This Scot of Mine

by Sophie Jordan

  Goodness, where had all the air gone?

  It was like he had reached inside her and yanked out her very breath. Her lungs felt tight and compressed. She desperately fought to suck in oxygen.

  She had permitted Rolland to kiss her. A simple and chaste kiss. Before she learned what manner of man he really was. Before she learned of his depraved practices. No female in his household was safe from him. She shuddered, imagining what her life would have been once she belonged to him. Once she lived beneath his roof.

  That kiss, thankfully, had been brief.

  Standing here like this—chest to chest—the sensation of his fingers on her hair felt much more intimate than that perfunctory kiss of a lifetime ago.

  Fighting off the dizzying effect he had on her, she continued, “Shame on you for turning this place into a madhouse . . . unfit for civilized people.”

  He chuckled and she felt that sound right in the pit of her stomach. “Mayhap a civilized and delicate Sassenach such as you should no’ have ventured so far into the Highlands.”

  “I’m not delicate.” She was many things, but not that. “This is chaos for anyone anywhere at any time.”

  He chuckled, studying her as though she were some specimen he had never seen before. She well understood the sentiment. “You’re a feisty lass.”

  Marian was suddenly at her side, crouching low and panting, her eyes darting wildly as though she feared attack. “Come. We’re leaving.”

  “Aye.” The Scot nodded with a grin that didn’t match his solemn eyes. “Run along now. This is no place for tender ladies.” He addressed them both, but his gaze stayed fixed on Clara.

  She bristled.

  He was right, of course. She should leave, but she didn’t appreciate being ordered about by anyone. It brought forth a slew of uncomfortable memories.

  Rolland had commanded her. When she first hinted at ending their betrothal, he had revealed his true nature. The ugliness inside him had come out in full glory.

  You’re mine and I’ll never release you. Understand that, Clara? Now whatever notion lurks in that dim brain of yours, forget it. You will do as I say like a good little cow and show up at the church or I’ll drag you there myself.

  Of course he had changed his mind.

  She had seen to that—even if it had resulted in her present circumstances. She harbored no regret. It was the only way. It had been the only way for him to release her from the betrothal.

  “Clara!” Marian pleaded as a pair of scuffling men slid near their feet, forcing them to dance sideways lest they get dragged into the fray.

  MacLarin smirked. He knew the outcome. Knew they would leave—flee with their skirts hiked around their ankles.

  Even though she wished to thwart him, wished to wipe the knowing glint from his blue eyes, she permitted Marian to pull her away. It was the sensible thing to do, after all.

  They fled the inn to the safety of their carriage. To their very cold carriage—the perfect metaphor for her future existence.

  Cold. Safe. Where nothing would ever happen to her.

  Chapter 3

  “Ye feeling out of sorts?” Graham plopped down across from Hunt, setting a fresh bottle of whisky on top of the table with a decided clack.

  Hunt shrugged and glanced around.

  The room had mostly been set to rights, the broken furniture and glass cleared away. Hunt and Bannessy had already paid the innkeeper for this day’s deeds. The innkeeper was mollified for the time being. Until the next time. And there would be a next time. There always was.

  Graham shook back the long auburn strands from his face, showcasing the nasty bruise forming around his eye.

  Hunt reached across the table and dragged the bottle of whisky toward him until he was practically hugging it to his chest. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?” He gripped the particularly stubborn cork top and tugged it free with a pop.

  “Yer always more cheerful after a brawl.”

  Hunt dipped his head in acknowledgment of that truth. Nothing cheered him more than knocking skulls. It was a distraction. It was a release from the constant hunger prowling inside him, however fleeting.

  This time had been different, however. There had been no release. No. Instead there had been her. A definite distraction. Only not the kind he needed.

  With an exasperated sigh, Graham reached across the table and snatched back the whisky bottle. “Give me that if ye dinna intend to pour. What’s ailing ye?” He poured himself a generous glass, liquid splashing all over the table. “Yer no’ the one whose face feels like a horse trod all over it.”

