This Scot of Mine

by Sophie Jordan

  “That would not be seemly.”

  “We are discussing the matter of our marriage.” Again his eyes swept over her and it was like he was saying something else, some other word than marriage. A word that should not exist in any lady’s vocabulary, but it existed in hers.

  She’d read things she should not have. Texts, books on eroticism and fornication she had found hidden in their vast library back home. She was indeed a scandalous creature. That much was true. Perhaps if other girls her age had liked her . . . if they had bothered to befriend her, she would not have had so much time at her disposal and developed a curiosity for things best left to ignorance. However, she could feel no regret at knowing such things. Knowledge was power.

  The knowledge she had gleaned from those pages burned through her mind now and she had a sudden flash of this man, the Laird MacLarin, with his large hands sliding over her body, doing the very things she had seen illustrated so boldly on those pages.

  He continued, “I think it more than appropriate for you tae call me Hunt.”

  Dear God. If he only knew her thoughts and what a depraved wicked female she was . . .

  “We are not marrying. You should not depart this day under that misapprehension.”

  It was all she could think to say, all she could cling to as she tried to cast the fever-inducing images from her mind.

  His mouth twitched anew. “Oh, I’m no’ leaving yet. The ride home is tae long. I’m staying the night.”

  Her stomach fluttered. He was staying the night. The words pounded through her like the rush of stampeding hooves. They would sleep under the same roof. Why did that make her so very uneasy? Just because the man had offered marriage did not bind her to him in any fashion.

  She shrugged, adopting an air of nonchalance. She had perfected the art of behaving unaffected when so many of the other debutantes snubbed her. “So long as you’re not laboring under any misapprehensions about you and me whilst you remain here.”

  He nodded, looking so relaxed and so very sure of himself right then that she wanted to hit something—mostly him. “You might change your mind, however. In time. I’m only a day’s ride away from here.”

  “I’m not fond of your arrogance.”

  “It’s no’ arrogance. It’s confidence.” He drew a few steps closer and she had the vague sense of a predator closing in. “And you do care for it. You liked it back at the inn.” His blue eyes glinted knowingly and she feared he might in fact have an idea at the wicked bent to her thoughts. Heavens help her.

  “I did not!” Drawing a breath, she circled around a wingback chair, feeling more comfortable with it between them.

  His smile turned smug. “Come. You liked me then.”

  Clara huffed, hating he thought that . . . and hating that there was truth to it.

  She had been drawn to him. When she didn’t know his name. When he was simply a Highland ruffian with bold manners. When he couldn’t possibly be a man who existed in her world. When he could not possibly be her husband.

  And he still couldn’t be. That had not changed.

  His thick brogue went on to say, “You like me now.” Oh, the arrogance of the man knew no bounds! “Dinna fash yourself. I like you back, lass. I would no’ be here now unless I did.”

  Oh, that growling voice made her skin shiver.

  He liked her? What did that even mean? She was afraid to ask . . . afraid that it might make a difference and she couldn’t allow that.

  She stormed around her chair, heading straight for the door. “You’re mad if you think I’m to believe tender feelings can be developed in so short a time. ’Tis more likely you want to find yourself wed to a duke’s sister, be she ruined or not—”

  He seized her hand and she gasped at the contact, stopping in her tracks. Her head whipped around to face him again.

  He didn’t yank at her hand, but the sensation of his warm grip, the callused fingertips abrading her skin, was enough to render her motionless. She looked down the length of her arm to their linked hands and back up to his face, her heart beating like a wild bird in her chest.

  “You’re the mad one if you think I’m here because of yer brother. I don’t give a damn who he is.”

  That would be a first. Rolland had cared greatly. Every gentleman to ever call on her had cared a great deal who her brother happened to be. It was likely all they cared about. They would not have paid suit otherwise.

  “It is not an insult,” she whispered. “It is how things are done. Even here, I am sure. Betrothals are made because of who someone’s brother is . . . or someone’s father. Family connections are everything.”

  “Then suffice tae say, I’m no’ like any man you ken because such things mean nothing tae me.”

  His eyes glittered, and she, perhaps stupidly, believed him. There was more to him. She read it in his eyes, something lurked there that set him apart.

  “Position,” he added, “matters no’ at all. A lass who can stir my blood? That’s something that matters, though.”

  She sucked in a breath. What was he saying? She affected him? She stirred him?

  She tugged her hand free, and he let her go. Oddly, she felt compelled to linger now, to unravel the mystery of him.

  “It is fair to say . . . I don’t know you at all.” She rubbed at her hand where the phantom of his touch remained.

  He stepped closer. “Would you no’ like tae? Aren’t you just a wee bit curious of this thing between us?” He waved two fingers between them. “Would you no’ like to explore it further?”

  Curious? Yes. Curious enough to bind herself to him for the rest of her life . . . that seemed unwise.

  “Or are you scared?”

  “I’m not scared,” she shot back and realized too late that she had played into his hands. She should have denied that there was anything between them, but her words implied agreement that something existed between them.

