Chapter Twelve
BY FOUR IN the afternoon they had reached Findon, a small town on the coast. Lucy was swaying with exhaustion, aching in every limb and starving hungry, but she had tried her best to hide it from Robert.
She felt nervous and on edge and very aware of him.
She told herself it was simply their physical proximity, manifest in the brush of his body against hers as he rode Falcon with strength and easy grace, the hard muscle of his thighs, the protective clasp of his arms about her.
Yet what she felt was more than simple awareness.
She felt vulnerable, as though she had been unable to defend herself against him.
Robert had seen all these things about her that she had not even suspected herself.
She did not know how it was possible for him to understand her so well when no one else did.
She had never previously thought herself in the least bit wild.
Alice had been the wild one, forever tumbling into trouble.
Lucy had been the sensible twin, and after Alice’s death that propriety had become suffocating.
She had failed Alice the one time it had really mattered and to atone she had tried to turn herself into even more of a model of perfection.
But the wildness that must always have been buried deep in her had still escaped.
It had escaped in the writing of those shocking letters.
It had escaped in the primitive fury she had felt when Wilfred had attacked her.
It had escaped when she was in Robert Methven’s arms.
He held her now, reins in one hand, the other clasped possessively about her waist. It felt strange and disturbing but also treacherously good.
She distracted herself by looking about at the neat, respectable houses, the streets swept clean and the smartly painted shop fronts.
The place looked a great deal better cared for than the Cardross estates.
There was a stone jetty where boats bobbed at anchor and the fishing nets were drying in the sun.
The air was sharp and keen and scented with the tang of fish and salt.
“This is very pretty,” Lucy said. “Who owns the land hereabouts?”
“I do,” Robert said. “I own this sweep of the coast and out there—” He gestured to the hazy blue of the sea. “I own Golden Isle.”
He reined in and for a moment sat staring at the scatter of dark islands on the horizon.
There was something in his eyes: pride, yes, but something else Lucy could not read or understand, something darker.
She thought for a moment that he might say something else, but instead he turned the horse abruptly down a cobbled side street, where the afternoon shadows cooled the air, and clattered through an arched gateway and into an inn yard.
Their arrival caused a degree of flurry. The landlord, a fair florid man in his mid-fifties, immediately came running, wiping his hands on the large striped apron about his waist.
“My lord!”
“McLain.” Robert swung down from the saddle and held out his hand. “How is business?”
“Business is good, my lord,” the man stuttered, “but I had no idea you were to visit... You sent no word—”
“Rest easy.” Robert reassured him with a quick clap on the shoulder. “It was a sudden change of plan.”
He lifted Lucy down from the saddle and set her on her feet.
“May I introduce my betrothed, Lady Lucy MacMorlan?” he said.
His voice was suddenly cool and formal, the warmth of greeting drained from it.
“We have had a difficult journey and require a couple of rooms and some hot water to wash and food, of course...”
The landlord’s mouth fell open. He stared at Lucy, realized he was staring, shut his mouth with a snap and bowed deeply. “Welcome, my lady!” He shot Robert another glance. “Betrothed, you say, my lord?”
Lucy tried not to laugh. She could imagine how she must look, travel sore and dusty, dressed in boy’s trews and a harlot’s blouse. Small blame to the landlord if he thought the laird had brought his mistress to visit rather than his future wife.
“A sudden engagement,” Robert said smoothly with a quick look at Lucy that warned her not to contradict him. “You are the first to know.”
The landlord turned to the gaping scullions. “Fetch my wife to conduct Lady Lucy to a room!” He clapped his hands sharply. “Now! Run!”
He led them inside. Lucy was so tired and saddle sore that she could feel her legs trembling, but she forced herself to walk steadily and smile at the staring servants.
There was the most delicious smell of roasting meat, and her stomach rumbled longingly.
She wanted to dash down the passage to the kitchens and fall on it, no matter how unbecoming that might be to the daughter of a duke.
That really would convince the landlord that she was a slattern.
McLain bowed them into the dark-paneled parlor and murmured something about fetching refreshments. As soon as the door had closed behind him, Robert turned to her.