  “Still without my prize bull,” he grumbled as if that were the source of his ill temper.

  “Och, we’ll get ’im back. Ye ’ave more friends than Bannessy does. People like ye more. Someone will give up the location of that bull. The bastard canna ’ide him from us forever. No’ as big as ’e is.” He winced and worked his jaw. “Think my tooth might be loose.”

  Hunt reached across the table and tapped a finger against his friend’s ravaged cheek. “Looks like raw meat.”

  “Och! Stop. It ’urts!” He swatted at Hunt’s hand and downed his glass, immediately pouring himself another.

  Hunt’s gaze swung toward the doorway. Even though she had long since passed through it, he still stared at the spot he had last seen her. “Did you see the lass?” He couldn’t help asking.

  “The bonny fair-haired lass? Aye, I’ll be seeing her in my dreams.”

  “Nay, the other one. With the dark hair.” The fair-haired lass was beautiful, but nothing like her friend. Her friend had been extraordinary—even if she possessed the temperament of a viper. He scowled. “She looked at me like I was something unsavory . . . a bit of dung beneath her boot.”

  “What do ye expect? She’s a Sassenach. And a grand one from the looks of her fancy togs. They’ve probably come tae tour castles and trod all over the graves of fine Highlanders simply tae relieve their bored little lives.” He slammed back another glass and poured a third.

  His words did nothing to alleviate the uncomfortable sensation in his chest. Sassenach with a bored little life or not, the memory of the lass nagged at him. She was different. Sultry-eyed. Shiny hair darker than the deepest loch.

  He snorted. The thought was far too poetic for him. He did not think about women in such terms. Or rather he did not permit himself to think about them. Not like that. Not in any manner that might lead to true and carnal interest. He was far too careful for that.

  When the need for female company struck him, there was Catriona. Safe, beautiful Catriona. Their arrangement was simple and it satisfied both of them. He didn’t have to live his life like a monk. A very good thing indeed.

  Up until now, Catriona had always been enough. When he had an itch to scratch, she had satisfied it. He’d never longed for anyone else. That way led to ruin. But a few minutes with a dark-haired lass and suddenly his skin felt too tight for his body . . . his thoughts spinning and going places they had never dared tread before.

  The lass had sparked something inside him. Something he couldn’t shake. He knew the sensation for what it was, even if he had never felt it before. Yearning. But he would cast it out. She was gone. Vanished into the air like smoke. There was no risk of seeing her again.

  He reached for an empty glass. “Damn it all,” he mumbled.

  He would never see her again. There was no harm in letting himself think about her a little longer. Staring into the flickering flames of the fire, he remembered those almost feline eyes of hers . . . the brown like an aged cognac. Her mouth looked like a Renaissance painter had brushed it on—full and dusky pink and like something out of a dream. And her voice. She had a voice throatier than most females. Refined and cultured, but with a husky gravel that made his skin prickle with heat. Had made his skin prickle. No more.

  He took a long gulp of whisky and poured himself another glass, noting how closely the color matched her eyes.

  Suddenly, he cursed. P
ermitting himself to think about her was an exercise in stupidity. It only made him want what he could never have and he had given up on wanting things he couldn’t have years ago. He knew better. He’d always known his limitations.

  Living under the cloud of his curse had taught him that he could never forget. Never want. Never love.

  Kilmarkie House rose up through the misty Scottish fog. Clara’s shoulders sagged and she exhaled with some relief as she peered out the window of the carriage at her brother’s home. They were finally here. She was glad for that. It was her future home after all. The relief rushing through her soured somewhat at the reminder.

  She could never go back.

  She let that fact roll around in her head like an aimless marble. Mama and Colin and the rest of her family were very far away. They had not forced her to leave Town, but she knew it was for the best. They’d insisted she could stay, but she couldn’t do that to them. She was a damaged creature. She would not inflict any of her shame on them.

