Chapter Nineteen
Helene shifted in her seat. A thick sheepskin lined the leather saddle, providing soft cushioning for her bottom.
Riding for hours on end was not something she otherwise engaged in, and so she had thanked Lachlan for his care and consideration regarding her riding comfort.
The numbness she was beginning to feel would likely have otherwise been tenfold.
The journey thus far had seen them pass through verdant woodland. Helene pulled into her lungs the perfume of pines and crisp, sparkling mountain air. A cacophony of birdsong accompanied them along the way, from the very vocal stonechats to the strange popping noise of a capercaillie.
The sun’s slow descent brought with it a drop in temperature, and darkness would cloak them in a matter of hours.
Lachlan led the way along what looked to be a well-trodden trail, its width at present only enough to ride in single file. At times, progress was slow, requiring their mounts to tread carefully along undulating ground or pick their way over roots growing over the path.
Helene admired Lachlan’s physique at her leisure, this day being the first time she’d seen him dressed in anything but his kilt.
Her gaze took in the muscular definition of thighs encased in dark breeches and knee-length boots.
Like her, he wore a woollen vest over a linen shirt with a neckerchief.
A coat hugged his broad back. His baldric and sword belt buckled over one shoulder and around the waist reminded her of the day they’d met when she’d fallen from the carriage and into his arms. The pin of the baldric buckle had caught the weave of her cloak, rendering them, quite literally, fastened together.
‘Like bairns fused at birth,’ he’d said.
She hadn’t appreciated the humour in his comment at the time.
However, she did now, and could not help but smile at the quip.
She valued all she’d come to learn about the laird of Clan MacLanoch.
He’d proved himself to be a man of worth, a fierce protector of family and his clan.
He had a head for business and a heart brimming with compassion, kindness, honesty, and integrity.
Try as she did to repel his magnetic charm, he was a man in whom she could find no fault.
Until this morning in the drawing room. One singular moment replayed itself in her mind, and the memory of it slapped her across the face. Her good opinion of the laird had been ruthlessly overturned when he’d agreed to be her sole escort to London only after she’d offered him her innocence.
And this from a man who claimed to have sworn off deflowering debutants.
Liar! Hypocrite!
Of her own volition, she was no longer pure of virtue after their time together when sheltering from the squall, so how stupidly naive of her to believe Lachlan thought more of her than just another carnal conquest. A lascivious indulgence.
A prize to be won in a wager. Any guilt she harboured over retaining Cuthbert’s promissory note turned to ash, just as if she’d tossed the parchment in a blazing hearth.
The MacLanoch laird had lived up to his reputation. Once a rake, always a rake.
Yet, contrary to this, in the bailey, he’d looked at her with eyes radiating distress and despair, confessing intent to take his own life had she died by his hand.
Why? Because he cared so deeply for her that he couldn’t live without her?
Or because he couldn’t face her father and suffer the disgrace of having to declare himself a murderer?
The man was a confusing conundrum of morality and vice.
A timely reminder to metaphorically burn any emotional connection to him.
She had no scope for him in her life, nor she in his.
He was no more than a person whose job it was to escort her safely back to her life in London. Back to her father, and to Prudence.
Sweet Prudence. Dear God, keep her safe.
Another matter of consequence weighed heavy on Helene’s mind.
At what point during her journey home would Lachlan call in her debt and take her innocence?
Tonight? Sudden trepidation rippled through her, swiftly followed by an involuntary quivering of excitement at the apex of her thighs.
She squirmed in the saddle, mortified when she glanced up to see Lachlan watching her over his shoulder.
‘Ye’ll be pleased to ken we’ll make camp up ahead,’ he said.
She nodded and prayed he believed her discomfort due to being saddle-sore, not because her traitorous body reacted to the memory of his touch, yearning for more.
A few minutes passed before Helene cocked her head to the sound of rushing water. Soon, the path’s downward gradient brought them into view of a narrow stream.
‘Over there,’ Lachlan said, pointing. ‘We’ll make camp on the embankment.’
Helene’s gaze followed in the direction he pointed. She marvelled at the setting. Lush. Picturesque.
Secluded.
Helene swallowed the ball of nerves in her throat. She watched Lachlan dismount, his boots thudding on the earth. He stepped towards her and raised his arms, ready to assist in helping her down. She did as he had, removing her feet from the stirrups and swinging her right leg over the horse’s neck.
