A Scot to Remember (Something About a Highlander Book 1)

by Angeline Fortin

  Was he falling for her? How could he?

  He knew nothing about her at all.

  He’d made love to her over and over, poured out his soul. Yet he knew nothing.

  The reminder of what he’d come in search of sank back in. As did the questions he had for her. Old and new.

  Entwining his fingers with hers, he lifted her hand and studied the kanji figures tattooed on the inside of her wrist. He hadn’t noticed them before. Then again, she—like most ladies—wore gloves in public. Brushing the pad of his thumb across the symbols, he wondered what they meant and what had driven her to permanently defile her exquisite body in such a manner. He was also curious how she’d come to learn to speak Chinese.

  These were merely the newest questions in a growing arsenal.

  Nay, the newest addressed what she’d been wearing last night.

  With a sigh, he rolled over and dug through the pile of clothing on the floor to retrieve her shirt. The soft cotton jersey was similar to that used in long union suits or drawers, though this was thinner, lighter in weight than he’d seen before. He knew from friends and family in the military that similar shirts had recently been adopted to be worn as underclothes beneath uniforms. They were also all white.

  He ran his thumb over the ribbed neckline, turning it to examine the binding seam that attached it to the body of the garment. A silken fold of cloth was attached at one side. It bore the imprint of scrolling letters H and M with a smaller M centered beneath them.

  It made no sense.

  “What’re you doin’?” If there were such a thing as a sweet feminine grumble, this was it. “Come back.”

  Over his shoulder, he saw she’d turned on to her back and rubbed her eyes tiredly. Her fingers slid up into her hair, untangling the snarled length before she stretched long and taut with a disgruntled mewl. The movement caused the sheet to slip below her bare breasts and expose her lithe midsection to his ravenous eyes. Arousal stirred yet again.

  Incredible.

  With a huff and a grumble, she flopped on to her side facing him and dragged the covers back up. When she buried her face in the pillow, humor tugged at him. His lass wasn’t a morning person.

  As if reminding him of the hour, birds began to sing outside the window. Unable to help himself, he kissed her temple. “I need to leave.”

  A hand emerged from the blankets and groped for his. “Stay.”

  The muffled grunt brought a smile to his lips. Demanding, too. “I cannot, lass. We cannot risk someone finding me here.”

  She flung back the covers and glared at him from beneath the tousled masses of hair trailing over her face and pillow. Och, but she was a grumpy one when she awoke.

  Damned if he didn’t find that arousing as well.

  She glowered at him looking as if she were going to argue. If Tris were honest with himself, the mildest hint of invitation would have been difficult to resist. Instead she surprised him.

  “Fine,” she groused, yanking the covers back over her head. “Go.”

  Amusement warred with the urge to crawl back under the sheets and allay her grumpiness in a way that would cheer and please them both. Instead with a chuckle, he pulled on his clothes.

  It wasn’t until he slipped out of the room that Tris realized he’d gotten much out of the night. More than he’d imagined.

  None of what he’d originally desired.

  Chapter 21

  That night

  She was beginning to feel a bit like Edwardian Barbie. Complete with a Gibson Girl hairdo and three steamer trunks of gowns for hours of fun-filled dress up time. Brontë had several of the dolls growing up. Now she wondered if the poor things would have been as miserable as she at the prospect of being stuffed into yet another gown.

  In any given day, there was a morning dress, another for tea time, and yet another for dinner. These were for time spent indoors. There were dresses designed for walking. Specifically. As an activity. Simple combinations of skirts and blouses for other outdoor pursuits. Add in any other endeavor, add another gown. As she’d had for travelling.

  Tonight, it was a ballgown. Not a mere evening gown or reception dress. From a design perspective, there was little to distinguish one from the other. The unseen difference made no sense to her. Not that she didn’t appreciate their detail and beauty. With labels like Paquin, Soeurs, Drècoll and Worth, each one was a feast for the eyes, and a spark to her imagination. The better part of the afternoon had been spent examining seams, tucks and darts, breaking down the construction of the particularly stunning gown Maddie was currently fastening up the back so that she might be able to replicate the pattern.

