Julia London - [Scandalous 02] (17 page)

The moment the words
doxy
and
bed
tumbled out of her mouth, her eyes widened. But Jack was not fazed by
it. He grinned at her and her hat. “There are far worse things than sharing a bed, lass. Someday, when you climb off your celestial perch, you might understand it.”

“And I suppose in that I have my answer,” she said, and reined her horse up, preparing to turn him around.

“Wait, wait—for the love of Scotland, Lizzie, where are you off to?”

“Mi Diah!”
she cried heavenward. “Will you begin the interrogation again? I am merely
riding.
I enjoy it and I rarely have the opportunity, and I prefer to do it
alone
.”

“Rarely the opportunity because you work all your horses into a painful lather?”

“No,”
she said pertly. “Because Charlotte does no’ care for it.” At Jack’s puzzled look, she gestured impatiently to her legs.

“Ah,” Jack said, leveling a gaze on her. “Your sister has a valid point, for you ride like the
diabhal.
Give the poor animal a bit of a respite and come with me. There is something I would show you.”

“Something
you
would show me!” She laughed a bit frantically as she adjusted her ridiculous bonnet. “I think you’ve shown me quite enough, have you no’?”

So she was thinking of the waltz, too. “Oh lass,” Jack said with a wolfish wink, “I’ve only begun to show you.”

Lizzie understood him completely, he knew, because it was her infuriating habit to challenge him boldly, then retreat when he overstepped the bounds of her innocence. She retreated now, averting her gaze by looking down at her saddle. Two silk apples pointed at him like a pair of eyes.

“What I would show you now are tracks.”

She glanced up. “Tracks?”

“Aye. Tracks that lead nowhere.”

“What sort of tracks?” she asked, obviously intrigued, and looked up the road. “Up here? No one comes from up here.”

“Come,” Jack said, and led her up to where the paths diverged. When he pointed out the tracks, Lizzie leapt off her horse before Jack could dismount and assist her, and knelt down next to the tracks to have a look. “Horses,” she said. “I count three.”

Surprised by her tracking skills, Jack went down on his haunches beside her. “Four,” he said, pointing to the distinct hoof marks.

Lizzie nodded and peered curiously up the path.

“Where does this path lead?” he asked.

“Nowhere,” she said, sounding puzzled. She stood up and peered into the forest much as Jack had done a few hours earlier. “There is nothing but the rough side of a hill and a few deer trails beyond this point.”

“But there is something,” Jack said, and glanced at Lizzie. “Shall we have a look?”

“Aye,” she said, nodding, thereby causing a large, showy flower that looked wildly out of place at the tail end of January to bounce erratically.

Lizzie knew of a clearing where they could tether the horses. Together they walked up the path, following the tracks. When they reached the stream, Lizzie deftly navigated it by hopping across exposed rocks until she reached the other side.

Jack walked across.

She leaned over, examining the ground.

“The tracks disappear into the heather,” Jack said, leaning over her. “It is difficult to track through heather, and particularly without proper light,” he added, glancing up. Between the towering pines and the height of the hill, it was darkly shaded.

“Do you always concede so quickly?” Lizzie asked with a playful smile. She stepped into the heather, her head down.

Jack followed her. A few steps ahead of him, Lizzie made her way slowly, and skirted around an outcropping of rock. She abruptly whirled around, her smile beaming, and pointed at something.

There was a small clearing where the heather broke on the other side, and horses had trampled the ground there. Jack turned fully around, looking at his surroundings, and looked at Lizzie. “Why?” he asked her. “Why come here?”

She shrugged. “An outing, I suppose. A walkabout.”

“When the weather can change without a moment’s notice?”

She shrugged again. “There you have it. We found where the tracks lead. Now that I’ve shown you the proper way to track through the heather, I should return to Thorntree.”

But Jack was far too curious to turn back now. He walked in the opposite direction, where the hill began a steep ascent again.

“Wait!” Lizzie called. “Where are you going?”

The trail was faint but obvious. He felt Lizzie at his back and turned slightly, gesturing to the trail. “I’m going to have a look. Wait here.”

