Julia London - [Scandalous 02] (8 page)

“No’ a perfect fit, I’ll grant you,” he said, “but it seems more comfortable than the alternative, aye?” In two casual strides, he closed the distance between them.

His gaze wandered down her frame, his body seemingly as tense as Lizzie felt. He was standing too close, too
close
—she drew a startled breath when he laid his hand on her waist.

Jack looked up, his eyes the deepest gray color of a winter sky. But the cool color belied the heat she saw in them. “I—I need a belt,” she stammered.

He slid his hand around to her back and pushed her forward, closer to him, but Lizzie resisted. “What are you doing?”

He did not answer at first but continued to look at her with that thing burning in his eyes. “Determining the size of your waist,” he said tightly.

She cocked a brow.

“You need a belt,” he reminded her as he continued to caress her waist with his hand.

“Anything will do,” she said quickly, trying hard to ignore the feel of his hand on her waist. “A neckcloth, a piece of twine. Something, for I fear they might fall.”

“Ah. We canna have that, can we?” he asked in a manner that suggested they could have precisely that. He reached behind her at the same moment Lizzie tried to lean away from him. He caught her with his arm, locking it around her waist, and held up the sash from the bed curtain. “Will this do?”

Lizzie grabbed for it, but he yanked it out of her reach. When she turned back to him, her gaze landed on his mouth, and for a moment, one long, terrifyingly hopeful moment, she thought he would kiss her, would press his mouth to hers, would put his hands on her skin.

Before she could want it, before she could do something that she would regret the rest of her life, Lizzie grabbed the sash. But he was quick, and rolled it up in his fist, so that their fingers tangled for an electrifying moment.

Lizzie’s heart was skipping wildly about in her chest.
“Let go,”
she whispered.

Jack smiled like a wolf and deliberately let the sash go,
holding it loosely in his hand as she yanked it free. She whirled away from him, gulped for air at the same time she lifted the shirt a bit and threaded the sash around the waist of the trousers and belted them to her. She knotted the hem of the lawn shirt just below her waist and turned round, her hands on her hips.

Jack had seated himself and was sipping wine. He gestured to the chair across from him. With a pointedly wary look at him, Lizzie took the chair. He watched her pull one leg up to her chest and roll up the leg of his trousers, then the other. When she’d finished, she sat with her legs crossed, her arms folded self-consciously around her. “You’re staring.”

“No’ at all,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m…admiring.” He poured wine and slid it across the table to her. “I will insist that Dougal return your gown on the morrow.”

The very thought of another day spent in this circus sobered her. “On the morrow,” Lizzie repeated with a weary sigh. “I donna think I can bear the morrow.”

Jack absently fingered the stem of his wineglass as he studied her. “I can no’ begin to guess why your uncle has gone to such lengths, but you’ve endured quite a lot of ill treatment at his hand. Why would he do this to you?”

If only she knew. Certainly Carson did not care for the way she and Charlotte made their own decisions, but this…this was indescribably cruel. Lizzie glanced down at her attire and felt the tears of exhaustion and frustration filling in behind her eyes. “I want to go home,” she said softly.

Jack nodded.

“On the grave of my father, I donna deserve this. He’s ruined me. I canna imagine how we shall survive. I want to go home,” she repeated tearfully.

Jack slowly sat up and put his hand on her knee. “Drink the wine. It will help you rest. You’ll need your strength on the morrow.”

“Will I?” she asked wearily. “Are you privy to what Carson will subject us to on the morrow?”

He squeezed her knee. “No. I know only that we are leaving Castle Beal,” he said, and removed his hand from her knee, clinked his glass to hers, and settled back in his chair.

Lizzie wanted to believe him, she desperately wanted to believe him. “Really?”

“Really.”

“How?”

He smiled warmly. “You leave that to me, Lizzie Beal.”

Frankly, Lizzie was so exhausted she could do nothing else but leave it to him.

I
n spite of Lizzie’s apparent exhaustion, there was, not surprisingly, an argument over who would take the bed, and in the end Jack had grown so agitated with her that he’d swept her up in his arms and dumped her on top of the counterpane with a warning that if she got up, he’d take matters in hand.

