Chapter 18 #2
That there was the reason he’d off-loaded on Lucy. He’d been humiliated and hurt and horrified to know he’d fallen so hard and fast for her, that she’d managed to seize his heart, mind, and soul so quickly, so completely, when her feelings for Campbell defied time.
Arran stared into the pale gold contents that reflected back his own misery; the echo of her sobs as he’d shut the door on her and walked away, pounded inside his head.
Ah, God. Arran drank deep.
He chose the wrong moment to drink away his sorrow.
“…It is unfortunate you were not forthright in the kitchens last night, Miss LeBeau…”
The last, hate-filled barb he’d hurled at Lucy ravaged him.
“…If I’d in fact known Campbell had no claim to you, I would have satisfied both our itches…”
The sweet spirits turned to vinegar on his heavy tongue, choking him.
But not merciful enough to kill him.
Alas, in the end, his family opted to finish him off once and for all.
“Wherever is Lucy?” Myrtle pondered aloud.
“…It did not occur to me that none of you would recall me. I should have…I’m just a serving girl. And no one did…”
Kill me. Please, kill me. Anything. Anyone. Arran’s eyes slid shut. Me. All these years, she was right in front of me…
And it’d been Campbell who saw her standing there.
Not any of the McQuoids or Smiths. Sharp, irrepressible anguish ripped through him.
Cassia’s brow pulled with concern. “The lady promised to meet me in the kitchens earlier, but failed to arrive for our appointment.”
Murmurs of concern rolled like a wave over the table.
It was too damned much. He’d not hear them pining over Lucy. Worrying after her. Not when Arran himself was tearing apart with the same bloody sentiments.
“Lucy… Miss LeBeau left.” Arran didn’t recognize his own fractured baritone.
“Left?”
That question came from the McQuoids like the echoing chorus of a query shouted into the rugged, steeped cliffs of Glencoe.
Campbell sat stiffly upright. “What do you mean she left?” The frosty undercurrent of a threat in his question better suited an affronted betrothed.
The other gentleman’s thinly contained fury bespoke a closeness to and with Lucy that Arran had dismissed when he’d sent her away.
Arran’s fingers reflexively fisted his glass so tight, he swiftly set it down before he snapped the crystal.
Ultimately, the decision should have fallen to Campbell. It’d not been Arran’s call to make. Another mistake realized too late.
Campbell snapped, “I asked you a damned question, Arran.”
The countess made a sound of worry. “Campbell, please have a care. You are still recover—”
Campbell slammed a fist down so hard his porcelain place setting jumped.
Gasps filled the dining room.
Arran ran a palm over his mouth. “I sent her away,” he said hoarsely.
Cacophony ensued.
There came shouting from every direction at Arran. He sat motionless, taking their fury as his due. There was something he and they could collectively agree on, a shared loathing for Arran.
Peppered in were tears. Lots of tears. All which brought him back to Lucy’s sorrow.
Arran’s father set his newspaper down with a ferocity only matched by his quest to find the mystery gingerbread baker. “Enough!” A bright flush filled his cheeks. He gave a look to the servants.
They took the silent cue and filed out.
Everyone stopped with their mouths hanging open.
The earl wasn’t near done.
“Get out,” the earl ordered, firing out commands like Wellington himself. “You. You.” He pointed to Oleander and Quillon. “You.” Andromena was next. Fleur followed suit. “You.”
The wide-eyed twins got up and left.
After they’d gone, the earl assessed the remaining family. “Does anyone wish to leave?”
Arran inclined his head.
His father snorted. “Not you, lad.” He glanced at his two sons-in-laws. “Anyone else?”
Myrtle pinched her husband. “Do not even think about it.” Cassia sent her husband the same dangerous look.
The earl cast an “I-tried-my-best” glance the gentlemen’s ways.
Arran’s father continued, a model drill-master.
“The only reason I’m allowing all of you to remain in audience is because you’ll be listening at the keyhole anyway, and hearing things wrong, and making up your own stories, and creating God knows”—he slashed a hand at the air—“how much. Now, the only ones I want to hear from: you.” Campbell got the point. “You.” Meghan was next. “You.”
Dallin frowned. “Why m—?”
“Being my heir does not give you leave to interrupt my orders, son.”
Dallin’s eyes flared, but he wisely shut his mouth.
“And of course,” the earl’s pinprick stare returned to Arran, “you.”
“Ahem.” The orderly table glanced at the countess. “And what of me, my dear?”
“You were never leaving, my dear.” The earl winked.
Arran’s mother looked like she fell freshly in love with her husband.
Arran’s chest grew strained.
“…I did not love Campbell… It wasn’t love…I…just didn’t realize it until now. Until y—”
“What have you done with Lucy, Arran?”
