pride and deflated ego would prevent him from discussing the loss with anyone, save Cuthbert.
Helene dipped a low curtsy as Caitrin MacLanoch welcomed her with a gracious smile.
The woman stood tall and straight. Braids were arranged in an elegant upswept hairstyle, and softly curled copper tendrils decorated her oval face.
A finely knit capelet adorned a tartan olive-green dress trimmed in colours to match her hair.
And her eyes, a shade lighter than her dress, focused kindly on Helene.
She was, without doubt, a sophisticated woman of Highland aristocratic status.
Beside her mother, Grizel curtsied in kind.
Inquisitive innocence danced behind eyes the colour of an autumn oak leaf.
She had a dimple in her right cheek and a smile to brighten the darkest room.
Long wavy hair cascaded down her back and shoulders in a shiny curtain, the copper colour a touch darker than her mother’s.
‘And this,’ said Lachlan to his mother and sister, ‘is Lady Helene Beckett, youngest child and only daughter to the Earl of Penforth.’
Only daughter? The woman behind the scream in Helene’s head begged to be acknowledged.