The Lady and the Laird

Lucy took a deep breath. Her father was indulgent toward her and she was certain that he would never force her to wed against her will. Seven years ago he had been so anxious for her to marry, straight from the schoolroom, as though in doing so she might wipe out the horrific memory of Alice’s fall from grace, her shame, her death. Now, though, the duke had fallen into a scholastic melancholy and locked himself away most of the time with his books.

Lady Kenton straightened suddenly in her rout chair. She touched Lucy’s arm. “I do believe Lord Methven is going to ask you to dance.” She sounded excited. “How singular. He has not danced all evening.”

“Perhaps he felt it was inappropriate when his bride has run off,” Lucy said. Her throat was suddenly dry and her heart felt as though it was about to leap into her throat as Methven’s tall figure cut through the crowd toward her. There was something about his approach that definitely suggested unfinished business. He did not want to dance. She was certain of it. He wanted to question her about the love letters just as he had threatened to do.

A man superimposed himself between Lucy and Robert Methven, blocking her view.

“Cousin Lucy.”

A shiver of a completely different sort touched Lucy’s spine. She had no desire at all to dance with Wilfred. He was bowing in front of her with what he no doubt fondly hoped was London style, all frothing lace at his neck and cuffs, with diamonds on his fingers and in the folds of his cravat. Lucy thought he looked like an overstuffed turkey. He had evidently been drinking freely, for he smelled of brandy, and he had flakes of snuff dusting the lapels of his jacket.

Wilfred’s smile was pure vulpine greeting, showing uneven yellow teeth and with a very predatory gleam in his eye.

“Dearest coz.” He took her hand, brushing the back of it with his lips. “Did I tell you how divine you are looking today? Will you honor me with your hand in the strathspey?”

Lucy could think of little she would like less, but everyone was looking at her and Lady Kenton was making little encouraging shooing motions with her hands toward the dance floor. Besides, she could use Wilfred as a shield against Lord Methven. He was definitely the lesser of two evils.

After twenty minutes she was reconsidering her opinion. Throughout the long, slow and stately dance, Wilfred kept up a dismaying flow of chatter that seemed to presume on a closer relationship between them than the one that existed. Yes, they were distant cousins and had known each other since childhood, but there had never been anything remotely romantic in their relationship. Now, however, Wilfred lost no opportunity to whisper in Lucy’s ear how divine she was looking—simply divine—over and over again until she could have screamed. He squeezed her fingers meaningfully and allowed his hand to linger on her arm or in the small of her back in a most unpleasant proprietary manner. She was at a loss to explain the extraordinary change in his behavior. He had always been obsequious, but never before had he given the impression that there was some sort of understanding between them.

“Dearest coz,” he said when the dance had at last wound its way to the end, “I do hope we may spend so much more time in each other’s company from now on.”

Lucy could think of little that she would like less, and she was beginning to suspect that it was her fortune Wilfred wanted to spend more time with. The rumor was that his pockets were to let, and her father had commented over breakfast only a few days before that he expected Cardross to make a rich match, and soon, to mollify his creditors. Lucy had not expected that she would be that rich match, however.

“It would be no bad thing for you to wed your cousin Wilfred,” Lady Kenton said, after Lucy had turned down Wilfred’s request for another dance and he had rather sulkily escorted her back to her chaperone. “He is a most suitable match and it would strengthen the ties between your two families. I will mention it to your papa.”

“Please do not, Aunt Emily,” Lucy said. “I cannot bear Wilfred. In fact, I very nearly hate him.”

Lady Kenton did not reply, but Lucy felt a chill in the air, a chill that implied that beggars could not afford to be choosers. No more gentlemen came to ask her to dance. Time ticked by. A reel followed the strathspey, then another set of country dances. After a half hour she could feel the dagger-sharp glances of the other girls and sense the covert triumph of their chaperones. She might be pretty, she might be a duke’s daughter and an heiress, but no one wanted to dance with her. Robert Methven had vanished again. Lucy knew she should have felt reassured, but instead she felt tense and tired, desperate to retire to the inn at Glendale where they were staying the night before returning to Edinburgh.

