Chapter Four
Lachlan stood facing the fireplace in the lord’s hall. Here, he awaited the others before joining the clan for the evening meal in the heart of Drumocher. Mesmerising flames drew him deeper into thought about Lady Helene Beckett.
He replayed the moment the carriage door swung open and a face, lovely and as fresh as a new spring day, reacted in surprise, if not shock, at seeing him. In the trajectory of her fall, he saw the lifting of eyebrows, the widening of eyes, and her mouth dropping open.
Though she fell hard against him, her body was all softness and curves. Full breasts, hidden beneath a thick woollen cloak, pressed against his chest. Stomach as flat as the blade of his broadsword. If his hands could speak, they would tell of a trim waist, the swell of hips, and a fine-boned back.
On impact, her warm breath heated the flesh beneath his jaw.
It shot a chilling shiver clear to his boot-clad feet, a sensation he hadn’t experienced since slipping into the loch one winter when he’d been a careless, curious wee lad.
Lesson learned, never to be repeated. But this?
This tremor delivered a warning, a warning that if left unheeded might see him slip forever beneath a surface more impenetrable than the ice on that winter’s loch.
Dangerous, and with no means of deliverance.
The omen was loud and clear. He must stay focused and overrule distraction, for hers was the kind of radiant beauty to bewitch mere mortals.
If Cuthbert was correct in saying she believed herself too good for any man, then Lachlan would refuse her the satisfaction of perceiving him in any way enchanted with her.
It took one ego to recognise another, and she was sorely mistaken if she expected Lachlan to fall at her feet.
He almost laughed out loud, thinking himself a hypocrite.
Now he understood why, according to Cuthbert, females of the London set had dubbed him the Scoundrel Scot.
He’d wooed women into his bed and gave them not a second thought the following morning.
Like Lady Helene, he had neither the time nor the interest for matters of the heart.
Even if it had pleased him to do so, dalliance of any kind with this English lass was simply out of the question. She would return home in the same state as she’d arrived: safe and virtuous.
Caitrin MacLanoch’s furtive smiles and surreptitious glances had said otherwise.
It wouldn’t be the first time his mother tried to matchmake him with a lass she deemed to be promising marriage material.
If she had plans afoot between Helene and himself, then the dowager would have to weather another disappointment. A bride and bairns would have to wait.
Best to remain the unattached laird and to closely guard personal autonomy and the well-being of his people. If such a woman existed to whom he’d genuinely surrender his heart, then let it be God’s will.
Until then . . .
He glanced up at the stag’s head mounted on the wall above the fireplace.
Seeing it, with its majestic antlers and rich red-brown coat, reinforced Lachlan’s reasoning.
Celtic tradition served to remind him the animal symbolised independence and pride, being king of the forest and protector of all other creatures.
The noble beast’s lifelike glass eyes stared down at Lachlan, calling to attention his one true priority.
Clan MacLanoch. Its people and their welfare.
And yet, being in Helene’s embrace had given him a measure of comfort. She’d held him long and fast in the same way he’d clung to his father when pulled from the icy loch and dragged to safety on that cold, wintry day.
Safe. Restored from harm. Alive.
He’d saved the lass public embarrassment and the indignity of an ungraceful fall from the carriage, preventing the possible snapping of an ankle or breaking a limb.
Granted, the king’s men had safely delivered their charge hundreds of miles from her home and to within three hundred yards of Drumocher.
Had Helene sustained an injury during their handover, then Lachlan would appear the incompetent dolt in her father’s eyes.
It would have been a blow to his pride and prowess as laird of Clan MacLanoch.
Any incompetence on his behalf would be a slight on every Scotsman.
His word was his honour. Protect the lass at all costs. Damn but he didn’t need the bothersome responsibility. More pressing matters were at hand than to keep safe and shadow the skirts of a privileged blue blood. He wished Agnes hadn’t devilled him about agreeing to Helene’s visit.
If only the inquisitive lass had stayed seated in the carriage instead of taking matters into her own hands.
He hoped her thoughtlessness did not foreshadow future rash decisions.
There was nothing to be done about it now other than to remind her to think before she acted.
He’d enlighten her to ensure no misstep or breach of clan protocol when it came to her safety.
I’m in unfamiliar territory, she’d claimed. The irony of those words was not lost on Lachlan. He looked down at his open palms and shook both hands. The action did little to cast off the searing memory of how perfectly each hand had moulded to her waist.
