Chapter 12

Pip,

Don't you dare scold that poor child for her mischief yesterday. I know she behaved very badly, but you deserved nothing less. What on earth were you thinking? Honestly, do you really wish to marry such an insipid dimwit? If Tilly hadn't had created a scene to make the point, I would have done so myself, and it would have been far more embarrassing to you than her little performance, I promise.

―Excerpt of a letter from the Most Hon'ble Catherine ‘Cat' St Just, Marchioness of Kilbane to her brother, The Right Hon'ble Philip Barrington, The Earl of Ashburton (children of the Most Hon'ble Lord and Lady Lucian and Matilda Barrington, The Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu).

23 rd June 1850, Wick, Caithness, Scotland.

"Well, now all becomes clear," Moyra murmured dryly as Hamilton escorted her into dinner.

"Don't make mountains out of molehills," he replied in an undertone.

"Oh, I'm not. I'm making sense out of your sudden lack of interest and the way you hovered defensively around that glorious child. Not that I blame you," she added with a sigh.

"I was not hovering," Hamilton shot back, indignant at the implication.

Moyra slanted him a pitying glance and sighed. "Men. Fools every one of them."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded.

"It means you had better pull your finger out and marry that girl before Harold Barker does."

"Harold?" Hamilton said with a snort, for he liked the fellow well enough, but he did not consider him competition.

"Harold is a man of taste and knows how to treat a lady. I considered catching him myself," she added with a smile, before winking at Hamilton and adding. "I still might. But don't underestimate him, or Malcolm Stewart, for he'll queer the pitch if he gets the chance. That man does not like you, my dear."

"That wee clipe can—"

"He means to cause trouble," she told him, squeezing his arm. "I mean it. Act, before you are sorry for not doing so. I always knew you'd find yourself a nice girl and settle down. I had no illusions, and you gave me none, but that is the nicest girl you will ever see in all your days if I'm not mistaken. If you don't secure your interest with her at once, you are a fool, and I never took you for a fool, love."

Hamilton brooded over this, hearing the truth in Moyra's words. He had not liked seeing Clara smiling up at Mr Barker. He hadn't liked it one bit. The truth was, he felt sick with jealousy at the idea she might prefer speaking with any of the men here more than to him because he'd behaved like an ignorant arse when he ought to have treated her like the lady she so obviously was. She deserved better.

Hamilton waited for Mary to guide them to their seats before seeing Moyra settled and finding his own. To his relief, he discovered he was sitting beside Clara on her left, with Mr Barker on her right. Unfortunately, Miss Fleming sat on Hamilton's left and seemed determined to monopolise his attention. The moment the vexing girl paused and took a breath, he turned to Clara.

"I am pleased to see ye looking so well, Miss Halliday," he said, finding himself gazing at her profile. The candlelight shone on her lovely face, casting her fine skin with a soft, golden glow that gave him the oddest sensation. He'd been watching her all night in truth, listening to her, to the way she drew people out, genuinely interested in learning about them, about their thoughts and opinions. Everything about her was graceful, her voice soothing, her laugh a warm, rich sound that slid over his skin like silk, quite unlike Miss Fleming's practised laughter that set his teeth on edge. It hit him then, square in the chest, making him strangely breathless and tense, as if he stood on a precipice as he realised Moyra was right. Clara Halliday was something special, a woman that did not come along more than once in a lifetime. If he lost her, he'd regret it for the rest of his days.

"Thank you, I am well," she replied serenely, though she did not turn to look at him.

"I was worried for ye," he added, which was no more than the truth.

"You are very kind, but I'm sure there was no need. Mrs Macready took good care of me."

She still hadn't turned to look at him and the need to have her meet his eyes was suddenly the only thing he cared about. If she looked directly at him, perhaps he'd be able to tell if she still thought about their kiss, about him, or if he had buggered everything up as he feared.

All the reasons he ought not to get involved with her suddenly seemed frail and insubstantial. Even her father's obvious animosity could be handled. He was Hamilton Anderson, for God's sake, not some witless fool. He could charm the birds from the trees if he cared to do so. Everyone said it. One crabbit old clergyman would not keep him from his goal.

He wasn't entirely certain when the change had come over him, but he thought perhaps it was the moment he'd walked in the room tonight and seen Clara in that dark blue gown. He'd always known she was lovely, not just beautiful, but with the light of goodness and compassion that shone from within her. She was a woman who was gentle, sweet, and strong as a lioness. The kind who would put him in his place if the need arose and not submit to him just because he said so. He suddenly had the desperate desire to know everything about her, what music she liked, what books she had read, what it felt like to dance with her…. Did she wish to live forever in Wick? It occurred to him then how much of his time he'd spent of late thinking about her or trying not to think about her and failing. She was the perfect mix of sweet and tart, at once strong and fragile, and the thought of kissing her again made his entire body prickle with a restless energy that he doubted would leave him until he knew she was his.

