Claimed By The Laird Part 8

"It looks beautiful, Papa," Christina said obediently. They were standing in the duke's garden grotto. The light was dim and the air cool. Outside the rain beat down with an unrelenting heaviness. It seemed to echo through Christina's head. Lucas had not been wrong; she had the devil of a headache this morning.

The grotto was far from finished, but Lucas had certainly made good progress. The pool had been hollowed out and lined with the stone that her father had had imported specially from Italy. A cascade of water now splashed down into it from the spring that rose in the bank above them.

Christina turned to admire the way the light played across the rippling cascade. Her father was still talking, but she let his words flow over her. Instead she watched Lucas in the reflection on the dancing water. It felt strange, intimate. She was so self-conscious that she could not look directly at him. In the enclosed s.p.a.ce of the grotto, she was almost unbearably aware of him standing next to her, of his arm brushing hers, of his gaze on her face. She had woken late with s.n.a.t.c.hes of memory from the previous night drifting through her mind. She wished she had not been able to recall any of it, but unfortunately her memory was not that obliging. She remembered all too clearly that Lucas had had to pick her up off the gravel when she had fallen over, that he had helped her up the stairs, that she had drunkenly confided in him her reasons for smuggling the whisky, that he had kissed her with a fierce pa.s.sion and that she would have been quite happy if he had carried her off to her bed there and then. Despite the chill of the day, she felt hot color mantle her cheeks.

As a debutante, she'd had a reckless, dangerous affair with the man to whom she had been betrothed, Lord McGill. At the time, she had been hopelessly infatuated. The s.n.a.t.c.hed meetings and illicit pa.s.sion had pandered to her romantic nature, and she had not seen the danger because she had a.s.sumed that nothing could spoil her happiness. She had learned that lesson fast enough; learned that nothing in life was certain or safe. Her mother had died and the bottom had dropped out of her world. She had lost almost everything; mother, lover, the promise of the future.

The attraction she felt for Lucas was at least as strong as her girlish pa.s.sion for McGill had been, though she was not stupid enough to tumble thoughtlessly into love with any man these days. It did not matter how powerful that dangerous illusory sense of connection was that she shared with Lucas. She knew that the only relationship she could have with him would be as mistress and lover, and there were too many reasons why that could never happen, so there was nothing for them; she knew it.

"My statues will look splendid in the wall niches." The duke was twirling around with excitement like a small child at the circus. "And with the sh.e.l.ls on the ceiling reflecting the light..." He waved his arms about enthusiastically. "Oh, yes, I can see it now!"

"I have drawn up some detail for the decoration, Your Grace," Lucas was saying, laying out a sheet on the stone ledge that ran around the edge of the pool. "I thought to have a fresco with dolphins and putti, and perhaps a motto etched in the stone...."

Christina was intrigued that Lucas knew about Renaissance design. She wondered if he had gotten the ideas from talking to Bevan. She leaned over to look at the neat pencil sketches. The duke was shortsighted without his gla.s.ses. He was nodding and smiling, but Christina was not sure he could see the drawing in detail, least of all the lettering around the fresco. He was bound to ask her to describe it later.

"'Vincere vel mori,'" she read. "To conquer or die." It was the motto from her silver clasp. She looked up at Lucas in surprise. "Did you choose that yourself?" she asked. "Why those words?"

Lucas did not look at her. He was watching the duke. "I thought they were your family motto," he said. He glanced at her, and for a moment she saw some emotion in his dark eyes that chilled her, it was so remote and cold. She wondered if she had misread his expression in the pale light of the grotto, but then her father claimed her attention. The duke seemed agitated, running a hand through his hair, shaking his head violently.

"No, my dear fellow, that simply won't do!" he exclaimed. "No cherubs, no dolphins and certainly no motto!"

"I'm afraid you have made a mistake," Christina said to Lucas. "The Forres motto is Constant and Faithful."

Lucas smiled at her. "That seems more appropriate," he said, "to you."

Christina blushed at the compliment but her father did not appear to notice. He was rolling up Lucas's plans and his hands were shaking slightly.

