‘No. No need. We will go to them.’
Giving the reins to the butler, he took Madeleine’s hand and led her around the side of the house to where a series of terraces led down to a lawn surrounded by colourful flower borders. A dark-haired gentleman was sitting on the lawn, a book in his hand, while a lady in a green gown and a straw bonnet was collecting flowers in a basket.
As they started down the second set of shallow steps the lady turned and saw them. She hesitated for a moment then, with a cry of delight, scissors and basket were cast aside. She picked up her skirts and flew across the lawn.
Her bonnet slipped off as she ran and from the abundance of red hair now displayed Madeleine knew this must be Ailsa, Grant’s mother. She released his hand and watched as he ran forward to catch the lady as she threw herself into his arms.
‘Oh, Grant... Grant, is it really you?’
There was no mistaking the love between the two, but Madeleine was watching the gentleman, who had risen from his chair and was walking slowly towards them. His lean face was so like his son’s there could be no mistaking that this was Logan Rathmore, but there was no reading the expression in his dark eyes.
‘So you have returned.’
Grant gave his mother another kiss and gently released her.
‘Aye, Father. I am returned.’
The Laird’s serious features relaxed and in a single step he crossed the distance between them and hugged his son.
‘Thank God.’
They clung to each other for a long moment. No words were spoken, but none were needed.
‘And you have brought a companion.’ Ailsa’s soft voice broke the long silence. ‘Will ye not introduce the young man, my son?’
‘Ah.’ Grant realised that Madeleine was still standing on the steps, watching the proceedings with an anxious gaze. ‘May I present to you Madeleine, formerly Mademoiselle d’Evremont but now Mrs Grant Rathmore. She is my wife, my friend.’ He bent a speaking look upon his mother. ‘And she is my heart, Mama.’
Ailsa did not let him down. Her face broke into a smile and she hurried towards Madeleine, her arms outstretched.
‘You are most welcome, Madeleine, my dear. Mercy, what a lot we will have to talk about!’ She caught Maddie’s hands and gently led her towards the two men. ‘Logan, my love, we have a daughter at last! Are we not blessed?’
Allowing herself to be pulled into the family group, Madeleine glanced nervously at the Laird. Standing so close, she could see faint traces of grey in the dark hair and the lines about his eyes and mouth were more pronounced, but there was only kindness in his smile as he leaned in to kiss her cheek.
‘We are indeed. Welcome to Ardvarrick, my dear. Let us go in. We shall tell Leith to fetch up a bottle of our finest French wine. We have a great deal to celebrate!’
* * *
Any fears Madeleine had about her reception at Ardvarrick were soon put to flight. Ailsa and Logan were too relieved to see their son to stand on ceremony, so the four of them retired directly to the morning room, where wine and cakes were brought in while Grant and Madeleine told their story.
They were not finished by dinner time, so Ailsa ordered the meal to be delayed while they all went upstairs to change. She carried Madeleine off to her room to find her a gown, showing her so much kindness that Maddie was moved to express her gratitude.
‘Away with you,’ declared Ailsa, waving aside her thanks. ‘From everything I have heard so far, you deserve so much more for bringing our son back to us.’
‘No, no, ma’am, he saved me!’
Ailsa hugged her. ‘You are both very much in love,’ she said, smiling mistily. ‘You have saved one another, which is how it should be.’
* * *
They dined in style, amid much laughter and chatter, and by the time the ladies withdrew, Grant was in no doubt that the welcome he and Maddie had received was wholehearted and genuine. He refused his father’s offer of French brandy and chose instead to take a glass of whisky.
‘I believe I will join you,’ said Logan, pouring the amber liquid into two glasses. ‘And I will raise the glass in thanks that you are safe returned.’
‘And I give thanks for your warm welcome.’ They savoured the pungent spirit in silence, then Grant spoke again. ‘I cannot tell you how sorry I am, Father, for the way I left Ardvarrick...’
‘You have explained it all, my son. I do not hold it against you that you tried to protect your friends. I am only sorry for the people of Contullach.’
‘So, too, am I,’ replied Grant, frowning. ‘They do not deserve the retribution that will surely follow.’
‘We will do what we can for them, naturally,’ said Logan. ‘If this Colonel Sowton is as good as his word regarding your pardon and the assurance that Ardvarrick is safe, I shall be in a position to do something for young Reid and Graham. And to speak up for Cowie, too. Perhaps we might avoid a death sentence for him, although God knows he has done little to deserve any mercy.’
He drained his glass and set it down and Grant, wondering how Maddie was getting on without him, refused another drink, saying, ‘Shall we join the ladies?’
