Chapter Twenty
The light of dawn never seemed to creep the way the setting sun did. One moment it was dark and the next it was light. Alex looked down at Lucy. He’d been showered with the blackguard’s blood when he slit his throat. Some of that blood had gotten on her, tainting her perfect skin. Blood would wash away, he told himself. It would take an ocean to scrub away the memory of these last few days.
Lucy’s eyes fluttered open, blinked, then locked on his.
“Good morning,” he said, forcing a smile.
“Where are we?”
“Safe away from Dunrobin.”
“Alex, I’m sorry I was angry when you pretended you were a soldier. I didn’t know you were a prince.”
“A prince?” He chuckled. She must be delirious. “I’m no’ a prince, love. Believe me.”
“I ran away because I thought you didn’t want me.”
Alex had difficulty swallowing. “Never,” he said, forcing the word past the lump in his throat. He laid a gentle kiss on her forehead.
Two lads from Helmsdale Village waded into the water and helped pull their skiff ashore. Helmsdale was the rocky strip of shoreline Lady Sutherland had bequeathed her displaced tenants. The once-farmers now had to make their living from the unforgiving North Sea with no tools or knowledge of fishing. Alex had visited Helmsdale last year. Scanning the shore this morning, it looked to him as though its population had doubled.
Ian took Lucy from him and deposited her at the water’s edge, keeping an arm around her, as she was still unsteady. Alex climbed out of the skiff, winced, and clapped a hand to his left side. When he withdrew his hand, he saw it was covered in fresh blood. His blood.
“You’re injured.” Lucy stumbled toward him, looking alarmed.
He covered his side again with his hand. “I’m fine. A scratch. Dinnae fash yourself.”
“Let me see.” Ian brushed away his hand and tore open his blood-soaked shirt. Alex felt queasy at the sight of the gaping four-inch wound on his lower ribcage. Ian tugged the stock from around his own neck and bunched it up. “Hold this and press hard.”
He did as his brother commanded. He must have lost a considerable amount of blood, for he was admittedly light-headed. Ian dug his shoulder under his right arm to steady him. Lucy flanked his left side, and together they guided him away from the beach toward the village.
Looking back over his shoulder, Alex called to the lads who had helped them to shore, “Use the skiff for firewood, aye. If Sellar’s men catch you with it, he’ll accuse you of stealing.”
Ian shouted, “I need a healer.”
“Mrs. Murray’s the one you need,” a lad said. “Her place is this way, sir.”
They followed the boy toward one of the ramshackle huts that passed for housing in Helmsdale. A white-haired woman stood at the entrance and gave Alex a toothless grin.
“He’s been cut bad,” Ian said. “Can you help him?”
“It’s no’ so bad,” Alex protested.
“Set him down out here where I can see him in the light.”
Lucy spread Ian’s coat on the ground for him.
Sitting hurt like the devil, and he had to grind his teeth together to keep from crying out. Once his ass hit the ground, a short yelp escaped. “Shit.”
“Lay down all the way, ye big numpty. Let me take a look.” Mrs. Murray pried his hand away from his side and removed Ian’s bloody stock. “You’re right. It’s no’ so bad. I’ll have you stitched in no time. Someone get me some whisky.”
Alex thanked the Lord. He needed a swig or two of whisky to settle himself. Hell, he could use a whole bottle. Declan produced a flask from within the folds of his plaid. He reached for the flask, but to his dismay, Mrs. Murray snatched it away and took a long pull. She wiped her mouth and, without warning, poured whisky on his wound. He jerked to a sitting position and howled. The searing pain would not abate. It felt like being stabbed with a hot poker.
“Hold him down,” Mrs. Murray ordered.
Ian and Declan immediately pressed his shoulders to the ground. He inhaled, and his breath caught. The act of expanding his lungs only increased his agony. He was reduced to short, quick panting like some wounded beast. But he supposed that’s what he was. Lucy’s soft hand caressed his forehead, distracting him from his torment for a moment.
