Seduced by a Scot

by Julia London

  He followed her instructions, tying the loops under to make a unique chignon. It was hard to corral all that hair, and Miss Darby complained that he was pulling too tightly.

  “Beg your pardon.”

  “Ouch.”

  “I canna tie it without pulling a little,” he complained. “You’re tender headed,” he said accusingly as he worked the last tie around the ends.

  “Why must you say it as if I am purposely so?” she demanded, her fingers fluttering near his as if she meant to assume control.

  He brushed her hands away. “If you want this done, Miss Darby, let me do it, aye?”

  With a huff, she dropped her hands.

  “There,” he said, and dropped his hands, too. He studied his work. The chignon was a wee bit lopsided, but it would do well enough. She could enlist the services of a proper ladies’ maid at Garbett House and tidy it up then.

  Miss Darby put her hand to the lump of hair at her neck, feeling all around it. Nichol’s eye was drawn to a tiny ringlet that had stubbornly escaped the binds. It lay against her neck, floating there, and he had the sudden urge to sweep that ringlet aside and kiss the pale skin just beneath.

  “It feels odd,” she said.

  He felt odd.

  “Does it look a fright?”

  “I donna...” He paused. Did it look a fright? It looked incredibly enticing to him. He wanted to pull each tress free, watch it tumble down her back. “It will have to do. My skill in hairdressing will no’ miraculously improve as we stand here.”

  “Aye.” She turned around. “Are we ready, then? Might we go and have this done?”

  “In a moment. Do you remember what you are to do?”

  “About what?”

  He narrowed his gaze. “Be contrite, Miss Darby.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Precisely what I fear,” he said, and couldn’t help himself—he brushed a bit of straw from her stomacher. “You must be polite and demure. Can you be demure?”

  “Of course I can do it, Mr. Bain. I was no’ raised in the wild.”

  “Hmm,” he said dubiously. “Do you remember what else?”

  She put her hands on her waist and nudged the bare floor with her slipper.

  “Well, then? What else did we discuss?”

  She groaned to the ceiling. “That I’ve considered my crime and I am verra sorry for it!”

  “Could you possibly say so without sounding as though you’ve been tortured into confessing it?”

  “Could you possibly worry about your part in this and allow me to worry about mine?” she shot back, folding her arms defiantly across her.

  “I’ll worry all the same, for you have a disposition that doesna lend itself to sympathy.”

  She gasped. “You’re as bold as brass!”

  He shrugged.

  She took another deep breath, and he expected to receive the full force of her anger. But she suddenly released it into one long sigh. “Aye, all right, all right,” she said, capitulating. “I will do my best to appear as sweet as honey, and as shamed as a dog caught chewing a shoe, on my word.”

  “See that you do. If you give them any reason to—”

  She tossed her head and looked away, clearly unwilling to listen. Nichol dipped to her eye level, and with two fingers to her chin, forced her to look at him. “If you give them any reason to suspect your motives for returning, you will lose. Moreover, my livelihood depends on my reputation for repairing bad situations with as little dust as possible. To return now, with you, to fetch a bloody necklace, is a risk to that most excellent reputation, and I donna intend to have anything go wrong. Is that understood, then?”

  “Then why are you helping me?” she asked suspiciously. “If it’s so dangerous for your blessed reputation?”

  He had asked himself that very question. He could truss her up and carry on as planned, which undoubtedly would have been the better path. But there was something about her plight that resonated with him. And there was something about the Garbetts that sat sourly in his belly. They were disdainful of her, for no apparent reason other than her beauty. “I told you,” he said, his gaze flicking over her. “I like a challenge. I will ask again, Miss Darby, do you understand me plainly?”

  She sighed again. “Aye,” she murmured. And contritely, he noted happily.

  “Then we’re ready.”

  She turned to the railing behind them and picked up his greatcoat, presenting it to him. “I cleaned it for you.”

  He held it up. She had indeed brushed the dirt of the ride from it. It looked refreshed and it surprised him. “Thank you. How did you manage?”

  “I used the same brush the lads use to brush the horse’s arse.”