He was only moments, if not inches, from taking matters in hand as it was. He had to force himself to turn away from that bed.

Fortunately, his warning was enough to convince Lizzie that she ought to have the bed, and she quickly fell into a deep sleep. He could tell from her occasional soft snoring.

He, on the other hand, sat at the table and finished off the wine, hoping it would rid him of all the libidinous thoughts roaming about his head like dogs on the hunt. Jack needed to quit Castle Beal as much as or even more than Lizzie did, for he could not bear any more time alone in this small room with her and not touch her.

He was appalled by his body’s reaction to the sight of her dressed in his clothing. In spite of the fact that his clothes were much too big for her, he could see her figure in a way he’d never seen it in a gown, and through the neck of the shirt, he’d been able to see the pale skin and the rise
of her breasts. Breasts the size of plump oranges…the palms of his hands had itched with the urge to touch her.

He’d been as aroused as a lad experiencing the first pangs of lust.

Aye, he’d think of something to get her and him out of here just as he’d promised her. And if Lizzie’s look of gratitude and hope had been money, he would have left Castle Beal a very wealthy man indeed.

Jack made do with the chair that night but slept badly, while Lizzie slept like the dead. The sound of early birds finally convinced him that his attempts at sleep were for naught. He abandoned the chair, stretched his aching back, and made his way to the basin.

He was in the midst of shaving when he heard her move, and glanced over his shoulder. Lizzie was propped up on her elbows, staring at him as if she could not quite place him. “Good morning,” he said. “You look a fright.”

Recognition dawned and she fell back into the pillows and rolled onto her side. “How very kind of you to remark.”

He smiled as he rinsed the razor in the basin. “’Tis early yet. Go back to sleep. I’ll see if I might entice Dougal to bring a bit of food for the sleeping beauty, aye?”

“Aye,” she said sleepily. Her eyes were already closed.

A half hour later, after Jack had convinced a weary Dougal to accompany him down to the see the laird, he was shown into a small dining room. He’d figured Carson Beal for an early riser, and he was not disappointed. The laird was breaking his fast in solitude.

He hardly spared Jack a glance as he entered the room. “A wee bit early for you, is it no’, milord?” he asked before stuffing a forkful of black pudding into his mouth.

“Were I in London enjoying the pleasures of the evening, I’d only be finding my bed about now. But as society here seems to center on no more than a few games in the bailey, I found my bed rather early.”

“And I suppose now I’ll be forced to have the dubious pleasure of your company, is that it?” Beal asked as he sopped up the grease of the pudding with bread.

“I would no’ impose,” Jack said, but took a seat anyway. Beal squinted at him, then nodded at a young girl who’d appeared from nowhere. She poured a cup of coffee and placed it before Jack, then stepped to the sideboard and began to fill a plate with food.

“That’s no’ necessary,” Jack said, nodding in her direction. “I’ll no’ be long.”

“You speak as if you are in control of the situation, sir,” Beal said with a self-satisfied smirk.

Jack bristled but managed to maintain his easy smile. “Now, now, sir. I’d no’ dream of challenging your authority in your home,” he said, leaving the lingering suggestion that in another setting he would. “But we are gentlemen, and as a gentleman, I must ask that you let the lass go home now.” At Beal’s scowl, Jack said, “You’ve done what you set out to do, aye? There is no’ a man in Glenalmond who will touch her now. You canna bring her lower.”

“What do you care?” Carson scoffed.

Jack leaned forward, pushing aside the plate the girl tried to place in front of him. “I donna know why you’d do what you’ve done to your own blood, Beal,” he said, “but what is done is done. Show a bit of decency and let her go.”

Beal flicked his wrist at the girl, sending her from the room. He leaned back in his seat and eyed Jack thoughtfully. “Have you fallen in love with her?”

Jack almost choked at that ridiculous notion. “Donna be absurd.”

“Your concern for her humiliation is noble, I suppose.” Carson said it as easily as he might remark he preferred brown bread to scones. “But she is naugh’ to you.”

