Chapter 3
Based on the morsels Mr. Smith had dropped over the years about the big, boisterous, eccentric clan he belonged to, and the occasional times they’d stayed at The Spotted Elk, the McQuoid-Smith clan was everything Lucy remembered, and more.
Much, much more.
A pretty redheaded lady released a piercing shriek. “Oh, my goodness! Campbell.”
Her heart clenching, Lucy stepped back—and kept retreating, each step fueled by rising panic.
In fact, she would have turned and executed a full-on sprint through the lightly snow-covered lanes to flee the McQuoid-Smith clans entirely.
The only thing keeping her rooted was that her adopted family would never keep pace. Uncle Tasgall and Aunt Nettie—both perched stiffly at the front of the cart—looked as overwhelmed as she felt. And she’d certainly never abandon them.
The same, apparently, held true for the McQuoid-Smiths.
The family—large enough to have defeated an English army centuries earlier by sheer number alone—swarmed the cart.
Delicate fingers wrapped around Lucy’s forearm.
Overwhelmed, she looked to the red-haired young woman heavy with child, her eyes swimming with tears. “…Is he alive?”
“…I…aye…” Lucy stammered.
Though it was doubtful the distraught lady heard anything beyond her own wailing.
Unnerved, Lucy looked to the rest of Mr. Smith’s family. “His pulse is strong,” Lucy offered, hoping to provide them with some comfort.
“The lass saved the lad, she did!” Aunt Nettie crowed from her perch.
The older gentleman’s white eyebrows as bushy as his side-whiskers shot up. “You saved the lad?”
The crowd converged. Even outside like they were, Lucy began to suffocate. “I did not!” she protested.
More like her establishment had nearly killed him.
She shot Nettie a look. “What she meant to say—”
“Nettie always says exactly what she means,” Uncle Tasgall cut in. “Lucy threw herself under the lad and took the full weight of him, or his head would’ve split open on the cobbles.”
Miss Smith and Miss McQuoid linked arms and sighed. “She did save him!”
Lucy pressed her eyes shut. “I…you are all mistaken…about…” All of it.
No one was listening.
Desperate, Lucy looked around for help.
Another woman grabbed her free arm.
“…We are so grateful to you!”
Younger by a year or two, also clearly with child, this lovely, dark-haired lady possessed a calmer presence. “How did you come by him?” she asked gently, almost curiously. Not accusing.
“I…” Lucy tried to answer, but new questions came faster than breaths.
“Do you know him well?”
Lucy whipped her head in search of the latest speaker—a small young woman with the biggest dark brown ringlets. “…I—” Only the small pieces he’d let slip over the years.
“She knows Campbell, why don’t we know her?” another lady demanded, sounding wounded. “How dare he keep the lady a secret from us?”
They didn’t know her because she was a common innkeeper. People of their station didn’t recall people like Lucy.
A tallish gentleman muscled through the group, bearing a striking resemblance to Campbell Smith. She instantly placed him. Mr. Smith’s brother!
Without a word, he leaned close, scrutinizing Lucy.
Lucy’s pulse hammered in her ears. Unnerved, she searched about for safety.
And found anything but.
A tall, broadly powerful gentleman stood at the fringe—a stranger, in the sense the rest of the McQuoid-Smiths were. That was where all similarities between him and them started and ended.
While the entire family milled like chickens seeking their heads, this man held command. He was still. Controlled.
Of himself.
Of the chaos.
Of Lucy’s gaze…
His features were the hard sort—as though cut from unyielding Highland stone. No cleft softened his chin. No smile lines eased the sternness of his jaw.
But it was his eyes. Penetrating. Dark. Shadowed, assessing, entirely too focused on her.
A chill wrapped around her spine.
She had been wrong to ever believe she was invisible.
This gentleman, clad in stark black save for the snowy cravat at his throat, saw Lucy all too clearly.
And for the love of Jesus and Mary, she wished he didn’t.
Fingers slipped into hers, breaking her connection to him.
“What is your name?” a young lady with angelic eyes asked softly.
“Lucy,” she blurted.
“I’m Andromena,” the girl said, her voice music-soft.
“Mr. Smith’s sister,” Lucy murmured, recognizing the youngest girl.
Andromena brightened. “He spoke of me to you!”
Immediately realizing the further confusion she sowed, Lucy faltered. “I…”
Another young woman saved Lucy from answering. “Did he mention me?” she piped in cheerily. “Fleur McQuoid? I am his favorite cousin.”
Lucy again found herself saved by one austere voice of reason in the crowd. “Can we please hold off on the questions for Miss LeBeau until Campbell is himself?”
A number of McQuoids converged on the injured gentleman.
Crestfallen, Lucy looked over at poor Mr. Smith. In all the years she’d known the strong, capable Mr. Smith, she’d never seen him so still, so silent.
