Chapter Sixteen
Lachlan hurled the stone from his hand with the force of his seething anger. The stone skittered at top speed along the loch’s surface, disappearing into dawn’s thick mist hovering above the dark mass of water.
He’d weathered a restless night. If he wasn’t tossing and turning in bed, he was pacing his bedchamber floor, tormented by imaginations of Cuthbert engaged with Helene in an intimate foray.
Kissing those sweet plump lips, fondling and sliding his hands over parts of her naked body he had no business exploring.
‘Bastard! I’ll snap yer bloody neck!’ Another stone went hurtling towards the loch.
No matter how he tried, Lachlan failed to block images of Cuthbert with Helene.
Had she invited him into her chamber, welcoming his touch?
The latter was insanity. Helene wouldn’t do that.
Surely not. Not after allowing Lachlan certain liberties with her body when his touch had soothed her and taken her mind far from the terrifying squall.
They shared a connection, or at least that’s what Lachlan chose to believe.
Although, having seen her stand at her bedchamber door talking to Cuthbert, clothed only in her night-robe, her glorious mane unpinned and tumbling about her shoulders, made him question his understanding of her.
Though she’d said she’d never marry, she made no mention of living the celibate life of a nun.
The possibility of each scenario and the conclusions he’d drawn last night had driven him to reach for a bottle of whisky and consume more drams than he’d cared to count.
He’d hoped the amber liquid would have mellowed his mind and helped him see rationale and reason, or at the very least put him to sleep to escape self-inflicted mental torment, but to no avail.
He picked up a heavy-set stone and turned it in his fingers, inspecting it from every angle in the same way he still tried to make sense of what he’d witnessed last night.
If nothing intimate or untoward had occurred between his cousin and Helene, then Cuthbert should have had no cause to visit her at midnight.
Whatever discussion took place between them could have been conducted at a civilized hour during the day in respectable surrounds as would propriety demand.
Not late into the night and on the threshold of her private quarters.
If Cuthbert had indeed compromised Helene, as Lachlan had already done, then it compounded Lachlan’s failure to keep his word in promising Lord Penforth that his daughter would return to him as she had arrived. Virtuous and unsullied.
On impulse, Lachlan flung the stone from his hand with careless abandon.
It fell into the water with a resounding plonk and sank to the loch’s muddy bed, just as the blame of his misconduct and broken vow would fall firmly at his feet, his honour blackened.
Ruined. In tatters. In this very moment, he hated Cuthbert. He hated himself even more.
A stone missile suddenly whizzed past him and skipped with precision along the loch’s surface. Lachlan stiffened at the accompanying triumphant laugh behind him.
‘I told you I’d been practising while you were away,’ gloated Cuthbert. ‘But is this the reason for summoning me here? To challenge me in skimming stones?’
Lachlan whirled around.
Even at this early hour, Cuthbert’s appearance was that of a freshly shaved, immaculately clothed English gentleman, complete with sword on hip. He cocked a brow. ‘Good Lord! You look like hell, and judging by your dark glower, I’d say you’d prefer pistols at dawn over skimming stones.’
‘Enough with yer drollery, Cuthbert. Ye’re here because ’tis the truth I want.’ Lachlan ground out the words with all the intensity of his reactionary ire. ‘Spill the truth! And if ye dinnae do so, then so help me God, I’ll plough my fist into yer pretty face and beat it out of ye.’
Cuthbert spread his arms wide and gave a wry smile. ‘Well! Good morning to you too.’
Lachlan strode forward and roughly grabbed the lapels of Cuthbert’s tailored coat. ‘Nae! More! Games! I saw ye! At Helene’s bedchamber door last night. What were ye doing there?’
Cuthbert’s eyes widened in shocked surprise, then narrowed as he asked, ‘You were spying on us?’
‘I was not spying on ye!’
‘Then why didn’t you make your presence known?’
Cuthbert’s unflappable attitude infuriated Lachlan. He gripped the coat tighter and gave his cousin a vigorous shake. ‘I didnae ken what I might have been interrupting.’
Lachlan stared at Cuthbert’s blank face for a long pause, awaiting an explanation. ‘Answer me! For if not ye, then I’ll confront Helene with the verra same questions.’
The strain of a dilemma showed in Cuthbert’s eyes and in the way his brow furrowed in concentration.
‘Choose!’ shouted Lachlan. ‘Will ye have me interrogate and embarrass the lass, or will ye man up and admit yer dealings with Helene?’