She stood up. “Excuse me for a moment, ma’am,” she said to Lady Kenton. “I must have a word with Lord Dalrymple. He will be speaking on the topic of political economy in Edinburgh in a couple of weeks, and I have promised to attend the lecture.”

Lady Kenton sighed heavily. “Well, do not let anyone hear you discussing it, my dear, or your reputation may be damaged. You know that I encourage your studies, but not everyone admires a bluestocking.”

After Lucy had spoken to Lord Dalrymple, she slipped away to the room set aside for the ladies to withdraw. It was empty but for a maid yawning on an upright chair. Lucy washed her hands and face, frowning at her wan expression in the pier glass. No wonder she frightened the dance partners away.

As she came out of the room, she saw Robert Methven’s tall figure striding across the hall, deep in conversation with the handsome man who had stood as his groomsman. Lucy froze, drawing back into the shadows behind a huge medieval suit of armor. Although she was sure she had made no sound, she saw Methven’s head come up. His blue gaze swept the hall and came to rest unerringly on the spot where she was hiding. Lucy saw him exchange a quick word with the other man before he started to move toward her as purposefully as he had done in the church.

Panic gripped Lucy. She did not stop to think. She groped behind her for the handle on the first door she came to and tumbled backward through it. It was a service corridor of some sort, stone floored and dimly lit. She was halfway along it and regretting her impulsive attempt to escape when she heard the stealthy sound of the door at the end opening and shutting again. Robert Methven was behind her. She was certain it was he. Now there was no way back.

She scurried along, her slippers pattering on the floor. Behind her she could hear the measured tread of Methven’s boots. Her heart raced too, an unsteady beat that only served to fuel her panic. It was too late now to turn and face him. She felt foolish for running away and gripped by hot embarrassment, awkward and nervous. She could have brazened it out before; now it was impossible.

The corridor turned an abrupt corner and for one terrible moment Lucy thought she was trapped down a dead end before she saw the small spiral stair in the corner. She wrenched the door open and shot up the steps like a squirrel up a tree trunk, panting, round and round and up and up, until the stair ended in a studded wooden door. It was locked. Lucy almost sprained her wrist turning the huge heavy iron key and ran out onto the castle battlements.

The wind caught her as soon as she stepped outside, tugging at her hair, setting her shivering in her thin silk gown. Darkness had fallen and the sky was clear, the moon bright. Any heat there had been in the day had gone. It was only April and the brisk breeze had a chill edge.

Lucy hurried along the battlement walk to the door in the opposite turret. She turned the handle. The door remained obstinately closed. She pulled hard. It did not budge. Locked. She realized that the key must be on the inside just as it had been on the door she had come through.

She spun around. She could see Methven’s silhouette moving toward her along the battlements. He was not moving quickly, but there was something about him, something about the absolute predatory certainty of a man who had his target in his sights. Lucy pressed her palms hard against the cold oak of the door—and almost fell over as it opened abruptly and she stumbled inside. Down the stairs, along the maze of shadowy corridors with the flickering torchlight, back through the door into the great hall, running, panting now, her heart pounding...

She paused for breath behind the spread of a large arrangement of ferns, leaning one hand against the cold hard flank of the suit of armor for support as her breathing steadied and her heartbeat started to slow down. Five minutes of chasing around Brodrie Castle, but at least she had shaken off Robert Methven.

“It’s a cold night for a stroll on the battlements, Lady Lucy.”

Lucy spun around. The suit of armor clattered as she jumped almost out of her skin.

Methven was standing directly behind her, a look of sardonic amusement on his face.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Lucy said.

In silence he held out his hand. Nestling on his palm were several of her pearl-headed hairpins.

“Oh!” Lucy’s hand went to tuck the wayward strands of hair back behind her ears. She had not realized the wind had done quite so much damage. “Thank you,” she said. “I... Yes, I...I was out on the battlements. I have always been interested in fifteenth-century architecture.”

“A curious time to pursue your hobby,” Methven said. “If only I had known, I could have arranged a tour for you. In the daylight.” He shifted. “And there was I, thinking you were out there because you were running away from me.”

“I wasn’t—” Lucy started to deny it, saw the amused cynicism deepen in his eyes as he waited for her to lie and stopped abruptly.

