Chapter Ten
Back in their favorite spot under the willow tree, Gibb chewed a blade of grass and watched a kingfisher as it swooped down to the water. Its iridescent wings reminded him of the woman sleeping by his side. Quicksilver, bright and fascinating. A woman with secrets, but also open, warm and… And what? A woman made for loving, but not by him.
A woman who reached out to his soul, but he dared not let her in. Dare not give anything back. A woman he wanted to care for but… Gibb sighed. And therein was the problem. That tiny word with a big meaning. But. He couldn’t do it to her. Try to be all she deserved and perhaps be found lacking.
Cowardly, maybe, but better in the long run, no doubt.
What if you were able? a tiny voice niggled him. He ignored it. After all, he knew he wasn’t—didn’t he?
Beside him Evangeline sighed in her sleep and muttered something he didn’t catch. Gibb stretched out his legs until he lay next to her and her soft breath caressed his cheek. How easy it would be to lean over and undo the ribbons at her neck. Lower the dainty sleeves down her arms and slide her dress to her waist. To feast on her luscious breasts once more, and revel in the soft mewls and gasps she would make. To lift her skirts and find that soft feminine place, to tease those curls and…
His staff rose and hardened to the point of pain in anticipation of what could happen.
On arrival at Cresswell, they had talked and decide not to consummate their relationship and complicate it by sex. Loving caresses, hot and heated kisses, had been exchanged on more than one occasion, but Evangeline was adamant she would take no chances on becoming pregnant. Gibb had to commend her, even if it did give him uncomfortable nights, where he stayed awake and thought of ice-cold baths or took himself in hand. At those times he was grateful they occupied different rooms. Here, away from town, it had been both their decision not to put too much temptation in their way.
Apart from themselves, only the elderly housekeeper was around and it would have been oh so easy to give in to temptation without fear of anyone knowing. But… He shrugged as he thought of the happiness of the last few days. It had been for the best.
However, they had to return to town tomorrow, he had to vote, and sex with Evangeline was something he’d thought long and hard about. Maybe if he was careful and withdrew?
Gibb had moved one hand to her shoulder when she opened her eyes and blinked sleepily at him.
“Hello. Was I asleep long?” Her voice was low and her accent definitely French. “It seems my nights awake have caught up with me.” She stretched and her thin gown tightened over her breasts, her nipples clearly outlined under the fine material.
He spat out the grass, cleared his throat and dropped his hand onto the blanket between them to shield his reaction. His staff now pushed against his buckskins so hard he wondered how durable they were. “Asleep? Not long.”
“Ah.”
Why was the silence no longer comfortable? Had she noticed his state of arousal? But why should that affect her so. They had discussed it, she had touched him and he her. They might not have consummated their relationship but nigh on as good as. Just not taken that final step.
“I almost…”
“I wondered…” They spoke over each other.
Gibb nodded. “You first.”
She smiled. “I almost asked you what you were thinking. You looked pensive.”
He shrugged. “I was about to break our agreement and try to coerce you to take me inside you.”
She looked at him, her face expressionless. “To… Ah, you mean to make love. But we agreed it would not be a good idea. That we use those other ways you have shown me to sate ourselves.”
“I was about to try and persuade you to have sex,” he corrected and ignored the stricken look in her eyes. What was the point in using flowery language and trying to make it into something it wasn’t? “However, I decided better of it.”
Evangeline smiled, although it didn’t reach her eyes. “A good thing,” she said with a slight quiver to her voice. “It would complicate things.”
He nodded and pulled her into a sitting position. “I have a proposition.”
“I thought you changed your mind?”
“No, not sex,” he said with a patience he hadn’t thought he had. “This is of a different sort.” Gibb cleared his throat. “I wondered if you would like to live here.”
“Here?” she replied incredulously. “At Cresswell?”
He inclined his head. Where else did she think he meant? Under the damn willow tree? “At Cresswell.”
“But why?” Evangeline asked. She seemed bewildered. “What for?”
“Why not? It is simple. I thought you might like to have the opportunity to live away from the capital.”
“But my livelihood is in London. How can I live elsewhere?”
“If you lived here you would have no need to work. Everything necessary would be here. So what do you say?”
“Why?” she asked once more. “Explain.”
“Why what?” he asked, irritable and out of sorts. At this rate they would be going round in circles ad infinitum. “I told you why.”
