Chapter 14

Clara,

I must see you. Come to me tonight, at the Fisherman's Retreat at 8pm, for there is something I wish to say to you in private. Please come, sweetheart.

―signed Hamilton Anderson.

23 rd June 1850, Wick, Caithness, Scotland.

"You're in a sunnier mood than ye were this morning," Mrs Macready observed as Clara arranged her father's dinner tray.

"Yes, I am. Do you know, I think Papa has made friends with the women of the town. You should have seen him at the church hall, laughing and chatting with them. I never thought to see it."

"Aye, they think the world of him," Mrs Macready admitted. "And credit where credit is due, he's been helping them in practical ways too, though I reckon Mrs Cameron's influence had a deal to do with it," she added, giving Clara a sideways glance.

"So I gather," Clara replied with a smile. "What's she like, Mrs Macready? Should I be concerned?"

"Well, she's nae of the same class as yer da, so if that troubles ye, ye may wish to step in. A word in her ear and she'll back off, I reckon. But she's a good sort, calm and no nonsense. She comes across as being a bit of a silly creature, but she's not in the least. She'll manage your da with her hands tied behind her back, that I will say," she added with a laugh. "And he'll love every minute of it, too."

"That's rather the impression I got, though I didn't really speak to her," Clara admitted, remembering Mrs Cameron's kindness when she had helped Clara escape. "And I don't care in the least if she's of the same class, only that they are happy. Do you really think it's serious? How strange to think Papa might get married again."

"Mrs Cameron had a look in her eye that tells me she means to catch yer da, and he's been too oblivious to notice until recently. I hear her words in some of the things he's said of late, though. He's softening under her influence I reckon, more thoughtful, aye. Ye ought to encourage him," Mrs Macready said firmly. "Invite the lady to take tea with ye. If yer da is married, he'll nae be so eager to keep ye at his side."

Clara smiled. "Everyone is giving me good advice today," she said with a laugh.

"Oh? Who else?" Mrs Macready asked, spooning the rich beef stew she'd made onto a plate.

"Mrs Scott."

The spoon clattered to the table, and Clara looked around in surprise. "Don't look so appalled. She was very kind. I know all about her and Mr Anderson too, so don't stand there with your mouth open. It's all over now, and I cannot blame either of them in the least for enjoying each other's company."

"Well," Mrs Macready said, clearly too shocked to say more. She wiped her hands on her apron and reached for the spoon, shaking her head as she carried on dishing up the meal. "Well, I never did. What did this paragon have to say to ye?" she demanded, gathering her wits at last.

"She said I ought to try crooking my finger, for Mr Anderson would come running," Clara said a little smugly.

Mrs Macready gave a snort of amusement. "Aye, well, Mrs Scott always did ken the best way to keep a fellow on a string. Reckon ye ought to listen to her."

"Reckon I shall," Clara said with a laugh, hefting the tray.

Mrs Macready laughed, setting the lid back on the saucepan. "Well, if ye are nae yet ready to eat I'll set the saucepan by the range to keep warm. There's plenty there for ye supper, and for Jimmy too, though where that laddie has got to, I dinnae ken. Up to mischief, I dinnae doubt."

"Playing with his friends, most likely," Clara said soothingly, for she had come to trust Jimmy and believed he was a good boy at heart. "Goodnight, then, Mrs Macready, and thank you for everything, as always."

Mrs Macready fastened her cloak and nodded as she reached for her bonnet. "Ye are welcome, lassie. I'll see ye on the morrow, bright and early."

"Well, early anyway," Clara replied with a laugh as she carried the tray up to her father.

He was in his study, working on his sermon and humming softly under his breath.

"Papa, your dinner is ready."

He looked up, then began hurriedly clearing space on his desk. She waited until there was room enough to set the tray down.

"My, my, that smells wonderful," he said with anticipation, reaching for the napkin.

"Are you going out tonight?" Clara asked, watching with amusement as he dug into his dinner and nodded absently. Once he'd swallowed the mouthful, he spoke with enthusiasm.

"Yes, indeed. We have something special planned for this evening," he added, winking at her.

"Special?" Clara asked with trepidation. "In what way?"

He tapped the edge of his nose and grinned. "You'll see."

"Papa, you will be careful, won't you?" Clara said, for as much as he seemed to have gained some valuable insight into the lives of the people of Wick, she didn't believe he had entirely changed his spots. Rubbing people up the wrong way was something he did with far too much ease to be dismissed as a possibility.

"Yes, yes, of course. Don't you worry," he said, waving her away. Considering herself dismissed, Clara left the room and was about to return to the kitchen when she saw an envelope on the doormat in the hallway. Hurrying over, she picked it up, saw with surprise it was addressed to her, and broke the seal.

