Chapter Seventeen

“I hope this room will be to your satisfaction,” Barclay said as he pushed open the door to one of Tolton Hall’s guest rooms.

Malcolm glanced at the large bed set against the wall in the center of the room and nodded. As long as he had a comfortable bed, he was good. He looked forward to a good night’s sleep after the past few nights. “This will be fine. I thank ye for your kindness.”

“I shall leave ye to it then. I will see ye in the morn.”

Shutting the door, Malcolm walked around the room. Dark-blue wallpaper covered the walls, decorated in swirls of gold foil.

Several framed portraits hung on the walls. He took some time to study each one. An oil painting of Lizzie’s parents. One of her grandmama. One of her grandmama with whom he assumed was Lizzie’s grandpapa.

There was one of Lizzie as a young lass. She was sitting in a meadow of flowers, a small basket in her pudgy hands, her cherub cheeks aglow with delight. He couldn’t help but smile. She looked so happy.

He wondered if their daughter would look like her.

“Jesus, Kennedy,” he mumbled to the empty room. He was acting like a lovesick lad. Though the image of Lizzie, belly round with his bairn, awakened a yearning in him that he never kenned existed before.

Children were not something he thought about. Not his own anyway. His friends were quite happy with their wee ones running around, and the tots were adorable. But seeing them hadn’t made him want any of his own.

Not until Lizzie. With her, he could picture them. Long for them even. A lass that favored Lizzie’s looks. A lad, strong and determined like him.

Malcolm shook his head as he pushed his hands through his hair. This time he’d spent with Lizzie had surely provided him with the excitement he’d been missing. Even if it was of an entirely different kind that he was looking for.

He moved on to the next hanging portrait and his eyes narrowed as a sliver of recognition slid down his spine. Dropping his gaze to the name, he swore as it confirmed his initial thoughts. Angus Barclay.

Angus.

“Fuck,” he cursed the empty room as memories from the war flooded his brain. The traitor he’d caught and essentially signed his death warrant was Lizzie’s brother.

How the hell could he tell her that? She would never forgive him. Rightly so. It didn’t matter that everything her brother had done was against the crown. Against his country. It didn’t matter that he kenned the risks and consequences when he decided to sell their plans and secrets to the enemy.

He stumbled back and collapsed into a chair, cradling his head in his hands.

“Shite!” He rammed his fist against the arm of the chair. “What do I do? What do I do?” he murmured to no one.

This was the worst of situations. Lizzie loved her brother. She spoke highly of him whenever she’d mentioned him in their conversations. He understood that he had passed, but not once had she ever spoken about how.

Did she truly ken? Surely at least her parents kenned the reason.

He groaned. How did one of the happiest days of his life turn into one of the worst, reminding him of a time in his life he constantly tried to forget. The betrayal he’d felt when he’d uncovered Angus as the traitor was like a knife to the gut.

Discovering that Angus was Lizzie’s brother? That was like a knife to his heart.

He pushed from the chair and paced the floor. The number of times he walked from one side of the room to the other he couldn’t say. But he was surprised that he hadn’t worn a path in the gray rug.

His mind was too busy running through scenarios of how he could explain to Lizzie how he played a part in her brother’s death to be able to sleep.

What a messed-up situation he found himself in. And he wasn’t sure he would be able to talk his way out of it.

Lizzie was understanding, but this was different. This was her family. Her only brother.

He hung his head, his hands dropping to his sides. He needed whisky. Lots of it. It’s the only thing that would quiet all the noise running through his head.

In his search of whisky, Malcolm made his way quietly downstairs. A feat harder than it needed to be considering he just wanted to stomp his boots down the steps. The estate was dark. It matched his mood as he crept along the quiet halls.

It would be considered an intrusion to enter Barclay’s study, even if he kenned that for certain he would find whisky within its walls. Mayhap he would have some luck in the kitchen. He entered the room and found a lit lantern on the countertop and groaned.

At the noise, Lizzie jumped where she stood in front of the stove. “Malcolm. Ye frightened me.”

The source of his angst looked at him with tired eyes.

“What are ye doing awake, Lass?”

She pointed to the pot on the flame. “I couldna sleep. Needed my trusty warm milk to help.” Her gaze met his, her eyes warm and inviting.

He clenched his jaw, not daring himself to speak.

“Today was quite the whirlwind. I find my excitement of all that’s happened is keeping me awake.” She turned off the flame and poured the milk into a mug.

