Heartbreak and Honor (3 page)

He couldn’t see Tasara’s eyes clearly, but Lucan didn’t doubt they skewered him. Better not turn his back or he might find her dagger buried to the hilt somewhere on his person.

Chapter 3

“Tasara, wee ones.”

Upon hearing Balcomb Faas, Lucan stepped into the hallway.

The gypsy rushed along the passageway.

A group of sweaty, rumpled travellers and Highlanders followed in his wake, including McTavish, better known as Viscount Sethwick in England. Several men sported split lips, cuts, and bruises, as well as bloodied and torn clothing.

“My children be there, Yer Grace? Be they safe and well?”

A wicked abrasion marred Balcomb’s cheek, and he limped in his haste to reach the chamber. A crimson-streaked slice along his thigh revealed the cause of his uneven gait. The diminutive man had fought with the fury of a dachshund downing a badger.

“
Dat, Dat
.”

A joy-filled smile stretched across the traveller’s thin, haggard face when Lala bolted on her short, chubby legs from the chamber. He knelt and then gathered his daughter against his chest.

Not far behind her, György threw himself into Balcomb’s embrace. “
Dat
, I’ve missed ye.” The boy whispered into his father’s shoulder, his scrawny arms encircling the gypsy’s neck.

Tasara edged by Lucan, her eyes downcast, yet proud defiance in the set of her shoulders and angle of her head. Bedraggled and exhausted, her colorful clothing hung loosely on her slender frame.

Had the Blackhalls intended to starve them, for God’s sake?

Still, his first view of her in full light stole his breath.

Her ebony hair hung in waves past her narrow waist. A pert, upturned nose graced her heart-shaped face. Fine brows swooped into arches above her eyes, the color undecipherable as she kept her lashes lowered. Twin cherry spots glowed upon her ivory cheeks.

Several bruises—some vivid in their newness and others older and fading—marred the slender column of her throat and below her elbows. Her lower lip, split and swollen, revealed she’d been struck recently.

Gutless bastards.

Tasara possessed an unusually delicate countenance and bone structure, especially for a Highlander. The hearty Scots generally bore strong familial and clan features and claimed a sturdy stockiness she lacked. Come to think of it, elements of her speech rang with unexpected refinement too.

Perhaps her parents were educated.

“The Blackhalls?” Lucan canted his head toward the noises filtering upstairs and exchanged a significant look with Sethwick.

Sethwick’s gaze rested on each of the Faas children in turn before meeting Balcomb’s closed expression. “Dealt with.”

His curt answer revealed what he wouldn’t in front of the little ones. The carnage Lucan witnessed before sprinting upstairs wouldn’t soon be forgotten. Hopefully, the worst of the gore would be cleared away before they descended.

Sethwick’s attention fell on Lucan’s eye, and his lips quirked into a half-smile. “Harcourt, your pretty face is going to sport a dandy blackened eye.” Several men chuckled, and Sethwick slapped Lucan’s shoulder. “But if that’s the extent of your injuries, I’m most grateful. We’ve a few men who didn’t fare as well, I’m afraid.”

No need to correct Sethwick’s wrong assumption.

György poked his tousled head above his father’s shoulder. “He
nae
should have tried to kiss me sister.”

The crowded passageway grew tomb-silent. Every gaze, but Tasara’s, focused on Lucan. Hers seemed permanently affixed to the floor, her black lashes fanning her pinkened cheeks as she fidgeted with a clasp at the front of her embroidered shirt.

Heat scorched Lucan, culminating on his face. Devil take it, blushing like a lad in short pants caught sneaking a bonbon.

Well, her lips were a sweet treat of sorts.

He wanted a taste of her mouth, but not until it healed. Damn and blast, he’d have hurt her if he succeeded in stealing a real kiss. Might have, even with the gentle sample he’d snatched.

Humor glinted in more than one male gaze, and Lucan
fought to maintain eye contact with the smirking Scots. The gypsies, their faces bland, peered at him accusingly. A specimen at Bullock’s Museum or a medical laboratory received less intense scrutiny.

Lucan snagged Balcomb’s attention.