Her heart skipped as she read the short message from Hamilton. He wanted to see her, something he must say to her…

Clara's breath caught. Of course, it was very wrong of her to meet him in secret , alone. But unlike Malcolm Stewart, she trusted him, and Mrs Scott had told her his intentions were all that they should be. Besides which, she wanted to see him very badly, and she did not know when that might next be, as tomorrow was Sunday, and her father would want her help.

She glanced at the note once more. 8pm? It was almost that now. Deciding she would be brave, she stuffed the note in her pocket, put on her cloak and drew the hood up over her hair, shielding her face. It was the work of a moment to slip out of the front door. Since the street was deserted, Clara quickly made her way up the steep incline to Hamilton's tavern. It was looking very handsome now, and she thought perhaps it would not be too long before it opened. She only hoped she could keep her father from causing him trouble when it did.

Finding the door unlocked, Clara turned the handle and pushed it open, darting inside and closing the door behind her. The place was in darkness, but a glimmer of light shone from upstairs, so she followed it, tiptoeing up the stairs. When she got to the top, the light was brighter, and she saw it came from one of the bedrooms. Hurrying to the doorway, she felt her heart lift as she saw Hamilton. He was frowning over a dozen fabric samples laid out on a table in front of him. She didn't know if he heard or sensed her watching him, but his head turned.

"Clara!"

"I couldn't not come," she exclaimed, running up to him. "Did you think I wouldn't?"

He stared down at her as if he was completely stunned by her appearance. "I hardly ken what to think? But I'm glad… Clara, lord but I have missed ye, and I dinnae care if that's a daft thing to say when I saw ye last night, but it's too long, lassie."

"It is," she agreed, smiling and wondering if he could see everything she felt, for she was too foolishly infatuated with him to hide it.

"Ye are nae vexed with me?" he asked, reaching out and stroking her cheek. "I'm afraid I behaved very badly."

Clara shook her head. "I let you behave badly, didn't I?" she added, her smile dimming a little as she considered that. "You… You don't think the worse of me—"

"Little fool," he said fondly, and took her hand. "It pleases me more than ye can comprehend when ye show that ye want me. Come away from the windows though, love. I dinnae want anyone to see ye here. Will ye nae be missed?"

"Not for a little while," she said, gazing up into his handsome face, his amber eyes warm in the lamplight. Did this man really care for her? It seemed an impossible dream. He could have anyone he wanted; surely a vicar's daughter was not aiming high enough when his father was an earl. Perhaps, even if he did want her, his parents would not approve.

"What are ye fretting about?" he asked softly, caressing her cheek with the backs of his fingers. He touched the place between her eyebrows and stroked softly. "Ye are frowning, lassie. I dinnae like to see ye troubled."

"Oh, nothing," she said, not wanting to confess such concerns when he'd not even declared his interest in her yet.

His hand dropped to her chin, and he raised it up, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Ye are a little liar. Are ye worried I'm toying with ye? That I mean to dishonour ye and leave?"

Clara blushed, surprised he put it into such stark words, but then he was not the kind to prevaricate. "I would not have said it quite that way, for I believe you are a gentleman, that you would not treat me so ill, but… but all the same…"

"But all the same, I've nae told ye my intentions," he said, his voice low. As he spoke, he moved her, guiding her gently until her back rested against the wall. His body pressed against her, hard and so very vital. There was so much energy in his frame, still as he was, like seeing the smooth surface of a deep river and knowing there were dangerous currents hidden beneath.

"N-No," Clara stammered. "You have not."

"My intention is to kiss ye, lassie," he teased, nuzzling into her neck. "And to make ye sigh and call my name."

"Hamilton," she whispered unsteadily, as he nipped at her ear. She shivered as she felt his teeth graze the tender lobe.

"Aye, just like that, but louder."

He chuckled, a wicked sound that raised all the tiny hairs on the back of her neck and made her feel too much, desire too much. She ought not be here. It was she who was wicked, behaving in a manner no decent girl should ever do. How had she got here, how had this happened, when she knew she was breaking every rule?

"What else do ye think I intend?" he asked her, his deep, rumbling voice like the purr of some great cat vibrating through her.

"I c-couldn't possibly imagine," she said desperately, pressing her palms against his waistcoat and feeling the heat of his body through the fine woollen weave. She lay her cheek on his chest, and he kissed the top of his head.

"Are ye sure about that? What is it ye dream of, when ye are alone in your bed? Do ye think of me?"

"No, of c-course not," Clara said with a gasp, shocked he should ask her such a thing.

He only laughed, though, taking her face between his large hands and gazing down at her. "Ye are lying again. For a vicar's daughter, ye are terribly sinful, Clara Halliday. I'll have to break ye of such habits, I reckon."

