Her gaze fell on the only sensible pair of footwear she’d been able to find, a sturdy pair of walking boots, and inspiration struck. She grabbed one and began pulling out the length of leather used to lace it up. Once the thong was freed from the eyelets, she gathered her tousled curls in one hand and began clumsily trying to wrap the unruly mass, intending to tie it all back at the nape of her neck.
She’d quite nearly managed when she felt the unexpected touch of a hand on hers. With a startled shriek she scrambled away, crablike, and crawled around one of the open trunks, trying to put something solid between her and the intruder. “I
knew
I should have used that fire poker on you!”
There came a chuckle, and at the sound of her husband’s low laugh, Charity peeked over the top of the trunk. She scowled when she saw him standing there, the piece of leather she had dropped dangling from his fingers.
He composed his features and gave her an innocent look. “I was only trying to help.” He glanced around. “From the look of things, you could use someone with more talent in that capacity.”
Charity sighed and stood. “I had no idea I owned so many useless articles of clothing,” she admitted. She held out her arms in a helpless gesture. “Most of those shoes wouldn’t hold up ten minutes if I were to wear them out walking in this terrain.”
Lachlan smiled. “It appears I married a very practical girl. What an unexpected delight.” He took two long steps in her direction, reached for her chin and tilted her face up to his.
The last remnants of Charity’s irritation evaporated, along with her ability to breathe. “You’re so beautiful,” she whispered, just before he took her lips in a long, soft kiss.
When he lifted his mouth from hers and turned her around so that he could see to gathering her hair, Charity closed her eyes, embarrassed by her inadvertent statement. Had she really told him he was beautiful?
Again?
“There,” said Lachlan. “A temporary solution to your grooming woes.” He dropped his hands to her shoulders and pulled her back against him. “I need to go into the village today.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Would you like to go with me? We could find you a proper lady’s maid, and I could show you around.”
Charity swallowed, not trusting herself to speak without blurting out more nonsense about her husband’s beauty. Instead, she nodded.
Lachlan held her a moment longer, then let go and stepped away. He bent to pick up the boot from which Charity had removed the leather lace. “You made quite an impression on my valet, kitten.”
At that statement, Charity found her voice and spun around, words suddenly tumbling over one another in their rush to escape her lips. “He sneaked up on me and . . . and . . . he
smirked
at me in the most horribly menacing
way.” She gesticulated wildly. “Why in the world do you employ someone who looks so frightening?” Shuddering, she leaned forward and lowered her voice. “And I was
naked
,” she hissed.
Lachlan hid a smile. “Well, he likes you.”
Taken aback, Charity straightened and closed her mouth with a snap. She frowned, her forehead furrowed in confusion. “Did he not tell you that I threatened him with a fire poker?”
“He did.” Lachlan nodded, still struggling to keep a straight face. “I believe you threatened me with the same fate when I came into the room just now.”
She blushed. “Well, it isn’t my fault. Does everyone in this house intend to continue skulking about, sneaking up on people and scaring them half to death?”
Lachlan finally gave up and laughed. “You are exactly what this place needs, love. A bit of life and fire. Now let’s find you a pair of reasonably serviceable shoes and get going. I’ll send Niles to see if he can make sense of this mess while we’re gone. He’ll have to do until we get you a lady’s maid.”
The coach carrying the Marquess and Marchioness of Asheburton had scarcely cleared the gates of the keep when, unnoticed by the occupants of either vehicle, it passed the dowager marchioness’s conveyance just returning from the village. The smaller carriage clattered over the drawbridge and circled around the drive, coming to a stop before the wide, shallow steps that led up to the great doors.
Lewiston, who had only just stepped inside after seeing Lachlan and Charity off, walked back out to help his mother alight. To his surprise, once Eloise Kimball was safely on the ground, another woman emerged from the
confines of the carriage. He took one look at the newcomer’s face and sucked in his breath.
“Mother,” he hissed, “have you lost your mind?”