Evangeline shook her head and curls sprang from their pins and danced around her head. “You told me part of it. What would I be here as? A friend? Your lover… Oh no, I forgot, not a lover. A mistress? Someone to help you scratch your itch?”
“That is unfair and you know it,” Gibb said stiffly. “I just thought it might be nice for you to have a bolt hole. Somewhere to relax and not be worried with knives, nuisances or the ton.”
“Then, my dear Gibb, perhaps you should have thought about how to phrase your offer before you spoke about it. For that is not at all how it came across.”
“My apologies. I’ve never offered anyone anything like this before. So, what is your answer?”
“I’ll let you know when I’ve thought about it.”
Her noncommittal answer was like a red rag to a bull. Inflammatory. “What is there to think about, woman? A simple yes or no will suffice.” He forced himself to unclench his hands and relax. “Please.”
“Then no.” She stood up, shook out her skirts then shivered theatrically. “I should have brought my shawl. Perhaps we ought to make our way back? It’s getting cold.”
It wasn’t, but Gibb was not about to argue. Why were things going so wrong?
* * * *
Two hours later Evangeline wished she had a glass of brandy in her hands, if only to stop them shaking.
“Say that again,” Gibb said in a flat, dangerous voice. He’d removed his cravat and loosened his waistcoat in the manner he often did when they relaxed together. “Look me in the eyes and tell me once more what you have just said.” He paused and scrutinized her in such a way she wanted to crawl into a hole and stay there. “If you dare.”
“I dare, for why should I not?” she said with more composure than she felt. Her heart thudded so hard it was a wonder it wasn’t heard in the room. “I think it is time we accepted we need to spend time apart. Not to be involved in any way. You, my lord, have been very kind but—”
“Kind?”
His roar was so loud she flinched. Thank goodness they were not at home. His shout would have brought servants—or Eloise—running thinking he was mortally wounded. To know they had any idea of her and Gibb’s true circumstances would be galling in the extreme. They might wonder, but they did not know. Even Eloise had no more than the bare facts.
The grandfather clock in the hall chimed the hour and Evangeline jumped. This was not going as she had envisioned. She had anticipated he would be pleased she no longer needed his attention. How wrong could she be?
“You think I’ve been kind,” he said in such an icy voice she flinched. “I offered you this house, a life without idiots annoying you and no need to earn your living by throwing knives at people and you dismiss it so. Thank you for nothing.” Gibb paced across the room and swung around to point at her in accusation. “All this time, summed up thus. Kind.” He made it sound as if it were a disease. Perhaps to him it was.
“What else would you call it?” she replied and clenched her hands into fists. This was so much harder than she had anticipated. Nevertheless, it was all for the best. If she could get him to understand and let her cry in peace, she wouldn’t have to face the ignominy of telling him how she felt about him, and see him reject her emotions. “I appreciate you offering me this house.” And not putting any conditions on my occupancy. “You have helped me, given me backing and much more. I have lo…liked every moment. But… I’m sorry, Gibb, I cannot carry on as we are. As you insisted no emotions could be or would be involved, what else would you have me call it?” She held her breath. Had she misheard him?
He inhaled long and hard. “I am not kind. I dare not do emotions. You know that.”
“I know you choose not to,” Evangeline replied. “And I also know we cannot carry on as we are. Therefore I decided to say enough is enough. Time for us both to move on. Before we do anything we might regret.” Like taking you inside me and becoming yours in every way possible.
Gibb rubbed his eyes. “You have it all planned out, don’t you? Then there is no more to be said. I’ll remove myself from your presence forthwith and…” He shook his head and thumped the bureau with one hard fist. A decanter and three glasses jumped up and tinkled as they rubbed together. He stared at them blankly and Evangeline forced herself not to move.
It has to be done.
“And?” she said, determine to be polite, even though she quaked inside.
“And nothing, except stay at Cresswell for as long as you want. There are rooms furnished comfortably now. You could stay and enjoy them.”
Before she had a chance to react Gibb spun on his heel and took the three steps necessary to reach her. She looked up at his dark eyes and winced at the pain she discerned. Her fault?
“Hmm, now I think of it, there is one thing more. This.” Gibb grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and drew her into a long, hard, tongue-meshing kiss.
Evangeline stood rigid for several seconds then let herself lean into him. If this was goodbye she’d enjoy it and think about later a long time later.
