Regency Proposal: The Laird's Forbidden Lady / Haunted by the Earl's Touch
So, his instincts had not played him false, curse it. If they left without the goods, it would be another year before he could set his plans in motion. And Lord Carrick would not be best pleased. ‘How do you know this?’ He cut through the last of the rope and helped her to her feet. God, she was small. The top of her head barely came to his shoulder.
She rubbed at her wrists. ‘Never mind that. You have to go. Now.’
‘Where are they waiting for us?’
‘Surprisingly enough, they didn’t give me any details.’
The sarcasm in her voice made him want to laugh. ‘How did you get here?’ And then he saw for himself. Beau. And no saddle in sight. ‘You rode bareback?’
‘I couldn’t saddle him myself.’
He shook his head. It seemed there was still something of the spirited girl inside the sophisticated woman.
She pulled her cloak around her. ‘I’ll go now.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I said not.’ Gaugers weren’t above firing their muskets at shadows, let alone at a fleeing horse. ‘Ranald,’ he called softly.
The innkeeper appeared like magic. Obviously, he’d been standing close by, listening. ‘Keep her here. I’ll go warn the men on the beach and return to take her home. And, Ranald, not a word of this to anyone, understand?’ Ranald nodded.
Ian glanced at the stubborn set of Lady Selina’s jaw. ‘Whatever you do, keep her here.’
What they needed now was some sort of diversion.
Selina glared at Ranald. ‘I told you he would want to hear my message.’
The man mumbled something under his breath, then covered his lantern. Selina blinked furiously to adjust her vision to the gloom. She should leave. She could be home in bed before anyone noticed her departure, her conscience clear.
What Ian did on his own account was his concern. But if she was caught aiding them Father would be mortified. And furious. If Dunstan discovered she’d warned the smugglers, after he’d let fall information about his mission in her presence, he’d call off their betrothal. If nothing else, a man expected loyalty from his wife. And that meant she’d have to start looking for a suitable husband all over again. Unless the scandal ruined her completely. It probably would.
But she’d known the risks when she set out. And she would do it all over again if required, because she was honour bound to help him as he had helped her when she’d asked. Not to mention that she did not like the thought of him being sent to prison.
Only now she needed to go home. She rubbed her cold hands together and looked at the horse and then at Ranald. ‘Let me go. I’ll return the horse in the morning.’
‘Ye’ll stay put,’ the burly man said. ‘The Laird said so.’
‘The Laird is an idiot.’
‘Take one step and I’ll tie you up again.’ The tone of voice made it clear he meant it. She huffed out a breath. Men. They always wanted to rule the roost.
The minutes lengthened. She watched Ranald, waiting for him to lose interest, to give her a chance to slip away. At any moment the Revenue men could be upon them, or, worse yet, Dunstan and his militia.
That really would be her undoing.
The sound of booted feet on rocks brought her head around. Men. Coming up from the shore at a run, leading a couple of ponies with muffled hooves and ladderlike carriers on their backs. Empty carriers. They guided the beasts to the path along the cliff top towards the village. What on earth were they doing?
Another pony emerged from the gully. This one was laden with tuns and turned away from the village and disappeared into the dark. Blast the man. He had taken absolutely no notice of her warning and was continuing as if nothing was wrong. She was a fool to have thought she could help.
A shout rang out on the headland in the direction the first two ponies had gone. A flash. A loud bang. Clearly a shot. Then more flashes and bangs, getting closer.
They were shooting at the men he’d sent along the headland. Someone was going to get killed. Was Ian mad?
The train of loaded ponies continued on, one after another, while she bit her knuckles to stop from giving voice to her fears. The men leading the ponies passed by at a run, heads down and faces covered with mufflers. Then there were no more. Like ghosts, they had disappeared.
Where was Ian? She peered into the gloom, moving closer to the rocky path.
Shouts came from farther along the cliffs. The sound of men fighting hand to hand. Ranald muttered a curse, clearly impatient to be gone. Could Ian have somehow slipped past her to join in the fray now that the smugglers had departed with their booty?
Another figure emerged from the path up from the beach, cursing and swearing as he pulled on the leading rein of a resisting animal. It squealed indignantly. Its handler threw an arm over its nose to muffle the sound. The ass snorted a protest.
