The Scent of Scandal (Rogues and Gentlemen Book 16)

by Emma V. Leech

  Freddie, my greatest joy in this life has been in helping others and it saddens me that of all people, I have failed both you, and Captain Moncreiffe. I sit here now, in the little cottage I am leaving to you, with the utter certainty that this is the right thing, that you can help each other.

  Now you’re probably shocked to your bones and thinking me a foolish old man with daft romantic notions. Perhaps that is true, and I know there are risks for you here, but believe me when I tell you that despite the circumstances of his birth, Captain Moncreiffe is a gentleman to his core. He will not harm you, and I truly believe he could do you a deal of good.

  My blessings on you both, dearest niece, may God guide your path.

  With fondest love,

  Uncle Phin

  Freddie swallowed, an odd feeling squirming in her chest. Had her uncle believed that there could be a romance between her and Captain Moncreiffe? If she read between the lines, had he been telling her he hoped that they would marry? For what else had he been implying if not that?

  She folded the paper with care and tucked it away. Maggie didn’t know about the letter as Freddie had kept it to herself. She suspected even Maggie’s financial straits wouldn’t have been inducement enough if she’d known Freddie’s real mission.

  “Oh, Uncle Phin,” she said with a sigh. “What have you gotten me into?”

  She wondered if perhaps he’d spend so long living in far off lands that he’d forgotten just how difficult life was in England for an unmarried woman. There was no point in lamenting now, however.

  “Are you ready, Maggie?” she called, tugging on her gloves as she headed towards the kitchen. She stopped in her tracks as she discovered Maggie, her brow knotted in pain and one badly swollen foot elevated on one of the kitchen chairs. “Oh, my word,” she exclaimed. “Whatever happened?”

  “I told you that little step outside my bedchamber door was dangerous,” Maggie said, wincing as Mrs Reid bustled over carrying a steaming poultice that smelled strongly of mustard.

  “Should hae looked where ye was going,” Mrs Reid said with a tut of impatience. “That step's been there two hundred years ‘n ye nae in the house five minutes.”

  Maggie met her eye, her expression rueful. “Sorry,” she said. “Perhaps we can go tomorrow?”

  “Ye be going nowhere on that ankle,” Mrs Reid said, laughing. “Not for a week at the least by my reckoning.”

  “A week!” Freddie said with dismay. “Oh, no. I’ll work myself up into a lather if I wait that long, and my nerve will fail me. There’s nothing for it, I shall have to go alone.”

  “Go where?” Mrs Reid asked, frowning and pushing an iron grey strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes were the same shade, like the skies above Ben Nevis, and Freddie felt all at once as if she was a naughty child.

  “To Tor Castle,” she replied, putting up her chin and reminding herself she was a grown woman. She need answer to no one.

  Mrs Reid blanched. “Whatever for? Yon Captain will chew your ear off for having the temerity to set foot on his land, and that’s language ye’ll not need to hear, Miss Wycliffe. He’s a rough sort who prefers his own company. Best give it him if I were ye.”

  Freddie smiled and moved towards the door, sensing Mrs Reid would likely say a great deal more on the subject given an opening. “I would love to leave him be, Mrs Reid, but I made an oath, as I’ve no doubt Mrs Runcible will explain in my absence.”

  She turned the handle, wishing she could let both women talk her out of it.

  “Freddie, don’t you dare go by yourself!” Maggie called after her, outrage in her voice.

  Whatever might have been said next, however, was muffled as Freddie closed the door on her and strode away.

  She had made a vow, she reminded herself. For all his rough edges, Captain Moncreiffe was a gentleman at heart, she added, paraphrasing her uncle’s words. She would be fine.

  Chapter 3

  “Wherein Freddie sees more of Captain Moncreiffe than she bargained for.”

  The walk to Tor Castle was uphill and, despite the chill in the air, Freddie was rosy cheeked and puffing by the time the building came into sight.

