Scandal's Daughters

Chapter 13

“Darling Elspeth, we have to stop.” Hamish’s lips pressed against her forehead in gentle warning. “Before I give in to the unholy urge to take you against the bloody wall.”

His words only half-penetrated the fog of pleasure permeating Elspeth’s brain. But when he disentangled himself from her arms, and set her as far away as the low privet hedge bordering the path would allow, Elspeth began to understand—she could hear his breath sawing in and out of his chest.

Her own breath was just as unruly—she was as winded as if she had run all the way round the orchard. Twice. But his kisses were well worth the trip—her lips still throbbed and her cheeks still tingled with the sensation of his rougher skin against hers.

“Devil take it. Someone’s coming.” Hamish immediately began to scoop hairpins off the ground.

“Elspeth?” Aunt Augusta’s voice floated up the path. “Is that you?”

Elspeth’s hands flew to her hair, trying to twist and jab pins back into some semblance of order, but it was too late.

“Well.” Aunt Augusta took in the two of them at a glance. “No need to ask what you two darling children have been up to.”

“We were just—”

“Talking,” Hamish finished.

“Of the book,” Elspeth clarified.

“Books,” Hamish corrected. “Miss Otis and I were discussing some of the difficulties she anticipates having with the revision.”

“Does she?” Aunt Augusta’s tone was as dry as it was amused. “From what I saw there didn’t look to be any difficulties at all.”

“Michty me.” Elspeth couldn’t possibly maintain her composure. Not with her aunt’s clear-eyed gaze taking in each detail of her mussed hair and clothing. Elspeth tugged her gown back into place upon her shoulder. “Please forgive me. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Mr. Cathcart, one can only suppose, came over you,” was Aunt Augusta’s wry response. “And your own natural human nature. You’ve proved yourself to be a faster learner than I would have given you credit for, dear child.” Her aunt mercifully turned her keen gaze upon Hamish. “And you, Hamish Cathcart. Letting no grass grow, I see. Well, my dears, what a pretty pickle you seem to have gotten yourselves into.”

“Your ladyship.” For the first time in their—albeit short—acquaintance, Hamish Cathcart’s face was flushed with riddy color. “My apologies.”

“I am not the one to whom you should apologize. You young men today—always in such a rush.” Aunt Augusta shook her head as she took the hairpins from his hand. “My niece has been acquainted with you less than a day, Cathcart. To attempt seduction on her first night.” She gave the two of them such an exasperated sigh, Elspeth began to feel ashamed of her own enthusiasm.

“It wasn’t entirely Mr. Cathcart’s fault, Aunt Augusta.” Her first true kiss, with her first true beau, and she had abandoned all the principles she had been brought up with. One moonlit ball, and she had thrown herself at the first man to offer her any attention.

If the Aunts could see her they would be horrified. Even without their censure, she was heartily ashamed of herself.

“Nay.” Hamish quickly contradicted her. “Your aunt is right. But Elspeth, you must know I meant no disrespect. Quite the opposite. My feelings quite carried me away.”

“Yes. They seem to do that to you, don’t they?” Aunt Augusta would not make it easy for him. “Well, let them carry you off for the remainder of the evening, so we’ll have no more public displays of over-affection. I must speak to my niece.”

Hamish bowed to the inevitable. “As you wish, my lady.” He bowed to her aunt, and then turned to take Elspeth’s suddenly chilly hand—she was suddenly anxious not to be parted from him.

But he seemed just as anxious for their next meeting as she. “Elspeth, if I may, I’ll call on you tomorrow, so we might discuss our further plans.”

“Yes.” She tried to curtail her smile. “I should like that.”

“Then it is set.” He bowed once more. “Good evening.” And he strode off through the crowd, leaving Elspeth to repair the damage to her coiffure.

“I am afraid, dear Elspeth, that you may not be able to make the appointment with Mr. Cathcart.”

Elspeth whirled to her aunt. “What do you mean? Surely you do not mean to forbid me the association? I thought you liked Mr. Cathcart?”

“Indeed I do.” Aunt Augusta drew near enough to take Elspeth’s hand, and she saw then what she had not before—the strain making fine tense lines across her aunt’s face.

“Whatever is it?”

“Reeves, my butler, has just come with a message. It arrived express, not an hour ago. Your Aunt Molly Murray has written. Your Aunt Isla is ill, gravely so, and has asked for you.”

A pain that felt like the rending of her heart stopped Elspeth’s breath. Here she had been learning to flirt and kiss and dance, and all the while her dear aunt lay dying.

Elspeth had never felt more selfish or more bereft in her life. All thought but one fled. “I must go to her. I must go home to Dove Cottage.”

***

Hamish presented himself in St. Andrew Square the next afternoon at precisely two o’clock—the earliest time Lady Ivers would conscience a morning call. He was immediately shown into the lady’s private parlor.

“Come in, Cathcart, come in. There is much to be done. We’ve made a hash of it, you and I.” This she said with some accusation.

A cold drop of caution dripped down the back of his neck—his kissing had never been labeled a hash. “How so, my lady?”

“She’s gone.” Lady Ivers threw up her hands. “Packed up and whisked herself away, called back to their bolt-hole in the hedgerows by the illness of one of the sisters Murray, her decrepit, selfish aunts in the hinterlands of Midlothian. Though it might as well be Mongolia, for all that.”

Hamish controlled his smile at her wry tone. “Most of Midlothian is but a morning’s carriage ride away, my lady. Entirely approachable.”

“Good! Then I trust you shall be taking that carriage ride and making that approach as soon as possible? If for nothing else but the books—she’ll have no money, no fortune of her own without them. Poor child—she’s as sharp and clever as a cleaver, but rather naive. She could have no idea that I sent her the manuscript of a purpose, to bring her here. And even to send her your way.”

Hamish had surmised as much. “I am honored.”

“And so you should be. You’re a clever lad, Hamish—you have a way of seeing beyond what needs to be done. You can imagine what might be. But I did not think such a thinking man would get himself so quickly tangled up in amour as you seem to have done.”

It was as neat a summation of the mess in which they found themselves—with half a book, plans for a second, and no author to be found.

“Find her,” Lady Ivers ordered. “Go to her, and press your offer, without”—she raised her voice in emphasis—“getting things as all mangled up as you managed to do last night. There is time enough for all the kissing in the world after.” She faced him squarely. “Get her back here for me, Cathcart. Find her and win her, or you’ll regret it all the days of your life.”