Charity (18 page)

“You’re not accustomed to champagne, little cat.” He sat down beside her, unsure whether she’d accept comfort from him, though he ached to hold her and to provide solace in his arms. To his surprise, she lifted her head, shifted her weight, and settled against his side with a whimper. Tenderness swept through him. He opened his arms, pulled her more snugly against him, then lifted her altogether and settled her into his lap.

“So tired,” she murmured. Her hand fell softly on his chest. She flattened it for a moment and spread her fingers. Lachlan covered it with his own and held it there, and at last he felt her fingers relax and curl into his palm as sleep over-took
her. They sat like that for a while, Lachlan’s mind spinning with the magnitude of what now had to happen, and with the steps he needed to take to set things in motion.

When Charity’s breathing was deep and even, he stood up, lifting her with him, and carried her carefully to the bed. He turned down the covers with one hand, then gently settled her onto the sheets and removed her shoes. When he’d placed them neatly beside the bed, he tucked the covers around her shoulders and brushed a lock of her disheveled hair from her forehead. She looked so young, so vulnerable. And now it would be his job to protect her for the rest of his life.

After he was sure she wouldn’t wake—he dreaded the idea of her finding herself alone—he left her there and made his way downstairs. The innkeeper was nowhere to be found, but Lachlan found an inkwell and some paper in a desk near the entry. Hastily he scrawled two notes, walking outside and blowing on the ink so that it would dry faster. Having failed to give his coachman any instructions, he found the conveyance was right where he’d left it. The footman looked startled when his employer suddenly appeared, but snapped to attention right away.

“Go inside and up the stairs and wait for me outside the last room on the left. There is a young lady asleep in that room and, as its door has met a rather unfortunate end, I’d like for you to stand guard.”

The man bowed and rushed off, and Lachlan next motioned for his coachman to join him. He handed the man the two notes. “Take one to the Marquess of Roth, and the other to the Earl of Huntwick. After that, go to my cousin’s town house, wake Niles, and have him quickly pack what he can while you get fresh horses and return. We’ll leave midafternoon tomorrow, so you can get some rest.”

“Yes, my lord.” The coachman watched as the marquess turned and began to walk back into the inn. “My lord?” Lachlan turned back, eyebrow raised in inquiry. “Where are we going?”

Lachlan paused a moment, as if he felt saying the words out loud would somehow make his decision all too real, but then he said with finality, “Home.”

Twenty

It
felt as though her blanket had somehow managed to work its way into her mouth. Charity slowly opened one eye and then hastily closed it again when light rushed in and began physically pounding at her head from the inside. She groaned.

“There is a glass of water on the table next to you. And some toast. You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten and had a good deal of water.”

At the unexpected sound of a male voice, Charity sat bolt upright, her eyes flying open without regard for her headache. “Sweet mother of mercy, what are
you
doing in my bedchamber?” She clutched the blankets to her chest and looked around.

Lachlan watched the outraged look on her face change to one of confusion when she realized she was still wearing her clothing from the previous evening. He suppressed a smile. “This is not your bedchamber, Charity. Do you have any memory of last night?”

“Oh.
God
.” The confusion was rapidly changing to horror. “I mean, yes, I remember some of . . . wait, you were there with that insipid woman who looks like a porcelain doll. And how in the
world
did we end up here?” She stopped and looked up him, noted the sober look on his face. “Where is here?” she asked.

Lachlan sat down on the edge of the bed, picked up a piece of toast and a glass of water. He urged them on her.
“I’ll tell you everything if you’ll just eat and drink a bit. You don’t want to ride in the coach when you’re feeling this way.”

With an unusual show of obedience, Charity accepted the toast and dutifully took a bite. It was dry and cold. She made a face and swallowed a gulp of the water. “Champagne is far lovelier while one is drinking it than it is the next day,” she remarked wryly, and took another bite of toast.

Lachlan smiled. “A little lesson in moderation, kitten.” His smile faded. She had no idea, yet, of just how big a lesson it had become.