  It was built on high ground and she had to stare up at it, craning her neck. The mists had cleared as she’d climbed, and billowing clouds framed a glowering edifice. Weak sunlight glinted off wet stone and the puddles at its feet and caught the glass in the narrow windows of the barbican. The two imposing, round towers loomed on either side of an adjoining wall, within which were set the great entrance doors. The sound of water rushing over stones was audible as Freddie saw the castle was set upon a bluff, the land falling away sharply at its back, down towards the river.

  On this side of the castle a deep moat scarred the land, the water within green and somewhat threatening. The sound of her footsteps seemed to echo about her as she walked across the hefty wooden drawbridge, and an unfamiliar sensation prickled down Freddie’s spine as she realised she was afraid.

  “Don’t be foolish,” she scolded under her breath. “It’s just a musty old castle, and he’s just a man.”

  Squaring her shoulders, Freddie strode forward towards the gothic oak doors. They were massive and unwelcoming, studded with iron rivets. The threatening spikes of the portcullis showed themselves in front of the heavy stone lintel and made her shiver. Standing beneath them, Freddie felt like Damocles, a sword suspended by a hair dangling over her head.

  “I hope you’re happy, Uncle Phin,” she muttered, before grasping the heavy iron knocker and rapping three times. Nothing. Well, it was a large place. Looking about, she saw a bell pull and gave that a hearty tug instead.

  She waited several minutes, straining her ears for the slightest sound of life within the walls of the castle, before trying again. Five minutes passed. Ten, with Freddie knocking and pulling the bell at regular intervals.

  “Last time,” she promised herself. Her nerves were all a-jangle and threatening to send her scurrying down the hill. She rapped again, with as much force as she could muster, and then leapt back with a shriek of surprise as one side of the door swung open.

  A tall, thin man in an immaculate butler’s uniform regarded her with neither a trace of surprise nor interest. Freddie gaped in astonishment. She’d never expected to see such a starchy looking fellow in the wilds of Scotland, certainly not after all she’d heard of Captain Moncreiffe. He looked as if he should be attending a duke, not stuck in a crumbling castle in such an out of the way place.

  “G-Good morning,” she stammered, trying to find her manners. “I am Miss Wycliffe, niece to the late Mr Wycliffe who lived at White Cottage. Just down the hill from here,” she added, gesturing to the road that led to the castle. “I have come to call upon Captain Moncreiffe.”

  One dark eyebrow rose just a fraction, that tiny movement conveying an entire world of meaning, the most eloquent being that it was quite improper for a young unmarried lady to call upon a man to whom she’d never been introduced.

  Freddie’s cheeks blazed and the urge to turn and flee was so strong she had to force herself not to move.

  “I know it’s most… most… out of the ordinary,” she said, rushing on and wishing the blasted man would say something. Anything. “But, you see, my uncle was not an ordinary sort of man and he left me the house and a small annuity, but to get it I had to swear… to swear….”

  Freddie trailed off, wondering if it was possible to die of mortification.

  She rather hoped so.

  Her rambling words seemed to convey some meaning to the man, though, and his face softened a little.

  “Captain Moncreiffe is not at home at present,” he said, surprising her once again with a cut glass English accent. “It is his habit of late to spend the morning out of doors.”

  “Oh,” Freddie said, unsure if she was relieved or disappointed. She wasn’t sure she’d have the nerve to return in the afternoon. Her courage had all been used up for one day.

  “Your uncle was a reg
ular visitor to the castle before his death.”

  Freddie let out a breath and beamed at the man, so very pleased he’d volunteered the information.

  “He spoke very highly of Captain Moncreiffe,” she said, untangling her fingers as she realised, she’d been twisting her hands together in her anxiety. “And he… he expressed a strong desire that I should… make his acquaintance.”

  Freddie wondered if steam would rise from her face against the cool of the autumn morning, it was burning so fiercely now. Uncle Phin had a deal to answer for.

  The man’s eyes were a canny, sharp blue. He stared down at her, considering.

  “I am Digby,” he said, evidently coming to some conclusion. He hesitated a moment longer before speaking again. “I believe we shall find Captain Moncreiffe down by the river. So, if you would care to accompany me?”

  “Oh!” Freddie let out a breath of relief. “That’s awfully kind of you.”

