To Seduce a Highland Scoundrel

by Cameron, Collette

  They’d been searching for over a year now. It could be said, Marjorie was extremely selective and, thus far, the only two applicants had not met her expectations.

  In the meanwhile, Cora and Elena ran free.

  Graeme slipped the leather bag off his shoulder and after rummaging about for a minute, withdrew several colorful lengths of ribbons and new hair brushes. “I expect ye to share the ribbons, do ye ken? Nae fightin’, or I’ll take them away, and there will be nae more gifts for ye.”

  “Aye,” they chorused in unison, snatching at the thin silk strips and promptly holding them to their untamed hair. Holding hands, the girls rushed to the oversized fireplace and plopped down upon the stones before the hearth.

  Despite it being July, a hearty fire blazed. A necessity in the almost two-hundred-year-old castle which seemed to suck the warmth from every room. A person’s bones in winter, too.

  Elena sat cross-legged and set to braiding her sister’s fiery curls.

  Marjorie touched his forearm, an inviting, womanly smile arcing her mouth. Undoubtedly, she’d gladly warm his bed tonight, but he didn’t want or need that complication.

  “You spoil them, Graeme.” Distinct huskiness had crept into her tone.

  Uncomfortable with the direction his thoughts had taken, he lifted a shoulder. “Canna I be a dotin’ uncle?”

  He withdrew his arm from her clasp on the pretense of delving in his bag again. He didn’t miss her small, disappointed frown, but he didn’t want to encourage her either. He could only ever love Marjorie as a sister, not in the way she wanted him to; the way she deserved to be loved again. He glanced up. “I purchased the fabric ye requested. It and the other supplies should arrive within the week.”

  “Did I hear my brother’s voice?” A moment later, Camden, as dark as Graeme was fair, but possessing the same striking blue eyes, strode into the hall. He seized Graeme in a firm embrace. “We expected ye yesterday.”

  “Aye, I ken.” He slapped his brother’s back. Since Sion’s death, they’d grown even closer. “The meetin’ with our neighborin’ clan leaders went a wee bit longer than I anticipated.”

  Camden chuckled, shaking his head, a knowing look in his azure gaze. “Och, which really means ye drank too much, and a warm bed was far more appealin’ than the journey home in the wee mornin’ hours with a fuzzy head.”

  “Aye.” Graeme shrugged, not bothering to deny it.

  A smirk kicking his mouth up, Camden rubbed his jaw. “Was it a lonely warm bed?”

  “Ye’re putting yer nose in where it disna belong, little brother,” Graeme said, aware of the stricken look flitting across Marjorie’s face.

  If Camden noticed, he concealed it.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked a bit tersely, already heading toward the arched doorway leading to the kitchen.

  Camden’s laughter rang out once more. “When is Graeme no’ hungry?”

  “The same can be said of ye, Brother.” Graeme elbowed him in the stomach.

  Only an inch or two shorter than Graeme, Camden was just as muscled and fit and could do justice to any feast.

  Grunting, he clutched his belly as if gravely wounded and stumbled about the room. “How can ye be so cruel to yer brother?” he moaned theatrically, eyes closed and shoulders hunched. “My darlin’ nieces, say a prayer for yer mortally wounded favorite uncle.”

  Cora and Elena pointed and giggled at his antics.

  “I am famished, but I’ll take my food with me. Cold meat, bread, wine, and fruit will do. Unless Cook has Scotch pies and shortbread.” Graeme adored Scotch pies, Scotch eggs, and shortbread.

  “I want shortbread,” Cora piped up.

  Elena looked to her mother expectantly. “Me, too.”

  “I’ll have to check with Maive,” Marjorie told her daughters. “I’m not sure she baked any today.”

  He slid a sideways glance to his brother. “If ye’re available, I’d wish to inspect the crops and livestock with ye. And pay a visit to a few of the crofters. The McFees’ and Millers’ roofs were to have been repaired while I was away as well as the bridge over Sarnoch Burn. The fences on the north perimeter were to be repaired, too.”