Sidling up to him in a way he found way too erotic, she didn’t stop until she was flush against his chest.

He closed his eyes. But Lord help him, he couldn’t resist this woman. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, kissing the top of her head. Inhaling, he savored the scent of her shampoo. He would miss this scent.

Because surely, on the morrow, when he revealed the truth, she would banish him from Tolton Hall and never want to speak with him again. Never want to see him again.

So he would enjoy this last moment of peace with her, snuggled against his chest, sighing in contentment.

And when she tipped her face up to his, it took all of his strength not to capture her lips in his. He wanted to, though. Lord how he wanted to.

Instead, he placed a soft kiss on her forehead, letting his lips linger for just a moment too long. “Ye better get back to bed, lass. I dinna think your father would be too happy if he found ye down here with me.”

She pushed back, creating a small distance between them, and he immediately missed the heat of her.

“Why are ye no’ in your room?”

“Pardon?”

“I came down for a cup of warm milk. What is your reasoning?”

“Och. I also couldna sleep.”

“Here. Take this.” She offered him her mug of milk. “I can warm up more.”

He shook his head. “Nay, lass. Ye go on. I fear I’m in search of something stronger.”

She studied his face and he felt as if she could see into his very soul. Read all the thoughts going through his mind.

“Is something amiss?” she asked, her brows creased in concern.

“Nay. All is well,” he lied.

The narrowing of her eyes told him that she didn’t believe him.

“What arena ye telling me? Malcolm?”

Pressing his lips together, he shook his head. “’Tis naught. Please, Lass,” he nearly begged. “Return to your chambers. I will be doing the same as soon as I find what I’ve come in search of.”

“What are ye looking for? Mayhap I can help,” she offered. Stubbornly ignoring his plea to go to her room.

“Whisky.”

“Hmmm.” She tapped her finger on her cheek. “Papa always has some in his study, but I believe Cook uses it as well.” She placed her mug on the counter and grabbed the lantern to search the cupboards and shelves. “Aha!” She spun around, whisky bottle in hand. “Here ye go.”

He accepted the bottle and dipped his head in thanks. “Now, go back upstairs afore someone sees us.”

She grabbed her mug of milk and approached him. Lifting on her toes, she placed her lips on his cheek, and he leaned into the kiss. “Sleep well, Malcolm. I shall see ye in the morn.”

He nodded, and watched her disappear out of the room, taking the light of the lantern with her. When he was drowned in darkness, he popped the cap off the bottle of whisky, and most ungentlemanlike, took a swig straight from the bottle.

The night was long. But yet, he almost wished it would last an eternity. Because then he wouldn’t have to break the heart of the woman that he loved.

His thought hit him like a punch in the gut.

Love.

It was true. He loved Lizzie Barclay.

But she would never love him back.

*

Something was off with Malcolm. His demeanor in the kitchen was… Lizzie couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but he was acting funny.

Her heart sank. Mayhap he was having second thoughts about their courtship. Ignoring the mug of warm milk she’d prepared earlier, she collapsed onto the bed.

“Damn it,” she cursed, fisting the bed coverings. “Me and my stupid forwardness.”

Mama was right. She had repeatedly told her to rein in her personality, and for the most part, she thought she had done a good job of doing so. But when it came to her attraction to Malcolm, the inexplicable pull word him, she found it hard to control herself.

She covered her eyes with her arm and groaned. What had she been thinking? She’d practically demanded that he go to her father and ask permission to court her.

What if Malcolm had done it only to appease her in the moment? A way to rid himself of a wee beastie.

She must talk to him. Apologize for her behavior. If she could put him at ease, mayhap that would change his mind.

Sitting up, decision made, she slipped he feet into slippers and pulled on her robe, cinching it tight around her waist.

Her nerves were on edge, and her heart beat fast as she made her way down the hall to the room Malcolm was staying in.

Knocking on the door quiet enough that she hoped wouldn’t wake anyone else, she stepped back and held her breath as she waited for Malcolm to answer.

Moments seemed to stretch on forever. Mayhap he was asleep and hadn’t heard.

She knocked again.

The door cracked open, and Malcolm’s eyes blew wide at the sight of her. He pulled the door open, and stuck his head out into the hall, looking back and forth.

“Lass, what are ye doing here?” he whispered, then yanked her inside and shut the door.

