Let Me Be Your Hero (15 page)

The best way will be to avoid each other without

appearing to do so—or if we jostle, at any

rate not to bite.

Lord Byron (1788-1824), English poet.

Letter, April 25, 1814, referring to his affair

with Lady Caroline Lamb (published in

Byron’s Letters and Journals
, vol. 4, ed. by

Leslie A. Marchand, 1975)

B
ehind her, the leaves on the rowan tree rustled, and before she could turn, the man she had seen earlier seated himself on the bench next to her, but from the opposite side, so that they faced each other.

“I did not mean to startle you,” he said.

Oh, God, that voice…

Fraser…

No, it canna be, she thought. It is only my imagination.

Was she destined to see every man as Fraser for the rest of her life? She turned her head away and concentrated on the fountain, in the center of which was a statue of Neptune holding a trident, with one foot resting
upon a dolphin. She put her hand on her skirt and made a move to rise, when his hand came out and caught her by the arm. “Stay,” he said in that soft, seductive voice she remembered so well. “Please, if only for a moment.”

Lord, it was Fraser’s voice…but it couldn’t be Fraser’s voice, for Fraser would not seek her out or speak to her.
She looked at him and noticed his bruised cheek and the cut on his chin. She wished the mask was gone, so she could be certain if it was or was not Fraser, for even now, a part of her could not believe Fraser was here, in this garden, with her by choice. She wished the light in the garden was better, so she could see the color of his eyes.

At last, when she could stand the torment no longer, she whispered, “Is it ye…is it truly ye?”

“Aye, Claire, ’tis Fraser, stepping out of the past and into the present.”

She picked at her skirt. “I heard ye were in Utrecht, studying law.”

He seemed amused to hear she knew where he had been and what he was doing there, for she saw that all-too-familiar sparkle in his eyes. “Aye, I was in Utrecht. I have only arrived back in Scotland a few days ago.”

“And ye are happy to be back home, or did ye fall in love with Utrecht?” As soon as she said it, she wished she had used another phrase.

“I try not to fall in love with anything anymore, but it has been a long time since I walked on Scottish soil, so aye, I am verra glad to be home.”

“Ye were gone awhile, but time did not pass any faster in Scotland while ye were gone.”

“I was not prepared to see ye here tonight. When I
saw ye dancing with Giles…for a moment I doubted what my eyes were seeing.”

“I was as stunned by the sight of ye as well, although I must admit this first meeting after so long is nothing like I would have expected.”

“Ye have thought about it, then?”

“Not in the sense that I expected it to happen, for I knew that ye would go to great lengths to avoid me, if ye did see me.”

“Ye seem to be more confident about the way it would have been than I. Why would ye think I would avoid seeing ye again, Claire?”

“I have not forgotten yer last words to me, Fraser Graham. Do not tell me ye have.”

“No…weel, I may not ken my exact words, but I believe I said something about hoping our paths never crossed again.”

“Close,” she said, “but I can get closer. In fact, I remember exactly, for what ye said was much longer than that, and far more biting. What ye said was,
‘I hope that I never see yer sweet face again. How much better it would be if our paths never cross, but should it happen, I pray to God that the face I wear convinces ye that not a fig of affection for ye remains.’
”

“Ye always did have an extraordinary memory…at least where my shortcomings were concerned.”

She smiled at him without really being aware that she did, because it was always so natural to smile around him, and he had a way of making her smile with almost anything he said. “Mayhap ye gave me a lot o’practice.” She fell silent and neither of them said anything.

After a period of time, she asked, “Is that what it was? A shortcoming?”

He did not answer straightaway, yet she did not have the impression he was searching for the answer.

“They were words of suffering born of pain, but time is the great equalizer, is it not?”

“So you are fully recovered and truly have what you prayed for…not a fig of affection remaining for me.”

“Ye are spooning words into my mouth afore I open it, lass.”

Her heart began to pound. Could it be that he had not forgotten her as easily as she imagined? No, she scolded herself.
Do not build yer castles at high tide. Do not read more into this than is there. Do not let him suspect how ye feel. Do not let him ken how ye regret putting him oot o’yer life, or how ye wish ye could live that part o’ yer life all over again.