  “Aye. I can go with ye. I’ll think ye’ll be pleased with the progress that was made in yer absence.” He winked at Marjorie. “Can ye ask for food for me as well?”

  “But Graeme, you’ve only just returned.” Disappointment shadowed her pretty face.

  Likely, she’d wanted to share a repast with him and catch up. The way husbands and wives did when they’d been apart.

  He wasn’t sure how to tactfully discourage her romantic interest without hurting her feelings. But as time went on, it became clear that he would need to say something. The longer he waited, the more awkward the situation became between them.

  Mayhap ’twas time to look for a new husband for her.

  His attention fell to his giggling nieces, and his gut clenched. Och, that could very well mean the lasses would leave the keep, and he’d grown so attached to them, the thought nearly made him physically ill. But if their mother was happy…

  He sighed and plowed a hand through his hair. “I ken. But the day is still fairly young, and there’s always much to do after I’ve been gone. I promise to be home before sunset and, after a bath, I’ll spend the entire evenin’ with ye and the girls. We can play chess if ye like.”

  He probably oughtn’t to have promised the game, but she was lonely, and they were the only family she had. Hers had been killed in an epidemic years ago.

  She gave a reluctant nod as if aware he’d said no to more than just a meal together. “I’ll only be a few minutes.” She stepped through the doorway, and then spun around, one hand on the frame. “I forgot to tell you,” she said, her eyes shimmering with excitement. “I finally hired a governess.”

  He paused. “Did ye, now?”

  Chapter Four

  Graeme couldn’t help but feel she ought to have included him in the decision, even if the lasses were her daughters. “I’m surprised ye didn’t wait for my return.”

  “I couldn’t risk someone else hiring her.” Defiance tinged her tone. “Her references were exceptional, as are her qualifications. I expect her next week. She’s Scots, speaks French and Italian, plays the lute, is well versed in decorum, and she dances, too.”

  A veritable saint.

  The black-clad woman from this morning popped into his mind.

  Marjorie spoke French, and she adored dancing.

  Her enthusiasm confirmed what Graeme had long suspected.

  His sister-in-law was very lonely, despite living in a keep with over sixty other people. He rubbed his chin. Aye, ’twas time to for her to wed again. But to a Scot who lived nearby, so Graeme could visit his nieces often. He’d host a week-long gathering and invite all of the neighboring clans and even the villagers for a bonfire one night.

  Marjorie mustn’t suspect, however. For all of her demureness, she had a temper to match her fiery hair. He’d need to be sly in implementing his plan.

  She returned to the hall, a sack in her hand, and he beckoned her to his side. “Marjorie, what say ye to Killeaggian hostin’ a cèilidh in late August?”

  Her eyes lit up, a radiant smile blossoming across her face, and her earlier pensiveness dissipated. “Oh, Graeme, that would be truly wonderful. We can have music and singing and dancing. And folktales. Oh, and a feast, games, and a bonfire, too.”

  And hopefully, we’ll find ye a husband. A mon who will love yer bairns and ye.

  “’Tis settled then,” he said, well-pleased with his cleverness. “Ye write the invitations, and I’ll have Camden deliver them. Make a list of supplies and food ye need, and I’ll see they’re ordered.” They hadn’t hosted a gathering since Sion’s death, and he expected the event would be well-attended.

  She cleared her throat as she passed him his food. “Graeme?”

  “Aye?” he replied distractedly, his mind already on the preparations his men would nee
d to start straightaway. And the possible acceptable candidates to be his nieces’ stepfather.

  “Do I invite the Buchannans and Roxdale?” Something in her tone made him regard her keenly.

  Her visage gave nothing away. However, before marrying Sion, she’d been a particular friend of Roxdale’s cousin, Anna.

  The Buchannans and Kennedys had never been allies, but three and thirty years ago, a rift had arisen between the families. Angus Buchannan had impregnated Graeme’s Aunt Winifred, and then the sot had refused to marry her.

  Graeme’s grandfather abducted Angus, and with a sword at his throat, forced him to wed the lass. She died a month after giving birth to Keane, now the Duke of Roxdale. Neither clan was the least inclined to forgive the offense against their family.