  He chuckled. “You want tae ken why I want tae marry you, lass?” She could only nod once, her voice lost. Her mouth was suddenly too dry for her to speak. “Because the notion does no’ terrify me, and before you, marriage to any female made my blood run cold.”

  She gave an uneasy laugh, assuming he was jesting, but his eyes were utterly serious.

  He was being sincere.

  It seemed ridiculous that marriage should terrify him. She resisted asking for clarification. If she were seriously going to entertain his proposal, it would matter. As she wasn’t, it didn’t matter. She didn’t care. His matrimonial choices, or lack thereof, made no difference to her. Really.

  He moved away toward the door. “I’ll leave you tae consider my offer.” At the door he stopped again and looked back at her. “It may also be worth mentioning. I’ll be a good father tae your bairn.”

  The air left her lungs in a whoosh. She felt his words to the very marrow of her bones. He was acknowledging she carried another man’s child.

  He stared at her very directly. Unwavering. Unblinking. There was no skirting the subject for him. No mincing words. It was more than her family could do. They loved her too much. They couldn’t utter the shameful words. Her brother had not been able to confront the topic, too embarrassed. Even Mama had spoken only in generalities.

  “Why? Why would you do that?”

  He smiled slowly. “I like you, Clara. I like children.” He shrugged as though it were as simple as that. “A child should have a father and you a husband. I can be that man for you both.”

  “Why?” she pressed.

  He exhaled. “Because I am no’ able.”

  “You are not able . . . to what?”

  “I am no’ able tae have children,” he clarified, holding her gaze.

  “Oh.” It all clicked.

  As his confession sank in, so did comprehension. He didn’t like her. Not really. He liked that she came with a ready-made family for him. At least he believed that to be the case. “I am s-sorry that you are unable . . .” Her voice faded away. How did one give
voice to such a thing? It was indelicate.

  “You needn’t be. You need only marry me. Think on it.” Still smiling faintly, he departed the room.

  She thought about his offer. Long after he left her, his words played in her mind. Long after she retired to her own bedchamber. He had no difficulty offering his name to a child not of his issue.

  What manner of man was he?

  It was as he said. He was unlike any man she knew and blast it if that didn’t intrigue her.

  Chapter 6

  “What do you mean he proposed?” Marian demanded, sinking down on the edge of Clara’s bed, pulling her head back as though she had just tasted something foul and sought to reject it.

  “Oh, it’s all Marcus’s doing.” She almost regretted waking Marian and telling her everything. Of course, Marian would want to know every detail—like a dog with a tasty soup bone. She would be relentless, and Clara’s head was currently spinning far too much to make much sense of anything. A detailed retelling really was beyond her at this moment. She needed to be alone. She needed time to think.

  “Your brother?” Marian shook her head. “What does he have to do with this?”

  “Well, he told Laird MacLarin about me—”

  Marian’s eyes rounded. “Your brother told him . . . about you . . . about everything?”

  Clara nodded. “Everything as Marcus knows it.” Which was a far cry from everything. She winced.

  Marian looked at her sharply. “He still does not know then? When do you plan to explain the situation to your brother and Alyse?” She motioned to Clara with a wave of her hand. “This is the type of thing one will notice.”

  She blew out a breath. “Yes, of course. I’ll tell them soon. Very soon.” The need for that conversation had been made abundantly clear this night. Her brother was tossing her at the head of the first eligible man to come along, thinking he was doing what was best for her. She had not foreseen this at all. She had just escaped one poor match. She had not anticipated getting entangled in another one.

  Marian rolled her eyes. “That will go down splendidly. Your brother will likely ride back to London to challenge Rolland to a duel.”

  “He will not. That will only make matters worse. He wouldn’t wish that for the family.”

  Marian waved a hand. “So let me understand this. Your brother told him you’re ruined with another man’s child and the man proposed?”

  She sighed and shook her head. “Confounding, isn’t it?”

  Marian nodded. “He’s mad!”

  “That’s what I told Marcus.” Shaking her head, Clara faced the dressing table mirror again and resumed brushing her hair, feeling satisfaction at the crackling sound as she pulled the bristles through the long length.

  “So you said no?”

  “Of course.”

  Several moments of silence passed before Marian asked, “Are you certain about that?”

  She halted mid-brushstroke and flicked her gaze to Marian’s reflection in the mirror. “What are you suggesting?”

  Marian shrugged awkwardly. “Well. It’s not as though you will get another opportunity. And truly, Clara, all jesting aside . . . he must be a genuinely good man to propose believing you’re in a delicate condition.”

  “So he’s either a good man or a mad one?” She laughed lightly but stopped when she read Marian’s earnest expression.

  “It seems more than likely he’s a good man.”

  “Does it?”

  Marian stared at her solemnly in response to her question.

  “You’re serious,” Clara announced.

  Marian rose from the bed and strolled over to where Clara sat. She placed her hands on Clara’s shoulders and gently squeezed. “Your reputation is in tatters, Clara. It doesn’t matter that you won’t have a child in the near future. You allowed everyone to think that. They will simply assume you lost the babe. Your good name is gone . . . but this man has offered you his name. His protection. And you would live close to your brother. You would have family nearby. That is tempting, is it not?”