Clara shoved at his chest, mortified, but he didn't budge so she buried her face against his waistcoat instead. "You are the most odiously conceited man in the world," she complained hotly.

"Aye, but I'm nae wrong," he said, and she could hear him smirking, the devil. "Tell me, Clara, tell me ye think of me."

There was a different note to his voice now, no longer smug and teasing, but closer to desperation. Clara forced herself to meet his gaze once more and her breath caught at the need in his eyes, the desire for her blazing in the wide, dark pupils that swamped the beautiful copper and gold.

"I think of you," she murmured, though the words were breathless. "I think of you all the time," she admitted, too far gone for caution.

"Clara," he said, speaking her name in a way she had never heard it said before.

It was the name of a woman who was desired beyond reason, a woman who was bold and loving and unafraid to take what she wanted. It made Clara want to be worthy of it, to be that woman. To be his woman. So when his mouth captured hers, she met him with equal passion, curling her arms about his neck and pulling him down to her, holding on tight. All the same, when he reached down and grasped her bottom, lifting her up, she gave a squeal of surprise. He carried her and though the indignity of it was shocking to her, Clara wrapped her legs about his hips as he crossed the room and sat her down on a tabletop. He did not move away, however, his body insinuated between her thighs, only the bunched-up fabric of petticoats and skirts keeping them apart.

"I ought not," Clara fretted, cheeks blazing now, but he stared down at her with such affection in his eyes that she could not be afraid.

"Nae, ye ought to be at home, safe with Mrs Macready, but ye came to me," he said, his voice soft, satisfaction blazing in his eyes. "I cannae pretend that I'm sorry. If I were any kind of gentleman, I would send ye away, but I cannae bring myself to do so. Not yet, at least. I shall, I promise, but… but not yet…"

He kissed her again, deeply and passionately, clouding her mind as the feel of him so close chased good sense far away. The slide of his tongue was an intimate delight of the kind she had never dreamed, and she could not get enough. With his arms supporting her, he lowered her down, his large body pressing her against the tabletop. Too late, Clara realised she was laying down with Hamilton Anderson on top of her, her thighs parted and his very male, very hard body in a position no young lady ought ever to allow.

"Hamilton?"

"Aye?" he asked, his voice husky as one hand tugged at her skirts. She gasped at the feel of his warm fingers curling about her calf and sliding higher. He tickled the tender skin behind her knees with light caresses, making her breath catch before his hand slid higher, moving over her garter to make contact with bare flesh. "I will speak to yer da, Clara. First thing in the morning. I swear it."

Clara relaxed, any reservations she'd had dissolving like warm honey with his reassuring words, along with her resolution to not behave badly.

"Ah, but ye are like the finest silk, mo leannan."

"You never told me what that meant," Clara said, momentarily distracted.

"It means ‘my sweetheart,'" he murmured, rubbing his cheek against the swell of her breasts . "mo chridhe, a thasgaidh, mo ghràdh," he continued, tugging her skirts up and out of the way and pressing his body harder between her legs until she felt the hard length of what she realised with a jolt of shock was the inescapable evidence of masculine arousal through the fine fabric of her drawers.

Clara's breath snagged in her throat as the intimate contact sent a bolt of sensation lancing through her body. Without thinking, she chased it, her hips lifting to meet his and pushing against that forcefully male part of him.

Hamilton made a choked sound and smothered a groan as he responded in kind, rubbing himself against her with rhythmic thrusts, kissing her over and over, sliding his hands over her body in slow caresses, making her dizzy as time passed in a passionate fog until she was beside herself, uncaring of what he did, of what she allowed, only that he make it stop, or make it better, or do something!

"Hamilton?" she said urgently, hearing the question in his name but not knowing what she was asking for. He seemed to know better than she did, however, as he pressed his mouth to hers once more, kissing her hard and deep as his hand slid between her legs, finding the slit in her drawers and sifting through the silken curls. Clara jolted, stunned by his touch in a place so secret and entirely forbidden. Her mind reeled, wondering how she dared let him, but her body wanted, aching and clamouring for more. His deft fingers sought and found the tiny bud that ached and throbbed and caressed her, his touch just firm enough, just fast enough, and he devoured her shocked cry as her body convulsed in his arms, giving itself over to him for it seemed to belong to him, anyway. She buried her face in his shoulder as the sensation faded, shocked and bewildered by what she had done.

"Ah, but ye are the sweetest thing," he crooned, kissing her tenderly, stroking her face. "Lord but I will die of wanting ye, but I have behaved badly enough for one night, devil take me. Can ye forgive me, mo ghràdh?"