A ball of emotion formed in her throat.
She made to look away when a sudden chill prickled along her spine.
It was him.
The grim stranger stared at Lucy, his eyes colder than even the coldest Scottish winter. He measured her, weighing her truths and letting it be known to Lucy—he didn’t trust her.
A brash lad shouted over the noise, “Is he dead?”
Lucy’s fear for herself was instantly forgotten. Tears filled her eyes. “He cannot die.”
The auburn-haired expectant mother, renewed her weeping. “He c-cannot. Oh, what will Aunt Leslie s-sayyy?” As she wailed that question to the heavens, she clung to a man nearly as terrifying as the other dark stranger—almost.
“Have a thought for the ladies, Quillon!” a distinguished gentleman snapped, cuffing the lad.
“It was a fair question, Crichton,” the boy muttered, “given Campbell’s still as a stone.”
Lord Crichton. The viscount.
“We’ve established he’s not dead,” the viscount said, worry bleeding through despite his irritation.
“Campbell can’t be killed.” Another lad, one bearing a striking resemblance to Mr. Smith, made that declaration. “I know. I’ve tried.”
He waggled his brows.
“Was he set upon by masked highwaymen?” a small girl with an adorable lisp asked.
“A…?” Startled by the ruthless sparkle from the eyes of a lass so small, Lucy blinked wildly. “What? No.”
It was too much. Lucy made another desperate attempt to dissolve into the background, and for the first blessed time, they let her.
All attention swung toward the house as servants spilled out.
“The surgeon has been alerted and is preparing his room!” a blond gentleman barked.
There was nothing left for her to do.
Lucy watched helplessly as Campbell Smith was lifted with careful coordination by family and servants.
Every hand gentle. Every movement precise.
They were everything she had imagined from his stories—warm, fierce, loyal.
And just like that, he was carried inside, and she was left outside.
As she always was.
A sad smile tugged at her lips.
Every time Campbell visited and the handful of times his entire family had, she’d longed to be part of the big, joyous lot. Not serve them. I longed to be part of them—just not like this.
“What was that you said, lass?” the harried older gentleman demanded. “Campbell’s lass, are you?”
Campbell had a lass?
Of all the rotten luck.
Then it hit her; the assumption that’d been made. “I—”
“That is Lucy!” Miss Andromena Smith announced brightly.
A murmur rolled amongst the gathered family.
“Yes, shame on Campbell for not mentioning Lucy,” Miss Fleur McQuoid added. “She’s Campbell’s sweetheart.”
The enormous family fell silent.
Every head turned.
Oh, dear God.
“Och,” her voice emerged on a frog’s croak. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”
“There most certainly has.” A gentleman of older years and distinguished bearings swept forward. He took Lucy’s hand and gave it a warm pat. “It is more than that. The fact my nephew and godson should fail to say anything to me or his mother about his betrothed. It is insupportable.”
The Earl of Abington.
Lucy could hardly determine what was more shocking: that an earl was not instantly repulsed by her lowly station…or that he cared more for the supposed slight of an unannounced betrothal.
She placed a trembling hand to her chest. “Forgive me, my lord. I am not…” Her gaze again came to rest with the menacing stranger’s.
Everything she meant to say vanished.
The man’s eyes—cold, sharp, impossibly focused—pinned Lucy where she stood. Suspicion tightened the hard planes of his face, but there was something else there too… Something that stole the breath from her lungs.
A piercing whistle cut across the courtyard.
“Bring her forth this instant!”
The command came from the regalest woman Lucy had ever seen. With skin as fair as the falling snow, the older woman could command the winter storm. She possessed dark hair that’d been artfully arranged and accentuated with diamond thistle pins that glimmered in the night.
“That is my mother,” Miss Fleur McQuoid whispered at Lucy’s side, confirming what Lucy already knew.
“Does Lucy have a surname?” the countess asked, a blend of kindness and steel.
“LeBeau,” Uncle Tasgall supplied. “Miss LeBeau.”
The countess looked Lucy over and then nodded. “Miss LeBeau,” she murmured. “Come then, join us inside.”
Before Lucy comprehended anything, she was surrounded on all sides.
Warmth. Noise. Acceptance she had never known.
As much as she adored Aunt Nettie and Uncle Tasgall, she had been their caretaker for years.
Perhaps that was why she failed to correct their mistaken belief.
As she passed the surly gentleman—the one who still had not spoken a word—her gaze caught his.
Up close, she saw the truth of those eyes: an inky, storm-dark blue, so deep it nearly consumed the black of his pupils.
Cold. Suspicious. Unyielding.
Heart hammering, Lucy jerked her gaze forward and allowed herself to be guided past the menacing McQuoid.