They walked arm in arm to the drawing room, where they found Ailsa and Madeleine sitting close together on the sofa, talking quietly.
Logan chuckled. ‘You see, my son, we need not have hurried. They have not missed us in the least. They appear to be getting along famously.’
‘We are,’ declared Ailsa, looking up at them. ‘We have discovered we have a great deal in common, including music and a love of books and...oh, a hundred little things. I vow I am delighted with my new daughter.’
Madeleine blushed and thanked her, laughing.
‘Well, my son,’ remarked Logan. ‘Do they not make a delightful picture? I believe we are very fortunate to have made such good marriages.’
Grant looked at the two ladies smiling across at them, his mother a dainty redhead, Maddie no less petite but enchantingly dark, and he nodded.
‘Indeed we are, Father,’ he said, his heart swelling with love and happiness. ‘The luckiest men in the world!’
* * * * *
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ISBN-13: 9781488071942
Rescued by Her Highland Soldier
Copyright © 2021 by Sarah Mallory
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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www.Harlequin.com
“I cannot blame you for being fearful, Lucy. It is not irrational, but it can be overcome if you try. You cannot keep looking over your shoulder.”
“No, but I won’t always have you to protect me.” She spoke quietly, with feeling.
His finger was still beneath her chin, her eyes large and luminous as they held his.
“You will soon be under your godmother’s protection, but until then, you have me.”
“Yes,” she breathed, moving closer to him, turning her face up to his, her lips moist and partly open.
Unable to resist doing so, Christopher’s mouth settled on hers. Her lips opened like a flower beneath his own, her warm, sweet breath entering his mouth. He kissed her tenderly, but then his senses started to flee and his breathing quickened and he deepened the kiss. Dear Lord, what was he doing? Kissing her and loving it. It had to stop.
Author Note
Here we are with another Regency romance—a romance between two people destined for each other.
Lucy Walsh, born and raised in Louisiana and heiress to a vast plantation, is fresh out of school when her stepmother arrives in London to arrange her marriage to Mr. Barrington, a stranger to Lucy. Unbeknownst to Lucy, her father is dead, and her stepmother and Mr. Barrington have concocted a scheme for Mr. Barrington to marry Lucy in order to get their hands on her inheritance. Unable to believe her father would want her to do this, Lucy stands against them and is befriended by Captain Christopher Wilding.
Also born and raised in America, and having learned at an early age that the only way to survive was to fight back or die trying and use his own initiative, Christopher became a reckless adventurer and privateer. He is also the estranged grandson of the Duke of Rockley and has recently come to England to face his responsibilities.
Christopher and Lucy’s romance is played out in London society as she struggles to break free of her stepmother and Mr. Barrington.
Enjoy!
A Viscount to Save Her Reputation
Helen Dickson
Helen Dickson was born and still lives in South Yorkshire, UK, with her retired farm manager husband. Having moved out of the busy farmhouse where she raised their two sons, she now has more time to indulge in her favorite pastimes. She enjoys being outdoors, traveling, reading and music. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure. It was a love of history that drove her to writing historical fiction.
Books by Helen Dickson
Harlequin Historical
When Marrying a Duke...
The Devil Claims a Wife
The Master of Stonegrave Hall
Mishap Marriage
A Traitor’s Touch
Caught in Scandal’s Storm
Lucy Lane and the Lieutenant
Lord Lansbury’s Christmas Wedding
Royalist on the Run
The Foundling Bride
Carrying the Gentleman’s Secret
A Vow for an Heiress
The Governess’s Scandalous Marriage
Reunited at the King’s Court
Wedded for His Secret Child
Resisting Her Enemy Lord
A Viscount to Save Her Reputation
Castonbury Park
The Housemaid’s Scandalous Secret
Visit the Author Profile page
at Harlequin.com for more titles.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
CHAPTER ONE
1816
Lucy had been summoned to Miss Brody’s study at the Academy for Young Ladies, at a loss to guess at the reason. Of medium height and as slender as a wand, she hurried along the corridor. The Spanish blood from her mother was evident in her dark eyes and dark curling hair and passionate nature. She had attempted to scrape her hair back into a ribbon at the nape without much success. The effect was softened by several escaping stray curls brushing her cheeks.
She had been born and raised at Aspendale, her father’s ranch in Louisiana, but when her mother had died when she was nine years old, her father, a man of unimaginable wealth, had sent her to England to receive her education and to learn to be a lady. Lucy adored her tall, golden-haired father and had wept copious tears on the ship that had brought her to England. He had made Lady Caroline Sutton, who had been her mother’s closest friend and Lucy’s godmother, her official guardian for the time she was in England. Lucy would stay with her at her house on Curzon Street when not at the academy.