She hardly had time. Gibb pulled back and looked at her with torment uppermost in his expression. “Damn you.” He stalked out and slammed the door behind him.
Evangeline listened as his steps faded as he stomped along the corridor and the outer door banged with such force she could swear the building shook.
He didn’t need to damn her, she was damned already.
* * * *
“I told you I’d remember who you reminded me of,” Julia said as, a week or so later, she passed a porcelain cup so fine you could almost see through it to Evangeline. The scent of bergamot which came from the tea teased Evangeline’s senses and made her mouth water. Good tea was not something she treated herself to very often. Good coffee, now, that was another matter. A day couldn’t start without coffee. Luckily Eloise thought the same and always had a supply she shared with Evangeline.
“Someone in England?” Evangeline asked and hoped she didn’t sound as flustered and apprehensive as she felt. She sipped her tea and hoped the cup wouldn’t rattle as she rested it with care in the saucer. Her hands were not only shaking, but also clammy. Surreptitiously she wiped them on her skirts and accepted a tiny, fancy cake of marchpane. “To my knowledge I have no relatives here.” She crossed her fingers. After all, it wasn’t a total lie. She didn’t know. Only hoped and wondered.
Lady Arthur finished her cake and dusted her hands together. “Right, my dear, this is the interesting part. You know I scratched my head over it all. I mean, I know a lot of people, and Bertie even more. We’re not exactly private people, we enjoy a good social life. And Bertie of course has all his political colleagues and card partners, hunt companions and so on. Between us we know most of the ton and its hangers-on. But could I think who it was?” Her eyes twinkled. “More tea?”
“Oh yes, please.” Evangeline held out her cup and wondered when the other woman would get to the point. The summons—for it could be called nothing else—to come for tea had been unexpected. After all, not by any stretch of the imagination could they be considered to be equals. However, Evangeline knew she could not and did not want to refuse. So here she was in her best day dress, understated—she hoped—in its elegance, with an uneven pulse and goosebumps, a dry mouth and a hollow stomach, waiting to discover whom she was supposed to resemble.
The journey to Julia’s had to Evangeline’s mind been unnerving. At every corner she’d looked for a certain dark head, for someone who walked like Gibb. Once she thought she saw him only to look into the face of a stranger. The sense of disappointment had been so deep she’d wondered if she had done the correct thing in sending him away. After all, she dreamed of him, awoke reaching for him, to find herself alone and in bed. She hadn’t heard his laugh, hadn’t felt his lips pressed to hers, hadn’t…
“Now where was I?” Julia asked, and wrenched Evangeline’s mind back to the present as she replaced the teapot on its sculpted stand and settled down in her chair. “Ah yes, your almost-double. I say almost because, my dear,” she leaned forward in a dramatic fashion, “it is a man.” She sat back again. “What do you think of that?”
“A man?” It was difficult, but Evangeline pushed Gibb to the back of her mind. Was this going to be the end of her quest? Or the beginning of another phase? “Do you now remember who?”
“Of course I do, or why else would I have demanded you come today?” Julia asked in a pseudo-patient way. “I’m not so autocratic that I expect someone to drop everything and cede to my every whim immediately.” She laughed. “I tend to demand they appear the next day.”
Her humor was infectious, and even though she was too churned up to laugh, Evangeline had to smile. “Such forbearance,” she said and stopped short. Julia made it all too easy for Evangeline to forget her place. “I’m sorry, that was rude.”
“Not at all,” Julia said. “Just truthful however you want to think differently. I have decided we are friends, and friends, my dear, do not stand on ceremony with each other.”
“I’m a miller’s daughter.” Perhaps.
Julia raised one eyebrow. “My father was an out-and-out rogue who, I believe, was happy to live his days out in the West Indies. Grandpapa was a slave trader and my great grandpapa a pirate so we won’t talk about our predecessors. I’m impatient by nature, and I can’t stand people who shilly-shally, and I’ve been guilty of that just now, haven’t I? No, don’t answer, it’s a rhetorical question. So, my dear, have you ever heard of Le Duc d’Astre?”
Evangeline’s heart missed a beat and a sense of despair filled her. The name meant nothing. “No. Who is he, an émigré?”