“Wait! I’ll do no such thing! If you are going up, so am I.”

“No, Lizzie, it’s quite steep.”

“And you’re better suited to it than me because you’re a goat?” she asked. “I can climb a hill, Lambourne.” And, to prove it, she pushed past him and started up.

But Jack caught her hand and stopped her. “
I’ll
go first, if you please.” When she looked as if she might
argue, he tugged her back a step. “Unless you are quite at ease meeting anyone who might happen along this path head on, you’ll allow me to go first.”

That seemed to give her pause. She stepped back, gestured for him to carry on.

They climbed for a few minutes, Jack pausing every few steps to assure himself Lizzie was behind him. Lizzie remarked that he seemed rather at home on the side of a hill.

Jack looked at her. “You seem surprised.”

“I am indeed,” she said gaily. “I would think you better suited for tea and crumpets than walkabouts.”

“Very amusing.”

Her eyes danced as she mimicked sipping from a teacup, her little finger extended in a most affected manner.

Jack resumed the climb up. “As you very well know, one is no’ reared in the Highlands without climbing a few hills.”

“Ah, but that’s been a very long time ago, I gather. You canna claim to be a Highlander now,” she cheerfully reminded him.

Oddly enough, that remark chafed. He
was
a Highlander, just as much as she was. Aye, he’d been away what seemed a lifetime, eleven years now, but he was nevertheless a Highlander!

Wasn’t he?

“These hills are no’ the only ones I’ve climbed.”

“Oh?” she said, seeming genuinely interested. “What hills, then?”

“Switzerland,” he said. “France, naturally.” He offered his hand to help her up over a rock.

She slipped her hand into his and allowed him to pull her up. The path was narrow; she landed practically on his feet. It amazed Jack that he could feel the heat be
tween their bodies even when they were both encased in wool like a pair of sheep. Lizzie had a unique power to make his blood race.

“You’ve climbed hills in Switzerland and France?” she asked breathlessly.

He looked into her sky blue eyes. “Aye.”

“Why? Were you to be hanged there, too?”

He laughed and squeezed her hand.
“No,”
he said with the patience one might use when speaking to a child.

Lizzie laughed, too, the sound of it as sweet as bird-song to him. “Please tell me,” she said. “When we were girls Charlotte and I were very fond of looking at the atlas and imagining such places,” she said, and slipped her hand from his.

He wanted to keep holding it. He wanted to stay right here, on the side of this steep hill, and look into her blue eyes. But he moved on, leading the way again. “It was my grand tour of the Continent,” he said, and proceeded to tell her about it. It had lasted longer than he’d anticipated because his friends—Nathan Grey, the Earl of Lindsey; and Declan O’Conner, Lord Donnelly; Grayson Christopher, Duke of Darlington; and Sir Oliver Wilkes had accompanied him and had enticed him into more trouble than a proper young lass ought to know about.

She seemed very interested in his travels, asking questions about what sort of places they were, what the people ate, what they wore, the languages they spoke. She seemed surprised and impressed that he spoke French fluently. He was privately surprised that she didn’t know at least a little of it.

They reached a flat point on the hill, where Jack paused so that Lizzie might rest. The day was turning into one of those rare and gloriously warm winter days, and Lizzie paused, removed her awful bonnet, and swept
a curl from her forehead with the back of her hand. She was about to put the bonnet on again when they both heard voices.

She gaped at him; Jack indicated she should be silent.

There were the voices again, coming up the trail behind them. Bloody awful timing, Jack thought and, even worse, he had no gun. In the Highlands, one could never be too careful.

Jack looked around, saw the flat of the hill extended around a rock outcropping, but the trail continued up. He grabbed Lizzie’s hand and pulled her along the flat stretch. But when he reached the outcropping, the flat gave way to a narrow ledge high above a rocky ravine.

This was not the least bit encouraging: they were trapped between the hill and whoever was approaching—and to date, Jack’s experience had been bloody well awful when he found himself trapped in Scotland.

T
he voices were drawing closer, and belonged to men, Lizzie quickly determined, speaking Gaelic. At least that suggested it was not the prince’s men come to carry Jack off to hang.

