She regarded him soberly, and one dark winged brow rose for a second before she turned and headed back down the path. He’d be damned if he knew the question that elegant brow had asked.
But then, he’d probably be damned anyway.
THIRTEEN
THE DIFFERENCES BETWEEN LOW PLACES AND EXTREMELY LOW PLACES
“YOU’RE CERTAIN YOU WOULD not like one of us to accompany you?” the abbot asked, studying Kate intently. The good priest had asked her specifically into his offices and just as specifically had asked Kit to wait outside. The door was thick. They could not be overheard.
“Oh, no,” she answered serenely. “I’m sure your monks would do far more good here rather than chaperoning me.”
The crystal rosary made a delicate clicking sound in the abbot’s hand, his gaze contemplative and remote. “There was a time I would have quite confidently entrusted your welfare to Christian. But I do not know him as I once did.”
“I do.” She spoke with absolute conviction. Kit hadn’t wanted to stop kissing her, and she… well, she wasn’t ready yet to examine the reasons for her behavior. Suffice to say that she had been quite willing to continue kissing him. Only Kit had stopped it. Because, quite simply, he would not allow injury of any variety, or from any source, to come to her. Including from him.
No, she had no fears that Kit would make another attempt in that vein. Which ought to make her happy. And did. Mostly. When it was not vexing her with half-realized questions and fully formed, and extravagantly improper, speculations.
“I am as safe with Christian MacNeill as I am with Brother Martin.” She sounded petulant, even to her own ear.
The abbot smiled. “As you will.” He raised his hand; the young monk at the door opened it, and Kit came in at once.
“You’ve adequately warned her of my myriad short-comings, I presume?”
“I have tried.”
“But she wouldn’t take your good advice.”
“Nor my offer to have someone accompany you.”
“Well, that’s fortuitous, since I wouldn’t allow anyone to come, regardless.”
“Christian—”
“No, Father Abbot. She’s mine and mine alone until I—”
“Fulfill your duty,” Kate interrupted, deciding to put an end to this nonsense. She looked at the abbot. “Believe me, sir. I am in no danger from Mr. MacNeill.”
“There is more than one type of danger,” the abbot said. “Have you considered that the marquis might find your arrival in the sole company of this man improper?”
“I am convinced I can explain matters to his satisfaction.”
Kit grinned at the abbot. “How can he take exception to the lady having a driver?”
“Father Abbot,” Kate said, ignoring him and rising, “I thank you again most sincerely for your kindness as well as your hospitality.”
She turned to Kit, her expression inscrutable. What had happened to the breathless siren who’d responded so passionately to him yesterday? He knew, damn her. She had disappeared, replaced by this smooth-faced society beauty who had been recalled to her purpose by the mention of the marquis. His jaw tightened.
“Now, unless the abbot has further warnings or instruction?” She looked at the abbot. He shook his head. “I think we can leave, Mr. MacNeill.”
Kit bowed with sardonic grace. “As you will, ma’am.”
As soon as they left St. Bride’s, snow began to fall from a heavy sky, drifting across the road and glistening from the shadows beneath the trees. Kate fell silent, wrapped in the brown robe the monks had given her. The journey was not going as she’d anticipated.
Not that she was perfectly clear on what she had anticipated, but it wasn’t this excruciating silence. And yes, it had occurred to her that after yesterday there might be some awkwardness to overcome before they were quite back on friendly terms. Friendly? She wasn’t certain she could call their relationship that—but certainly… communicative. Yet ever since they’d left the abbey, Kit had acted as if she was a stranger, someone whose companionship was to be tolerated, not encouraged.
“Don’t be afraid of me.” He finally broke the silence.
“I’m not,” she said. Whatever she had anticipated him saying, it hadn’t been that. Even though he had instigated the kiss, he had also been the one who had ended it. And that is precisely why she had trusted him to take her to Clyth.
“I would never force myself on you— Damn,” he burst out. “Why should you believe me? I have already committed that offense, haven’t I?”
“Of course you will not force yourself on me,” she replied calmly. “You are a gentleman.”
He laughed at that. “I am no gentleman, ma’am. I am the bastard son of a Scottish whore.” His word cracked like a whip, stinging her but laying him open. She saw the wound in his eyes, saw him brace himself against it.
“I am sorry.”
He shook his head in angry exasperation. “I don’t want your pity, I want you to see things as they are, not be seduced by the tales of daft old men so long gone from the world that they don’t know truth from fancy.”
She shook her head. “The abbot isn’t daft, and I think he is well aware of what is real and what is not.”
“Then I wish he would have taught me that trick of discernment,” Kit replied.
