by Lily Maxton
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Acknowledgments
About the Author
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Lily Maxton. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
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Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Scandalous is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Alycia Tornetta
Cover design by Yellow Prelude Design, LLC
Cover art from DepositPhotos and Jenn LeBlanc photography from Novel Expression, LLC
ISBN 978-1-64063-494-7
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition March 2018
For Josh
Chapter One
The Highlands, Scotland
1814
It began with a fire, and then a flood. A more superstitious man might have thought these were ill tidings, but Robert Townsend had never been very superstitious. These mishaps had concrete, observable causes—lightning, in the first case. A storm darkened the sky to the west, brought with it gusts of wind and ominous thunder, and then a searing bolt of lightning lit up the black sky like a firework. It happened to strike the thatch roof of the cottage of one Ian Cameron—the informal factor of the Arden estate—and set his house ablaze.
Cameron escaped the fire and even managed to save his possessions. But the cottage couldn’t be salvaged—it burned down to the stones of its foundation, to the rubble of what used to be a life. Georgina, Robert’s sister, and Frances, his sister-in-law’s aunt, insisted Cameron stay at Llynmore Castle until it could be rebuilt. They had plenty of room, they said, all sorts of chambers that weren’t even used—it would be no trouble at all.
Robert, out of a sense of politeness, agreed.
Ian Cameron seemed reluctant but moved in anyway, in lieu of any better options. Many of the tenants had whole families inside a small cottage—it would be a tight fit if he decided to stay with one of them. And the few abandoned cottages still dotting the landscape were in disrepair. At Llynmore he’d have a room of his own and a roof that didn’t leak over his head.
At least, this was what Robert assumed the man was thinking. He didn’t actually know, because he didn’t speak much to his brother’s factor, and Cameron’s face was aggravatingly impassive when he did. As though Robert was a fly buzzing around—not exactly annoying, but it might prove to be annoying if it droned on for too long.
Not that Robert cared. The man was his brother’s employee, not a family friend. Except…well…people usually liked Robert if he made an effort to be friendly—which he had; it made sense to be on good terms with Llynmore’s servants—and the Highlander couldn’t seem to care less.
It was like a sliver underneath Robert’s skin. It would have bothered him, had he dwelled on it much.
Which he didn’t, of course.
He had more important things to worry about.
His brother and sister-in-law, Lord and Lady Arden, were somewhere outside Glasgow at an exclusive country house party. Theo hated society, and he hated their parties even more, but he’d been invited by one of the lords who sat in Parliament, and Theo and Annabel were hoping to get support for a bill regarding wounded soldiers returning from the war, a cause close to both of their hearts. Robert knew Theo was also making an attempt to be more comfortable in society by starting out slowly.
But that meant Llynmore Castle was under Robert’s watch for the time being, and he was determined that when his brother returned, it wouldn’t be toppled to the ground, Georgina would not be ruined, and Aunt Frances wouldn’t have joined a traveling acting troupe.
Surely these were small, achievable goals.
Surely nothing too unexpected would happen—they were in the middle of nowhere, after all.
And that might have been the case—the handful of weeks of Theo and Annabel’s absence might have passed as uneventfully as every other week at Llynmore did, if the flood hadn’t arrived next.
The rain had come after the lightning. It was unfortunate—different timing and Ian Cameron’s dry thatch roof might not have caught fire so easily—but these were the ironies one had to either laugh at or weep over, and Robert chose more often to laugh. He wasn’t sure what Ian Cameron’s philosophy was.
Not that he cared.
The rain came, and stayed. It saturated the ground, muddied the roads, and confined everyone to the castle. Robert was writing by the faint glow of candlelight one night, the window rattling from fierce gusts of wind, the rain tapping an angry tattoo against the glass.
An angry tattoo… Maybe he should use that.
He had just pressed his finely sharpened quill tip to parchment again when a thump, thump, thump made him jolt. He dropped the quill, flinging black ink all across the page.
“Damnation,” he muttered. As he tried to blot the mess with a handkerchief and save his work, he realized the thump, thump, thump hadn’t ceased.
Someone was pounding at the door.
It wasn’t a sound they heard very often at Llynmore, which might have been why it took so long to recognize it. He shrugged back into his coat, which he’d draped over the chair, and went down the corridor. He nearly collided with Georgina—who emerged from her room with the alacrity of motion she always exhibited, day or night. She lifted a brass candlestick to cast light over his face.
“Who do you think it is?” she whispered. She must have pulled a dress on hastily; the ties hung loose down her back. Theo probably would have told her to make herself more presentable, but Robert wasn’t much of a disciplinarian…and he was mostly grateful she hadn’t come out in a dressing robe.
