Chapter Four
LUCY SAW SATISFACTION ease into Methven’s eyes at her admission of guilt. Her heart was beating hard and fast now. She wondered if she looked as scared as she felt. She would be the talk of Edinburgh for months. Lucy’s stomach clenched. She hated the thought of being a byword for scandal.
But he would not betray her. Surely he would not. No gentleman would betray a lady’s trust.
“Do you know what you have done?” Methven asked.
His gaze was fixed on her and she could feel the anger in him, held under the tightest control but nevertheless a hot thread beneath his words.
“Do you understand the consequences of your actions, Lady Lucy?” The contempt in his blue eyes was blistering. “You have destroyed my betrothal.”
“Well,” Lucy corrected, “that is not strictly accurate. Dulcibella destroyed your betrothal in running off with Lachlan. I did not make her elope. It was her choice. Perhaps,” she added, “she did not want to wed you.”
Methven looked supremely unimpressed by her logic. He brought his hand down so hard on the flat top of the mantel that Lucy flinched.
“Will you accept no responsibility?” he demanded. “Do you consider yourself blameless?”
“I wrote the letters,” Lucy said steadily.
“I do take responsibility for that.” She was aware that her words were hardly conciliatory, that she was hardly going in the right direction to appease him.
When she had set out to justify herself, she had not intended to provoke him, but there was something about Robert Methven that got under her skin.
“Why?” He growled the word at her, his eyes impossibly blue, impossibly angry. “Why did you do it?”
“I did it because Lachlan paid me,” Lucy said defiantly.
She saw Methven’s eyes widen in surprise.
“So you did it for the money?” he said, and the contempt in his tone was like a whip.
“You make me sound like a courtesan,” Lucy complained. “It wasn’t like that.”
Methven smiled suddenly. Lucy noticed the way the smile ran a crease down one of his lean, tanned cheeks and deepened the lines that fanned out from the corners of his eyes.
She felt a sudden sweet, sliding feeling in her stomach and trembled a little.
“In your own way you are for sale,” he pointed out gently.
“I beg your pardon, but I think it is exactly like that.”
Lucy said nothing. She certainly was not going to tell a man so cynical that the money from the letters had gone to charity.
That would come too close, expose too much of what really mattered to her.
She could not discuss it, not even to exonerate herself.
She never spoke of Alice. It was too painful.
Besides, Robert Methven would only laugh at her. And probably disbelieve her.
“I have no money,” she said. “I need to earn it.”
“You are an heiress,” Methven said.
“The definition of an heiress,” Lucy said, “is someone who will inherit money, not someone who currently possesses it. An heiress could be penniless.”
“A nice justification,” Methven conceded, “but still no excuse.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I thought you might claim to have helped him because you believe in love.”
A chill settled in Lucy’s blood. “I have no time for love,” she said.
His eyes searched her face. “Then we have something in common.” A bitter smile twisted the corner of his mouth.
“I loved what Miss Brodrie would have brought me, though.” He sighed, straightened.
“Did you know that your cousin Wilfred Cardross and I are involved in a legal battle?” His tone was conversational, but the look in his eyes was very acute and suddenly Lucy had the feeling that the answer to this mattered far more than anything that had gone before.
“Yes,” she said truthfully, and saw the scorn and dislike sweep back into his eyes.
“So you did it to help your cousin too,” Methven said.
“You wanted to help him cheat me of my patrimony.” He turned away from her.
The line of his shoulders and back, his entire stance, was rigid with repressed fury, yet Lucy sensed something else in him: a frustration, a powerful protective spirit that was somehow thwarted as though there was something he longed for yet could not gain.
She felt it so instinctively that she reached out a hand to touch him, then realized what she was doing and let her hand fall.
“You mistake me,” she said, and her voice was a little husky. “I did nothing to help my cousin Wilfred. I would not give him the time of day, let alone my assistance. If what I have done in any way was to his benefit, then I am sorry.”
Methven turned sharply and caught her by the shoulders, his touch burning her through the evening gown. “Is that true?” he demanded. There was a blaze of heat in his eyes that made her shiver. He felt it and released her, his hands falling away.
“You were dancing with him earlier,” he said, and his tone was cool now, as though that flash of heat had never been.