  “My pleasure, Miss Wycliffe,” Digby replied, stepping outside and closing the door behind him.

  They walked back over the drawbridge before the butler stopped for a moment.

  “I must warn you, Miss Wycliffe….” he began, but Freddie shook her head.

  “There is no need. My uncle was quite clear about what to expect from Captain Moncreiffe and I assure you, I’m no swooning English Miss. I shan’t faint away if he’s angry at my presumption in calling upon him and tells me to go to the devil.”

  Digby’s dark brows drew together, and he looked rather unconvinced but nodded and walked on.

  Freddie thanked her forethought in buying the sensible boots once more as the path became increasingly muddy and curled down and around the side of the castle, away from the river she had heard. She looked up and over the landscape, catching her breath once again at the sight of Ben Nevis which made even the forbidding looking castle seem a fragile thing. Although there were vast hills on all sides, giving a glorious and panoramic view from every angle, all else shrunk before the mountain’s presence.

  From here she looked down, seeing glimpses of the river she’d heard through the trees. She hurried to catch up with Digby, grateful to walk beside him. He had to grasp her arm more than once to keep her from sliding when the mud turned to scree and skittered and shifted beneath her feet.

  “Captain Moncreiffe enjoys being out of doors?” she asked, just for something to say as she felt guilty for making the pristine butler dirty his finery on the slippery path.

  Digby snorted. “I could agree with you, but then he’d spend the next month holed up in the castle and never set a foot out of doors.”

  “Contrary, is he?” Freddie asked, smiling.

  A rueful smile split the man’s rather intimidating countenance. “I couldn’t possibly comment.”

  Freddie laughed, deciding she rather liked Digby. With a bit of luck, she could get him on side and her life would be a good deal easier.

  Finally, the land evened out and the river appeared. There was a large shingle beach and from here she could see the bluff on which the castle perched. She stared up at it, a sudden sensation of vertigo shivering over her at the sight of the castle walls so close to the edge.

  “It’s very impressive,” she said, turning to Digby, who glowered up at the castle and made a disparaging sound that suggested it was less impressive to live in.

  Before Freddie could say anything further, they both froze as the sound of enthusiastic singing rose over the rushing of the river. It grew louder by the moment and Freddie looked to the butler, whose face was the picture of horror.

  “Oh no,” Digby said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He turned back to Freddie, his voice urgent. “Miss Wycliffe. I do beg your pardon, but please believe me when I say Captain Moncreiffe is not available today. If you could return tomorrow, in the afternoon perhaps—”

  A crashing sound stopped his words in their tracks, and movement caught Freddie’s eye. She looked towards it as a figure emerged from the trees and began to pick its way across the shingle beach.

  Freddie gasped.

  “Miss Wycliffe!” Digby said, mortified. “You must leave. At once!”

  Freddie blinked, wondering if she had imagined it. She hadn’t. A smile curved over her lips as her eyes widened. She didn’t even glance at Digby as she replied with great sincerity, “Not for a king’s ransom.”

  Captain Ross Moncreiffe was as naked as the day he was born and….

  He was magnificent.

  His hair was long, too long, and a tawny gold, falling to his shoulders and putting her in mind of a friendly lion. Indeed, the belligerent, ill-tempered fellow she had expected seemed a world away from this happy drunk, for drunk he was, a bottle still clutched in one hand as his strong voice bellowed a bawdy song that echoed across the river.

  Digby dithered between them, before realising he could not bodily remove Freddie if she did not wish to be removed.

  She did not.

  Instead he took to his heels, hurrying towards a pile of abandoned clothing and snatching up a voluminous tartan cloth.

  Freddie wasn’t the least interested in Digby, however, her eyes glued to the handsome captain, who was just as impressive a sight as his castle.

  She drank in the view of a chest that looked as if it had been carved from rock. Strong arms, heavy with muscle, broad shoulders, huge thighs that made something inside her quiver in the strangest manner, and everywhere the fine glint of gold as the sun caught the hair on his arms and legs. The darker gold line of hair that trailed down his torso led her curious gaze to the part of him that Freddie could not take her eyes from.

