Nicola Cornick - [Scottish Brides 01]

by The Ladyand the Laird

  “I would like to oblige you,” he murmured, “but I think we should discuss the damage to your reputation that this incident has caused.”

  “You did not think of the damage to my reputation when you decided to impersonate my godmother’s masseur,” Lucy said.

  There was a curious little silence.

  “In point of fact,” Methven said, very gently, “I did. Compromising your reputation was exactly what I was thinking about. Fate presented me with an opportunity and I—” He gave a slight shrug. “I took it.”

  Oh. Oh. Lucy felt her heart jolt with shock as though she had missed a step in the dark.

  He had intended to compromise her. He had done it on purpose.

  A cold feeling of dread crept into Lucy’s chest, smothering her breath. She felt shocked, panicked and suddenly desperately afraid.

  “I don’t understand,” she said slowly.

  “I think you do,” Methven said. She met his eyes and they were so hard and ruthless that she felt a second punch of shock. The panicked sensation in her chest intensified.

  “Is this your revenge for the letters?” she said. She tried to keep her voice steady, but a little quiver betrayed her. “Did you do this deliberately to ruin me?”

  For a moment he looked taken aback and then his mouth twisted wryly. “Even I,” he said, “am not so much of a villain as to do that.” He looked down at her. She could not read his expression, and that troubled her all the more. She felt lost, all of a sudden, uncertain.

  “Since it requires clarification,” Methven said, “I acknowledge that I have compromised your reputation by my scandalous behavior tonight. I therefore deem it a very great honor to offer you my hand in marriage.”

  Lucy had never previously been naked when receiving one of her fifteen marriage proposals. She had never imagined that she would be. It simply was not possible. She was too proper, too perfect. Yet here she was, clad only in her blanket and her drawers, trapped into marriage by the Marquis of Methven.

  She could not marry him. It was out of the question. She could marry no one. She certainly could never give any man an heir.

  The idea terrified her.

  Nor could she ever explain her reasons, not if she was to keep Alice’s secrets, keep the past locked away.

  She tried to concentrate, to still her tumbling thoughts.

  “I think,” she said, “that you may be something of a scoundrel to take such advantage of me.”

  He bowed. “I think,” he said, “that you may be correct.”

  “A man without honor,” Lucy opined hotly.

  He looked pained. “That’s a little harsh.”

  “You may be accustomed to marrying people you barely know,” Lucy said hotly, “but it is not a habit of mine.”

  This time he had the audacity to laugh. “Touché,” he said. “I did not know Miss Brodrie very well, but you and I...” He gestured to the couch and her partially clothed form. “I thought we were doing rather well in getting to know each other.”

  The conversation was not going at all as Lucy had intended it. She felt hot and flustered and completely out of her depth.

  “I cannot concentrate when I have so few clothes on!” she burst out. She struggled to her feet, wrapping the blanket around her for decency, almost losing her grip on it as her hands shook.

  “If you would withdraw,” she said, “whilst I dress, then we may talk.”

  “Of course,” Methven said. “You look delightful and I have no complaints, but if you insist. The blanket is slipping,” he added helpfully.

  With an infuriated squeak Lucy tucked the ends in more securely and scurried off to the dressing room, where Sheena was waiting for her. She half expected the maid to start berating her, to tell her that she had warned her that massage was a dangerous business and that Lucy should have had no truck with it. She was not sure she could bear that Sheena had been proved right.

  “I told you—” the maid began.

  “I know!” Lucy said, cutting her off.

  Sheena’s lips set in a firm line. Without another word she held out Lucy’s underclothes, first the chemise, then her stays. Lucy shivered as they brushed against her bare skin. She felt cold. Her hands shook slightly as she tried to help Sheena with the buttons on the bodice of her blue gown. She found she needed to dress quickly, to feel more in control. It was odd that having previously worn nothing but her drawers she now felt underdressed in an irreproachably respectable gown.

  “I can vouch that nothing untoward occurred, madam,” Sheena said.

  “I don’t think you can,” Lucy said bleakly. She knew perfectly well that her maid’s testimony would count for nothing in the face of scandal. She was utterly compromised, and the only way to save her reputation would be to marry Robert Methven.

  Marriage.

  She felt trapped and cold and afraid. The Marquis of Methven had lost one bride and now he wanted another. He had chosen her. He had compromised her.

  Lucy shivered. When Alice had died she had locked away all thoughts of love and marriage. Her future had changed with Alice’s death. The regret, the shame and bitterness of her sister’s loss weighed on her every day. She could never imagine a life with a husband and a family. She did not want it; she was too afraid. She could never lie with a man, never give him an heir, and it would be unfair to wed any man under those circumstances.

  There was nothing within her but cold, hollow darkness.

  Sheena was fastening her hair with a simple ribbon. “You cannot marry him, ma’am,” she said. “It’s impossible—”

  “I know,” Lucy snapped.

  There seemed little more to say and nothing that could put off any longer her confrontation with Robert Methven. Already the clock had ticked around a half hour and she suspected that if she did not emerge from the dressing room soon, Methven would come in to make sure that she had not climbed out of the window and run away.

