Chapter Twelve #2
She stood within arm’s reach. Long, dark hair hung over one shoulder, now tied in a loose plait. Her arms hugged her waist, and he noticed her bare toes peeking out from the hem of her skirt. She looked every bit the wild Highland lass, sending his pulse racing.
‘Helene. I’m verra sorry for the way I treated ye this afternoon. The stampede . . . ’twas not yer fault and—’
‘Neither was it yours.’
‘Aye, but I should have been there to protect ye. If I’d lost ye . . .’ He left the sentence hanging in the air.
‘I know. You’d have had my father to answer to, and I’d not wish that on anyone.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’ It was one thing trying to process developing feelings for Helene, but it was another to articulate it.
She took the few steps to stand toe-to-toe with him. ‘I didn’t seek you out for an apology, but rather to thank you for saving my life. And Donnie’s.’
‘Och! Undeserved thanks. If not for Donnie, ye’d not be here at all, and ye cannae begin to imagine the guilt I feel because of it.’
‘Yes, I can,’ she said softly. ‘I’m no stranger to guilt. I bear the burden of it every day of my life.’
The confession was another layer to her he wished desperately to understand. She spoke again before he had the chance to encourage her to confide in him.
‘If not for you, Donnie and I might both have drowned.’
A cow lowed in the distance, filling the pause between them.
‘My anger towards ye, lass, and that kiss. Forgive me, I shouldnae—’
She cut him off with a finger to his lips and whispered, ‘Forgiven and forgotten, and no one need know.’
The soft pad of her fingertip fell away from his mouth and she retreated, a shadowy figure in the night, back inside the hut.
Lachlan stood for a time thinking about that life-changing kiss. Helene might be quick to forget, but he had not.
*
Conflicting emotions kept Helene awake. For one, she could barely contain her relief and joy at achieving, far quicker than expected, what Cuthbert had tasked her to do. She had no reason to stay any longer at Drumocher.
Her monetary reward would not only buy her sister’s freedom from the asylum, but it would be enough for the two of them to begin a simple, quiet life together deep in the English countryside.
Their father, in time, would surely come around to the idea of Helene devoting her life to Prudence, and to giving her the proper care and attention she deserved.
Why, then, did the thrill of success taste bittersweet?
Lachlan had made her task easy, and Helene could find no justification for thinking she’d done wrong by him.
She hadn’t had to trick, entice, deceive, seduce, or coerce him into kissing her.
It had just happened, entirely his doing, brought on by self-inflicted anger in thinking he’d failed to protect her.
He’d given her the perfect excuse to leave Drumocher, and he wouldn’t care that she’d return to London in haste. She meant nothing to him.
This train of thought did little to ease her conscience, much less her confusion, for she’d not factored into the bargain her immediate attraction to the laird of Clan MacLanoch. That kiss had left her wanting, if not wondering how it might be between them if his kiss had been born of desire.
She swept selfish thoughts aside and formulated a plan. On their return walk to the castle, she’d ask Lachlan to arrange her journey to London. An excuse of homesickness would suffice. Of course, he’d assume her reason for leaving was because he’d taken certain liberties with her innocence.
No need to use the threat of divulging the truth of his indiscretion to his mother and auntie, as it would only evoke shame and disappointment.
Even if he were to deny his actions, Viscountess Sutton would believe Helene’s word over her nephew’s, given her knowledge of his scandalous reputation in London.
Helene was certain Lachlan would do right by her and honour her wish, just as she’d obliged his wish to stay at the shielings for several days.
Here in the darkness of her earthy surrounds, she rolled onto her back and lay in reasonable comfort with a well-worn quilt tucked around her for warmth.
The creaky cot upon which she slept was a far cry from her walnut four-poster bed with canopy, finials, and superfluous plump pillows.
A luxury she’d soon live without. A luxury she’d happily do without.
If her father and brother could see her now, they’d think of her as having fallen from grace and living amongst peasants and squalor.
Should they in any way interfere with her plans to escape to the country and care for her sister, then Helene would bring to light the very existence of Prudence, her condition, and her whereabouts.
London society would see it as a scandalous revelation, ruinous for her father’s good name. As for her brother? No family of worth would allow their daughter to marry a man whose sister resided in a madhouse.
Helene closed her eyes to the memory of her mother, who would surely have given her nod of approval, validating each step Helene took to ensure Prudence’s survival and safety.
This rationale brought peace of mind, and it wasn’t long before Greer’s soft snores, together with Mairi’s even breathing, lulled Helene to sleep.
When she opened her eyes, daylight streamed through the one tiny window in the cottage. The mouth-watering scent of freshly baked bread wafted through cracks in the wooden cottage door. Cows bellowed in the distance, and lively chatter and laughter outside the cottage boded well for a cheerful day.
Helene rose from the bed and neatly replaced the cot’s quilt, a duty otherwise performed by household maids back home, but a task Helene carried out with a sense of novelty and self-satisfaction. She didn’t expect her Highland hosts to wait on her hand and foot.
The thought of facing Lachlan gave rise to a fluttering in her stomach as she smoothed and straightened the shift she’d slept in.
She dressed quickly and used a hairbrush to tame her sleep-mussed hair before tying it back in a thin strip of cloth given to her by Mairi last night.
After a quick splash to the face of cold water from a basin, she stepped outside into glorious sunshine.
A hive of activity dotted the landscape, with women, young girls, and herd boys all going about their morning routine. Even though the hour was early, Helene must surely be the last to rise.
Greer looked up from the cooking fire, where she used a spurtle to stir a pot.
‘Good mornin’, m’lady,’ she said with a smile. ‘I hope ye had a restful sleep.’
The kind woman need not know the truth, nor the cause of Helene’s restless night. ‘Yes, I did. Thank you.’