  Nichol snapped his gaze back to Miss Darby. One fine brow rose above the other, and her summer-blue eyes shone with delight. “It was convenient,” she added.

  That smile, that hair. This woman! He would be very glad to be done with her, for she was making a wreck of his bloody head. And yet, Nichol found it quite difficult to look away from her smile to don his coat.

  The first time he’d seen her smile in the public room had knocked him back on his heels. He hadn’t expected it to be so...shiny. When she smiled, the whole of her lovely face smiled with her. Eyes, lips—even a delightful little crinkle at the top of her nose. Aye, she was very bonny when she smiled.

  “Thank you,” he said again, and shoved his arms into the coat with a verve that was entirely unnecessary to the donning of the coat, but necessary for discharging a bit of strange tension in him.

  Miss Darby picked up her cloak and put it on. She had not been so diligent with the brush on her garment, and he removed a bit of hay from the hem.

  Miss Darby gave him a pert smile and curtsied. “You are too kind, Mr. Bain.”

  “Mind yourself,” he muttered as he straightened her collar and hood. But he was smiling, too. “Shall we?” he asked, gesturing to the two horses.

  “Please,” she said pleasantly.

  Nichol led the horses out of the stable. He spread the plaid she had taken across her horse’s back. He put his hands to her waist and lifted her up, then put himself on the back of his own horse. He looked at her for a long moment, wondering about himself, about this flash of what he could only call lunacy, before leading them out of the paddock and onto the road for Garbett House.

  All right, then, he’d tied himself by his word to this woman for the next day or so. That was not generally his way of doing things. He was generally very careful about putting himself into such predicaments. The years had seasoned him, had made him the voice of reason and calm in more than one volatile situation. And yet here he was, being entirely unreasonable, riding off to take back a necklace that he couldn’t say with certainty actually belonged to the young woman beside him. For all he knew, she’d invented the whole thing for reasons he could never guess.

  But there was something about Miss Darby that seemed too earnest for dissembling. He couldn’t say what it was, but against his better judgment, he trusted her.

  Whether or not such trust would be his downfall remained to be seen.

  CHAPTER NINE

  WHEN THEY TURNED onto the long drive at Garbett House, the sky was turning leaden, slowly eating the sun as it sank lower. Maura was feeling a little leaden herself—she had no desire to be back here, to see the family that had betrayed her.

  She followed Mr. Bain onto the circular drive. As he reined to a halt before the grand house, the door opened and Mr. Bagley, the butler, jogged down the steps to meet them, gesturing to a groom who had come running from the stables to take the reins.

  Mr. Bain came off his horse and lifted Maura down. When he set her on her feet, he gave her a look that was fraught with warning. She understood him quite clearly without the benefit of words—did he think she would not honor her
vow to him? She frowned with exasperation.

  He smiled lopsidedly, almost as if he expected her to frown. Maura put a finger to his very firm arm, made a show of pushing him aside with that finger, and then strode forward. “Good evening, Bagley.”

  “Miss Darby,” he said politely, even a wee bit blandly, seeing as how the last time he’d seen her she’d been escorted from the premises with nothing but a bag containing a few belongings and her dignity strewn behind her. “Mr. Bain.”

  Behind Bagley, Sorcha’s nose appeared, followed by the rest of her. Sorcha was clearly angry. Her face was mottled red as she looked first to Maura, then to Mr. Bain, with an expression of incredulous fury.

  “Good afternoon, Sorcha,” Maura said.

  Sorcha said not a word but whirled around and disappeared inside.

  Maura gritted her teeth. To think of all the hours she’d spent sitting silently on that woman’s bed, listening to her go on ad nauseam about the gentlemen she would marry, then allowing Sorcha to sob on her shoulder when said gentlemen were scared off, one by one. How could Sorcha possibly believe that Maura would want to steal her fiancé? She’d gone out of her way to avoid Sorcha’s many potential husbands altogether.

  She looked to the butler. “Bagley, will you kindly inform Mr. Garbett that I should like a word?”