“All right,” she said crossly. “I was running away from you.”

“That’s better,” Methven said. “Why?”

“Because I don’t like you,” Lucy said, “and I did not wish to speak with you.”

Methven laughed. “Much better,” he approved. “Who knew you possessed the gift of such plain speaking?”

“Generally I try to be polite rather than hurtfully blunt,” Lucy said.

“Well, don’t bother with me,” Methven said. “I prefer frankness.”

“I cannot imagine that we shall have much opportunity for conversation of any sort,” Lucy said frigidly, “frank or otherwise.”

“Then you are not as intelligent as you are given credit for,” Methven said. “We start now.”

He put out a hand as though to take her arm, but in that moment a slightly shambolic figure stumbled toward them, almost upsetting the suit of armor.

“Lady Lucy! How splendid!”

A flicker of annoyance crossed Methven’s face at the interruption. Lucy recognized Lord Prestonpans, one of Lachlan’s ne’er-do-well friends. Prestonpans looked more than a little the worse for wear; his color was high, his fair hair rumpled and a distinct smell of alcohol hung about his person. He leaned confidingly toward Lucy, and she drew back sharply, trying to edge away.

“Been looking for you the entire evening, ma’am,” he said. “Need your help. Need you to write one of your letters for me.”

Lucy went very still. She could feel Robert Methven’s gaze riveted on her face in polite and amused inquiry.

“One of your letters?” he repeated gently.

Disaster. Lucy felt cold all over. How could she silence Prestonpans or steer him away from danger? How could she keep Methven from overhearing? She could feel cool sweat prickling her back, could feel her whole reputation unraveling.

“Of course, my lord,” she said quickly, taking Lord Prestonpans’s arm to draw him away. “A letter to the Lord Advocate? I would be delighted to help. Come and see me next week in Edinburgh.”

She smiled at him and started to walk away, hoping that Prestonpans would take the hint, but he did not. Instead he followed, nipping at her heels like a terrier. Lucy sped up, heading for the ballroom door. Prestonpans galloped after her, raising his voice with disastrous clarity.

“Not one of your legal letters,” Prestonpans bellowed. He was trying to keep up with her, slipping slightly on the highly polished floor. “One of y’r other sorts of letters. Your brother told me you write special letters, emotic—” he slurred “—erotic ones—”

“You must excuse me, my lord.” Lucy spoke quickly and loudly, trying to drown him out, desperately hoping that Robert Methven had not heard his last words, despite the fact that they had echoed to the rafters. “My chaperone will be wondering where I am—”

“I’ll call on you!” Prestonpans said, waving gaily as he staggered away toward the refreshment room. “I’ll pay good money!”

There was a long silence. Lucy was aware of nothing but the thunder of her heartbeat in her ears and the tightening of her nerves as Robert Methven walked slowly toward her. He let the silence between them spin out. And then:

“Erotic letters?” he queried in the same deceptively gentle tone.

“You misheard,” Lucy said desperately. “Lord Prestonpans said exotic letters. Unusual letters, written in...”

“Green ink?” Methven suggested. “That would be exotic.”

Green ink. Lucy remembered recommending to Lachlan that he copy out the letters to Dulcibella in green ink to make them look more romantic.

“Or perhaps,” Methven continued, “Lord Prestonpans meant letters written in exotic language? Poetic letters, love letters...” His expression was impassive as he waited politely for the next lie she would spin. Through the half-open door of the ballroom, Lucy could see another set of Scottish country dances forming. The orchestra was tuning up. People brushed past them to take their places on the floor. It felt like another world and one she would not be rejoining anytime soon, especially not since Robert Methven had put out a hand and taken her arm, not too tightly but certainly in a grip she could not have broken without making a scene.

“I think it’s about time you and I had a proper talk,” Methven said.

“We cannot talk here,” Lucy said. She pinned a special smile on her face to ward off the curious looks of passing guests. Beneath the pretense her heart was hammering. There was only one thing worse than Robert Methven knowing of her letter-writing skills and that was everyone knowing. She would be utterly ruined, perfect Lady Lucy MacMorlan who was not so perfect after all.