“No idea.”
“I’ll go with you. You might need my protection.”
Robert chose to ignore this remark. He was quite capable of defending himself. But he was also quite sure Georgina would not hesitate to thunk someone in the skull with a candlestick, and if there were multiple assailants, he might need assistance.
He shook his head, realizing he was thinking like a character in a novel. In real life, when people arrived at someone’s home, it was for perfectly harmless reasons.
Usually.
Though, in Robert’s defense, this lonely, old castle was eerie enough at
night, much less in the middle of a storm.
The thumping continued.
“If they don’t stop, they shall wake up Frances,” Georgina said worriedly.
“I don’t think anything short of a cannon blast would wake up Frances.”
His sister nodded, as though conceding his point.
They reached the door at the same time Catriona, their housemaid—whose bedchamber was closest to the entrance—was pulling it open. She obviously didn’t have as active an imagination as Robert and Georgina, because she looked more irritated than alarmed.
In the doorway stood five well-dressed but bedraggled people. One of them, a middle-aged man, stepped into the hall and proceeded to drip water and mud onto the floor.
Robert heard Catriona sigh.
“Oh, thank goodness,” the man said in a crisp, clear, and very English accent. “We almost died crossing a flooded bridge, and then the wheel of our cart got stuck in the mud and the axle broke. We didn’t know if we’d be able to find shelter, and then we nearly walked straight into your curtain wall.” His gaze went to Robert. “Please, sir, do you have room for us?”
They had room, certainly. Robert wasn’t certain, however, how equipped they were to handle five unexpected guests. But he wasn’t going to turn away a group of stranded travelers looking for shelter.
“Of course,” he said, stepping aside. “For as long as you need it. Come in.”
This was the moment, he would think later. He didn’t have to be so generous. He could have told them they could stay the night and leave the next day.
This was his mistake.
Or, maybe, it was the best decision he’d ever made.
It was funny, life. Each new moment, each new choice, was another roll of the dice. And all one could do was wait and see where it landed.
Catriona showed their unexpected guests to spare rooms and provided dry linens and hot water. Robert had just pulled on a dark-blue box coat when Ian Cameron emerged from the stairwell. He must have been sleeping when the knocks sounded; like Georgina, he had the appearance of hastily pulling on clothes—dark, loose trousers and a white linen shirt—and his thick red-brown hair was tousled. His shirt was open at the throat, untied, and Robert was a bit startled by a view of the hollow of the man’s throat, a smattering of dark hair at the top of his chest, and the strong, graceful sweep of collarbone.
He looked like a rake, just tumbled out of bed after a long, sultry night—except he was too proud, too work-worn, too wiry with muscles born from daily labor to ever truly be mistaken for one. Robert glanced around, wondering if he should tell the other man to put on some clothes in mixed company. But they were alone in the hall—Georgina must have left to help Catriona—and Robert simply stared at him for too long a moment.
Or rather, stared at that flash of vulnerable skin, pale from being hidden from the sun. He quickly jerked his gaze back up, ignoring a sudden pulse of want, a frisson of heat deep in his stomach.
As he always did around Ian Cameron.
It wasn’t really his fault—the man looked like a damn Roman statue come to life, all broad shoulders and hard planes and sweet, sculpted lines.
Of course, any frisson of heat was doused like fire in a cold rain when they actually spoke to each other. It was a pity, really—if Cameron’s body reminded Robert of a marble sculpture, his personality was built to match.
“What’s happening?” Cameron’s voice rasped just the slightest bit from sleep. His Highland accent sounded softer, somehow, at night—edges blurred, sharp points rounded. “I thought I heard something.”
“You did,” Robert said. The words came out unexpectedly curt, and Robert winced inwardly—he didn’t want the other man to think he was bothered by all the stoic glances, the cool stares, the way his mouth wouldn’t even curve when Robert made a jest. But he wasn’t sure if Cameron had even noticed—he didn’t look daunted in the slightest.
“Some travelers,” Robert finally said and went on to explain the situation. “They said they had a few more valises in the cart; I was just going to retrieve them.”
Cameron glanced toward the door, which was currently being battered by a fresh gale. “I’ll help.”
“That’s not necessary,” Robert said.
“I don’t want Lord Arden to return to his brother drowned in a rainstorm while I stand here and watch.”
Robert’s gut tightened with annoyance. He could take care of himself—Cameron didn’t have to act like he was some pitiful creature he needed to protect for the sake of his employer. But Robert didn’t really feel like arguing with him. He doubted it would help.