  When compelled to be in each other’s company, the Kennedys generally ignored the Bucchannans, or if forced to acknowledge the clan, addressed them with icy politesse. The reverse was true as well.

  “He is your cousin,” Marjorie offered softly. “Isn’t it time to put aside your differences? You and Keane could be friends, I believe. If you’d stop blustering about like belligerent bulls.”

  Belligerent bulls?

  Graeme was no obstinate bovine unlike his pig-headed, inflexible cousin.

  He clenched his jaw, prepared to tell her that very thing until he caught sight of Camden with his fingers poking up from his head, mimicking a bull.

  His brother gave a low moo, sounding much like a demented or dying cow.

  Damn him.

  Sighing, he brushed a hand over his eyes. “I agree. ’Tis time to put the past behind us. Invite the lot if ye’re of a mind to. I doubt they’ll come, however.”

  She gave him a sweet, knowing smile. “We’ll see.”

  *

  The sun hovered low on the horizon, hues of bronze and gold and pink, coloring the sky. Berget accepted a coachman’s hand and stepped from the conveyance as the other groomsman set about retrieving her small trunk.

  Without preamble, the brawny chap placed it on the ground with a distinct thump and, before she could utter her thanks, they bounded onto their seat and set off once more—all but deserting her.

  With a silent sigh, she placed her lone hatbox and small satchel atop the chest. At once, four rough-coated grayish deerhounds loped to her side and proceed to thoroughly smell her skirts and trunk.

  “Hello,” she murmured softly, permitting them to sniff the back of her hand. The quartet wagged their tails and jostled against one another to have their heads scratched.

  “Aren’t you handsome…” She angled her head to check their sex. Two males and two females. Um, one very pregnant female, in truth. “Er, that is, handsome laddies and bonnie lasses.”

  As the coach’s rumbling faded away, her trepidation grew.

  Not that she blamed the drivers for their haste in departing. What should have been a six or seven hour journey had turned into more than eleven.

  Another conveyance had broken a wheel, making the bridge ’twas stranded upon impassable for two hours. A certain feline relieved himself in his basket, requiring a desperate stop to air the coach and move said cat to atop the vehicle with the other luggage.

  Berget was positive the ornery cat had acted out of spite.

  And as bad luck would have it, one of the traveling coach’s horses went lame prior to their last posting house to exchange teams.

  Each unfortunate occurrence had added time to the already lengthy journey.

  The delays had also put the coach behind schedule and, with every postponement, the drivers’ moods had become sullener. By the time the vehicle had rumbled into Killeaggian’s courtyard—the final passenger stop on their route today—Berget was tired, sweaty, her stomach gnawed her spine from hunger, and unexpected nerves wreaked havoc with her composure.

  Head tilted, she peered at the impressive castle before her. At least it wasn’t quite as medieval and primitive as the employment registry in Edinburgh had indicated. It possessed neither a moat nor drawbridge.

  Nor a fierce, fire-breathing dragon.

  What about ghosts flitting about?

  A wry chuckle escaped her. So fagged was she, she’d have odd dreams tonight for certain.

  How old, exactly, was the keep? How many rooms?

  She counted four stories above ground, excluding the towers. Was the window to her room visible from here or did her chamber lay on one of the other sides? Would her appointed chamber even have a window?

  That dark thought dampened her mood considerably.

  Her bedchambers in Edinburgh and the Stewart country estate were spacious rooms decorated in her favorite colors: lavender and green. Each also possessed several windows and feminine furnishings as well as servants to see to her every need.

  A wave of homesickness engulfed her, but she stubbornly subdued it. The time for second thoughts and recriminations had long passed.

  She shoved her veil off her face and over the top of her hat, blinking at the sudden light. There was no need for concealment anymore. From where she stood, eyeing the keep’s four towers, arched gatehouse, battlements, and corbelling, if there were fewer than one hundred chambers, she’d forego her dinner.

  No, she wouldn’t. She was ravenous. Her stomach growled in affirmation.

