Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series (20 page)

Chapter 25

Two days later, using her hood and Dugall’s wide shoulders as buffers, Isobel avoided glimpsing the frequent, troubled glances Yancy directed her way.

He ought to be bothered, the dunderhead.

Riding left of the path’s center and a horse’s length away, he’d positioned himself in her direct line of vision. Her perfidious gaze kept slinking in his direction until she turned her head the opposite way and laid her cheek against Dugall.

She fully intended to complete the journey to Craiglocky and not speak a word to Yancy. That he blatantly manipulated the circumstances to his benefit peeved her no end. Matters were complicated enough without adding the betrothal lie to the mix.

Had he forgotten about Matilda? What was she to do if he threw her over? If he tossed the girl aside so readily, how long could Isobel expect faithfulness from him if he wedded her?

About as long as a stallion corralled with a herd of in-season mares.

She drew her cloak tighter, chilled both in body and spirit.

Marriage to a rake promised a lifetime of misery. For that reason alone, she wouldn’t touch matrimony to Yancy with a barge pole. Besides, everyone she held dear had found true love. Her parents were devoted to each other, as were Ewan and Yvette and Adaira and Roark. She could add Flynn and his new wife and Lord and Lady Warrick to the list too.

She’d aspired to the same.

Given her limited alternatives—a faithless jackanape or a loveless union—spinsterhood might hold some appeal, after all.

Flimflam and claptrap.

Scalding tears filled her eyes again, and she ducked her head deeper within the hood’s protective folds.

Grayness blanketed everything: the pewter sky, which promised more rain before they made the keep, and the narrow, muddy track they plodded along.

The bleakness encompassing my downtrodden heart.

Even the silvery squirrels scooting up the tree trunks and the smoky-brown hares springing to take cover in the dense charcoal shadows of the underbrush.

Everything—colorless and bland.

Ewan had probably prodded Yancy into making the betrothal announcement. Just like her brother to do something of that nature—under the guise of protecting her, of course.

Men
.

She was well and done with the blasted lot of them. Maybe she’d enter a convent. And die of boredom.

“Leave off jabbing me, ye bloody sod.” MacHardy’s petulant complaint sent a frightened squirrel scampering for the nearest pine and a trio of hoodiecrows to wing. The birds’ raucous cries echoed long after they had disappeared.

Yancy had taken MacHardy and his men into custody with astonishing little resistance. Wise on the part of the surly Scot since to a man, Ewan’s dedicated clan would have splayed the baron open and danced a jig afterward.

He would fare scant better in prison, unless the gibbet saw him dancing instead. His singular reprieve lay in deportation to Australia, and his lands would be forfeit to the crown.

Upon hearing the news of Angus and Dunbar’s deaths, relief swept through her for herself, Lydia, and the Faas children.

Harcourt cantered past, giving Isobel a jaunty salute. He truly was a rogue, but a charming one. She would give up clooty dumpling for a year to know who had darkened his daylights. Even with the bruised eye, and every bit as disheveled as Yancy, the duke appeared rakishly handsome.

Her gaze skittered to Yancy speaking to His Grace in low tones, and her pulse and stomach joggled peculiarly.

Most annoying. And disturbing.

She firmed her lips into a thin ribbon, determined to erect a protective wall against him and the havoc he wreaked on her emotions.

Singing and occasionally humming a bawdy Scottish ditty beneath his breath as he had for the past several miles, Dugall guided his horse around a moss-covered boulder.

Isobel released a trembling sigh. Oh, to be as lighthearted as her younger brother.

He turned his head and scrutinized her over his broad shoulder. “It
canna
be as bad as all that, lass.”

“Yes, it is. I am fair disgraced.”

“Why
dinna
ye marry the earl, then?”

“I cannot.”

“Why not?”

The same thing Yancy had asked.

She frowned, and Dugall faced frontward.

He hadn’t finished prodding, though. “Ramsbury not be hard to gaze upon, and he be a chum of Ewan’s for more than a decade. He seems a good sort, and he be taken with ye. It be plain as the tail on a hog.”

