Chapter 19
They arrived at Claronfell on the following afternoon. The manse loomed outside the carriage window like a gray storm cloud.
Rhona sat inside the coach, feeling sick to her stomach and pitifully weak.
Oh aye, she had been on more dangerous missions, but never had the entire assignment depended on her ability to seduce.
And never had she been accompanied by a growling Scotsman who refused to abandon her no matter how miserable she was to him.
Why would he not leave? The question haunted her, gnawing at her caution, tearing at her barriers, but she fortified her defenses, for she could not risk the answers.
Indeed, she had fled Nettlepath for the very same reason.
She could not risk. Could not delay, for if she did she may very well find she no longer possessed the ability to leave him.
Indeed, one more touch of his skin, one more kiss, and all might be lost. The memory of their time together rose up like a sweet-smelling mist in her mind, lulling her, weakening her.
But she knew the truth; she should have left earlier, should have escaped before she realized how he could make her feel, should have—
He opened the door now and stood there, staring at her, as dark and taciturn as an ancient gargoyle, as powerful as a force of nature.
His usual tunic was gone. In its place he wore a sleeveless plaid jerkin.
It had neither a lace nor any fasteners, but was held in place by naught more than a simple iron pin slipped through the fabric near his navel.
Upon his head he wore a dark tam pierced with a single ostrich feather.
Perhaps he should have seemed ridiculous, too barbaric, too unrefined. But somehow the sight of him thus only managed to take her breath away.
“We’ve arrived,” he said finally.
She nodded and forced herself to lean forward, ready to step down, but he refused to back away.
“I ask you again not to go through with this.” His voice was deep and earnest. His eyes were filled with quiet solemnity, and for a moment she almost faltered, but finally she steeled herself.
“I must,” she said simply, and made to leave again. He remained as he was, blocking her exit.
“And what if I do not let you?”
Perhaps she should declare her ability to do as she wished, but standing thus, he looked as powerful as Knight, though not so mild-mannered. “Why?” she asked instead. She’d meant to say it simply, casually, but emotion had somehow crept into her tone.
“I think you know.”
She shook her head and he tightened his grip on the door handle.
Muscles rippled from his wrist to his shoulder.
From somewhere, he had secured a pair of dark hose that fit to disconcerting perfection.
But his shoes were scuffed and his simple jerkin showed an immense amount of broad, sun-darkened chest. She kept her gaze doggedly on his face, the better to concentrate.
“You are not meant for the likes of Turpin,” he said.
She waited, saying nothing and feeling empty. But time was fleeting and she dare not delay. “Neither am I meant for you.”
“Perhaps you do not know me so well as you think.”
She smiled. “I know you, MacGowan,” she said softly. “You are wealthy. You are gifted, and you will someday take a bride much like the ones your brothers have wed.”
He paused. “And you?”
She stifled a shrug. From henceforth, she must be aware of every movement, and ladies of breeding did not oft display such common mannerisms. “Mayhap I will win me a marquis. Surely you would not deny me that?”
“As I said, you do not know me so very well.”
His expression was as solemn as death, his eyes dark and earnest, and for a moment she wanted nothing more than to step into his arms, to believe that he would fight for her.
“’Tis my choice,” she said softly. “And I shall make it.”
“Why?”
Anguish was in his tone. She hardened her heart. “Because I must.” From the corner of her eye, she saw that two brightly liveried servants approached, pacing between the looming topiary that lined the walkway from the manse on the hill. “Because it is of utmost importance,” she murmured.
“I disagree,” he said.
She drew a deep breath. The servants were drawing nearer and behind them came another. “That is because you do not know the facts.”
“I will not leave you,” he said.
Anger spurred up and she was tempted to take him by the tunic and demand that he be on his way. But Turpin’s servants were approaching, and she had no time. “You must.”
“You have oft been wrong,” he said. “But never more than now, for I will stay.”
“Damn you!” she swore, and he smiled.
“A proper maid might not say such things, me lady. Not to her poor, humble servant.”
“You make a horrible servant,” she hissed. “No one will believe you are aught but what you are—a bullheaded Scotsman with more balls than brains.”
His mouth twitched before he spoke. “Me leidy,” he said, and suddenly his brogue was replaced by an outlandish accent. “Ye cut me ta the quick.”