Lizzie glanced over her shoulder in an effort to see them; at the very same moment Jack yanked her around the outcropping and onto a ledge. Lizzie gasped as she looked down; they were standing twenty to thirty feet above a rocky ravine. One clumsy move and they would fall to their deaths.
“Are you mad?”
she whispered hotly.

He put a finger to her lips and narrowed his gaze with implicit warning.

The sound of the voices so very near to them startled Lizzie right into Jack’s chest. She tried to gain her footing, but her right foot met with nothing but air. She grabbed the lapels of his coat, but in the process of trying to maintain her balance, she dropped her bonnet. It landed on the very edge.

Jack gave her another look full of warning, then tried to glance over her. Her hair must have been a fright, for he put his palm squarely on the top of her head and pushed down.

Lizzie looked at the bonnet she’d purchased from Mrs. Bain, the proprietress of the lady’s shop in Aberfeldy, for
two shillings instead of the three she’d wanted for it last summer. Lizzie began to squat down to retrieve it, but her left foot hit a loose rock that went tumbling off the ledge, pinging off several rocks on its way down. She made a sound of distress; Jack caught her around the waist with one arm, grabbed onto an exposed root with his other hand, and jerked her back hard, into his chest. She gasped; he let go the root and clamped his hand over her mouth and hissed,
“Sssh,
” into her ear.

Neither of them moved. The tips of Lizzie’s boots were hanging over the ledge. She held her breath but heard nothing—no voices, not so much as a bird chirping. Whoever had been coming up the path had paused, the sound of the fallen rock obviously having gained their attention.

Another moment passed. A slight breeze picked up, rustling the tops of the trees. She was aware of Jack at her back, long and solid against her. She was aware of how tightly he held her, of the strength in him. She slowly leaned her head back and rested it against his shoulder, looking up at the clear blue sky.

“
Ainmhidh,
” a voice rumbled, and the men continued on the path.

Animal.
They thought they’d heard an animal. Lizzie sagged with relief; Jack tightened his grip on her.

It seemed to take an interminable time for them to pass. Lizzie was certain she could feel Jack’s heartbeat. His was not skipping about in his chest as hers was; it beat a strong and steady rhythm, and she found that comforting.

The men reached the flat part of the trail and passed just inches from them. By that point, Lizzie’s heart was pounding so loudly in her ears that she couldn’t really concentrate on what they were saying, but she managed to pick
up
seachd miltean
—seven miles—and a few words here and there,
crois a’ rothaid
and
cairt
. Crossroads and cart?

When the men passed them, and they could hear no more, Jack slowly maneuvered them off the ledge and onto the flat part of the trail.

“My bonnet—”

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he said dismissively, glancing up the trail.

“It cost two shillings!”

He looked at her with surprise. “Are you mad? You paid two shillings for it?” He shook his head. “Never mind that now. There are more than enough bonnets to be had. Lizzie, I need you to stay here. Please donna argue with me,” he said when she opened her mouth. “I must see where they’ve gone. Donna go down without me, donna try and follow me. Stay
here.”

“But—”

He’d already started up after the men. In two great strides he’d leapt up the trail, moving swiftly and disappearing into the trees.

He was back minutes later, shaking his head as he jogged down the trail. “I lost them. I donna know how—on the other side of this hill there are only more trees, yet they’ve disappeared.”

“How? Where could they have gone?”

“One can only guess,” he said, and put his hand on her elbow, turning her about. “Presently, I am more concerned about taking you away from here.” He began to usher her down the trail.

“What of my bonnet?” she exclaimed as he hurried her along.

“Lass, on my word, I shall buy you the finest bonnet in all of Britain, but that one is best left at the bottom of the ravine.”

Lizzie was greatly offended by that—she’d thought it a lovely bonnet with lively trim—but Jack was moving quickly.

“Did you know the men?” he asked as they made their way down.

“No, but I think one of them might have been Carson’s man.”

“I’m shocked,” Jack said flippantly. “What did they say?”