Charity watched his expression change and took another sip of the water. “I can see from your face that things are not good. Tell me what happened, please,” she said after she’d swallowed. She put the toast back on the plate and focused her attention on him. “Where are we, how did we get here, and”—her eyes widened—“oh my goodness, my sisters! My family must be frantic.”

“They know you’re fine and that you’re with me.”

She looked around the room again. Images kept flipping into her mind. Laughter. Music. The garden gate. “I don’t remember leaving the ball,” she said slowly. “Were you in the garden with me?”

“No, kitten.” He watched her carefully. “You were in the garden with Anthony Iverson.”

“We were hiding,” she agreed. “And then everything began to go all tingly.”

Lachlan felt his rage at Iverson begin to build again, and deliberately he fought to remain calm. The last thing he needed just now was for Charity to become freakishly uncooperative.

“You were seen leaving the ball through the side garden gate by a young woman named Therese.”

Alarm bells went off inside her head. “Therese Thomasson-Sinclair?”

“I don’t know her, but I believe that was the name given.”

Charity bit her lip, feeling suddenly sick. If Therese had seen her, that meant this was all over the
ton
. She closed her eyes. “I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?”

“Don’t do this to yourself, Charity. While things are bad—”

She opened her eyes and regarded him with a miserable expression. “Tell me the rest.”

“From what I’ve guessed, Iverson somehow talked you into leaving with him and brought you here, to an inn on the outskirts of London. When I found you, he had you backed into a corner and you were holding him off with a bowl and pitcher.” His lips twitched a tiny bit. Although the situation was dire, he didn’t think he would ever forget the sight of tiny little Charity and her porcelain weaponry, the pitcher outthrust like a sword, the bowl held back protectively like a shield. “He and I discussed the situation, came to an agreeable alternative arrangement to his plan, and he left.”

An agreeable alternative
. That seemed somewhat odd. “He simply left? Why didn’t you take me back to London at that time?”

“Because,” said Lachlan, then stopped, glancing at the bowl and pitcher to make sure they were still well out of her reach. He was trying to think of a good way to tell her that she really couldn’t go back unmarried; her reputation would be in shambles. “Because you’re not going to London,” he said, stalling to give himself time.

It was all too much for Charity’s befuddled brain to handle. She rubbed her forehead and asked, “And now you will be taking me back to Pelthamshire?”

“No.”

“My lord, please. I know I’ve done a terrible thing, and I’m quite sure there will be consequences, but if you could just see your way to getting me back to my family, I would very much appreciate it.”

“I
am
your family, kitten.” His tone was suddenly gentle.

Charity felt a momentary rush of warmth, which made no sense, before his words set in. “What do you mean?”

Lachlan considered his options. He could tell her . . . or he could
ask
her, hoping she would be so stunned by his proposal that she would agree before her temper ignited. He took her hands in his and said, “Charity, I know that we have had our difficulties, but I think with time and work, we could really have something . . . special.” He swallowed hard, feeling suddenly awkward and oddly vulnerable. He ruthlessly buried the sensation and continued. “There is a great deal of passion and feeling between us, which gives me hope that we would get on well together as—”

Before he could finish, Charity guessed at the direction he was taking and jerked her hands free. “Stop!” She pushed at the covers and scrambled out from beneath them, then rolled away from him to get out on the far side of the bed. “Where are my shoes?”

“Listen to me, Charity.”

“No, thank you,” she replied, her voice deceptively sweet. She gave a polite little smile, bent and looked beneath the bed. Her footwear was on the other side, neatly placed near his feet. “I will not listen to you. And I would like my shoes, please.”

He looked down and saw them. “Where do you think you’re going to go if I give you these?”

She crossed her arms and glared. “You said we’re on the outskirts of London. I . . . I’ll get a ride to Grace’s house . . .
no, to Faith’s.” Grace was liable to react more strongly than Faith, she realized. Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it across the room.

“Marry me, kitten.”

Charity threw up her hands and scowled. “Oh, bloody hell, did you have to
say
it?”

