Regency Proposal: The Laird's Forbidden Lady / Haunted by the Earl's Touch

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?’