"Did ye like the flowers?"

As he had hoped, she glanced around. "Hush," she scolded him, her lovely eyes flashing. "Have we not enough trouble with Malcolm Stewart trying to stir the pot?"

"Dinnae fash yerself about him," Hamilton advised her. "I can deal with his kind."

"What does that mean?" she asked in alarm. "I will not have you fighting and causing trouble."

"Are ye gonnae stop me, hen?" he asked in amusement.

"I dislike being referred to as poultry," she told him, making him chuckle.

"How about mo leannan?" he asked, lowering his voice.

She shot him a suspicious glance. "What does that mean?"

"Ye are a clever lassie, ye can figure it out," Hamilton teased her, wishing fervently they were alone so he could tell her just what it meant in private.

She huffed and looked away from him, and they were silent as the soup course was served. Conversation rippled up and down the table, though Hamilton paid it no mind. He was only interested in the woman beside him now. The scent of her reached his nose, something delicately floral and entirely feminine. Roses, perhaps? It was too faint to be certain, and the desire to trace it back to its source was tantalising.

"I did like them. Very much."

Hamilton glanced around at her in surprise, smiling with pleasure as he realised she had finally answered his question.

"I am glad. I wished after that I had sent ye roses, or lilies, but—"

"Oh, no. I should not have liked those half so much," she admitted. Hamilton held his breath as she turned her face to his. "They were perfect."

"Like yerself," he said with a smile.

To his dismay, she frowned and looked away. "Please don't do that."

Hamilton was about to ask what she meant by that but the conversation at the table swelled to encompass her, and she was lost to him for the next quarter hour as Mr Barker monopolised her conversation. Hamilton shifted restlessly, condemned to converse with Miss Fleming, which was a simple enough exercise if one turned the conversation so she could speak about herself. Still, listening, usually something he did with ease, was a challenge as he tried to eavesdrop on Clara's conversation with Mr Barker at the same time. The fellow had certainly set his sights on her, that much was clear. Hamilton felt a sudden kick of anxiety behind his ribs and told himself not to be daft. Just because Mr Barker was a respectable banker did not mean he was a better prospect.

He considered this with a sinking sensation as he realised her father might view the match in a different light altogether. Moyra was right. He'd been a fool, and he'd be a bigger one to drag his heels.

"I lived in Thorney," Clara was saying to Harold Barker, the next words muffled until she exclaimed with delight. "You don't mean it! Not really. But when were you there? Do you mean to say you know Mrs Kershaw?"

"She's my aunt," Mr Barker said, sounding triumphant at the discovery. "There, I knew we had things in common. We are destined to be great friends, Miss Halliday, for fate has tied its ribbons about us."

Hamilton made a sound of disgust that had Miss Fleming looking at him oddly.

"A bone," he said hastily, pointing at his throat as the fish course was removed.

"Yes, I know Mr Ludlow too. Of course, of course, a dear old fellow. Always losing his spectacles."

"Yes!" Clara replied, laughing, such a genuinely merry sound that everyone at the table turned towards her. "But how is this? How can you have visited, and Papa and I never have known of you?"

"Ah, but your father does know me," Mr Barker said with obvious satisfaction. "And I believe I had the misfortune of calling upon him once when you were away visiting your aunt."

"Oh! That's how it happened," she said, shaking her head before adding ruefully. "And of course, Papa would never think to inform me that anyone interesting had called upon us."

"I am flattered in the extreme to be considered worthy of noting, Miss Halliday, and I can only curse my rotten luck that I did not get to meet you sooner. But fate has decided to smile upon me, at last."

"Perhaps fate was being kind in keeping you out of my company," Clara replied, rallying. "You do not know me well yet. Perhaps I will turn out to be a dreadful trial."

"That, I cannot allow. Not under any circumstances," Mr Barker said, his voice soft now, and Hamilton noted the blush rising to her cheeks with increasing irritation.

"How is Jimmy?" he asked her, determined to steal her attention back again.

Clara turned away from Mr Barker to regard Hamilton. The blush had faded but her eyes still sparkled with merriment and the sight pleased him more than he could credit despite the jealousy that nagged at him. It was wonderful to see her happy, to watch her shining in company rather than hidden away in the vicarage where no one could see how very special she was. She ought to preside over a grand dinner table, her fortunate husband, the envy of every man present. The desire to have her attention entirely for himself was suddenly paramount in his mind and he determined to keep it.