Jack was beginning to appreciate that Beal was no more than an animal in gentleman’s clothing. “I suppose I donna care to see anyone humiliated,” Jack responded coldly, his chest tightening. “Particularly the fairer sex.”

Beal laughed. He eyed Jack curiously for a moment, then shrugged as he picked up his fork again. “All right, then, Lambourne, you may have your gentlemanly wish. I shall send the two of you to Thorntree, where my niece can lick her wounds. But you’ll go with her, and you will stay close, and no one”—he paused to lean forward—“
no one
will think you are anything but entirely devoted to her. No one will see you apart, no one will have cause to believe this is anything but true affection between a man and a woman, aye? The Gordons have eyes and ears up and down this glen, and if you give anyone the slightest pause, I shall hand your head to the prince myself. And if you think to escape?” He stabbed the black pudding on his plate. “You’ll no’ get far. The prince’s men have redoubled their efforts to find you, milord, and have hired the canny Highland Scots to help them. They are slowly working their way north, traversing every glen, questioning every man. Unless you are familiar with the rugged terrain and can outfox a Highlander born and reared in these hills, you have nowhere to run but north. I’ll give you a bit of Highland geography—there is naugh’ north of here but more hills. You’d perish ere you reached safety, and perish you would, for I would hunt you down like a wounded fox, I would. Let us be clear: from this point forward, I
am
the prince’s man, and I’ll
no’ hesitate to send you off to the prince and collect the generous bounty he’s put on your head. I’ll even attend your hanging and cheer.”

Jack grinned as nonchalantly as he could manage. “A
generous
bounty, eh? I shall endeavor no’ to be too proud of it.”

“This is no laughing matter to me, Lambourne. You’d best make sure it is no laughing matter to you. Keep her from that bloody Gordon, and see to it that no’ a soul believes you are anything less than lovers, and you might live yet.”

“Horses?” Jack asked, his patience all but evaporated.

“Aye. Send Dougal in when you’ve broken your fast,” Beal said, and resumed his meal. “I’ll send him to the stables.”

But Jack pushed back and stood. “Thank you, but I’ve lost my appetite.” When he reached the door, his curiosity got the better of his anger, and he looked back.
“Why?”
he demanded. “Why this charade? Could you no’ just forbid a match with this Gordon?”

“You’ve known my niece for two days. Do you think I could forbid her a bloody thing?”

His point was well taken, yet it wasn’t enough. “It seems rather harsh…even for you, Laird.”

Carson snorted. “You’ve got a bit of Beal blood in you, aye?” At Jack’s curt nod, he said, “Would you want to see as much of an inch of Beal land in the hands of a Gordon?”

“Perhaps not, but surely there are ways of preventing it other than the public humiliation of your niece.”

“This is no’ London, sir. We do no’ sit about our parlors and sip our tea here. Perhaps you have forgotten the ways of the Highlands, eh? Go on with you, then, go to Thorntree. Send Dougal to me.” Beal looked down at his plate. The conversation was over.

Jack was happy to leave the room—the less he had to look at Carson Beal the better, for his anger was beginning to heat inside him and he could not trust himself to keep his hands from the old man’s neck. He didn’t trust Carson in the least, and believed without a doubt Beal would hand him to the bloodthirsty bounty hunters the moment Jack was less than entirely useful to him.

Beal reminded him of his father, and that made Jack’s disgust of him run even deeper.

With Dougal’s help, Jack arranged for his horse and two additional mounts to carry Lizzie and Dougal. When he was satisfied that things were at the ready, he walked out into the upper bailey with Dougal, bound for the small room at the top of the turret, where he planned to wake Lizzie and give her the happy news. But the sight of a small figure moving awkwardly toward the gate distracted him.

Perhaps it was Jack’s own clothing that caught his eye, or his hat, which was too big for her head and sank down to her eyes. Jack paused mid-stride, as did Dougal. Lizzie had not noticed them, but she had noticed a pair of maids carrying pails to the well. She turned sharply to her right, kept her head down, and picked up her pace. She was headed directly for Jack and Dougal.

Surely she did not believe for a moment she would go undetected.