“Now that is the interesting thing. Oh—” She broke off and pushed the plate of cakes in Evangeline’s direction. “Do eat up or I’ll have to, because if I send them back the chef will sulk, and if you make me have any more Eloise will complain I’ve put on weight again and she’ll have to adjust my new ballgown. Now Iain d’Astre. What do you think of that for a name, eh?”
Evangeline wondered what she was supposed to say? Attractive? Unusual? Horrible? “Er…” She rolled the name around in her mind. French and Scottish. “He is from a family who supports Le Vieille Alliance? The Old Alliance,” she elaborated as Julia looked at her blankly.
“Ah yes, it seems so. Of course, Bertie said I must not question Iain, which seems somewhat unfair, because how else can we discover if he is a relative of yours? All I know is that his father was French and died during the revolution, and after some time, he—Iain, not his dead father—came to England with his mother. Which,” Julia rattled on cheerfully, “is another strange thing. Because Marie, his mother, has sadly passed on now, but she was from Scotland, so why on earth he chose to settle in Rutland is beyond my comprehension. So, what do you think?”
All that with scarcely a breath. How on earth did she do it? Evangeline felt lightheaded just listening to her. “What made you remember?” It was the one thing Evangeline could think to say.
“Because I saw him,” Julia said, as if her answer was a foregone conclusion. “And thought immediately he was a masculine version of you. Or should that be you are a feminine version of him? Whichever, you look alike. Same eyes and brows, same nose. Almost, for his is bigger of course. You even quirk your lips in a similar manner, except your eyes are sad. What has happened? Do I need to give Gibb Alford a piece of my mind?”
She looked like a fierce sparrow. Even though she didn’t want to, Evangeline smiled. “No, it is not his fault, it is mine. I,” she hesitated, “I felt too much, Julia, and he is adamant he feels nothing. Rather than make him undergo the pain of thinking he had let me down, I chose to end our…to be honest I’m not sure what you would call it…friendship…on his part, which could have developed into heartache on mine.”
“And it hurts,” Julia said shrewdly.
“Oh yes it hurts,” Evangeline said as a rush of pain flooded through her. “But it will pass, I’ll make it so. Right.” She took a deep breath. “Le Duc d’Astre?”
“Your little finger bends in the same place.”
She’s even noticed my little finger? How odd. The digit in question had a definite kink above the knuckle.
“So strange to see all your characteristics in him and his in you,” Julia said. “I was aching to find out more.”
“You saw him?” Black spots danced in front of her eyes. Was she going to faint? Please not, it would be so embarrassing and not at all helpful. He was here? He might hold the secrets to her past.
“Most definitely I saw him. That was how I remembered. I say, are you all right? You’ve gone the most peculiar color.” Julia patted her cheek. “Drink some tea.” She held the cup up to Evangeline’s mouth.
Evangeline took it from her, noted her hands were almost steady again, sipped the lukewarm contents. It was liquid and moistened her tongue, that was all that mattered. “It’s warm in here,” she said lamely. “I felt overheated for a second. I’m fine now.”
“Hmm, I’m not so sure. I’ll open the window.” Julia strode across the room and suited her actions to her words. “There now, that’s better. So you don’t know Iain? Or of him?”
Evangeline shook her head.
“What a pity. I’d wager my pin money you’re related. Now let’s see how we can discover just how.” Julia sat back in her chair and looked deep in thought. Then she blinked and clapped her hands. “I have it.”
It was as well someone did, Evangeline decided, because she was totally at sea. “As in?” she asked with caution.
“As in how you two can accidentally meet. You always wanted to be my companion, didn’t you?”
“I did?”
“Of course you did. Because tomorrow afternoon we are going for a stroll in the park, and oh my what a coincidence we will just happen to be walking past the end of St. James, not up it, so don’t worry, we are not going to be scandalous, when Bertie and Ian are off to their club. I know for a fact they’re at Tattersall’s earlier, and that is another place we can’t go to. So subterfuge will be the order of the day. What do you say to that?”
“Do you ever draw breath as you speak?”
Julia roared with laughter. “Not often, no, or I forget my thread. Are you up for it?”
It sounded plausible except for one thing. “No one will believe I’m your companion.” Which was a pity, because now the butterflies in her stomach were of the excited variety.
“They will, you know,” Julia said. “For some strange reason people accept everything I do or say at face value. You did tell me you have no engagements over the next week or so, didn’t you?”