  Bagley never had a chance to reply, for Mr. Garbett was informed of her arrival by the unsettling shriek of Mrs. Garbett. That was followed by a thundering of feet, as Mrs. Garbett, Sorcha and Mrs. Cadell herded into the entrance, their gazes full of surprise and displeasure.

  “What is the meaning of this?” demanded Mrs. Garbett. She was wearing a lace cap and a mantua that looked too small, as if it might pop open if she moved too abruptly. She looked directly at Mr. Bain. Maura may as well have been a ghost.

  “If I may, Mrs. Garbett,” Mr. Bain said, and stepped before Maura, as if to shield her from the waves of disdain rolling off the woman. “Miss Darby is in need of her things.”

  “What things?”

  “Clothing. Shoes. As you can see, this gown has been ruined,” he said, and stepped aside, gesturing to Maura.

  She dutifully opened her cloak to demonstrate the ruin.

  “What has that to do with us?” Mrs. Garbett cried, refusing to look at Maura’s gown. “She should no’ have come here! She is no’ welcome here!”

  Maura had heard this before, of course, but Mrs. Garbett’s vehemence still stunned her. Did none of them hold the slightest affection for her? She suddenly thought of a Christmas, many years past, when Sorcha had received new shoes. Maura had been given Sorcha’s old shoes. She’d always admired the used shoes and had been so grateful for them that she hadn’t seen that which was so clear to her now. She’d been telling herself a lie all these years. She’d allowed herself to believe that while they did not wish her to interfere in Sorcha’s social life, they still cared for her somehow. What a little fool she’d been.

  “Her things are here, madam,” Mr. Bain said evenly. “Certainly you will agree she canna meet the man who will marry her looking like a wee waif, aye? Once we’ve gathered her things, we’ll be on our way.”

  “What’s happening? What’s this?” thundered Mr. Garbett. He appeared behind his wife in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. His wig was a bit crooked, as if he’d been sleeping. “Mr. Bain!” he exclaimed, pushing his way through the throng of women. “Ah, Maura, lass,” he said fondly, as if he’d never cast her out, and held out his arms wide. “What a delight! I rather thought I’d no’ see you again.”

  “Mr. Garbett!” his wife screeched.

  Maura dipped a curtsy. “I beg your pardon, sir, I would no’ have come back, for I am certain it displeases you,” she said demurely. “But I beg you, sir, I am in need my things.”

  “Oh! Yes,” he said, and cast an accusing look at his wife from the corner of his eye. “Yes, of course, Maura. We should no’ have sent you away in such haste, aye? Come in, come in,” he said, and shooed his wife and daughter out of the way.

  Mrs. Cadell stood firm, however, glaring at Maura.

  “Bagley, bring us tea, will you, or better yet, whisky. Whisky, eh, Bain? There’s a nip in the air. For heaven’s sake, Mrs. Cadell, do let them pass.”

  “Pappa?” Sorcha said, sounding like a wounded child.

  Mr. Garbett ignored her.

  “Thank you,” Mr. Bain said, and stood aside, so that Maura could pass. She stepped up reluctantly—she did not miss how Sorcha glared at her as she squeezed past Mrs. Cadell, whose displeasure came off her like an icy northern wind.

  Mr. Bain followed her into the foyer, and as Maura removed her cloak to hand to a footman, the bloody fool Adam Cadell appeared. His eyes lit when he saw her, and he suddenly came striding forward, all slender arms and legs. He looked like a mere child beside Mr. Bain. “Miss Darby. You’ve returned,” he said solemnly.

  “Adam.” This warning from Mr. Cadell, who had followed his son into the foyer. He put his hand on his son’s shoulder, as if to pull him away.

  “Mr. Cadell,” Maura said, with a slight bow of her head. “Please forgive my intrusion.”

  “No need for that, Maura. You are welcome,” Mr. Garbett said, lifting his chin and purposely not looking at his wife. “Come into the drawing room, will you? I was certain I’d no’ see you again, and it warms my—Good Lord, what has happened to your gown?” he said, stopping midstride.

  “What?” She glanced down. What had happened indeed. I was cast out to the hell of Mr. Rumpkin’s house, and then retrieved by Mr. Bain, whom you hired, sir. “Oh that,” she said lightly. “Mr. Rumpkin did no’ have the services of a laundress, I’m afraid.”