“He told me about your heritage.”
Kit sighed. “Did he? Let me guess. He told you we were the sons of the last great Scottish chieftains.”
She nodded.
“And even though our births might not have been legitimate, we were still the true heirs of the Highlands. Brave, braw warriors of the old blood.”
“Yes.” That is exactly what the abbot had said.
Kit regarded her with something like pity. “He told us the same when we came to him. But it’s just a child’s tale, told to make a bitter world a bit more palatable.”
No. It wasn’t true. And even he did not fully believe that claim, she could see it. The abbot had seemed not only earnest, but utterly calm, with the sort of calm that only complete conviction can convey. “I don’t believe that,” she said stubbornly.
“I am not a gentleman, Mrs. Blackburn. I am wholly my mother’s son. You’d do well to remember that next time you ascribe gentlemanly motives to me.”
“Who are you trying to punish?” she asked. “Me, for believing the abbot? Or you, for not?”
For a long moment he drove, his body rigid, his jaw squared.
“Kit,” she said tentatively, not liking the dark and empty expression in his eyes. “You mustn’t—”
“Mind the road for any travelers. We’re getting closer to the coast.”
There were no travelers.
Hours passed one into another with him answering her queries with nods. When he did speak—and that was rare enough—he took pains to address her formally, seeking now, quite openly, to put distance between them.
The bracing tang of pine and fir replaced the wet, loamy scent of the vale as they drove up into the blue-green stands of pine. Toward dusk, Kit spied a croft and drove to the door. “Hold Doran while I see to the inside.”
He handed her the reins and disappeared inside. He returned in a few minutes and, with only the most cursory touch, aided her descent. She ducked inside and saw that he’d already set a fire below a cutout hole in the ceiling. He hadn’t followed her in, and when she turned, she saw that he’d unharnessed Doran and was placing a bridle on him.
“What are you doing?”
“I want to look around,” he answered.
“Where?” she asked.
“Up the road a ways. I’m not sure of my bearings anymore. I want to ride about a bit and see if I recognize anything.”
It was a palpable lie. How would he have known about the croft if he didn’t know the area? Before she could remark on it, he grabbed a handful of mane and vaulted astride Doran’s bare back. He looked down at her, and she knew that her heart was in her eyes, her old fear of being abandoned filling them.
With a muttered curse he reached down and cupped her chin roughly in his hand. “Don’t look like that,” he said harshly. “I promise I will be back. I promise you will come to no harm here while I am gone.”
“If I ask you to stay, will you?”
His gaze grew tortured. “I promised I would do as you asked, did I not?”
“Yes. But, would you stay?”
“I would do anything you ask.”
“Would you stay?”
A heartbeat passed. “Yes.”
She nodded somberly. “Then I won’t ask.”
He touched his heels to the gelding’s side and rode.
Only a few dull embers still glowed on the stone hearth when Kate awoke. She peered groggily into the near-perfect darkness of the windowless croft. A horse nickered outside, and she heard a man speak soothingly to it, his voice low and exhausted. MacNeill.
She hadn’t doubted he would return. Not for a minute. Not even when the fire had burned low and the wind had begun its plaintive whisper and darkness had spilled from the sky like a dead bride’s veil. He’d been near all along, watching over the croft. She hadn’t seen him. She hadn’t needed to. She’d just known.
She heard the door creak and opened her eyes a little. For a brief instant, he stood silhouetted against the star-strewn sky. Then the door clicked shut and the room fell into a deep darkness. She heard the crackle of the fire as he fed it more fuel, and a few seconds later golden light bathed her. She rolled her head over onto her arm and studied him through half-opened eyes.
He sat by the fire with his back against the wall, his knees bent, his hand resting on them, the fingers lax. He was watching her, his eyes catching the occasional flare of firelight as the crimson light played fitfully over his face, stark and strong and hard and predatory. Like the ghost of some ancient Celtic king.
Maybe he was, she thought drowsily. So stern and forbidding and beautiful. A living phantom of a glorious, bold past.
“MacNeill?”
“Go back to sleep.”
“MacNeill,” she insisted groggily. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
She was almost asleep when she heard him answer from a long way off, his voice soft and forsaken. “Yes. Oh, God, yes.”
FOURTEEN
CONCERNING THE DOUBTFUL CHARMS OF VILLAGE LIFE
THE NEXT MORNING KATE awoke to find the croft cleared. She hurried outside and found Kit waiting beside the phaeton.
“Good morning,” she said. In answer he handed her a hard-cooked egg and a piece of bread from the basket the monks had sent with them. As she reached to take it, the sheet of paper she’d been writing on fell from her pocket and sailed to land at Kit’s feet. Hastily, she bent to retrieve it, but Kit was there before her.
