“I’m not bleeding, you Bedlamite! Do you ever stop talking and listen to something beyond the wind howling between your ears?”
Arthur’s eyes had flown toward her at Ned’s words—she wasbleeding—where—how had he missed—
She wasn’t bleeding, as it turned out, though she was scrubbing rather frantically at the jam on her arm. But the guilt that had coursed through him like a torrent at her brother’s words did not falter.
A penniless fortune hunter. That’s what Ned had called him.
He wanted to defend himself—he would never take advantage of her—he wouldnevertake from her—
But—God. He’d felt a great wash of shame and inadequacy as they’d arrived at the Hope-Wallace residence. The town house—if that was even the word for it—was palatial. She had been raised here, on this elegant street with its neat foliage and carefully trimmed shrubbery.
All he had to offer her was a half-ruined castle, and a name and title he was not proud to own. Her fortunewouldbe a help to him—to the people of Strathrannoch and the villagers he supported. He could not pretend it wasn’t so.
And he’d hated, too, to sneak her up the stairs, all travel-worn and secretive. He wanted—
He scarcely knew what he wanted. Ridiculous things. He wanted to march into her family home with her on his arm and declare her his wife.
But he did not know how to speak to her now, here in this beautiful house. He didn’t know how to tell her that he’d goneabout everything backward, that his heart was hers to keep or trod upon, that he wanted her, in every possible way, forever.
Afortune hunter. How could he ever make her believe it wasn’t true?
Lydia towed Ned into one of the chambers down the hall, a quick gesture of her head indicating that Arthur was to follow.
The three of them crowded into the room. Arthur supposed it was Lydia’s bedchamber: He could see evidence of her everywhere. The political and historical tomes that spilled out from the bookcase, the escritoire nearly overflowing with pamphlets and notes. On top of the little desk’s second shelf were three or four inexplicable decorative items that looked like the things she wore sometimes in her hair.
Beneath the bed lay a pair of floppy pink-and-orange slippers knitted to resemble clouds at sunrise.
Lydia shoved Ned down onto the bed, and despite his emotional tumult, Arthur found that he wanted to laugh. Her habitual reserve had altogether vanished with this young blond brother.
“Sit,” she hissed. “Listen. This is Arthur Baird, the Earl of Strathrannoch—”
“Your husband?” Ned interjected. “You eloped?”
“I—we—” Her gaze flicked toward Arthur, her big blue eyes uncertain.
“Yes,” Arthur said. “Lydia is Lady Strathrannoch.”
If there was any chance—any chance at all—that she thought he would hesitate to make her his wife, he meant to disabuse her of the notion. If she needed certainty, he could give it to her. If she needed him to steady her, then by God, he would never leave her side.
Ned’s face had gone somewhat red. He appeared to color asfreely as his sister. “And why in hell does she look like she’s been run over by a cart, Strathrannoch?”
“I was,” Lydia put in. “Er, that is, we had a carriage accident on the way here. And we were, ah, also robbed. By highwaymen. Arthur was quite heroic.”
Arthur wanted very much to protest this description of events, but it did not seem the opportune moment.
“Jesus.” Ned pressed his fingers briefly over his eyes. “Jesus, Lyddie. How did this all—and when—” He broke off in evident turmoil.
Lydia moistened her lips and looked at Arthur. “I… read something he wrote. About the Clearances. I… I traveled to his castle and met him there. We… determined that we suit.”
Ned glanced at Arthur and then back to Lydia. “Trust you to fall in love with someone over their political beliefs. Good Lord.”
Arthur felt a cold discomfort in the pit of his stomach at Ned’s words.
She would. She had.
Only it had not been with him.
Lydia winced. “We can dissect my personal flaws at a later date, if that’s all right. Is Jasper here? We need to speak to him immediately.”
