Table of Contents
THE EARL’S ENTICEMENT
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
EPILOGUE
THE EARL’S ENTICEMENT
COLLETTE CAMERON
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
THE EARL’S ENTICEMENT
Copyright©2014
COLLETTE CAMERON
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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For the woman
who’s been more of a mother to me
than mine ever was,
and the big sister I never had,
DM and JL,
aunties extraordinaire.
God packed more wallop
into your petite 4’ 11” frames
than an entire professional football team,
and more love and compassion
in your hearts
than a convention of pastors.
Thank you. I love you.
Acknowledgements
Oh, the difference between my first book and this one; so many more people to acknowledge!
I must say thank you to my critique partners (you know who you are, my lovelies) for the time you sacrificed to plow through chapter after chapter of my longest novel yet. Thank you for your honesty, encouragement, and your support. Shout outs to my beta readers, the fabulous women who raised their hands and eagerly volunteered to read the first draft of The Earl’s Enticement. A very special thanks to CG for your detailed notes and comments when you were in the midst of a monumental crisis. I’m awed at your selflessness.
Thank you and hugs to my virtual assistant, author assistant, and website designer, incredibly patient and efficient women. I don’t know what I would have done without all of you.
The resources I tapped into from The Beau Monde chapter of Romance Writers of America were invaluable in writing The Earl’s Enticement. If I had a research question I couldn’t find an answer to, a Beau Monde member always came through.
Then there’s my family: Much love and appreciation to my three adult children who smiled patiently when I shared the latest in my life as an author. I know I’ve been annoying. And of course, I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank my hubby. He’s figured out I’m serious about this author business, and while he doesn’t understand my compulsion to write, he has cheered me on wholeheartedly.
I don’t understand his compulsion to hunt and fish, so I think we’ve reached an accord.
I also want to thank all of the readers, most especially SM, who kept asking me to hurry up and get The Earl’s Enticement finished because they couldn’t wait to read it. You’re the reason I write.
CHAPTER 1
Craigcutty, Scotland — Late June, 1817
Roark, the Earl of Clarendon, led his limping horse toward a partially constructed building at the edge of the bustling village. The mare, the only horse available for hire at the inn he’d lodged at last night, went lame half a mile back. He rubbed her velvety muzzle. She blew into his hand. The poor beast had done her best.
He should have ridden in his carriage the last leg of the journey from London. Yet, he loathed being confined. It stirred childhood memories better left buried. He arched his spine, wincing as familiar tautness twinged from shoulder to hip.
A man, his words indistinguishable, called to a lad standing in the building’s doorway.
The boy glanced over his shoulder. “Aye, I will.”
He bounded across the porch, then down the steps in front of the structure. A piece of straw poked from his mouth, and he wielded a riding crop in one hand like a sword.
Roark waved. “Young chap.”
With long strides, he closed the distance between them.
Ducking his head, the lad yanked the knitted cap lower on his brow. The Scottish bonnet was too big for the boy to begin with, but tugged nearly over his eyes, he looked rather like Roark’s one-eyed Old English sheepdog, Guinevere.
The crop stilled. Shoulders hunched and eyes lowered, the youth removed the straw from his mouth. He tossed it onto the packed earth. “Be ye speakin’ ta me, sir?”
“Yes, I need a horse. What’s your name?”
“Ad— er, Addy, sir.”
The youth was taller and older than Roark first thought, maybe as much as five and ten. Addy’s voice was soft and his brogue rather melodic for a lad that age. He appeared painfully shy, or perhaps, embarrassed at being caught pretending swordplay. He had yet to lift his gaze from Roark’s dust-covered Wellington’s.
Roark scanned the busy street, searching for a livery stable. “Where might I find a horse for hire?”
Gaze trained on the mare, Addy approached her instead of answering the question. He stood with his head cocked, assessing the horse. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he leaned forward a fraction.
Ire pricked Roark at the lad’s audacity. Roark swiftly stifled his irritation. He wasn’t expected. It was gauche to come for a holiday unannounced, but there was nothing for it.