“She’s no’ to be about without escort,” Dougal said absently, confirming Jack’s thought.

With her head down and her hat obscuring her sight, Lizzie did not see the fellow who carried chickens lashed by their feet to a pole that he balanced across his shoulders. “Pardon!” he said to Lizzie before she could walk headlong into his chickens.

“Why don’t I fetch her while you bring the horses
round,” Jack suggested lazily as Lizzie, recovered from her near collision with the chickens, adjusted her hat and struck out once more.

“Aye, milord,” Dougal said, and lumbered off in the direction of the stables.

Jack moved a bit to his right and intercepted her just as she was about to sail by.
“Lizzie.”

With a cry of alarm, Lizzie jerked around like a guilty felon, but her wide-eyed gaze quickly narrowed when she saw him. “You
scoundrel
!” she whispered heatedly. “You tried to escape and leave me behind!”

“That’s preposterous,” he said calmly. “I did no such thing. If I had planned to escape, I would no’ be standing in the middle of the bailey.”

“Oh?” she said, her brows dipping into a frown. “Then why did you leave me?”

“To speak to—”

She suddenly gasped and grabbed his lapel in her fist, giving it a hearty tug.
“Dougal!”
she exclaimed excitedly. “You gained Dougal’s cooperation, just as you said you would!” Before he could answer, her hopeful gaze melted into a dubious frown. “No, no, that canna be! Dougal would no’ defy his laird! Then you
did
mean to escape? But you seem too…too
fresh,
” she added, her gaze skimming over him. “And you are clean-shaven,” she added, her gaze on his face, peering closely. “And you are wearing a fresh shirt and waistcoat.” She cocked her head to one side like a curious little bird. “You took the time to dress properly to escape?”

“I—”

“Diah,”
she cried, and let go his lapel at the same time she shoved against his chest. “You didna mean to escape, because you are
one
of them—”

“All right, then, stop now before your imagination
takes flight and you are unwittingly whisked away to the moon,” he warned her.

“Are you one of Carson’s men?” she demanded hotly as she took a step backward.

“Mary, Queen of Scots, that is the most absurd thing you’ve said yet! I am no’ one of Carson’s men, for God’s sake! For once, please do as I say, will you, and come along—we’re leaving.”

“
We?
How?” she demanded, taking another small step backward.

“By horse.”

“Horse! If you are no’ one of them, how can you possibly put your hands on a horse, then? Do you expect me to believe that Carson will allow us to ride out of here?” she exclaimed, gesturing wildly to the gate.

“Aye,” he said simply, and pointed grandly to his left. Lizzie followed his gaze and saw the three mounts being led into the bailey, Dougal leading Jack’s dapple gray mare. The horse was tossing her head, chafing to be out of her stable, just like Jack.

Lizzie gaped at the horses. “How did you manage it?” she demanded of Jack. “How could you
possibly
have managed it?”

“I am not without a few powers of persuasion,” he said, a little irritably, annoyed by her disbelief in him.

“But…”

“Lizzie. I suggest that if you really want to be free of Castle Beal, you will take advantage of the laird’s largesse and ride. You do know how to ride, do you no’?”

“Oh, for the love of Scotland!” she snapped, and marched forward, meeting Dougal and putting herself into a saddle before anyone could help her—and quite expertly at that. She wheeled the horse about and looked at Jack. “Do
you
know how to ride?”

Jack momentarily forgot his exasperation with her and admired the line of her slender leg in his trousers…not to mention the perfectly enticing way she sat a horse. He gave her a slow smile as debauched thoughts of riding her drifted aimlessly through his mind. “Oh, I
ride,
lass. I ride very well, indeed.”

Lizzie returned his lazy smile with a murderous look, but not before she’d turned a telling shade of pink. She yanked the horse away from Jack and spurred it forward, riding recklessly for the gates.

Jack sighed and exchanged a look with Dougal as he took the mare’s reins from him. “How far to Thorntree?”

“Three miles, milord, but the road is pitted and hard.”

“Good,”
he said as he swung up on his mount and set out after Lizzie Beal, hoping that the road would unseat her. It would serve her right, the headstrong little heathen.