“Dugall, it is impossible.” She shook her head against his back, needing to share the truth. “He is promised to another.”

Dugall stiffened and threw her a shocked glance. “Be ye certain?”

His muscles flexed beneath her fingers as the horse plodded onward, every step reminding her of the excessive time she’d spent astride a horse of late. Her thigh muscles screeched for reprieve, and her battered buttocks ached.

“I’ll bloody rearrange his pretty face, if that be true.”

“You will do no such thing.” She tightened her arms about Dugall’s waist, a silent warning to behave. “And yes. I am certain. His intended made a point of telling me at Adaira’s Yuletide ball.”

“Why did he ask ye to marry him then?”

“Dugall, we both know Ewan gave him no choice.”

“
Aye
. That be true.” Dugall lanced Yancy with a searing glower and heaved a gusty breath. “God rot the bugger. I be sorry, Isobel. What will ye do?”

“I don’t know.” Tears trickled from her eyes. “I just don’t know,” she whispered into the folds of his plaid. “Go away, I think.”

What would she do? Where could she go?

Hopelessly in love with Yancy, she couldn’t seize her happiness at the expense of someone else’s ruination. Truth to tell, her trust had been eroded to a needle’s point, and his reputation as a rake and a scoundrel precluded placing further faith in him. In any event, she wasn’t certain Yancy or her feckless heart deserved another chance.

Emotional and physical weariness weighed heavily upon her. She let her eyelids lower and allowed the memories of last night to come, relishing the few moments of bliss she had experienced within Yancy’s arms.

She’d slipped into a fitful doze and awoke when they stopped beside a stream. While the clansmen watered the horses, she forced herself to eat a small repast, though she had no appetite and the stale bread stuck to her tongue.

Yancy attempted to waylay her as she returned from seeking a spot of privacy in the shrubberies. Legs spread-eagled, he blocked her path and gently placed his palms atop her shoulders.

She didn’t recall him ever having appeared vulnerable before, but marked uncertainty shone in his observant eyes and his mouth turned down as if he, too, suffered.

“Isobel, we must talk before we reach the castle.”

That he dared call her by her given name said much. She should object, but after all they experienced together in the past day, the breech of propriety seemed insignificant.

Her gaze firmly affixed to the droplets of water meandering the length of a fern frond, she shook her head. “No, there’s nothing to say.”

“Perhaps you have nothing to say, but I have a great deal.” Anger’s steely edge sharpened his words as his hold on her shoulders tightened a fraction. “I care for you, very much in fact. You’ve been compromised through no fault of your own. I would consider it the most profound honor to make you my wife.”

What an ironic paradox.

His valor could save her virtue.

He tapped the end of her nose. “Wouldn’t you enjoy being my countess?”

With the alacrity of one of the black slugs creeping along the ground, Isobel’s gaze traveled from Yancy’s muddy boots to the stained buckskin covering his thighs, skittered past the bulge at his loins and his impossibly muscled chest, and settled on his throat.

Whatever happened to his cravat?

Whyever do I care at a moment like this
?

A pulse beat steady and hypnotic at the juncture of his neck and collarbone. She had the oddest urge to place her mouth there, to feel his heartbeat beneath her lips.

“Isobel?” Yancy possessed the patience of a saint; she would give him that.

Thick stubble covered his lower face. A memory sprang to her mind, the sensation of those whiskers scraping across her breast. Had that been just last night? It seemed an eon ago.

Isobel crossed her arms against her traitorous nipples’ puckering. No other man caused her body to respond, so intense and uncontrollable, the way she did with him.

And no one else ever would.

She lovingly roved his features with her gaze.
Yancy did have the most beautiful lips, and his high cheeks and aristocratic nose portrayed the blue blood thrumming in his veins. But his eyes, those mysterious green orbs, had always been her undoing. She could become lost gazing into them, her soul touching his.