A few moments passed before Cuthbert lifted and laid his hands over Lachlan’s. With a gentle squeeze, he prised Lachlan’s fingers from the coat and smoothed the lapels back into place. ‘We had a manner of business to conduct.’
‘Business?’ Lachlan was outraged. ‘At midnight? What kind of business might that be?’
‘It’s personal.’
‘Oh, aye. I’m sure it was! And if it were the kind of business ye once referred to as sampling Lady Helene, then . . .’ Lachlan took two strides back. The sword at his side was silent as it left its scabbard in an expert draw and found its mark perilously pressed to Cuthbert’s throat.
‘This is becoming a habit of yours.’
Lachlan begrudged his cousin’s courage and inscrutability. The man didn’t even flinch.
Cuthbert slowly raised his hands in surrender and inhaled deeply, resignation in his long, drawn-out sigh.
‘I give you my word in saying I’m not guilty of that which you imply, and I can assure you, Helene has no amorous interest in me whatsoever, nor do I covet her.
’ He lowered his arms and indicated with a glance the blade under his chin.
‘Come now, cousin. Do you not think your accusatory actions extreme and hypocritical, when we both know it is you who has sampled your charge?’
Lachlan’s jaw ached from having clenched his teeth together.
‘Your hand is trembling,’ observed Cuthbert.
Lachlan glanced down to see his hand on the hilt of the sword did indeed tremble. Evidence of his self-loathing and guilt.
Cuthbert blew out a breath. ‘It’s time. A truce and the truth. I need to hear it from you, just as much as you wish to hear it from me.’
Lachlan had been so blinded by his upset and rage that it was only now he registered familiar sincerity in Cuthbert’s voice. There was a softening around his eyes, in his expression and open body posture. It was as if a veil had been lifted to reveal the Cuthbert of old.
With the relaxing of tensions between them, Lachlan sheathed his sword. Finally, he let down his guard, rolled his shoulders, and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Aye. I kissed her.’
Their eyes locked, and a brief pause between them allowed for the weight of Lachlan’s confession to take effect.
‘Ah,’ said Cuthbert, settling his hands on his hips. ‘I’m hesitant to ask, being it none of my business, but did you indulge in more than just a kiss?’
The question nettled Lachlan. ‘I didnae bed the lass, if that’s what ye’re asking.’
‘But you’re attracted to her?’
‘Aye,’ exhaled Lachlan, his shoulders slumping forward. ‘From the first. ’Twas an instant gut reaction.’
‘And am I right in believing Aila gave Helene the brooch for reasons other than rewarding her for championing Donnie?’
Lachlan nodded and gave in to that question too. ‘Aye.’
‘Hmm.’ Cuthbert looked thoughtful. ‘That can only mean you have genuine feelings for Helene.’
Lachlan choked on a laugh. ‘Feelings? Christ! The lass has utterly bewitched me.’
He took to pacing back and forth, eyes downcast with one hand rubbing his forehead.
‘My mind is so addled I can think of nought but her. She only need walk into a room and I’m rendered tongue-tied.
I pick up on her scent like a bloodhound in pursuit of a fox.
I feel feverish. My heart pounds. One glimpse of those mesmerising emerald eyes and I go weak at the knees like some love-struck milkmaid. ’
Lachlan bent to retrieve a stone and hurled it in frustration over the loch.
Cuthbert quietly pointed out, ‘You never spoke about Tibbie in those terms.’
It was the stark truth. Lachlan had always retained a clear head in her presence.
Not once had he lost a wink of sleep thinking about or dreaming of her, as had occurred every night since meeting Helene.
In fact, he could not even recall the colour of Tibbie’s eyes.
All that remained of her in Lachlan’s mind was her betrayal of him, and even that no longer stung.
At what point he’d forgiven Tibbie, Lachlan couldn’t say.
He’d once believed himself to have been in love with the fiery-haired lass.
Apparently not. Perhaps it was not so much as having to heal from a broken heart, but rather that time had mended his wounded pride.
Lachlan admitted unto himself that a headstrong, opinionated, and independent Sassenach lass had overthrown his sensibilities. Like a surprise attack in the storming of a castle’s defences, she’d taken root in his heart and bloomed like the heather on the hills.
‘So . . . do you wish for a future with Helene?’ asked Cuthbert.
‘Wish being the operative word.’
‘Well then, as I said yesterday, congratulations.’