Brodie escorted Lydia into the ballroom, which had been refinished with a new wooden dancing floor. Aidan retrieved his violin and stood in the corner of the room while servants rushed to light the wall lamps and the candles in the chandeliers. Rafe held Isla’s hand and was explaining how men and women danced at balls, and then he executed a feminine curtsy to show the girl what to do next. Lydia’s laughter at the sight had Brodie’s heart skipping a few beats. She was so perfect, especially when she lowered her guard and could be herself, assuming that no one was paying attention to her.
Aiden finished tightening the strings and gave a nod to the dancers.
“Miss Hunt.” Brodie grinned as he bowed to Lydia. She curtsied, holding her gown away from her legs, and when she did, he caught a glimpse of her delicate ankles.
“Mr. Kincade,” she answered with a teasing smile. Then they began to dance as Aiden played a lively tune.
Lydia was the best dancer he’d ever seen, both quick and sure-footed, with delicate, light steps. She pirouetted, hopped, twirled, and clapped in time to the country dance as though she danced every day of her life. Perhaps she did. She’d almost said as much at the inn they’d stayed at on the way to Edinburgh. The thought that she was a woman who quite literally danced her way through life, even in secret, filled his chest with an undeniable warmth.
He kept pace with her, laughing as they locked arms at the elbow and spun, before he caught her by the waist and twirled her in a dizzying circle.
So long as the music played and she was in his arms, he could forget all about the rest of the world, or the limited time they had together. There was only this dance and the perfect woman with him.
The music finally died, and Brodie clutched Lydia tightly to him, both of them breathing hard. She lowered her lashes, the exertion giving a healthy color to her cheeks. When their gazes locked again, he smiled at her, his body almost trembling with his joy.
“Has the music stopped?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper.
He lifted his head and looked about, but the ballroom was empty. There was no sign of Rafe, Isla, or Aiden. How long had they been gone?
“Never mind. I still hear music,” Brodie said.
“Oh? You do?” She chuckled. “What does it sound like?”
“A slow waltz.” He softly began to hum the melody of a waltz. Brodie held her hand with one hand and her waist with the other as he danced with her alone in the ballroom. He fell into her blue eyes as he sang an old song his mother used to sing when he was a boy.
Oh the summertime is coming
And the trees are sweetly blooming
And the wild mountain thyme
Grows around the blooming heather.
Will ye go, lassie, go?
Lydia caught on to the melody and hummed with him as he sang.
And we’ll all go together
To pluck wild mountain thyme
All around the blooming heather.
Will ye go, lassie, go?
I will build my love a tower
Near yon pure crystal fountain
And on it I will build
All the flowers of the mountain.
Will ye go, lassie, go?
And we’ll all go together
to pluck wild mountain thyme
All around the blooming heather.
Will ye go, lassie, go?
Let us go, lassie, go.
Brodie raised her hand high so Lydia could twirl before coming back into his arms. Brodie held his breath as her body pressed against his.
For the first time in as long as he could remember, he was overcome by joy, pure and untainted. It filled him to bursting. It was both the best and worst of feelings.
“Thank you,” Lydia said as she pressed her head to his chest.
“For what?” he asked.
“For letting me have an adventure with you. Ladies like me don’t often have the chance to run off chasing the sunset. We stay home, sew, read, and pretend that we are content with a life with that and nothing more. Society allows a lady like me to live only a half life. But you’ve treated me like a whole person. You’ve cared for me in your way and shown me what it means to feel all the things a person ought to in life. That is what I’m thankful for.”
Brodie couldn’t speak. The lass had robbed him of all words. He gathered her in his arms, holding her long after the lamps burned low and moonlight covered the floor, lending a melancholy beauty to the two of them alone in the ballroom.
“Why don’t we go to bed?” he suggested.
Lydia linked her fingers to his. “Show me the way.”
Joanna, Rosalind, and Regina entered the townhouse in Edinburgh late that night. The ladies were exhausted. Joanna’s mood was sour after the journey, and her concern about her friend only increased when the Lennox butler informed her at the door that Lydia was not there.
“Where is my husband?”
“In the drawing room, my lady,” Shelton said. “He and his lordship are in good spirits.” The butler almost chuckled, as if it were somehow a joke.
“Good spirits?” Regina echoed suspiciously. “Come now, Shelton,” she admonished.
The butler winced. “I meant to say they are foxed, my lady.”
“Foxed?” Rosalind scowled. “My husband doesn’t get foxed, especially when he is supposed to be on a rescue mission.”
“You may wish to inform him of that, my lady.”
Joanna scowled and led the other two women into the drawing room. They skidded to a stop at the sight of Brock and Ashton laughing in chairs by the fire, two empty bottles of whiskey between them.
“Lass!” Brock grinned, his eyes slightly glassy from his drinking.