"He's well, I thank you."

"Your father—"

Clara shook her head. "No, he doesn't know, though I'm feeling horribly guilty about that."

"Nae, lassie. Ye did a wonderful thing. I am proud of ye for it."

She gave him a searching look. "You are?"

He nodded. "Ye were brave and ye did right by the laddie, despite knowing it might bring ye trouble. Ye acted when so many others would have flapped their gums and wrung their hands but not actually lifted a finger."

"Thank you," she said, and somehow the compliment had lit her up from the inside.

Hamilton thought she glowed with pleasure and the knowledge that he had done that made him feel quite ridiculously pleased with himself. Wanting to mend bridges and encourage her to think well of him, he carried on.

"Jimmy will need to learn a trade, though. He cannae live in the kitchen all his days."

"I know," she said, and the pleasure in her eyes dimmed, replaced by worry for the future. "But I do not know how to find such a place for him, or even if someone would take such a boy. I would speak for him, of course, but…"

"But that might look a little odd when yer father is ignorant of his existence," he suggested.

She nodded, and he smiled, knowing he could take the anxious look from her eyes. "I'll see to it."

Clara blinked at him. "You will? You would do that for Jimmy?" she asked in wonder, gazing at him with an expression that made him feel he had won something quite extraordinary.

Hamilton held her gaze, his voice soft as he replied. "Of course I would, and if ye gave me the opportunity, there's not much I wouldnae do for ye either, lassie. Ye need only name it."

She looked away from him, but he heard the sharp intake of breath, noted the way her gloved fingers fidgeted in her lap. He had flustered her, and the sight of her confusion was at once endearing and wonderful.

"I cannot think why," she replied after a long pause.

"Can ye nae?" he asked, careful to keep the words gentle and with no edge of amusement that she might misread. "Then ye are nae half so clever as I imagined."

She glanced around at him, a searching look in her eyes but the main course arrived, and Mr Barker had been given the challenge of carving the lamb. Hamilton noted the care the man took to select the most succulent pieces for Clara and wished the fellow to the devil.

The food was excellent as it always was, and Angus was careful to ensure the wine flowed steadily. It was clear everyone was having a marvellous time, all except Malcolm Stewart, who had the look of a sulky boy condemned to finish his sprouts. He was drinking heavily and taking no trouble to disguise the fact, either. Now and then Hamilton would be on the receiving end of a look of venomous dislike, which he found no difficulty in ignoring. The nagging worry that the fellow might cause trouble for Clara, however, was one that he could not dismiss. He might need to have words with the little rat.

Hamilton was careful with Clara for the rest of the evening, keeping the conversation light and doing his best to make her laugh. Though she was obviously still wary, he kept her attention for most of the night, and knew he'd given her something to think about.

After a wonderful meal and an enjoyable time lingering over port and then tea with the ladies, the evening was finally over. Mr Fraser, Miss Fleming, and Mrs Scott all lived on the same side of town, so Mr Fraser took it upon himself to escort them home. Moyra whispered in Hamilton's ear before she left, reminding him to come and fetch his watch.

"I'll leave the back door open, but I'll not have you visiting me again if you mean to court Miss Halliday. Fetch it tonight and we'll have a drink to wish you happiness."

Hamilton said nothing but nodded. Whatever happened with Clara, he needed to end things with Moyra, and he was only relieved she seemed so reasonable about it.

He was just wondering how to dispose of Mr Barker so he could escort Clara the short distance to the vicarage when Angus came to his rescue.

"Harold," he said in an undertone, so the ladies could not hear. "I need help to get Malcolm upstairs. He'll have to sleep here tonight."

"Ah," the fellow said with immediate understanding. "Yes, he appeared to be dipping rather deep."

"And not for the first time," Angus replied with obvious frustration.

"Ah, well, these young men will push their luck at times, I suppose. I'll give you a hand, of course," Mr Barker said with a smile, and headed back to the parlour.

Angus turned to Hamilton, a serious glint in her eyes. "You will see Miss Halliday safely home, I know. If her father finds out, I'll be in the basket and—"

"Aye, Angus. Of course, I hear ye," Hamilton said at once, not about to give him a reason to think better of it and make other arrangements. "Don't fret, and I thank ye for ye thoughtfulness."

"I'll see ye married yet," Angus replied with a wink.

Hamilton snorted and turned to see Mary's maid handing Clara her cloak.

"Allow me," he said, taking it from her and settling it around her shoulders.

