The Lady and the Laird. Nicola Cornick
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already given the gossips more than enough cause for conjecture,” Robert said. “I refuse to play the heartbroken jilt.” He laughed. “Besides, the wedding is bought and paid for. And you have a daughter married and off your hands. One hopes. Celebrate it.” He sketched Lord Brodrie a bow. “Excuse me. I will join you shortly, but first there is something I must do.”
“By God, sir, he is a coldhearted bastard,” he heard Brodrie say to Jack as he walked away. The man sounded torn between admiration and disbelief.
He did not hear Jack’s reply. But he did not disagree with Brodrie’s assessment.
* * *
LACHLAN HAD RUN off with Dulcibella Brodrie.
The gossip rippled down the pews like the incoming tide. Lucy, sitting at the back of the church between her father and her two sisters, was almost the last to hear it.
“Run away to Gretna Green... Gone this morning... Eloped with Lachlan MacMorlan...”
Lucy felt apprehension tiptoe along her spine. Damn Lachlan. Could he not have sorted this out sooner? It had taken two months and almost twenty love letters to persuade Dulcibella to jilt Robert Methven, and she had to do it now, leaving the man standing alone in front of all his wedding guests.
Lucy felt horribly guilty. She had not really expected to feel so bad. Up until this very moment, she had in fact felt rather pleased with herself. Dulcibella’s surprisingly staunch refusal to succumb to Lachlan’s wooing had meant a big profit on the letters. Lucy had been able to give so much to her charities: warm blankets and medicines and new clothes for the children. But of course there was always a price to pay. And Lord Methven was paying it now. Lucy felt as though she had let him down in some obscure way, as though she had owed him her loyalty and had betrayed him. Perhaps it was because all those years ago he had kept his word and never revealed that he had seen her on the terrace at Forres that night. She had not thought about that in eight years. Yet now she thought that he had kept faith with her while she had repaid him in deceit.
“Papa.” Lucy touched her father’s arm, leaned toward Mairi and Christina. “I fear we are about to become as popular as a fox in a hen coop,” she whispered. “Lachlan has eloped with the bride.”
The Duke of Forres pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He looked perplexed. It was his natural state; he was a scholar and a recluse who always gave the impression that half his mind was still in his books. “Lachlan?” he said vaguely. “Has he? I wondered where he was.”
“Halfway to Gretna by now, by the sound of it,” Mairi said. “Typical Lachlan. He always wants what belongs to someone else.”
Lucy looked up. Over the heads of the congregation, she could see Robert Methven talking to his groomsman and to Lord Brodrie. He turned slightly toward her and she saw that there were some sheets of paper in his hand. She felt a clutch of fear ripple through the pit of her stomach. Those sheets looked suspiciously like the letters Lachlan had sent Dulcibella.
Suddenly, without warning, Methven looked up and directly at her. His dark blue gaze was intent. It felt as though there were an invisible thread pulled tight between them. Lucy felt the jolt of that contact down to her toes.
He knows.
Her heart started to batter her bodice, slamming in hard beats. She could feel panic rising in her throat, cutting off her breath. How Robert Methven could possibly know that she had had a hand in this was a mystery, and yet she did not doubt it for a second.
She saw Methven’s gaze drop to the letters in his hand and then rise again to pin her very deliberately in its full blue blaze. He made some comment to his groomsman and took a purposeful step in Lucy’s direction.
She had to get out of there.
“Papa,” she said. “Excuse me. I need some fresh air. I will see you out at the carriage.”
“Of course, my dear,” the duke murmured. “Dear, oh dear, I am not at all sure what to say to Methven. Such appallingly bad behavior on Lachlan’s part.”
“Excuse me,” Lucy said again, hastily. She started to squeeze out of the pew. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Robert Methven advancing down the nave of the church toward them. She had a sudden vision of him throwing down his gauntlet on the floor of the church and challenging the duke to combat for the dishonor done to his name and his family. A hundred years before, such an idea might not have been so outrageous. It did not in fact seem that outlandish now, especially as Wilfred Cardross was smiling broadly and making his delight at Methven’s humiliation all too plain.
“It could not have happened to a more deserving fellow,” Cardross said. “I must stand Lachlan a whisky next time I see him.”
“Oh, do be quiet, Wilfred,” Lucy said crossly, venting her guilt on someone else. “You always have to crow.”
“When it is a case of seeing a Methven brought low,” Wilfred said, smoothing his lacy cuffs, “of course I do. Besides...” He beamed again. “If Methven cannot fulfill the terms of his inheritance, then half his estates are forfeit. To me.”
Lucy looked at him with deep dislike. Wilfred had been making mysterious pronouncements along these lines over the past few months, ever since he had come back from London. She knew there was some sort of ongoing lawsuit between him and Robert Methven, but since the case was still sub judice, Wilfred could not discuss it. Instead he dropped these irritating and self-satisfied hints. But if Wilfred was right and Methven’s inheritance depended on his marriage, then he would be even more furious to be jilted. Suddenly Lucy felt so nervous that she could not draw breath.
She was in big trouble.
She squeezed past her cousin and out into the aisle. It was now packed with wedding guests, all milling around and chattering. “Excuse me,” Lucy said rapidly for a third time, trying to carve a path through the congregation toward the nearest door.
She threw a look back over her shoulder. Several people had ambushed Robert Methven on his way down the aisle, presumably to ask him what was going on. He was answering courteously enough, but his eyes were still fixed on her, fierce and focused. As he caught her gaze, Lucy saw a flash of grim amusement light the deep blue depths. He knew she was running from him and he was coming after her.
It was only as she reached the church door, out of breath and with her heart pounding, that she realized her tactical mistake. She should have stayed inside, surrounded by people. Robert Methven could not have interrogated her there. She would have been safe. Except she suspected that he was the sort of man who would simply have picked her up and carried her out of the church had he wanted to speak to her in private. He would not care if he outraged convention.
Galvanized by the thought, Lucy started to hurry down the uneven path toward the lych-gate. The road beyond was blocked with carriages. The little village of Brodrie had seen nothing on the scale of this wedding since the laird had married thirty years before.
“Lady Lucy.” There was a step behind her on the path. Lucy froze. She wanted to run, but that would be undignified. It would also end badly. She could not run in her silk slippers and Robert Methven would be faster than she was.
She turned slowly.
“Lord Methven.” The moment of confrontation had arrived too soon. She felt completely unprepared. “I am sorry,” she said. “Sorry for your...” She paused.
“Loss?” Robert Methven suggested ironically. “Or sorry that your brother is such a blackguard that he elopes with another man’s bride?”
His voice was rough edged, rubbing against Lucy’s senses like skates on ice. No educated man, no gentleman, spoke with a Scots accent, but there was a trace of something in Robert Methven’s voice that was as abrasive as he was. Perhaps it was the time he had spent abroad that had rubbed off the patina of civilization in him. Whatever it was, it made Lucy shiver.
He was blocking the path in front of her and he did not move. As always, his height and the breadth of his shoulders,