“Then we’ll go somewhere else,” Methven said. “At your convenience,” he added, and it was not an invitation but a command.

Lucy’s throat felt dry. “It would be most improper to be alone with you—” she started to say, but his laughter cut her off.

“You write erotic love poetry, Lady Lucy, and yet you think it would be inappropriate to be alone with me? You have a strange sense of what constitutes proper behavior.”

He was steering Lucy toward one of the doors leading from the great hall. Lucy tried to resist, but her slippers slid across the polished wood as though it were ice. She tried to dig her heels in, but there was nothing to dig them into.

“I could carry you,” Methven said, on an undertone, “if you prefer.” There was a dark, wicked thread of amusement in his voice now.

“No,” Lucy said. She grabbed some shreds of composure. She must not let him see how nervous she was. “Thank you,” she said, “but I have always considered carrying to be overrated.”

Her mind scrambled back and forth over various possibilities. She had to get away. Perhaps she could tell him she needed to visit the ladies’ withdrawing room and then climb out of the window and take a carriage back to the inn....

“Don’t even think about running away again,” Methven said, making her jump by the accuracy with which he had read her mind. He sounded grim. “We can run around the battlements as much as you please, but in the end the outcome will be the same.”

Damn. There really was no escape. She was going to have to confront him, try to explain about the letters and beg for his silence. Lucy was frankly terrified at the thought. Robert Methven did not strike her as the understanding type.

“Take my arm if you do not wish to make a scene,” Methven said. “We can talk in the library. Lord Brodrie never goes there. I don’t believe he has opened a book in his life.”

Lucy hesitated, her hand hovering an inch above his sleeve. She did not want to touch him at all. It felt as though it would be dangerous to do so, but at the same time she was annoyed with herself for being so aware of him. Her face burning, she rested her hand very lightly on his proffered arm, too lightly to feel the muscle beneath his jacket. She maintained sufficient distance from him that their bodies did not touch at all. There was no brushing of her skirts against his leg or her hair against his shoulder. Yet despite her perfect regard for physical distance, it was as though there were a current running between them, deep and dark and turbulent. She wanted to ignore it, but she could not. She could not ignore him.

He ushered her into the library. Evidently he knew his way around Brodrie Castle, no doubt from the time of his courtship of Dulcibella—a courtship she had so skillfully sabotaged.

Lucy’s heart sank lower than her silk slippers. No, he was not going to be sympathetic. It did not take any great intellectual deduction to work that out. She had helped to ruin his betrothal and with it whatever plans he had had to secure his inheritance. He would not be in a forgiving mood.

Methven closed the door behind them. It shut with the softest of clicks, cutting off the distant sounds of the ball, the voices and the music, and cocooning them in a sudden silence that made Lucy’s awareness of him all the more acute. He moved closer to her; she could hear his breath above the hiss and spit of the fire in the grate. She could catch the faint scent of his cologne above the pine from the logs that smoldered in the hearth.

“It was you who wrote the letters your brother used to seduce Miss Brodrie away from me,” Methven said. Then, when Lucy did not answer: “Well?”

The sharpness of his tone made Lucy jump.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was not aware that it was a question.” She paused, took a deep breath. “Yes,” she said. “I did write them. I wrote Lachlan’s letters.”

CHAPTER FOUR

LUCY SAW SATISFACTION ease into Methven’s eyes at her admission of guilt. Her heart was beating hard and fast now. She wondered if she looked as scared as she felt. She would be the talk of Edinburgh for months. Lucy’s stomach clenched. She hated the thought of being a byword for scandal.

But he would not betray her. Surely he would not. No gentleman would betray a lady’s trust.

“Do you know what you have done?” Methven asked. His gaze was fixed on her and she could feel the anger in him, held under the tightest control but nevertheless a hot thread beneath his words. “Do you understand the consequences of your actions, Lady Lucy?” The contempt in his blue eyes was blistering. “You have destroyed my betrothal.”

“Well,” Lucy corrected, “that is not strictly accurate. Dulcibella destroyed your betrothal in running off with Lachlan. I did not make her elope. It was her choice. Perhaps,” she added, “she did not want to wed you.”

Methven looked supremely unimpressed by her logic. He brought his hand down so hard on the flat top of the mantel that Lucy flinched.

