Chapter Eighteen
“What are you doing, Mal?”
It was late afternoon. Mal sat at the little round table in the schoolmaster’s cottage. There was also a bed, a washstand, pots and pans hanging over the hearth, windows with glass panes instead of empty recesses, and a wooden floor instead of a dirt one.
It wasn’t all that bad a place, considering.
Lachlan was perched on the corner of the bed. Mal had a sheet of foolscap in front of him, and he scribbled some notes about the next lesson.
“I’m working.”
Lachlan lifted an eyebrow. “I mean, what are you doing here?”
That was a very good question.
He had his answers. Well, he had most of his answers—he knew who she was, he knew why she’d done what she’d done. There were some things he’d probably never know, but he knew the important things. And he didn’t exactly trust her, perhaps, but he believed her about the music box. He remembered how carefully she’d held it, with a kind of gentle reverence he didn’t think even the most skilled actress could fake.
So she’d had a reason. A good one, maybe.
If someone had stolen his fiddle, he would have tried to get it back, too. There was no question that he wouldn’t have sat idly by.
Which meant she wasn’t some bored, spoiled brat, simply looking for adventure and not caring about whom she hurt along the way. But it still didn’t mean she was good for him.
“Are you planning something?”
Right now, all he was planning was a list of English words for the two Gaelic speakers to practice.
But he should be planning something. He was at Llynmore. The Townsends—well, everyone except Georgina—trusted him. He could slip into the castle and rob them blind. His fingers itched just thinking of the silver and crystal and porcelain, the wall hangings, the antique tapestries. All of that money at his fingertips. He could put it to good use.
He could finally make enough for his men to have a future.
Housebreaking wasn’t usually Mal’s style. He didn’t like being closed in. He preferred open spaces, places where he couldn’t be trapped. But sheep were out of the question for the time being, and Llynmore was sitting there like a ripe Christmas goose.
So what the hell was he doing taking notes?
He put the pencil down. “I’ll think of something.” It shouldn’t be too difficult to get in there, steal some things, and get out.
And once he did, he could finally leave these last few weeks behind. He could turn the pages, like a chapter in a book, and forget all about Georgina Townsend and the havoc she’d wreaked on his heart.
Lachlan cocked his head, looking skeptical.
“What?”
“That didna sound very enthusiastic. Are you…” He hesitated, like he couldn’t even wrap his mind around the possibility of what he was going to say next. “Are you settling down, Mal?”
“No,” he said. Lachlan was still peering at him. “No. If I was, I couldn’t do it here anyway. Eventually they’d find out I’m not Rochester.” Which was the least of his concerns. “And who do you think I am—Malcolm Stewart working for a lord? I’d shoot myself first.”
If he settled down only to be employed by an aristocrat, the last year would have meant nothing. His mother’s and sisters’ deaths would have meant nothing.
He couldn’t let that happen.
He stared down at his list of words.
It seemed a shame to make his students suffer because he chafed at the idea of working for a lord, though. They were Highlanders. They were the future of this place, no matter how bleak the future looked. And they were already behind on their studies.
He could stay another few days to make sure they were on the right path. The real Mr. Rochester didn’t seem to have any inclination to appear, and if he did…Mal was used to hasty exits. He wasn’t too worried that he could leave quickly if the tardy Mr. Rochester did deign to make an appearance.
The thought that staying a few days longer meant he didn’t have to say goodbye to Georgina just yet drifted through his mind and then was pushed out again, violently.
“Is she different here?”
Mal didn’t have to ask who Lachlan was talking about. They were all a little bit in love with her.
“She’s different in some ways.” He thought of the silver combs in her hair, that star-spangled blue dress, how she’d sat at the piano, spine straight and regal, exuding a confident coolness that glittered like ice.
But then, she’d always been confident. And even in camp she could be a little cool, at times.
Maybe she wasn’t that different. Maybe all of the trappings around her had changed his perception.
But that was more difficult to contemplate.
“I can’t believe her name is Georgina,” Mal said after a moment, shaking his head. “After the mad king himself.”
“Aye.” Lachlan nodded solemnly. He pushed up from the bed. “We’re all getting a little restless, waiting for you. Let me know when you’ve come up with a plan.”
Lachlan let himself out, and Mal picked up his pencil and tapped it on the desk a few times, thoughtfully.
He would get back to the business of thieving soon.
He would.
Right now, though, he had a lesson to finish.
…
That night, they invited him for tea again, and this time Mal slung his fiddle case across his back. It was a sudden urge, startling in its strength. He wanted to play with Georgina. He wanted see her cast off her inhibitions and lose herself to the music.
One last time.
When Lady Arden and Mrs. Blair saw the instrument, they both seemed delighted, and Mrs. Blair surprised him by taking it when it was offered and playing a few notes from a song. She shook out her hand when she was done, smiling.
“I’m several years out of practice.”