“Come here and help me, lass,” Mrs. Murray said. “Hold out your hands.” Alex turned his head to face his next torture. The old healer poured whisky on Lucy’s hands then emptied the rest of the whisky on her own. “Press his skin closed while I stitch him up.”
Lucy positioned herself on her knees at his side. “I’m sorry this hurts. Put your arm around me and hold on.”
He wrapped his arm around her slim hips. The pleasing sensation of her delicate fingers pressing against his side momentarily overrode the pain of the whisky eating at his wound like acid. Lucy kept her eyes locked with his, her brow deeply creased with concern. He was only vaguely aware of Mrs. Murray and her busy hands.
“Will you take me home after this?” Lucy asked.
Alex felt his heart seize up. “To England?”
“That’s not my home. Balforss is my home.”
Releasing a breath through gritted teeth, he smiled. “Yes.”
Her features smoothed, and the trace of a smile played with the corners of her mouth. All the reassurance he needed. She still wanted him.
Mrs. Murray was mercifully swift with her business. Lucy managed to shock Alex when she removed his dirk, lifted her skirt, and sliced away the bottom half of her shift for Mrs. Murray to use as a bandage.
Alex flashed a warning at his comrades. Ian cleared his throat and looked away. Declan, his cheeks flushed red, excused himself to go find the rest of their party, mumbling something about Laird John being anxious to learn of their success.
“You’re a braw laddie.” Mrs. Murray patted his chest. “You lay here and rest. I’ll take the lass inside for a wash.”
Lucy helped Mrs. Murray to her feet and followed her into the woman’s hovel.
“Help me up,” Alex said, lifting a hand.
“But she said—”
“Never mind what the old witch said. I cannae lay here another minute.”
“You’re in a rare state,” Ian said, steadying him.
The two wandered toward Mrs. Murray’s door and leaned against the outside wall. Alex surveyed the pitiful village of Helmsdale. A hundred or more people had taken residence on the rocky coast, just out of reach of high tide. A terrible gale could easily scour the beach and wash away all trace of Helmsdale. Crofters were, by virtue of their status, poor. The people of Helmsdale were dirt poor. Particularly disturbing were the haunted looks the hollow-cheeked children gave them. Alex wished he could do something.
As if reading his mind, Ian said, “You cannae save them all, brother.”
“Aye, but I can ease their suffering a little.”
“How?”
“Dinnae ken. I’ll think of something.”
A good while later, Mrs. Murray stepped out of her scrap heap of a home, followed by Lucy. She had fared remarkably well. All traces of the blackguard’s blood had been sponged away, and her clothing brushed out. Lucy’s hair was wet but combed and plaited in a gleaming queue that hung halfway down her back. Refreshed, smiling, and steady on her feet, Lucy embraced Mrs. Murray and thanked her.
Alex felt a swell of pride for Lucy. She had good manners—not the parlor room manners of a socialite, but the manners of a gentlewoman worthy of the title Lady Balforss. He pressed a sovereign into Mrs. Murray’s palm, then experienced a moment of confusion when she handed it back to him.
“Will you take my grandson?” She gestured to a boy of no more than ten years standing near the edge of the water, poking at the sand with a stick. “His ma and da are dead, and I willnae make it through this winter. He’ll have no one.”
He was an impossibly thin lad. Clothes, face, and bare shins covered in dirt. His coat must have been a cast-off from a much larger man, possibly his father. His filthy hair would, of course, be hopping with lice.
“He’ll work hard for you. I promise,” Mrs. Murray said.
Christ. What level of desperation would drive her to give away her grandson? “What’s his name?”
“Gilchrist. Gilchrist Murray. We call him Gil.”
Alex raised a hand and called to the boy. “Gil. Come here to me, lad.”
Gil immediately dropped his stick and ran toward Alex, tripping and stumbling along the way, his boots too big and lacking buckles.
“Aye, sir,” the boy said, out of breath.
“My name is Alex Sinclair of Balforss. This is my bride, Miss Lucy, and this man is my brother, Captain Ian Sinclair of His Majesty’s Highland Regiment.”