"Forgive you?" she said unsteadily, still not quite believing what had happened, what she had allowed.

"Aye, forgive me," he said gently, pulling her upright and rearranging her skirts until she was decent again. "I am a wicked fellow, but I'll be on yer doorstep first thing, ye understand? I dinnae take such things lightly. I wouldnae have touched ye so if I had nae the best of intentions. I would never dishonour ye in such a way."

Clara sighed. She had believed him, trusted in him, but it was still reassuring to hear him repeat his words.

"Did ye still think I would take advantage and walk away?" he asked, frowning down at her.

She shook her head. "If I had believed that, I would never have come when I got your note," she said, smiling up at him. "But all the same, I am glad to hear it."

"My note?" he repeated, frowning at her. "What do ye mean? I never sent a note."

Clara stared at him in consternation and reached for the note she had stuffed in her pocket. "Yes, you did. It's here in black and white," she said, handing it to him.

Hamilton's frown deepened as he scanned the words. "That's nae my hand, lassie," he said, his tone suddenly grave. "Someone is playing games, I reckon, and I dinnae like it. Up ye come. I fear ye have walked into a trap and—"

As he spoke, the sound of singing reached their ears, a flickering light visible outside, reflecting on the windows. The singing got louder and louder and the familiar sound of a hymn was now unmistakable.

"What on earth…?" Hamilton muttered, crossing to the window but keeping to the side, out of sight as he looked out.

"It's my father," Clara said in dismay, realising the something special his temperance army had in mind tonight was to cause Hamilton trouble.

Hamilton didn't answer at first, a frown between his eyebrows as he watched the street below.

"Yer da is here right enough, but it's nae him leading the procession, Clara. It's Malcolm."

"What?" Clara hurried to the window, though Hamilton held her back, so she did not risk being seen. "Good heavens. Whatever is wrong with him?" she asked, for Malcolm was singing with more than simple enthusiasm, waving his arms and bellowing the words as he attempted to conduct with the flaming torch he carried. Indeed, many of the women carried such torches, singing with pride as the firelight touched their faces, lighting them up in the darkness. The hymn came to a rousing conclusion, and the reverend stepped hurriedly forward before Malcolm could launch into another song, which he seemed determined to do.

"Excellent, excellent," her father said, beaming at the ladies before giving Malcolm a slightly wary smile. "Well done, Mr Stewart. Your fervour does you credit, but we must save our voices and move on if we are to walk our procession around the entire town tonight. Must not peak too early, eh?" he added, with a rather agitated laugh.

"Oh, no!" Malcolm cried, shaking his head fervently. "No, I can't have that, for you and I both know that the devil has taken root in Wick, a serpent slithering beneath our feet, and his nest is right here, under your very nose. Did you not tell me yourself you wished to rout the demon from his lair?"

"Er…" Reverend Halliday glanced at Mrs Cameron, who raised a questioning eyebrow at him. "Yes, well… whilst I denounce the opening of yet another tavern in this town, I fear… I fear I may have reacted rather too strongly. I have had time to reflect and—"

"And has the devil crawled under your skin too? Has he wheedled his way into your life and tempted you into sin?" Malcolm demanded, thrusting the torch towards her father, who took a hasty step backwards. "The sins of the flesh are just as evil as the sin of drunkenness, Reverend Halliday. Are they not, Mrs Cameron?"

Gasps and a few startled laughs echoed down the street and Clara watched in distress as her father merely stood with his mouth open while Mrs Cameron pushed past him.

"Ye mind yer tongue, ye nasty little whelp. I know what ye are and I've warned the reverend of yer sly ways. Why, ye never were the man yer brother was, Malcolm Stewart, and ye are a bedamned hypocrite, for I can smell the whisky on yer breath from here, and here ye are singing and carrying on like ye are one of us. Ye just wish to make trouble for Mr Anderson, for ye ken very well he has won Miss Halliday's heart, and ye cannae stand it."

"Oh, he's won more than her heart, I fear," Malcolm sniggered before raising his voice and shouting up at the windows where she stood with Hamilton. "Hasn't he, Clara, dearest?"

Clara made a shocked sound, her knees suddenly weak as she realised Malcolm meant to ruin her, and was doing an excellent job as everyone was looking up at the building. Hamilton pushed her back.

"Ye will stay here," he told her firmly. "Dinnae budge until I come for ye, nae matter what happens. Do ye promise me?"

Clara nodded, dazed and afraid of what this meant for her.

"Don't fret, lassie," Hamilton said, squeezing her hands. "I'll nae let ye down, and we can be married before morning if it comes to it. They'll be nae disgrace for ye, ye have my word."

With those bracing words, he left her and hurried down the stairs.