Chapter Five
A tickling sensation brought Lucy to her senses, Hercules delicately licking her fingers. Her eyelids fluttered open. The heads of four worried-looking Scots hovered above her, blocking out the remaining sunlight.
“What?”
“It’s all right, lass. Everything is all right.”
She was lying on the grass, cradled in the tall Sinclair’s arms, head resting on his solid chest. He smelled of wool, dust, and man. She hadn’t been this warm and comfortable since she left Maidstone Hall.
Her rational mind made a halfhearted effort to cut through her foggy thoughts. He shouldn’t be touching her. It was thoroughly improper for him to hold her so intimately in public. What was more, he should not be calling her lass.
There was something else that bothered her about the tall Scot. Something he had done. Something very nasty— “Release me this instant.” Lucy struggled to her feet with considerable help from Alex.
“Are you sure, Miss FitzHarris? You’ve had a start,” Mr. Munro said.
“I can stand on my own now, if you please.” She looked pointedly at the hand Alex had wrapped around her shoulder in an all too possessive manner.
He let his hand drop and walked away, his head lowered.
Mr. Munro guided her to the wagon. She saw three bodies lying on the grass and averted her gaze.
“We cannae stay here. We’re moving on as far as the light will allow.” Mr. Munro helped her climb inside. “Will you be all right, miss?”
“I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine.”
Bumping and rocking along the road inside the wooden crate, Lucy shivered. Even with the blanket wound tightly around her shoulders, she was unable to get warm. She couldn’t stop thinking about the massacre she had witnessed. Three dead. Cut down violently. And Alex looking like a monster, all blood-spattered and wild-eyed.
That monster is the man you are to marry.
How could she? How could she marry such a savage man? She was meant to marry a gentleman. A man like Langley. A man of breeding and good manners. Alex had neither. He was a soldier. A man of blood and violence. She had seen him kill two men. He’d practically cut one of them in two, for heaven’s sake. All the Sinclair men, every one of them, were killers. Her father had delivered her into the hands of murderers.
“Papa, how could you make me marry such a beast?”
Lucy heard the duke’s answer as clearly as if he were sitting in the wagon across from her.
He saved your life, Sweetheart.
True. Alex had made an oath to serve and protect her. Acting on his oath, he had fought to save her life. Valiantly. Like any princely knight. Of course, the deed would be gruesome. One cannot kill without getting blood on one’s hands. She should be thankful.
An image of the man she had shot with her arrow came back to her, the blood spurting through his fingers, his face twisted into a frightening grimace of pain. Then his death face, blank and open-eyed. Oh God, had she been the instrument of that man’s death? Lucy curled up on the seat and closed her eyes tight.
Despite the frequent jolt and jump of the wagon, she slept.
The next time she woke, she was alone in the dark, in the pitch-black dark. Now still, the wooden wagon seemed like a coffin. Was she dead?
“Help.” Her call sounded like a wounded bird.
From a distance, a familiar male voice asked, “Are you all right, lass?”
She cleared her throat. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”
A moment later, a pale oval face floated in the opening of her wagon coffin. “Do you need to make water?”
Lucy gritted her teeth. She was not ready to be pleasant with this man. She had not yet forgiven him.
“Yes, actually,” she said stiffly.
Hercules hopped to the ground. A little unsteady on her feet, she allowed Alex to help her out of the wagon. When her eyes had adjusted to the dark, she looked around. Shadowy humped figures of sleeping men framed the dying embers of the campfire. Their camp was situated on a gentle slope of tall grass. Starlight illuminated a treeless expanse of moor in every direction. Never had Lucy been in a place so devoid of humans. As if they were the only people left on earth.
“This way.” Alex took her elbow then placed his other big paw on her back to guide her. The heat of his hand radiated all the way through her coat, gown, stays, and shift. “Just this way and you can have your privacy behind this patch of gorse. Be careful. It’s a prickly thing, gorse. I’ll wait for you over there. Call when you need me.”
After she’d finished, she made her own way back toward the light of the fire.
“Hercules?”
“I have him,” Alex said.
She hated Alex for playing such a nasty trick on her. She feared him for being a killer. Yet, she was drawn to him. She flushed at the memory of his body, solid but warm and so…male.
