Julia London - [Scandalous 02] (7 page)

Lachlan quickly doffed his hat.

“Now then, let us begin again. Who is this earl?”

“Donna remember his name,” Lachlan said. “But he’s the one that married Miss Lizzie.”

Charlotte gasped. And then she couldn’t draw a breath, and instantly put a hand to her heart to see if it was still beating.

“He said I’m to tell you that Miss Lizzie is quite all right and you’re no’ to worry,” Lachlan continued, undisturbed by her dramatic reaction.

“What?”
Charlotte cried. “Are you deranged, lad? Do you think it is somehow humorous—”

“Miss Beal,”
Newton said firmly.

But Charlotte was outraged. It was obviously some sort of cruel joke, Carson’s idea of intimidation.

And it was working brilliantly. Charlotte felt as impotent as she’d ever felt since the accident. She was exposed and helpless, and she wasn’t even aware that she was beginning to breathe strangely until Newton put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it.

“Thank you, lad. You might be on your way, then,” he said in an authoritative voice that riled Charlotte even further.

“Aye,” he said, already moving for the door.

“Wait!” Charlotte exclaimed.
“Where is Lizzie?”

But Lachlan was already at the door.

“Come back here, young man!” Charlotte shouted, but the mountain that was Newton blocked her view of the door.

She collapsed against her chair as tears filled her eyes. What would she do? What
could
she do?

Newton eased himself into a chair near her, and Charlotte cried out in anger. She waved her hand at him. “Leave me!”

“She is no’ officially married,” he said calmly. “She was handfasted to him.”

It took a moment or two for the meaning of that word to penetrate Charlotte’s anxiety. “A
handfasting
?” she repeated slowly.

Newton nodded.

She impatiently motioned that he should continue, and quickly. And Charlotte sat in silent disbelief as the bear explained that Lizzie had been handfasted to the Earl of Lambourne when he had become…available.

When Newton finished, Charlotte had a single, overriding thought—if she had a gun, she would shoot Carson first, Newton second.

Diah
help her and Lizzie—they were ruined. Irrevocably ruined.

A
t the end of a very long day, Jack and Lizzie were escorted back to the their little room at the top of the turret.

Jack was still very angry. When Carson had suggested he display his fencing ability that afternoon in one of their so-called games, Jack had been almost relieved to have something to do other than sit about and watch members of the Beal clan drink more ale. He’d never dreamed that his opponent would wield a claymore, the traditional broadsword of the Highlander. Jack knew of claymores—his grandfather had one hanging in his great room that was almost as long as Jack was tall.

But Jack had never actually
held
a claymore, much less tried to parry with one. He realized, when the broadsword was presented to him, that Carson had done it as a sort of jest. He’d purposely put Jack at a distinct disadvantage against a Highlander and he’d been beaten quite soundly, to the delight of all the Beals in the lower bailey.

It was really not very sporting of Carson.

“Your uncle,” he said sourly as he tossed his coat onto a chair, “lacks the true qualities of a gentleman. I donna care for a man who makes sport of an uneven match.” He yanked impatiently at the ends of his neckcloth, undoing the knot. “I should like him to meet me in the lower bai
ley with a pair of épées, I would. Then I would see how he laughs.” He began to unwind the neckcloth.

A moment passed before Jack realized that he was being met with silence, which, in the short time he and Lizzie had been thrust together, he’d learned was highly unusual.

He glanced curiously over his shoulder.

Lizzie was standing with her back to the door, her arms folded across her middle, staring morosely at the floor.

“Aye?” he said impatiently. “
Now
what has you upset?”

Lizzie bit her lower lip and shook her head. Jack squinted at her. She did not meet his eye, but her chin began to tremble. “
Diah,”
he muttered. “Come now, lass—”

“You are fretting over a silly game, while I am ruined,” she said, and abruptly turned around, putting her back to him and her face to the door. “There was no’ a person in the glen who did no’ see me paraded about in this
awful
gown and with
you
!” she said, as if he were a troll. “Is there no way out of this nightmare? Even if Mr. Gordon were so inclined to ignore Carson’s attempt to ruin me, his family can no’ possibly ignore it, and he will never offer now!” A strange sound, sort of a sob and a hiccup at once, escaped her.

“Lizzie,” Jack said, trying to soothe her. It had been a trying day for her. “You are
no’
ruined,” he insisted, despite knowing full well that she was quite ruined. “Your Mr. Gordon is in Crieff, aye? He’ll no’ hear of it.” For a few days, anyway.

“Now you’re only being kind to a poor spinster,” she said weakly. “I know very well what this has done. Charlotte and I shall never leave Thorntree, and it hardly mat
ters that I esteem Mr. Gordon, for it is quite likely he shall never speak to me again.” She made the sound again.