Evangeline nodded. There seemed to be a lull in bookings before they picked up again and she had done nothing to find any more. She’d mentioned it to Julia when that lady had asked her how her occupation was progressing.
“Then that works perfectly. You do want to discover if you and Iain are related, don’t you?” Julia asked, in a cajoling manner. “Because I do.”
* * * *
The long ride north should have helped Gibb come to terms with Evangeline’s frank demand. After all, what else could he do but check he was headed in the correct direction—he was. Make sure his horse didn’t overexert himself—it didn’t. And think about recent events. That he did a lot of.
The first day, it was late by the time he left the capital. Even so, he made good progress, buoyed up by a sense of grievance he chose not to delve into. He spent the night in a comfortable inn, rested his horse and chose to go on with it the following day, rather than take a chance on one he was unaccustomed to. Then he’d swap to others and arrange for Challenger to be sent back to London.
Sadly, from then on things went downhill fast. A combination of rain, sun and more rain had turned the Great North Road into a quagmire in places. Progress was slow. Boggy roads, horses that should be dog meat and not allowed on any public highway were thrust on him. Therefore instead of coming to terms with what in actuality was a very reasonable request by Evangeline, he brooded. In his mind it became anything but and festered. With the addition of two of his favorite inns regretful but unable to accommodate him, and nights spent in unaired beds with inferior food and drink, his unreasonable mood grew. When he at last crossed the border into his beloved Scotland several long riding days later it had become totally out of proportion. Now he accepted he was more irate than he had been at first. Why, oh why did she want him out of her life? What had he done to deserve such cavalier treatment? He’d tried to help her—had helped her—thought they were friends, then this.
What haven’t you done? A nasty niggle invaded his brain and lodged there. He did his best to ignore the words that crawled over him like a snake on a mission. I told her no emotion. No reliance, nothing. Just friends. But what is a friend? Words and excuses, ideas and resolutions whirled around in his mind until by the time he’d got to within a good day’s ride of his beloved castle it was difficult to hold his head up and check his route. Cold winds, rain and sunshine, a late frost and he swore several flakes of snow, gave him all four seasons in half an hour as he let his weary horse climb the steep hill to a comfortable inn he used when he visited Edinburgh. If it was full he’d sleep in the stables.
His luck held. It wasn’t and within the hour he slid under the water of a deep and steaming bath and sighed as his weary body relaxed. Had he done the right thing? True, he’d had to come north at some point, but he’d run like a sullen schoolboy thwarted for the first time then compounded everything by sulking.
How childish. He was thoroughly ashamed of himself. After all, Evangeline had merely accomplished something he would have done himself before too long. Why am I so out of sorts about that? Gibb soaped his chest, ducked his head under the water and pulled himself into an upright position once more. He shook his head and watched droplets of water bounce off the surface of his bath, over the edge of the tub and onto the carpet.
Why?
Too much introspection made his head hurt. Or was that the sore throat and cough he’d developed? Whichever, Gibb got up from the bath in one fluid motion, toweled himself dry and drank a large dram as he dressed in his kilt—normal attire in his homeland—and adjusted his sporran. Lowlanders might think a sporran an unnecessary item of clothing, or even pretentious, but he chose to think differently. His sporran was old, worn, and held all his immediate needs on his travels, including a pistol.
Not that he thought he’d need it in The Thistle, but old habits died hard. Gibb finished his dram and made his way downstairs to be greeted by McAra, the landlord, and shown to his favorite private parlor.
It was amazing what a good meal could do to an irritable mood. After putting away the best part of a game pie and several slices of rare roast beef and quaffing a large tankard of McAra’s best home brew, Gibb felt a lot better and more able to ruminate over the events of the past week or so.
The knife-thrower. Her independence, feistiness and talent.
The matchmaking mamas. Their annoying ways and machinations.
The desperate debs. The same as their mamas.
His friends. Loyal to a fault.
Himself. A pig-headed, ignorant, stupid, couldn’t-see-what-was-in-front-of-him-or-in-his-heart idiot.
Evangeline… Here he paused. And what about Evangeline?
Had he missed something vital? If he had, could he admit it? He was too tired to fathom that out. He took himself to his empty bed.
