Chapter Twenty-Three
It was late morning, midweek, when Helene arrived with Lachlan on the doorstep of her father’s Grosvenor Square residence.
Grayson, the usually unflappable, portly butler of senior years, turned a ghostly pallor when Helene tipped her hat high enough for him to see her face.
With raised brows, he promptly stepped aside to allow them entry, knowing better than to ask questions, and quickly closed the door in fear of the landed gentry spying the Earl of Penforth’s daughter masquerading as a man.
‘Welcome home, Lady Helene.’
‘Thank you, Grayson. I have with me the laird of Clan MacLanoch.’
Grayson bowed to Lachlan. ‘Laird, I am at your service. May I take your hat and’—Grayson looked pointedly at Helene’s and Lachlan’s sword belts—‘weaponry?’
‘Aye, we dinnae wish to bear arms during an audience with Lord Penforth.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Helene, giving Lachlan a sidelong glance, ‘it might not be a bad thing.’ She removed her hat, releasing her hidden hair, which flopped down her back in one long braid.
Grayson took their hats in one hand and had them drape their belts with weaponry over his free arm. ‘Did you arrive with any luggage, Lady Helene?’
‘Only what’s secured to our saddles. Please bring those items in and have a groom attend the horses. They need a rubdown, feeding, and the best of care.’
‘Consider it done.’
Without preamble, Helene asked, ‘Is Father home?’
‘Lord Penforth is in the library.’
Something in the butler’s eyes and in his tone frayed Helene’s nerves. ‘Grayson, is everything all right?’
‘That’s not for me to say, Lady Helene.’
The long-serving butler could always be counted upon to be diplomatic. In this instance, his response rattled Helene to the bone. She swung her gaze across the hall towards the library.
‘Shall I bring you some refreshments?’ said Grayson.
‘Not just yet, thank you. I must speak privately with my father.’
‘As you wish.’ Grayson bowed in his customary deferential manner and made himself scarce.
‘This way,’ Helene said to Lachlan.
They both garnered gaping stares from two passing servants who’d be all too keen to send tongues wagging below stairs. It made no matter to Helene. What set her on edge was the oppressive atmosphere in her home.
Home. How strange it was to be amongst the opulence of her father’s London residence with its marble floors, chandeliers, mahogany furniture, and soft plush furnishings.
She felt oddly out of place and already yearned for the wide-open spaces of the Highlands, sweeping, heather-covered moorlands and shimmering lochs.
She sent Lachlan a worried glance. He responded with an encouraging smile, affirming his moral support.
They came to a stop outside the library door.
‘Are ye all right, lass?’
‘No. My heart races and I can barely breathe.’
Lachlan took her hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘I’m here for ye, lass. I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again. I willnae leave yer side unless ’tis safe to do so.’
She gave him an appreciative smile. ‘Thank you. I take great comfort in having you here with me. Truly, I do.’
‘Aye, well, shall we?’ He rapped on the door.
‘Enter.’
The deep voice reached Helene from beyond the door.
She took in a deep breath, exhaled, then turned the handle and stepped inside.
The latch of the door clicked as Lachlan closed it behind them.
Helene saw her father in profile, seated in one of the leather wingback armchairs opposite the hearth.
To her surprise, her brother, Robert, sat in the chair beside him.
The men continued in muted conversation.
‘What is it, Grayson?’ asked her father, without troubling himself to glance over his shoulder.
Helene moved deeper into the room with Lachlan by her side. She opened her mouth to respond, but it was Lachlan who spoke first.
‘’Tis not yer butler.’
The assertive, commanding brogue had the two men twist their heads around to see who addressed them.
In the next moment, they were on their feet.
Their eyebrows rose in shock, their mouths falling open the instant they recognised Helene.
Her sudden, unannounced arrival, and dressed as she was in men’s garb, rendered the men speechless.
Their questioning eyes darted between herself and Lachlan.
‘Hello, Father.’ Helene’s gaze flicked to her brother, impeccably dressed as always, and sporting a fashionable wig, and yet something about him seemed off. She nodded a greeting. ‘Robert.’
