Adventures of a Scottish Heiress (14 page)

“You weren’t in any danger. And you were having as good a time as I was.”

That was true, but Lyssa didn’t want to admit it. In fact, for some perverse reason, she relished picking this argument with him. It was good to keep him at a distance, even comforting. “Mr. Campion, this conversation between us is finished. Believe me when I say I don’t care what you were doing with those women. You could have been
fornicating
,” she said dramatically, using the boldest, worst word she could think of in her vocabulary, a word she’d never been brave enough to use before, “and I would not care.”

His reaction was swift. “You are being damned silly.”

That was
not
the response she had anticipated. Her temper was ready to go up in flames except he moved away, the set of his mouth grim, placing Jean and Maggie between them, both women too tired to care about an argument between “brother and sister.”

Fifteen minutes later, they reached the Andersons’
farm. They helped Maggie put the boys to bed. Her two older sons were going to stay with friends in the village.

Lyssa didn’t wait to say good night to Ian but marched off to her little room, shut the door, and hooked the latch. Moonlight lit the barn but her room was darker than pitch. She had to feel her way to the shabby cot. Removing her shoes and her belt, she wrapped herself in her plaid, expecting to fall asleep instantly. She didn’t…or perhaps she dozed. She wasn’t certain.

All she knew is that she heard a scratching on the closed door. “Ian! Ian, let me in,” a woman’s whispered voice said.

Lyssa lay still, immediately recognizing the Widow Potter.

“Ian?”

Then there was silence. Lyssa strained her hearing. Had the widow found him? She heard voices whispering beyond the door.

She sat up, pushing aside her plaid.

This was not her business.

Ian was his own man. As he’d said earlier, he didn’t answer to her.

However, he was being paid to protect her, not flirt with women, and Lyssa came face to face with a hard truth.

She was jealous.

For a second, she sat quiet, uncomfortable with this new emotion.

Or was it an old one?

For the first time, she recognized how jealous she was of the Duchess, the wife her father had chosen to replace her mother, a jealousy she’d denied. Nor did she like confronting how childishly she’d behaved to her stepmother over the past three years.

She pushed unwelcome thoughts aside, but having these feelings now over Ian…?

Knowing she shouldn’t, Lyssa rose and tiptoed to the door. She leaned her ear against it. There was no more whispering, but there were sounds—soft sighs and a feminine laugh that was quickly squelched and turned into a gasp of surprise.

Lyssa stared at the door, wishing she could see right though it.

She couldn’t. And she could not stand here any longer pretending nothing was happening. She had to see for herself. Maybe then she’d rid herself of this silly infatuation over Ian. She pulled on her shoes, lacing them quickly, flicked up the latch and threw open the door.

The moonlight gave the barn a silvery glow, but she didn’t see anyone.

Listening, she heard a strange, rhythmic noise in the stall nearest the tack room. Curiosity propelled her forward. Quietly, she took one step after another until the stall came into view and Lyssa caught sight of a naked Widow Potter bouncing up and down on a man lying in the hay whose breeches were around his ankles.

F
OR
a moment, Lyssa could only gape like some village fool until she realized what they were doing—and then, she was shocked to the core of her soul.

The man’s naked thighs were pasty white and his hands gripped the Widow’s breasts as if they were plow handles. They were both so occupied in their moans and groans and mutual sweaty activity, they didn’t notice her.

Finally, Lyssa found her voice. “When I said fornicating, I didn’t expect you to do it!”

Nor did she expect his voice to come from behind where she stood. “I’m not. But I do think you should mind your own business, Lyssa.”

Turning, she saw Ian standing—fully clothed in shirt sleeves, breeches, and stockings—at the entrance of another stall.

“Then who—?” she started before turning in horror to see both the Widow and Mr. Anderson looking up at her.

Lyssa thought she would die from the embarrassment. Instead, she turned and ran out of the barn.

Outside in the yard, she stopped. What should she do now? Knock on the door and inform Mrs. Anderson of her husband’s activities? Or sit out here until they’d finished and left?

She certainly couldn’t pretend
nothing
had happened.

Ian came up behind her. Taking her arm in a grip as tight as a vise, he said, “Not one word, not until we are beyond the house.” He’d pulled on his boots and practically carried her away from the house and the barn.

“But Maggie…she needs to know,” Lyssa protested, trying to turn back.

“No, she doesn’t,” came his terse reply and he half carried her forward.

As Ian had anticipated, Anderson came out of the barn buttoning his breeches. He could almost hear the farmer’s sigh of relief that his guests were heading off toward his pastures instead of knocking on the door to inform his wife.

He led Lyssa toward a pond on the far side of the field. Beneath the overhanging branches of a willow tree, he let her sit on the cool ground. She buried her face in her hands. He sat beside her, not saying a word, preferring instead to study the way the moonlight shone off the smooth surface of the pond.

“I didn’t think it was done like that,” she said at last, her voice completely serious. “That didn’t appear pleasurable at all.”