Selina understood just how it felt.
Then the damn thing surged forwards as if terrified. The man holding it cursed again. A flash of white at the animal’s heels told Selina all she needed to know. ‘Gilly,’ she whispered.
The handler halted the ass and stared at her. ‘Lady Selina?’
‘Logan Gilvry. Another idiot. Where is Ian?’
He shook his head. ‘He’ll be up shortly. He’s helping the boat to shove off. Giving us a chance to get clear.’
‘Then go,’ she said.
‘Aye. Gilly, set him on.’
The dog nipped at the ass’s back hoof. It jerked forwards and set off at an awkward run with Logan at its head and Gilly close behind.
The sounds along the cliff had ceased. The smugglers—a decoy, she guessed—must have run for it. No doubt the Revenue men and the militia would soon realise they’d been tricked and make their way along here.
She had to leave before they caught her.
Ranald also hopped from one foot to the other, looking worried.
‘Go,’ she said.
‘The Laird said I was to watch you. Here.’
‘The soldiers could arrive at any moment. I’ll ride and warn Laird Gilvry, while you follow your men. Help me up on the horse and then you can leave.’
Ranald scratched his head. ‘You’ll go to him?’
She nodded.
‘All reet, my lady, but I am trusting you to keep your word.’ He tossed her up on the big stallion’s back and led the horse to the top of the pathway. ‘Watch your step. It is verra steep.’ He touched his forelock and took off after the others.
She urged the stallion down the rugged slope and hoped to goodness the animal wouldn’t stumble as she let him have his head. Miracle of miracles, the horse seemed to know his way down the rock-strewn path. Ian must have ridden him down this way in the past.
It was a small lonely patch of beach along a rocky shore, known to few but the locals. Or that’s how Ian had described it that long-ago day. A place where they could be alone. She realised now that he had been ashamed to be seen with her.
At the bottom of the incline she found Ian walking up the beach towards her; behind him a rowboat was steadily pulling out to sea. He glared at her as she drew up beside him.
‘What the hell are you doing here? I’ll have Ranald’s—’
‘Hush. The Revenue men are close behind me.’
He frowned. ‘They followed you? Damn it. What game are you playing?’
‘They didn’t follow me. They know exactly where they are going and they will be here any moment. While they come down this way, we can ride up the path on the other side.’
He pressed his lips together. ‘Aye. Hang on tight, then.’
She grasped the stallion’s mane. Ian took a few steps at a run, then leapt up behind her. Impressive.
The sound of men in heavy boots echoed off the gully walls along with curses as they slipped and slid on the tricky path.
‘Time we were gone.’ He leaned forwards and they were off.
The feel of his hard thighs cradling her buttocks was positively indecent. So was his arm around her waist. But locked in that strong embrace, she felt perfectly safe, when she should be feeling terrified.
A cry went up behind them. The Revenue men must have heard the beat of the horse’s hooves on the sand. It also meant they weren’t far behind, but a man on foot was no match for this horse, even carrying two riders.
She set the horse’s head towards the zigzagging path at the other end of the cove. A gentler climb up to the headland. They were halfway there, when a stream of men poured onto the beach from that direction.
‘A pincer movement,’ Ian yelled. ‘That’s how they meant to catch us.’ He yanked the horse’s head around. The beast turned in a circle while Ian scanned the cliffs and the men coming at them at a run from both sides at once.
‘Look’s like we’ve only one option,’ he yelled. ‘Keep your head down.’ He set the horse running at the sea.
Her mouth dried. Her heart thundered. What could he be thinking? They’d drown. From horseback, the sand looked very far away. Too far to jump off. At this speed there was nothing she could do but hang on.
The wind whipped her hair out of its pins and it flew wild in her eyes. She leaned low over the horse’s neck so Ian could see where they were going.
Where were they going?
Surf splashed up around them. Ian didn’t slow the horse’s pace. The water hit her face like icy needles and soaked her legs through the clinging fabric of her skirts and then the wool fabric of her knee breeches all the way to her waist. She gasped.
A howl of dismay went up from the men running after them.
‘Load.’ The terrifying shout came from the behind them. They were going to shoot!