Strong hands latched firmly around her waist, and instinctively she braced her palms on his broad shoulders.
Whisky-flecked eyes, rare and striking like that of a wolf, locked onto hers as if she were his prey to devour.
She couldn’t have looked away or fought for freedom if her life depended on it.
He lifted her down from the saddle, slowly and without breaking eye contact. Corded muscles flexed beneath Helene’s hands, and heat from his skin radiated through his layers of clothes, penetrating deep into her bloodstream.
At what point he set her on her feet, she did not know, for she remained trapped in his gaze, trapped between the large hands spanning her waist, and hopelessly trapped in a vortex of intense sensation.
Mentally burning emotional ties to this man was one challenge, but any hope of nullifying her body’s reactions to him was like asking the sun never to rise again.
His hands fell away from her waist, and yet the heat of his touch lingered. That heat sparked and flared inside her when his gaze dropped to rest on her mouth. Something surged inside her. Anticipation? Expectancy?
The moment his gaze lifted to hers, he took an abrupt step backwards. Had he seen her hunger for him in her eyes?
‘I’ll see to the horses.’ He gathered up their reins and led them to drink at the edge of the stream. Next, he unburdened the horses of bedrolls and bundled supplies.
Helene sucked in an unsteady breath. One urge might be denied, yet another required her immediate attention. Nature called, and so she fumbled with the buckle of her sword belt.
‘What are ye doing with that?’
Helene glanced up to see his quizzical frown. ‘Removing it, and the baldric.’
‘Why?’
Awkward embarrassment heated Helene’s cheeks. ‘I must tend to my needs, and I’ll manage the process a lot easier if I’m not encumbered with all this leather and steel.’
Understanding dawned in his eyes. ‘Aye. Well.’ He started towards her. ‘Let me help ye.’
This time it was Helene who took a step back. ‘Thank you, but I’m quite capable of tending to my own needs.’
He stopped mid-stride, lips quirking in amusement. ‘I meant, I’ll help ye remove the sword belt and baldric.’
‘Oh.’ Helene’s chin dipped down. ‘I thought . . .’ She shook her head, feeling more than a little foolish. ‘Never mind.’
Lachlan’s approach set her senses on high alert, and when he stood only inches before her, her gaze drank him in. From the bonnet worn flat across his head, to the dark autumn hair framing a face more handsome than any mythical God.
Her gaze fell from his face to watch large hands and nimble fingers unclasp the buckles, lifting the leather belts and armoury off and away from her body. She rolled her shoulders several times to exercise sore muscles.
‘I’ll set these aside for now,’ he said, and nodded to the woodland behind her. ‘Mind ye dinnae stray too far from here, and dinnae ever remove yer bonnet. Yer long hair will give ye away as a woman.’
Helene picked her way into the woods in search of privacy.
The wide girth of a tree trunk doubled as a privacy screen.
Noises in the underbrush rendered her skittish, and so she waited a moment or two, hoping that whatever creatures she’d disturbed had now scurried away.
When all she could hear was the whisper of leaves in the canopy overhead, she released the buttons at her waist and then two more on the fall flap on her breeches.
Men had it easy. All they need do was release their appendage and stand in one spot to relieve themselves.
Women, on the other hand . . . She rolled her eyes and drew the breeches down, squatted, and emptied her bladder.
Upon standing, muscles in her legs and backside protested for having sat so long in the saddle. This was only day one of their journey. Lord knows how her body would ache by the time she reached home.
She returned to their camp to see the horses munching on lush grass beneath the shelter of a tall pine where they’d been tethered. Lachlan had dug a small crater in the ground where he presently crouched, lining its perimeter with rocks the size of his fist.
He’d divested himself of his coat and woollen vest, and Helene could not take her gaze from the way his linen shirt accommodated the width of his broad shoulders and the depth of his muscular chest. Sleeves rolled to his elbows exposed strong forearms. She suspected his physique was testimony to years of wielding the mighty weight of a broadsword and other such combative weaponry, and exercise.
‘What can I do to help?’ she asked.
He spoke without glancing up. ‘If ye dinnae mind dirtying yer hands, then ’twould help if ye gather kindling for the fire.’