“I couldna understand them clearly. I was able to hear the words
crossroads
,
cart
, and
seven miles
—no’ in that particular order.” She paused, trying to remember. “Or in the same sentence. What can it mean, seven miles, and crossroads, and cart?”

“Maybe nothing at all,” Jack said. “Then again, maybe quite a lot. Perhaps we will have a look at your atlas and see if anything leaps out at us.”

“Aye, but please donna tell Charlotte of this. I donna want to alarm her.”

They had reached the clearing where three horses were grazing.

“Recognize them?” Jack asked.

“No,” Lizzie said. “But Mr. Calder keeps quite a lot in this glen. Men are constantly trading horseflesh.”

The three horses barely lifted their heads from the grazing as Jack and Lizzie passed.

“Two trips in as many days,” Jack said as they walked through the heather. “That would suggest more than an outing, aye?”

“Aye,” Lizzie agreed. She was suddenly very glad she’d left their mounts in another clearing. She couldn’t begin to guess what was happening here, but she had an uneasy feeling that it was for the best that no one knew she and Jack had stumbled upon it.

They agreed to meet in the library after supper.

After a private meal with her sister, Lizzie wheeled Charlotte into the drawing room, where Newton waited. Lizzie suggested they have a game of cards, but Charlotte declined and picked up her knitting needles. “I should like to hear Mr. Newton read. Lizzie, you donna mind, aye?” she asked.

“I’m really rather tired. I think I shall retire early tonight.”

“Oh.” Charlotte said as she began to knit. “Good night, then. Sleep well.”

While Lizzie was settling Charlotte, Jack convinced Dougal to go and inquire about tar of Mr. Kincade.

Dougal frowned in confusion. “You mean to patch the roof now, milord? It’s black as ink outside.”

“I mean to do it on the morrow, weather permitting, but if there is no tar to be had, I’ll need to send someone to Aberfeldy at first light.”

That seemed to satisfy Dougal.

Jack found Lizzie in the frigid library. She was wearing her peculiar fingerless gloves. “It’s as cold as a witch’s scorn in here!” Jack complained as he blew on his cupped hands to warm his fingers. He was beginning to appreciate the utility of fingerless gloves. “There’s no wood or peat in the bin.”

“We donna have enough peat to warm every room,” Lizzie said crisply as she sailed across the room to a bookshelf, set aside her single candle, and pulled down a very large leather-bound atlas.

Jack caught it before she dropped it and carried it to the table. They laid it open to Scotland, and together leaned over the dusty pages, poring over the map,
looking for something significant within seven miles of Thorntree.

There was nothing. There was no major crossroad, which Jack had hoped to find. There was no minor crossroad, for that matter, as roads in the glens tended to be long and narrow and fairly straight. Within a seven-mile radius of Thorntree there was little more than hills and glens and rivers, a farming settlement or two that amounted to nothing more than a pair of crofters’ cottages and some enclosures, and Ardtalnaig, a settlement on Loch Tay.

“Nothing,” Lizzie said, frowning with disappointment. “Only a loch and flocks of sheep.”

“I suppose it was a bit of a guess to begin with,” Jack said. He leaned over the map again, so close that she could feel the energy of her body radiating off his. “A pity.” He sighed, braced his hand against the map as he squinted at the name
Ardtalnaig,
then turned to look at Lizzie.

She was leaning forward too, her face only inches from his. He could kiss her now if he liked. But Lizzie was frowning studiously at the atlas, apparently heedless of the current Jack felt running between them.

“You heard nothing more, you’re certain, then?” he asked softly as he touched the tips of his fingers to hers.

“Nothing.”

He casually entwined his fingers with hers.

Her cheeks flushed a little. “Perhaps it was nothing more than a walkabout,” she suggested, and shifted away, disentangling her fingers from his and trailing them across the open page of the atlas. She rounded the corner of the table, her gaze on the map. “A diversion.”

“No,” Jack said firmly, watching her. “Grown men
who possess normal responsibilities do no’ go traipsing about the Highlands for the sake of diversion. It has to do with this estate, Lizzie. Your uncle is determined to have it. But why should he no’ make a claim for it as the closest surviving male heir? One would think he’d have better luck with a claim before a magistrate than with his handfasting.”