Gil remained silent, nodding to Lucy and Ian as they were introduced.
“Would you like to come work for me at Balforss? You’ll eat regular and have a warm place to sleep at night.”
His eyes lit up. Then he turned to his granny, and his face fell. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m needed here to take care of my gran.”
Alex thought his heart might break. For the second time that morning, he struggled to swallow a fist-sized lump in his throat. “We’ll be needing your gran to come work for us, as well.”
Gil beamed first at Alex, then at his grandmother. Lucy slipped her hand into Alex’s and squeezed, a warm, soft reassurance that he had done the right thing. He just hoped his father wouldn’t kick up too much of a fuss.
“God bless you, Laird Sinclair,” Mrs. Murray said.
He was about to correct her when her words hit him square in the chest like a battering ram. So, this was how his father felt when someone addressed him, choked with responsibility, strangled by duty, suffocated by the weight of people counting on him to make the right choice, to do the right thing. God, how did his da bear it?
Alex cleared his throat. “We’ll take Gil with us today and send a wagon back for you and your things later in the week, Mrs. Murray.”
“Come on, lad,” Ian said. “You’ll ride with me.”
They met Laird John and the others waiting at the side of the road, and Lucy fell into his father’s arms.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. It’s all my fault,” she repeated over and over.
Alex’s da patted Lucy on the back. “Wheesht now. None of this was your fault. You were duped by an evil man who used you to manipulate me. But he failed.” John turned to Alex. “Are you well enough to ride, son?”
“Aye. I’m fine. I’m going back for Patrick Sellar.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Don’t try to stop me, Da.”
“I ken you want to make him pay,” John said. “But we’ll let Sellar answer to the law. The Chief Magistrate will be delivering a warrant for his arrest.”
“He kidnapped my woman. You cannae deny me my revenge. It’s a matter of pride!”
“Stop!” Lucy shouted and came to him. “Alex, enough.” She twined her fists in his bloody sark. “Please listen to me. I know what pride has cost me. I let my pride take control and look what happened. Men are dead, Hercules is lost, and I almost—” She choked on a sob. Alex held her close to him, wanting to console her, ease her pain. She drew away. “I know the price of pride, and it is too great. I will not lose you because of it. I love you. If you love me, listen to your father. Don’t go back to Dunrobin.”
A moment ago, he would have cut his way through the gates of Dunrobin and flayed Sellar alive. A moment ago, nothing mattered to him but blood. Nothing would sate his appetite for vengeance but the death of Patrick Sellar. That was a moment ago. The moment before Lucy declared her love, a declaration that seemed like the hinge on which the door to Alex’s future opened. Now, in this moment, with the certainty of her affection shining down on his new world, Alex found the serenity for which he had prayed for so long. Suddenly the wisdom and restraint that came so easily to his father found its way into Alex’s breast like a second heart. Today he was a new man, the man who would one day be Laird of Balforss.
Something black and ugly lifted out of his chest, hung in the air for a moment, then drifted away on the wind. He felt weightless. As if he’d become untethered. As if he might float away. The only thing that kept him attached to the earth was the look in Lucy’s eyes, eyes shining with love, love for him.
“God, I love you, lass. I love you more than life. More than my own damn pride. I’ll leave Sellar to the law and surrender myself to you, if you’ll have me.”
Lucy flung her arms around his neck, and he covered her mouth with a kiss, a kiss he never wanted to end. Because if he could have her, if she would let him give himself to her, the devil could take the rest of it and he could bide in her love forever. A horse stomped impatiently, Ian sniffed, and Declan, blast him, snickered into his sleeve. Alex lifted his head and barked, “Will you three gomerils leave us the hell alone.”
Hercules nudged his head free of Magnus’s plaid, whining and writhing, desperate to get to his mistress. Lucy freed herself from Alex’s arms and walked trance-like toward Magnus as though she couldn’t believe her eyes. Alex thanked the Lord they’d found the beast. Maybe someday, Lucy would be as happy to see him as she was to see Hercules returned to her, unharmed.
