Page 32 of Return to Wildsyde

“Aye, it’s a fine song,” he said, for it was always best to agree with drunkards if you wanted to avoid a scene.

“My Pa taught me to sing that song.”

“Did he, then?”

She nodded. “When I was five. He taught me to fuzz the cards too, and how to cry on demand. He taught me lots of useful skills to trick people, to make them like me or feel sorry for me, sorry enough to give me their money. He wasn’t very nice, my Papa.”

“Nae, I reckon not,” Lyall said sourly, wishing she would keep her revelations to herself.

He’d suspected as much and to hear proof of everything he’d believed ought to satisfy him. It didn’t. A picture had formed in his mind of a little girl with ebony locks, crying on demand because her father had taught her to. His stomach twisted.

“I wanted to be nice,” she went on, the words slurred but all too audible. “I tol’ Pa I wouldn’t play his tricks, and I still try to be nice, but sometimes life won’t let you. P’rhaps I’m doing it wrong, or p’rahps I don’t know how, or p’rahps I’m jus’ not nice,” she added, a catch in her voice.

Lyall darted a look at her to see tears welling in her eyes. Good God, the last thing he needed was a weeping drunk. There would be talk enough if anyone saw them, what with her sopping wet and in nothing but her corset and petticoats, but with her sobbing too… Panic rose in his chest.

“Ye are nice,” he said firmly, though he didn’t know that he believed it himself.

She sniffled and looked at him, a remarkably steady gaze for one who was so thoroughly inebriated. “You don’t think so.”

“Ach, what does it matter what I think?” he said irritably. “Hamilton thinks ye are nice, so does Mrs Baillie. Hell, I think ye have won my mother over too.”

“It matters to me,” she murmured sadly, and passed out.

“Good heavens!” Mrs Baillie exclaimed as Lyall kicked the back door open and strode into the kitchen. “She’s drunk as an emperor,” he said in explanation at the horror on Mrs Baillie’s face as he carried Luella inside looking like she was half dead. “On whisky cherries,” he added with more than a hint of accusation.

“Well, the little madam! I thought there was a jar missing,” Mrs Baillie said indignantly.

“Never mind that, for heaven’s sake, get her dressed and sobered up before anyone sees her,” he ordered.

“But she is wet through!”

“I dinnae care, ye can undress her again when she’s safe in her room, but I’ll nae have the upper servants chatter about me carrying her around in her underthings.”

“Aye, well, fair enough,” Mrs Baillie said with a nod. “Did no one see ye?”

Lyall shook his head. “I came via the old gate. She was down on the beach, up to her knees in the water. Christ, she might have drowned, Sheenagh. Can ye imagine the talk if not only my wife but her cousin drowned within weeks of getting here?”

“Well, and why did she go?” Sheenagh asked him, her keen gaze skewering him with a look that made guilt burn in his chest. “She was nae at lunch and Hamilton seemed to think ye had been unkind to her. That true?”

Lyall ran a hand through his hair, only now considering what might have happened if he had not come upon her. Any amusement he had felt at the situation vanished at the idea Luella might have died, might have been swept out to sea, and the last words he’d said to her had accused her of trying to seduce his brother.

“I…” He cleared his throat, reminding himself that he had every right to treat her with suspicion. “She was flirting with Hamilton. I told her not to try her tricks on him.”

“Lord, but ye are ye father’s son,” she muttered crossly, sending him an impatient look.

“What does that mean?” he demanded, but was only given terse instructions to help her wrestle Luella into her dress. They made a haphazard job of it but at least she looked relatively respectable.

Lyall put her in a chair and stood back as Sheenagh forced a cup of coffee down her. Luella made faint sounds of protest but submitted to a force stronger than her own until she blinked, looking around her with a glimmer of recognition. Her gaze met his, and she stiffened, perhaps remembering now what had set her off on her jaunt to the beach with only a jar of whisky cherries for company. Her colour segued from white to green to scarlet and back to a sickly milk pudding tone that did not become her in the least.

“Are ye going to boke again?” he asked cautiously.

She shook her head, glaring at him.

“Nae, I dinnae think ye could have anything to puke with, ye left it all at the beach.”

Sheenagh sent him a warning look and refilled the coffee cup in Luella’s hands. “Get that down ye, lassie. Once ye can walk, I’ll get ye to bed, aye?”

Luella nodded and sipped at the coffee, her expression carefully blank.