It was time to change the subject before she made a fool of herself, or started crying. Or both. She looked him directly in the eye because she wanted him to see the words she spoke came from her heart, and not her head, as he often accused her of doing. “ ’Tis truly nice to see ye have survived me, Fraser, for I have oft thought about those last days, and the horrible…” She felt on the verge of tears, and she knew she could not go on with what she wanted to say. “Have ye an office here in Edinburgh, where ye practice yer law?”

He was looking at her strangely, as if he was trying to see through the words she said, to get to the back of her mind, where the words she wanted to say resided. “No, but I plan to open one here relatively soon. I plan to look for a suitable office while I am here.”

“I am so verra proud o’ ye for doing what ye did. I
ken it made it easier for ye, to get yer life back together after ye left Inchmurrin.”

“When the dream ended prematurely, I had to find something to fill the void.” And she detected a sadness there, in spite of what he did to hide it.

“ ’Tis difficult to imagine ye with a brass plaque on yer door, with yer name engraved in fancy script… Fraser Graham, Lawyer. I do hope it is a nice, shiny plaque, and do make certain it is big enough to see from the street.”

He laughed. “Ye make it sound far grander than it is, Claire. Have ye not heard what most people think o’ lawyers?”

“I dinna suppose I have,” she said.

“Weel, it goes like this—a lawyer is a man who arranges an appointment with a man he doesna ken, to sign a deed he hasna seen, in order to buy property he doesna want, with money he hasna got.”

She laughed. “Ye jest, Fraser Graham, for ’tis a fine, fine thing ye have done, and I see nothing bad aboot declaring to all and sundry that ye are a learned man, and a kind and good-hearted lawyer for hire. And an honest one, at that!”

“I wish I ha’ yer confidence, but I shall do my best.”

“And what sort of law shall ye be doing? Divorces?”

His mouth curled upward in amusement. “No. I shall endeavor to try to stay as far away from those as possible.”

“Ah, weel,” she said, without so much as a smile, “that should not be difficult for ye then, for at least ye have had some practice at it.”

He laughed outright. “Ye always had a good memory
for the things I would just as soon ye forgot, lass. However, at the university I found my interests lay more in the direction of representing those facing trial on criminal charges.”

“That is what ye will practice…saving poor souls from the gallows?”

“Hopefully, but I could resort to scraping by on deeds, family settlements, perpetuities and conveyances like a great many lawyers are forced to do.”

“Ye willna have to do that, Fraser, for ye will be the best lawyer in Edinburgh. Mark my wird on that. Where are ye living now? Are ye visiting with yer family?”

“Aye, I have been there since I returned. ’Tis good to spend time with my family.”

“How are Sophie and Arabella? And young Master of Graham? I never see any o’ them, but then I never really go anywhere.”

“Perhaps you will get to see for yerself. They are all here tonight.”

“Arabella and Sophie as well?”

“Oh, aye. Do ye think Arabella would let us come to something like this withoot her? Or that Jamie would leave Sophie?”

“Sophie wouldna let him.” Claire laughed softly, remembering how authoritative Arabella could be around her brothers. “As for Arabella, she had a knack for wheedling things oot o’ the lot of ye. What is her costume, so I can look for her?”

“She is Margaret, wife of Robert the Bruce.”

“A good choice,” she said. “Margaret was a wise woman, and verra strong.”

“Tell me who ye are, in your beguiling yellow gown.”

“I am Lysistrata.”

“Aah, Lysistrata. Ye are referring to the one by Aristophanes, no?”

“Aye, Aristophanes’s bawdy comedy.”

He smiled. “Ye have read it then?”

“No, my father would not allow it, but he did tell me a wee bit aboot it, ye ken, and how the wives of the men fighting in the Peloponnesian War decided to withhold their favors from their husbands until they agreed to lay down their swords.”

“That is a good version of it for a man to speak of his daughter. I didna ken he would tell ye the whole of it, for it is quite descriptive of the physical aspects of what happens between a man and a woman.”

“How descriptive?”

Fraser didn’t say anything.