“Isobel?” A soft rasp of yearning, he whispered her name and touched her unmarred cheek.

Of their own volition, her feet inched ahead, and she leaned toward him, her gaze locked on his mouth.

Dugall laid a heavy arm across her shoulders and maneuvered her from Yancy’s grasp. “Isobel, Father wants a word with ye.”

Dumping a bucket of freezing water from Lake Arkaig upon her head couldn’t have been more jarring. She blinked, trying to collect her thoughts. She’d nearly kissed Yancy. Right here in full view of everyone. Her fate would have been sealed.

“Isobel, he be waitin’.” Dugall squeezed her shoulder.

Giving herself a mental shrug, she forced her gaze from Yancy. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Dugall.”

“Would you give us a moment more, please?” Yancy’s touch to her elbow stayed her.

Dugall’s hesitant gaze shifted between Isobel and Yancy. A shuttered mien descended, and he shook his raven head. “
Nae
, me lord. Me sister’s made her position clear. Ye’ll need to speak to our father if ye have more to say.”

Isobel’s heart wrenched at the expression of desolation puckering Yancy’s face. Could he care for her, or did Ewan’s threats cause his despair?

Determinedly keeping her attention on her father and Ewan, she hurried in their direction before she flouted good sense and bolted into Yancy’s arms.

His muttered, “Bloody, maggoty hell,” spurred her footstep a mite faster.

Afterward, she remained near her male relatives, giving Yancy no opportunity to catch her unaccompanied. She sensed his and Ewan’s growing frustration.

Too bad. She would not be manipulated into marriage.

Dugall must have warmed their father’s ears with her sad tale. All solicitousness, Father had once again become the great protector from her childhood. The man who, when she’d fallen and scraped a knee or had a splinter in her finger, had swept her into his embrace and tickled her tears away.

If only her waterworks and heartache might be eased that simply today.

“Mount up, and be quick about it. I mean to make Craiglocky by nightfall.” Already seated on Skye, Yancy gave the order.

Dugall waited for her by his horse.

She picked her way between the slugs littering the ground. Gads, the rain had brought the horrid, slimy beasts out in droves. They quite reminded her of the revolting mushrooms in the mash Sorcha served with beef fillet.

A God-awful stench wafted past, and Isobel pressed the back of her hand to her nose. She examined the bushes. Had something died nearby?

“I’d be thinking twice, lass, about speakin’ against me.”

Isobel’s attention lurched to MacHardy slouched atop a horse, his hands tied to the saddle. Unease pricked her, but she quashed it. He could do her no harm now.

Covered in reddish hair, his trunk-like legs poked from below his grungy plaid. The putrid reek emanated from him. The man proved foul in every regard.

She suppressed a gag. Pulling her cloak aside, she eyed him coldly. “I shall tell the truth, sir. It is up to the courts to decide how to act upon my testimony.”

A sly smirk contorted his lips, revealing a row of brownish-black rotting teeth. “Do ye think I acted alone?
Nae
, I would be looking closer to me home, if I be ye.”

Chapter 26

As night claimed the last vestige of daylight, Yancy led the fatigued company across Craiglocky’s drawbridge. The thunder of over two hundred and fifty hoofbeats reverberating atop the wooden panels roused those in the baileys and keep.

Excited clan members surged from doorways and lean-tos. Holding lanterns and rush torches, they soon flooded the courtyard with light, and people eager for news of Isobel.

Yancy dismounted, and after handing Skye’s reins to a stable boy, he stretched, easing the stiffness the lengthy hours in the saddle caused. “See he’s rubbed down well, and given an extra portion of grain. He has earned it.”

Skye pressed his nose to Yancy’s chest and issued a low nicker.

“I’m grateful to be back too.” He patted the horse’s wither. “Well done, old friend.”

Skye responded with another gentle whicker.

“Sir, might I wait until I hear the news of Miss Isobel? Did Laird McTavish find her? Did he bring her home?” Eyes round and anxious, the boy shifted from foot to foot, his gaze repeatedly flitting to the mounted riders.

