This Scot of Mine

by Sophie Jordan

  She would soon be able to excuse herself. When she woke in the morning he would be gone.

  Then her new life here would truly begin.

  Chapter 5

  Hunt gazed at the closed doors of the drawing room even as Autenberry described the recent renovations he had begun on the crofters’ cottages.

  He murmured appropriate comments in the lulls of conversation, all the while wondering when they would rejoin the ladies. When they would rejoin her.

  It was beyond stupid of him to fixate on her. She was a lady. English. A duke’s sister. And there was the curse. Always the curse standing in the way.

  He knew that, but he could not seem to stop himself. She was so very different from any female he had ever met. For God’s sake, she smelled of bergamot and oranges.

  “MacLarin? Are you paying attention?”

  “Hmm?” He snapped his gaze from the door and back to the man he had somehow remarkably befriended over the last few years. Never would he have imagined he had anything in common with an English peer, but then he supposed the Duke of Autenberry had proven himself to be quite different than the notions Hunt had ever harbored of noblemen.

  Autenberry angled his head and looked at him curiously. “You’re quite . . . distracted tonight.”

  “Am I?” He shrugged, hopefully looking unmoved. Autenberry did not ease his staring and after some moments Hunt heard himself filling the silence with the inquiry: “Your sister . . . she will be here for some time then?”

  The moment he asked, he regretted it. It made him appear interested, affected, and he could be none of those things. He certainly did not need to give her brother a differing impression.

  “She is here to stay.”

  “Stay?” he said slowly, as though the word was beyond his comprehension.

  Autenberry took a deep drink, gazing over the rim at Hunt. Instead of confirming, he said, “You like her. My sister.”

  Not a question. A statement.

  Hunt opened his mouth several times, ready to deny the charge, but one look at Autenberry’s face and it was pointless. The man had already made up his mind. He watched Hunt with a bemused expression, daring him to deny it.

  And deny it he could. Like was an oversimplification of his feelings toward Lady Clara. She roused all manner of emotions, but he couldn’t claim to like her. No, he felt nothing as tepid as that.

  “My sister is a pretty girl.” Autenberry lowered his elbow to rest on the side arm of his chair.

  Hunt grudgingly acknowledged that with a nod. “She will no’ find much Society here unfortunately.”

  As an unattached female, she would definitely not attract a husband in the Black Isle. Not a suitable husband of her rank, at least. She’d likely head south before the last of the snow thawed, where a lass such as herself could find proper appreciation. He’d wager on it.

  “That’s for the best,” Autenberry said after a few moments. He tossed back the rest of his drink in one swallow and sighed.

  “She has no use of Society?” Hunt gave a derisive snort and shook his head, discounting that possibility. He had never heard such a ridiculous thing, and he didn’t believe it for one moment. What marriageable female of good breeding didn’t want a husband? Maneuvering polite Society was the only way to achieve a match. He might not move in their lofty circles, but he knew that. He knew where Lady Clara belonged, and it was not here.

  Autenberry turned to stare into the fire, his expression brooding. “Rather Society has no use for her. Unless it’s to condemn and scorn her for their amusement.”

  He processed that, trying to make sense of Autenberry’s meaning and not succeeding. “I’m sorry tae hear that,” he said, unsure what else to say, and unaccountably bothered at the notion of anyone treating her shabbily.

  Autenberry reached for the bottle and poured himself another glass. He drank long and deep. When he next lifted his gaze, Autenberry’s eyes latched on to him, sharp and glassy.

  “She’s ruined.”

  Hunt frowned. “Beggin’ your pardon?”

  “It won’t be secret for long.” He grimaced. “I fear most of London already knows. My sister is ruined. That’s why she has come all this way to live with us.”

  Hunt stared, lips moving. No sound forthcoming. The announcement robbed him of speech. He shook his head, struggling to wrap his mind around the revelation. It didn’t seem quite possible that such a proud female could ever have taken a misstep that led to the complete loss of her reputation.

  “Your . . . sister?” He pointed toward the drawing room doors.

  “She made a mistake,” Autenberry amended with a wince. “A grave mistake. One that will be evident soon enough.”

  Hunt sucked in a breath. Comprehension eddied through him. She was with child. Out of wedlock and with child.

  Silence fell between them. What could he say? He understood about grave mistakes. He’d lived his life with a dark cloud hanging over him, the gravest of mistakes always so close, ready for him to stumble and fall. Ready to take him and pull him under. Consume him at his very first lapse.

  “Perhaps there is a silver lining?” Autenberry gestured vaguely with his fingers. “They say everything happens for a reason.”

  “Who says that?”

  “I don’t know.” Autenberry shrugged miserably. “People do.” He continued speaking. Hunt listened with only half an ear, his thoughts churning at this unexpected revelation. She was with child. She carried another man’s child.

  He snapped back to attention at the duke’s words. “. . . I mean, there are still benefits for someone to marry Clara. She’s not lost. There could be—”

  “I’ll marry her.” Hunt hadn’t planned to say the words, but the moment they escaped him, the moment they were out there on the air, he did not regret them.

  Autenberry blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  Hunt rose to his feet. “I said, I’ll take her for my wife.”