  Yes, as a costume designer they were a treat. As Barbie modeling one after another, not quite as much fun.

  “You look lovely, dearest!”

  Hazel’s assurance wasn’t intended entirely to compliment, rather to rationalize the time and effort that went into each change of clothes. A discussion they were having only because Brontë was running late in getting ready after losing track of time in her sketching.

  She’d spent hours more the previous night before dinner drawing out the construction of the steamer trunks her clothes had been packed in and now stood empty after the garments were removed to the wardrobe and dresser in her room. As a child, she’d seen old trunks in Granny’s attic. Their cracked leather tarnished brass fittings and stained paper linings were nothing compared to seeing one new. Sleek and shining on the outside, the inner works were far more fascinating in their functionality. One opened up so that when stood on its long side, the two halves created a standing bureau with deep drawers on the bottom slanting up to small jewelry drawers at the top. Ingenious.

  Although not so engrossing that they demanded hours of attention of their own merit. Brontë had let herself be distracted by idle pursuits to avoid talking to Tris. He wanted answers after Henry’s calamity, and she sought to circumvent providing them. She’d never imagined with his proper behavior he’d come to her room looking for them.

  She was sublimely glad he had, despite the shock that seized her when she saw him at her door. The questions raging in his mind had been obvious. Justified, even. The blatant hunger that swept them away had been equally apparent. Faced with two options, the choice of which to encourage hadn’t been difficult. The latter was far more preferable than the former. She’d never in her life attempted such a bold seduction. How she’d been rewarded!

  She’d been right in her supposition regarding Tris’s aptitude in bed. He was thorough to say the least.

  “All the gentlemen will be at your feet, as lovely as you are,” Hazel assured her further.

  Brontë didn’t want them all at her feet. She wanted Tris there, so he could work his way up. Again. That half hour had been the most transcendent of her entire life.

  On the other hand, she had no idea what was going through his head today. After infuriating her for days on end with his random bouts of sexism and rocking her world with sex worthy of world records, he confounded her today with his withdrawal behind that façade of scrupulous gentleman. All reserve and restraint. A pretense surely, as she now had a profound sense of the passionate man beneath the manners.

  Not to say he ignored her. He was attentive and thoughtful, dropping not one single chauvinistic reference along the way. He’d invited her to play billiards with his father and uncles after lunch since a light rain had fallen all afternoon. His mother and two of his aunts had joined them. After tea he’d played the piano for her with astonishing talent. He sang, as well, hardly offering the tiniest of comments about her inability to carry a tune.

  In her defense, singing with headphones on and a toothbrush in her mouth didn’t foster the best singing conditions. She hadn’t been able to tease him in turn or make any reference to the long hours spent in her bed. There hadn’t been a single moment alone with him all day for her to do so.

  “He’s courting you, dearest,” Hazel told her after noting — with open enthusiasm — the
time Brontë and Tris spent together.

  She scowled at Hazel in the mirror, keeping her head straight as Maddie fixed her hair. She could argue she’d spent as much social time in Dorian’s company or Laurie’s. Neither one had romance on his mind. Dorian was focused on the war ahead, while Laurie admitted to being head over heels with another of the young ladies present, though he wouldn’t tell her which one. “I seriously doubt that. Why would he?”

  “He likes you.”

  She liked him, too. Hardly grounds for marriage. They’d known each other for a grand total of five days so far. Six, if she were being generous and counting their meeting two years before. More than two weeks if she argued in the time she’d spent back home before returning here to stay again. Not enough time to cinch a lifetime commitment.

  Though it was more than enough to warrant another long night of soul-shattering sex, she admitted. One night hadn’t been enough.

  Watching in the mirror as the maid tucked a headband of colorful, sparkling crystals arranged in a floral pattern across the top of her head, she thought about the imprudence of Hazel’s speculation. Marriage? Was anyone so foolish? It had taken her almost six months to decide to move in with Jake. Obviously, even that had been too soon.