The lad’s devotion to his lady earned Yancy’s admiration.

“Yes, he did.” He stifled a yawn. “I haven’t met a braver, more intelligent woman in my life.”

“
Aye
, that she be.” The whelp puffed his scrawny chest out, a grin splitting his freckled face. “She be of the clan McTavish.”

“And you have every right to be proud.” Yancy handed the lad a coin. He hadn’t thought the youth’s eyes could grow larger, but the astonished, saucer-like gaze gawking at him proved him wrong.

Yancy maneuvered his way through the throng. He needed a moment with Isobel before she fled into the house and escaped into her family’s care.

He grimaced.
Fled
?
Escaped
? What, had she become his quarry? No, though he had every intention of snaring her.

“There be Miss Isobel.” At the front of the crowd, an eager man holding a curly-haired toddler pointed to the new arrivals.

“Where?”

“I
dinna
see the lass.”

“She be sittin’ behind Dugall.”

The horde spotted her, and a roar loud enough to shake the stars from the sky rose heavenward.

“Isobel?” Lady Ferguson’s soft cry carried across the night air.

Sandwiched between Lady Sethwick and Miss Seonaid, Lady Ferguson hovered at the top of the gatehouse stairs. To her left stood Miss Farnsworth and Ross, in addition to Warrick and Bretheridge beside their wives. A rotund, elderly maid who kept dabbing at her eyes with her apron, and the McTavishs, save Gregor, had positioned themselves on Lady Ferguson’s right.

A passel of dogs lumbered,
en masse
, down the steps, a monstrous gray boarhound in the lead, loping straight at Isobel.

Lady Ferguson and her daughters rushed into the crowd as Sir Hugh, Harcourt, and Ewan dismounted. The rest of those assembled on the steps hastily followed.

The crowd shushed and respectfully parted to let the women pass. Their pallor and tautness of their frames spoke of the anguish they endured in Isobel’s absence. Several onlookers sniffled, and more than one clansman’s eyes held a suspicious dampness.

Sir Hugh engulfed his wife in a bear-like hug then pulled Miss Seonaid into his arms.

Sethwick encircled Yvette in an embrace no less fierce.

A wave of envy washed Yancy. He would give up his earldom to know that kind of love with Isobel. Yet, she’d spurned him once again.

He would have the why of it this time. He deserved to know her reasons at least. No woman—nude as a water nymph and in bed with a man she obviously found attractive—when discovered by her father and brothers, would refuse to marry the man without damned good cause.

Yancy would hear the excuse from her lips before hauling MacHardy to Newgate to stand trial.

Lady Ferguson rose on her tiptoes and kissed her husband’s cheek then disengaged herself. Her eyes shiny, she approached Dugall holding his stallion’s halter. She gave him a swift hug. “Thank you, son, for bringing your sister home safely.”

Though she had lived at Craiglocky almost three decades, her musical voice held traces of her French heritage.

Across the distance, Dugall’s gaze locked with Yancy’s. “I
canna
take the credit, Mother. Lord Ramsbury rescued our Isobel.”

The whispers of the crowd drifted throughout the courtyard, a low buzz of praise and questions.

“
Non,
he did?” Lady Ferguson turned as Yancy reached her side and graced him with a radiant smile. “You have my deepest and most sincere appreciation, my lord.”

“Please believe me, my lady, when I tell you that bringing your daughter home safely has been my greatest pleasure.” Bowing over her hand, he brought his gaze even with Isobel’s. “I’ve never been more compelled, nor have I ever done anything as worthy, in my entire life.”

“Isobel, do let Lord Ramsbury assist you from the saddle, and then give your mother a hug.” Lady Ferguson opened her arms wide. She glanced to Yancy. “Such a fright I’ve had. And trust me, Lord Ramsbury, with this family, there is always something afoot.”

She released a tinkling laugh.

