“What is Samhuinn?”
“Samhuinn signals the end of summer. We slaughter our fat cattle and preserve the meat for our long winter ahead. We also light bonfires to remember the old ways. Samhuinn Eve is the night when the shadow bodies of the dead walk once more amongst the living. That night, the veil between the worlds becomes as thin as gossamer. Many hills and ridges have special places where we set pyres ablaze to signal the start to a new year. It is said that this is where the living and the dead dance and sing in the flickering shadows together.”
Lydia turned on her side to face him. “Do you believe the dead rise again during Samhuinn?”
“I do,” Brodie replied, his tone quiet. “The first Samhuinn after my mother died, I was in the library. There was no candlelight—only moonlight filled the room. I saw a figure by the window. Her gown seemed to . . . I don’t know how to describe it, but it seemed to be blurred at the edges, like smudges or the tendrils of black smoke crawling up from a dying fire. I didna know who the woman was until I approached her. She turned toward me, only to vanish in silvery mist. But as she did, I saw her face as clearly as I see yours now. It was my mother.”
Lydia’s eyes widened. “Were you frightened?”
“Of my mother? Never. She was a woman who held only love in her heart. But now I fear that someday my father will come back as she did. I doubt that reunion will be as pleasant.”
“Your father is gone as well?”
“Aye, he is, and thank bloody Christ too.”
“You didn’t like your father?”
“No. I didna like him, and I certainly didna love the man. He was a cruel bastard. We buried him not too long ago, and I fear every approaching Samhuinn now that he will return. He would not be kind if he did. He would be angry and spiteful, and I dinna wish to see that.”
“I can understand that.” Lydia sighed, the sound so sorrowful it piqued his curiosity.
“I ken your father is alive, but what of your mother?”
“She’s been gone six years. I lost her when I was fourteen. Portia was only twelve, and it was very hard on her and Papa.”
Brodie kept still as he listened to her. He didn’t want her to know that he was trying to detect any hint of deception in her story.
“You loved her, then?”
“Very much.” Lydia’s smile was soft and bittersweet. “She was an exquisite beauty, like my sister. I look a little more like . . . well, a faded watercolor version of her, at least according to my great-aunt Cornelia. You might remember meeting her at the ball.”
“The old dragon who dragged you away at the ball?”
“Yes, but as I said, that wasn’t me.” Lydia’s eyes met his solemnly. “I know you don’t believe that, but I’m telling the truth. It was my sister. She’s only eighteen and so very young and innocent, at least in some respects. I didn’t know she would be so reckless, let alone that she would convince my father to do what he did.”
There was a genuine earnestness in her eyes, but he wasn’t convinced. “Even if I began to believe you, lass, your stories would do no good now. You are ruined, and you belong to me.”
Though the truth was, even if she was as innocent as she claimed, he would not let her go. Not anymore. She was his woman, and he simply had to convince her of that.
“Please . . . I know you don’t care about me. Let me go home, and I might still be able to find someone who would overlook my being compromised.”
Brodie didn’t want to hear another word. “No, lass. Ask me that again and I will silence you with a kiss, and if we kiss, I cannot promise that we willna do other things.”
Lydia’s eyes widened, and she rolled away from him. A moment later he heard sniffling as she wiped her face.
Bloody Christ, the woman was crying. He reached out and gripped her waist, pulling her against his body. She struggled for a moment but then surrendered when she realized she wouldn’t get her way. He kissed her ear and then the crown of her hair, not to seduce but to soothe.
“You’ll be fine. I promise. I will care for you. You’ll have fine gowns, jewels, even a dainty white horse to ride. Whatever you wish.”
She trembled in his hold, still refusing to look at him.
“I want my life, my freedom, my family, and a husband to love me.”
Brodie was in that moment truly sorry, for he could give her none of those.
Jane Russell was glad to finally be out of the carriage after five hours. They needed to rest the horses before they could continue, and because night had fallen, it was best to stop and spend the night. Mr. Hunt exited the coach first and assisted her down. She stumbled on the uneven ground and fell against him. He caught her easily, and Jane’s breath caught in her throat. She’d forgotten what it was like to be held by a man like this, the feeling for a moment of being young and . . . She stopped the foolish thought before it could continue.
“Let’s get inside. I’m sure you’re hungry.” Mr. Hunt offered her his arm, and they walked into the coaching inn.
Once their rooms were secured and luggage seen to, they retired to a private room for supper.
“I spoke with the innkeeper. He said he saw two men fitting Mr. Lennox and Mr. Kincade’s description earlier. A young lady was seen with them. It must be Lydia.”
Mr. Hunt sighed, the sound world-weary, as he took a seat opposite Jane. “Thank heavens. It seems we guessed the right road to take.”
“It seems we did.”
He raked a hand through his light-brown hair and gave Jane a thoughtful look. “I want to thank you for accompanying me, Lady Rochester. I’m not sure I could have handled this on my own.”
Jane knew what he meant. He could have easily made the journey, but the worry for his child’s safety would weigh upon him. No doubt he’d have second-guessed his actions until he was driving in circles.
“I am not one to be idle, and Lydia is a sweet girl.”
Mr. Hunt nodded. “That she is. It’s something I fear I did not remind her of enough.”
Jane smiled. “You know . . . I had hoped earlier this spring of a match between her and my Lawrence.”
“Really? What happened?”
“I’m afraid my son’s affections were otherwise engaged. But I found myself exceedingly fond of your daughter.”
Mr. Hunt smiled sadly. “I fear I have been a terrible father. Ever since I lost my Marianna, I let myself behave blindly, favoring my youngest because she resembles her so. I have spoiled Portia and disadvantaged Lydia most unfairly.”
Jane reached across the table and covered his hand with hers. “It’s easy to favor a child who resembles someone you love. Of all my children, Avery . . . he is so like my husband. I strive every day to give all of my children equal attention, but I admit it isn’t easy. My two youngest seem to slip through my fingers at times.”
Mr. Hunt relaxed, his eyes crinkling with a broader smile. “I admit, it gives me a small measure of peace to know I’m not the only parent who struggles with these issues.”
“Indeed you are not.” Jane suddenly grinned. “Perhaps we ought to start a society, one for single parents who need support in the raising of their children.”