Merde. He will have no kind thoughts from me. Not until we’re even.
Getting even reminded Lucy of her brother and the advice he’d given her before she boarded the Arbroath. “Think of this as a great adventure, and value each moment, good and bad,” he’d said. Today had been no adventure. More like a nightmare. She failed to see any value in taking a life. The sickening image of the dying man flashed through her memory again, and she blinked hard.
“Are you hungry?” Alex asked. “I saved you a bannock.”
“What’s a bannock?”
“An oatcake. Here.”
He handed her a white square of linen. His handkerchief. Wrapped inside, she found a cold, hard wad of…well, no point in trying to examine the thing in this light. She took a bite and chewed the tasteless grainy mass, swallowed, choked, swallowed again, and managed to croak out, “Thank you.”
“Come and sit down. I’ll warm the tea for you.”
Alex led her to a spot near the fire where the men lay snoring, and he motioned for her to sit on a tartan. While she waited for him to organize the tea, she fed what was left of the oatcake in bits to Hercules. He wasn’t particular about the things he ate.
“Are you troubled by what happened this evening?” Alex asked.
“I’ve never shot anyone. Or any living thing.” She recalled how her arrow had entered the man’s chest and momentarily experienced what must have been the agony of the man’s last few seconds of life and winced.
“I took the man’s life. Not you,” he said, sounding grave.
A kind gesture. To take all the blame.
“Had you not stopped the blackguard with your arrow, he would have killed us both. There’s no sin in what you did.” She gazed up at him, the light of the dying fire shining in his eyes and his face, normally inscrutable, filled with tenderness.
Alex handed her a wooden cup of warm, sweet tea. He sat beside her on the tartan so close she could feel the heat of his body—a pleasant feeling. Why was she drawn to this tall tawny-colored Scot? He was most certainly a knave. Perhaps, it was his kindness or his easy manner or—
No. She wouldn’t let herself think that.
Too late. The thought had already taken root and blossomed in her brain. She was attracted to Alex because he was very handsome. A devilish voice inside Lucy’s head said, Be happy the tall Scot is your fiancé.
Lucy hadn’t let herself think about what lay before her beyond fulfilling her duty. At least she wouldn’t be marrying a doddering old man. Her friend Jemima had been forced to marry Lord Ellington, a decrepit old fool. She remembered Jemima walking down the church aisle looking like she was on her way to her execution. Poor girl. But Jemima had done her duty, and the marriage had salvaged her father’s estate from certain ruin. She sent a prayer up to heaven for Jemima, the friend she would never see again.
“Are you worried those men will return?” she asked.
“Nae,” he said. “And you mustn’t fret. I willnae let anyone harm you.”
“That’s right. Papa said you made an oath to protect me. Did your oath include playing juvenile tricks?”
“Lucy, I’m sorry. That’s not what I intended.”
His voice was soothing. Warm and smooth, like velvet. Nounou Phillipa used to say, La langue du diable est douce. The devil’s tongue is sweet.
Lucy reclaimed her anger. “I don’t want to hear your apologies. Come, Hercules.” She struggled to her feet. “We’ll take our tea alone.” She made a hasty retreat to the wagon, but the tall man followed on her heels.
“Lucy. Please. Won’t you let me explain?”
She whirled around. “Leave me,” she said, using her sternest voice. “I do not want to speak to you until we arrive at Balforss. Then I will decide if…” She was about to say, if I will marry you, but said instead, “…if I will forgive you.”
…
His eighth discovery: she was a prideful woman.
Alex spent the night seated on a rock on a brae above their camp, keeping watch. He tried to puzzle out why soldiers would disguise themselves and attack their party like common highwaymen, but he could make no sense of it. His mind was too preoccupied with worry over Lucy. More than anything, he wanted to comfort her. Every muscle in his body twitched with the need to take her in his arms, stroke her hair, and assure her she was safe. He would never let anyone harm her. Ever.
But, of course, he couldn’t. With his asinine plan to pass himself off as an anonymous soldier, he had angered the lass beyond reason. She wouldn’t let him near her.
Bloody, bloody hell.