Jack winced. He was not very good at this sort of thing, feminine tears and whatnot. He’d never been able to comfort his mother and the Lord knew she’d cried rivers of tears. He started toward Lizzie once, then hesitated. But when he saw her shoulders sag, he briefly looked heavenward for strength, then crossed the room and very carefully put his hands on her shoulders. “Lizzie, you must no’ fret—”

“I am
ruined
!” she exclaimed. “I have no idea of what I shall do now!”

Jack fished a handkerchief out of the pocket of his waistcoat, turned her around, and handed it to her.

Lizzie took it, dabbed at her eyes, blew her nose, then thrust it back at him. “Thank you,” she said, as Jack gingerly took the handkerchief and tossed it aside. “What distresses me most is that I donna know how I will tell Charlotte. She’s been so worried, and she feels she is such a burden as it is.” She looked up at Jack with crystal blue eyes swimming in tears of worry. “And I canna bear to disappoint her.”

“I donna think you could possibly disappoint her,” he said sincerely, but Lizzie was not listening.

“There is nothing that can be done for it, for here I am with
you,
locked in this wretched room.” She rubbed her hands vigorously on her arms as if she were rubbing herself back to life, and walked to the small window.

“I’d like a wee bit of warning if you intend to jump,” Jack said.

She smiled weakly. “I’ll no’ jump…but I intend to escape at the first opportunity.”

“Donna do anything rash, Lizzie,” Jack said. “In a day or two, this will all be over.”

“That’s rather easy for
you
to say,” Lizzie said angrily, the tears gone now. “
You
may walk away when Carson has done what he will, but
I
must return to Thorntree and attempt to make some sort of life for myself and my sister.
You
will no’ be marked by this, but I certainly will!”

Frankly, he could not argue that. It was true. He remained wisely silent…or so he thought. Lizzie shot him a look over her shoulder; Jack shrugged a little sheepishly. But his tacit agreement annoyed her, and she snapped, “There is no
end
to the burdens men put upon women!”

He hardly knew what she meant by that.

With a groan of exasperation, Lizzie looked down at the old blue gown she wore. She squirmed as if the gown was chafing her. With a glare at Jack, she abruptly yanked the bed curtains down so that his view was blocked. He heard her rummaging about, heard what he thought were skirts rustling, and then some very loud and impatient sighs.

He clasped his hands behind his back. “May I help you?”

“No! You’ve helped me quite enough already, have you no’?”

“Now just a moment, Lizzie,” he said sternly. “It was no’
I
who put you in this predicament.”

“Perhaps no’, but you’ve hardly endeavored to improve the situation in the least, have you!”

“I beg your pardon?” he exclaimed, throwing his arms wide in disbelief. “Pray tell, what might I
possibly
have done to improve this debacle? You may have noticed that things are scarcely within my control either!”

“Aye, but you might have at
least
pretended to find the whole thing entirely insupportable! But no, you lolled about half the day looking as if you rather enjoyed the games and the feast and eyeing all the women!”

“Oh, now, I am to be damned if I do and damned if I do no’,” Jack groused irritably. “Had I shown my true feelings about this situation, you would have faulted me for making it seem as if you were unworthy of being handfasted to me!”

“
Me
unworthy?” She laughed wildly. “I think the whole of Glenalmond must at least own that if either of us is unworthy, it is
you,
Jack! You are a wanted man, and you are a…a
rake
!”

All right, there was only so much Jack would take. He’d done nothing but try to cooperate for both their sakes, and he was to be maligned for it? Incensed, he grabbed a hold of the curtain and yanked it back. Behind it, in the middle of removing the offensive blue bombazine, Lizzie squealed with surprise and hastily wrapped her arms around her body to keep the bodice from falling.

“And how would
you,
Elizabeth Drummond Beal, perfect lass that you are, know a
rake
if you were to see one?” he demanded roughly.

She swallowed. “I…I…I just know. There is an air about you,” she said. “And I saw you with the chambermaid.”

“At your behest!” he cried incredulously.

“I merely meant for you to inquire!
No’
to seduce her!”

“What is it, Lizzie?” he asked as he impatiently gestured for her to turn around. Her eyes widened even more, as if she expected him to throw her on the bed and take her there—an idea that was not entirely without merit. “Were you envious of Brigit?” he asked and put his hand on her bare shoulder…the smooth, pale skin of her bare shoulder…and forced her around.

“What are you doing?” she cried.

“
Helping
you!” he exclaimed brusquely, and began to
unbutton the gown. “I believe I have made myself
quite
plain: I will no’ ravish you until you beg for it, and I hardly care that you are envious of a chambermaid.”

“I am
no’
envious! Oh my, it is
entirely
clear why the prince wants to see you hanged!”

“He doesna want to
hang
me,” Jack scoffed, although not with complete conviction. “He’s merely confused.”

Lizzie snorted. “Is that what you call it?”

“Hush now, woman,” he said gruffly and finished unbuttoning her, letting his gaze wander her bare back as he did, and focusing, without intention, on the tantalizing gap where the bodice of the gown met the skirt, just where her back curved into her hip. “Before you go round calling a man a rake, you’d best know of what you speak.”