* * * *
Hard manual labor was a wonderful way of ensuring one slept a good eight hours out of every twenty-four, Gibb decided several weeks later. It was a pity it didn’t stop all his dreams. Gibb dragged himself up the stone stairs to the laird’s chambers in the turret each night and had to force himself not to fall asleep in the bath. He ate without tasting the food, drank his dram without savoring it and dropped into bed as if he’d been felled.
And dreamed. Snatches of how he’d spoken to Evangeline. How he’d stroked her skin, the softness, her curves and hollows there for him to discover. Shown her how a man and a woman could enjoy each other’s bodies without risking pregnancy. Reveled in the way she touched him, caressed him and brought him to completion. Heard her soft voice with its enticing accent speaking to him. “My Gibb.” And pulled back when he thought she might be getting under his skin.
Then she’d had enough. Could he blame her? That question stayed unanswered.
Three weeks of outdoors work alongside his estate workers followed his arrival north. He shared the midday lunches of his workers, quaffed their ale and added a basket of pies and pastries from the castle kitchen to each meal eaten sitting against the new barn walls. He always remembered another basket to be shared among their families, for although he was a generous employer, treats never went amiss. Putting in the same long hours they did gave Gibb a healthy respect for just how damn lucky he was with his staff. To say nothing of a leaner, harder body and a golden tan. It was unfortunate it didn’t give him peace of mind or a decent night’s sleep.
Plus, according to McTavish, his longest-serving worker, who, these days was more of a foreman than a grafter, he wore a look no man should ever have. Unless he’d just laid his mother to rest or lost his fortune at cards. Gibb couldn’t explain it was neither and felt like both. Instead he tried to laugh it off. McTavish said nothing else until at the end of the third week. On the Friday Gibb decreed the new barn perfect, the hedges as he wanted them and the dry stone walls nigh on finished. There would be, he declared, a ceilidh to christen the new building on Saturday night with food and drink provided by the castle.
As his workers thanked him and made their weary ways home, McTavish hung back. Gibb ducked his head in the horse trough, shook it so as much water as possible fell onto the ground, not his sweat-soaked shirt, wiped his face on his neckerchief and picked up his jacket.
“All right, Gregor, spit it out,” he said, short of temper and out of sorts. “I’ve a dram waiting with my name on it. Two drams even.” He wanted to sink into a bath with the whisky and do nothing.
“Go and see her and sort yersel oot laddie.” The man’s normal thick local dialect became almost unintelligible when he was emotional. As then. “Thons nae daein anyone any good like y’are the noo. We need a laird, no a tattieboggle.”
“Are you saying I look like a scarecrow?” Gibb asked, amused at the comparison. Indeed, he was wearing his oldest clothes and he could do with a haircut and to trim his beard, but he’d thought he had a better body than one purporting to scare the crows away. “I thought I was fitter than when I arrived.”
“Ah, yae are ben the body, but nae in yer soul,” the old man said and spat into a nearby ditch. “It’s got to be a wimman. Nae’an else could get ye like that. Got ye by the baws has she? Ach weeel, it’s aboot time ye forgot thon besom ye were marrit to.” He spat on the ground. “Respect fer the deid has tae be earned. She didnae.”
Gibb shrugged his jacket on. “No,” he said. “She didn’t earn anyone’s respect, did she? I’m sorry for what you all had to endure at her hands.” On the rare occasion she had visited the castle, his late wife had never said or done anything positive to endear herself to the people of the estate—anything but. Gibb couldn’t say who was happiest when she no longer visited, him, her or them.
“Ha, we didnae get much o’ her. You did. Anyhoo now it’s over, eh? Time ta move on.”
“I hope so.” If she’ll let me after the way I have behaved.
“Ach, yer nee tae dae sommat or you’ll be a lang streak o’ misery.” McTavish doffed his cap, cackled and ambled off down the track to his croft.
Gibb watched him go and smiled. Trust the old man to say it as he saw it, and do it in such a way as to make Gibb listen. He watched until McTavish disappeared and turned on his heel to make his own way home. There was, he noticed, a purpose to his steps that hadn’t been there before. He had plans to finish the work started and also ideas for the work he hoped to accomplish.
Would Evangeline listen to him if he sought her out on his return to London? Could he now put Hester behind him? Dare he trust and love again? Was he prepared to open up his life and his heart to someone else? To share his thoughts, words and needs with that person and be prepared to do the same for them? The questions whirled through his mind. Too much information to sift through in one fell swoop. He needed to be able to think in a rational manner.
