10

Caroline, dressed in her dinner clothes and protected from the cold with only a shawl, stood in the draughty stable pleading earnestly with one of the grooms to take her to London. Behind her, a pair of horses pawed the ground in their stalls, the breath from their nostrils visible in the icy air. The wiry little groom standing before her also pawed the ground with his feet, not only to keep himself warm but because the conversation with the lady from the manorhouse was making him uneasy. She was making a request with which it was quite impossible to comply. “It cain’t be done, m’lady,” he said for the third time. “We’d never make it. An’ I’d surely be sacked in the bargain, which I cain’t nohow afford.”

Caroline was unwilling to listen to reason. “Not even for ten guineas?” she asked plaintively.

“It’s a deal o’ money, miss, an’ I’d like t’ oblige yer,” the fellow said, politely but firmly, “but the snow’s too deep. We’d get mired fer certain.”

She was unwilling to accept his argument. “But by tomorrow the sun will come out. You can see already that the sky is clearing in the south. You can even see stars.”

“Even if the sun does show itself, miss, it’ll take days fer the roads t’ open. Three, at least. Four, if the cold don’t break.”

“But can’t we just try? If we get mired, we can put up at an inn,” she said in desperation, adding glumly, “at least I’d be gone from here.”

“Are ye wishin’ to be goin’ off somewhere, Miss Woolcott?” came a voice behind her.

She wheeled about. “Lord Dunvegan!” she gasped.

“Ye promised to call me Geordie,” he reminded her. “Why on earth would ye be wantin’ a carriage, ma’am, and at this particular time?”

Her cheeks grew hot. “I mean no offense, but it is no affair of yours.” Her eyes flitted over his elegant black evening coat, high starched shirt points, and beautifully-tied neckcloth—evening clothes that seemed incongruous against the background of stalls and straw. “I suppose I’m holding up dinner,” she murmured guiltily. “Did Lady Teale ask you to search for me? It was not kind of her to send you out in the wind so lightly dressed. You haven’t even a hat.”

“Ye dinna seem so warmly dressed yersel’,” he pointed out.

She wrapped her shawl more closely about her, as if in answer. “How did you think of seeking me here?”

“Sheer good luck,” he said, forgetting his own reason for coming and waving the groom away.

The little groom was eager to leave, but he looked questioningly at the lady to make certain she was willing to let him go. She merely shrugged in defeat. The groom expelled a relieved breath and quickly whisked himself out of their sight.

“Now, then, lass, he’s gone,” Geordie said gently, “so ye can tell me what yer doin’ here.”

“Nothing that should cause anyone concern, I swear. If you’ll give me your arm, Geordie, we can go back to the house.”

“Ye can take my arm, my girl, but we’re not movin’ a step ’til I have an answer. Ye were arrangin’ to loup the tether, weren’t ye?”

“Loup the tether?”

“Skelp. Run off. Disappear.”

She dropped her eyes. “You needn’t trouble yourself about it, my lord. I couldn’t loup the tether even if I wished to. The roads are closed.”

“But why would ye wish to, when yer betrothed is all set to make an announcement to the world tomorrow eve?”

“My betrothed?” She stared up at him, aghast. “What are you talking about? I have no betrothed. Who told you—?”

“The fellow himself. Yer own Douglas Dawlish. And he was as merry as a mouse in the malt when he told me.”

Even in the dim light of the stable he could see her face fall. She turned away from him in obvious distress. “But I never meant—Dash it all, this is a dreadful coil! He never asked—”

“Never asked? Ye mean he didna yet make ye an offer? The fellow’s a cod’s head! But lass, ye needna weep owre it. I’m certain he intends to.”

She shook her head and made a helpless gesture with her hand. “But I don’t want him to offer, don’t you see? If he does, then I shall have to refuse him. Just as I refused Archie. And then you will think that I … I …”

“I will think?” His breath caught in his chest. Her words were strange and quite unlike her. Ordinarily she behaved as if she did not care a fig what he thought. Geordie felt a little tremor in his blood, a little throb in his temple, a little lurch in his chest. Something was happening here, something unexpected and exciting. His brain did not yet understand it, but all his instincts were preparing for it. He took a step closer to her. “What will I think, Caroline?”

She turned her head and peeped up at him before turning quickly away again. “You called me Caroline. It’s the first time you—” She stopped herself, choked, and then went on in a very small voice. “Everyone calls me Caro.”

“I dinna like Caro. ’Tis too bruckle. Brittle.” He took hold of her shoulders and turned her to face him. “Answer me, lass. What will I think if you refuse Dawlish’s offer?”

“That I’m a heartless wretch,” she said tearfully, lowering her head so that he could not see her eyes.