Her reaction startled a laugh out of him.

She turned to him. “This is not funny,” she said. “Catching them was so humiliating.” And yet, in spite of the stain of embarrassment on her cheeks, even she started to laugh, and covered her mouth as if to stifle the sound.

“Think how I felt with them going at it in the stall next to mine,” Ian confessed. “I was hoping they wouldn’t wake you up.”

“How could they not? They were making so much noise.”

Suddenly, the two of them were laughing so hard, Ian feared the sound would carry and Anderson would hear them. He put his arm around Lyssa’s shoulder and shushed her. “We’ll wake up everyone.”

“I’d like to wake up Maggie,” she said, sobering. She turned to him, sitting so close that her bouncing red curls spilled over his shoulder. “She should know.”

“She
does
know. Anderson certainly doesn’t hide his tomcatting.”

Lyssa looked out over the pond. “What a life she must live.”

“It may be the one she chooses,” he observed quietly. “You can’t convince me he is any different now than he was before he married.”

“But why would she look the other way? If he
was my husband, I’d take a whip to him. I certainly wouldn’t let him into my bed.”

Ian had no doubt she wouldn’t. But then Lyssa had a strong sense of self and more pride than was prudent—two things he admired about her. Two things they had in common.

“Look at the house she now lives in,” he told her. “Back when he courted her, he was probably a jovial fellow with a wandering eye and a good piece of property.”

“She told me his family had once been quite grand.”

“So now you know why she married him and with four children and another on the way, no, she wouldn’t appreciate your telling her about her husband and Mary Potter.”

Lyssa leaned forward, hugging her knees. His arm was still around her shoulder and she did not seem to mind. “Love shouldn’t be like that,” she said half to herself.

“Too often it is.”

He didn’t remind her of Lord Grossett waiting for her and his share of her father’s fortune.

Instead, he focused on Lyssa, on
wanting
her. Yes, earlier in the evening he’d been kissing any willing woman…but the one he wanted, the one he’d tried not to think about was right here beside him.

And what would she taste like if he kissed her?

“You don’t believe in love?” she challenged, looking over her shoulder.

“When the moon is this full, I believe in everything,” he answered recklessly. “Besides, I’m Irish. We’re poets and fools.”

“I thought you were pragmatic?” she returned, a sign there were no more whiskey fumes in her brain.

“Reality has hardened my idealism,” he admitted.

“Not mine,” she said proudly. “I believe love,
true
love, can overcome
anything
. And it is worth the price. Even if you have to live in a hovel. My parents had that kind of love.”

Dear God, had he ever been so naïve? It seemed ages ago. “Why do you say so?”

“Because my mother gave up everything for my father. He was a shepherd who had come looking for work. He hadn’t home or hearth. The Davidsons hired him and he lived in the meanest conditions. However, he said the moment he laid eyes on my mother, he knew he was in love, a love he couldn’t deny even if he was poor. My mother felt the same. She believed they were destined for each other.”

To a man who had nothing, her words were like water for a thirsty soul. Still, Ian knew the world too well. “Her family did not approve.”

“Of course not. He had nothing. Her father tried to lock her in her room but she escaped and she and my father ran away to London to seek their fortune.” She was silent a moment before adding
softly, “Ironic, isn’t it, that now he wants me to marry a man with money and a title?”

“Or that your mother ran away from Scotland to escape her fate, while you are running toward it.”

She sat up and turned to him. “Yes, you’re right,” she agreed thoughtfully. “And instead of allowing me to choose my own husband, he’s insisting on Robert.”

Here was dangerous ground. Ian dropped his hand from her back, warning himself to be cautious. Lyssa was romantic and what she claimed to want was not always what she wanted…except a part of him, his pride, most likely, sought to be accepted for himself, in spite of his mistakes. In spite of his failures.

And pigs might fly someday, too.

“There is no wrong in a father wanting what is best for his daughter,” he said.

“No,” she agreed quietly, and then her expression hardened. “Of course, he destroyed my mother’s memory and what they had together by marrying the duchess.”

Ian knew he shouldn’t touch it. After all, what was it to him if Lyssa insisted on portraying her stepmother as the villain? Still…“Your stepmother came down in rank to marry your father. Perhaps, there is deep love there, too?”

Her brows snapped together and her back straightened with indignation. She moved away from him. “How can you say such a thing? The
duchess only married my father for his money. Her love has never been tested. And, have you forgotten she is behind the murder attempt on my life?”

“We don’t know that,” he answered—and in truth, in his gut, he didn’t believe she was. “I have no doubt that the love your father and mother had was rare and special. That’s the way it was with my parents and my sisters would have followed their husbands to hell and back.”

“But—?” she prompted.

He smiled. How well she was beginning to know him. “But I believe there may be many different kinds of love. And while one may not be as intense as another, each is important.”

“For example?”