  Sheena secured the ribbon. Lucy checked her reflection. She looked the same as she always did, perfectly poised and elegant. There was no indication from her serene image that her stomach churned and she felt chilled and sick.

  Methven was standing where she had left him, hands in the pockets of his jacket, staring out of the wide bow window to the stretch of the bay beyond. There was a frown between his eyebrows. He looked intimidating. Cold fear nibbled at Lucy’s heart. He was so wrong for her in every way, forceful, physical, determined. The Marquis of Methven, she was certain, would never settle for a platonic marriage of convenience. He would want an heir for those estates he was bent on saving. She had to find a way out of this, though she did not know how she could without leaving her reputation in tatters.

  When he saw her he came across and took both her hands in his.

  “You look lovely,” he said. “Though I had a small preference for the blanket.”

  Lucy freed herself and moved away from him. His touch was already confusing her, distracting her from her attempts to order her thoughts logically. His proximity made her feel light-headed and heated. Until Robert Methven had stepped back into her life, she had imagined that she would never feel passion, never experience desire. He could make her feel both, but the fear in her was far stronger.

  “Marriage is a business arrangement, Lord Methven,” she said, struggling to regain her composure, smoothing her skirts as she sat down. “Let us then discuss business.”

  His lips twitched. There was a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “How very practical you are, Lady Lucy,” he said. “By all means let us do so.” He took the chair opposite her, stretching his long legs out in front of him and crossing them at the ankle. He waited politely for her to continue.

  “Did you come to Durness specifically with the intention of compromising me?” Lucy demanded.

  He inclined his head. “I came to make you an offer of marriage.”

  “Then why not do so in an honorable manner?” Lucy asked. She took a deep breath and tried to steady herself. It was not easy
, not under that perceptive blue gaze that seemed to see right into her soul.

  He did not hesitate. “You would have refused me,” he said.

  He was right; she would have done so. She could not in truth deny it.

  When she did not immediately speak, he spread his hands wide in a gesture of appeal. “Forgive me,” he said, “but I had no other option than to force your hand.”

  “I do not forgive you.” Lucy’s voice cracked. She was shocked at the depth of her disappointment in him. “It’s blackmail. You are completely without honor.”

  He corrected her, his jaw rigid. “My allegiance, my honor, is to my clan. That has to be my first loyalty.”

  There was a silence. He made no excuse, no further attempt to justify his actions.

  Lucy pressed her fingers to her temples. Her head was aching. She wanted to refuse him here and now, to tell him she would never marry him, that it was out of the question. The problem was that she doubted he would accept a blunt rejection. He would want to know why she was prepared to sacrifice her reputation rather than marry him.

  She was trapped. Somehow she had to persuade him to release her instead. She had no idea how she was going to do it, but it was her only hope.

  She raised her eyes to his face. He looked so unyielding that she almost lost her nerve there and then, but she dug her nails into her palms and forced herself to calm.

  “I understood that your choice of bride was severely limited by the terms of your inheritance, my lord,” she said. “In what way has that changed?”

  “It has changed only in that you are an eligible bride,” Methven said. He smiled, that sudden warm smile that always took her by surprise. “You are familiar with your family tree?”

  “Not in any detail,” Lucy said. “Do you have a copy of it with you?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Methven said. “You will just have to take my word for it. I have had the best lawyers in Edinburgh working on the matter.”

  Of course he had. He would hardly make so fundamental a mistake over something so important. Lucy bit her lip. This, evidently, was not the way out.

  “I had no notion that I was on your list of potential wives,” she said coldly.

  Somewhere near the bottom, if Dulcibella Brodrie was higher up.

  The thought popped into her head and irritated her all the more. It was irrelevant. Worse than that, it was foolish. She was not sure why she should care, but for some reason she did. She was too proud to stand in line behind Dulcibella.

  Methven’s smile broadened as though he had recognized the contrariness of her feelings. “I had no idea either,” he said, “or you may be sure that I would have approached you before I offered for Miss Brodrie.”

  That brought Lucy’s gaze up to his with a jerk. He was watching her, the amusement still in his blue eyes, and behind that there was a warmth that caused the blood to beat harder in her veins. She cleared her throat and tried to focus her thoughts. She was going about things quite the wrong way if she intended to refuse him.

  “I cannot marry you,” she said. It came out rather more baldly than she had intended, but she felt relieved that the truth was out. “You will have to find another lady to wed.”

  She saw his gaze sharpen on her. There was still amusement there, but there was something harder now too, ruthless, determined.

  “You are refusing me,” he said. A slow smile curled his lips. “I confess I did not believe you would.” He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs. He did not take his gaze from her face. “I had assumed,” he said, “that as you were all but naked, allowing me quite shocking intimacies with your body, you would see the necessity of a speedy engagement.”

  Lucy concentrated hard on blocking out the words naked, shocking intimacies, and body, especially in conjunction with one another. She was not entirely successful. A tickle of heat curled low in her belly, lighting her blood with fire. She blinked rapidly.

  She needed to concentrate, not on her physical response to him, which was wayward and unhelpful, but on her rational argument.