Hollow inside, he stared vacantly at his father. “I asked her to leave,” he said, his throat uncomfortably thick.
With Fleur no longer a shield between them, Campbell glowered at Arran. “She wasn’t yours to send away, Arran.” Anger tightened the corners of the other man’s mouth.
His gut clenched. Which implied she was Campbell’s, and God, the other man was right. Lucy wasn’t his, but he’d wanted—he wanted her to be. “I know that,” he said hoarsely.
“And why exactly did you do that, lad?” His father persisted with the same gentle authority as when he’d negotiated peace between the boys when Arran broke Campbell’s wood-crafted sword.
Arran dropped his head into his hands and shook his head. This was no child’s impulsive act. It was a grown man’s unforgivable one.
“I—” Don’t know how to tell them.
Not when revealing what he knew would affect how they saw her.
“Go on,” Dallin quietly encouraged Arran. The slight nod he gave indicated he had his full-support.
But did Lucy?
“When Lucy arrived, we took her for Campbell’s betrothed.” Arran paused. He couldn’t.
Askance, Myrtle looked for answers. “She’s not?”
Campbell shook his head in confirmation.
“I don’t understand.” Cassia’s eyes were alight with more than their usual confusion. “She’s a stranger?”
No! A familiar pit formed in Arran’s stomach.
“A stranger?” the earl scoffed. “Not at all. She’s Miss Lucy LeBeau.”
The countess, more tender than her norm with her husband, gently interjected, “I believe what Cassia means, my dear, is that Lucy was a stranger before now. Isn’t that right, Cassia?”
Cassia nodded.
“Aye, well, Miss LeBeau has never been a stranger.” Picking up his sherry, the earl took a sip.
Never been a…stranger? Arran’s heart thundered in his chest.
The countess threw her hands up and cried out, “Would you say whatever it is you are not saying, Harold?”
Her inelegant shout pinged around the room.
Horrified color seeped into her graceful cheekbones. “Eek!” She slapped her palms over her mouth.
“You all really need to be more observant. Miss LeBeau is the late Mr. LeBeau’s daughter,” Father explained with a smile, as if that cleared everything up. “Of The Spotted Elk,” he added when only confused expressions met his announcement.
Arran flew to the edge of his seat. “What?” His heart hammered in his chest. “You recall her.”
“Course I do.” The earl bristled. “Just as I knew her and Campbell haven’t been sweethearts in all the years we’ve visited, just as I noticed how very taken you were with Miss LeBeau.”
Arran froze.
His father wore a knowing smile.
The air left Arran on a sharp exhalation. “What?”
“Yes, since Miss LeBeau arrived you’ve been more alive than you have in…” Dallin furrowed his brow. “I believe ever.”
Arran swung a horrified stare his brother’s way. “You knew as well…” A hot flush climbed Arran’s neck, the implications of that admission hitting him at once. “You knew?” he shouted.
“No!” Sheepish, Dallin shot his palms up. “Not until you and Lucy ran to Campbell’s side, and father and I had a moment to…discuss.”
“I knew her in an instant,” Lord Winfield declared from his seat beside the earl. “I’ve sailed this way enough—”
“And you didn’t think to say something?” Arran demanded.
The marquess shrugged. “It wasn’t my place to question.”
“No, Arran,” Campbell said quietly, “you took that role on all yourself.”
Shame, regret, and sorrow punched Arran square in his chest, and he sucked in an anguished breath.
From the moment Lucy showed up at McQuoid Manor, he’d been intrigued.
Some people took years to fall in love, as had been the case with Linnie and Tremaine. Others did by accident, like Cassia and Winfield, and Myrtle and Aragon. Never was it convenient. Always was it complicated.
As for Arran… His throat moved with the force of emotion. He’d fallen in love with Lucy from the very start.
He placed his shaking hands on the surface of the table and stared at them. How did he even begin to make amends? The things he’d said…
“…you are nothing to me…”
His ribs tightened.
“…You are even less than nothing…”
My god, what a blistering fool I’ve been!
“You most certainly have been,” Campbell muttered.
Arran looked at his cousin with an unfocused gaze.
The Duke of Aragon offered a commiserative smile. “We usually are when it comes to matters of the heart.”
All blissfully married couples around the table nodded. That was, all except for his big brother.
Dallin tilted his head to one side. “Since when did you begin talking to yourself, little brother?”
Arran froze. And then burst out laughing.
He stood and marched for the exit.
Cassia’s worried voice carried after him. “You are of course going to the lady?”
Arran didn’t even pause to look back. “Aye.” The relieved sighs lasted only as long as his next announcement. “But first, I have a matter of importance to see to.”
With his family’s cries of consternation following, Arran left and prepared for what turned out to be the only battle to matter in his life—the one for Lucy’s heart.