Chapter Five
DUMBFOUNDED, Lyssa stared after the Irishm—
Her mind stumbled over the appellation as she broke off the thought. Campion. He wanted her to call him Campion.
She frowned. The pride in his voice nagged at her conscience. The man had saved her life, but he was too high-handed by half. And at this moment, he was walking away as if he didn’t care if she followed or not.
No. He expected her to obey.
Which she did, because she had no other choice.
She picked up her skirts and followed, but rebellion brewed in her mind. Think what he may, she was not returning to London.
She would not marry Robert or go through another humiliating Season of idle, patronizing chitchat from those who only pretended to like her to please her stepmother or even her father. She was too old for such nonsense.
She wanted purpose in her life, and she knew she would find it here, in Scotland, the birthplace of her parents.
In the meantime, she would contrive to be everything a proper, biddable young woman should be. After all, when they reached Amleth Hall and she refused to return to London with him, the Irishman would be cheated out of a great deal of money, and he wasn’t going to take it very well.
So, Lyssa did her best to “march,” but keeping up with him was a challenge.
He had a long stride and moved as if he planned to cram the two days of travel inside this one night.
She wasn’t about to complain. Living with her father had taught her it was best not to pull on the watchdog’s whiskers, and this man was definitely a watchdog.
Of course, it didn’t help that her stockings were wet from their dash through the stream, and that water had seeped into her tight shoes, causing blisters to form on her feet.
She ignored the increasing pain each step caused her, and focused on placing one foot in front of the other.
She stumbled over a root growing over the path.
For a second, she was in midair, heading for the ground. But Campion turned, with that uncanny ability of his to know everything that was happening, and in the next instant, her cheek was against the solid wall of his chest. He set her on her feet. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” She took a step away from him. He wasn’t the only one with pride. “I’ll be better when we arrive someplace where we can hire horses.”
“We won’t be hiring horses.”
Lyssa almost stumbled over her feet again in surprise. “You don’t mean to walk all the way to Appin?”
“How else did you think we would travel?”
“With Charley and Duci, I had the wagon.”
“There is no money for a wagon either, unless you have some.”
She didn’t. Her money had been hidden in the wagon that was burned to the ground. “You came after me without a shilling?” She’d never imagined herself without money.
“What little I have can be better spent than hiring horses.”
“I doubt that.”
Her flat reply startled a laugh out of him. “Oh, come now, people walk the distance across Scotland and back all the time, Miss Harrell. We shall manage.”
“But not with my—” She stopped just in time.
She’d been about to complain of her blisters, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
She’d heard the touch of satisfaction in his voice over having the power to make the rich man’s daughter walk.
Oh, no, like the noble Joan of Arc, she vowed to keep her personal sufferings private.
“Not with your what?” he prompted.
“Not with the present company,” she improvised. “I’m certain walking is more pleasant with better company.” He didn’t like that response one wit, and she liked getting a bit of her own back—even though each step was agony.
And yet, she kept on, refusing to complain. She was her father’s daughter for a reason.
The Irishman led the way, holding back low-hanging branches that would have swiped her in the face or helping her scramble up the often steep climbs in the forest path. She hid her suffering. Behind his back, she would hobble like a troll, but once he turned, she forced herself to walk upright.
In truth, the longer they traveled, the friendlier he became. As the first rays of the sun signaled the approaching dawn, he appeared ready to smile—until he caught sight of her limping.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded.
“I’ve a blister. Nothing more, nothing less.” They had come to a smooth road which she hoped would make the walking easier. She attempted to pass him, her head high…but parts of her feet felt like hot coals.
He held out his arm, blocking her path. “Sit down on that rock and take off your shoes.”
“I have no intention of doing any such thing.” And she would have ducked under his arm and continued on her way, except he hooked his hand in her elbow and swung her around to face him.
Lording his height over her, he asked, “What? You’d rather walk until you have nubs instead of feet?”
“That won’t happen,” she said.
“It will and it has,” he shot back. “I’ve seen grown men lose all their toes because they didn’t take care of a blister.”
Lyssa frowned, slightly unnerved by his accurate diagnosis of her problem and yet not believing such a preposterous statement. “You’re hoaxing me.”