  Autenberry, a man never before at a loss for words, stammered, “Y-you will? Just like that? After everything I told you?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. He would marry her . . . because of everything Autenberry had told him.

  “What do you mean he has offered for me?” An uneasy tickle started at the base of her spine. Clara sank down in the chair, not trusting her legs to support her anymore.

  She narrowed her eyes on her brother and that sensation in the small of her back only intensified at the look in her brother’s eyes. It was a look of pure triumph. As though her brother had unraveled some wickedly tangled knot.

  Clearly there was some mistake. Or he was jesting with her. Although her brother had never been the type to pull pranks. He was much too mature for that.

  “It is just as I said. He has offered for you.” Marcus nodded as though this were a splendid thing—something she should be as thrilled about as he evidently was. “Of course, you don’t have to marry him. You don’t have to marry anyone . . . but you might wish to consider his suit.”

  “This doesn’t make any sense.” She pressed a hand against her forehead, wondering if she were caught in some kind of dream—or nightmare rather.

  It was cruel. Impossible. She could not entertain the notion of marriage.

  “I think she requires a bit more explanation, Marcus,” Alyse supplied with a wry twist of her lips. Her gaze seemed to convey that she would appreciate an explanation, too.

  “Why must such a thing be met with confusion?” Marcus looked genuinely perplexed. “You’re lovely and clever. You’re the sister of a duke with a significant dowry. Any man would be—”

  She made a sound of disgust. “Is that it then? He’s in need of money?” Why did her voice suddenly rise an octave and why did she feel such a stab of disappointment? It was a valid motivation for marriage. It should not offend her so very much. Marriages among members of the ton happened all the time for that very reason.

  “No. To my knowledge, MacLarin is quite comfortable.”

 
“Then it is position he’s after? Clearly you have not explained to him that marriage to me will gain him no increase in status. In fact, he will most likely be banned from every polite circle in Town—”

  “The man doesn’t give a damn about the ton and what, or rather whom, they deem acceptable.”

  She ignored her brother’s language and dropped her hand from her forehead, looking him steadily in the eyes. “You told him?” It was less a question and more a statement of fact. Her stomach experienced a sinking sensation.

  Marcus shifted uncomfortably. As though the subject of her ruin was too uncomfortable a topic for him and something that must be skirted.

  “It was mentioned. Of course. I would not trick him into marrying you without full knowledge of circumstance.”

  Without full knowledge.

  That meant only one thing. Her brother told him everything as he knew it. Soiled goods. Tainted. Marked. Broken. All words that could be applied to her now. All words that this world believed her to be.

  They were all the things MacLarin thought of her now. And yet he still wanted to marry her.

  “Then this makes even less sense. Why should he want to marry me as I am? I just met the man!”

  If there was a voice that whispered through her mind that he weighed on her thoughts too much for a man she had only just met, she ignored it.

  “I think it obvious,” Marcus replied.

  She stared at him blankly.

  He continued, “Clearly he is smitten with you.”

  “Smitten?” After a pause, she laughed. “He most certainly is not smitten with me.”

  Marcus frowned. “I fear you do not see yourself in the same flattering light I do.”

  That was most definite. Her brother had always doted on her. When she came along, he was practically a man already, but he had always made time for her. He’d treated her with such warmth and affection and delighted in all her antics.

  “He did stare at you at length. It was quite bold,” Alyse offered, looking almost apologetic to agree on the point.

  “Indeed!” Marcus nodded. “The fellow could not take his eyes off you.”

  “And that is reason enough to offer marriage?” She stopped and glared at her brother. “You suggested it, didn’t you? Admit it.”

  Her brother dropped his gaze and it was confirmation enough. Her stomach sank.

  “Heaven help me, you did! You asked him if he would marry me! I didn’t know I was so unwanted that you would throw me at the first unmarried man to walk through the doors. I have not even been here a full twenty-four hours, Marcus!”

  Marcus wagged a finger at her. “Now see here, it wasn’t like that at all. I wouldn’t have even entertained the offer and be speaking with you on the matter if I did not know him to be a good man, Clara. We’ve become well acquainted with MacLarin since moving here. I would not permit just any man to court you. Believe me in that.”

  She shook her head, not listening. “You should have sent me away to the Continent or America where I wouldn’t burden you.”

  “Clara, it’s not like that. MacLarin is quite charming. Bold and clever. You should get to know him better.” Alyse tried to reach for her arm, but Clara surged up from her chair, suddenly desperate to be gone from this room, this place and the outrageous things she was hearing. “Your brother only wants the best for you, Clara.”

  “And your neighbor is the best apparently?” She snorted. “More accurately, he’s all that is left. You see him as my last chance.”

  Alyse clucked her tongue and shook her head whilst her brother snapped, “And what if he is? MacLarin comes from an old, venerable clan. He’s a powerful man in these Highlands. He will take good care of you. He would treat you well.”

  “Is that all that matters?”

  Strained silence fell. Her chest rose on a labored breath.

  Oh, this wretched world that viewed a woman as chattel to be judged and manipulated and used . . . that limited her choices to the match that afforded the least abuse.

