Sweet Home Highland Christmas

by May McGoldrick

  “My apologies for not meeting you earlier,” he said. “It was difficult to break away from my duties.”

  “I’m relieved that you caught up to us here,” she said politely, trying to keep any note of emotion out of her tone. “We’ve had a comfortable journey so far, thanks to the Pennington family, and as it stands, we should arrive at Baronsford with a few days to spare.”

  She again shook her head at the offer of a seat.

  “As I mentioned in my letter,” she continued, “I’ll be introducing you to Lady Dacre as my intended, and—”

  “About that,” he interrupted. “Our plans have changed.”

  For an insane moment, she wondered if the rumors Gregory had told her were the truth. Could it be that he was already married? But she had no time to either celebrate or mourn such an event.

  “I’ve decided that we shall arrive at Baronsford already married.”

  Freya’s heart sank. “Already married?”

  “Yes,” he responded flatly, brushing at a speck on the cuff of his uniform. “There is a solicitor here in Dundee that I have had business dealings with in the past. We shall stand before him tomorrow, exchange our oaths, and sign a contract of marriage. This way, Lady Dacre will have no doubts about your niece’s future.”

  Freya’s mind raced. She was no fool. She’d known this man her entire life. He was not one to do anything for anyone unless he benefited somehow.

  “There’s no need for such a drastic step,” she said.

  “Do you really consider it ‘drastic,’ Miss Freya?” he asked with a feigned air of nonchalance.

  “What I mean is that I believe Lady Dacre would be satisfied meeting you and knowing of our engagement,” she told him. “I see no need to delay an extra day here.”

  “You just said yourself that we’re ahead of schedule,” he said. He shrugged and then fixed his shrewd eyes on her. “But it really doesn’t matter. I insist that the wedding take place here, before we get one step closer to Baronsford.”

  There was no point in arguing about waiting for a church wedding. They both knew that in Scotland the exchange of marriage vows did not require the authority of a church to make the union legal. No reading of banns was needed, only a witness to attest that the couple declared themselves married before him. Her sister’s marriage had not taken place in a church. But Lucy and Fredrick Dacre had been in love.

  Freya looked on at her cousin’s cold expression.

  “Why?” she asked. “Why are you so adamant about this wedding taking place now?”

  “Isn’t it what you want?” he replied. “Marriage? Security for you precious niece?”

  She wasn’t satisfied with his refusal to answer.

  “What is the reason for this haste?” she persisted. “You know that my own fortune is modest. You’ll eventually inherit the Sutherland estates.” Freya paused as the light dawned.

  Dunbar wouldn’t say the words but the truth was too obvious.

  “You need my five thousand pounds now. As my husband, you take that money for yourself.”

  “Very well,” he said with a toss of his head. “What of that? We both need something right now. You need a husband—or the promise of one—to keep your niece. I need money for . . . well, what I need it for is my own affair. We each get what we bargained for.”

  He pulled a card from his hat and flipped it onto the table next to her.

  “You’ll find the address of the solicitor on his card. I expect you to be there tomorrow at nine o’clock . . . on time.”

  Freya stared at the card as he walked past her. She was no gambler, but she knew he was holding the winning hand. She had no choice but to show up tomorrow and marry the man.

  * * *

  The bells in a half dozen of Dundee’s church towers were ringing out eight o’clock as Penn climbed from the carriage in front of the inn. The streets of Seagate were still alive and active, but sailors and dockworkers intent on revelry had now replaced the day’s carters and vendors. Climbing the stairs to their rooms, he was happy to realize that it was early enough. Freya would still be awake. They had so much they needed to discuss.

  He found the sitting room empty and frowned in the direction of Freya’s closed door. Ella would undoubtedly be asleep by now, and he wondered how he could get Freya to come out without disturbing the child. His dilemma was resolved before he had time to hang his greatcoat.

  The door creaked open. The problem was that Ella was the one who slipped out.

  “Not asleep yet, eh?” he asked softly, watching the child close the door quietly. “Where is your aunt?”

  Ella put a finger to her lips and tiptoed away from the door. “She cried herself to sleep.”

  Ordinarily, Penn would have considered her words part and parcel with her usual dramatics. But there was a difference in her tone . . . and in the red-rimmed eyes. She walked slowly toward him, her trembling chin on her chest, her eyes avoiding contact.

  “Hullo there, what’s wrong?” He crouched down on one knee.

  She stopped just out of his reach. “Why do you have to go to Boston?”

  “Boston?” he asked. How the blazes did she know about Boston?

  The Simpsons, he realized. Freya must have learned about it from Myrna.

  “Is that why she’s crying?” he asked gently, glancing over at the closed door.

  “Her life is in ruins. But she’s being a martyr.” A tear streaked down the child’s cheek and she stabbed at it. “He’s here and she’s going to marry him. Tomorrow.”

  The low-down conniver! The calculating scoundrel!

  He took hold of Ella’s shoulders and looked into her face. This was the first time he’d seen her shed actual tears. “Colonel Dunbar came here?”

