The Lady And The Laird - The Lady and the Laird Part 3
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The Lady and the Laird Part 3

"Lady Lucy." There was a step behind her on the path. Lucy froze. She wanted to run, but that would be undignified. It would also end badly. She could not run in her silk slippers and Robert Methven would be faster than she was.

She turned slowly.

"Lord Methven." The moment of confrontation had arrived too soon. She felt completely unprepared. "I am sorry," she said. "Sorry for your..." She paused.

"Loss?" Robert Methven suggested ironically. "Or sorry that your brother is such a blackguard that he elopes with another man's bride?"

His voice was rough edged, rubbing against Lucy's senses like skates on ice. No educated man, no gentleman, spoke with a Scots accent, but there was a trace of something in Robert Methven's voice that was as abrasive as he was. Perhaps it was the time he had spent abroad that had rubbed off the patina of civilization in him. Whatever it was, it made Lucy shiver.

He was blocking the path in front of her and he did not move. As always, his height and the breadth of his shoulders, the sheer solid masculine strength of him, overwhelmed her. This time, though, Lucy knew she could not allow herself to be intimidated.

"Lord Methven." She tried again. She smiled her special smile. It was composed and sympathetic and it gave-she hoped-no indication at all of the way in which her heart thumped and her breath trapped in her chest. "I know that Lachlan has behaved badly-"

"Damn right he has," Robert Methven said. "He is a scoundrel."

Well, that was true, if a little direct from a gentleman to a lady. But then Methven was nothing if not direct. Lucy could feel the hot color stinging her cheeks. Generally she had far too much poise for any gentleman to be able to put her to the blush. Perhaps it was because Robert Methven was so blunt that she felt so ill at ease in his company. On a positive note, however, he was blaming Lachlan for the letters so she was perfectly safe. He had no idea she had been involved.

"You look very guilty," Methven said conversationally. "Why is that?"

Suddenly Lucy felt as though she was on shaky ground after all.

"I apologize for that too," she said shortly. "It is just the way I look."

Methven's firm lips tilted up in a mocking smile. Lucy felt mortified. She never lost her temper and was certainly never rude to anyone. It simply was not good behavior. Yet Robert Methven always seemed able to get under her skin.

"I like the way you look," Methven said, shocking her all the more. He raised one hand and brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers. The constricted feeling in Lucy's chest increased. It felt as though her bodice had been buttoned so tight she was unable to draw in her breath at all. The skin beneath his fingers burned.

"I thought you looked guilty because you knew about the elopement," Methven said. His hand fell to his side. "I thought that you might even have helped the happy couple?"

Lucy felt the breath catch in her throat. Under his gaze she felt exposed, her emotions dangerously unprotected, her reactions impossible to hide.

"I..." She realized that she did not know what she was going to say. Methven's cool blue gaze seemed to pin her to the spot like a butterfly on a slide. She felt helpless.

She took a deep breath and pressed one hand to her ribs to ease the rapid pound of her heart. Her mind steadied. She hated to lie. It was wrong. But she told herself that she had not played any part in the elopement. Not directly.

"I had nothing to do with it," she said. She could feel her blush deepening, guilty flags in her hot cheeks. "That is-" She scrambled for further speech. Methven was watching her silently. His stillness was quite terrifying, like that of a predatory cat.

"I knew that Lachlan was in love with Miss Brodrie," she said. Already it felt as though she had said too much, as though she were on the edge of a slippery slope. "That is all. I didn't know about the elopement, or the love letters-" She stopped, feeling her stomach drop like a stone as she realized what she had said, what she had done. A wave of heat started at her toes and rose upward to engulf her whole body.

"I did not mention any love letters," Robert Methven said. His tone was very gentle but the look in his eyes had sharpened.

Once again there was silence, acute in its intensity. Lucy could hear the soft hush of the breeze in the grass. She could smell the cherry blossom. She was captured by the look in Robert Methven's eyes, pinned beneath that direct blue stare.

"I..." Her mind was a terrifying blank. She could think of no way out.

"I hear your brother is no scholar," Methven said. There was a harder undertone to his voice now. "But you, Lady Lucy...you are a noted authoress, are you not?"

Panic tightened in Lucy's chest. She could hear the anger hot beneath his words.

"I..."

"So very inarticulate all of a sudden," Methven mocked.

"Methven, my dear fellow." The Duke of Forres was hurrying toward them down the path, Lucy's sisters behind him. The rest of the wedding guests were spilling out of the church now. "My dear chap," the duke said again. "I don't know what to say. I do apologize for the incivility of my son in running off with your future wife. Frightful bad manners."

The moment was broken. Lucy drew a sharp breath and drew closer to Mairi's side for comfort and support. She could feel herself shaking.

Robert Methven's gaze remained fixed on her face. "Pray do not give the matter another thought, Your Grace," he said. "I am sure I shall find a way to claim recompense." He bowed to Lucy. "We shall continue our conversation later, madam."

Not if she could help it.

Lucy watched him walk away. His stride was long and he did not look back.