  “I do not wish to marry,” she said, “and it is wrong of you to try to blackmail me into it.”

  She had to focus on the one absolute, the only thing that was important, because when she looked into his eyes she tended to forget every last ounce of reason.

  “I am aware that blackmail is wrong,” Methven said calmly. “However, if we are speaking of wrongdoing, it was wrong of you to write the letters that lost me my bride. This is recompense, a bride for a bride.”

  He straightened and sat back in the chair, politely awaiting her response.

  Lucy was struggling. “I acknowledge that I was in part responsible for Lachlan’s elopement with Miss Brodrie,” she said, “but I cannot wed you to make good the loss. You will have to find another wife.” She drew a breath as she came to the most important point of her refusal. “It would be most ungallant of you to make public the manner in which I was compromised tonight. No gentleman would deliberately ruin a lady’s reputation for personal gain. So—” She forced herself to look him straight in the eye. “I can only beg you to accept my refusal of your offer and we shall say no more about it.”

  There was silence, thick and heavy. Outside, the dusk was falling and twilight was gathering over the sea. The lengthening shadows in the room made it even more difficult than normal to read Robert Methven’s expression. Lucy felt edgy and ill at ease, but she forced herself to stay still in her chair and await his response.

  He got to his feet abruptly and paced across toward the wide bay window before turning to look at her again, as though she were a puzzle he was trying to unlock. The last of the evening light fell across his face, and now she could read his thoughts in his eyes. He was amused by her staunch refusal to succumb to his blackmail. She could see it in the gleam of humor there. He admired her strength. At the same time he was cursing her stubbornness. She could sense frustration in him, as well.

  “If I fail to fulfill the terms of the fifteenth-century treaty,” he said slowly, “your cousin Wilfred Cardross takes half my estate. You know that.” His eyes came back to hers, and Lucy’s heart jolted at what she saw there. “Make no mistake,” he said, “keeping my ancestral clan lands safe is more important to me than anything, Lady Lucy. What I have, I hold.”

  A long, slow shiver tickled down Lucy’s spine. In the back of her mind echoed Lady Kenton’s words:

  A hero fresh from the battlefield...

  Robert Methven would fight for what he wanted and would fight to keep safe what was his. She had never before seen such single-minded determination in a man. She turned away from the blaze of resolve in his eyes. It felt as though it scorched her.

  “You are my only chance,” he said simply. “There is no one else I can wed.”

  Lucy’s heart lurched with shock. She had not been expecting that. Her eyes flew to his face. “There must be!” she said. “There has to be! Surely—” she threw out a hand “—if I am eligible, then so must Mairi or Christina be—” Something in his expression stopped her.

  “For various reasons they are ineligible.” His voice was still soft. “There is only you, Lucy.”

  It was the first time he had called her by her name. The intimacy of it made her shiver. So did the thought that no one else could help him, because it meant that he would be all the more implacable in claiming her. She rubbed her bare arms to warm herself then reached for the shawl that lay over the side of the sofa. The cool May evening still required a fire, and there had been no time to light one.

  Methven came across to her and leaned down to place his hands on the arms of her chair, caging her there. He studied her face, his blue eyes intent. He did not touch her, but she felt very aware of him, intimidated by his physical presence, almost overwhelmed by the sheer powerful masculinity that emanated from him. It made her heart pound and her entire body stir.

  “I cannot let you go, Lucy,” he said. “Surely you must see that? But I would f
ar rather persuade you to my cause than force you to the altar by telling everyone of your disgrace.”

  Lucy stood up. She felt as though she had to in order to regain some sort of control. It was a mistake, though, as it brought her closer to him rather than putting distance between them. At such close quarters he was even more disturbingly masculine and physical.

  “Please, Lucy,” he said. “Help me.”

  There was such passion and demand in his eyes. Lucy thought of Wilfred seizing Methven land and turning off the men with no work, the women and children to poverty and starvation. She screwed her eyes up tightly to ward off the images in her mind, but she could not escape them.

  “I can’t...” she said helplessly. “Truly. I wish I could, but—” Her voice cracked with despair.

  Robert was so close. He took another step forward until his body touched hers. Lucy was trembling now, rooted to the spot. She raised her eyes to his face. How stern it was, with shadows darkening the cleft of his chin and the grooves in his lean cheeks and with the hint of evening stubble darkening his hard jaw. She felt a sudden violent urge to raise a hand and run her fingers over the line of his cheek and chin, relishing that roughness against her skin. Her awareness of him hit her again with all the force of a tidal wave. She felt as though she might dissolve under the weight of it. Suddenly her mouth was dry and her pulse pounded in her throat.

  “Help me,” he said again. His breath feathered across her cheek. His lips were an inch from hers now.

  A curious shiver rippled through Lucy. She opened her mouth to tell him she could not, but no words came. He raised a hand and brushed the hair away from her cheek. His lips touched the corner of her mouth. Her knees were trembling now, her toes curling in her slippers.

  His lips grazed hers. She thought she would melt if he did not kiss her properly and very likely explode if he did. Then he took her mouth with his and it was her last thought for a very long time.