Of course, she would expect him to build his case. Ian picked a blade of grass and rested his arms on his bent knees before saying, “Well, there is the love of parent and the love of a child. Both are important, but not the least bit similar. Then, there is the love in a friendship. I’ve had friends I would lay down my life for and although the feeling is different, it is as strong as the love between man and wife.” He tossed the grass aside. “Each love is valid. In a remarriage who is to say which love was stronger, the love for the first or second wife? I can see your father loving your mother for being by his side. For believing in him when no one else did. Could he not love your stepmother for the same? Certainly she gave up some status in
society for him. Of course, what he felt for your mother must have burned brighter. They were younger and there was much more at stake.”

She studied him a second, considering his words. Her response surprised him. “You argue your point like a barrister, stating your case while appeasing mine.”

The insightful accuracy caught Ian off guard. Unsettled, he pulled back, suddenly uncertain as to what he had revealed.

If Lyssa noticed his slight alarm, she gave no indication. Instead, she rested back on her palms and looked up at the stars. “I wish I’d known my mother when she was as young as I. My first memories of her were when she was ill. The doctors could never tell us what was wrong with her save she didn’t have the strength to leave her room. I used to believe having me had made her ill but Papa said that wasn’t true. I spent every moment I could with her. She was sick for so long…” Her voice trailed off wistfully and Ian thought he understood.

And now her father had a wife who was young and healthy, something her mother had never been in Lyssa’s memory. No wonder she was jealous of her stepmother.

“Would you kiss me?”

Ian shook his head, thinking he’d imagined her words.

She sat up and faced him. “Would you?” she prodded.

“Are you serious?”

Her expressive widened. “Yes.” There was a pause and she added, “I think I am.”

“Why?” The word flew from his mouth before he could stop it.

Her cheeks darkened with color. She dropped her gaze and then said, “Because the only kiss I’ve ever had was that terrible one from Mr. Anderson.”

Ian frowned. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, you shouldn’t.” She pulled out a handful of grass, her fingers twisting the blades into rope. “I mean, I’ve received a peck or two. When Robert asked for my hand and my father gave it to him, he kissed my cheek.”

“And what did you do?” Ian asked, curious.

“Initially? Nothing.” She dropped her grass and dusted her fingers lightly before adding, “Later, I washed my cheek.”

That
was the answer he’d wanted to hear. And still, like a doubting fool, he hedged. “So why would you want a kiss from me?”

“Because you must know how to kiss. You seemed to be doing a good job of it earlier. Or so one would believe from the response you received.” She placed her hand on his thigh, a bold move that was counterbalanced by the timidity in her wide eyes.

Suddenly uncertain, he said, “Miss Harrell—”

“Lyssa.”

“Lyssa,” he repeated, drawing out the syllables.
Her fingers were inches from his groin and he was having trouble thinking, since all the blood seemed to have left his brain and was now centered in his very strong erection.

If she noticed, she gave no sign.

Instead, she leaned close. “I’m three and twenty,” she whispered, “and on the shelf, or so my stepmother tells me. After mother died, father and I spent three years wrapped in grief. But he recovered. I was twenty, Ian. My mother had been ill most of my life and I was already old in more ways than age. Then Papa met his duchess and married and I was forced to go out into Society. Do you know how awkward I felt? There were so many rules I had to learn and everything I did seemed to be wrong. Whereas my stepmother knew everything and everyone. She was graceful and poised, and I felt old.”

“You are not old.”

“There were girls younger than myself who were already matrons with babies—”

“Not many,” he corrected.

“More than enough,” she said. “And here I was, not even knowing how to flirt.”

“You know more than you realize,” he answered carefully, his heart pounding in his ears.

“I don’t know how to kiss like you were kissing the widow. I don’t know how to kiss at all, and I do want to learn.” She punctuated her words by moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue, and Ian almost groaned aloud.

Here was the first sign that she saw him as a man…and the opportunity to taste her was very tempting.

“Please?” she asked prettily and closed her eyes, offering herself to him.

All Ian had to do was press his lips to hers and nature would take its course. What he’d give to have her body against his. Her nipples had tightened and he yearned to feel the weight of her breasts in his hands. Mary Potter had been a poor substitute for what he really wanted, what he ached for. What he could have right now if he would only take advantage—

Gently, he moved her hand from his thigh, placing it on the ground between them and holding it in place with his palm.
Dear God in Heaven
, he was going to regret this.

Her eyes fluttered open. Her brows came together in a question.

“I believe the whiskey is talking to you, Miss Harrell.” He deliberately put a lot of Irish in his voice, needing to remind her—and himself—of their differences.

She gave her head a small shake as if in disbelief. “You won’t kiss me?”

He didn’t answer, knowing whatever he said, he was a doomed man.

His prediction was right. Lyssa rose to her feet, her fists clenched at her side. “You would kiss every woman at the dance tonight and
refuse
to kiss me?”

This was not going to be good.

Slowly, he came up to stand in front of her, needing his height in the face of her building temper. There were so many things he could say. He could tell the truth and possibly find himself entangled even further with her—or say something that would put her off him for good. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about any messy complications like his own heart.