  “Fie went downstairs to speak with him,” Ella said, sniffling. “She was crying when she came back up. Fie never cries. I heard her tell Shona to keep me here tomorrow morning until she signed the papers and came back.”

  Blast him, Penn thought. He should have known Dunbar would catch up to them here. Why couldn’t the rogue show up in Stirling? Or Edinburgh? He thought he’d be prepared for it.

  He wasn’t, however, and this news of Dunbar’s meeting with Freya chilled him.

  Penn drew Ella to his chest and pressed a kiss onto her hair. “I want you to go back to bed, little one.”

  “But I can’t sleep. I’m mourning.”

  “You shouldn’t mourn. You go back to bed, and I’ll promise to take care of things.”

  “How will you take care of things?” she wanted to know.

  “It will be a surprise.”

  The little girl’s face lifted, the brown eyes rounding with hope. “I like surprises.”

  “Excellent. Then off to bed with you.”

  Ella started to go and then stopped. “I have one question.”

  “What is it?”

  “What is mourning?”

  * * *

  The waiter downstairs had been hesitant about helping Penn, but a little monetary incentive had loosened his tongue. The colonel had asked if the Mermaid, a gaming den, was still shut down. Learning it was open again—for the time being—he’d gone off.

  The Mermaid turned out to be a rat’s nest, located in the ground floor of a dilapidated building down by the docks. Whores and drunks milled about in front of the place, which was distinguished by a pair of thugs standing beneath a green lantern.

  The two bruisers gave him a looking over and then one jerked a thumb, which Penn took as permission to go in. Reminding himself to keep his focus on the business side of what he had to do, he pushed open the heavily scarred door, ducked his head, and entered the stinking, smoke-filled rooms.

  During their days on the road, Penn had gotten the idea that Freya thought a mere introduction of the colonel to Lady Dacre would be enough. Perhaps that was all the dowager required. But after what Penn had heard from John Simpson, he knew that a promise of future liquidity was not sufficient for Dunbar. The colonel ne
eded access to money that was available now, and he wanted it fast. Every sharp in Scotland had muscle like the two out front, and they loved extracting payments from debtors. And particularly from gentlemen.

  Searching through the crowded rooms, Penn knew he was gambling, as well. He was acting on behalf of Freya while she was still unaware of his intentions. They had not declared their affection. He had not even disclosed all he had learned from Captain Simpson about Dunbar’s fictitious engagement. It was possible that he was off in his assumption that she didn’t want to marry the man, though he didn’t believe it. And what of her father’s feelings about Dunbar as a son-in-law? That aspect of the situation had never even been hinted at.

  Perhaps it was a gamble, but Penn liked his odds.

  For the first time in his life, he was acting on the emotional impulses of his heart instead of the rational processes of his mind. As he spotted Dunbar at a card table in a private room at the very back of the place, Penn hoped he was doing the right thing.

  He walked toward his rival, and the colonel eyed him steadily, appraising him. Friend? Agent of the general’s staff? Another card player that he could take advantage of? From the scarcity of coins in front of him, Dunbar appeared to be losing.

  “I’m Captain Pennington, Colonel,” he said, clearing away any confusion as he arrived at the table.

  Recognition was immediate. “I’m grateful for all you’ve done for Miss Freya on this journey, Pennington.” Dunbar made a motion to an open seat at the table. “Would you care to join us for a drink and perhaps some cards?”

  Penn shook his head. “I need a private moment with you. Now, if you don’t mind.”

  There was a long pause as they stared at each other. Penn wasn’t asking. He was telling him.

  He had never possessed a quick temper, like his father, the Earl of Aytoun, or his brother, Viscount Greysteil. He’d never called out another man to fight a duel. In public argument, he tended to be the voice of reason. But right now, looking at Dunbar, the irritation that was building in him made him consider lifting the man physically out of that chair.

  A gambler survives by reading the face and physical movement and attitude of his opponent. The colonel must have read the danger he was facing.

  “Would you two gentlemen be so kind as to have a drink at the bar?” Dunbar said to the other card players, never taking his eyes off Penn. “On me, of course, while I speak with the good captain. Then we’ll pick up our game where we left off. Shall we?”

  When the room was left to them, Penn sat and started in directly. “Seven thousand pounds.”

  The colonel stared at him, the scant color in his face draining away.

  “I see the number rings a bell with you.”

  “What can I do for you, Captain?”

  Penn reached into his jacket and produced a folded paper, setting it on the table.

  “You have a fortnight to come up with two thousand pounds to pay Whitey Boyd at Oban, who’s been known to gut men for less. And another thousand to Everett Read at Inverness in a month, and I hear he’s already put out the word he’ll have your head. And worst of all, you’re overdue with the four thousand you owe Jack MacDonald at Leith, who for all we know is waiting outside for you.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to give you your life back. I want to give you that money.”

  Dunbar’s mouth opened as if he were about to speak, but he said nothing. He simply stared uncomprehendingly at Penn, who slid the paper across the table.

  “I want to make a deal.”

  Dunbar read the document, and Penn waited until understanding lit the unhealthy features. He pushed the paper away.

  “You want me to give up Torrishbrae for a worthless title and nothing else,” he complained.