‘Curse the lass for a witch!’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
Startled, Lachlan swung around to see his cousin leisurely seated, long legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles, along the window seat of the wood-panelled alcove. ‘Christ, Cuthbert! Ye nearly scairt me to death.’
‘Definitely not my intention. Besides, you can’t go dying on me just yet. Not before I’ve won our very last wager.’
The cocky comment put Lachlan on the back foot. ‘There is nae wager. We’ve already agreed on that.’
‘Correction. You agreed. I did not.’
Lachlan crossed the width of the hall. ‘What’s wrong with ye?
’ he said in a terse whisper, worried their conversation might be overheard.
‘Yer father threatens ye with an ultimatum for marriage, and suddenly ye want to destroy the reputation of a young lass who seeks neither yer attentions nor mine. I’ll not let it happen.
Not under my roof. Lady Helene is here as a guest of Drumocher, not as yer lecherous plaything. ’
Cuthbert had the audacity to look hurt. He raised arched blond brows. ‘Steady on. You’re being a tad melodramatic. I hardly think stealing an innocent kiss brands me a lecher.’
‘Neither does it make ye a gentleman.’
‘A gentleman?’ Cuthbert barked with laughter. ‘Cousin, we are, by birth, gentlemen. I the son of an English viscount and you of the Highland gentry.’ With a flourish of his hand, he emphasised, ‘The dhaoine-uaisle.’
‘Being of noble birth is nae guarantee of any particular merit.’
‘Good Lord, cousin! You have mounted a high horse. Charm and good looks are all it takes to seduce a woman, so when, pray tell, did gentlemanly tactics tip the balance of your scales?’
From the moment an obstinate, self-willed Sassenach fell into my arms!
The self-admission caught Lachlan by surprise. God forbid he confess the words out loud. He drew breath and released it on an exasperated sigh. He went to the hall’s open door and pushed it shut to keep their conversation private.
Cuthbert swivelled where he sat and swung his feet to the floor. He pointed a finger at Lachlan. ‘If I heard correctly, you said, “Curse the lass for a witch.” Does Helene already have you under her spell?’
‘Spell? Dinnae be ridiculous!’
Cuthbert sat straighter and folded his arms. An enlightened smile spread across his face. ‘Of course you are. Otherwise, you wouldn’t deny it so vehemently.’
‘I met the lass a matter of hours ago and ye think me smitten?’
Cuthbert shrugged. ‘You’d not be the only man to have been smitten at first sight.’
‘Have ye been drinking my red again?’
Cuthbert laughed. ‘No.’
‘Then I think ’tis ye who’s taken with the lass.’
‘Wrong again, but do indulge me.’ Cuthbert leaned forward and cocked one eyebrow. ‘Is she not the most exquisite beauty you’ve ever laid eyes on?’
Lachlan turned his back on Cuthbert and settled himself in an armchair near the hearth.
‘A simple yes or no will suffice,’ said Cuthbert.
‘Nae!’
‘No?’ Cuthbert rubbed the heel of his hand on the glass pane through which he could see the drizzle-drenched moors beyond. ‘I fear your vision is as foggy as this window.’
‘All right! She is pretty, but—’
‘And those eyes! Emerald jewels if ever I saw a perfect pair. They’re as piercing as a sword to the heart.’
‘I pray I dinnae ken the pain of a sword through my heart.’
Cuthbert eyed Lachlan with a manner of reserve. ‘When you do, figuratively speaking, you’ll recognise it as Cupid’s bow. Only then will you know you’re truly in love.’
‘Hah! What de ye ken about love?’
Cuthbert blinked once, then twice. Seconds before turning his gaze to the dismal day outdoors, he’d taken on the same troubled expression as he had in the library earlier today.
Lachlan refrained from further goading his cousin in favour of asking, ‘Ye speak as if from experience. Do ye keep another secret from me? Are ye in love?’
‘Most definitely not!’
An adamant denial, spoken with his back to Lachlan.
Would Cuthbert’s eyes tell a different story?
Gut instinct said his cousin had no wish to shed the weight of another matter.
Perhaps he shouldered more than his father’s threat of disinheritance if he were not married, or at least engaged, within the year.
To reach out to Cuthbert once more, Lachlan rose from his armchair and walked to stand behind his cousin.
As he opened his mouth to speak, the door opened and swung wide.
His mother and auntie glided into the room, arm-in-arm and in deep conversation.
They went directly to sit near the warmth of the fire.