So he started toward the door instead, hesitated, and then pulled a cloak from the hook. He tossed it toward Cameron, who caught it in midair. He was a little irritated with himself for the small kindness, but old habits died hard, and he didn’t particularly want to see Cameron’s shirt plastered to his chest.
Actually, he’d very much like to see it, which meant he should avoid it at all costs.
Cameron was broader than Robert, a bit wider in the shoulders, but Robert was a couple of inches taller. He felt a strange shot of satisfaction when he saw that the cloak, which went to the ankle on him, was touching the floor on Cameron.
Together, they trudged out into the storm. They didn’t speak. Even if they’d wanted to, which Robert doubted, the rain and wind would have drowned out their voices. Robert navigated with an oil lamp, a weak light in the dark night, but it was just enough to see the path in front of him.
They found the cart, stuck in the muddy, narrow road that went past the castle, and Cameron grabbed two valises that looked quite heavy without straining at all. Robert was left with a small portmanteau.
He felt like Cameron had just lifted a glove and smacked him across the face in insult. But getting in a fight with his brother’s factor regarding how much each of them should carry was completely ridiculous, so he clutched the portmanteau and they walked silently back to the castle.
Just as he was stepping inside, a dark, wet blur shot past his feet and sent him sprawling. He fully expected to land face-first on the hard stone of the great hall, but a hand caught his arm and hauled him up roughly.
“Watch yerself.”
Watch himself? It wasn’t Robert’s fault the bloody cat was a menace. The servants’ door had a hole cut from the bottom, specifically so the cat—named Willoughby by Annabel—could come and go, and he still insisted on using the entrance to the great hall instead.
A bit high in the instep really, that scoundrel Willoughby.
Robert didn’t dislike cats, but he’d always been more of a dog person himself—one knew where one stood with a dog. They didn’t stare at a person with those unreadable, impassive eyes. With cats, it was impossible to tell if they liked you or if they might be plotting your murder.
Rather like a certain person he knew. Except that was more of a debate between complete and utter indifference or murder.
He pulled his arm from Cameron’s grasp. Too quickly. Too abruptly. “Thank you,” he said, trying to sound calm.
He usually got along with people much better than this. He usually had no trouble being charming enough to get past their defenses when he chose to. And he’d tried. He couldn’t say he hadn’t tried. Cameron was either all defenses, or he just didn’t like Robert very much.
Robert didn’t know why he let it bother him—he shouldn’t care about the opinion of one lowly factor.
But around Ian Cameron, Robert felt like a piece of refuse, and he was starting to hate it.
And the feeling was made all the more potent by the desire that he couldn’t seem to shake.
He turned toward the man. His hair was slick with rain, curling into wet tangles at the nape of his neck, and darkened, like red-black velvet. “Why do you dislike me?” Robert blurted out. “I’ve never been unkind to you, have I?”
Cameron cocked his head. There was an expression, there and then gone. Robert didn’t have time to d
ecipher it.
“Dislike ye?” He almost sounded amused. His lips were curved slightly, more of a smirk than a smile. Cameron seemed incapable of a pure smile, of happiness without a touch of derision. “Why do you assume I think of you at all?”
Robert felt heat crawling up his throat.
Before he could even figure out how to respond, Cameron was speaking again. “Thank you for the coat,” he said, as pleasantly and formally and coolly polite as though the last few seconds hadn’t even occurred.
He dropped the cloak into Robert’s hand, leaned against the wall to peel off his muddy shoes, and then strode away without a backward glance.
Robert felt like he’d just been dismissed by someone of higher rank. Theo really shouldn’t employ someone who was so…undeferential. Of course, maybe he was perfectly deferential when Theo was around. Maybe it was just Robert.
Why do you assume I think of you at all?
His grip tightened on the cloak. The silk lining was still warm from the heat of Cameron’s body, from sleep-warmed skin. He quickly draped it over a hook.
Why, indeed.
Chapter Two
Ian Cameron was going through some of the quarry expenses when a knock sounded at his door. It was past dawn, but the sky was still dark from low-hanging clouds. He paused, wondering if he could ignore it, but whoever was knocking had probably already seen the light from his candle seeping beneath the door.
He half expected it to be Townsend.
His pulse kicked up. From irritation. Fine…maybe not entirely from irritation. He could admit Robert Townsend was as handsome as the devil, and he had a voice to match, deep and dark and smooth and curled with smoke at the edges.
He hadn’t thought it would be a problem when he’d agreed to move in temporarily. He’d observed the man—couldn’t help but observe him—and been relieved to find that Townsend didn’t have much else to recommend him. He was like a nicely wrapped package with nothing in it, and Ian wasn’t so young that he found that appealing.