The admission touched him to the core. He could no longer hold himself back. “Wheesht, lass,” he murmured tenderly, “how can I think that, when I love ye so?”

For a moment she did not move. Then a shudder shook her shoulders. “No!” she gasped.

“Oh, aye, lassie, I do. Top owre tail. I ken ye ha’e a need to be thrawn, to contradict everythin’ I say, but ye canna contradict me on this. Who knows better than I what I feel?”

“But you told your aunt that you disliked me. I heard you.”

“Did ye now?” He lifted her chin and made her look up at him. “Eavesdroppin’, were ye?”

“Yes, I was,” she admitted bravely, blinking back her tears. “And I heard you say that I was not beautiful, that I put on airs, and that you disliked me. Intensely.”

“I lied.”

A dizzying wave of joy enveloped her. “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, Geordie!”

But he was still too confused to feel joyful. He studied her face with an earnest intensity. “I only said those gowky things because you seemed so set on Dawlish. Did ye truly intend to refuse him, lass?”

“Yes, truly.”

“But ye did flirt with the fellow, Caroline. Shamelessly. It made me wild.”

She slipped from his hold and turned away in mortification. “I never meant to encourage him. It didn’t occur to me that he might take my flirtations seriously. I only did it when … when a certain odious Scotsman was present.”

“I’m afeart I’ll nae understand females to my dyin’ day,” he muttered, taking her arm in a cruel grasp and pulling her round to face him. “I ken ye were runnin’ off to avoid an offer from Dawlish. Were ye runnin’ away from a certain odious Scotsman, too?”

Believing she’d made her feelings clear, she didn’t understand his anger. “You’re hurting me, Geordie,” she accused, trying to loose his hold on her.

He let her go at once. “’Tis a great gowk I am,” he said, abashed. He turned away from her to one of the horses’ stalls, where one of the animals, his head looking over the door, was watching the scene with interest. Geordie imagined the horse was eyeing him with knowing sympathy. “I’m a blasted wanwyt,” he muttered, patting the animal’s nose. “Just because ye dinna care for Dawlish doesna mean ye therefore care for me.”

“You are a great gowk,” she said, coming up behind him. “You were never odious to me, Geordie, haven’t you guessed that? I only pretended—to myself as well as to you—to find you odious. It was a kind of self-protection. I was afraid to let myself believe that such a tall, winning, beautiful Corinthian—with a head of lovely red curls and a brogue that would charm the birds from the trees—would ever take notice of such a little bookworm as I.”

Though these words set his heart bouncing about in his chest, he did not turn. “Michty me!” he said to the horse. “Can the lass be so daft as to call hersel’ a bookworm? Bookworm, indeed! But did ye hear yer yatterin’ on about me? Do ye think it means she loves me?”

Caroline laid her hand softly on his arm. “Wheesht, laddie, what else can my yatterin’ mean?”

He turned back to her at that and lifted her high in the air, swinging her round in triumphant if crazed delight. Then he lowered her gently to his chest. “Look at me, Caroline Woolcott. I am the same man I was when you ordered me out of your London house. Do you truly mean to say ye love me?”

Two tear-sparkled eyes looked into his. “Yes, I do love you. Truly.”

“Harken to the lass!” he crowed, grinning at her foolishly. “Then like as no ye’d not object to my kissin’ ye here and now? Ye’ve no idea how I’ve been achin’ to do it. ’Tis an age since the last time.” Without waiting for a response, he tightened his arms about her and, while the horse neighed in approval, repeated what he’d done under the mistletoe.

After a long while, a flushed and starry-eyed Caroline brushed back his tousled curls fondly and reminded him that there were people back in the great house waiting for their dinner. “I suppose we’d better go. We don’t want your aunt Maud to be angry with us.”

“My aunt Maud will be beside hersel’ with joy. What with her Bella findin’ a beau, and her other matchmakin’ scheme lookin’ successful, she’s about to enjoy a completely triumphant Christmas. All ye need do is tell her that ye’ll have me. Will ye, lass?”

She buried her head in his shoulder. “Aye, Geordie, lad, I will.”

“Even if I sometimes gamble? Or if I occasionally refuse to read Greek poetry with you?”

“I’ll take you just as you are, Geordie McAusland. Just remember to call me dautie every now and then.”

He kissed her once more before they started out of the stable. “I had the distinct impression, lass,” he remarked, slipping his arm about her as they walked, “that ye didna ken the meaning of the word dautie when I used it last.”

She threw him a glinting smile as they stepped out into the frosty night. “It seems, my love,” she murmured happily, “that I’ve learned a great deal since then. And none of it Greek.”