He shook his head. “Sit on that rock. We’ve been walking most of the night and the time’s come to take a breather.”
Her pride tempted her to nobly wobble on in spite of the pain. She wondered if he would be more contrite if she did end up with nubs instead of feet.
However, what won her over was the idea of sitting. He was right. They had been moving all night. Letting down her guard, she gratefully sank onto the round, flat stone half buried in the hillside beside the road.
Who would have thought “sitting” could be such heaven?
He dropped to his knees in front of her and reached for her shoe. She pulled her foot back. “What are you doing?”
“Easing your laces a bit,” he said. “As I am your father’s agent, your health and well-being are my responsibility.”
“I can look after my own feet,” she informed him primly. This didn’t seem proper, his playing with her feet. It was too, too…intimate.
His gray gaze measured her a moment. His voice took on the coaxing gentleness one used with a skittish horse.
“Aye, I’m certain you can. However, I’ve a bit of experience from my days in the army.
So, if you’ll allow me…” He didn’t wait for permission but pulled her right foot to him, and she let him.
Maybe because she was tired. Maybe because she was a bit susceptible to that fabled Irish charm.
Either way, she didn’t argue. Instead, she watched as he deftly untied the laces of her shoes.
The morning breeze ruffled his hair. It wasn’t as dark as she’d first thought it was.
It was sleekly straight and as feathered as a bird’s wing with brushes of red on the tips as if he’d spent hours in the out-of-doors.
He needed a haircut. By a good barber. She wondered if there would be some curl…
He pulled off her right shoe and shook his head. “What kind of socks are these to wear for walking?”
“They’re French,” she protested as he drew off her other shoe. “Nor was I planning to walk.”
“They should be wool or good cotton.”
“I always wear silk—”
Before she realized what he was about, he reached up her skirt and untied her garter, his fingers tickling the tender skin behind her knee.
Lyssa slapped her skirt down before he could go for the other leg. “What do you think you are doing?” she demanded. No one had ever taken such liberties before.
“Don’t worry, Miss Harrell,” he cooed. “ ’Tis only a garter.”
“Located in a place where a gentleman shouldn’t be placing his hands,” she responded crisply. Even now her skin still tingled from the brush of his fingers.
He grinned, completely unrepentant, the slightly lopsided expression giving him a younger, more carefree appearance.
“And what are you going to do now? Slap my face at the indignity?” He laughed.
“Relax, Miss Harrell, I have sisters. Garters are no mystery to me, nor shall I go rabid and ‘attack’ you over the sight of one.” He rolled the stocking down over her ankle with a journey-man’s attitude.
Lyssa didn’t know if she should be relieved by his words or insulted that he obviously didn’t find her attractive. Of course, she was three and twenty and the duchess had been warning her she almost in her dotage…but surprisingly, this minute was the first time she’d ever cared about her age.
“I don’t imagine most women, including your sisters, let you untie their garters?”
“Some have,” he disagreed without looking up but his mind obviously wasn’t on the conversation. Instead, he frowned at the angry blisters on her toe and heel.
His attitude changed, and he looked up at her.
“These must be treated immediately,” he said.
“I can’t believe you were walking on them.
Take off your other stocking.” He took his knapsack off his shoulders, dropped it to the ground, and began rummaging inside until he found a tin and a small sewing kit.
Holding the stocking she’d just pulled off her other foot, Lyssa frowned as he pulled a sharp needle from the kit. “What are you going to do?”
“The salve in this tin will cure anything.” He unscrewed the lid and set it aside.
“And the needle?”
“If you are squeamish, close your eyes.”
“Why—?” she started to ask and then gasped as without a moment’s hesitation he lifted her foot and slid the needle into the base of one of her blisters.
Lyssa struggled to be brave but the truth was, she’d never been a good patient, especially after years of watching the doctors treat her mother. However, the Irishman moved quickly, doctoring one foot, then the other. It was all done before she realized it.
He covered the last blister he worked on with the warmth of his hand. “Didn’t hurt, did it?”
She shook her head, mortified into silence, her hands gripping the edge of her stone seat for courage.
If he noticed her distress, he gave no indication but went about his business applying salve.
Slowly, she began to relax—