“Aye, and it remains at Frogbottom for safekeeping.” He smiled then, his dimple flashing. “You’ll never guess where it’s hidden.”
“Beneath Steckle’s pillow?”
“Nae, much better than that.” He leaned in, and a waft of his sandalwood scent delighted her. “Bamber the Badger guards it. The letter is tucked inside a secret niche carved in the back of the cottage name sign that the badger holds.”
Melissa smiled. “How like Steckles to put it there. But…” She paused, thinking. “Did he say why my father wrote such a letter? I’m sure he gave it to Steckles because he knew the farmer all his life and trusted him. But why would he pen things that are damaging to Lady Clarice? He did love her, I’m sure.”
Lucian shrugged. “We can only suppose, lass. I asked the same of Mr. Steckles and he said your father did indeed worship his wife, hence leaving the estate to her. But…”
He glanced out across the pasture again, then back to her. “Apparently he did not wholly trust your stepsisters. The farmer said your father was aware of their resentment, how they often treated you, and that troubled him greatly.
“So he took measures to see everything restored to you should they someday turn their mother against you. He included a full explanation for the authorities, if needed.”
“He must’ve also worried they would seek to damage me once my stepmother died,” Melissa guessed.
“That is the way of it, aye.” Lucian’s face was solemn. “I am sorry, lass.”
“You have no reason to apologize.” She touched his face. “Far from it, I am most grateful, as I’ve said.”
“You have.” He caught her wrist and brought her hand to his lips, kissing her fingertips. “I would just spare you the hurt.”
“I am not hurt.”
I just want more than finger kisses.
“There is one thing…” she added aloud. “What about the witnesses you mentioned? Did the mysterious old woman tell you about them as well?”
His smile returned.
“No’ at all,” he said. “The idea was mine alone and came to me as I was leaving Frogbottom Cottage the first time.I suggested it to the farmer. Should we need such measures, and he agreed.”
Melissa knew he was keeping something back.
“What else?” She tilted her head, peering at him. “There is more.”
He looked embarrassed. “That measure is no’ needed, so best forgotten.”
“No.” Melissa smiled. “You surely know that Scots are stubborn? Well…” She poked two fingers at his tweed-jacketed chest. “My Scottish half insists you tell me everything.”
His chagrin vanished, replaced with amusement. “You, lass, are as refreshing as a fine summer’s day in the Highlands.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
He leaned in, again treating her to a heady whiff of sandalwood. “If you must know, sweeting, I made Steckles promise he’d have everyone at Spaniards swear you and I spent a night there, and that your cries of ecstasy shook the inn’s rafters.”
Melissa stared at him, her eyes rounding.
Then she burst out laughing, bending double as she nearly convulsed. He patted her on the back, between her shoulders, and when she straightened, he gave her a handkerchief to dry the laugh tears from her cheeks.
He waited until she returned the now-crumpled linen. “That amusing?”
“Yes.” She swiped a knuckle beneath her eye. “Almost as funny as you telling my stepmother and Sir Hartle that we are to wed.”
“But we are,” he declared, looking entirely serious.
“You can’t mean that.”
“I do.”