The horse tried to turn back as its feet lost contact with solid ground.
Ian slid from its back into the water. ‘Come on, Beau,’ Ian yelled. ‘It’s all right, lad.’ The horse’s ears pointed forwards, its body low in the water, its breathing fast and laboured.
A volley from the beach kicked up spurts of water all around them. Selina closed her eyes, waiting for the pain. Nothing.
‘Hang on,’ Ian shouted. ‘We are nigh out of range.’ He struck out strongly, with the horse trailing behind. Laying along the stallion’s back, her skirts a tangle around her legs, Selina clung to the horse’s neck for dear life. Waves hit her in the face with a salt-laden slap, making her gasp and blink to clear her stinging eyes. It was impossible that this horse could swim very far.
Another volley. Selina glanced over her shoulder to see the waterspouts a few feet behind and, if her eyes weren’t deceiving her, the men were already waist-deep in the sea. Surely they didn’t stand a chance of hitting them now. She prayed she was right and concentrated on holding on to the pitching beast.
Ian slowed and swam alongside. ‘Come on, old fellow, you can do it.’ He directed the horse to swim parallel to the shore, heading south.
How Ian kept swimming in such chilly water she didn’t know. Her hands and legs were numb, her teeth chattering. She tried to remember how far it was to the next beach and wondered if they would get there before they drowned. Or perished from cold.
It might be better to drown than be caught with a known smuggler. Father would never forgive her and even the placid Dunstan would never marry her.
When she’d finally found the perfect man and plucked up the courage to take the matrimonial plunge, she’d ended up up to her neck in the sea instead.
She just had to make it home without anyone finding out.
Chapter Six
The cold seeped into Ian’s bones. He wanted to turn over on his back and float as what little heat he generated from motion was leached away by the chill of the sea. With an effort he glanced over at Beau and his passenger. The lass had heart and no mistake, but it was clear she’d not last long. And the horse was snorting and blowing hard, starting to tire.
He peered through the spray at the top of each wave, searching the shore, seeing only the faint phosphorous glow of sea breaking on rocks. There. A dark patch. He veered towards it, praying there were no watching eyes up on the cliff.
Unlikely. It would take those on the beach too long to make the climb, and surely they’d be more interested in chasing the contraband.
It had seemed like eons before he felt sand under his feet and heard the gentle hush of surf on sand. Not that there was much of a beach. A sliver, only revealed at low tide. But it was enough. The horse passed him, eager to be clear of the water, and pranced up onto the dry ground like a colt, while Lady Selina clung on for dear life.
Ian dragged his weary legs through the surf, weighed down by his kilt and grabbed at the bridle. ‘All right,’ he soothed, patting the sodden neck. ‘You did it, old fellow.’
He reached up for the girl. She fell into his arms a dead weight. Dear God, don’t say she was hit. He didn’t think the shots came anywhere close. ‘Selina. Are you injured?’
‘J-just c-c-cold.’ Her teeth clattered together.
He had the answer for that, if she could hold on long enough. ‘Can you walk?’
‘C-c-can’t feel my legs.’
Oh, hell, what had he been thinking? It was all right for him to swim in the ocean, he’d been brought up on it, swimming in the cold lochs in the hills when there was nowhere to bathe, but this delicate creature wasn’t used to such hardship.
He swept her up in his arms.
‘No. You must be tired.’
‘Aye.’ He was. But he was used to battling on, no matter how exhausted. Hardship was a fact of life in the Highlands.
He staggered up the narrow beach, clicking his tongue for the horse to follow. Rocks jutted out from the cliffs, forming a natural inlet invisible from the overhanging cliff top. From the sea at high tide, one needed a boat, but right now, the entrance to the cave was a gentle slope into the dark. A cave wrought by seawater and an ancient underground river.
He ducked inside.
The sound of the waves became a muffled roar—a bit like listening to a shell up against your ear.
The fragile body in his arms vibrated. Shivers. He was feeling chilled himself, but out of the wind it wasn’t so bad.
Beau shook himself, water drops flying. He obviously approved of the dry and followed Ian willingly.