"I don't want a motto on it," he said querulously. "Statues of nymphs and river G.o.ds! That's what I want!"

Lucas took the sketches from him. "Very well, Your Grace," he said. "I shall go back to the drawing board."

Christina frowned at her father, who had the grace to look a little abashed. "Good job all the same, old chap," he muttered. "I will see you get paid extra for all your hard work. Bevan will see to it." He nodded to Lucas, smiled agreeably at Christina and wandered off out into the rain.

Christina was about to follow him when she saw the expression on Lucas's face. He was staring after her father and he looked angry.

"He did not mean to insult you with the offer of the extra money," she said quickly, putting a hand on his arm. "He thought only to reward you for what you had done."

"He doesn't even remember my name," Lucas said. "And I don't need the money." He turned away and Christina dropped her hand. She was dismayed-and taken aback. Nothing about Lucas's demeanor suggested that he was rich enough to turn down extra wages, and she was surprised he was so sensitive about it. This morning he looked as threadbare as ever in an old shirt, patched trews and a battered pair of boots.

"I'm sorry if we have offended you in some way-" she started to say uncertainly.

He turned back to her so quickly that she caught her breath. The light was behind him and she could not see his face, but she had the impression that he was smiling, and it made her feel quite hot.

"You have not offended me," he a.s.sured her. His voice was intimately low.

"You cannot expect Papa to know everyone by name," Christina said.

"Why not?" Lucas said. "You do." He stepped aside to allow her to precede him down the small tunnel that led out into the gardens. "It doesn't matter," he said. "How is your head this morning?"

"It hurts," Christina admitted. She fidgeted with the braiding on her sleeve. The sensible thing to do would be to drop the subject, but that felt a little churlish after the help he had given her.

"Thank you for rescuing me last night," she said. She looked up into his eyes. The amus.e.m.e.nt she saw there made her heart beat hard.

"It was a pleasure, ma'am," Lucas said.

"I am afraid I was rather drunk," Christina continued.

His lips twitched. She knew that he was trying not to laugh. "I had noticed," he said.

"I probably said some things that I should not," Christina said.

"I imagine you certainly said some things you regret," Lucas said. He slanted her a look. "a.s.suming you actually remember?"

"Unfortunately, I do," Christina said.

This time he did laugh. "Do not give it another thought," he said. "We have all been the worse for drink at times."

"Not me," Christina said.

"I can well believe that," Lucas said. "You are normally so restrained in your behavior, Lady Christina."

There had been nothing restrained in the way she had kissed him the previous night. The thought made hot color sting her cheeks even more brightly. She knew she should broach the matter and explain that it was a mistake that had only occurred because her judgment had been blunted by drink and grief and tiredness. That morning the tiredness had gone, but the grief remained. She had already written a stiff note to Eyre asking for an interview so that she could plead for Callum MacFarlane's release. Next she was going to the village to see what could be salvaged from the pitiful remains of Niall's burned cottage. But whilst she might use the peat-reek as an excuse for her behavior, it was not the real reason. She had confided in Lucas because she had needed him. She had turned to him for more than comfort, and it was dishonest to pretend that it had meant nothing to her.

"I do apologize for my behavior last night," she said in a rush. "Especially when I... When we..." She waved her hands about in embarra.s.sed description.

Lucas laughed again. "I think the phrase you are looking for is 'when we kissed,'" he said. He gave her a slight, mocking bow. "I am at your disposal, Lady Christina, in that as in everything else."

"Really, Mr. Ross," Christina said. She had never felt so ruffled, so breathless. "I am trying to apologize and you are not making matters easy for me."

"You are apologizing because you are a lady," Lucas said, "but I never pretended to be a gentleman."

"Clearly," Christina said. She was not quite sure how a simple apology and thank-you could have become so complex, but it was evidently time to end the conversation. "Well, I am glad that we got that sorted out," she said briskly. "Good day to you, Mr. Ross."

She unfurled her umbrella and stepped out into the dripping gardens, scurrying up the path toward the shelter of the castle. Evidently the kiss had meant nothing to Lucas other than some meaningless dalliance with the mistress of the house. Her face burned. She knew she should be glad that he had dismissed it so casually. His att.i.tude was a perfect match for her thoughts. There could be no relationship between them other than the formal one of lady and servant. It had only been her feminine pride that had made her want the kiss to mean more to Lucas than it had.