Eloise looked back at him, her eyes wide with innocence. “You remember Beth Gilweather.” She smiled at the young blonde girl, who bobbed a quick curtsy in Lewiston’s direction. “Of course you do, darling. Beth has graciously agreed to come be my lady’s maid.”
Lewiston glanced at the girl, a carefully blank look on her pretty face, but her green eyes were calculating and knowing, and she was listening intently. With an exasperated sigh he took his mother’s elbow and pulled her a few steps away.
“Lachlan’s going to know exactly why you’ve brought his former fiancée here, Mother.”
“Of course he is,” she returned in a reasonable tone. “He is well aware of the fact that I intended to find a lady’s maid. You did tell him that’s why I’d traveled to the village, didn’t you?” She was unable to quite keep the look of triumph from her eyes.
“Yes,” Lewiston bit out. “I told him.”
Eloise laid a hand on her younger son’s cheek. “Darling. You seem vexed. Have you had luncheon? You always become irritable when you are hungry.”
Lewiston shook his head. “I wash my hands of this, Mother. You deal with Lachlan yourself when he learns what you’ve done.” He turned away, nodded once at Beth, who smiled back sweetly, and strode inside.
Twenty-seven
I
think Scotland might be the most beautiful place in the entire world.” Charity turned away from watching the passing scenery and smiled at her husband, her eyes shining with happiness.
“I tend to agree, kitten,” he replied, giving his bride an indulgent smile that lent his normally stern expression an engaging boyishness. “If that is the case, it has only been made more beautiful by your presence.”
“Charming wretch.” Fascinated by the difference a simple smile made, Charity stared at him a moment and then tilted her face up to his for a quick kiss. “Tell me about the villagers, please,” she said, picturing a small, intimate group of people not unlike the close-knit community of her childhood. Everyone knew everyone else in Pelthamshire, which could be provoking at times but was, for the most part, rather wonderful. “Are a great many of them employed by the keep?”
“The village exists to support the Marquess of Asheburton, which means it is my duty and responsibility to ensure their livelihoods are protected and secure.” He tugged at one bright red-gold curl. “I don’t, however, consider them employees.”
The road beneath the wheels of the coach had gradually changed as they approached the village, smoothing out and causing fewer jars and bumps for the occupants. Charity pushed away from her husband and scooted back to the
window, watching as they passed outlying farms and fields. Without fail, the people working in those fields looked up, smiled, and waved as the burgundy coach drove past with its coat of arms emblazoned on the doors.
Charity waved back cheerfully, and Lachlan shook his head, still smiling at the look of childlike wonder in her large aqua eyes. Young boys and girls appeared from nowhere to run along the road a ways before falling off pace as they tired or were called back by their mothers.
It was, all in all, the most enjoyable day she’d experienced since leaving Pelthamshire for her London Season. Without warning, the coach turned off the road to the right. Thrown off balance, Charity plunked back on the seat next to Lachlan, and then leaned over him, trying to see where they were going through the window on his side. He laughed and tugged her across his lap so that she could see more easily.
“Relax, kitten,” he told her. “We’re going to stop here. You can get out and see all there is to see.”
Sure enough, as soon as the coach stopped the door opened from the outside and a liveried footman bowed and offered his hand to help Charity down. She disembarked with a grateful smile, followed closely by Lachlan, who took her by the arm and guided her around the back of the coach. There, nestled into a copse of elm trees, was a quaint little gray stone church. A set of steps led up to the white oak doors, which stood open, inviting all who passed to come inside. Lachlan held out a hand.
“It’s so pretty,” said Charity, placing her hand in his. She followed him up the steps and into the dim interior.
Fifteen rows of wooden pews and kneelers flanked a wide center aisle that led to the chancel, three shallow steps up from the nave. A simple lectern stood to the right on the
chancel, and a pulpit to the left. Though the building itself was small, the windows were not. Three soaring stained glass windows depicting biblical stories marched along both sides of the nave, topped with half circles of clear glass to allow natural light to flow through during the day. Charity looked around in wonder, fascinated that such a beautifully simple structure existed in the rustic area.