She longed to slap some sense into him, but the marquis’ servants were nearly upon them, so she pursed her lips, accepted Lachlan’s hand, and stepped into the afternoon’s full sunlight.
“Good day,” she said, and straightened outside of the coach. It took a moment for MacGowan to release her fingers, but she refused to turn toward him. “I am Lady Rhona, late of Nettlepath, come to care for my lord’s poor wee daughters.”
The two brightly dressed men stood at her horse’s head, while the third fellow bowed regally.
“My lady,” he said. He was dressed well but conservatively all in dark colors, and his face bore not a hint of a smile. “I fear we were not expecting you for some days.”
“I myself did not plan to come so soon, but when I thought of the children . . .” She paused and spread her gloved fingers across her décolletage as if in wide dismay. His gaze didn’t drift from her face for the barest moment. “How do they fare?”
“I am but the bailiff here, my lady. I know little of the children,” he said. “But I can show you to your quarters if you desire.”
“I would be eternally grateful,” she said, and brushed an imaginary speck of mud from the wide skirt of her gown. “It has been a long and wearisome journey.”
“Shall I send another to gather your trunks, or will your man be seeing to them?”
“I’ve no wish to trouble you further, Master . . .”
“You may call me Reeves, my lady.”
“Reeves,” she said, and gave him a small smile. “I’ve no wish to take you from your duties. I am certain your expertise is much needed elsewhere.”
He made no indication that he had heard the compliment. She kept her smile firmly in place and felt as if MacGowan was about to burn a hole through the back of her head. Damn him and his Highland glower.
“My servant would be delighted to see to my trunks, Reeves.”
Beside her, Lachlan remained absolutely silent. Tension cranked tighter in her gut, but she turned resolutely toward him.
“Wouldn’t you, champion?”
For a moment challenge flashed in his eyes, but finally he lifted his face and gave Reeves a crooked smile. “Delighted I’d be,” he agreed, his voice unusually loud. “Just as me leidy says.”
The bailiff seemed not the least bit disturbed by MacGowan’s boisterous demeanor. Neither did he deign to address him. “And will he be leaving us or shall I make a place for him in the servants’ quarters?”
Rhona opened her mouth to speak, but Lachlan interrupted.
“It’s staying I’ll be,” he said, and placing his fists on his hips, gave the somber bailiff a sharp nod.
“Lord Barnett, ’e said, look after me daughter well or it’s your ’ide I’ll be tannin’, so I’d best be stayin’ ’ere with ’er for I’ve a fondness for me ’ide, but I’ve a strong back, I do, and I’ve a talent with the ’erbs if somemat should tek sick. ”
“Very well then,” said Reeves and turning about, led Rhona toward the looming house.
She had no time to admonish Lachlan for his foolish display of rustic civility, but followed Reeves until she stood in the entryway.
She’d been to Stirling Castle, King James’s residence, more than once.
Its size little exceeded Claronfell’s, but she took no time to marvel at the grandeur of the place.
Instead, she climbed the stairs behind the bailiff and was soon ensconced in her own chamber.
It was almost bare, boasting little but a bed draped in deep blue velvet and a massive fireplace crafted of gray stone.
Above the hearth hung a mace and a pair of battleaxes, both notched from use.
Pacing to the window, Rhona looked out at the property below.
Vast gardens stretched out forever. Verdant hedges spiraled this way and that.
Bushes trimmed in the shapes of every manner of wild beast capered across the lawn, and fragrant roses still bloomed along a rock wall that formed an archway near its center.
But despite the manor’s beauty there was a macabre aura about the place that disturbed her.
Suddenly, though, she heard laughter, and turned, thinking she would see the children.
“’Tis the third door to the right. Some ways yet it be, but by the look of ye ye’ll stand the distance,” someone said, and in a moment Lachlan entered the room with a trunk upon his shoulder.
A maid not yet twenty years of age followed.
“Arms like that will come in handy round about now,” she said as he straightened from setting the trunk on the floor.
“And a figure lek yours be ’andy year round,” countered Lachlan with his odd accent.
“Hum, I’ll have to keep an eye out when you’re round about,” said the maid. “And what shall I be calling ye?”
“Me mam named me Dafydd,” he said.
“Dafydd.” She rolled the name on her tongue. “’Tis a strange name ye have.”
“Not atall,” he countered. “’Tis a good Welsh name, it is.”
“Aye well, I’ve not seen a Welshman the likes of you.”