Chapter 15 #2
He should have never come for the Yuletide. Never should have agreed to smile at Meghan and the Duke of Hartwell’s blessed wedding as if he weren’t a walking curse.
He all but ran for the stables.
It didn’t matter where he went, how far, how long. A tempest to rival the Great Snow of 1717 could have swallowed him whole. Better than staying here with Lucy and Campbell.
His breath came in sharp, white spurts, and with shaking hands he saddled his chestnut stallion, Kelpie. One foot found the stirrup.
Freedom was within reach.
“Here you are, little brother!”
Of course. Thwarted. This time by Dallin—the viscount. The one bloody roadblock in Arran’s damned path.
Arran shut his eyes. The last person he wished to face was his cheerful, blissfully married brother. He swung fully into the saddle and aimed Kelpie at the doors—
Dallin stepped directly into the stallion’s path. “Whoa.”
When Arran didn’t budge, his brother gave his eyebrows a droll lift. “What now, Arran? Planning to trample me?”
“And then I become viscount and future earl?” Arran slid down from the saddle. “Not a chance.”
His brother smiled as though everything was right in the world.
But then, for the bloody viscount everything was.
“Mm, yes. That and all the sentimental nonsense about loving me and being devastated if anything happened to me.” With casual authority, Dallin took Kelpie’s reins and handed them off.
“What is going on with you, little brother? Campbell’s alive, the family’s celebrating, and you look as if someone’s dropped him into the grave again. ”
“Of course not,” Arran whispered. Horror clawed up his chest. “Why would you ever—How could you—?”
Dallin froze. Understanding hit him like a stone.
He turned to the stable lads. “Cider and biscuits in the kitchens—on us.” A cheer erupted; the men filed out, grateful as pups, leaving the stable blessedly empty.
Arran’s strength bled out of him. He dropped onto the straw-scattered floor, back against Kelpie’s stall. Head bowed. Hands over his face.
Dallin sank beside him, shoulder to shoulder.
Silence stretched.
“Christ, Arran.”
“Aye.” A bitter smile twisted Arran’s mouth. “The Lord enjoys His little jokes.”
“Falling for Campbell’s sweetheart?”
Arran let his head thud against the stall door. Once. Twice. Again. “I did not—” Intend to. “And I know, Dallin. I bloody know.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “And I’ve not acted on—” Not entirely true.
Dallin’s face drained. “Oh my God. You didn’t.”
“Do you think I wanted this?” Arran rasped. “I barely know her, and yet—”
“I understand.”
The calmness in his brother’s voice cut its own wound.
Dallin scrubbed at his hair. “I fell in love with my wife in a single night.”
“Aye.” Arran exhaled heavily. “Difference being Alexandra wasn’t betrothed to our kin.”
“Well—yes.” Dallin attempted a smile. “That did make things easier.”
“There’s nothing easy in this,” Arran muttered. “Nothing but divine intervention will—”
A shout rang from the courtyard. “Hullo? Anyone here?”
Arran and Dallin exchanged a look and rose.
A lanky fellow stood spinning in a slow, bewildered turn, shock of red hair jutting from beneath his cap. “Only an English mon wouldnae hae a stable lad—hullo!”
Dallin approached. “Can I help you?”
“Joseph.” The man bowed. “Nettie and Tasgall sent me.”
“Nettie and Tasgall,” Dallin repeated.
Arran stiffened. “Lucy’s servants.”
“Aunt and Uncle,” Joseph corrected.
Shock punched Arran low. “I…” He’d assumed. Damn him. What must Lucy think?
He flinched inwardly. He’d been wounded thinking she believed him too highborn to see her—yet he’d mistaken her kin for servants.
Joseph beamed. “Hate to interrupt her fun, but the inn’s had a turn of luck. They need her to help tonight.”
“I…see.” Dallin’s look said he did not see at all.
Arran did.
A hard thud slammed his ribcage.
Lucy was expected to serve ale, stew, and whatever else to a roomful of men. Grabbing hands. Coarse jokes. The kind who saw a woman as part of the entertainment.
Rage flashed white-hot behind his eyes.
He’d gut any man who dared—
“Arran?” Dallin warned.
He inhaled slowly. Coldly. “I’ll send help to The Spotted Elk,” Arran said, voice a miracle of control. “Enough staff that Tasgall and Nettie won’t need to lift a finger tonight. Or ever again. Miss LeBeau, however, is—”
“Lucy,” the man corrected cheerfully, dusting his gloves.
Arran swallowed hard. “Joseph. Her…betrothed…” His lashes lowered. God above, he could not say it.
“Betrothed?” Joseph barked. “My lass leaves for two nights and returns betrothed.”
My lass? A growl clawed up Arran’s throat. The hell she was.
“Ah’m the one intendin’ to marry Lucy,” Joseph said.
Arran snapped back to the moment.
He seized the man’s arm. “What did you say?”
“Arran,” Dallin warned again.
Arran ignored him. “I asked you a question,” he growled, shaking the fool. “Miss LeBeau is betrothed to my cousin, Mr. Smith.”
Joseph’s brows crashed together. “If she’s betrothed, it’d have happened here. Which means—” He shrugged. “Lucy and Ah are nae marrying after all.”
Arran released him abruptly.
His pulse roared in his ears. Thoughts scrambled, refusing sense.
Lucy…not engaged to Campbell. But she’d said. She’d…
Oh, God. Sweat rolled down his temple. Tremors sank their teeth into him.
He’d let her past every guard. Let her into the broken parts, the buried parts. He’d told her truths he’d never told another soul.
And she’d lied.
Had any of her words been real? Would it matter, even if they were?
He’d stood out here grieving her future with Campbell like a damned fool.
Cold—blessed, purifying cold—poured through him. Steeled him. Reminded him who he really was.
He’d been right about her from the start.
“Arran,” Dallin said gently—the same tone he’d used when their childhood horse went lame. “There must be a reason. And she isn’t engaged to Campbell. That must count for something.”
Arran stared at him. Had his brother lost his mind?
“Come,” Dallin urged, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go inside and—”
Arran jerked away and strode toward the house.
Behind him, Joseph cleared his throat. “Is the lass in some kind of trouble?”
A hard, cynical smile cut across Arran’s mouth.
Oh, Miss LeBeau was in trouble.
The very worst kind.