Chapter Eleven

Many days later, somewhere on the Old North Road…

 

Better said, to Lucian’s mind, it’d taken more than one hundred kisses, the gods only knew how many loud and rumbling turns of the carriage wheels over ancient Roman paving stones, more nights spent at crowded and creaky coaching inns, and countless feeding, watering, grooming, and resting stops for the horses, for him to reach an inevitable conclusion…

Under no circumstances could he endure the remaining stretch of the long and arduous journey north without pulling Melissa into his arms, stripping the clothes from her lush and delectable body, and – finally – slaking the powerful lust he felt for her.

Without satisfying as well, his deep need to open his heart to her, declaring his love.

The truth was he didn’t want to wait until they reached Lyongate to marry her.

Indeed, he wouldn’t.

With luck, they’d finally put England behind them in a scant hour or so, crossing into Scotland with the gloaming. A perfect time, its soft, glowing magic ideal if he needed a bit of help persuading her.

Somehow he suspected aid wouldn’t be necessary.

She already liked kissing him.

He’d stopped counting at one hundred. He hadn’t stopped kissing her and imagined he could do so for a thousand years and not weary of her. She truly was the reason he’d journeyed to London. He hadn’t known it at the time, but he did now.

And he was grateful, more so than ever before in his life.

Just now, she leaned against him, her head pressed to his shoulder as she slept. Her ability to do so hinted at her Scottish half’s hardiness, for along with the thinning of towns, villages, and even farmsteads and cottages, the road was also wilder. The smooth Roman paving stones, ancient but still structurally sound, were but a memory, the ‘goat track’ he’d veered off on, was a different matter. Recent rains meant mud and water-filled ruts, along with the usual rocks that made the journey a bumpy one.

Even so, the great hills rising before them gleamed in the late afternoon light, and the boggy, rolling moorland they were now riding through made his pulse quicken. Each glimpse of black-glistening peat or stretch of heather set his heart to soaring.

Even the deer grass and rocky outcrops drove home that his beloved Scotland was near.

So close that he almost called to his coachman to halt so that he could fling open the carriage door, leap out, and run the remaining miles until he once again stood on Scottish soil.

Of course, he didn’t want to disturb Melissa’s rest, so he settled for simply easing up the window panel a bit more to enjoy a better view.

Unfortunately, the carriage hit a dip in the road at the same time, and the vehicle jostled, swayed, and bumped several times until the uneven track leveled out again.

“Mercy!” Melissa gasped, her eyes popping open. “I thought the earth was cracking open.”

“Just a dip in the road, sweeting.” Lucian slid his arm around her shoulders, steadying her.

She was already clutching his knee for balance, but her gaze was on the darkening moorland out the window, the ever-higher hills looming so near. Rugged, almost black in the fast-fading light, they were the northernmost Cheviots, the vast range of hills that marked where England ended and Scotland began. Or the other way around, depending on one’s journey.

“I see a star!” She leaned closer to the window, peering up to where the first one twinkled in the violet-shaded heavens. “O-o-oh, do you see it?”

“Aye,” he answered, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. “That wee star is winking down on Scotland, lass.”

“Scotland?” She whipped about to face him, her excitement doing terrible things to his Highland heart. “Are we there already?”

“No’ quite, but almost,” he told her, his gaze going past her to a distant croft house far across the moor.

Crouched low against the southern flank of huge, round-shouldered hills, the house’s whitewashed walls stood out like luminous pearl in the deepening twilight. Yellow pinpricks gleamed there, proving that someone within had lit candles for the night, and surely a peat fire as well.

Lucian didn’t know the croft’s owners, but he did know the house from passing this way.

It was the last house on English soil – or the first on Scottish, again depending on view.

Seeing it now made his heart swell.

He glanced at Melissa, her shining eyes almost making him wish he wasn’t Scottish so that he could experience such joy at seeing Scotland for the first time.

Alas…

He was Scottish, and he hoped his plans for the night would be as meaningful for her as they would be for him. So he drew her attention to the croft, his heart squeezing anew when she clapped a hand to her breast and smiled.

“It’s perfect,” she said, her voice catching. “Is that Scotland?”

“Aye, sweet.” He also smiled at the distant croft. “Thon house sits on the border.”

“Oh, my.” She blinked, but not before he saw the tears glistening in her eyes. “I never thought to see my mother’s homeland. The place that has called my soul for so many years. Cranleigh will always be home, but this, to be here at last...” Her voice cracked again and she swiped at her cheek. “I am quite overcome.”

“Sweet lass, I would be disappointed if you weren’t. Scotland is that special.”

“It is,” she agreed, peering again at the farmhouse against the now night-blackened hills.

Lucian reached to smooth back her hair and brush the tear tracks from her face.

“Wait until we reach the Highlands,” he said, wishing they were already at Lyongate. “If your heart is thumping now, you will lose it entirely then.”

“Pah!” She twisted round to beam at him, her eyes dancing. “I lost my heart to Scotland years ago, though never so much as in the Merrivales’ cloakroom when you spoke of your home. I knew then that I must get here, even if it meant crawling the whole way on my hands and knees.”

“That isn’t necessary,” he said, framing her face and kissing her. A long, deep kiss because even though they’d kissed more on this northward journey than he imagined most people kissed in a lifetime, he simply couldn’t get enough of her.

He also felt a powerful need to make her happy, so when he broke the kiss and sat back, he took her by the shoulders and caught her gaze, serious now.

“You, precious lass, will no’ crawl anywhere ever,” he vowed. “If the day ever comes when you cannae walk, I will sweep you in my arms and carry you.”

“Why do I think you mean that?”