  For some reason, that thought put her in mind of the hungry Highlander this morning. He’d been a peculiar mélange of intrigue, unrefinement, and obnoxiousness. And undeniable, alluring maleness. That she’d given him a second—or third—thought said much of her fatigue and hunger.

  She ought to have eaten more breakfast. They’d been permitted no opportunity to dine at the stopovers today. In fact, she’d barely been afforded enough time to use the necessary before climbing aboard the conveyance once more.

  Truthfully, Berget was quite uncharacteristically out of sorts rather than relieved that the journey was finally at an end. Perhaps she’d been more anxious about this initial meeting with her employer than she’d realized.

  Or mayhap, a new home amongst strangers made her uneasy. Or…perchance he’d unnerved her this morning more than she cared to admit, even to herself.

  The Highlander’s brazen stare had all but undressed her.

  What was worse, however, was she hadn’t been disgruntled by his attentions. Being a practical sort, she attributed that nonsense to a healthy young woman’s libido and feminine curiosity. After all, though she was widowed, she’d not actually lain with a man. After three fumbling, inept, and wholly mortifying attempts, Manifred had never approached her again.

  Suddenly becoming aware she was the center of attention in the courtyard, Berget took an account of her surroundings while pasting a pleasant expression on her face. This was to be her home. She must make a good impression despite feeling very much the peacock in the parlor at the moment.

  Several people, many wearing colorful plaids, had paused in their duties to observe her. She’d wager from their curious inspections, not many visitors—particularly of the female persuasion—arrived by hired coach and were left standing unattended, for all the world appearing to have been dumped upon the keep’s doorstep much like an orphan or unwanted flea-ridden dog.

  The impressive double entry doors remained resolutely and intimidatingly closed, and she worried her lower lip. Truth be told, she’d departed Edinburgh five days earlier than she’d intended, and she wasn’t expected at Killeaggian until next week. There’d been no time to post a letter in advance of her arrival.

  Would her new employer be put out that she’d presumed to come earlier than arranged?

  There was no help for it, however. Berget had been forced to make a swift decision.

  Her parents’ revelation that they intended to announce her betrothal at the Smithertons’ annual summer ball, Friday past, to none other than Sir Leslie Warrington had promoted her to move up her departure date.

  A longtime acquaintance of her father, Warrington had showed an unhealthy interest in her since she w
as a girl of thirteen. The man’s shock of white hair contrasted eerily with his raven brows and almost black eyes. He’d groped her on more than one occasion, whispering the vilest things he’d like to do to her.

  He’d been most disappointed when father had betrothed her to Manifred. However, a married man himself, Warrington couldn’t offer for her or object to the match. He had suggested another arrangement, not for the first time she learned, but even her father wasn’t foul enough to turn his daughter into a whore. Not, she believed, so much out of parental concern for her but because of society’s reaction if he did.

  She shuddered and rubbed her arms.

  Warrington truly did make her skin crawl and stomach churn. How his poor wife endured his attentions, Berget couldn’t begin to imagine. No, she didn’t want to imagine.

  Three months ago, Warrington’s wife had died birthing her seventh child. And now, that degenerate had determinedly and steadfastly set his sights on Berget once more. Despite the fact he should have been in full mourning still, and she’d barely been civil the times she’d been unable to avoid his company.

  Disregarding her vehement protestations, her parents had moved forward with the match. More on point, her father had, and Mother—in her sweet, do-as-you’re-told demeanor—had gone along with Father’s arrangement.

  Berget couldn’t help but feel desperation hedged their insistence, and that caused her to speculate how reduced the Stewarts’ circumstances truly were.

  Taking a bracing breath, she squared her shoulders. Her parents’ manipulation and the ugliness with Warrington was behind her. Her future was here, and she was determined to exceed her employer’s expectations. She must. For she’d nowhere else to go if dismissed from this position.

  Arieen Wallace might take her in, but as she lived at Lockelieth Keep, she’d have to acquire the laird’s approval. Only if she found herself destitute would Berget resort to asking Arieen. She loathed being an imposition.

  Perusing the area once more, she offered a friendly smile to a pair of passing women. Perhaps she was supposed to use the servants’ entry, but where, precisely, was that located?