He stood and walked slowly around the bed, his gaze locked on her horrified face. Her eyes widened with each step he took, and she looked frantically toward the door, but there was nowhere for her to flee in stockings and a badly rumpled dress from the night before.

“Marry me,” he said again, his voice tender and cajoling. She chanced a glance into his eyes and felt her heart begin to pound harder. Quickly she looked down and scuffed her toe along a crack in the hardwood floor.

Lachlan closed the distance between them and pressed his advantage. “If you would please marry me,” he continued, his voice husky, a trace of the Scots accent woven into his words, “I wouldn’t have to spend the rest of my life wishing I could do this again.” He crooked a finger under her stubborn little chin and lifted her face to his. His lips neared hers.

“Don’t,” she whispered just as their mouths met, and then he robbed her of the ability to speak and to breathe, took away all her senses with a mere brush of their lips.

“Go ahead, kitten,” he said, lifting his mouth. “Tell me not to kiss you.”

“Don’t kiss me,” she said in an aching voice—and then stood on tiptoe to press her lips back to his.

With a little moan, she uncrossed her arms and slid them around his waist. Lachlan felt his control begin to slip. He caught the back of her head in his hands, felt the tangled silk of her hair slide between his fingers. His lips slanted
softly against hers and he molded her mouth to his, but then with supreme effort he forced himself to end the kiss and simply hold her there, nose to nose, his forehead resting against hers.

“Tell me you don’t want to marry me,” he demanded hoarsely.

Charity bit her lip. “I don’t—”

That was all Lachlan allowed, taking her lips this time with a ferocity that shook her to the core. She clung to him and gasped when the hand in her hair tightened into a fist. He took full advantage of her parted lips, deepening the kiss to taste and tease her, and Charity was lost—lost in his scent and his strength and in the promise of everything yet to come. She couldn’t think of anything except being held by him, which suddenly felt safe and peaceful and right.

Lachlan knew the instant she gave in, felt it to his very soul. Understanding washed over him, blanketing him with warmth and a feeling of belonging he hadn’t known existed. Was it possible to have found his way home in the arms of this small, infuriating English girl? He almost laughed inside at the romantic turn his thoughts were taking. He lifted his head and demanded, “Say yes.”

Charity tried, but her voice didn’t seem to work. She nodded instead and buried her face in his chest. Lachlan wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

“Good girl,” he said, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Now let’s get you fed, into some comfortable traveling clothes, and we’ll be on our way.”

“Traveling clothes?” Charity pulled back and looked around. There were two large carpetbags near the door, which she just noticed was hanging half off its hinges. “Oh,” was all she could manage.

“I sent word when I found you, kitten,” Lachlan explained. “Grace sent those, along with this note.” He handed her a folded piece of parchment. “I’ll go down and order a luncheon and have the coach prepared while you change.”

Her head reeling, Charity took the note and watched him leave. Slowly she opened the parchment and read the few words scribbled therein:

Trust yourself, Charity. And trust him. We love you very much
.

With tears in her eyes, she refolded the note, squared her shoulders, and reached for one of the bags.

Twenty-one

How
much longer before we reach Scotland, my lord?”

Lachlan looked up from the investment proposal he was reading and smiled, just as if she hadn’t asked him the same question half a dozen times already. They were well into the fifth day of travel and would reach Asheburton Keep by nightfall, after they stopped at the border and took care of the business of becoming married. “We should be in Scotland within the hour, I’d imagine.”

He returned his attention to the papers in his lap. It had been a very long few days.

The first, which was really just a half day, had been the easiest. Charity, still exhausted from the excesses of the evening before, had curled up like a child on the seat across from him and slept. Lachlan spent the time watching her and wondering what sort of reception they would receive when they reached his home. There was no doubt in his mind that his mother would be a problem. Then again, his mother had never met someone like Charity. He smiled ruefully. They’d spent the night at a small inn where Lachlan was able to secure two rooms, which Charity did not question.