Unlaced By The Highland Duke. Lara Temple
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lowered her chin. ‘Boil and bubble, toil and trouble, you’d best put on your shoes or I’ll shave all your stubble.’
Jamie burst into laughter.
‘That wasn’t Minerva, that was Auntie Theale!’
‘Goodness, was it? Well, perhaps they’re secret sisters.’
‘Minerva sounds far too benevolent to be related to Lady Theale,’ Benneit interjected and Joane Langdale looked over at him, her eyes warm with his son’s laughter, but Jamie tugged at her sleeve.
‘Tell me more stories, Cousin Joane.’
‘Very well, but you must call me Jo. Cousin Joane doesn’t tell stories, she finds shawls and hems handkerchiefs. It is Jo who tells stories.’
‘Which one are you?’ Jamie asked seriously.
‘Some days I am one and some days I am the other. Just like some days you are an explorer and some days you are Jamie who cannot find his shoes.’
He grinned.
‘I always know where they are, but some days I don’t wish to find them.’
‘Exactly. So today I do not wish to find Cousin Joane and so I am Jo.’
‘Tell me another story, Jo. If you please,’ he amended, and she shifted him on her lap so that he was once again looking out the window.
‘Very well, tell me what you see and I shall tell you a story about it.’
Jamie’s hand traced up and down the window frame as he searched the landscape.
‘That,’ he said finally, his voice hushed. ‘That big tree near the stream.’
‘Oh, that tree. You are a true explorer, Jamie. Not many would have seen how wondrous that tree is...’
Benneit leaned back, half-listening to the story that unfolded, with foxes and rabbits and a goat who sounded amazingly like Godfrey, Bella’s brother, and a weasel who sounded even more impressively like Celia, Bella’s sister. There was also a little girl who had been taken captive by a blind but kindly old mole so she could help him search for a quizzing glass lost in one of a myriad of tunnels. It was both absurd and touching and, most importantly, it held Jamie captive, his eyes searching the landscape for the places she mentioned—a little hut, a grizzled old man walking a pig, a shape in the clouds.
Finally, Jamie’s fascinated questions began to flag. He yawned and leaned back against Mrs Langdale’s shoulder, his eyelids slipping. Her voice continued, sinking into dusk, but it was only when Jamie’s body gave the distinctive little shudder that spoke of deep sleep that she stopped, her breath shifting the dark curls by his temple.
‘Thank you.’ Benneit’s whisper sounded rough even to him, certainly not grateful, but she smiled. Against his son’s dark hair, her profile was a carved cameo, a gentle sweep of a line that accentuated the pucker of her lower lip and the sharp curve of her chin. Stubborn. Joane Langdale might be the Uxmores’ drudge, but Jo was another thing entirely, he thought.
Perhaps it would not be so terrible for her to stay with them until he finalised his affairs with the McCrieffs. He would be busy with his own matters and the preparations for the feud ball and she could make herself useful; anyone who could talk his son out of a bout of illness in a carriage was worth keeping around.
‘England is now behind us, Mrs Langdale,’ Lochmore said, his voice low. ‘Welcome to the land of the green and grey, sheep, cows, swift weddings and whisky, of which I wish I had a flask about now.’
Jo glanced out the window, but there was not much to see. The rain was alternately pouring and spattering on the window and, despite the hot bricks at their feet, it was chilly. The cloak Celia had given her after hers was ruined dragging one of the children out of the muddy millpond was of poor material and unlined and it was not much help against the cold penetrating the carriage in gusts as they lurched over a rutted stretch of road. She leaned her hand on the pane, its surface cold and slippery. Blurry cottages slunk by, tucked low into the green. Scotland.
She untied and pulled down the curtain, blocking the view.
‘Don’t.’
She jumped at the sharp word, turning.
‘Tie it back. The curtain.’
She was too surprised to obey immediately. ‘It is cold.’
Lochmore shifted Jamie’s sleeping form and reached under the seat to pull out a colourful afghan.
‘Here. Put that around you. Leave the curtain open.’
She retied the sash and unfolded the blanket. The wool was fine and warm and she wrapped it about her, grateful but confused. Then annoyance struck her, a little late but welcome. She was not here to stay. She need not be compliant as she was at Uxmore.
‘Please,’ she said and he frowned.
‘Please, what?’
‘Please, Mrs Langdale, would you mind leaving the curtains open? I find it easier to brood while viewing the rain and gloom in all its glory.’
His chest expanded, then his breath came out in a long hiss.
‘I used to consider Lady Theale an astute woman, but now I am doubtful—she assured me you would give me no cause for complaint, Mrs Langdale.’
‘I apologise for giving you cause for complaint, Your Grace.’
He sighed and shook his head.
‘You should apologise for making me feel like a churlish fool.’
‘I only assume responsibility for my mistakes, Your Grace. Not for a state of affairs beyond my control.’
It was a risk, but it paid off. The tension evident in the grooves in his cheeks eased into the glimmer of a smile.
‘Kicking a man while he is down is not sportsmanlike, Mrs Langdale.’
‘It may not be, but he is much easier to reach when he is, Your Grace.’
He laughed and turned to inspect the passing scenery and, after a moment, Jo did the same.
* * *
The silence fell again but for the patter of rain and the sounds of the sleepers. Benneit watched the slide of green and grey beyond the rain, caught between amusement at Mrs Langdale’s impertinence and frustration at himself. How the devil did he always manage to come out the worst from their exchanges?
She had a point, though. His reaction had been instinctive, but far too harsh. He usually controlled the outer manifestations of his condition, but sometimes when he was weary that control slipped. And when it did, it left this foul ache in his arms and chest, as if he had gone a dozen rounds sparring with Angus at his best. He shifted his shoulders, cursing his weakness. Thirty years had passed and he was still as cracked a vessel as ever.
He glanced at Joane Langdale but she did not turn. She looked like an urchin, tucked into Mrs Merry’s blanket. His housekeeper had used every colour of wool she could find and the result bordered on disaster and yet was charming, like an English spring garden chopped up and woven together. Against its riot of colour Mrs Langdale’s delicate colouring was more ethereal than pixyish. Soft.
She raised the shawl, brushing her cheek with it furtively, the way Jamie did when he was sneaking a tart from Mrs Merry. Even through the clop of the horses’ hooves and the creaking of the carriage, he thought he could hear the faint burr of fabric on flesh and his own cheek warmed, his fingers tingling as if making contact with the shawl, or her cheek. A snake of a shudder made him shift his legs in surprise and discomfort and he shoved his hands into his pockets and turned again to the blurry greyness outside.
Boredom