THE KILMORY INN was half-empty that night. Word had gone around about Callum MacFarlane's arrest and it seemed no one had the stomach for a drink. Lucas slid into a seat in the corner and the landlord brought him a gla.s.s of peat-reek without a word. The room was warm, dark and thick with the scent of the peat fire and pipe smoke. Lucas took a set of cards out of his pocket and idly dealt a hand.

The peat-reek was as good as ever. It tasted of smoke and heather and honey. Lucas thought about Christina; it was true that she had a remarkable talent for distilling, though he wondered if she would still have a taste for whisky after the previous night.

That morning he had laid a trap for her along with her father. The duke's reaction to the motto had been revealing. He had seemed very agitated that Lucas had chosen to use those words. Which must mean that he knew they were on the silver clasp and did not want to draw attention to them. It was a clear sign that he was culpable in some way.

Christina, on the other hand, had seemed merely puzzled. She had shown no signs of guilt, only confusion. Either she was an exceptionally fine actress, far better at dissembling than her father was, or she was innocent. Lucas knew that his attraction to her predisposed him to want her to be blameless. He had to be careful. Already his feelings for her were blunting his judgment.

The door banged open and Eyre came in. It was typical of the man to make a grand entrance, Lucas thought. Eyre was taunting the villagers of Kilmory with his presence-and his money. It was no wonder they hated him. He slapped down some coin on the table and called loudly for a pint of ale. Lucas saw the glint of gold.

Conversation sank to a menacing murmur and then to silence. Eyre swaggered across the room and sat down with a grunt across the table from Lucas. Lucas ignored him and continued to deal the cards.

"What's your game?" Eyre said.

"Speculation," Lucas said. He saw Eyre's lips twitch into a sour smile.

"Do you want to play for money?" The riding officer asked.

"I don't have much." Lucas fumbled in the pocket of his jacket and put a few pennies on the table.

"Not what I heard, Mr. Ross," Eyre said.

"This isn't the time or place," Lucas said with a quick glance around the room.

"There's nothing like hiding in plain sight," Eyre said. He leaned back in the chair and took a long draught of the ale. The conversation had resumed around them, but they were getting some dagger-sharp glances. "Beat me at cards," Eyre continued, "and every last man of them will thank you for humiliating me."

"That's true," Lucas said. He dealt three cards each, then put the pack down and turned up the top card.

"The jack of diamonds," he said.

Eyre smiled again. "Sidmouth tells me you're here to find out who killed the Russian boy," he said softly, allowing the clink of gla.s.s and the murmur of conversation around them to hide his words from prying ears.

"That's right," Lucas said. He kept his eyes on the cards.

"Who are you really?" Eyre asked. "Sidmouth didn't say."

"You don't need to know," Lucas said.

He could feel Eyre watching him, enmity and calculation in his narrowed gray eyes. He did not care what Eyre was thinking or whether he liked him or not. That was immaterial. What he needed was Eyre's help.

"I don't want you queering my pitch with the smugglers," Eyre said, suddenly vicious. "I've been working this patch a long time. Those arrests are mine."

"I'm not interested in the smuggling," Lucas said. "Only in murder."

Eyre stared at him, pale eyes unblinking. "Sidmouth thinks the smugglers did it," he said. "I'm not so sure."

"That's what I'm here to find out," Lucas said. He thought that Eyre was probably right, based on his findings the previous night. However there was a lot he still did not know, and until he could find further proof of the duke's involvement he was not prepared to rule anything out.

"You'll tell me anything useful you find." Eyre was curt. "I don't care who you are-I need to know. The location of the whisky still, where they hide the barrels..." He slapped a card down.

Lucas already knew the location of the whisky still, but he had no intention of telling Eyre. Not yet. He needed to search the bothy. The last thing he wanted was Eyre and his men charging in there, destroying the evidence and arresting the smugglers or worse, making a hash of it and sending the gang to ground. That way he would find out nothing useful at all.