The tinker scowled, disapproval creasing his weathered face and stretching his mouth into a single condemning line. He held his peace, although his dark regard chastised severely. Did fear of confronting a duke prevent him from rightfully defending his daughter’s honor?

The notion left a sour taste in Lucan’s mouth.

Another inequality brought about by status. A duke could do no wrong, a gypsy no right. Preposterous and unjust. He’d witnessed far more unscrupulous behavior amid the upper ten-thousand than amongst commoners and those lowly born.

Lala pulled her thumb from her mouth. “Thithter hitted the preddy man.” She pointed at Lucan before ramming her thumb home between her rosy lips.

A few muffled guffaws and choked-off laughs—even amongst the travellers—greeted the announcement, but Tasara’s sweet mouth firmed into a thin ribbon as color swept her once more.

Sethwick’s incredulous expression earned a twitch of Lucan’s lips. Reverse the situation, and he’d be laughing his arse off.

A muscle in Sethwick’s jaw worked, yet he remained mute

Rarely did something render Craiglocky’s lord speechless. In fact, Lucan couldn’t recall a single time his glib-tongued, diplomatic friend didn’t have precisely the perfect thing to say.

A jot of censure hovered in Sethwick’s eyes.

Go ahead, say it.

I’m a lout. Scoundrel. Reprobate.

The worst sort of knave.

Balcomb stood, Lala clinging to his neck and György to one leg.

“Ye’d
nae
right.” Fists balled, György glowered at Lucan. “Yer
nae
better than the others.”

No. I’m not.

“György, hush dear.” Tasara awkwardly embraced her father around the children. “I’m thrilled to see you. Can we please go now? I’ve had quite enough of this place.”

“
Aye
, lass. Are ye unharmed?” Balcomb asked far more with the discreet question.

She gave one, short nod. “
Aye
.”

He smiled and tenderly touched her shoulder. “I’m proud of ye. Ye kept yer sister and brother safe.”

She patted Lala’s head and winked at György. “They were
verra
brave.”

Balcomb’s smile grew into an enthusiastic grin. “Did think my heart would stop when I saw ye lowerin’ Miss Ferguson from the window, though.”

“Yes, well, we hadn’t many other options.” Tasara laughed, low and melodious, happiness shimmering in her gaze. “None, truthfully.”

Utterly lovely.

She shoved her mass of curls behind a shoulder. “Miss Ferguson is the bravest woman I’ve ever met.”

One eye swollen shut, Lucan examined every inch of Tasara with the other. A desperate need grew to commit each angle of her face, every curve of her form, the lilt of her voice, and the music of her laughter to memory.

Absurd. Illogical. Ridiculous.

Yet, Lucan drank in her presence, uncaring that a moon-eyed beau gawked less.

Sethwick elevated a raven brow, his inquisitive gaze vacillating between Lucan and Tasara.

Tristan’s friend was too damned perceptive.

With a final probing look, Sethwick turned his attention to her. “I’d say you are every bit as brave as my sister, Miss Faas. Please permit me to introduce myself. Laird, Ewan McTavish, or if you prefer my English title, Viscount Sethwick.” Beaming, Sethwick bowed. “I’m forever in your debt for helping Isobel escape.”

Tasara curtsied, refusing to look in Lucan’s direction. Neck bent, she fingered the worn leather belt at her waist. Coppery highlights glinted on the crown of her head and flashed off the earrings dangling from her ears. Hard to believe this subdued goddess had done her best to render Lucan a human pincushion a few minutes ago.

How proficient was she with her blade?

He’d offended her mightily, and his conscience pelted him in the ribs every bit as fiercely.

I ought to be horsewhipped.

He never would have voiced such a loutish innuendo to a lady.

Why insult the gypsy lass, then
?

Blister it if he knew what maggot squirming in his brain possessed him to act the arse.

Your brain’s not to blame.
Look to your cock for the cause of your stupidity.

That hit the mark.

“If you,” Sethwick’s regard swept Balcomb and the other travellers, “ever have need of anything, you’ve only to ask. And, please know, you are always welcome on McTavish lands.”