The incline got steeper, rockier. The horse’s hooves slipped here and there, but the animal kept close behind, trusting. God, the whole clan had trusted him to bring this off tonight. And now he was stuck here with no idea what was happening.
If not for the girl, he’d probably be dead. And now she lay lifeless in his arms, her dark hair hanging like seaweed over his arms, her body cold and suddenly still. He should have called the whole thing off the moment he saw her. Got the men away. Ignored the boat.
Either that or given himself up instead of plunging into the sea. Please God, he could get her warm and dry before she succumbed to the cold.
The cave was black as pitch and freezing, but he knew it as well as he knew his own bedchamber in the dark. His senses told him when the passage opened into the cave proper. That and the light touch of air rushing by his cheek. He set the fragile female in his arms down on the sand. She struggled to a sitting position and he felt relief flood through him at the sound of another round of clattering teeth.
‘Wait there,’ he said and felt his way to the corner where he found several oilcloth-wrapped parcels.
It wasn’t long before he had candles lit, tinder and peat laid out for a fire and blankets spread on the floor. He lit the kindling from a candle and nursed the fire to life, gently blowing on the embers until flames flared up and beat back some of the darkness.
‘W-w-what is this p-p-place?’ Her voice was an echoing whisper.
Thank God, she was alert enough to talk. ‘‘Tis an old cave used by fisherman.’ He kept his voice matter of fact. No point in letting her know how much he had feared for her. He strode to her side. ‘Sit by the fire. There are more blankets. We’ll get you out of these wet clothes.’
He helped her to her feet. Made to pick her up.
‘I can walk,’ she said. She staggered a few steps, but, unable to stand the sight of her weakness, he picked her up and carried her to the warmth of the fire.
‘I’m cold too, lass. I’ve no wish to be waiting a week for you to get yourself by the warmth.’
He put her down on the blankets and handed her another. ‘Put that around you and take off your wet things.’
He turned his back, more and more aware of the sodden cloth clinging to his legs and dripping onto the floor. He grabbed Beau by the bridle and led him to an iron manger some enterprising ancestor had attached to the rock wall. There were oats and hay in a sack, waiting for just such an occasion as this: a need to hide from the authorities or to save a fisherman caught out in a storm.
It hadn’t been used for a good long while, as far as he knew, but one of the local fishermen had the job of keeping it stocked in case of a wreck.
After emptying the hay into the manger, he used the sack to rub the horse down, then went farther up the tunnel on the landward side, to the rain barrel. The water was peaty-tasting, but clean and fresh. He filled a small pan for the horse and a couple of leather flasks.
Busy work, because all he could think of was her slipping out of her clothes, baring her lush body. He gritted his teeth. He was not the adolescent he’d been that long-ago summer, fancying himself in love with a girl he should have nothing to do with. None the less, the images were certainly warming his blood. And that wasn’t such a bad thing.
By the time he got back, Lady Selina’s clothes lay near the fire and the blanket was wrapped tightly around her delicious curves. She looked beautiful. Pale, her lips a little blue, strands of damp hair curling around her face, sticking to her skin. A legend come to life.
He grinned. ‘You look like a selkie.’
‘A sea witch? I feel more like a bit of jetsam washed up on the shore.’ The brave smile on her lips as she dragged her fingers through her hair caught at his heart.
‘Are you warmer?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘What about you? Shouldn’t you …?’ Her words trailed off and she looked away, embarrassed.
Noble lasses like her didn’t think about men taking their clothes off. Indeed, they probably didn’t think a man had anything beneath his clothes. Clothes made the man, if the strutting peacocks in Edinburgh were to be believed.
Well, he wasn’t going to stand here and drip to save her sensibilities. ‘Aye. There’s a spare kilt here, but nothing fit for a lady to wear. You’ll have to dry your clothes before we leave.’
He grabbed the supplies put there for men prevented from landing their fishing boats at the quay during a storm. Or smugglers forced to flee the long arm of the gaugers.
He moved out of the light of the fire, wrapped a blanket around him and stripped off to his coat and shirt, using another blanket as a towel.
When he turned back she was eyeing him from beneath lowered lashes. She probably didn’t realise the light from the fire, while distorting her features with flickering shadows, did not hide her expression of interest.
Heat travelled up his neck to his face.