  Maddie hid the ends of the band among the curls of the intricate hairdo she’d created. Giving it a final pat, she fastened matching earrings to her lobes. Shifting her gaze, Brontë studied Hazel in the mirror. Her ancestor smiled back. Ever sunny and cheerful on the outside, disguising the shrewd woman who lurked beneath the surface. She knew how to get what she wanted without ever appearing too demanding. She played Henry like a fiddle…an adored and treasured fiddle, but still. He hadn’t a clue.

  It didn’t seem anyone did. Brontë was on to her, however.

  Her sweet ancestor had gotten it into her head to play matchmaker and enlisted Henry to help. They’d colluded to throw her and Tris together. Other than the billiards, which Tris suggested, Hazel had coaxed the trip to the music room out of him and wheedled commitments to go bicycling, play lawn bowls and take that trip to the neighboring castle in the days to come. Well aware of their conspiracy, Brontë hadn’t tried to subvert their efforts. As she said, she liked Tris. A lot.

  Hazel played deep, deeper than Brontë had imagined. It hadn’t occurred to her their intentions included an expedient — and permanent — goal.

  Shit, she didn’t want to marry Tris. She simply wanted to use him for sex, sex and more sex.

  She should share that goal with Hazel. The subject would surely change then.

  Sitting motionless while Maddie patted rouge and powder on her cheeks, she formulated a more period-appropriate response. “It would seem to me, if spending time with a lady is any determination of the facts, that Tris is courting Miss Hamilton. Far more ardently than me.”

  He’d spent much of his time at the young woman’s side over the past couple days. And so far remained the younger woman’s companion at each meal. If there were any matchmaking going on, the women in charge here were clearly Team Janice.

  “I will admit Lady MacKintosh has had Miss Hamilton in mind for Tris for quite some years,” Hazel admitted. “However, that’s merely because he’s shown no interest for another. Now he has. Most assuredly once she takes notice of his preference for you, she’ll support the match.”

  “There is no match! I don’t want to marry him any more than he wants to marry me. He’s only twenty-six,” she protested, aware that an argument including her advanced years would hold no weight with the lady. “Give him a chance to have some fun before driving the nail into the coffin.”

  Maddie coughed at that unable to fully disguise a laugh. “Apologies, miss.”

  “It’s fine, Maddie. But you see my point?” she asked them both.

  “Fun and sport aren’t what Tris wants or needs,” Hazel argued. “He’s had a lifetime of it already. He longs for something more. Can’t you see it?”

  “I don’t know him,” she pointed out.

  Hazel met her eyes in the mirror, all the artless innocence she projected to the world absent from her solemn gaze. “Don’t you? Oh, you may not know the details, but you know him. I’d wager from the instant you met.”

  Brontë fidgeted under her scrutiny. “What I know is that you’re not only a hopeless romantic, you’re a master manipulator. The world would be shocked if they were aware of the depths of your machinations.”

  As if the accusation signaled her triumph in the dispute, Hazel stood and handed her the pair of gloves she’d been holding. “See? You can look at someone and know them inside and out. It’s a rare talent.”

  Talent? Not everyone came with an instruction manual as Hazel had.

  The world would be a kinder place if they did.

  Chapter 22

  “Woman driving? Ha! I said as much during our croquet match yesterday, isn’t that right, Henry? The female temperament isn’t suited for the mental strain of high-speed travel.”

  Brontë was tempted to take her female temperament and shove it up Wyndom’s ass, right along with her foot. He was proving himself to be more of a chauvinistic oaf than Tris could ever hope to be on his worst days. Tris’s quirks were period appropriate, excusable. Led by kindness and chivalry. Other than a few spurts of ignorance about a woman’s place in the world, he was learning and willing to adapt.

  Wyndom, on the other hand, was a hard-core misogynist.