“Oh, that’s simple, really,” she said casually. “The magistrate spends his winter in Inverness. He’ll no’ come round to the glens until spring. And besides, a Beal man can no’ inherit land.”

She said it as if it were a well-known fact. “Pardon?” Jack asked, certain he’d misunderstood her.

“Beal men canna inherit land,” Lizzie said again.

“What precisely do you mean, a Beal man canna inherit land?” Jack demanded.

“It’s an old story,” Lizzie said dismissively. “There was a royal decree of some sort issued after the Jacobite rebellion of forty-five.”

“Go on,” Jack urged her.

“The Beals of Glenalmond fought on the wrong side of the Crown, and when the rebellion was over, King George retaliated by forfeiting their lands to the Crown. There are many Beals who still hold a firm grudge against the king today, and I can assure you a Beal will no’ hand you to a royal bounty hunter,” she said proudly.

But Jack hardly cared at the moment. “Am I to understand that all Beal lands were forfeited?”

“No’ all of them. Those lands that were in possession of William Beal—my father’s grand-uncle, or something near to that—were saved, for William Beal was married to the king’s cousin, Anna Beal. The king allowed that Anna might possess land, but no’ her traitorous husband and his kin. So he gave the lands to her, prohibited Beal
men from inheriting property, and decreed that only Beal women may inherit.”

Jack was stunned. “That means you’ve inherited Thorntree free and clear? Carson canna claim a sister, a mother?”

Lizzie shook her head. “He had only a brother, my father. Really, there are precious few girls born to the Beals. Charlotte and I are the only ones in our immediate family.”

“
Diah,
Lizzie, do you see?” Jack said eagerly. “This might explain why Carson does no’ want to see you married so much as ruined for a Gordon, aye?”

“Why?” she asked.

“If your Gordon cries off because of the handfasting—which any man of sound mind would do—and you donna marry, the lands will remain in possession of a Beal. Carson might force you to marry one of his men—a Beal man, that is—so that he might have control of Thorntree.”

Lizzie snorted at that. “Who? Dougal?” She laughed but quickly sobered. “
Mi Diah,
perhaps he is planning something
precisely
like that. Yet…yet there is naugh’ to control. You’ve seen it yourself, Jack: Thorntree requires more income to operate than what we manage to bring into the coffers.”

“Aye, but that is precisely the question, Lizzie. What exactly is it you’ve inherited?” Jack asked, trying to sort it out. “Thorntree could only be a drain on his accounts. I should think Carson would be happy to put the burden of it on a Gordon.”

“Perhaps he does no’ want a Gordon to reside so close to him,” she suggested.

Jack shook his head. “Carson Beal does no’ strike me as the sort of man who would value principle over coin.”
He thought a moment, then looked at Lizzie. “You said it was a royal decree, aye?”

“Aye.”

“Can you locate it? Perhaps there is something there that might clarify matters for us.”

“My father showed it to me once,” she said. “He was worried someone might take advantage of us after he was gone, and Charlotte in particular.” She smiled wryly. “Perhaps he knew Carson better than I realized, aye?”

“Do you think you might find it, then?”

“It would be in my father’s study.” She hesitated, folding her arms tightly across her body. “That was the room he preferred, his private space. We’ve left it as it was the day he died.”

“I understand,” Jack said, and he did. It was many months before he’d been able to disturb his father’s sanctuary after his death. Clearly not for the same reasons as Lizzie’s—Jack had needed time to convince himself the old man was truly gone. His father had told Jack from his deathbed that he’d never amount to much. Jack had been a young man then, and there was a part of him that feared his father would rise up from his grave. But he’d been forced to face it sooner rather than later—he’d become an earl at the age of eighteen, and there were matters that needed his attention.

To Lizzie he said, “I rather think your father would want you to discover what Carson is about, to keep you and Charlotte safe.”

Lizzie bit her bottom lip and nodded. “Aye, he would. I think I can find it.”