Chapter Twelve #2
“It’s not your fault they died,” she said softly.
“Yes, it is. I volunteered to be in the first attack at Talvera. There was a bounty paid to those who went in first and survived. I really didn’t care what happened to me back then. I told both of them to stay behind and we’d split the money. They didn’t listen. Each took a bullet.”
“And your view of life changed.”
He smiled at her. Wise Lyssa. “Yes, I suddenly had responsibilities beyond my imagination. But I survived.”
She tilted her head and asked, “Did you earn the extra money you risked your life for?”
“Umm-hmm,” he said. “I sent it to Janet. She used it to move herself and Fiona to London to wait for me. There was nothing for them in Ireland. Once we lost our parents, we lost everything, and the children were starving in Dublin. We thought there would be a better chance in London, or at least until I returned.”
“Has there been?”
“No.” Ian hated to admit it. “All we did was separate ourselves even more from our birthright. The children don’t even know their heritage.
” He leaned forward. “That’s why someday, I’m going to re-create what I’ve lost and I don’t care where, provided we are free to speak out minds and never have to live in fear again. ”
Lyssa shifted her weight, crossing her arms as if she were cold.
Something was wrong. He had told her the brutal truth to put her off him. Still…
“What is it?” he asked.
She gave him a little smile. “My father is paying you well to bring me home.”
“Very well.”
Her gaze dropped to her lap and he would have given his soul to know what she was thinking. He’d wager it wasn’t good. Lyssa Harrell was far too direct and honest to not feel guilt.
For one wild moment, he toyed with the idea of asking her to go with him.
He didn’t—because he had nothing to offer her…and because now that his story was done, she’d not said anything.
Ian had too much pride to be refused. It had been the risk he’d run by telling her all.
“Well, good night,” he said, surprised at how empty he felt inside. He’d given her all he had. Tomorrow he’d sort everything out.
Tonight, well, tonight was lost.
Lyssa murmured a “good night,” immediately sensing his withdrawal and not knowing how to react. She pretended to lie down and go to sleep; she was too troubled, however, to relax.
She knew why Ian had told her his story. He wasn’t just sharing his secrets. He was offering, in his own tight-lipped, cautious way, the possibility of something more between them.
More. The word haunted her.
And she was uncertain. Especially now. Because the truth be known—she was a coward.
It wasn’t just that he was completely unsuitable—without a doubt, her father would disown her—but because she didn’t know if she had the courage to love an Irishman, let alone a Catholic traitor.
Did she have the strength to go against all she’d known? To be an outcast?
And she did love her father.
Staring into the dying embers of the campfire, she knew she’d not intended to be gone from him forever.
With newfound maturity she realized that, in the back of her mind, she’d chosen a course that would not set him off from her forever.
He would understand her wanting to return to her mother’s home.
He would think her foolish, but he would forgive her.
She could also admit now that her secret desire to have him realize how important she was to him—even more important than his duchess—was not going to happen.
He had a new family now. As Ian had said, there were many kinds of love. She had one form, her stepmother another.
Her father could not choose her over his second wife and soon-to-be-born child. Such an act would not be honorable, and she was embarrassed that she’d harbored such a hope in the back of her mind.
Funny, how at three and twenty a woman could still grow up.
She did not know what would happen when she finally had to tell her father of her stepmother’s attempt to murder her. To lose two women he loved…?
But then, she was discovering love was about loss, too.
Lyssa raised her head and looked over to where Ian slept.
He faced the fire, the shadowy light highlighting the strong, masculine lines of his face.
If she stretched out her hand, she could have touched the top of his head and stroked his hair to see if it really was as silky to the touch as it appeared.
“You need a haircut,” she whispered.
He slept on, his conscience free of burden, dreaming of a place for his family where they were free to be who they were. She didn’t know if she was strong enough to be a part of that dream—and Ian had known it.
Now she understood why he’d refused to kiss her, why he’d not taken advantage of her…and she grew all the sadder.
It was a long time before she fell asleep.
Ian lifted his head and studied the woman close to him who had finally fallen asleep. Something was bothering her. He’d been aware of the tension…and he would have given his right arm to know the cause.
Lyssa was headstrong and her silence was not a common occurrence.
Tonight, he’d opened his soul and she’d not said a word. No, instead, her redheaded brain had been busy working and he sensed it did not bode well for him.
He was glad he’d not been stupid enough to make some sort of romantic declaration.
Or to have kissed her.
Ian rose, uncertainties making him unable to sleep. Perhaps in a different place and a different time, he could have declared himself to Lyssa. But in this place and time, he had nothing to offer.
The fact did not set well. Not well at all.
Lyssa woke the next morning to the smell of cooking meat. Ian had poached a rabbit and was roasting it on a spit for their breakfast.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he said jovially, an emotion that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
He was so handsome, she couldn’t help but smile—until she remembered the decision she’d made the night before. It took all her courage to keep her smile pasted on her face.
And Ian seemed to react to her inner thoughts as if he knew she was forcing herself.
“We reach Amleth Hall today,” he reminded her.
Lyssa nodded dumbly.
“Is something the matter? I thought you would be happier.”
“I’m still not awake,” she murmured, and excused herself for a few moments alone. When she returned to their small camp, she had herself firmly in hand.
Watching him put out the fire and scatter the ashes, she told herself it was for the best. They were from different worlds. Her father would agree.
She recalled the start she’d had at finding the crucifix amongst his things, and it helped give her distance.
Not that Ian’s demeanor to her was overly friendly. There was a detached air about him, a distance bordering on coldness. She was happy when they started traveling.
They hadn’t walked far when their path crossed that of a Vicar George, from Appin. He was a pleasant companion and relieved some of the tension between her and Ian. Although the vicar did not know the Davidsons nor had he visited Amleth Hall, he knew something of its whereabouts.
“On the coast,” he said. “The north shore about a mile from Port Appin. I’ve seen it by boat. It has a westerly aspect with a magnificent view over Loch Linnhe. I imagine you can see Lismore and Moren, too.”
“Do the Davidsons so rarely come to town?” Lyssa wondered.
“I never see them,” was the reply. Then, as if feeling sorry for her, the vicar added, “I have laid eyes on the Davidson Stallion. He’s a beauty and he bears out his breeding. He’s going to be a fast one.”
Ian spoke up. “The Davidson Stallion?”