“You’ll understand,” he said formally, “that I had no choice other than to introduce you as my betrothed. Not if I did not wish to show you dishonor in front of my people.”
Lucy did understand, but she did not see why she should let him get away with such high-handed behavior.
“I see,” she said coolly.
Immediately the formality dropped from him and he grinned. “No need to take that frozen tone with me, my lady. I had no intention of accepting a third refusal.”
“I am aware of that too,” Lucy said. This would be no convenient betrothal, made to save face and broken off when it had served its purpose. It was far too late for that now. She would be wedded—and bedded. She felt the smothering panic rising in her throat and forced it back down again.
Robert’s eyes searched her face for a moment. She could feel his gaze on her for all that she kept her eyes stubbornly averted from his, and then he took her by surprise, leaning forward to give her a brief, hard kiss she felt all the way down to the tips of her toes.
“We’ll talk about it over dinner,” he said.
“Shall we?” Lucy said, refusing to yield.
His smile widened. “Aye, we shall. And until then—” he was pulling the engraved signet ring from his finger “—you should have a betrothal ring, I think.”
The ring was warm from his body and felt heavy and solid as he slid it onto Lucy’s finger. It was far too big and she instinctively closed her fingers about it to hold it in place.
“I’ll buy you something prettier.” His voice was soft.
“I like it very well.” She cleared her throat. She felt odd, as though he had finally claimed her, as though his protection enveloped her. “It feels strong and unyielding, like you.”
“Ah, lass—” He moved so quickly she gasped and then she was in his arms and he was kissing her properly this time, with heat and passion and possession.
For a long moment she yielded to the demand of his mouth before she remembered that nothing between them was settled and she could not wed him; that she had run and stolen and fought and lied in order to avoid marrying him.
She wanted to draw back then, but it was too late because a stronger part of her wanted to be seduced, so she was struggling against her own desires as well as his.
“Don’t fight me.” His whisper echoed her thoughts. “We are on the same side. You said so yourself.”
He did not understand. He could not, of course. The fear beat against the sweetness of the kiss and she made a small sound of distress. Robert let her go at once.
“Lucy—” he said, and her heart bounded because she knew he was going to ask her the cause of her distress and she did not know if she could answer truthfully. She had locked the truth away so tight and deep eight years ago and never permitted the light to expose it again.
He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again, as there were voices in the passage directly outside the parlor door.
“That will be Isobel,” he said. “Before I turn you over to her, can I get you anything else?”
“I’d like some new clothes,” Lucy said. She glanced down at the filthy striped scarf. “Something a little more becoming.”
“I’ll send out for something for you,” Robert said.
“That makes me feel more like a mistress than a wife,” Lucy said tartly.
The sudden heat in his eyes scorched her. “I can make you feel more like my mistress if you wish.”
Lucy’s blush stung her cheeks. She could only be glad of the knock at the parlor door, snapping her out of the moment.
“My lord?” A diminutive woman was standing there, much younger and altogether different from how Lucy would have imagined the landlady to be. Behind her bobbed a dark-haired, bright-eyed girl of no more than fourteen who was trying to peer around her mother to see what Lucy looked like.
Robert enveloped the woman in a bear hug. “How are you, Isobel?”
He stepped back, took both her hands and planted a kiss on her cheek. “You look well. And how is my goddaughter?”
The girl gave a little squeal of excitement.
For a moment Lucy thought she was going to throw herself into Robert’s arms, but somehow she managed to restrain herself although she was almost jumping out of her skin with the effort.
Robert took her hand and, a twinkle in his eye, bent his head to place a kiss on the back of it. The girl giggled.
“Don’t put ideas in her head please, my lord,” Isobel said briskly, not one whit overawed by her guest. “She already thinks you are some sort of hero.”
Robert glanced at Lucy, who was biting her lip in an effort not to smile. “Far be it from me to disabuse her of the idea,” he said. “Lady Lucy—” he drew Lucy forward “—may I present Mrs. Isobel McLain and her daughter Elizabeth?”
“Bessie,” the girl said, dropping Lucy a deep curtsy. “My lady.” She raised frankly curious eyes to Lucy’s face. “You’re very pretty,” she said. “But what happened to your face?”