He learned she’d been an actress and had picked up a few songs from one of her fellow actors…as well as some other things, if her wistful tone was any indication.
When Georgina came into the library and saw the fiddle, she stilled.
Mal stilled for an entirely different reason.
Tonight Georgina wore a red velvet dress with a deep-cut neckline. A ruby pendant dangled from a gold chain around her throat, glistening like a drop of blood.
The other night she’d been stars and ice—now she was fire and heat and desire.
He might have taken her for someone who favored bold colors, but he wouldn’t have taken her as the sort to wear silks and velvets. A week or two ago, he would have laughed if someone had even suggested she’d owned silks or velvets. But she was like a butterfly, changing whenever change was required. At ease wherever she went.
He envied her, he realized. He’d never been able to accept change quite so gracefully. No, when change came to the Highlanders, they railed against it, because, whether it was called progress or destruction, they knew whom it would help and whom it would hurt.
He also envied the fabric that hugged her form. He wondered what the velvet felt like against her skin. Wondered if she enjoyed the way it slid against her legs as she walked toward him.
“Are you going to play for us?” she asked.
He glanced toward the corner of the room, where her cittern rested, tucked in its leather case. “Only if you play with me.”
Her brother was scowling from his spot near the hearth. Though Mal wasn’t sure if it was because they were talking privately or because of his sister’s dress. Possibly, it was both.
“On the cittern,” he added. “Not that monstrous excuse for an instrument.”
She frowned slightly. “The pianoforte is very highly regarded,” she said, a little haughtily.
“I’ve no use for something I can’t carry. Anyway, you’re better on the cittern. You’re too stiff at the piano.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll show you stiff,” she muttered.
“Then you’ll play?”
“I’ll play,” she said, challenge in her eyes.
He very nearly smiled. This was the woman he’d missed.
She went to retrieve the instrument, then took up a spot on the sofa, resting the side of the cittern against her lap. Mal sat beside her, the cool wood of the fiddle pressed against his jaw. He let his fingers trace along the horsehair ribbon of the bow, calmed by the smooth, familiar feel of it.
“I suppose I’ll let you pick,” he said, trying not to sound too smug.
They were different in too many ways, but they were so alike in others. She felt the siren call of the music as strongly as he did. He’d known she wouldn’t say no.
She tilted her head, the shadow of a smile on her face. “Do you know this one? It would probably be better on the piano, but I’m willing to try.” She plucked the first few notes, let them drift across the room and then go quiet, and he almost instantly recognized the tune.
“‘Silent, Oh Moyle’?” Another one of Moore’s downtrodden ballads. That man was like rain and clouds and children’s tears, all rolled into one.
She nodded.
He sighed. “If we must.”
But he didn’t really care what they played. He preferred upbeat songs, but for now, he just wanted to play with Georgina beside him. With the music reverberating through both their bodies, like a string that connected them.
For now, he wanted to pretend that she wasn’t Georgina Townsend, wasn’t the sister of an earl, wasn’t the woman who’d come into his life and turned everything upside down and then left. She was just a woman who loved music as much as he did.
He moved the bow across the strings in the first sweeping notes of the song.
Georgina came in a bit later, and it took Mal a moment to realize she was whispering the words, very softly, almost inaudibly. Her family wouldn’t be able to hear it.
But Mal could hear it. He leaned closer. She startled slightly. Their eyes met, but she didn’t look away. She just kept singing under her breath, as if she sang only to him, as if she sang for him.
Or maybe Mal only wanted her to.
It was a short, sad song; all too soon it was done, and Mal straightened as the Townsends clapped.
“You’re both so talented!” Lady Arden exclaimed. “Aren’t they talented?”
Mrs. Blair agreed. Lord Arden made a noncommittal noise.
“You play together so beautifully.” She cocked her head, considering. “You both play off the other…if that makes sense. It’s almost like your souls speak to each other.”
Lord Arden looked balefully at his wife. “Or perhaps they’re both well practiced.”
“If you want to be entirely unpoetic about it.”
Mrs. Blair stifled a laugh. “We know poetry isn’t Lord Arden’s strong suit.”
Lord Arden rolled his eyes, as if he was the only sane one among them. It was an expression Mal had seen on Georgina’s face before. In that instant, they looked very much like each other. It was a little jarring, the resemblance between the woman he’d thought he’d known and a man who owned no small portion of Scotland.
“Shall we play another?”
“Aye, lass.” That earned him a sharp glance from Lord Arden, but he ignored it. What was he going to do, dismiss Mal for impertinence from a job that wasn’t even his?
He met Georgina’s eyes again, pale above her red dress. Everything about her was bold—her impulses, her attitude, the tilt of her chin, the directness of her gaze. Even the slate gray of her eyes was striking, made starker by her dark hair and richly colored gown.
She began to play, still watching him as her hand moved deftly over the strings. And like a mortal caught by a fairy’s song, little by little, he fell, inexorably, under her spell.