  From somewhere in the distance, she heard Mr. Bain clear his throat. Mr. Garbett colored. He pressed his lips together, then proceeded into the drawing room, gesturing for her to follow. Maura fell in behind him, and the rest of the party followed them like a litter of puppies, all eager to be first.

  “Mr. Bain has explained all to you, has he no’?” Mr. Garbett asked as he marched toward the sideboard.

  “Yes, sir. Everything,” she said. “I...” Dear God, but her pride had a very bitter taste as she swallowed it. “I must commend you for taking such care of my future in light of all that’s happened.”

  Mr. Garbett turned from the sideboard and looked at her with astonishment. So did everyone else.

  Maura glanced uncertainly at Mr. Bain, who gave her an almost imperceptible nod.

  She swallowed another heaping serving of her pride and said, “I am quite...” It was so bloody difficult to say what she must.

  “Quite what?” Sorcha asked.

  “Quite pleased that Mr. Garbett has made me a match.”

  Sorcha made a sound of disbelief and sank onto the settee. But her fiancé kept his gaze firmly affixed on Maura. She could only surmise he must be as dim-witted as he was thin, for there was nothing that could raise the hackles of his fiancée more quickly than his interest in her.

  “Well,” Mr. Garbett said, looking around at them all. “It was the least I could do, really. I hated so to see you go, I truly did, aye?”

  Mrs. Garbett cleared her throat.

  “But of course, it was necessary,” he quickly added. “After...well, we all know, do we no’?”

  Maura forced herself to smile contritely—she gave Mr. Bain a quick look so that he could see she was—and said, “We do, indeed, sir.”

  Bagley entered the room with a silver tray and tots of whisky lined up like little soldiers.

  “Aha, there we are!” Mr. Garbett said. “Pass them around, Bagley, we’ll have a drink to welcome our guests and then go about the business of gathering Miss Darby’s things. Where are they, dearest?” he asked his wife.

  “I hardly know,” Mrs. Garbett said with a sniff. “I had nothing to do with it. I told Hannah to dispose of them.”
>
  Hannah! The same maid who’d gone running to Sorcha to accuse her of kissing Mr. Cadell? Maura would not be the least surprised to find her remaining clothing ripped through with knives, given the animosity that radiated from Mrs. Garbett.

  “Well, then, someone summon Hannah to us, aye?” Mr. Garbett said, fluttering his fingers at one of the footmen. “We’ll have accounting of what she’s done with Miss Darby’s things.”

  “Can you no’ have the accounting in your study, Pappa? I donna see why we all must hear it,” Sorcha said. She had one eye on her fiancé, another on Maura.

  “I most certainly could, mo chridhe, but I prefer to do it here.” He turned from her to Maura. “How did you find my cousin, then?” he asked amicably. “I’ve no’ seen David in many years.”

  Maura blinked. How had she found that old lecherous drunk? Was she to be contrite in her response to that, too? She glanced again at Mr. Bain for reassurance, but he gave her no indication of what she was to say. “I found him...unwell,” she said carefully.

  “What?” Mr. Garbett said, his hand fluttering to his neck. “Has he taken ill, then?”

  Maura shook her head. She would say no more than she had, for she didn’t trust the words that might flow if she began. When she didn’t offer more, Mr. Garbett swiped a tot from the tray Bagley was passing around. “As I said, I’ve no’ seen him in some time.”

  “It was quite obvious to me that you had no’,” Mr. Bain said coolly.

  Well, that was surprising. She glanced at Mr. Bain, but he was looking pointedly at Mr. Garbett, who colored under Mr. Bain’s stark regard before tossing back his whisky in one deep swallow.

  Bagley had just finished handing out the whisky to the rest of them who would partake when Hannah was ushered in by one of the footmen. The poor lass stood scarcely more than five feet tall, and looked about the room with great trepidation.

  “Hannah!” Mr. Garbett said gaily, as if they were having a party, “Hannah, lass, what have you done with Miss Darby’s things, then?”