His honey-colored hair was crazy, the ends standing up straight in every direction. His clothes disheveled. He looked like he’d been through Hell and then dragged back to the land of the living.

Her back against the door, she watched him.

“Ye shouldna be here.” He pushed his hands roughly through his hair.

She could smell the whisky on his breath. Her eyes flashed to the near empty bottle. Clearly, something was amiss.

“I couldna sleep,” she whispered.

“Isna that what ye got the milk for?”

She nodded. “At first, aye. But once I got back to my room, warm milk couldn’t help. What is wrong? And dinna ye dare tell me ’tis naught. I ken ye are lying.”

His eyes were sad as he looked at her, but he remained silent.

“If ye dinna want this courtship, please ken that ye can walk away. I willna shackle ye to a life ye dinna want.” No matter how much it would break her heart.

“What?” His gaze was incredulous. “Lass, I verra much want this.” He approached her, his strong fingers caressing her cheek. “Och, more than ye ken.”

“Then, pray tell, what is the issue? What has happened?” she implored, emotion making her voice crack.

He began to pace the floor of the room, scrubbing his hands up and down his face.

She was at a loss trying to understand what was happening. The pain darkening his beautiful blue eyes broke her heart. But she didn’t ken how to fix it. Especially when he refused to tell her what it was.

Pushing off the door, she grasped his hands, forcing him to stop his pacing and dragged him to sit upon the bed with her. She felt the heat emanating off his body through the material of her robe. Mayhap sitting beside him was not the best of ideas. Images of him pushing her back onto the soft mattress, covering her body with his, flooded her mind.

Focus, Lizzie , she chided herself.

Palming his face in her hands, she forced him to look at her. His gaze was pure agony.

“What is it? Whate’er ’tis, it canna be as bad as ye think. Talk to me, Malcolm. Please,” she begged.

He grasped her wrists, leaned his face into her palms. “If I do, ye will hate me fore’er,” he confessed.

She couldn’t imagine what he could possibly say that would have such an effect on her feelings for him. “Nay,” she said with a shake of her head. “I dinna believe that. Malcolm.” She grabbed one of his large hands, enveloping it in hers that seemed so small in comparison. Gingerly, she placed her lips on his warm skin. She kenned the action may seem odd to him, but it felt so natural to her. She wanted to offer him comfort.

To show him that the feelings that filled her heart and mind were true. They weren’t the feelings of a child that didn’t understand what love was.

She did. The realization washed over her.

She loved him.

She loved Malcolm Kennedy.

“I love ye, Malcolm.”

He shook his head violently. “Dinna say such things, Lass. Take it back.”

He said it as if it were something that could be so easily done. As if they were just words that held no meaning. But they did. They held deep meaning.

“I willna. And afore we retired for the evening, I would have wagered a bet that ye felt the same. Something has changed. I just dinna ken what.”

She pushed off the bed and walked around the room, fidgeting with the tie of her robe.

“I just want ye to talk to me, Malcolm.”

“Your brother,” he said quietly. “His name was Angus?”

Her brows furrowed and she frowned. What did Angus have to do with any of this? “Aye,” she whispered. A pang of sadness piercing her chest at the memory of her brother.

“How did he pass?”

“In the war. I believe we discussed this previously. Malcolm, I’m confused.”

She tracked his gaze to her brother’s portrait. It was one of her favorites of Angus. He had just turned three and ten and was posing with one of the family dogs, a huge smile on his freckled face.

“Ye did say he died in the war. But do ye ken what happened?”

Pulling her stare from the portrait, her gaze clashed with Malcolm’s, his eyes intense. Blinking away tears that were threatening to sprout in her eyes, she nodded. “He died a hero. Tracking close to enemy lines. He was found and executed on the spot. ’Twas awful.”

He closed his eyes and blew out a long breath.

“Who told ye that?”

“My parents.” She cocked her head to the side and studied him. “Why are ye asking about my brother? What does he have to do with anything? Ye’ve ne’er e’en met him.”

He guffawed, a small laugh escaping his lips as he shook his head.

“That is where ye are wrong. I did ken him. Verra well, as a matter of fact.”

“Ye kenned my brother? Why did ye no’ say anything? And why is that aught but good?”

Malcolm pinched the bridge of his nose. “I didna realize he was your brother until I saw the portrait and recognized him.”

She threw her hands up in exasperation. “I still am missing something. Tell me what ’tis.”