  Personally, she’d rather be anywhere else than within earshot of his bullshit. More than a few times in the past few days, she’d been subjected to some of his more notable ridicule ranging on everything from the role of women in the world — barefoot and pregnant were the tiniest tip of the iceberg with him — to the misrepresented greatness of the German state. She couldn’t understand how a woman as bright and headstrong as Hannah Merrill put up with him. Unfortunately, Hazel planted a firm foot on the train of Brontë’s dress when she’d tried to run, pinning her there.

  In that moment, her reasons for staying on longer than needed didn’t outweigh the negative ramifications. Was another night with Tris worth this torture?

  “That is what you said,” Henry confirmed, toying with his pocket watch. “I believe my argument was that women are made of sterner stuff than men give them credit for. The trials of housekeeping and motherhood, for example.”

  “High levels of mental anguish,” Brontë added for the sake of argument. Like right now.

  “I agree with my husband, Mr. Wyndom,” Hazel said. “I don’t believe you’re giving ladies their due.”

  Wyndom laughed. “Motherhood is ingrained in the female mind by rote. The unpredictable nature of driving and reflexes required to do so are quite beyond them, I say.”

  Henry lifted his head as the orchestra at the end of the room set their bows to their instruments. “Ah, at last.” Clearly Brontë wasn’t the only one eager for escape. He turned to his wife. “Shall we dance, my love?”

  “I’d prefer the waltz, dear,” Hazel declined gently.

  Brontë perked up when he looked at her. “What do you say, my dear?”

  “I’d lo —” Hazel kicked her in the shin before bringing her foot back down on her dress.

  “I disagree, Mr. Wyndom. Any number of ladies of my acquaintance would enjoy a turn behind the wheel,” Hannah chided without the heat or escalated verbiage he deserved. She didn’t even roll her eyes. “Without the slightest heart palpitation, I might add. My mother is one of them.”

  “As am I,” Brontë chimed in Hannah’s defense and that of women everywhere.

  “Aye, I can assure you Miss Hughes knows her way around a motorcar.”

  She looked up at Tris as he came to her side. Her first instance of pleasure in an otherwise unenviable night. He was incredibly handsome in a stark black and white tux and tails even more formal than the tuxedo he’d worn to the theater. Starched and tidy, the yearning to muss him up coiled low in her belly. Oh yes, another night with him was worth any sacrifice. Alb
eit one as insufferable as Heath Wyndom came close. Without doubt, she’d be well and thoroughly compensated.

  “You ladies looked in need of refreshment.” He carried a champagne flute in one hand and two in the other. He held one out to her and the others to Hazel and Hannah.

  “Or rescue,” she muttered under her breath as she lifted the glass to her lips.

  “Henry,” Hazel said quietly. “I believe Hannah might enjoy the fox trot.”

  Henry swept her away while Brontë looked on with envy. True Hannah needed a white knight to save her more than she did. While understandable, she didn’t appreciate her sacrificial role in Hazel’s latest romantic manipulation. At least Tris was here now and would ask her to dance, sparing her further torture. That’s what gentlemen did, wasn’t it? And beyond all else, Tris was that. Hazel had removed her foot from the train of Brontë dress. A clear sign of dismissal she was eternally grateful for.

  “Never say you would condone Miss Hughes driving?” Wyndom sneered, unwilling to let the subject drop despite the loss of half his audience. How did these people maintain such good manners with an oaf who had none?

  “I would.” Tris surprised her by answering. “I’d go so far as to let her take out my new Silver Ghost.”

  Wyndom gaped and stuttered.

  To be fair, Brontë was equally surprised. “How about the Bearcat?”

  He grinned down at her, igniting a spark of joy. “One step at a time.”

  Wyndom found his voice. “Under strict supervision, I should think!”

  Enough was enough.

  She turned her face into Tris’s arm and coughed. “Save me.”

  “What?”

  * * *

  Surely, he hadn’t heard her right. “What?”

  “Save me,” she choked again.

  Aye, he had.

  A huff of laughter escaped him as he watched her upend her glass and down the bubbly liquid in one gulp. Och, she kept him on his toes with her unpredictability, her quirky and sometimes inappropriate humor. She continued to surprise him.