He picked up the page and read. “‘The Virtues of Turnips as Kitchen Staple.’” He looked at her sharply. “What is this?”
“A book I am writing,” she sniffed. “I am convinced I may find someone to publish it.”
“What is its subject?” His voice was sarcastic. He was in a foul mood.
“I am writing a book on how to come down gracefully in the world.”
He stilled. “Is that why you have been asking me all those questions?”
“No!”
“You haven’t been using me for reference?” His gaze shot to the paper and he read, “ ‘The Ruffian, A Cautionary Description of His Environs and Companions.’ ”
“Well, perhaps to some degree,” she said in a small voice. “But you are deliberately choosing to place the worst possible connotations on what is simply an attempt to provide for myself.”
“Aha! I see,” he said. “Then pray, excuse me for taking such unwarranted exception. Indeed, if I can be of any further aid in helping you to fathom the workings of the lower class mind, please feel free to avail yourself of my understanding.”
She eyed him thoughtfully. “Well, there was one thing I wanted to—”
“I was being ironical, ma’am,” Kit ground out.
“I understood that,” she lied.
He gave a short unamused guffaw and returned to harnessing Doran, his back stiff. When he was done, he silently handed her into the carriage.
So, today was to be a repeat of yesterday’s silence, was it? Fine. If he wanted nothing more to do with her, then she had little choice but to bow to his wishes. She had some pride left.
’Twas best, she told herself. Soon she would be away from him, never to see him again. Indeed, Kit was right to distance himself from her. In fact, he showed a great deal more sense than she.
She had other things to consider, important plans quickly coming to fruition. She must keep her eye on the future. By this time tomorrow, she would be at the castle. The thought touched off waves of anxiety. Years ago, the marquis had looked upon her favorably. He’d danced often enough with her to have had it remarked upon and once had even taken her in to dine.
A few of her friends had whispered that he’d been on the cusp of paying her court. But, flattering as such unfounded faith in her appeal had been, Kate had known better. She was country gentry, and he was a marquis. Members of society from such different spheres did not intermarry. But he had flirted with her, tamely, circumspectly, so as not to raise false expectations, but sincerely.
She counted on his remembering kindly those short weeks when their circles had overlapped, however briefly. Would he still see something of the vivacious young woman she’d once been? Or would he only see yet another petitioner for his largesse? She reached up to touch her hair.
“There’s an inn at Clyth where you can make of yourself what you would before we go on to the castle.”
Kate straightened on the hard plank seat, embarrassed that Kit had seen and recognized her vanity. But a woman without family or income, a woman like her, needed to look well, comport herself better, and adopt an agreeable manner in order to secure herself the charity of such distant connections as she could make herself approach.
“Thank you. That would be most agreeable.”
Toward midday the road left the foothills and entered an autumn-hued plain. They passed more crofts, their mossy stone fences crumbled and untended, the abandoned outposts left by a vanishing nation of drovers and farmers. As the day wore on, the briny scent of the sea became pronounced. Seabirds appeared, squalling black-capped terns and white gulls carting and wheeling above a distant silver-edged horizon.
A few miles later they emerged at the tops of sheer white cliffs plunging into the sea. The road pitched abruptly down into a village, small brick houses clinging tenaciously to the cliff side, thin curls of coal smoke drifting above chimneypots like question marks.
At the bottom of the steep road, the houses congregated thickly along a narrow quay. Two ancient piers jutted out from it, casting shadows across a dozen battered, open fishing boats lying on their sides in a bed of shimmering mud. The tide was out, and the scent of fish and kerosene and decaying seaweed hung thick and malodorous in the air.
“Clyth,” Kit said, correctly reading her repugnance. “The inn is on the wharf. Perhaps you’d rather continue on to the castle after all?”
“No!” Arrive at the castle in a dress in which she’d slept? She couldn’t. Not when she had a perfectly lovely gown and a hairbrush in her trunk. “Please.”
He did not answer, but maneuvered the phaeton down onto the quay. Few people were out. A pair of burly fishermen with weathered faces stared at them with sullen hostility, and a tired-looking woman emerged from a low doorway, clutching a battered pail of coals.
Kit pulled the gelding to a halt before a narrow building sandwiched between two warehouses. A gray board swung from an arm projecting above the doorway, but sea salt and time had obliterated whatever had once been written there. A whey-faced urchin dashed out of the doorway and snatched at Doran’s reins.
“Stable’s out back,” the lad croaked. “I’ll rub him down proper and feed him and see him snug and safe fer tuppence, Cap.”
