Page 49 of Return to Wildsyde

I never said it would be easy. You’ve done well, but we can’t proceed with our plans for the bridge until that sale has been completed. Every day is another delay I cannot afford. You find who owns that bloody land, son. Even if you must scour the country from one end to the other to do it. I need that land and I need it now.

―Excerpt of a letter from Mr Gabriel Knight to his son, Mr Felix Knight.

30th July 1845, Wildsyde Castle, Highlands of Scotland.

Lyall looked down at the letter in his hands. It was exactly what he had wanted, an invitation from his mother to Luella and Mrs bloody MacLeod, thank the Lord. It did not say for how long they could stay, but Lyall hoped Luella would be sensible and make it a good long time. Perhaps until she was four and twenty.

He let out a breath and, despite having read it several times over, scanned the letter again, just to be certain it was real. There it was. His troubles were at an end. Luella would go and he could be easy again, rid of this… this ridiculous feeling. It couldn’t happen soon enough. He moved to the window, disturbed to discover himself staring out to catch a glimpse of her as she waited to greet Jack on his way home from school. She always stood outside at this hour, and he bloody well knew it. Fool. Today she wore that damned dress again, the gift from his mother. A pale apple green trimmed with blue-and-green tartan. His tartan. What his mother was playing at, Lyall didn’t know, but he didn’t like it.

He didn’t like the way it made him feel, the hot, possessive sensation that stirred in his guts whenever he saw her wearing it. The sight of it brought back memories of those moments in this room with his hands on her, the way she had responded so fiercely to his kisses. She would have given him anything he wanted, he was certain of it. He could have had her there and then on the floor of his study and she’d have let him do it. The thought was the worst kind of torment, enticing him to act like an utter bastard when he had told her he would offer her nothing in return. He’d meant it, too. Never again would a woman have his name, not unless he was certain of her, and he was by no means certain of Luella.

Lyall watched as she greeted Jack with her usual enthusiasm, kissing the boy soundly despite his good-natured protests. The lads from the stables had joined in too, telling her she could kiss them all she liked. Luella laughed, returning some sally that made them all roar. Lyall couldn’t hear what it was she’d said, but he knew he didn’t like it, didn’t like that she was laughing with them and not him and… and bloody hell!

She had to go.

He ate his dinner alone in his study, resenting her for that too. If she wasn’t here, he could eat with Jack in his own dining room, discuss what the lad had done that day, his schoolwork. Perhaps he could get Jack to confide what manner of trouble he was having with the boy at school. Not with her here, though. He couldn’t sit on the other side of a dinner table and make polite conversation when all he could think of was getting her out of her clothes as quickly as possible.

Well, he would tell her about the invitation tomorrow. It would be safest if he went to the kitchens and spoke to her. He wasn’t so far gone as to seduce her on the kitchen table with Mrs Baillie about, at least. Though if the woman left them alone, he wouldn’t put money on resisting, he thought dryly.

After he’d eaten, he stayed up reading by the fire. These past weeks, he’d stopped bothering to go to bed until it was so late he couldn’t keep his eyes open. It wasn’t as if he’d get any sleep otherwise. Even then, he was plagued with dreams of her. Strangely, they weren’t all about getting her naked, either. Mostly, but not all. Often his troubled brain returned to the day on the beach, watching her singing terribly off key, serenading the seagulls. She had seemed so joyous, so full of life, and he’d wanted to reach for that, for her, to bring the colour back into his world. Even now, when he remembered her spread-eagled on the beach in her underwear, sandy and rumpled, he could not help but smile, utterly charmed for reasons he could not fathom. The dreadful girl. Perhaps she was not Lilith, but she was trouble of the kind he didn’t need or want.

Cursing himself for thinking of her again, he turned his attention back to the book and tried to concentrate on the story.

Luella stared up at the ceiling, wishing she could just close her eyes and go to sleep like she used to do. Somehow, she’d lost the knack for it. If she closed her eyes she thought of him, of the way it had felt when he’d reached for her. If the kiss had started out angry and frustrated, it hadn’t remained that way. His touch had been gentle, and the memory of his mouth on the swell of her breast was enough to make her sigh with regret and frustration. If only Murdoch hadn’t been there.