  She would only see them occasionally. No. Not occasionally. Rarely. Her throat tightened. There would be no theater. No shopping on Bond Street. No riding through the park with Marian. No museums or ices at Gunter’s.

  She shook away the dismal thoughts and vowed to make the best of it.

  Kilmarkie House looked lovely. Something out of one of the storybooks her mother had read to her as a child. Alyse had written to her of the dolphins visible from the shoreline. She said it was only a short walk from the house. Clara couldn’t wait to see for herself. After the upheaval of the last couple months, she looked forward to peaceful days. Strolls along the shore. An exploration of the grounds. She was certain she could count on her brother to have an extensive library.

  “At last!” Marian scooted eagerly to the edge of the seat as though she would launch herself from the carriage the moment the door opened. “A proper meal and a proper bed.” She nodded enthusiastically, the golden ringlets framing her face bouncing charmingly. “I cannot wait.” The rigors of travel had not even dented her loveliness.

  Clara exhaled. “Nor can I. First I will stand in front of a fire and thaw myself.” Later, she would take herself to see the dolphins. Perhaps tomorrow. Once she’d had a good night’s sleep. Once her bones unfroze and she had reunited with her family.

  She winced and braced herself, undeniably nervous of the forthcoming reunion. There would be some awkwardness. How could there not be? She was coming to them in a state of disgrace. Her brother no doubt would want an explanation. He deserved that.

  As they stepped down from their carriage, they arrived to a warm welcome. Apparently the explanation would wait.

  Marcus and a trio of dogs barreled toward them. The dogs were the size of small ponies in varying shades of brown and gray. The beasts ran ahead of Marcus. Tall and handsome as always, her brother looked exceptionally fit, attired in riding clothes and looking rather windblown with his cheeks ruddy and his dark hair tousled around his head.

  He swept her up in a hug, her feet skimming the ground. She gave a small squeak of delight, patting his shoulders. “We weren’t expecting you for another few days. You made excellent time.”

  She nodded as he set her back down on her feet, not bothering to disagree even though the journey had not felt brief in the least.

  The massive front door to the house opened. Some members of the staff emerged, preceding Alyse, Marcus’s wife. Her sister-in-law advanced at a waddle, her belly protruding several inches in front of her.

  “Hello, there,” she greeted, embracing Clara. “We’re so delighted to have you here with us.”

  “And I’m so looking forward to being here . . . and being a proper aunt.” Her gaze cut to Alyse’s stomach. “Soon from the looks of it?”

  “Aye, soon.” Alyse smiled up at Marcus as he slid an arm around her generous middle and pulled her close. It had been almost two years since Clara had last seen Marcus and Alyse and they looked quite well. Alyse’s skin was luminescent, her eyes bright and her lovely light brown hair shiny as a penny.

  “Now, Clara, I hope you’ll forgive us.” Alyse reached out and settled a hand on Clara’s arm in a conciliatory manner. “We thought you wouldn’t be here for a few more days. We’ve dinner guests this evening.” She bit her lip, watching Clara hopefully.

  “Oh.” Her chest deflated a bit. She had been anticipating some time to acclimate with Marcus and Alyse. She had not counted on guests—strangers. From everything she had heard, there was not much in the way of Society in these parts. That had been a contributing factor for her to relocate here. She was not aware Marcus and Alyse were given to much entertaining, isolated as they were.

  And yet staring at Alyse’s hopeful face, she knew she could not object.

  Alyse rushed on, “There should be time enough for you to catch a quick nap so that you can be refreshed before the dinner hour. Cook is making her famous chipolata sausages. They’re these wonderful decadent things. You will love them.”

  “They sound marvelous,” Clara managed to get out.

  They were taking her in . . . damaged as she was. She did not want to be inflexible. She did not wish to be difficult. She needed to be as bright and merry as possible. Grateful.

  “Of course.” She forced a smile that felt brittle as glass on her face. Her brother watched her closely so she fought to keep the smile in place. “That sounds lovely. I’d love to meet any friends of yours.”

