Chapter 16

Dearest Tilly,

My poor little monster. How dreadful, and I do not blame you in the least for dropping your ice in her lap. I should have done just the same, I'm afraid, but I was a terrible little girl and not at all the kind you should try to emulate. Luckily for you, your Pops adores terrible little girls, so we all get away with murder.

I shall come to town next week, and we shall be perfectly dreadful together.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Most Hon'ble Lady Catherine ‘Cat' St Just, Marchioness of Kilbane to her niece Miss Ottilie Barrington.

6 th June 1850, Wick, Caithness, Scotland.

"Ye great numpty, what the devil are ye playing at?" Hamilton muttered crossly to himself as he strode away from the vicarage. He knew the rules. You didn't mess around with innocent girls unless you meant to marry them. You certainly didn't flirt and act like a great gowk with a vicar's daughter. A vicar's daughter! He slapped a hand to his forehead and rubbed it over his face, groaning inwardly. "Yer brains are all in yer nether regions, Hamilton Anderson, and that's a fact."

But he had wanted to kiss her so badly it had overridden good sense, and teasing her a little, getting her to admit that she had wanted him to stay had been too easy, too natural. She liked him, despite herself. Arrogant he might be, but he knew when a woman fancied him and, whilst she might disapprove of a good deal about him, the proper Miss Halliday had wanted him to kiss her. The knowledge only made him growl inwardly for now he was all riled up and bothered by a tormenting itch there was no possible way of scratching. He ought to be visiting Moyra, not getting himself in a lather over Miss Halliday. He thought he'd left his pocket watch when he was there last and it would be a chance to retrieve it, but knowing he was going to her with another woman in his mind would be an appalling thing to do and she deserved better than that. He would have to end things with her, and the truth of that only made him even more irritable.

Instead, he turned into the next street and headed towards Macrae's, pushing inside the tavern and responding to the calls of greeting and offers to buy him a drink. In his opinion, the very best thing he could do was put Miss Halliday far out of his mind, and he intended to do it.

Clara was relieved to have the house to herself that evening, giving her time to settle her nerves and scold herself for the fiftieth time for acting like such a nitwit. Honestly, it served her right. What she had been thinking, she could not imagine. Well, she hadn't been thinking, and that was a fact. Mr Anderson's handsome face and winning smile had addled her brain like she was the veriest ninny, and she had not only allowed him to do it but had made a complete fool of herself in the process. Then there was the terrible scene with Mr Stewart, her stomach lurched as she wondered what might have happened if she had not got away from him. She had been a fool on too many counts today. Clara realised now that she was far from the sensible, mature woman she had believed herself to be. Indeed, she had shown herself up to be na?ve and inexperience where men were concerned. Her pride was smarting, and she felt irritable and out of sorts and quite unfit company for anyone. She had been relieved to say goodbye to Mrs Macready when she took herself off to her own home, for the lady's gaze was far too knowing and full of sympathy and only made Clara feel a great deal worse.

With her thoughts full of reproaches and resolutions to behave better in the future, she made her way up the stairs to bed, though it was far too early. She was too fidgety to read or sew, however, and the sooner this day was over, the better. She had made it barely halfway up the stairs, candle in hand, when someone began hammering on the front door. Startled, Clara stilled and called out.

"Who's there?"

Her father still had not returned from yet another demonstration in the town, with his temperance army barricading the doors of Galbraith's tavern a few streets away, and her first thought was that something had happened to him.

"It's Tommy Brodie, Miss Halliday. I'm sorry for disturbing ye, but me mam said to fetch the reverend. Grandpa is breathing his last, so he is, and he wants to make peace afore he goes."

"Lud," Clara said in dismay, relieved her father was in no difficulty but wishing he was at home to receive his caller. She opened the door to see Tommy's usually cheerful face, wan and serious in the candlelight. He was a gawky lad a year or two older than Jimmy, though Jimmy said he was not terribly bright. "I'm so sorry to hear that. I'm afraid my father is not here, Tommy. I believe he's at Galbraith's and—"

"And would ye fetch him then, miss?" the boy said anxiously. "I dinnae want to leave me mam all alone if Grandpa goes, ye see."

"No, no, of course you must not do so. I'll find my father and fetch him to you at once."

"Oh, thank ye, miss," the lad said in relief, and ran off again before she could reply.

As fast as she could, Clara put on her coat and bonnet, and went out of the front door, hoping she could remember the way to Galbraith's. By the time she had gone three streets, she knew she had made an error. Everything looked so different in the dark, though. Turning to retrace her footsteps, Clara gasped as a slender figure barged into her.

"Ooof! Blimey, what did you do that for? You nearly broke me nose," Jimmy complained, rubbing that appendage fiercely.