If Murdoch hadn’t been there, she’d be ruined, she reminded herself severely, and Lyall would not want her under his roof a moment longer. It stood to reason. For now, she was a temptation he was resisting because he was a gentleman, for he knew she would deny him nothing. She was a fool, but an honest one, at least. It was one thing staying away from him but, if she found herself in his arms again, the result would be inevitable. Then she would be forced to leave. He would not want people gossiping about him again and they’d not keep it quiet for long in a remote place like this.

The talk would hurt Jack when he discovered it, too, and Luella could not have that. She’d have to go. The cruel truth sank sharp teeth into her heart, and it hurt more than she’d been prepared to admit.

The day she’d seen Lyall with Jack, speaking to him so earnestly and then hugging him tight and ruffling his hair, that had been the coup de grace. Perhaps she could have kept her heart in line if not for that but seeing him treat her brother with such affection had wrought devastation upon her emotions. Here was a man who was strong and decent and principled, one who honoured his obligations, no matter how onerous, and was kind-hearted enough to care for a boy who’d been foisted upon him in the worst possible circumstances. Oh, lord, she was done for. Even if he never so much as looked at her again, how was she to remain here with him, feeling the way she did? Yet the idea of leaving here tore at her heart. She loved being in the kitchen with Mrs Baillie, loved walking the wild countryside and watching the sea glitter in the sun, or explode furiously against the cliffs in bad weather. It was a joy to see Jack so happy, riding his pony with growing skill and confidence, or chatting with his school friends and larking about. She loved Wildsyde. The old castle had made itself her home. It was the only place she wished to be, especially her pretty room with its glorious view, and even the worn steps of the staircase that spoke of the generations who had lived here before them.

Sighing, Luella threw back the covers and padded to the window. She would never get any sleep at this rate. When she pulled back the curtains, she was presented with a velvet soft sky, inky black and bright with thousands of stars. How beautiful it was, and how she wished she could stay here forever. For a moment, she allowed herself to daydream that Lyall fell madly in love with her, and they married, living at Wildsyde and bringing up a chaotic parcel of merry children.

“Idiot,” she said under her breath.

Dreams like that would only see her with a broken heart. She was no innocent girl to believe in fairy stories. Life had opened her eyes to reality a long time ago, and reality was impossible to avoid.

Well, this is fun, she thought gloomily. If she kept this up all night, by morning she’d be ready to fling herself off the highest tower. No. No man was going to destroy her happiness, or her sleep. She’d just make some warm milk, perhaps with a generous splash of whisky in it. Mrs Baillie seemed to think whisky was a cure all for most problems, mixed with hot water and honey for a cold, or with milk for a good night’s sleep. Luella didn’t doubt she’d half a dozen other remedies with whisky as the key ingredient, but she’d not learnt of them yet.

The old building was silent and the night warm, even inside the castle, which was nothing short of miraculous. Luella didn’t bother with her dressing gown, just tugged on her slippers and hurried down to the kitchen. She padded about, pouring a small amount of milk into a pan and stirring the fire to life enough to warm it through. Mrs Baillie kept a bottle of whisky hidden at the back of the pantry, behind a sack of flour. Carefully, Luella retrieved it and dosed the milk, then poured the mixture into a cup. Once she had set the saucepan aside to soak, she sat down at the table and sipped the milk.

It was surprisingly good, and she sighed as the whisky warmed her blood, easing the tension that crackled up and down her neck. By the time she had finished the cup, she was feeling pleasantly drowsy and eyed the whisky bottle speculatively. Perhaps she ought to have another cup, just to be certain she would sleep.

The kitchen door opened, and Luella froze as a large, dark figure strode down the stairs. He was at the bottom before he noticed her.

“Christ! Ye gave me a start.” Lord Buchanan glared her at, his face dimly visible in the moonlight that slanted through the kitchen window. “What are ye playing at? Is that whisky?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Luella said, pushing to her feet. “Mrs Baillie says warm milk with a dash of whisky is an excellent remedy.”

He snorted at that. “Aye, she’d feed us that when we were boys and had a bad dream. It worked right enough.”

His eyes glittered, and she felt his gaze travel over her as explicitly as if he’d touched her. Luella swallowed, immediately conscious that she wore only a thin nightgown.

“Why can ye nae sleep?”

“I don’t know,” she lied, which was pointless, as they’d both admitted to being sleepless and plagued by repressed desire.

He shifted, moving further into the moonlight, the eerie glimmer casting his features in silver. He looked cold and remote, every inch the mythical hero she had once compared him to, yet there was amusement in his voice when he spoke.