Clara avoided his gaze, staring instead at a button on his waistcoat as if it held the answer to everything as he did up the fastenings under her chin.

"Would ye do me the honour of allowing me to walk ye home, Miss Halliday?"

Clara glanced up at him, a look of sheer panic in her eyes. "Oh, but Mr Stewart—"

"Angus is having the devil of a time getting his brother up the stairs, for he's had a skinful," Hamilton said gently, steering her to the door. "I'll make sure ye get there safely. My word upon it. Goodnight, Mary, thank ye for a lovely evening."

"You're welcome, and you, Clara. I'm so glad you came."

"It was a wonderful evening," Clara agreed. "Goodbye. I'll see you in church."

Before Hamilton had the chance to close the door behind them, Clara strode off, at such a pace it was clear she intended to leave him behind.

"Are ye that eager to be rid of me?" he asked, catching her up with ease.

She refused to look at him. "Walking home with you is fraught with danger, as I'm certain you recall."

"Aye, I recall. I've recalled it a deal too often, if ye want the truth."

"Don't say such things," she said sharply, and even in the moonlight he could see the flush of colour upon her fair skin.

"Why not? Does it nae please ye to hear that thoughts of yer kisses are driving me distracted?"

"Indeed, it does not," she said, though the words were breathless.

"Slow down," he said impatiently, taking hold of her arm. "Ye will give yerself indigestion by walking at such a pace."

"My digestion is of no concern of yours," she retorted indignantly.

Hamilton chuckled. "Aye, maybe, but I want to talk to ye and I cannae do so with ye rushing about like a wee mouse with a cat on its tail."

"How apt a description," she said with a short laugh.

Hamilton stopped in the street, and it must have surprised her, for she stopped too, turning to face him with confusion in her eyes.

"Is that what ye think of me? That I'm a predator, out to hurt ye?"

She considered this before she answered. "I do not believe you intend me any harm, Mr Anderson. I fear, however, that your little games will end in pain all the same."

"Games?" he repeated as she walked off once more. "What games?"

She sent him a look of sheer exasperation. "Please do not insult my intelligence by pretending you don't know what I mean."

"Well, I don't!" he exclaimed testily. "Explain yerself."

"I mean," she said through her teeth. "That it may seem like an amusing jest to flirt with every girl in Wick and have them all pining over you, but you will not add me to their ranks."

"I dinnae flirt with all the girls in Wick!"

She stopped in her tracks and stared at him, arms folded.

Hamilton cleared his throat. "I never lead anyone on!" he protested. "A wee bit of flirtation is harmless. Making a lassie feel pretty and making her smile is nae a crime, is it?"

Her expression softened, and she shook her head. "No, of course not, but… but giving the impression it means more than that… well, that is very bad of you."

"I never did such a thing," he said gruffly.

She gave a soft laugh and walked on, taking the lane that led to the back of the vicarage. "Yes, you did."

"When?"

The back gate opened without a squeak as she entered the backyard and Hamilton followed her in.

"When you kissed a foolish vicar's daughter just to prove a point, and then sent her flowers when all you really wished to do was apologise for behaving badly," she said, and his heart clenched as he heard the hurt in her voice.

"Clara," he said, reaching to take her hand, but she danced backwards, out of reach.

"I did not give you leave to use my name," she said, chin up, eyes blazing defiantly, trying too hard to act as though she didn't give a damn when he could see he had wounded her pride.

Damn him to hell. He went after her, catching her before she could reach the back door and pulling her into his arms.

"Little fool," he said roughly. "If ye think I kissed ye to prove any point past that I am losing my wits over ye, ye are much mistaken."

"Fool, am I?" she said, and he could see the storm clouds gathering in her eyes now. Cursing himself for an idiot, he shook his head and took a step backwards, letting her go.

"Nae," he said, when his every instinct was to gather her in his arms again and kiss her until she realised he was the one in danger here. "Nae, Clara, I am the fool. Ye must forgive me though, for I have never… ach, ye are right. I flirt with all the lassies and make them smile but I never pretend an interest I dinnae have. But I do this time, and… and I'm making a proper mess of this, am I nae?" he added in frustration.

Her lips quirked a little, the anger in her expression dissipating at his obvious confusion. "You are, rather," she said, and he heard the amusement there with relief.

"Clara," he said, his voice low. "I think of ye. I think of ye when I try like the devil to think of anything else. I tell myself I am a fool to get involved when yer father despises me, and I have nae desire to take a wife but… but there ye are. The moment I wake up, there ye are, and when I sleep…"

"Oh."