"Jimmy? Are you following me?" Clara demanded.

"Of course I am," Jimmy said indignantly. "Can't have you gallivanting about at night on yer ownsome, can I? Not with you as innocent as a lamb and not knowing what's lurking in the darkness."

"As far as I can see," Clara said tartly. "The only thing lurking is you."

"I ain't lurking, I was guarding," Jimmy replied, looking offended.

Clara softened, aware that he had sought to protect her as best he could. "I know that, Jimmy, and it was thoughtful of you. The truth is, you're right, for I'm lost. I'm trying to find Galbraith's. Papa is there tonight, and old Mr Brodie is dying. He wishes to see Papa at once."

"Thought I heard Tommy's voice at the door," Jimmy said, nodding. "All right. Well, it's this way, then."

Obediently, Clara followed Jimmy through the darkness, crossing the street as he led her on the opposite side of the road from Macrae's tavern. The sound of masculine laughter came from within, the windows fogged up as light blazed from them. Clara looked over at the building as the sound grew suddenly louder, the door opening as two figures stepped out. The second and largest man paused for a moment, drawing in a deep breath before their eyes met across the street.

Clara stiffened. Well, of all the ill luck.

"Hurry up," she instructed Jimmy.

"'Ere, don't push," he grumbled. "Where's the fire? I'm going as fast as I can."

"Jimmy!" bellowed a deep voice, making Jimmy start with surprise and then stop in his tracks.

Muttering under her breath, Clara scowled as Mr Anderson, with Mr Angus Stewart on his heels, crossed the road in a few long strides and looked from her to the boy.

"What this? Why are ye walking about at night with just the lad for a chaperone?"

"Good evening, Mr Anderson," Clara said coolly. "Mr Stewart, a good evening to you. How is your wife?"

"She's well, thank you, miss."

"And little Callum?"

"He's grand too—"

"Never mind the social chitchat," Mr Anderson growled.

"Not that it's any of your business. My father is required to attend to a dying man," Clara said, her voice frigid with annoyance. "As I was at home by myself, and he is outside Galbraith's—"

Mr Anderson waved this information away as if it were an annoying gnat. "Aye, aye. Angus, see to it, will ye? There's a good fellow. I'll see Miss Halliday home."

"Indeed, you will not," Clara objected. "Jimmy will escort—"

But as she looked around, she discovered Jimmy had disappeared.

"I think he's seen some of his mates," Angus Stewart said with a rueful smile, nodding to the end of the road to where Jimmy was messing about with three other boys.

"Why, it's too late for the boys to be out in the streets," Clara said, setting out after him.

"I'll see to Jimmy, don't worry," Angus said swiftly, looking between Clara and Mr Anderson. "You'll see Miss Halliday home safely, won't you?" he added, looking at Mr Anderson with a searching expression.

Mr Anderson shot him a volcanic glare, which made Angus blanch. "Aye, well, I'll be off on my errand, then. Don't worry, Miss Halliday, I'll tell Jimmy to pop in on Mary and she'll feed him cake until I get back. Then I'll bring him home to you."

"Thank you, Mr Stewart," Clara said, though she rather wished him to the devil for interfering and leaving her with Hamilton Anderson. Sending her unwanted chaperone a look of icy annoyance, she stalked off in the direction of home.

"Ye are vexed with me," he observed, keeping stride with ease, though she was walking at as fast a pace as she could manage.

"Not in the least," she said briskly. "I am only fearful of my reputation, which will be done no good at all for being seen walking with you after dark."

"Better than ye walking alone when anyone could accost ye. The streets are full of men bevied to their eyeballs after dark, ye ken."

"Like you?" she suggested, raising an eyebrow at him.

"I'm nae bevied," he replied indignantly.

"But you have been drinking," she said smugly, knowing he could not deny it. She could smell the scent of whisky on him and was dismayed to discover it was not an entirely unpleasant odour.

"Aye," he admitted gruffly.

"Hmph," she said, sticking her nose in the air as if this was enough to damn him. She didn't mean it in the slightest, having no axe to grind with a man enjoying a drink with his friends, but it was nice to have a means of treating him like a pariah when he had made her feel so… so very… Well, it didn't matter what he'd made her feel. She'd had no business feeling it in the first place.

"Ach, dinnae be crabbit with me because I didnae kiss ye. Ye ken as well as I do, it was a bad idea."

Clara choked, appalled that he had said such a thing out loud. Her cheeks blazed, her heart thudding as humiliation washed over her. She had at least believed he was gentleman enough not to refer to those dreadful moments.

"I am not the least bit crabbit , and I have not the slightest idea what you are referring to," she said furiously, walking so fast she was almost running. Blind with embarrassment and indignation, she took a wrong turn and found herself in a narrow alley. Muttering, she spun around, annoyed to find his broad figure blocking the way.