  “And seven thousand pounds.”

  “I barely come out even, if I sign this.”

  Penn slid a bank draft for seven thousand pounds across the table.

  Dunbar’s eyes grew wide at the sight of it.

  “And since I feel particularly generous today . . .” He took a second bank draft from his jacket. “This will be in return for signing the contract now. And that brings the total to ten thousand. Would that suit you?”

  Chapter Ten

  Freya wanted to be on her way before Ella stirred.

  Shona knew what was to be done, and the nursemaid was waiting in the sitting room when Freya tiptoed out of the bedchamber.

  “What should I tell him when he asks?” Shona asked.

  Freya cast a longing look at Gregory’s door as she fetched her greatcoat. “Tell him you don’t know where I went. Tell him I’ll explain when I return.”

  “Won’t it be too late by then?”

  Freya pulled on her coat and buttoned it. Too late for what? Too late to play on the conscience of a genuinely good man? Too late to make him change his plans and turn his life upside down? Too late to be rescued from a dismal future?

  In her heart, she knew it was already too late. Nothing could change what she needed to do. She loved Gregory, and because of that, she would do nothing to interfere with the path in life he’d chosen. It was true that she’d altered her own path for her sister five years ago. But she’d been rewarded with Ella. A child that she could not love more if she herself had given birth to her.

  After asking directions, Freya set off on foot toward the legal district on High Street.

  The December wind whipped her blue greatcoat about her with savage fury. Freya forced herself to push aside the yearning of her heart. She needed to focus on the nuptials that were about to take place. She was not the first woman to enter into a loveless union. Hardly, she chided herself. And she had good reason for doing it. By all the stars in heaven, she would smile and lie and appear satisfied in the eyes of Lady Dacre. She would do whatever needed to be done to keep Ella safe with her.

  But the unknown future was what continued to tear at her now.

  She feared what her cousin would do to Torrishbrae and the people who depended on her. What if he were to assert his rights as husband and demand that she leave the Highlands? Her father depended on her to run the estate. The colonel had no attachment to the land. Once he had control of it, she had no doubt he would run it into the ground to satisfy those men he owed money to. Casting about desperately in her mind for solutions, she thought that perhaps there was a chance of negotiating with the man or the men her cousin was indebted to. Perhaps . . .

  Her thoughts ground to a halt as she realized she was passing by the distinctive town building known as the Pillars. Two doors farther down she stopped at her destination.

  She had to go in, but she couldn’t get her feet to move. The bell in a nearby clock tower struck nine, rousing her. Finally, with an act of sheer will, she dragged herself to the door of the building. Thinking of why she was doing this, she wrapped the iron fist of reason around her bleeding heart, squeezing into submission all romantic notions, all dreams, all hopes.

  A passing clerk inside directed her up the stairs to the chambers occupied by the colonel’s solicitor.

  The stairwell was dark and airless, it seemed, like a passage in an ancient crypt. With every anguished step she took, her time with Gregory appeared before her. The words they’d spoken danced in her mind. The memories of those stolen moments of passion—moments that she thought would keep her sane in the years to come—now threatened to choke her and drive her mad.

  Finally, Freya found herself standing at the fateful door, summoning the strength to knock. Her chin trembled as the vision of Gregory and Ella sitting together by the fire emerged from the dark oak panel of the door. She saw the child cuddled against him, the look of wonder in her face as he entertained her with his stories. She recalled the patience he displayed whenever her niece was too tired and misbehaved. She thought of them all skating on the ice.

  What kind of relationship did Dunbar have with Ella? Twice the colonel had come to Torrishbrae in the past five years, and each t
ime he’d kept his distance from the “troublesome noise”—as he’d referred to her.

  Tears burned a path down her face.

  The realization was as sudden and certain as death. It was impossible. She might as well try to live without breathing. She couldn’t do it, not like this, not under Dunbar’s conditions as they were. There was far more than her own future at stake. Ella’s. Her father’s. The tenants at Torrishbrae.

  She turned and hurried to the stairs. As she began to descend, the solicitor’s door swung open.

  “Freya?”

  Gregory’s voice made her clutch at the wall. She stopped and looked back at him. Light poured into the dark passage from behind him and his tall frame filled the doorway.

  He stepped toward her. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  She stared in confusion at his outstretched hand, listening to the drumming of her heart. She was dreaming. She was imagining all of this. In fact, this couldn’t be Gregory, she told herself. He was back at the inn . . . with Ella and Shona.

  He came down the few steps and wrapped an arm around her. “Will you come in with me?”

  She blinked, allowing her gaze to move over his lips. She stared into the eyes that had enthralled her the moment she’d first looked into them.

  Was Dunbar already there? she wondered vaguely.

  Chaos reigned in her mind. How could Gregory also be there? Feeling as if she’d been struck by lightning, she allowed him to lead her back to the door.

  Before they went in, he ran his thumb over the wetness on her cheeks and then brushed his lips against hers.

  “I’m sorry you’ve had a shock, but I had a great deal to do this morning.”

  “This morning?” she managed to murmur.

  “I’d like you to come in and listen to what the solicitor has to say. Can you do it?”