Blushing like a lad. Surely not?
‘What the hell did you think you were doing, coming down to the beach?’ he said, his voice gruffer than he intended. ‘What you did was brave, but foolhardy.’ There, that was less ungrateful if still grudging.
‘You are a fool, Ian Gilvry,’ she said scornfully. ‘All that danger for brandy.’
Stung, he glared at her. ‘The brandy pays for other things.’
She gazed at him blankly.
He shrugged. What would a privileged lass like her know or care about the hardships his people faced? All her father cared about was the hunting and the grouse. ‘As soon as your clothes are dry I’ll get you home.’
Her gaze wandered to his horse. ‘I have never seen a horse swim that way.’
‘I lost a horse in a river once. He went in at a ford and got confused. I swore I would never lose another horse to the water.’
She rested her chin on her knees. ‘I can see why. They become like friends …’ She hesitated. ‘Your mother gave me permission to ride him.’
‘Did she know who you were?’ He sat down beside her on the blanket. The fire’s warmth was painful to his icy skin.
‘Yes.’
That did surprise him. His mother had always been opposed to everything English—it was a point of honour. If she ever learned Ian had sent Drew off to America at the behest of Albright’s daughter, she would never forgive him.
He’d done it for the memories of a short time when he’d felt happy and carefree, when he’d forgotten his duties and responsibilities. Very selfish reasons wrapped around youthful dreams and wishes. Reality in the shape of his brothers’ shock at seeing them together had brought him back to earth, but he’d never stopped feeling guilty for the hurt look on her face at his rejection and cruel words spoken in parting. That guilt had sent Drew to his death. He would not let her influence him against his family again. But she had made up for it in part, at least, with tonight’s warning.
‘Thank you for coming tonight. Without your warning we would have been caught. I wish you had not come down to the beach, though. I would have handled it.’
She sighed. ‘I thought the Revenue men would follow the goods and we could ride up the path on the other side.’
He was surprised by the resignation in her voice. ‘How did you know of their plans?’
‘Through my father. I should have sought you out earlier in the day.’ She sighed. ‘I was almost too late.’ She shook her head. ‘Why risk lives for a few tuns of brandy? How will the women and children survive without their men?’
She was lecturing him? After all her father had done to destroy their way of life? ‘They can’t live on fresh air.’
‘Well, they can’t live on brandy.’
‘You are a Sassenach. What do you know about what my people need?’
She flinched and he felt like a brute. His rough direct ways did not suit a drawing-room miss. Not that she’d seemed much like a lady riding bareback to his rescue.
‘It brings money to purchase what they can live on,’ he explained. More than that, though—it was an investment in the future.
After a few moments’ silence, she turned to face him. ‘Do you think we were recognised?’
He shook his head. ‘They were too far away.’
She breathed a sigh of relief. That small little breath, that mark of gladness, sparked warmth in his chest. Foolish warmth. She was the daughter of his clan’s worst enemy. He’d do well to keep that in mind.
But she had risked a great deal tonight and he would not have her suffering for it. ‘The sooner we get you back to the keep, the better,’ he said, ‘before you are missed. Hold up your clothes to the fire so they will dry.’
She did as he bid and they both sat toasting her clothes, watching the steam rise from them to mingle with the smoke from the fire.
‘Why do your people try to turn back the clocks? Bonnie Prince Charlie is never returning.’
She understood nothing. ‘My people were here long before the English. Yes, they need to move with the times, but not give up who they are, their traditions or their homeland. All the great landowners are turning their land over to sheep. Or using it for sport. They are leaving nothing for the clan members. If you take away their livelihood, then they need other work to replace it. Instead of that, they are being left destitute, labouring in the kelp fields or smuggling whisky. Hundreds of them have shipped off to America. Soon there will be no Highlanders left.’
She frowned. ‘Don’t the crofters earn enough to pay their rents?’
‘The rents keep going up.’ He combed his fingers through his almost-dry hair as he sought for a way to explain without giving away his plans. ‘The old ways, such as crofting, are no longer viable, but I believe other ways can be found to keep the people here. In Scotland. But the English, men like your father, pass laws that make it impossible for us to earn a living. Those are what need to be changed.’