Kit flipped a coin to the lad, who snatched it out of the air. Eager to escape the bitter, reeking wind coming off the harbor, Kate did not wait for Kit’s help but scrambled down out of the carriage and fled inside. It was better than she expected. A thin layer of dust coated the ceiling beams, but the fire in the hearth burned clean, and the harbor stench faded as soon as the doors closed behind her. The only occupants were a pair of men seated in the gloom at the far side of the room. Upon her entrance, they broke off their conversation and looked up. The older man, a lantern-jawed fellow with thick, hunched shoulders, stood up, wiping his hands on a dirty apron tied about his waist. His eyes slid slowly over Kate. “Can do fer ye?”
“Are you the innkeeper?”
“Aye.”
“How far to Castle Parnell?” Kate asked.
“Under an hour astride, nearer two hours if ye drive.”
“I see.” She had hoped to be in the castle by nightfall, but it looked as if she would have to be patient and wait until the morrow. She did not examine the reason why she felt more relief than irritation at the delay.
“Is there someone you can send to the castle?” she asked.
The speaker glanced at his companion, an athletic-looking young man with thick black hair and heavy brows, an improbable lace cravat beneath his chin and an even more improbable rapier fastened at his waist. He was a handsome devil, and by the manner in which he let his gaze slip over Kate, he knew it, too. He gave the innkeeper a nod.
“Aye. Can do tha’.”
“Then please send him at once. And tell him to inform the castle that Mrs. Katherine Blackburn has arrived in Clyth and will be traveling to the castle at first light.”
“Ye’ll be Mrs. Blackburn, then?” the innkeeper’s companion asked.
“Yes.”
“Welcome to Clyth, Mrs. Blackburn,” he said. “I’m Callum Lamont.”
A sudden burst of cold air stirred the hem of her skirts as the door behind her opened.
“The lady requires a room.”
The innkeeper peered beyond Kate to where Kit stood, balancing the heavy trunk easily on his broad shoulder, carrying the crate by its rope ties. He filled the low doorway behind Kate, his height and breadth dwarfing her. Lamont’s eyes narrowed sharply, but he did not say a word, instead leaning back into the shadows.
“Three shillings a night,” the innkeeper said, shambling behind the bar and motioning for Kit and Kate to follow. “Payable in advance.”
Kit placed a crown on the ledger.
“And what of ye, Cap?” the innkeeper asked. “Ye need a room, or—” He smiled unctuously.
“Ye’ve got it wrong,
friend
.” There was nothing remotely friendly about the way Kit pronounced the word friend. “I’m her driver.”
The man snorted but decided against pursuing the matter further. “There’s only the one room. But I’ll let you bed down above the stables for tuppence.”
“Done.” Kit’s chill green eyes flickered toward her. “Is there anything else you need?”
“Yes. I would like a tub with hot water sent up—”
The innkeeper hooted with laughter.
“The lady would like a bath.” Kit’s tone effectively dampened the innkeeper’s hilarity.
With a sullen look, the innkeeper cupped a huge paw around his mouth and bellowed, “Meg!”
A moment later a skinny, harried-looking blond woman appeared. “Wha’, Gordie?”
“You and Robbie fetch that copper washtub into the kitchen and fill it up with hot water. Lady here wants a
bath
.” He gave Kate a look that said clearly how daft he thought the notion. “Cannot drag the tub up the stairs. But the kitchen’s snug enough. Meg’ll tend ye, and Robbie’ll watch over the door. Fer another shilling.”
“That will be fine,” Kate said. She would have bathed in the horse trough if necessary. She only wanted to feel clean again. Meg, her eyes grown round with the wonder of someone bathing in the winter, bobbed a quick curtsey and disappeared.
“Anyt’ing else?” the innkeeper asked, a bit more eager now that he’d seen the color of Kit’s gold.
“Do you have anything worth drinking?” Kit asked.
“I’ve never had no complaints.” The innkeeper stooped down and reemerged with a brown glass bottle and two tin cups. Wordlessly, he poured a finger into one cup and shoved it at Kit, who just as silently lifted it to his lips and took a swallow. For a second, his mouth relaxed appreciatively.
“Brandy. French. I can see why you don’t have any complaints.”
“Found it on the beach, I did.”
“Amazing the treasure some people are so careless with.” His gaze slipped briefly toward Kate. His face grew grim. He poured out a measure first for her, then himself. He lifted his cup in her direction.
“May you find what you want, Mrs. Blackburn,” he said with forced bonhomie.
“And may I find what I
need
, Mr. MacNeill,” she replied, holding his gaze.