“Thank ye, yer lairdship.” Balcomb shifted his daughter higher upon his hip before shaking Sethwick’s extended hand.

Sethwick cocked his head, his attention focused on Tasara. “Miss Faas, you bear a remarkable resemblance to an acquaintance of mine in London.”

He turned to Lucan and gestured toward her. “Doesn’t she look like Bridget Needham?”

Tasara flitted a glance Lucan’s way, but as swiftly lifted her perfect little nose in the air and looked away.

Well I’ll be hell-fired. Her eyes are as unique as she is.

It didn’t altogether surprise him. Nothing about this woman met his expectations.

Her wounded, gold-flecked violet eyes had seared his with accusation, and guilt scraped his conscience.

Precisely why he acted the cavalier around the ladies. He preferred chivalry’s mantle to uncouthness’s raw chafing.

Sethwick scratched his nose. “Uncanny, even her eyes. Do you not see the likeness?”

“Yes, their coloring and features are quite similar. Miss Faas could pass for Mrs. Needham’s daughter. However, I’ve been told I resemble Brummell.” Lucan pointed at his chest. “And I assure you, there is no relation there, thank God.” He smirked and lifted a shoulder. “Not quite sure they meant it as a compliment, in any event.”

“Perhaps those making the comparison weren’t referring to appearances but another characteristic.” Sethwick pulled on his earlobe, his mouth quivering suspiciously.

A raised voice ascended from below, and a shadow flitted across Balcomb’s face. He turned abruptly, thrusting Lala into Tasara’s arms then bent and scooped György into his. “Excuse us, sirs, but we must be off. I’m sure ye
ken
my wife be anxious for the return of our
bairns
.”

“Of course, Balcomb.” Sethwick nodded and smiled. “Remember what I said. If you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to seek me out. I am forever in yours and Miss Faas’s debt.”

“Thank ye.” Balcomb hustled the corridor’s distance, speedily ushering the girls before him. “Move along.
Nae
time to dally. We’ve a ride ahead of us.”

Their voices blended in low conversations, the travellers and Scots trailed after them, recounting the short battle’s highlights. Only Lucan and Sethwick remained before the chamber’s open door.

Would Tasara look back?

I hope she does.

What did it matter?

Does there have to be a reason
?

Lucan would never see her again.

Shouldn’t bother me, but it does.

He’d return to his world and she to hers.

More’s the pity
.

Lucifer playing a harp in heaven or Prinny remaining faithful to his wife seemed more probable than Tasara crossing his path again.

Fascinating—
annoying—
what a chance encounter could do to disrupt a structured life.

Lucan touched his puffy eye, now swollen worse than the time he’d been stung by four bees, and winced. He mentally shrugged and released a short sigh.
Things would settle to normalcy again—as soon as he left the Scottish Highlands for England’s genteel familiarity.

The
haut ton’s
strict adherence to protocol proved beneficial at times. It left little room for surprises, which suited him fine at the moment. When his father had died unexpectedly, he’d learned that surprises escalated into full-fledged fiascoes.

God. He wasn’t dredging up
that
unpleasantness right now.

The subtle sway of Tasara’s hips as she sped along the passage, sleek and agile as a feline, her swinging hair teasing the crest of those supple mounds, caused his groin to contract and swell.

Confound it. Most unexpected and unwelcome.

Before she whisked around the corner, she peeked over her shoulder, her gaze meshing with his for a poignant instant in eternity. She buried her face in her sister’s hair and disappeared from his life.

A giddy smugness—for surely that’s what he felt flitting through his chest—encompassed Lucan.

She’d felt a connection too.

Sethwick stared after her, consternation etched upon his face. He cut Harcourt a sideways glance. “How old do you think she is?”

Lucan smothered a wave of unjust jealousy. Sethwick was blissfully married. So revoltingly happy, in fact, if they hadn’t been chums for a decade, Lucan would have been hard-put to not gag and poke fun.

“I don’t know.” Lucan rolled a shoulder. “Eighteen? Nineteen?”

“Think she might be as old as one and twenty?” Sethwick turned in the stairway’s direction.