“Not for pleasure,” Lucy said. “I cannot bear him. Ever since we were children—” She stopped. Childhood reminiscences were probably out of place here.
Methven’s gaze searched her face as probing as a physical touch. “So you really do not know,” he said. His voice was flat. “You have done Cardross the greatest service imaginable in breaking my betrothal and you did not know.”
Apprehension slid down Lucy’s spine. “I don’t understand,” she whispered.
Methven did not answer immediately. Instead he walked over to the table and poured two glasses of wine from the decanter.
He passed her a glass; their fingers brushed, distracting Lucy momentarily.
She realized that he was gesturing her to sit.
She took a battered-looking velvet armchair.
Methven sat opposite, resting his elbows on his knees, leaning forward, his glass cradled in his hands.
“Wilfred Cardross and I are involved in a dispute over clan lands,” he said. “It goes back centuries to the time of King James the Fourth.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “You know that the Methvens and the Cardrosses have always been enemies?”
“And the MacMorlans,” Lucy said. “We talked about this eight years ago, you and I.”
A smile slid briefly into Robert Methven’s eyes like sunlight on water. “So we did,” he said softly.
Lucy suddenly felt very hot. She broke the contact between them looking down, smoothing her skirts.
“Cardross holds to the old enmities,” Robert Methven said.
“He and I—” He shrugged. “Suffice it to say, he has been waiting for an opportunity to claim back the lands he believes to be his. When my grandfather died I was in Canada and so was slow to return and claim my inheritance. That gave him the chance he needed.”
“I don’t quite see how I am involved in this—” Lucy started to say, but Methven cut in, his incisive tone reminding her that his patience with her was wafer thin.
“You will,” he said. “Under the terms of the original treaty, the Methvens were given lands carved out from the earldom of Cardross. Those lands constitute half my estate.”
There was a hollow feeling in Lucy’s stomach now. “I can see why Wilfred might not like that,” she said.
Methven’s smile held no warmth. “Indeed. The agreement was originally reached because the Methven clan had bested Cardross men in battle. King James the Fourth imposed the ruling on both sides back in the fifteenth century, but it still stands today.”
The fire roared and cracked as a sudden gust of wind curled down the chimney.
“The only proviso,” Methven said softly, holding Lucy’s eyes, “was that if any future marquis took more than twelve months to claim his inheritance, he would have to fulfill certain criteria or forfeit his lands. I took thirteen months.”
“Why did it take you so long to return?” Lucy asked. “Why were you, the Methven heir, in Canada at all?”
She saw something flicker in his eyes, something of pain and dark, long-held secrets.
“That does not concern you,” he said, and the words were like a door slamming shut in her face.
“I was late claiming my lands and title and so Cardross had his chance to invoke the old treaty. Under its terms I am required to wed within a year and produce an heir within two.” He paused for a heartbeat.
“Now you will see what you have done in disposing of my bride.”
Lucy did. She had destroyed everything he had worked to safeguard. She had put the safety of his lands and his clan at risk. For a moment the disastrous consequences of her meddling made her feel quite faint.
“I did not know.... Surely you can find another bride...” she stammered, then fell silent beneath the searing contempt in his gaze.
“That is the delightful twist,” Methven said politely. “King James, in his desire to force sworn enemies to bed down together, made it a requirement that I wed a descendent of the earls of Cardross.”
“Oh.” Lucy frantically tried to remember Wilfred’s family tree.
He had no sisters—and would no doubt have forbidden them to marry Robert Methven if he had.
Dulcibella had been a distant cousin. So was she, of course, but on the female side.
There was no one else she could recall. Wilfred was almost devoid of relatives. Which was bad news for Lord Methven.
“I am sorry,” she said. She knew the words were inadequate. She had felt guilty enough before, but now that the full extent of the damage was revealed she felt quite wretched.
“You may imagine,” Methven said cuttingly, “how your regret moves me.” He got up abruptly and placed his untouched glass of claret on the table.
“There is no need to be so sarcastic,” Lucy protested. She could feel the guilty color stinging her cheeks. “I truly am sorry. I did not know—”
“Ignorance is no excuse,” Methven said roughly. “It is not as though your letters on behalf of your brother are unprecedented.”