“Sister!” Ashton chuckled unevenly and then raised an empty glass to Rosalind. “Wife, and mother.” He gave a drunken cheer.
“Ashton!” his mother snapped. “What’s gotten into you?”
“More a matter of what’s gotten into them.” Ashton pointed at the two younger women and then snorted in laughter. It took Brock a second to work it out, and then he started to laugh as well.
“Us?” Joanna shared a glance with Rosalind, who was equally confused.
“Explain yourself,” Regina demanded.
“Bairns,” said Ashton.
Regina shook herself. The word as it came from his lips made no sense. “Bay-urns?” Was he trying to say something Scottish?
“Aye,” Brock cut in. “We began to talk about them, and the next thing we knew, we were celebrating, and then we just sort of . . . kept on celebrating.” Brock had to explain slowly as he had trouble focusing on the words.
“Bairns . . . Oh! Babes!” Regina spun to face the other two women. “Wonderful! Which of you is going to have my first grandchild?”
Joanna sheepishly raised her hand, only to have Rosalind do the same.
“Both of you?” Regina cried out in delight and embraced both women at the same time.
Joanna hugged her mother back, but she was soon scowling at her husband and brother once again. “Why didn’t you stop Rafe and Brodie?”
“Because they were already gone,” Ashton said with a sigh. “Poor Lady Rochester and Mr. Hunt are bound for the Isle of Skye.”
“What?” Rosalind gasped. “Why the Isle of Skye?”
Brock explained what Shelton had told him. By the end, the three women had formulated a plan.
“Once you sleep off the drink, you must go and chase down Lady Rochester and Mr. Hunt. We shall all escort them to Castle Kincade.”
Ashton and Brock looked thoroughly displeased with the idea.
“I think it’s time you two went to bed,” Regina ordered the two drunken men.
Ashton and Brock both laughed at that, but when they looked toward their wives, they sobered a bit.
“I think they’re serious,” whispered Brock.
“Brock. Bed. Now,” Joanna said, and Rosalind gave Ashton a pointed look that required no words.
Both men stood and moved on unsteady legs toward the women. Joanna put an arm around Brock’s back as they allowed Shelton to escort them to an empty bedchamber. Brock collapsed onto the bed, and Joanna had to straddle each of his legs to pull his riding boots off.
“How did you know about the baby?” she asked as she dropped the second boot to the floor.
“I always ken when you leave our bed, Sassenach. It feels empty without you. When you kept leaving me, something felt wrong. So I followed you, my sweet brave lass, and I heard you toss your accounts into the chamber pot.”
Joanna fell onto the bed beside Brock, and he pulled her close, kissing her.
“Are you upset about the baby? You and Ash were quite drunk this evening.”
“Upset? Did we sound upset to you, lass? But I must admit, I am worried. I didna have a good father, nor did you and Ashton. He and I spoke, and we both fear we won’t be good fathers.”
Joanna smacked his chest. “Getting foxed is not what a good husband or father does. Talk to your wives next time. Rosalind and I know you will be good fathers.”
“How can you be sure of that, Sassenach?” He looked so serious and troubled.
“Brock, who raised your siblings after your mother died?”
“I did.”
“Exactly. And did they all turn out well?”
Brock looked suddenly sheepish. “Well, Brodie’s gone and kidnapped a—”
“Besides that . . .admittedly complicated matter.”
“Er . . .” He still looked doubtful.
“At the very least, Aiden and Rosalind are fine. You did that.”
“So you’re saying two out of three isn’t bad?”
Joanna groaned. “When we learn the truth about Brodie, then we can decide whether we need to assess your parenting skills again. But the truth is, you took care of them. Three of them. And not only that, you had to protect them from the abuse and tyranny of your father. If you could manage that under such dire conditions, imagine what you’ll be like raising a child without that fear and abuse looming over you.”
The crease in his brow faded. “You truly believe that, lass? I will be a good father?”
“I do.” She nuzzled his cheek and then cupped his face so she could press a lingering kiss to his lips.
Brock wound his arms around her waist. “You know, I’m not too foxed to make love to you.”
“Is that so?” Joanna giggled. “Prove it to me, Scot.”
And so he did.
Jackson Hunt faced a decision he had never expected to encounter again in his lifetime. It was close to midnight. They had finished a late dinner, and the candlelight made Jane’s skin glow like smooth alabaster. She had removed the pins in her hair earlier that evening, and her dark-red hair tumbled down in silky waves. She smelled like the most exotic flowers in a well-tended hothouse.
“Jackson?” She spoke his name sweetly.
“Yes?” he replied, his throat a little hoarse with emotion.
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
Jane’s lips twitched with the ghost of a smile. “Staring at me.” She cupped her chin in her hands and rested her elbows on their small dining table in the private room of the coaching inn.
“Oh.” He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. “I was thinking.”