Yancy advanced until he stood directly beside Isobel. “Swing your leg over, and then put your hands on my shoulders. I shall lift you to the ground.”

Weariness etched her features, and she stared at him for an extended moment. A haunted glint lingered deep within her beautiful eyes. Inclining her head, she complied without protest or speaking.

His hands at her waist, Yancy whispered in her ear as he lowered her from the horse. “We shall have that promised conversation. I shan’t depart until we do.”

Isobel stiffened and clutched his shoulders, her fingers biting into his flesh through his coat. Her eyes bored into his. Desperation and something deeper lurked there. Her adorable chin jutted upward. “I told you. I’ve nothing to say.”

“Oh, I think you have plenty to say, and I am going to find out exactly why you’ve treated me as a leper for months now.”

“Why won’t you leave me be?” Defeat darkened her expression and sorrow weighted her words.

Yancy squeezed her waist. “I cannot, Isobel.”

Her mother and the rest of her family swooped in with tears and murmured words of comfort and joy.

Yancy stepped aside.
Devil it.
So much for a few quiet moments with her.

Surrounded by her family, she smiled through her tears. Her eyes met his over Seonaid’s shoulder. A shuttered mien settled on Isobel’s face, and she shifted her attention to Lady Ferguson. “Mother, please tell me how Gregor fares. I’ve been terribly worried.”

“He is sitting up,
chéri
, and his appetite has returned.” Her mother propelled her in the gatehouse’s direction. “The doctor expects him to make a full recovery.”

Before disappearing underneath the arched entrance, Isobel tossed a glance over her shoulder. The woundedness in her gaze lanced Yancy, rapier sharp. Pure gibberish, all her proclamations of indifference. She was no more immune to him than he to her.

Sethwick, Harcourt, and Sir Hugh approached.

Yancy pulled his attention from the gatehouse and the intriguing woman within.

“I shall have them locked in the dungeon until you’re ready to set out for London.” Sethwick motioned to MacHardy and his entourage. His keen gaze roved the bailey. “Do you want me to send a contingent of my men as escorts or will you send a courier to White Hall requesting English soldiers journey here?”

Sethwick remained reserved and none too pleased with him. Perhaps Sethwick’s latter suggestion was borne more of his desire to see Yancy remain at Craiglocky and make an honest woman of his sister than a desire to be helpful.

Nevertheless, Yancy rather liked the idea.

The trip to London would take at least three days, another to gather the soldiers, and then three more to return to Craiglocky. He would have another week, possibly a mite more to win Isobel’s favor.

God shaped the entire world and all of creation in seven days. In comparison, Yancy’s feat of winning a wife should be simple as buttering bread.

If wishes were horses.

A blast of damp air heralded another approaching gale. Yancy rested his hands on his hips and made a slow, thorough sweep of the bailey with his gaze. A trio of speckled hens cackled and fluffed their feathers before scurrying to their coop for the night.

Most of the clan members had retreated into their homes after Isobel disappeared inside the keep. A few lingered outdoors, chatting. Others went about completing their evening tasks. A pair of swarthy-skinned grooms led several horses to the stables, while Sethwick’s kinsmen corralled MacHardy and his riffraff.

Yancy rubbed his bristled jaw. A bath and shave topped his list of priorities. “Isobel said someone at the keep helped the Blackwalls.”

“The devil, you say?” Sethwick’s black brows swooped downward in outrage. He sent a stern glance about the courtyard.

A scowl creased Sir Hugh’s craggy features, as he too surveyed the square. “Did she have any idea who?”

Yancy shook his head. “No, at least she didn’t say if she did, but we hadn’t an opportunity to discuss it.”

They’d been too busy fleeing for their lives. “Isobel did mention she saw two travellers with the curs who abducted her. And I met a tinker in the forest, outside Dounnich House.”

Sethwick’s gaze shot to his. “The woman and children rescued from the Blackhalls were also travellers, Balcomb Faas’s children.”