  Alyse looped arms with her. “Of course. They shall become your friends, too.” Her fingers gave a comforting squeeze. “This is your home now, after all. All our friends will be yours.”

  Chapter 4

  Clara woke foggy-headed to a mostly dark room. Someone had lit a lamp on the dresser and she blinked in the near darkness, lifting her head from the pillow as her eyes adjusted to the gloom.

  Night peeked between the curtains and she knew she had slept well past dusk. She was still tired. Exhausted. She stretched with a moan. The rigors of the journey had finally caught up with her and she felt as though she could sleep well into tomorrow. Indeed, next week. Alyse was wrong. The brief nap had not been enough. She hardly felt refreshed.

  “Wake up. It’s time for dinner. Let’s get you dressed, my lady.”

  It was the maid who had helped her settle into her chamber earlier. Clara groaned in discontent and scratched her head, her fingers catching in the snarl of her tangles. It would be a chore to tame the mass.

  Marian was likely sleeping in a comfortable bed nearby, happy that someone else would take over the task of Clara’s hair for a change.

  It would be strange not dining with her after so many nights of each other’s exclusive company. Clara had invited her to dine with them tonight, but her friend had declined.

  “I intend to sleep until well into tomorrow,” Marian had said. “And I think it best if you spend the evening with your brother and his wife and their guests without the hindrance of me.”

  The maid tugged Clara from bed. Biting back a grumpy reply, Clara obliged and pushed herself to her feet. She longed to sleep more, but she wanted to eat, too. Her stomach growled as though to confirm this. She was certain it would be as excellent a meal as Alyse promised. And after the meal, after their guests departed, she would sit her brother down for a much-needed conversation. She dreaded it, but it needed to be done.

  Certainly once he knew the full truth the worry would fade from his eyes—at least in part. Because the reality would create a new set of concerns for him.

  Her reputation was in tatters. Just not in the manner he thought.

  The situation was not what he thought. It wasn’t what anyone thought, but he deserved the truth and she would not be able to keep it from him for long even if she wanted to.

  She would get it over with tonight.

  The maid helped her dress into a ruby gown fringed in gold piping. Mama had never dressed her in the pastel colors that so many other debutantes wore. With their similar coloring, Mama knew what best suited
her. She insisted Clara needed bold colors to complement her olive complexion.

  Once Clara was dressed, the girl skillfully arranged her hair into plaits and artful loops atop her head. Looking at herself in front of the mirror, she almost felt like the girl she used to be—back in Town.

  She descended the stairs to join her family for dinner, feeling decidedly more confident in her elegant dress and arranged hair. Armored.

  She felt ready. Prepared for anything. Even the revelations to come that would be uncomfortable and more than likely incite her brother’s wrath. He’d warned her that the Earl of Rolland was not a good match.

  A valet opened the doors to the dining room for her.

  “I’m sorry I am late.” Her gaze swept the dining room, lighting on her brother and Alyse . . . and a third person. He rose to his feet slowly, his eyes widening as his gaze settled on her.

  She stopped and swallowed thickly.

  Oh. No. Not him. She was ready for anything except him.

  “You,” she breathed.

  She wasn’t supposed to ever see him again. Her hands opened and closed at her sides as though she needed something to grip . . . something to hold on to amid the sudden storm of her thoughts.

  What was he doing here? Had he followed her? It seemed too incredible to believe. How had her brother permitted him in the house?

  Her gaze rolled over him. He was attired somewhat better in a jacket, even though he still wore his tartan kilt. A large strip of the same fabric wrapped around his torso and up over his shoulder, pinned in place with an ornate clasp. His hair was groomed tidily and didn’t fall around his face like he’d just dashed over windswept crags.

  Then it dawned on her. He was their guest. To quote Alyse . . . their friend.

  It was inconceivable, but glaringly evident. Her brother was friendly with a savage Scot that destroyed establishments . . . over a cow.