"I'll pa.s.s on anything I can," he said.

Eyre nodded, seemingly satisfied. "I'll get them in the end," he said venomously. "And that stuck-up little b.i.t.c.h, Lady Christina MacMorlan, who protects them."

Lucas's head came up. His skin p.r.i.c.kled to hear Christina referred to in such disrespectful terms. It was all he could do to keep his fists at his sides and not smash them into Eyre's face. He dropped his eyes to the cards again, dealing another hand, shuffling the deck.

"Lady Christina does her best to protect the whole village," he said carelessly, after a moment. "It should not surprise you that she disapproves of the way you work."

Eyre gave a bark of laughter. "Don't tell me you're sweet on her, too, Mr. Ross? Everyone seems to think she is some sort of saint."

Lucas shrugged. "I don't have much time for aristocrats," he said truthfully, "but I admire hard work when I see it."

"Well, you won't see it at the castle," Eyre said. His mouth twisted into a sneer. "Lazy bunch of b.a.s.t.a.r.ds." He slapped down his gla.s.s and looked around to summon the landlord for another pint. The landlord ignored him.

"Another one asking for trouble," Eyre groused. "I'll shut him down. I'll shut down the whole village for their sneaking, law-breaking ways." He nodded toward Lucas's empty gla.s.s. "Was that the peat-reek you were drinking?"

"I've no idea," Lucas said. "I didn't ask."

Eyre's lips twisted into a mirthless smile. His eyes were very cold. "You're a slippery customer, aren't you, Mr. Ross? I'm not sure I trust you."

Lucas shrugged. "Please yourself. But I do have a favor to ask you."

Eyre grunted, which was not exactly encouragement.

"Release the child, Callum MacFarlane," Lucas said quietly.

Eyre jumped, knocking over his empty gla.s.s. "What do you know of that?" he snarled. A number of men turned to look at them.

"Softly," Lucas said. He raised his voice. "Sorry to take your money, Mr. Eyre," he said with a c.o.c.ky smile, "but you can afford it better than I." He took Eyre's pile of coins and slid them over to his side of the table.

"I hear that if you don't let him go, the smugglers will shut down their operation," he said quietly. "If that happens, you will never capture them and I will not find out what I need to know."

"Where did you hear that?" This time Eyre kept his voice discreetly low.

"People talk," Lucas said evasively.

"Not to me," Eyre said.

"Well," Lucas said, "that's hardly surprising."

"I tried to turn a few," Eyre said. "No one was interested. Not even for money. Tight as clams."

"They're loyal," Lucas said, "and they don't like the government and they don't like the English."

Eyre stared at him. "You sound English yourself, Mr. Ross, if it comes to that."

"I don't belong anywhere," Lucas said. He leaned forward. "Will you do it?"

Eyre was silent for a long time, and then he nodded abruptly. "I'll see what I can do." His eyes narrowed on Lucas again. "If you're sure that's the real reason?"

Lucas thought of Callum MacFarlane in the jail in Fort William, alone in the dark with the rats, the walls running with damp, a child used as a bargaining chip to make a man spill his secrets. Callum was younger than Lucas had been when he had had to struggle to survive on the cold streets of Edinburgh. The boy might be from tough stock, but he would never have been without his father's protection before. Lucas had failed to protect his brother. He would do what he could for another man's child.

He met Eyre's gaze very straight. "What other reason would there be?" he asked. "I'm not a sentimental man, Mr. Eyre."

Eyre laughed. "All right. I'll do it. What do I get in return?"

Lucas paused for a moment, drawing rings on the tabletop with the base of his gla.s.s. He did not want to give Eyre any advantage that might endanger Christina. Despite the doubts he still harbored toward her, his stubborn instinct was determined to keep her out of this. He could not tell Eyre the location of the whisky still. Which left only one option.

"I can show you the sea cave where the smugglers have been storing the peat-reek," he said. He had searched it the day before and found nothing. The smugglers were long gone from there, and he doubted it would benefit Eyre. Even so, it felt oddly as though he had betrayed Christina, and he felt a pang of guilt. He swore under his breath.