And what would his father say? For he’d surely cocked this up, proving once again he wasn’t fit to take on the responsibility of managing Balforss. He simply didn’t have the temperament or the patience for being a laird. Not like his father, who always knew what to do, how to act, who to trust. Not like his younger brother, Ian, either, who never lost his temper. Ian was the one who should be laird. Not a hot-headed numpty like himself.
Jesus.
Fergus came to him at sunrise. “What bothers you, mac-peather?”
Alex smiled half-heartedly at his uncle’s use of the Gaelic for nephew. “I’ve done a terrible thing, Uncle. I dinnae ken how to make it right.”
“An apology is best, aye? Even if it comes late.”
“I tried to tell her I was sorry last night, but she wouldnae hear it.”
“She’s awake now. She’s had her breakfast. Perhaps she’ll be more agreeable with a full belly. I’ll tell her you wish to speak with her. Prepare yourself.” His uncle started back toward the camp.
“Uncle Fergus.” The older man paused to glance back at Alex. “Will you make sure she’s unarmed before you send her to me? I ken she’s a dangerous woman.”
His uncle lumbered away through the tall grass, chuckling to himself.
Alex watched the dumb show between his uncle and Lucy from his perch atop the brae. Lucy folding her arms across her chest. His uncle holding a bowl of porridge out. Lucy shaking her head. His uncle pointing up to Alex. Lucy jamming her fists on her hips, then accepting the bowl.
She seemed very angry, marching up the brae. He got to his feet. Perhaps he shouldn’t have asked her to come to him. Was this a mistake? Closer now, he could see the fury in her eyes. This was definitely a mistake. For an instant, she looked as if she had it in mind to throw the hot porridge in his face.
He reached out to take the bowl. “Thank you.”
She dumped his porridge on the ground, spun around, and started back down the brae.
Anger like he had never felt before practically lit his hair on fire. He lunged forward and grabbed Lucy by the arm whipping her around to face him.
“Look who’s being juvenile now,” he shouted.
“Get your hand off me.” Her outrage was sharp enough to cut his flesh.
He bared his teeth. His words came out low and threatening like a mongrel’s growl. “You’ll stop acting like a spoiled child and listen to my apology.”
Her eyes went wide—the same fearful expression when she’d seen him kill those men.
Oh Christ, she’s terrified of me.
Alex released her and turned away, his entire body vibrating, shaking, trying to rid itself of his anger. He couldn’t trust himself in this black mood. He might say something to make the situation worse, if that were possible. He heard no movement behind him, only her trembling breath. After a few agonizing seconds, the grass stirred as Lucy marched away.
His ninth discovery: she hated him.
…
Lucy avoided making eye contact with the other men when she returned to the camp. She didn’t want them to see how the exchange with Alex had shaken her. Once inside the safety of her wagon, Magnus handed Hercules through the window opening.
“Here’s your wee beastie, miss. Do you need anything?”
Finding it difficult to speak, she shook her head. There had been no humor in the man’s voice. No hint of amusement. In fact, no one was laughing this morning. Apparently, last night’s skirmish had quashed the hilarity of Alex’s little prank.
How dare Alex call her a spoiled child? After all she had endured, how dare he criticize her? She had tolerated bad manners, bad food, bad men, and a very bad joke. Then Mr. Munro had sent her to Alex with his breakfast like some maidservant. Of course she’d dumped his blasted porridge on the ground. How dare he act as if she was in the wrong? He was lucky she hadn’t flung the porridge in his face. Which was what he deserved.
She remembered the rough manner in which Alex had put his hands on her. She’d never been handled in such a fashion. Shocking. Frightening, too, but also…thrilling. She’d never provoked her father or brother so easily. What did it mean to be able to trigger such a fierce reaction from the tall Scot? She closed her eyes, recalling the look on his face, a wrathful Highlander, magnificent in his savage outrage.
Lucy leaned her flushed cheeks toward the window opening for a cool breeze. After a while, she eased back on the seat and contemplated her situation. Mr. Munro said they would make it to Balforss by late afternoon. Most likely she would meet Laird and Lady Sinclair, acquaint herself with the household staff, and suffer through supper with Alex present at the table. During all this, she would act as if nothing had happened. Alex would get no more satisfaction from vexing her.