Helene readied herself to battle a barrage of questions, to be raked over the coals for entering and presenting herself in her father’s house in such a manner as to cause scandal and self-ruination.
Her spine stiffened, shoulders back, chin high.
Let her father and brother come at her with their words of rebuke, but if they dared to utter one word of condemnation against Lachlan, she’d reach for her hidden sgian-dubh and hold it against their throats.
‘What is the meaning of this?’
The indignation in Robert’s voice had Lachlan take a menacing step towards him.
Helene read the strategic manoeuvre for what it was.
Something in her way of thinking shifted, almost throwing her off balance.
From the outset, Lachlan MacLanoch had made a promise to her father to keep her safe during her stay at Drumocher and to ensure her safe return to London before summer expired.
Lachlan had more than fulfilled his end of the bargain, and now it was well within his rights to leave, to walk away and return to his own family and clan in the Highlands.
And yet, here he remained. The hard set of his jaw, the tension in his body, and the closing and opening of his palms sent her father and brother a strong, clear message. He stood his ground, ready to defend and protect Helene against her own kin, just as she was preparing herself to defend him.
The realisation struck that it wasn’t just deep affection she felt for the laird.
No. Affection didn’t even come close to qualifying her true feelings for him.
It was love. She was in love with Lachlan.
I willnae leave yer side unless ’tis safe to do so.
Safe or not, Helene never wanted him to leave her side.
She had no time to ponder this sudden revelation because her stomach tightened with the palpable tension in the stillness of the room.
Lachlan’s gaze remained fixed on Robert.
What must he be thinking, having now finally come face-to-face with her brother who’d treated her so cruelly after Prudence’s accident?
When Lachlan’s gaze flicked to her father, his expression showed contempt for the man who’d always put self-importance and reputation before the well-being of his own flesh and blood.
Each man took the other’s measure. Lachlan stood solid of stature, a head taller and with a broader back than the two men he faced. Helene glimpsed the subtle sagging of her brother’s shoulders and shuffling of his feet. How satisfying it was to see her brother on the receiving end of intimidation.
Her father ventured forth, his eyes on her and with arms outstretched. Lachlan stepped aside to let him pass.
‘Helene, my child.’
The words were warm and welcoming as his arms came about her.
Despite having the privacy to bathe with soap alongside rivers and lochs during her journey, Helene was suddenly conscious of her clothes reeking of fires, horses, and mother earth.
Whatever her father might have thought, he said nothing.
His gentle embrace took her back to a time before Prudence’s accident.
To a time when Helene felt loved and cherished by both her parents.
When finally he pulled back, she noticed how much older he appeared.
There were lines on his face she didn’t remember being there before she left for Scotland.
The grey in his hair seemed more prominent, and there were dark shadows under melancholy eyes.
He looked to have lost weight. He used to stand tall and proud. Now, he stooped.
The dramatic change in him alarmed Helene, especially when he cupped her cheek with his warm palm and smiled in such a way as to convey fatherly affection.
Something she hadn’t seen or experienced from him in years.
What had occurred in her absence to have brought about this marked change in him?
Before she could ask, his gaze shifted to the man at her side.
‘You can be no other than the MacLanoch laird.’
‘Aye, Lord Penforth. I am Lachlan MacLanoch.’
Lord Penforth inclined his head. ‘Thank you for bringing my daughter safely home to me.’
Her father gave a nod in Robert’s direction. ‘May I introduce you to my son, Robert Beckett—rather, Lord Atkins, his courtesy title.’
‘Lord Atkins,’ said Lachlan with a stiff nod.
‘Laird,’ returned Atkins.
Penforth turned to his daughter. ‘The rigours of your journey would have been nothing short of a trial, in which case you’ll want to freshen up and rest. While you do so, your brother and I will have time to acquaint ourselves with the laird.’
Each word her father had spoken seemed to Helene as if they’d been carefully curated.
She could not accept his concern for her as genuine, nor could she understand his warm welcome, without him having yet passed judgement or uttering one word of censure about her unseemly arrival and appearance.
Perhaps he was working up to it, but Helene had no time for procrastination, and she would not be a pawn in whatever game he played.