“About what?” Jane moved her chair a few inches closer to his. The dark blue of her velvet gown was adorned with a diamond-and-pearl-studded brooch, which accented the swell of her perfect breasts. It was hard to think straight when she was tempting him like this.
“You might think me an old fool. But if I never tell you, I’ll never face rejection.”
He was surprised at his own honesty, but in the last few days he had grown to trust Jane with his thoughts. Now he was facing the test of whether he could trust her with his hopes and dreams. Jane reached across the table and covered one of his hands with hers.
“What is it, Jackson?” Worry drew her delicate dark-red brows together.
“I . . .” He realized he could not do what he wished to until he had committed to it properly. He pushed his chair back and then knelt on one knee before Jane, clasping her hands in his. “I know we’ve only known each other less than a week, and this may seem like utter madness, but I choose to believe in fate and second chances. Jane, will you give me that? A second chance at love and life? Be my wife, my lover, my treasured companion and dearest friend?”
He held his breath as he gazed at her. Her lovely lips parted in shock. He feared she would say no for so many reasons, including that it would mean she would no longer be a dowager marchioness, but a simple tradesman’s wife. Would she pull away from him?
Her eyes welled with tears, and she slid out of her chair to join him on her knees. She cupped his face, her fingers soft and warm as she held him.
“Yes. Yes, my darling, yes.” The words were spoken softly, but they reverberated down to his very soul, echoing like a sonorous choir of angels.
Yes. She had said yes.
His hands trembled, and he couldn’t stop smiling as he hauled her into his arms and hugged her tight. He buried one hand in her hair and tried not to laugh at the wellspring of joy deep inside him as it threatened to bubble over.
“I vow to make you happy,” Jackson said.
“I vow the same.” Jane giggled. “Lord, what will we tell the children?”
“I don’t care, as long as you are my wife.” He stole a quick kiss. “Let’s do it tonight.”
Jane’s eyes glowed. “What?”
“Let’s marry tonight. There’s a blacksmith in the village here.”
Jane laughed and hugged him tighter. “You don’t mind waking up an angry Scot who will be wielding a hammer?”
“I would face a thousand angry Scots if it meant I could marry you tonight.” Jackson would risk anything for this woman. Since he’d met her, he had sparked to life like a raging fire, and he would not surrender her for anything.
He helped her to her feet, and they went to see the innkeeper, who told them where to find the blacksmith. They walked down the cobblestone street of the village to a small house next to a forge. Jackson pounded on the door. A lit lamp sat in the window, and he figured many couples had disturbed the blacksmith for hasty marriages at all times of the day and night.
“I’m coming!” the man bellowed a moment before he opened the door. A tall, dark-haired man, built like a brick house, glared at them.
“Would you mind marrying us, good sir?”
The blacksmith blinked and peered down at them from the porch of his cottage.
He scraped a hand over his beard. “You ain’t that young, are ye?”
“Indeed we are not, both widower and widow by many years. Nevertheless, we would very much like to marry at once.”
The man sighed. “Ach, fine. Come in.” He opened his door wide. Jackson, holding Jane’s hand, led her inside as they followed the Scotsman, who lit a few oil lamps and carried one to the forge next door. There was a cozy little enclosed room just off the main workshop. The blacksmith set the lamp on a table next to a symbolic anvil. The door to the room opened, and two people in dressing gowns entered. One was an older man, and the other was a middle-aged woman.
“This is my father and my wife. They will be the witnesses.” The blacksmith produced a dark-blue ribbon, which he wrapped around Jackson’s right hand and Jane’s left.
Jackson only vaguely remembered the vows he spoke; his heart and mind were too excited to focus on much besides staring at Jane. It had been so long since he’d felt like this, like he had hope, that he had a full life once again to look forward to, and not just trying to find such a life for his daughters.
All the years since Marianna’s death seemed to have a purpose now. They had kept him waiting for Jane to walk into his life. How strange that they had both been in London society for so long and yet had never crossed paths before now. If Lydia had never been taken by Brodie Kincade, they might never have met. It was ironic that he now had a reason to shake Kincade’s hand—after he throttled him, of course.
“You are man and wife under the eyes of God and these here witnesses.” The blacksmith lifted the hammer up and smashed it down on the anvil.
Jackson kissed his wife, and Jane smiled as she kissed him back.
“We’ll have your papers ready tomorrow,” the blacksmith said. He nodded to the woman, who took note of their full names on a piece of paper. “Now let me get some bloody sleep. Er . . . and congratulations.”
“Thank you. We shall come by tomorrow.” Jackson shook the blacksmith’s hand, and then he escorted Jane back to their inn. When they reached their shared room, he grinned at her.
“Care to start our honeymoon tonight before we resume the chase for Kincade and Lydia?”
Jane began to undo his cravat, a coquettish smile on her lips that heated his blood.
“Absolutely, husband.” She used his loosened cravat to pull his head down to hers for a long, deep kiss that was the beginning of one of the best nights of his life.