  “There are worse things than being unwed and alone,” she whispered.

  She’d already faced that truth when she weighed the consequences of going through with her marriage to Rolland.

  Marcus exhaled, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Of course, that is true, Clara, but he is a good man. I wouldn’t give my sister to just anyone. You deserve a good husband . . . a good life.”

  And he was so confident she would have that with this Laird MacLarin?

  “You needn’t give me to anyone,” she muttered.

  “I am only thinking of you and—” He stopped himself, but she knew what he meant to say. His gaze dropped to her midsection. His implication was clear. He was referring to that matter that he could not yet speak of directly.

  He was thinking of her unborn child. Of course.

  The child who did not exist.

  The lie she had fabricated.

  A myth woven to escape an inevitably bleak future with Rolland.

  She closed her eyes, squeezing them in a long-suffering blink. Now. Now was the time to tell him. She could not wait another moment. With a decisive nod, she opened her mouth.

  A sudden knock at the door silenced her, however.

  No one bade enter before the door opened and in walked the man her brother had asked to marry her. It was galling. Heat fired her face.

  It was as though the room suddenly shrank with the addition of him. He looked grim, his mouth set in a flat line. Hardly the visage of a man in the happy throes of proposing.

  A wash of emotions flooded her. Humiliation, shame, anger . . . and a sharp sense of inferiority. She hated that last thing the most. She had always been confident. Her mother had showered her with love. She had never doubted her worth before now.

  You’re not broken.

  She squared her shoulders and reminded herself that she had made all the decisions in her life up to this moment and that wouldn’t change now. She was fortunate to have a family that respected her voice and didn’t oppose her independence.

  If this man thought she would drop to her knees in gratitude at his proposal, he best think again.

  MacLarin settled his gaze on her.

  She stared back at him obstinately.

  “May I have a word wi’ your sister?”

  The words were spoken to her brother, but he never took his eyes off her.

  Marcus hesitated, glancing to her, waiting for her decision. He would not abandon her alone with MacLarin without her agreement.

  She hesitated as well. Eventually curiosity won her over. She had an overwhelming compulsion to hear him out—to find out what could possibly motivate him into offering for her hand.

  She nodded at her brother. “I’ll speak with him.”

  Marcus flew into motion. With one hand on his wife’s arm, he escorted her from the room. Alyse cast her an encouraging look as she went.

  Clara stared after them, hardening her resolve. She could do this. She was not a wilting flower. Her brother may have gotten her into this infernal situation, but she could handle matters.

  The door clicked shut and she wasted no time. “My apologies for whatever has compelled you to seek this audience with me, sirrah. You needn’t feel pressured to do anything foolish, no matter how nicely my brother asked it of you.”

  He considered her for a moment in which she attempted not to fidget beneath his regard. “He did no’ ask me tae do anything, foolish or otherwise.”

  She processed that with a small dose of bewilderment. Her brother had admitted as much. “No?”

  “I volunteered.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Do you no’ need a husband?” He ambled slowly closer.

  “So this is a magnanimous gesture then? Wed the poor ruined girl so that—”

  “You’re no’ poor.” His gaze flicked up and down over her, taking in her gown and the jewels at her throat. “You’re no’ an ordinary lass at all. Even without all your finery, anyone
can see that.”

  The words sank in, bringing a warm bloom of pleasure. Blast it.

  She pushed away what felt dangerously like praise. She would not permit him to turn her head with his fine words. “Oh, so it is my dowry then that compels you?”

  “Is that what you think of me? That I’m the sort of man tae propose tae a woman for mere coin?”

  She bristled. “I assure you there is nothing mere about my dowry.”

  He shrugged with a snort. “Do you no’ think you’re temptation enough, lass?”

  She shivered at his words delivered in that rumbling brogue. Temptation enough? Her? No, she did not believe so.

  “I’m quite the scandalous creature. My brother told you that.” Her chin went up a notch. Let him think the worst of her. The sooner he realized that, the sooner he would leave her alone and be on his way.

  “You think tae scare me away, lass?” His eyes trailed hotly down the column of her throat to her cleavage. She resisted lifting a hand there to cover her flesh. A scandalous creature would not bother. “Scandalous creatures are my favorite.”

  Oh! He was depraved.

  She gave a shaky laugh, attempting to mask how much his words affected her.

  “Any sane man would head for the hills,” she whispered in a furious rush, feeling confused and conflicted all of a sudden.

  His gaze roamed over her again and heat spread to other parts of her body—not just her face. Parts of her body that she’d scarcely ever acknowledged herself. Suddenly she felt a pulse in those places. A longing pull.

  “So only an insane man would wed you?” His lips twitched and, oh, there was danger in that seductive curl of his mouth. He might be an uncivilized Scot, but the ladies he could seduce in Town would be legion. “I’m no’ certain who you think more poorly of . . . me or yourself.”

  “It’s not an insult to either one of us. I’m a realist, Mr. MacLarin.”

  Now she was. Recent events had taught her to be. She had shelved the dreams of her girlhood.

  “Hunt,” he went on to say.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You may call me MacLarin or Hunt.”