‘Weel then, if ye’re feelin’ hungry, sit yersel’ down and I’ll serve ye up a bowl of hearty brochan.’
Helene had no idea what that was until Greer set a tray on her lap with a spoon and bowl. ‘Porridge.’
‘Aye. If that’s what the English call it,’ said Greer.
Helene picked up the spoon, ready to take her first mouthful.
‘Wait,’ said Greer, placing another smaller bowl on the tray. ‘’Tis fresh buttermilk. Dip each spoonful of brochan in the buttermilk before ye convey it to yer mouth.’ She winked. ‘’Tis the old-fashioned Highlander way.’
One mouthful and Helene closed her eyes to the tantalising texture of creamy, buttery-flavoured oatmeal. ‘It’s delicious, Greer. Thank you.’
‘’Tis my pleasure, m’lady. When ye’ve done wi’ that, there’s fresh bread to be had wi’ a chunk of cheese, if it so pleases ye.’
Helene savoured another mouthful of Highland goodness before asking, ‘Where’s Mairi?’
‘Ye just missed her. She’s gone down to the stream with some of the other lasses. They’ll be making salted butter for the whole of the shielings.’
Helene planned to visit them as soon as she’d eaten. ‘And the laird?’ she asked, casting her gaze ahead.
‘Right behind ye, lass.’
Lachlan’s deep voice so startled Helene that the food tray almost toppled from her lap. She gripped the tray with one hand and turned to see him drape something over the drying line, next to her clothes from yesterday’s near-drowning. When he stepped aside, her mouth fell open.
‘Grizel’s shawl! You found it!’
He sat down on the log beside her. ‘Aye. ’Twas caught up in the branches of a fallen tree in the river, along with this.’ He reached into his coat pocket, took Helene’s free hand, and placed something in her open palm.
‘Aila’s brooch!’ She flung her arm around Lachlan’s neck, drawing him close.
A sudden awkwardness overcame her during the pause of that embrace.
When she drew back, slowly, it was to stare into the darkened depths of Lachlan’s eyes.
Eyes with the power to trap and hold her still, so that she daren’t look away.
He blinked, breaking the spell, and her gaze fell to the barely there flush beneath the unshaven shadow on his face.
Had her reactionary behaviour to the retrieval of Aila’s brooch made him blush? She hoped so. It was far more empowering to have triggered his response because he was attracted to her or experienced some degree of nervousness around her, rather than because she’d embarrassed him.
Best to think it the latter and err on the side of caution lest she embarrass herself. She subsequently resisted the urge to touch his cheek and test the sensation of his stubble against her palm.
‘How can I ever thank you?’ she said.
‘Ye just did.’
There was something intimate about his softly spoken words and the way his gaze made a leisurely sweep of her mouth. It set Helene’s stomach aflutter, and she could not pull her gaze from his face.
‘Enjoying the brochan?’ he asked, raising a brow.
‘Aye.’ Helene laughed at her response, suddenly realising she’d spoken in the Scottish affirmative, rather than English.
Lachlan grinned. ‘We’ll have ye speaking the Gaelic by the time ye return to London.’
Helene turned her attention to her morning meal in case her face betrayed her reluctance to see out the duration of her summer stay at Drumocher. With her last mouthful, she said, ‘Mairi is making salted butter down by the river. I thought I’d pay her a visit and learn something of shieling life.’
If she was going to learn anything about country living, then the shielings were a perfect place to start.
Lachlan rose to his feet and took the tray from her lap. He set it down on a small stool beside the cooking fire. Helene looked around for Greer to thank her for the brochan, but her kind host had made herself scarce.
‘This way,’ he said.
They walked in companionable silence towards the river.
Despite the weapons strapped to his body, Helene felt more than safe with the tall, strong, kilted man at her side.
He walked with sure-footed strides and an air of confidence, a leader with the respect of his clan.
Those who sighted him acknowledged his presence with a wave or a shout from afar.
One little boy, who looked to be no more than five years old, raced towards them and clung to Lachlan’s leg like a limpet to a rock.
Lachlan stopped to ruffle the sulking lad’s hair, picked him up, and sat him high on his broad shoulders.
As the trio walked on towards the river, the two spoke in Gaelic and something was said to make Lachlan laugh. His reply did nothing to wipe the scowl from the boy’s face.
Curious, Helene asked, ‘What did he say?’
‘Alistair has run away from his ma, who’s set him the task of collecting kindling for tonight’s fire. His preference is to play with his brother and the other herd boys, and he wants me to have cross words with his ma.’
Helene couldn’t help but smile. ‘Such a serious dispute. Whose side are you on?’
Lachlan feigned a look of alarm. ‘His ma’s! I told him as much, and he’s none too happy with me.’
Now it was Helene who laughed. ‘You, the laird of Clan MacLanoch, are not so fearless after all.’
Lachlan winked. ‘You haven’t met his ma.’
When they reached the stream, Lachlan took the boy from his shoulders and knelt before him. Their ensuing conversation put a smile on the lad’s face, and his little chest stuck out like a proud peacock. He turned and ran off.
Helene remarked, ‘Well! That was a turnaround in attitude.’
Lachlan stood up. ‘Aye. I told him ’twas a man’s responsibility to care for and look after his family, no matter the task. I also said that if he were to complete his chores, I’d teach him how to tickle fish so that he could provide a meal for his ma and brother tonight.’
Admiration and respect for Lachlan grew with every minute Helene spent in his company. As laird of his clan, he was protector and father to all, amply demonstrated in his kind behaviour and actions towards Alistair. How might he be around a child of his own?
The question stirred in Helene unfamiliar maternal instincts. If she were ever to want a man to give her a son or daughter, then that man would have to live up to the likes of Lachlan MacLanoch.