He could see her skin through the gauzy shift she wore, and in a moment that he could not himself understand, he touched her back with a finger through the gap of her gown.

Lizzie cried out and whirled around, backing up so quickly that she banged into the nightstand. “Get out,” she said, clinging to her gown with one hand, pointing to the end of the bed with the other. The gown was slipping off her shoulder.

“Leave me!”
she cried. “If you donna want to be thought the rake, then you should no’ act like one!”

“I am no’ a rake,” he said low. “But if I were a rake, I’d no’ allow this moment to pass without…” He paused there, his gaze flicking over her body. Myriad ideas rushed through his mind, all of them carnal. He was just beginning to appreciate how lush Lizzie’s body was beneath that awful blue bombazine, and his mind wandered to those things that men are physically incapable of ignoring when viewing a woman.

Lizzie’s thoughts were likewise wandering to the unthinkable. When a man as physically appealing as Lambourne—eyes the color of smoke, and full, dark lips—looked at her as if she were something to be devoured, her heart raced at an unnatural clip. She did not permit herself to fully acknowledge that perhaps a small part of her wanted to be devoured, and grabbed up the candlestick on the bedside table, ignoring the unlit candle that toppled to the floor. She raised it above her head, prepared to strike if it came to that.

Jack responded with a sultry smile and stepped back, to the foot of the bed. With one more leisurely look at her, he stepped around the end of the bed, so that the bed curtain obstructed his view of her once more.

Lizzie lowered the candlestick and swallowed hard. Her heart was still racing.
“Bloody rooster,”
she muttered breathlessly.

“I can hear you, Lizzie,” he said calmly from somewhere nearby, startling her. She clamped her mouth shut and quickly dropped the awful bombazine. Standing there in her chemise, she turned to the chair where she’d left her own soiled gown—and found it empty.

Lizzie gasped. “No,” she whispered.

“Pardon?”

She whirled around to face the curtain, her arms crossed over her body. “Where is my gown?” she demanded. “I left it just here! Where is it, what have you done with it?”

“I’ve no’ touched it,” he insisted. “Shall I help you look?”

“No!”
she cried. “No, no stay where you are!”

“I suppose that means I’ll no’ be treated to the sight of you
en déshabillé,
aye?” he said, his disembodied voice somewhere near the table.

Diah!
She looked at the bombazine and slowly sank to her knees next to the bed, her arms braced on the bed. They’d taken her gown. Carson, a maid, she had no idea, but someone had taken her gown. “I…I’ve no’ a thing to wear but this blue gown,” she said, her voice betraying her dismay.

There was a long pause on the other side of the curtain. Lizzie sighed and stood back up, dragging the bombazine with her. “All right, then, donna panic,” Jack said.

Lizzie froze; she heard him moving around, chairs scraping the floor, something being dragged. A moment later, the sound of his confident footfall moved toward the bed. Lizzie grabbed up the bombazine and held it up against her.

The first thing that appeared around the end of the curtain was a pair of wool trousers. That was followed by a lawn shirt, which slid on the floor until it hit Lizzie’s feet. Still clutching the bombazine to her chest, Lizzie slowly crouched down and picked up the lawn shirt. “I donna understand,” she said. “These are
your
clothes.”

“Aye, it is my clothing—but I assure you the garments are no’ the least bit contagious.”

“I canna wear these!”

“Suit yourself, then. You may wear the blue gown and look the part of the spinster while you suffocate, or you might continue to titillate the glen by donning
my
clothes…at least until the morrow, when we might persuade Dougal to return your gown, aye?”

He had a point. And honestly, Lizzie had a pair of old buckskins that had belonged to her father. She wore them to fish. Trying to pull a carp from the loch in a gown was impractical at best, and generally impossible, and, well…She slipped the lawn shirt over her head.

It fell to her knees. The trousers were worse, the cuffs dragging on the ground. Lizzie stuffed the bottom of her chemise into the trousers and held them gathered at her waist with one hand.

“You’ll no’ keep me in suspense, will you?” Jack said, his voice jovial.

He found it all so amusing, while she, on the other hand, was beginning to feel the weight of the last twenty-four hours, and it was almost impossible to bear. She’d been humiliated in every way.

She must have sighed very loudly, for he said, a bit more gently, “Come on, then, Lizzie.”

“Donna laugh,” she said weakly.

“You have my word.”

She self-consciously stepped out from behind the bed curtain and peeked up at Jack.

He’d discarded the kilt in favor of buckskins. His shirt-tail was out and the neck open; his feet were bare. He was looking at her, but he did not laugh. No, his reaction was something quite the opposite of a laugh. His eyes were darkly alive, as if something inside him had been awakened. His gaze was so intense, so penetrating, that Lizzie felt a rapid flush spreading through her as he slowly rose from his seat at the table. She nervously pushed a thick lock of hair from her face; his gaze followed her movement, then settled on the bit of flesh he could see through the open neck of the shirt she wore.