She sighed. Tonight she would sleep in her own chamber. At least, Lucy hoped she would have a bedchamber. She wouldn’t be surprised if these savages all slept on the floor of one big room. And what would his people be like? Would they accept her? Respect her? Or, knowing her parentage, would they treat her shabbily?
“Huh.” Lucy laughed bitterly at her brother’s words of advice. “Value each moment, good and bad.” Not very likely.
They stopped to rest and water the horses. She relieved herself behind a thatch of prickly bushes. Gorse is what the tall Sinclair had called them—what Alex had called them, she corrected herself. She still had trouble reconciling the fact that the tall, tawny Scot was also the beast she would have to marry. And to think, she had even felt kindly toward him yesterday morning when they’d spoken before breakfast. Recalling their conversation rekindled her feelings of betrayal and resentment.
“Is he handsome, would you say,” she had asked.
“Dinnae ken,” he’d said. “He looks a lot like me.”
Scottish Bastard.
After seeing to Hercules’s needs, she remained in the wagon for the duration. Mr. Munro brought her some cheese, bread, and a cup of bitter tasting ale. The mood among the men was somber. No more laughter, no one speaking, save simple commands. She stole a glance at Alex sitting atop his mount, stone-faced and grim. He was troubled.
Good. Let him suffer.
She could, of course, demand to be returned to England, to Maidstone Hall. Surely, when her father learned of this appalling business, he would release her from her duty. He wouldn’t make her marry a wicked man like Alex Sinclair. But where would that get her? Tossed back into the viper pit that was London Society. Only this time, she would be twice failed at marriage. First with Langley, and second with a bloody Scot.
Hercules made fussy noises and rolled over in her lap, demanding a belly scratch. “Alex probably thinks I’ll forgive him just because he’s handsome. He’s not nearly as handsome as Lord Langley. He’s a gentleman. He’d never vex a woman. That beastly Scot has no notion how to treat a lady.”
Yesterday afternoon, though, Alex had exhibited the lethal grace of a warrior, and Lucy had found it awe-inspiring. Heroic even. He had terrified her, but frightening and bloody as the battle had been, she had been left with the overriding feeling of safety. She would be safe with Alex Sinclair. He would defend her with his life, she had no doubt. That had to count for something in this dangerous land. For all the viscount’s social graces, Lucy wondered how well he would have fared in last night’s deadly skirmish. Would Langley have been able to save her life? Did he even know how to use a sword?
On the last leg of their journey, she imagined several scenarios featuring Alex on his knees before her, begging for forgiveness. In one scenario, he lavished her with gifts, all of which she refused. When at last he presented her with a simple handful of daisies, her favorite flower, and told her he loved her, she forgave him, and let him kiss her.
In another scenario, Alex had to duel Langley for her hand. After a long sword fight in which both men were gravely wounded, she demanded that they stop. But both men declared they would rather die than live without her. In the end, Lucy told Langley to go home to his Virginia, then forgave Alex, and let him kiss her.
There was one in which Hercules was kidnapped, and Alex had to travel all the way to Italy to fetch him. In another, she was lost in a forest and attacked by wolves, but at the last minute, Alex saved her. After a while, Lucy realized that all her scenarios ended with her forgiving Alex and letting him kiss her. She supposed she would eventually forgive him, but not until he suffered humiliation equal to her own. Not until he got to his knees and humbled himself.
Magnus rode up beside the wagon, smiling. “Balforss up ahead, miss.”
She poked her head out of the side opening of the wagon, and her heart dropped to her stomach. Two small stone buildings with thatched roofs, looking more like something in which one would house livestock rather than people lay ahead.
“The other side, miss.”
She tried the opposite side of the wagon. To her relief, in the distance, stood a stately, three-story stone house with glass windows and a slate roof nestled in a grove of mature trees. Not as large as Maidstone Hall, but substantial nonetheless. The sight of the lovely home served to allay some of her fears about accommodations. Life at Balforss might be tolerable, after all.
“Look, Hercules.” Lucy held the dog up to the opening. “Balforss. Our new home.” She stifled the thrill she felt upon seeing Balforss and rearranged her composure into that of righteous indignation. Alex had wronged her, and he would not be easily forgiven. Although, if she were honest—really honest with herself—a twinge of happiness that the tall, handsome, tawny-colored Scot was indeed the man she would marry, tickled her heart.