Whispering something unintelligible, Addy tucked the whip beneath one arm before running his hands along the mare’s right sho
ulder. He squatted and trailed fine-boned fingers to her ankle. “I’d bet me sainted grandmother, a bowed tendon is causin’ her pain.”
Roark quirked a half-smile in grudging admiration. Addy was right. “You know something of horseflesh?”
Eyeing the tip of the crop peeking from beneath the youth’s arm, Roark’s smile faded. He never took a whip to his horses. Or other animals for that matter. He had no respect for anyone who did.
Addy shrugged, still hunkered over the mare’s lower leg. “Aye, a wee bit.”
Roark scrutinized him. He’d originally thought the boy a village urchin. The well-made breeches and fine boots Addy wore belied that assumption. His jacket hung loosely, but was of the highest quality. And, unless he toted the whip around for amusement, he had a horse.
Was he local gentry?
Weren’t the only aristocrats in the immediate area the McTavishs and Fergusons, both of whom resided at the castle?
Roark rubbed his brow. Was this boy one of them? Ewan McTavish, the Viscount Sethwick, had a brother about six and ten, and sisters, too, didn’t he?
Blast. Roark couldn’t remember precisely what his stepsister, Yvette, had written. Except that McTavish’s mother and stepfather, Hugh Ferguson, along with a throng of other family members, lived at the keep.
Removing his hat, Roark lifted a crisp, white handkerchief from his coat pocket. He dabbed his sweaty forehead. With one last wipe across his face, he folded the handkerchief before tucking it back inside his jacket. His fingers brushed the irregular scar on his forehead—one of many marring his body—as he swept his hair backward. He donned his hat once more.
Despite his cap and coat, the lad didn’t appear the least affected by the rising temperature.
Lifting his gaze, Roark examined what he could see of the flourishing township. No doubt Addy was the son of a prosperous merchant, and the structure was a—
Roark angled his head, studying the odd two-story building with its L-shaped additions. The new lumber glowed wheat-gold in the sunlight. The pleasing scent of freshly cut wood permeated the air. He had no idea what the odd structure was.
An inn perhaps?
“Where be ye headed?”
Addy’s question reined in Roark’s musings. He swung his attention to the boy still gently kneading the mare’s leg. The lad made low, crooning noises in the back of his throat.
“Craiglocky Keep, if I can acquire a horse.”
And even if Roark couldn’t, blister it. He didn’t relish a lengthy trudge in this infernal heat.
He gestured to the building. “What is this meant to be?”
Addy’s hands stilled. “An orphanage.”
Keeping his back to Roark, the lad slowly stood and grasped the crop once more. He edged around to the other side of the nag, caressing her with his free hand. His nails were clean and square.
“Ye be a stranger to Craigcutty. What business have ye at the keep?”
Irritation surged through Roark. He was anxious to see Yvette. Why hadn’t she contacted him prior to returning to England? Why did he have to learn of her homecoming by way of the gossipmongers and the letter she posted from Scotland?
Scrutinizing the top of Addy’s head, all that was visible above the horse, Roark suppressed his exasperation.
He exhaled a long, controlled breath before answering coolly. “My stepsister, Yvette Stapleton, is in residence there.”
The mare heaved a gusty breath and shifted her weight. Before Addy dipped his head behind the nag again, Roark caught a fleeting glimpse of deep brown eyes framed by thick sable lashes. Was that surprise or alarm in the lad’s gaze? He still hadn’t answered Roark’s question about acquiring a confounded mount.
“Ye’ve a stepsister? At the keep?” Skepticism riddled Addy’s voice. He stopped patting the mare’s neck, then twisted to look at the building he’d come from. “I canna. . .”
The boy slapped his crop against his boot.
Meshing his lips together, he flicked Roark a contemptuous glance. Frowning, Addy stared at the structure while tapping an irregular rhythm on his palm with the whip.
What was he thinking?
“Yes, I’m. . .” By God, why was Roark explaining himself to this impertinent whelp?