“Och! Why bring it up if you willna speak of it to me again? What is the harm in telling me of it? We were married, after all, so it isna as though I no have any inkling about what happens in the marriage bed.”

“Weel, to quote the master Aristophanes himself, or at least a reasonable translation of the original Greek: ‘All we have to do is idly sit indoors with smooth roses powdered on our cheeks, our bodies burning naked through the folds of shining Amorgos’ silk, and meet the men with our dear Venus plats plucked trim and neat, their stirring love will rise up furiously, they’ll beg our knees to open. That’s our time! We’ll disregard their knocking, beat them off—and they will soon be rabid for a Peace!’”

It was one of the rare times in Claire’s life when she could think of nothing to say.

“I apologize. I have shocked ye.”

“No, to the contrary…that is, I am not shocked. It is more that I am a wee bit miffed that I havena read it. I wish my father had not removed it from the library. I shall have to think upon a way to obtain another copy…discreetly, of course.”

“Of course,” he said, making a valiant effort to hide his amusement.

“Go ahead and laugh. I ken ye are dying to do so.”

“Aye, it is difficult to refrain from it.”

She lifted her head slightly to look him over, searching for a clue as to his disguise, but his dress could have belonged to a number of historical figures. Not that it mattered, because her mind kept straying to the things she remembered so well: the silkiness of his hair, the shine of his eyes, the velvet of his skin and the sensitivity of his lips, and the feel of them upon hers.

Her gaze rested on his hands…those hands she remembered so well, touching her with devoted gentleness, caressing her until she thought she was going daft with wanting; hands that protected her, teased her, hands that held her close. She closed her eyes against the memory.

“Is anything wrong?” he asked.

If ye only knew…
She shook her head, for she dared not speak—not yet—for she needed to get her thoughts off the softer things, the memories. “And ye,” she said after a few seconds, while she prayed her voice did not break, or worse that the tears she felt inside revealed themselves. “In truth, I have tried to guess yer disguise, but I canna think o’ anyone I could identify by a cut chin and bruised cheek.”

His hair fell across his forehead. He reached up and
pushed it back, and removed his mask before he turned his face toward her. “Still no clues?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, still no clue. But the cuts look verra real,” she said, and without thinking she lifted her hand to touch one.

“They are real,” she barely had time to say before he caught her hand in his.

“I am sorry. I did no mean to touch ye. ’Twas inconsiderate and out of place for me to do so.” She made a move to stand, but he held her hand.

“I am not offended,” he said. “Ye need not apologize.”

It pained her to realize that while she had changed, he was still the same—the same wonderful Fraser—when she hoped he had picked up some habit or mannerism that she found detestable, or that he had lost all of his hair, or his teeth, or had grown long in the tooth, or suffered from a protuberance of the stomach. Anything to make him less desirable than she remembered him, but in truth, he was bonnier now than before. Alas, if anything, time apart had served him well, for he had the polish and maturity of a man of the world.

He released her hand. “As I said, Arabella is Bruce’s wife, Margaret. Jamie is Robert the Bruce, and the rest of us are some of the gentry who fought wi’ Bruce at Banncockburn.”

“Ah, and so yer bruises represent the fact that ye fought beside yer king at Bannockburn.”

“No, they reflect the fact that my brothers and I had a tussle when I arrived home from Holland.”

Fraser gave her that mischievous look that so effectively reduced her will to the consistency of boiled
oats. It still had the same effect on her, and she had to make a conscious effort to make herself look at the face she still held so dear. Desire for him rose within her and she prayed he could not sense it.

“And yer brothers? Are they as bruised and cut as ye?”

The mischievous look bloomed into a smile and from there into a laugh. “Eh? Are they as bruised and cut as myself? Oh, aye, ’tis true that they are in as bad a shape, and ’tis true that some o’ them are worsted.”

For a brief moment, it was as if the years, the divorce and all the pain between them suddenly vanished.

“Ye have a gleam in yer eye, Fraser Graham, and I ken it is a spark o’ mischief I have seen afore now. In truth, ye seem to be speaking in riddles.”

She leaned closer to look at the bruise on his cheek. “One o’ yer brothers did this?”