“Because I do.”

She stared at him, looking almost stunned. “I still cannot believe any of this is happening. That I am even here, and with you…”

“I feel the same,” he admitted, also feeling more blessed than he would have believed even a very short time ago. “And because I am so happy to have you with me, I’ve planned a very special stop for us tonight.”

She angled her head. “Gretna Green? Are you taking me there?”

“Nae, we’re no longer on the Old North Road. We veered off it, onto this track, some while ago. You were sleeping so soundly I didn’t want to waken you.”

“A track?” She threw another glance out the window, though little could be seen now except darkness and shadows.

A crescent moon was rising and cast some illumination, enough to cause the rocky track to gleam whitely and – Lucian’s lips quirked – to pick out a rather large gathering of hares hopping about near a tumble of boulders beside a stream.

“Aye, well, a road then,” he told her, stretching the truth. “You’ll see even worse ones the farther north we go.”

“It looks delightful to me.” She spotted the hares then and gripped the bottom of the window, smiling out at them. “Goodness, so many rabbits, and such big ones.”

Lucian chuckled. “They are hares, no’ rabbits. You will see many more before we reach our lodgings. This area is famous for them.”

“Oh, how perfect.” She settled back on the carriage seat, her hands clasped on her lap. “Scotland, and a wealth of plump, happy-looking hares.”

She slid him a look. “Perhaps I shall rescue them? Take them all with us to Lyongate to keep my carriage horses company.”

“Thon beasties wouldn’t thank you.” Lucian peered out at them, too. “They fare well enough here.” He looked again at her. “There is a local legend about them. I will tell it to you this evening over dinner at our inn.”

She smiled and leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Where will we be staying?”

“The inn that’s the reason we came this way.” He caught her hand and laced their fingers. “It’s called the One-Eyed Hare.”

~*~

Not too long later, after a good number of further bumps, bounces, and hare-spottings, the carriage finally rolled to a stop in the inn’s small courtyard. The two-storeyed, stone-built inn was long, thick-walled, and whitewashed, with a slate roof and small leaded windows. Smoke rose from two chimneys, one at each end of the inn, and flickering light shone through the windowpanes, adding a welcome touch on the cold and windy night.

A lantern hung over the door, making it easy to read the inn’s sign with its name, the One-Eyed-Hare, in gold letters above a large brown hare on a green background.

Naturally, the creature was depicted with only one eye.

At least, Melissa thought so.

Despite the lamp’s illumination, it was hard to tell with much of the courtyard in shadow.

She was able to read the claim that the inn was established in the fourteenth century. But then her attention was snagged by the many hares darting about on the grass beyond the edges of the courtyard.

There were more than she could count and the longer she looked, the more she saw.

“Mercy, you weren’t exaggerating.” She hurried to join Lucian who was just reaching to open the inn door. “I’ve never seen so many rabbits in my life.”

“Hares,” he reminded her. “There are vast differences. Just as” – he smiled – “you’ll soon see a very different world from the one you left behind in England.”

“I already do.” She smiled up at him as he escorted her over the threshold and into the One-Eyed Hare’s public room. “And I am most enchanted.”

She was.

Stepping into the One-Eyed Hare brought the same waft of smoke-hazed air as entering an English taproom, but the scent of peat struck her as much more noticeable here. She also found it earthier and sweeter, more rich.

The cooking smells were also similar, and she noted a strong hint of ale, but laced with whisky.

What she didn’t catch was masculine sweat and she figured that was because of the colder air here, so much farther north. A rush of it had swept into the taproom with them, and she saw that some of the windows were open, allowing the brisk clean air to circulate.

Was it her imagination that she detected a hint of heather and icy, clean Scottish water, too?

She had spotted the glint of more than one rushing stream criss-crossing the moorland surrounding the inn.

Perhaps the streams were the reason for such freshness?

She didn’t know, but she liked the One-Eyed Hare and wished they’d stay here more than one night.

As if he’d peered into her mind – no, her heart – Lucian drew her aside before they went any deeper into the public room. Leaning in, he whispered in her ear…

“If we’re lucky, Dod Swanney, the innkeeper, will have his best room available,” he said, gently nipping her ear before he straightened. “I’ve ne’er slept there, but have seen it. He saves it for special occasions.”

Melissa looked at him, having heard only one thing.

“A room?” she asked, her heart thumping.

He’d arranged for two at the other inns they’d stopped at on the way north. Once, he’d even slept in the stable when the only available sleeping space for her was a shared room with four other women. Necessity had even seen the ladies – strangers, all – sleeping in the same bed.

“Aye, one room,” he said, taking her doubt. “Dod’s famous Scottish Night bedchamber.”

Rather than say more, he just smiled and took her elbow, leading her away from the entry and the cold air blowing through a half-opened window there. 

Melissa glanced about as they moved through the candlelit room, passing crowded tables, but also arched entrances to nooks and crannies likewise filled with travelers and patrons. Unlike the public room’s whitewashed walls, these smaller areas were crafted of dark, glowing wood. The inn’s flagstone floor was well-swept and the coziness was increased by the dried bundles of golden gorse that hung from the taproom ceiling’s age-blackened beams.

Best of all were the two enormous stone fireplaces at either end of the remarkably long and well-polished bar.

And it was to one of those hearths that Lucian was leading her, for an empty table stood there. Surprisingly, it was already set for two with white linen, gleaming pewter plates and cutlery, and even a small cream-colored jug filled with heather.

“Heather on the table?” Melissa smiled at Lucian as he drew out her chair. “Now I know I’m in Scotland.”

“So you are, lass.” He leaned down to kiss her cheek. “And the best is yet to come.”