Miss Brody, the proprietress of the academy for the past twenty years, was a tall, stately woman. Her greying hair crowned a lined, intelligent face and shrewd grey eyes. Her graceful movements, calm features and soft voice disguised a formidable efficiency and energy. She put all her great emphasis on learning and devoted all her time to crusading for the education of women. She ran her academy efficiently and employed only the best teachers. She was seated at her desk, her head bent over a letter. Looking up when Lucy entered, she smiled, but Lucy noted the concern on her face and the frown that furrowed her brow.
‘Come and sit down, Lucy. I have received a letter from your father and wanted to make you aware of its contents straight away.’
Lucy sank on to a hard wooden chair in front of the desk, sitting stiff and straight-backed on the edge. The summer sun shining through the window fell on Lucy’s face, illuminating her fine skin to a soft shade of golden honey and lighting the brown eyes with a luminous quality. She had a natural poise and unaffected warmth, and at that moment an air of seriousness as she waited for Miss Brody to proceed. ‘He is aware that your time at the academy is almost over—indeed, you have taken advantage of all the academy has to offer and excelled admirably in all your studies. Your father is extremely proud of you and has made arrangements for your future.’
Lucy’s heart leapt with sudden hope that he had arranged for her to go home. ‘Am I to return to Louisiana?’
‘No—at least not immediately. He—he has arranged for you to be married, Lucy.’
‘Married!’ Lucy gasped, so taken aback that her façade of dignity dropped and for a split second she felt like a bewildered child. ‘But I don’t want to get married—not to anyone.’
She wanted to scream at Miss Brody that she was too young, that when she did marry it would be to a man of her choosing. But she had learned some self-control, taught her by this very woman, so she folded her hands in front of her. She looked the perfect image of piety and humility as she looked guilelessly into Miss Brody’s narrowed, watching eyes, but Miss Brody knew better and would not be misled by her show of meekness that for the present concealed her recalcitrant nature.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Brody.’
‘You should be. You must learn to guard that tongue of yours.’
‘Yes—but I have no desire to be married.’ Reckless, in spite of Miss Brody’s reproachful look, she cried out, ‘I will not be forced into this. I will write to my father and explain how I feel. He will not make me do this—to—to marry a complete stranger. Why? There has to be more to this.’
Miss Brody had always been extremely sympathetic to the trials and tribulations of all her pupils and in particular this young lady who was so far from her home in America. But on this matter, on a direct instruction from her father, then she must support that. ‘I realise that the letter from your father has come as something of a shock, Lucy, and you will need time to adjust, but he is acting within his rights. Since Lady Sutton
is on an extensive stay in France and not expected back for at least another month at least, your stepmother, Mrs Walsh, will be here shortly. She is looking forward to meeting you. She will be taking a house in London. You are to go to her there. As your father’s wife she will undertake your chaperonage and take full charge of the marriage proceedings.’
‘But—she is not a blood relative of mine. I have never met her.’ In spite of all her efforts, she found that she could not check her wild, resentful thoughts. They flew around in her mind like bird wings beating against the bars of a cage. She felt a trap closing around her and she endured a nauseating turmoil of distress. ‘And—and this man he wants me to marry—does he have a name?’
‘Your father writes that he is Mark Barrington—a friend of his and your stepmother and also a ranch owner in Louisiana.’
‘I see. Then—what is he doing in England?’
‘He is coming to London on affairs of business. I dare say he will return to Louisiana when they have been settled and you are married.’
‘But—my godmother, Aunt Caroline, has arranged for me to remain here at the academy until she returns or sends someone to escort me to Paris where she will be expecting me.’
‘Then I will write to her and explain everything.’
* * *
As Miss Brody returned to her work Lucy made her way to the garden, which was quiet at this time of day when classes were in full sway. She would have returned to her lesson, but her knees were shaking so violently that she had to sit herself down on a bench. She was so angry that she could hardly think straight. The letter from her father filled her mind, obliterating everything else. Tension vibrated in her highly strung body and her hands, instead of being clasped demurely in front of her, were now clenched by her sides in a passion of anger. Her large, brown eyes, flecked with gold, were stormy. No matter how hard her teachers had tried to instil discipline in her, they had failed to cleanse her mind of rebellious thoughts. There was no sign of resignation, obedience and humility in her now.
Harlequin Historical May 2021--Box Set 1 of 2 Page 23
