“Fear not, dear countess. Lady Caroline looked very much recovered yesterday, and hardly on the verge of death now,” Speed said. “You were quite right to send her here to the Highlands. It appears to have done her a world of good and put the bloom back in her cheeks, so to speak—providing she doesn’t drown in the deluge, that is.”
“Drown?” Charlotte said. Alec noted she looked more hopeful than sorrowful at the prospect. “Is that a possibility?”
“No,” Alec said quickly. Unless the ground became slippery, or she lost her footing and fell against a rock ... “No,” he said again. “She has probably taken shelter in the village. The local folk are very kind to—” He stopped himself from saying “strangers.” Caroline was hardly a stranger now. She knew most of the villagers by name, knew their children, took baskets of food and Muira’s medicines to the sick and elderly, stopping to listen to their stories. Caroline would be welcomed warmly at any hearth to wait out the weather. He felt a moment’s pride fill him.
“She’s with peasants?” Charlotte’s face creased with disgust. “She’ll get fleas—or worse. She’s already on the very verge of ruin, and fleas will certainly tip her over the edge.”
“I would go myself and look for her,” Viscount Mears said boldly, then subsided instantly. “If I knew the way.”
“And risk your own health?” Charlotte demanded. “I should say not.”
“I have no doubt that she’ll be back as soon as the rain stops,” Alec said again.
“Will that be anytime today?” Somerson said impatiently. “I understand it rains nearly constantly in the Highlands.”
“His grandfather said as much—he told terrible stories of the weather. He fought with the king’s army in the ’45,” Charlotte said.
“Well done, my lord!” Mandeville said, raising his glass, then met Alec’s sharp look and colored. “Er, we could mount a proper search for Lady Caroline.”
“Once the rain stops,” Speed added.
Alec looked at the gentlemen in the room. Mears looked worried, but meek. Mandeville was helping himself to more ale. Speed was examining the maker’s mark on the bottom of the pewter mug, assessing its value. Somerson looked annoyed by the delay, and Charlotte was hopeful that Caroline might never return at all. Not one person cared if Caroline was safe or not.
He’d made a dreadful mistake, sending for Somerson.
He looked out the window at the old tower, standing lonely and forlorn in the wet, and wondered if she was there. He imagined finding her there, kissing the rain from her lips, holding her body against his to warm her wet skin...
Jock came to Alec’s side and whispered in his ear. “She’s upstairs, safe. Came home an hour past, looking like a drowned stoat.”
Relief and anger flooded through Alec’s breast. She was safe.
No, she was hiding. He looked around the room. He’d be tempted to hide from these people himself, if they were his kin. Still, she could not avoid them forever. He frowned at her cowardice.
He got to his feet. “Will you excuse me?” He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned on his heel and left the room. He took the stone steps two at a time and didn’t stop until he reached Caroline’s room in the tower.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-THREE
The tower room Caroline now occupied had once been his bedchamber. He knew every nick on the steep stone stairs that led to it, every stone in the wall. It had been a sanctuary, a place to keep boyhood collections of smooth pebbles and bird’s eggs, slingshots, wooden swords, and the few well-loved books he owned.
He knocked, and waited. “Come in, Muira,” she said. He threw open the door, furious that she’d put herself at risk, that she’d left him with her family, that she’d left London at all.
Caroline was indeed dripping wet, but in no way did she resemble a drowned stoat.
She sat in a tub of hot water, the steam curling around her. Her eyes widened above pink cheeks at the sight of him in the doorway before she grabbed the nearest covering at hand and dragged it into the tub with her. The thin muslin shift soaked through and molded itself to her figure. He could see the dark outline of her nipples, the long length of her legs. An image of those legs, those breasts in the moonlight dried his mouth. He should turn away, leave, but he couldn’t move. Hell, he couldn’t even breathe.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, wrestling with the muslin.
“You told me to come in,” he said.
“Only because I thought you were Muira with more hot water!” She was getting water all over the floor as she tried to sink deeper into the bath, and control the flimsy muslin at the same time. “Go away!”
Heshouldgo. It was the gentlemanly thing to do, the smart thing, but she was naked, wet, and lovely, and the room smelled of wildflowers—the soap, he assumed, or perhaps it was just Caroline. This room had never smelled of wildflowers when he lived here. It should have felt strange, but the chamber still felt like home, sanctuary, even with her things strewn about—her books, her hairbrush, her wet undergarments hanging over chairs and hooks. He couldn’t make his feet move, couldn’t take his eyes off the wide golden pools of her eyes, her sweet pink lips, the wet slope of her breasts, the long white length of her legs. He’d caressed those breasts, suckled them, and those legs had been wrapped around his hips as he—
“If you’re not going to leave, at least turn around, or hand me a towel, or a blanket, or anything!”
He handed her a towel, and turned away. He heard her rise from the water, resisted the urge to peek, heard the rustle of fabric as she wrapped herself up. “Where have you been all day? Somerson is assuming you’ve been drowned in the storm,” he said.
The rustle of linen stopped. “Somerson? Here? How did he—I suppose Sophie wrote to Lottie.”