Lachlan led her down the aisle. “Father Bartholemew—”
“This church is Catholic?” interrupted Charity.
“Not precisely,” Lachlan said. “Father Bartholemew came to Ashton not long after I met Gregory, my unofficial tutor, and I have always suspected he came from England at Gregory’s urging.” He stopped and pulled Charity up against his side, curving an arm around her shoulders. “Before that, Ashton did not have a church. A small group of Christians met each week in homes and shops, but there was really no formal religion. Some residents were pagan, and some held no beliefs at all.
“I never attended church as a child,” he admitted. “Neither of my parents were spiritual. Even if they had some belief in Christianity, my mother would never have taken us to worship with the people in the village she viewed as common. What I now know of religion I learned with Gregory, at first from his many books and then from his example. He was devout, and mentioned to me once that he studied to be a vicar. He never told me why he gave up that plan. I strongly suspect he fell in love and lost her for some reason, but I never asked him personal questions. We had rather an unspoken agreement that such things were not to be discussed.”
Charity rubbed her cheek on his jacket. “I love it when you speak of your childhood.”
Lachlan kissed the top of her head and sat down in the
first pew, pulling her down onto his lap. “One day, when I arrived at Gregory’s cabin, there was a stranger visiting him. He wore the robes of a man of the cloth and smiled kindly when I walked through the door. I apologized for interrupting, but both men encouraged me to stay. Gregory introduced me to Father Bart, and then gave me my daily assignment. I sat down to study at my little table but kept one ear on the conversation, the first of many such conversations to which I avidly paid attention.
“They were talking about building this church on the outskirts of the village. The project was to be privately funded, though they did not discuss from where the funds were to come, and there was to be no intention of changing the way the villagers currently chose to worship. Rather, Father Bart would offer himself and his church as an alternative to the unorganized congregation that already existed.
“Before long, most of the villagers who were inclined toward Christianity began to attend services on Sunday. My family still did not, but my religious education continued in Gregory’s cabin, just like all my other lessons, with Father Bart frequently joining our discussions. After Gregory went home to England, I found myself stopping here.”
Charity chewed on her lower lip. “Won’t Father Bartholomew be disappointed that you did not get married here?”
“Why, yes. He is both surprised
and
disappointed.”
Startled by the voice that came from behind them, Charity twisted around in her husband’s lap to see a tall, thin gentleman in a simple black robe coming down the aisle from the doorway. Both she and Lachlan stood, and when the clergyman drew near, Lachlan stepped forward, a broad smile wreathing his face, and embraced the older man.
He turned back. “Father Bart, please meet my wife, Charity Kimball.”
Charity was still unused to hearing her new full name spoken, and for a moment it did not register that Lachlan meant her. When the men eyed her curiously, she gave a little start of surprise. “Oh! You mean me, don’t you?”
Both men laughed, and she blushed a little, smiling along with them. “Forgive me, Father.” She wrinkled her forehead. “I’m not really sure if I should curtsy or . . . ?” Her words trailed off, and she turned her hands palms up and shrugged. Her religious upbringing had been cursory, at best, since the death of her mother when she was three. Before that, the family had attended the small church in Pelthamshire headed by the dour-faced Reverend Teesbury who, when children saw him out, inspired them to run the other way so that they wouldn’t have to address him.
Father Bart took both of her hands in his, stepped forward and pressed a kiss onto her cheek. “You are delightful, my child.” He glowered in Lachlan’s direction. “I can’t say the same for your husband.”
The marquess looked unperturbed. “I thought it best that we get married at the border for a couple of reasons.”
Bartholomew crossed his arms. “They had better be
good
reasons.”
Charity laughed, loving the sight of her powerful husband put in the position of explaining himself.
“Well, in the first place,” said Lachlan to the tall, spare clergyman with a dampening look at his wife, “I was not entirely sure Charity wouldn’t change her mind if I gave her too much time to think about it.”
“Is that so?” she asked, her eyes dancing impishly.
“Quite.” His expression softened. “And I was quite determined, you see, to have her as my wife.”