"You ken very well what I'm referring to," he said, his voice firm. His eyes glittered in the near darkness but despite the situation, Clara did not feel the slightest bit threatened by the looming figure. Furious, yes, but not threatened. He might be an arrogant, ill-mannered lummox, but she trusted him to behave as he ought. That, as it turned out, was a mistake.

"I do not!" she said stubbornly, letting out a squeak of alarm as he grasped her by the waist and pushed her up against the wall.

"Oh, but ye do," he insisted. "And despite all ye blethering, ye want me to kiss ye still."

"You are without a doubt the most egotistical, rude, thick-headed—" The words were silenced, her breath catching as he pressed his mouth to hers. For a moment, she could not think of anything past the fact that his lips were warm and far softer than she had imagined, and she had imagined, drat her disorderly thoughts. The scratch of his beard rasped against her cheek as he brushed his lips back and forth over hers, such a gentle touch from such a large man that everything inside her seemed to melt like warm treacle in response.

He drew back, regarding her with satisfaction and Clara could do nothing but stare at him with wide eyes, breathing so hard she felt somewhat light-headed.

"There, are ye happy now?" he asked, a wicked glint lighting his eyes.

Immediately furious with herself for giving him the opportunity to make such a provoking comment, she shoved at his chest, startled to find that it was akin to pushing a brick wall. Still, he straightened, putting a little distance between them, though it did not help as much as she might have hoped. He was still there, looming, all rugged handsomeness and smug, arrogant, insufferable… oh, lord, but she wanted him to kiss her again. The knowledge was beyond mortifying, and she could not bring herself to look at him.

"I am not in the least bit happy," she ground out, frustrated by the breathless quality of the words.

"Well, I can do it again if ye want more," he offered, apparently in all sincerity.

Clara made a high-pitched sound of pure vexation which was ridiculous and unbecoming, but it was that or stamp on his foot and she would not allow herself to sink to such childish behaviour. Instead, she pushed past him and would have practically run from the alley had he not caught a hold of her.

"Wait, make certain ye are nae seen," he told her, which was sensible advice, sadly, so she waited as he suggested, and then gave a muffled shriek as pulled her back into the shadows.

"What on earth—" she demanded, only to find his large hand covering her mouth. It was warm and calloused against her lips, his touch firm but gentle.

"Hush a moment," he whispered in her ear, his breath warm against the side of her neck as he released her. She shivered, and he must have felt the tremor run through her. "Ye are cold," he observed, sounding annoyed by the information.

Before she could deny it, which on reflection was just as well as the truth would not have helped her cause, he pulled her close. The sensation was akin to being enveloped by a bear in a blanket. He seemed to surround her, the smell of whisky and musk and earthy male fragrances invading her senses. She was aware of the warmth of his body, like a furnace beneath his clothes, and her cheek lay against his broad chest as if of its own accord. In short, Hamilton Anderson up close was thoroughly overwhelming, and Clara did not have the will to pull away from his embrace, though she knew she ought.

Raucous voices sounded on the street, and he stiffened, the muscles that surrounded her growing taut until the ribald chatter faded away and the drunken party of men had disappeared into the next street.

Silence reigned for a long moment, and Clara was horribly aware of her own heart thudding in her ears, and worse, the fact she ought to protest at being so manhandled. Unfortunately, she could not bring herself to do so. He let out a long, somewhat unsteady sigh, and let her go, moving once more to the mouth of the alley.

"Come, lassie," he said, his deep voice a growl in the darkness. "We must nae linger here, much as I would like to."

"Certainly not," she replied, wishing she could infuse some of her usual steel into the words and frustrated to discover they sounded instead wistful and full of regret.

Still, she walked from the alley, though her legs wobbled rather oddly. Indeed, she felt rather odd all over, a restless sensation of frustration and… and something , simmering beneath her skin that was quite unaccountable.

They walked in silence until the vicarage came into sight.

"I'd best leave ye here," he said, sounding gruff and rather irritable himself.

"Very well. I thank you for your chaperonage. Only think who might have accosted me and taken liberties had I been all alone," she added tartly, relieved to discover she had regained some shred of dignity along the way. She turned, intending to stalk off with her nose in the air, but he caught hold of her hand, staying her.

"Did ye nae like my kisses, then?" he asked, his eyes bright as the clouds parted and a thin sliver of moonlight appeared. "Tell the truth and shame the devil," he added, daring her to lie to him.

Clara glowered at him, for the truth would certainly shame someone, but she was fairly certain it wouldn't be the devil. Trapped, she refused to reply at all and tugged her hand free, running the short distance to the house and closing the door rather harder than was necessary.