"Very civil," the duke said. He sounded surprised. Evidently, Lucy thought, he had missed the implied threat in Robert Methven's words.

Lucy knew better. There was nothing remotely civil about Robert Methven, nor would there be in his revenge. It was not over.

CHAPTER THREE.

LUCY HAD NOT wanted to attend the wedding breakfast, but her father had, for once, been adamant.

"Methven has invited us," he said firmly. "The least that we can do is support him. This way we minimize the scandal of your brother's appalling behavior and ensure that there is no more bad blood between our families."

So that was that. Lucy sat through the banquet fidgeting as though her seat were covered in pine needles. She had no appetite. The food and drink turned to ashes in her mouth. She could barely swallow. She endured the gossip about Lachlan and the stares and the whispers with a bright and entirely artificial smile pinned on her face while inside, her stomach was curling with apprehension. She was seated a long way down the table from Robert Methven, but she could feel him looking at her, feel the heat of his gaze and sense the way he was studying her. Yet when she risked a glance in his direction, he was always looking the other way and paying her no attention at all. It could only be her guilt that was making her feel so on edge.

The meal ended and the dancing began. By now the wedding guests were extremely merry because the wine had circulated lavishly. Dulcibella's elopement with the wrong bridegroom had almost been forgotten.

"Damned fine celebration," Lucy heard one inebriated peer slur to another. "Best wedding of the year."

Lucy sat with her godmother and the other chaperones, awkward and alone on one of the rout chairs at the side of the great hall of Brodrie Castle. Lucy hated the fact that at four and twenty she was still required to have a chaperone simply because she was not married. It was ridiculous. She knew it was society's rule, but nevertheless it made her feel as though she were still a child. And since she had no intention of marrying, she could foresee the dismal prospect of being chaperoned until she was old enough to be a fully fledged spinster of thirty-five years at least.

She was desperate for this interminable party to end, but it seemed she was the only one who felt that way. Everyone else was having a marvelous time. She could see her sister Mairi twirling enthusiastically through the reel. Mairi always danced. She was an extrovert by nature. Some said she was a flifrt. No one said that of Lucy. She was considered too serious, too well behaved, and the tragedy of her dead fiance had added a touch of melancholy to her reputation.

Her sister Christina was also dancing. Christina was not a flirt. She was firmly on the shelf, companion to their father, housekeeper and hostess, destined never to wed. Yet despite that, she was dancing while Lucy sat alone with the other wallflowers. It was a state of affairs that happened with increasing frequency over the past couple of years. Lucy knew she had a reputation for being fastidious because she had rejected so many suitors. The gentlemen had given up trying, swearing they could not live up to the memory of the late, sainted Lord MacGillivray. If only they knew. If only they knew that no one could measure up because no other bridegroom would accept a marriage in name only.

Intimacy with a man was out of the question for Lucy. She was not going to make the same mistake as Alice. She had to protect herself. That was why Duncan MacGillivray had been her ideal; he had had absolutely no desire to bed her. He had an heir, he had a spare and he had no interest in sex.

Lucy's gaze wandered back to the dance. Mairi was spinning down the set of a country dance, passing from hand to hand, slender, smiling, a bright dazzling figure. Lucy felt a curious ache in her chest. Sometimes Mairi reminded her of Alice, radiant, charming, glowing with happiness. Lucy's twin had had an exasperating habit of hearing only what she wanted to hear, of ignoring trouble with a blithe indifference and of charming her way out of difficulties. But in the end the trouble was so deep there was no way out. Lucy shivered. The stone pillars and baronial grandness of the great hall dissolved into another time, another place, and Alice was clinging to her hands, her face wet with tears: "Help me, Lucy! I'm so afraid...."

Lucy had wanted to help, but she had not known what to do. She had been sixteen years old, shocked, terrified, helpless. Alice had held her so tightly it had hurt, words pouring from her in a broken whisper: "I love him so much... I would do anything for him..." At the end she had called out for the man she loved, but he had not been there for her. Instead it had been Lucy who had held Alice as she had slipped away, as she had whispered how she was sorry, how she wished she had confided in Lucy before.

"I never told because I was afraid I would be in trouble. Please don't tell anyone, Lucy! Help me...."

By then it had been far, far too late to help Alice. Lucy had thought that they had had no secrets, but that was not true. On the terrible night that Alice had died, Lucy had found out just how much her twin had kept a secret from her and just how high was the price paid for love.

Lucy gave a violent shiver and the great hall came back into focus and the music was playing and the dancers still dancing and nothing had changed, but in her heart was the cold emptiness that always filled her when she remembered Alice.

Her godmother, Lady Kenton, was addressing her.

"We shall never get you a husband, Lucy, if no one even asks you to dance," Lady Kenton said. "It is most frustrating."

Unfortunately Lady Kenton deemed it her duty as Lucy's godmother and the dearest friend of her late mother to find Lucy a man. Lucy had asked her not to bother, but Lady Kenton was keen, all the keener as the years slipped past.

"I shall speak to your father about your marriage," her godmother was saying. "He has been most remiss in letting matters slide since Lord MacGillivray's death. It is time we found you another suitor."

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!"