The sound she made was soft and full of wonder and did terrible things to his equilibrium. Knowing she would likely slap him, and rightly so, he pressed his mouth to hers and she grasped his arms as he wondered whether she would push him away. For a moment she was rigid in his embrace and then everything softened, and she let out another soft sigh, this time of capitulation that he knew would live in his memory until the day he died.

She could not deny the way she felt for him, not now. She might not like her desire for him, but she could not pretend it away. The knowledge sang through his blood, triumphant male pride burning with satisfaction as she returned his kisses, inexpertly but with obvious desire.

"Clara," he murmured, gathering her closer, nuzzling into her neck and breathing in the sweet scent of her. "Roses. I could smell roses all night and it was driving me mad."

"M-Mr Anderson, we really ought not—" she said hesitantly, but Hamilton caught her mouth again, desperate to taste her, to ingrain the delicious flavour of her kisses in his mind so he could recall every detail when he was forced to say goodnight.

He ought to do that now, of course, but he could not. He did not want to let her go. Not yet. He dragged his mouth from hers just long enough to growl, "My name is Hamilton, I give ye leave to use it whenever ye like."

"I ought not… I ought not be here at all," she said, yet she gripped his arms still, not letting go as he pressed ardent kisses down her lovely neck.

"But here ye are," he murmured, his hands spanning her narrow waist, wanting to demand the right to call her his own but knowing he could not, not yet. "Such a good girl doing such a wicked thing, kissing a man in the dark. What does that tell ye?"

"That I'm not half so good as I thought I was," she said, sounding so wretched his heart seemed to squeeze in his chest.

"Nae," he said softly, gentling his lips on her skin, kissing her forehead tenderly. "Dinnae be daft. It means ye feel something for me, more than ye want to let on, or else I could never have persuaded ye to kiss me. Dinnae deny me, lassie, not when I want ye so fiercely."

He nipped at her plush lower lip, making her gasp and lost no time in sliding his tongue into the warmth of her mouth. She made a startled sound and pulled away, gazing at him in astonishment.

Hamilton grinned at her. "Let me teach ye how to take my kisses," he murmured, aware that his voice had grown low and husky. God but she was delicious. He could not remember ever wanting anything as much as he wanted her. His body was rock hard with longing, thoughts of all the ways he wanted to love her dancing in his mind's eye.

Somehow, he had backed her up against the wall in the dark of the yard, though he did not remember doing so. At least they were out of sight here, hidden from the vicarage windows and from the street. He brushed his lips over hers, hearing her sharp intake of breath as he did so.

"Part yer lips as I kiss ye," he told her, heat surging beneath his skin as she obeyed him, and he slid his tongue inside once more.

She was still at first, obviously puzzled until she tentatively slid her tongue against his. Desire lanced through him, and he growled low in his throat, deepening the kiss, taking more and more as his hands moved restlessly over her.

"Ye are the most delicious thing I ever tasted," he told her, before taking her mouth again, harder still, like a man starved who had finally found sustenance.

She was the air he breathed, she was necessary, and he could not get enough. One hand drifted from her waist, sliding up and up until it cupped the firm, round breast that filled his palm. She started in surprise, one hand lifting to curve around the wrist of the hand that caressed her, but she did not pull it away. He groaned, maddened by too many layers that kept his touch from her skin, squeezing the softness that lay beneath and wishing he could take it in his mouth. Imagining the taut little nub under his tongue was enough to unravel what little remained of his brains.

"What's that? Who's out 'ere?"

A door to their right pushed open and Clara gave a muffled squeal, pushing at his chest as Hamilton stepped back, fighting to regain his wits, which seemed to have been scattered all over Wick, damn him to hell.

"Oh, J-Jimmy!" she said, her voice trembling. "I'm so sorry if we woke you. Mr Anderson was just… he was just—"

"I'm just seeing her home, Jimmy," Hamilton said gruffly.

Jimmy, who was obviously indignant at having been woken up, rubbed his eyes and then glared at him suspiciously. "Oh, aye?" he said, with exactly the same inflection that Hamilton might have given the unconvinced reply. "That's what you're calling it, eh?"

"Jimmy!" Clara said sharply. "Mind your manners."

"Far as I can see, I'm the only one who is minding 'em," he said sourly. "But you'll be running along now, won't you, Mr Anderson, seeing as Miss Clara is home safe now?"

"Aye," Hamilton said in frustration, having no other option now Jimmy had poked his oar in. "But I'll be calling on ye, Clara. Ye hear me?"

Clara nodded but did not meet his eyes and he hoped Jimmy's interference had not undone all his good work.

"Goodnight, lassie," he told her softly, unable to help himself from adding, "Sweet dreams."