Rivulets of sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. He examined the hamlet once more. Occasionally, he left off his title when traveling—especially when he wanted to remain anonymous. He’d found it very useful in determining peoples’ genuineness.
He wasn’t about to tell this cub his title.
“I’m Mr. Marquardt.” Marquardt was his surname, although everyone addressed him by his title, Clarendon.
A snort followed by another muffled oath greeted his words. “Blast it to Hades.”
“Pardon?” Roark skirted around the ancient horse’s head.
Addy stood near the mare’s rump, his nose crinkled in distaste. “Nothing. I stepped in—”
The boy’s footprint was stamped in a steaming pile of horse droppings. Roark set his mouth against the grin that threatened. He patted the horse to hide his smile. Instinct told him the lad wouldn’t appreciate being laughed at.
Roark turned his attention to the well-used forked road. Parallel ruts, formed by innumerable wagon wheels, lined the parched earth. One lane led directly into town, and the other hugged the village perimeter. Most likely the latter was the route to Craiglocky. “Does this village boast a livery?”
“Aye, there’s a livery, but nae horses are available to ye.”
Roark swung his gaze to Addy. He seemed to have overcome his bashfulness and stared intently at him now.
“And why not?” Roark tightened his grip on the reins. The mare jerked her head sharply.
“Shh.” He rubbed her neck. “It’s all right.”
“Look around.” Addy waved the whip in the air. “Ye can see the building and carts and all. Every beastie is already in use.”
From where Roark stood, he observed three other buildings in various stages of construction. Hammering, sawing, boards banging, and calls from the workmen carried to him on the inadequate breeze. At least four wagons had rumbled into the hamlet while he’d been occupied with the boy.
“Perhaps one of the wagons is continuing on to the keep?” Roark spoke more to himself than Addy. Another laden wagon creaked by. “Maybe I could share a ride?”
“Nae likely.” Addy shook his head, his cap promptly sliding to his nose. “Bugger me,” he muttered, shoving the cap up his forehead.
Roark grinned.
Taking a couple of steps backward, Addy settled the bonnet higher on his head. It still obscured the top portion of his narrow face. “The castle’s within walking distance.”
He pointed the crop at the outlying road. “It’s a wee bit more than a mile along there.”
Addy spun on his heels and started to dash away. He slid to an abrupt halt. Little puffs of dirt spiraled around his ankles. Half-turning toward Roark, he said, “Take the horse with ye. There’s someone at the keep who knows how to treat the animal.”
He turned away and took no more than a dozen steps before stopping. He faced Roark again, staring past him with impossibly dark eyes.
Roark arched a brow. “Was there something else?”
Addy’s unnerving gaze met his for an instant, then flitted to the road behind Roark.
“Aye. When ye come to the fork, ‘bout half-mile yonder, make sure ye keeps to the right. Ye canna miss it. A monstrous old willow tree splits the path.” Addy shook his right forearm back and forth for emphasis. His short jacket rose and fell with the motion. “If ye don’t, ye’ll find yerself sinking in the bogs.”
Something akin to antagonism glinted in the lad’s eyes. Curious. Beneath winged brows, they were unusual eyes, too. Oval, not r
ound, and coffee-brown, almost black.
A Highlander’s coloring to be sure.
Addy stood, hands on his hips, tapping the toe of one boot. He peered at Roark expectantly. Even with a few feet between them, Roark could see flecks of citrine in the boy’s pupils. Impatience was also mirrored in their depths.
“Ye un—der—stand?”
Addy spoke slowly, as if speaking to a simpleton. “Keep to the right. Nae. The. Left.”
He made three sharp jabs with the whip in Roark’s direction.
Roark clenched his jaw. He typically kept a tight grip on his temper, yet this slip of a boy had managed to rouse his displeasure four times in less than ten minutes. And that damn whip. If Addy pointed the crop at him one more time, Roark was going to snatch it from him and—
Roark gave a curt nod, his patience at an end. “Yes, I understand. Stay to the right at the fork in the road.”
The Earl's Enticement (Castle Bride Series) Page 1