“Yes, he’s the man I sent to find you.” Yancy rubbed his nape, the muscles stiff from the couple of hours he’d spent sleeping on the cottage’s uncomfortable floor. “I believe someone in that tribe is our connection.”

Nodding slowly, Sethwick narrowed his gaze at the gypsies gathered near the stables. “I shall question the travellers in the morning. Right now, all I want is a hot bath, something decent to eat, and to spend some time with my wife and son.”

“I’ll second that. Not the wife and son.” Harcourt, silent until now, shuddered theatrically. “But the food and bath sound marvelous. I wouldn’t say no to a finger’s worth or two of Scotch or cognac and a bracing cup of coffee either.”

Finger’s worth or two
?

Yancy would need an entire bottle to get a wink of sleep tonight. Visions of Isobel naked in his arms had tantalized him the entire day. His loins contracted.
Again.
Riding had been like sitting on a pouch of granite that repeatedly pounded his nether regions.

Maybe he’d make that a cold bath, or better yet, he would strip naked and soak in the loch until his swollen flesh hung puckered and limp.

Harcourt, his eye more discolored than earlier, yawned.

Yancy gestured at the bruise. “You must tell me how you came by that. It’s a beauty. Some hamfisted behemoth must have caught you off guard.”

Sethwick and Sir Hugh let loose with hearty guffaws.

Harcourt dredged up a feral scowl and attempted to straighten his hopelessly wrinkled coat. “I shall tell you—when a woman sits in Parliament.”

Giving them another irritated glare, he marched to the keep, Sethwick and Sir Hugh chuckling at his retreating form.

Yancy pulled his ear. “You must tell me what is so amusing about Harcourt’s, er, unfortunate visage.”

Sethwick shook his head, an outlandish grin on his face. “No, the story is his to tell.”

“If His Grace ever be getting over the humiliation.” Sir Hugh’s shoulder quivered with mirth once more.

Sethwick’s men ushered MacHardy and his cohorts past.

“Think he knows who the collaborator here is?” Yancy jerked his thumb at the sneering Scot.

Sethwick turned and examined MacHardy before his gaze rested on a few gypsies scurrying into the stables. “I would bet on it.”

Eyes heavy from lack of sleep, and bone-tired, Yancy accompanied Sethwick and Sir Hugh to the gatehouse.

“Welcome home, sirs.” Usually stoic, a beaming Fairchild greeted them enthusiastically at the door. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering baths and dinner trays for you.”

He directed his attention to Yancy. “Lord Ramsbury, two correspondences arrived for you during your absence. I had them placed in your chamber.”

“Thank you.” Prinny no doubt, squawking about Yancy’s resignation. Too blasted bad. The Regent would to have to find another War Secretary. Yancy had an heir to beget.

An hour later, having bathed and eaten a hearty meal in his bedchamber, he sat before the roaring fire nursing his third glass of Scotch since dinner.

Clothed in an emerald brocade banyan trimmed at the collar and wrists in black velvet, he stretched his legs before him and wiggled his toes, grateful to be free of his boots. He let his eyelids flutter shut, dual mantels of fatigue and liquor jumbling his mind.

He cracked an eye open, taking in the turned down bed.

No. Too much effort to walk that far.

Maybe he would sleep right here. His gaze lit upon the short stack of missives placed atop the cumbersome night table. None bore the Regent’s telltale gold-trimmed, beribboned stationery. Who had written then? Was something afoot at Bronwedon Towers or Yancy’s house in Mayfair?

He yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth. The letters could wait. He’d deal with them in the morning. If the matter had been urgent, a messenger would have been sent.

Yancy took a hearty sip of the spirit despite being a trifle disguised already. He’d eaten little for days and had indulged in a generous glass prior to dining and several more since. His thoughts kept turning to Isobel, a revolving cadence of frustration, adoration, and confusion.

The letters drew his consideration once more.

His curiosity wouldn’t let him ignore the confounded things. Heaving a sigh, he rose. The room wavered for a dizzying moment.