Lucy held the dog and spoke to him like a baby. “Hush, mon cher. Je t’aime. Je t’aime.” She favored Magnus with a smile. “You found him. Thank you, Magnus.”
“Wasnae me. Thank Alex. It was he who saved your wee beastie.”
She turned her smile on him, the same smile the nine-year-old Lucy had given him when he’d retrieved her yellow ball from the pond. Beautiful then. Even more beautiful now.
“We found your bow case, as well,” Alex said.
Lucy’s smile crumpled. She came to him and pressed her face into his chest, a squirming Hercules trapped between their bodies. For the first time since her rescue, Lucy wept openly. He wrapped his arms around her slender shoulders, gently twisting back and forth in what he hoped was a comforting motion.
As if sensing Alex and Lucy needed a private moment, the men from Balforss mounted up and headed down the road at a leisurely pace.
They made the ten-hour journey back to Balforss, stopping only twice to rest and water the horses. His Lucy demonstrated courage and endurance like Alex had never witnessed in a woman. Although fearful of Goliath, she shared the saddle with Alex, never once complaining.
For the most part, she was quiet. There was much about her ordeal she wouldn’t discuss with others around. He hoped, when they finally got home, she would tell him everything. He needed to apologize for triggering the disaster, but he also needed to understand why she left. That she willingly went to meet the viscount troubled him still.
They were about an hour away from home—a hot meal, a hot bath, and a warm bed—when Lucy asked, “Did you kill Langley?”
“I dinnae think Langley was ever in Scotland, love. They used his name to lure you away from Balforss.”
“But the letters.”
“Forgeries.”
“Merde. I’m so stupid.”
“Not you. Me. I’m the clotheid. I let Elizabeth dupe me. I swear, I’ll make her pay for her part in this.”
“No, don’t. I’d rather you didn’t go near her again. Just leave that evil witch to her own miserable fate.”
“I ken it makes no difference, but I didnae want her to kiss me.”
Lucy squeezed his thigh. “I know.” After a long silence, she asked, “Is Liam dead?”
“Aye. Shot. When we found him, he was still alive. He told us you had been taken. That was all. My da made certain the bodies of Liam and the driver were returned to their homes. He sent one of the men back to Balforss to inform Sir Ranald of his son’s death.”
“I think he truly thought he was taking me to Langley,” she said. “I don’t think he meant me harm.”
“If you expect me to forgive him, you’re mad.”
“No.” After another pause, Lucy asked. “Do you forgive me?”
“For what?”
“For leaving Balforss with Liam.”
“It’s me that needs forgiveness, love.”
“Then I forgive you, if you forgive me.”
“Done.” He marveled at how easy it was for him to ask for forgiveness, how effortlessly she gave it. Was it because they weren’t facing each other eye to eye? He always had an easier time saying difficult things to Lucy when she wasn’t looking straight at him. Or maybe, just maybe, pride no longer stood between them.
“I’m not sorry you killed the men who tried to rape me. But I am sorry you killed the jailer.”
“I didnae kill the jailer. He was already out cold when we entered the passage.”
“Oh, good.”
“Why?” Why would she concern herself with the well-being of a man who kept her incarcerated in a windowless cell for two days?
“He was kind to me. The experience could have been worse, but he gave me a blanket and a candle. And he let me talk to him when I was lonely.” She twisted around in the saddle and asked, “Have you ever read the poem Lady of the Lake by Walter Scott?”
“Nae. Cannae say as I have.”
“It’s very good. I’ll write and ask Papa to send me his.”
Amazing how her mind seemed to hop from one unrelated thing to another. Jailers and poets. Pranks and princes.
A half hour later, Balforss came into view. Lucy exhaled on a sigh. “Home.”
“Do you ken what today is, love?” Alex asked, his lips touching the delicate shell of her ear.
She turned her cheek into his kiss. “No.”
“It’s our wedding day.”