Page 9 of It Happened in the Highlands
A brief pause in the struggle was a sign that he’d hit the mark, though Wynne didn’t need any confirmation. He already knew. He wasn’t about to stand by and see the boy getting battered week after week and not learn the reason. A few questions of the right people, some help from Hamish, and a clear pattern emerged.
“Every fight you’ve been in since you arrived has been over money. Last month, you let the pigs into the kitchen gardens because those farm lads had made a wager with you to do it. Afterwards, they reneged, so you fought them. Am I right?”
His son stopped, and Wynne knew he was right.
“Listen to me. Regardless of how much money you lay your hands on, you can’t go back. Your home is here. Your place is with your only living parent . . . me.”
The boy tore his arm free, but didn’t try to run.
“Talk to me,” Wynne ordered.
Cuffe backed away suddenly, stumbling into the road just as a carriage came out of the village.
The two lead horses in the team reared up as the driver reined them in sharply. The confused sound of horses and shouts mingled with the scream of a woman nearby as Cuffe fell backwards. Wynne sprang after him, grabbing his jacket and hauling him to safety as the horses plunged forward, carrying the carriage past them before stopping.
A woman was peering back at them with concern through the small window at the rear of the carriage. Her dark eyes met his with recognition. Wynne felt a kick deep in his gut. They were face-to-face.
Jo Pennington had arrived a day early.
* * *
Their time together had lasted only a few months. Her family believed Jo’s suffering had subsided after a short while, but it never had.
After the duel, regret over the loss of Wynne’s affections cast an impenetrable cloud over the remaining days of her youth. Occasional suitors presented themselves, but she allowed none of them within the circle of her affection or trust. No one she met could compare with the young naval officer as he remained in her memory.
* * *
Another ball, another stroll through the gauntlet of hushed whispers and embroidered tales. Another round of introductions to shallow young men and their hollow, well-rehearsed charm. Would-be suitors who didn’t see her at all, but were well acquainted with her name and her dowry.
Jo was quickly growing tired of the charade. She was exhausted by the gossip of the ton.
Shame. Disgrace. Indignity. That was what they whispered. She didn’t belong here.
They pursued her to the refreshment table; she was certain of it. But when she heard the tasteless reference to her family and the titters, she’d had enough. She had to escape.
Slipping through the crowd, she saw the open doors and made her way onto the dark balcony and the refuge it offered.
The façade of composure she’d been maintaining since the start of the young Season cracked and fell away. Tears coursed down her cheeks. She was shaking with anger and unhappiness and frustration. Her parents had warned her, and they were right. Her presentation at Court and her coming out had been a mistake.
Wallowing in misery, she heard a man’s deep voice behind her.
“Which hand?”
She’d assumed she was alone. Panic and embarrassment overwhelmed her as she tried to wipe away the tears.
“Pray tell me which hand.”
He was persistent. The balcony was dark. She turned and saw the tall naval officer standing near the trellis. His face lay in shadow, and he was holding out his closed fists.
“Have we been introduced?”
“No, Lady Josephine, we haven’t. But you can still tell me which hand.”
He was playing a game and she went along. “The right.”
He turned his hand over and opened it. Empty.
Jo glanced toward the doors to the ballroom. “I really must be getting back.”