  She could say nothing. Marian wasn’t wrong. She made valid points, and Clara had always respected her opinion so very much.

  Marian had been with her since she was sixteen when Clara’s governess had taken ill and retired to the country to live with family. Mama had hired Marian to fill the role. She was only two years Clara’s senior, having just completed school herself. Even when Clara outgrew the need for a governess, Mama had kept Marian on as a lady’s companion since the two of them had become so close. It was Clara’s greatest regret that she had not listened to Marian’s evaluation of Rolland from the start.

  Even now, with all her newfound respect for Marian’s advice, it was so very untenable to Clara . . . the notion of marrying a man she only just met was unimaginable, especially after the last disaster.

  Marian continued, “He’s quite attractive. I know you think so, too.”

  She shook her head. “What if he’s like Rolland—?”

  Marian snorted. “He is not. The earl didn’t possess an honorable bone in his body. The man was a monster whilst MacLarin has offered for you despite your tarnished status.”

  It was true. By his own words and deeds, he had already proven he was nothing like her former betrothed. He liked her. He liked children, and he could not have any of his own. For some reason she did not share that tidbit with Marian. It may round out this story and fill all the holes, but it felt too personal to share with Marian. It wasn’t her truth. It was his, and she would not bandy it about, not even with a trusted friend.

  “I will think on it,” Clara agreed, the words coming slowly. She expected them to feel wrong on her tongue.

  But they didn’t.

  They actually felt right, and it was that which she thought about long into the night.

  He was mad. Stark mad. Just as she had accused him.

  He paced his bedchamber, whisky glass in hand. He downed the last of it and approached the bottle, cursing to find it empty.

  Of course she had said no. She didn’t want to marry him. She didn’t even know him. She was likely brokenhearted for the father of her unborn child.

  And that fact filled him with a maelstrom of feelings.

  Relief and jealousy warred within him. Which was the height of absurdity. Her condition was what even made it possible for him to marry her. To have her.

  She had a past. She was no dewy-eyed untarnished maid. And yet he had wanted her since he first saw her at the inn. The fact that there was another man in her very near past was unfortunate . . . and fortunate. It was the only thing that made her a viable bride. He’d have to overcome those flashes of jealousy if he was to have her.

  And he wanted to have her.

  When Autenberry had explained the situation, he’d jumped at the prospect, scarcely giving it any thought. It had seemed too good to be true. He could be married and raise a child and avoid the curse that had haunted the men in his family for generations. He could have what he had always thought himself denied.

  He snorted. He was acting as though she had agreed to marry him. She had not. Nor did she appear inclined to change her mind.

  It was apparently too good to be true . . . because she had no desire to marry him. Legitimizing her child evidently did not matter enough for her to consent to be his wife. It was a bit wounding. He had always believed himself to be a handsome man. Lasses flirted with him. He had many friends and was generally thought to be good company. It went without saying that he was an influential man in these parts. He’d even gone as far as to tell her he could not have a child. It was essentially the truth. As close as he could get without telling her about the curse.

  A knock sounded at his door.

  He hesitated a moment before moving toward it.

  He pulled open the door and the air expelled from him in a rush. Of all people he expected to see at his door at this late hour, he never counted on her.

  She was covered up to her neck in a rob
e that hid her nightgown, but even so, it twisted his insides having her so close and without a corset on—just free-flowing lawn trimmed in silk ribbon and her bare body beneath. One tug of the ribbon at the center of her chest and her dressing gown would part open to reveal the nightgown beneath. He swallowed the lump in his throat.

  “Lady Clara,” he greeted as though young ladies appearing at his bedchamber door in the middle of the night were commonplace. Far from it. There was only Catriona.

  In his youth he had foolishly risked a few trysts before the full ramifications of how short-lived his future would be had settled on him—at least how short-lived it would be if he continued down a path of illicit dalliances.

  His palms grew damp just looking at her.

  He motioned inside his room. “Would you like tae—?”

  “That’s not a good idea,” she said, her manner efficient.

  Of course. He nodded, his gaze drifting to the long plait of hair draped over her shoulder. The hair was as thick as his wrist and dark as night. He couldn’t help imagining it loose and spread out over his pillow. He wanted to bury his nose in it. Bury himself in her.

  “I need only a moment to say what I’ve come to say.” She laced her fingers together very properly before her.

  He gave an encouraging nod.

  She moistened her lips. “Thank you for the honor of your proposal.” She bit her lip in the most fetching manner. He wanted to pull that lip free and soothe the tender skin with his own lips. He shoved down the inappropriate impulse. He had more self-control than that. “I should have perhaps said that at the first.” She exhaled a breathy semblance of nervous laughter. “Thank you.” Pause. “And . . . I will consider your proposal, Laird MacLarin.”

  He digested that a moment before replying, “You will?”

  She blinked up at him. “Yes. It’s the sensible thing to do.” Her chin went up. “You had to know I would reach that decision.”

  “Actually, I was no’ so certain.” Mostly because he was accustomed to disappointment . . . to going without when it came to women.

  “Oh.” She looked vaguely uncomfortable, a frown forming on her lovely mouth. “Did you change your mind then?”