  She had seen Greek statuary of naked men before, but those artful pieces of marble and stone seemed fine and slender compared to the raw, masculine power of the man before her.

  He was a masterpiece in flesh and blood.

  “Captain Moncreiffe!” Digby’s voice floated towards her as he hurried after his master, clutching the kilt, and endeavoured to throw it over the man.

  The captain shook it off, turning to grin at the butler.

  “Digby!” he exclaimed, grinning and holding his arms out as if to embrace the man. “Have ye come to dip yer skinny English arse in the water? Tis a fine morning for it.”

  “No, indeed, sir,” Digby replied, grasping the tartan once more and striving to wind it about the captain’s waist. “And you have a visitor,” he said, his voice surprisingly stern.

  Captain Moncreiffe frowned at his butler and turned, stumbling a little and righting himself as his gaze fell upon Freddie.

  “Aye, an’ a welcome one,” he said with a broad grin, a glint in his eyes that made Freddie’s heart skip for all the wrong reasons. “An’ a bonnie swimming companion she’d make. I’d rather view her bum emerging from the Lochy than yer skinny-malinky backside any day.”

  Digby groaned, and then exclaimed as the tartan cloth was wrenched from his hands and the captain strode forward, weaving a little as he went.

  Good heavens.

  He was walking towards her!

  “Come now, lassie,” he said with a wink, losing his footing as he stepped from the beach onto the heathery bank. “The water’s fair an’ fine on such a day as this. Will ye swim with me?”

  As he moved, stumbling and righting himself, Digby’s hurried efforts at preserving the captain’s—and Freddie’s—modesty, failed. The kilt slid from his hips and to the ground, tangling around his ankles. The captain stumbled again, arms wind-milling, and fell face first into the heather.

  He didn’t move.

  “Oh!” Freddie exclaimed in concern.

  She hurried towards him and sank to her knees on the springy heather. He was snoring softly, his breath fluttering the hair that had fallen around his face. His eyelashes were thick and longer than a girl’s, fanning over his cheek, the same dark gold as the rest of his hair. His jaw was stubbled and strong, and his mouth had a generous bottom lip and a surprisingly pretty upper, with a delicate cupid’s bow. The only delicate
part of him, she suspected.

  From this vantage point he treated Freddie to a close-up view of his broad, muscular back. It was scarred in places, slashes and puckered flesh showing white against the gold of his tanned skin. His powerful legs were also tanned, yet a white stripe highlighted his upper thighs and his backside. It gave Freddie the strangest feeling of tenderness towards the ridiculous fellow, exposed as he was.

  Digby hurried towards them and snatched up the tartan, throwing it over his employer’s naked form. Freddie tugged it carefully into place, so the heavy plaid covered his shoulders as well as his backside.

  “What now?” she asked.

  Digby sighed, any of his previous formality shredded by his master’s shocking display, though Freddie had to admit she wasn’t as shocked as she probably ought to be.

  “Let him sleep it off,” the butler said, staring down at the captain with resignation.

  “Here?” Freddie said in alarm.

  Digby returned a look of reproach. “The castle is staffed by myself, and the housekeeper. Exactly how do you suggest we move him?”

  Freddie opened her mouth and closed it again. “Good point.”

  Digby reached down and offered her his hand.

  Freddie took it and got to her feet. “Shouldn’t we stay with him until he wakes?”

  The butler blanched and shook his head. “You do not want to be in the vicinity when he sobers up, that I can assure you.”

  Freddie bit her lip, staring down at the sleeping man with concern. “It doesn’t seem right to just leave him here.”

  “I will come and check on him at regular intervals, Miss Wycliffe. Please, do not concern yourself, and may I offer my deepest apologies on my employer’s behalf?”

  “Oh, no apology necessary,” Freddie said cheerfully. “I did warn you I’m no swooning English Miss.”

  “So you did,” Digby replied, and she heard a thread of amusement in his voice.

  “Does he do this often?”

  She turned to take one last look at the sleeping captain, sprawled on the grass like the lion she’d first compared him to, his tawny hair falling over his face. She had the strongest urge to return to him and push it back off his forehead.