And, he realized, go to Devon and lay those demons to rest. But not before he’d seen Evangeline and tried to discover why she’d called it a day.
“Johnson?” he shouted to his factor as he entered the castle and took the stairs three at a time.
Johnson, a gnarled gnome-like man with a dour demeanor and a heart of gold, popped his head out of the room he used for estate business. “Your grace?”
“I’ll be heading south at dawn on Sunday after church. There’s a ceilidh tomorrow night to christen the new barn. I’ll be chatting to Mrs. Cruikshank as soon as I’m decent.” The cook was a favorite of his, ever since she’d snuck him black bun on a Sabbath. “Can you arrange things for me, please? Especially for Sunday. Bare necessities.”
Now all he had to do was enjoy the sort of occasion he’d shunned in recent years and make peace with his soul.
Nothing to it.
Why did he not believe himself?
* * * *
Gibb soon decided that to ride from one end of the country to the other could be no one’s idea of pleasure. Especially as he wondered if a very special lady would ever forgive him. The roads still hadn’t recovered from winter, the inns in some places were few and far between and the horses in general were not what Gibb was used to. One in particular took exception to every gust of wind, every sheep in a field and every farm worker with a scythe. After three miles of a buck, a kick and an ungainly sidestep every few seconds, Gibb was almost ready to break the habit of a lifetime and use his whip. That he didn’t was a testament to his strong will and reluctance to hurt an animal.
Compassion, an inner voice mocked him. You have compassion. The thought didn’t bring him out in a cold sweat anymore. He was cautiously optimistic he was on the mend. Even so, he changed that animal at the first opportunity.
Some areas were wild and the moors dangerous. He rode with one hand on his pistol and one eye scanning his surroundings for anything untoward. The last thing he wanted was to die before he’d had a chance to make amends with Evangeline.
By the eighth day he swore he would walk barrel-legged forever. It had been a long while since he’d had to exist on a horse and fight for his life in between times. Now his life was no longer in danger but his future happiness was. Tension was not a good companion on horseback. He vowed that once he arrived at his chosen inn, that night, he would spend longer than usual in a bath.
“Alford, you’ve gone soft,” he said to himself as he clattered over a wooden bridge and into a tiny hamlet where the duck pond seemed bigger than the settlement itself. Times were when ten days in the saddle would have seemed nothing. Not anymore. He yearned to walk, to sit in comfort and, he admitted, sort his life out. At least the Scottish estate was running smoothly. The ceilidh had been a great success, he hadn’t drunk too much ale or whisky and he’d left the castle the following day within ten minutes of when he had intended. However, a ride of over five hundred miles over a mixture of roads and terrain wasn’t going to be accomplished in a day or two.
Now, though, he could almost sniff the sea, and with luck he would reach Cove House the following day.
A rotund man ran out to greet him as Gibb clattered into the stable yard of the tiny inn, followed by two ostlers. The first man—the landlord—took a step back when he saw Gibb dismount, and bowed. Not before Gibb saw the welcoming grin on the man’s face.
“Your grace, how good to see you back. Your usual suite is ready and waiting for you.”
“I hope you haven’t moved anyone out for me, Cubbins,” Gibb said as he handed his saddlebags over to a waiting manservant. “I’m so weary that as long as I can have a bath, I’d sleep in the stables if need be.” He stretched his arms over his head and rotated his shoulders. “I’ve had a long ride. I want to soak my aches away, have some food and a glass of ale, in that order. No, the bath and the ale together sounds even better.”
“Ah, London is a fair distance,” Cubbins said as he escorted Gibb indoors and ushered him into a private parlor.
“Scotland is even farther,” Gibb said with a laugh. “I’ve been in the saddle so long I’m amazed I remember how to walk.”
The landlord smiled uncertainly, as if he wasn’t sure how to respond to such a sally. Gibb shook his head. “I’m jesting, Cubbins. I’m just sick of horseback. A jug of your ale, a bath to relax in and soak away my grime, followed by one of Jessie’s meals and I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll get the ale now and my Jessie’ll sort the rest.” He bustled out and Gibb heard him shouting orders to someone in the back of the inn. Gibb assumed it was the man’s wife, Jessie.
Gibb stretched his legs out in front of him, accepted the ale a fresh-faced maid brought in, and sighed. What if he was unable to lay his demons to rest? What then?