“Will you accept no responsibility?” he demanded. “Do you consider yourself blameless?”

“I wrote the letters,” Lucy said steadily. “I do take responsibility for that.” She was aware that her words were hardly conciliatory, that she was hardly going in the right direction to appease him. When she had set out to justify herself, she had not intended to provoke him, but there was something about Robert Methven that got under her skin.

“Why?” He growled the word at her, his eyes impossibly blue, impossibly angry. “Why did you do it?”

“I did it because Lachlan paid me,” Lucy said defiantly.

She saw Methven’s eyes widen in surprise.

“So you did it for the money?” he said, and the contempt in his tone was like a whip.

“You make me sound like a courtesan,” Lucy complained. “It wasn’t like that.”

Methven smiled suddenly. Lucy noticed the way the smile ran a crease down one of his lean, tanned cheeks and deepened the lines that fanned out from the corners of his eyes. She felt a sudden sweet, sliding feeling in her stomach and trembled a little. “In your own way you are for sale,” he pointed out gently. “I beg your pardon, but I think it is exactly like that.”

Lucy said nothing. She certainly was not going to tell a man so cynical that the money from the letters had gone to charity. That would come too close, expose too much of what really mattered to her. She could not discuss it, not even to exonerate herself. She never spoke of Alice. It was too painful. Besides, Robert Methven would only laugh at her. And probably disbelieve her.

“I have no money,” she said. “I need to earn it.”

“You are an heiress,” Methven said.

“The definition of an heiress,” Lucy said, “is someone who will inherit money, not someone who currently possesses it. An heiress could be penniless.”

“A nice justification,” Methven conceded, “but still no excuse.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I thought you might claim to have helped him because you believe in love.”

A chill settled in Lucy’s blood. “I have no time for love,” she said.

His eyes searched her face. “Then we have something in common.” A bitter smile twisted the corner of his mouth. “I loved what Miss Brodrie would have brought me, though.” He sighed, straightened. “Did you know that your cousin Wilfred Cardross and I are involved in a legal battle?” His tone was conversational, but the look in his eyes was very acute and suddenly Lucy had the feeling that the answer to this mattered far more than anything that had gone before.

“Yes,” she said truthfully, and saw the scorn and dislike sweep back into his eyes.

“So you did it to help your cousin too,” Methven said. “You wanted to help him cheat me of my patrimony.” He turned away from her. The line of his shoulders and back, his entire stance, was rigid with repressed fury, yet Lucy sensed something else in him: a frustration, a powerful protective spirit that was somehow thwarted as though there was something he longed for yet could not gain. She felt it so instinctively that she reached out a hand to touch him, then realized what she was doing and let her hand fall.

“You mistake me,” she said, and her voice was a little husky. “I did nothing to help my cousin Wilfred. I would not give him the time of day, let alone my assistance. If what I have done in any way was to his benefit, then I am sorry.”

Methven turned sharply and caught her by the shoulders, his touch burning her through the evening gown. “Is that true?” he demanded. There was a blaze of heat in his eyes that made her shiver. He felt it and released her, his hands falling away.

“You were dancing with him earlier,” he said, and his tone was cool now, as though that flash of heat had never been.

“Not for pleasure,” Lucy said. “I cannot bear him. Ever since we were children—” She stopped. Childhood reminiscences were probably out of place here.

Methven’s gaze searched her face as probing as a physical touch. “So you really do not know,” he said. His voice was flat. “You have done Cardross the greatest service imaginable in breaking my betrothal and you did not know.”

Apprehension slid down Lucy’s spine. “I don’t understand,” she whispered.

Methven did not answer immediately. Instead he walked over to the table and poured two glasses of wine from the decanter. He passed her a glass; their fingers brushed, distracting Lucy momentarily. She realized that he was gesturing her to sit. She took a battered-looking velvet armchair. Methven sat opposite, resting his elbows on his knees, leaning forward, his glass cradled in his hands.

“Wilfred Cardross and I are involved in a dispute over clan lands,” he said. “It goes back centuries to the time of King James the Fourth.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “You know that the Methvens and the Cardrosses have always been enemies?”