Passion and Plunder

by Cameron, Collette

Farnsworth had made his desires patently apparent.

  “What are we to do? His health is so fragile, I’m loath to disappoint him.” She pulled a face and kicked at the rug’s fringed corner. “What a confounded tangle.”

  “I suggest we call off the entire tournament. Since the contest games changed, men be leavin’ already. After I’ve spoken to yer father, presented our proposal, we can arrange a marriage settlement.”

  “Our proposal?” She laughed, that contagious lilting trill that made him grin in agreement. “We cannot, as you must know full well. Have you forgotten you’re married? In any event, I’m certain Da would never agree, and I cannot be a party to adultery or bigamy.”

  Alasdair sighed and shook his shaggy head. “I’m bunglin’ this mightily. Let me try again.”

  She scratched her nose, leaving a small dirt smudge on the tip. “Very well, though I don’t know what good it will do.”

  He took both her small hands in his. “We’ve both experienced heartache, but I believe we would suit, and in fact get on well together. I respect ye, want to protect ye, and I dinna think ye’ll find another man who’d willingly remain in the shadows as I would and permit ye to lead yer clan.”

  She tilted her head, her gaze more curious than anything. “Go on.”

  Hope dared flare more brightly.

  Alasdair sat beside her then boldly pulled her into his lap.

  A startled yelp escaped her, but she didn’t try to rise.

  A small victory he’d gladly accept.

  “I’ll petition fer a divorce and hire an investigator to search fer Searón. I can have Ewan pull strings where he may. He’s highly connected and may be able to hurry things along. If yer father knows yer to marry me, and I agree to never attempt to wrest Tornbury’s lairdship from ye, I think he can be persuaded to wait fer ye to wed. Besides, if we find Searón has died, then there’s no need to wait.”

  She fiddled with his leather collar. “I’m not as confident as you are. Da wants to see me wed before he dies, wants to see his grandchildren. Doctor Wedderburn told me weeks ago my father likely only had six months to live. Surely a divorce takes longer.”

  Alasdair tipped turned her averted face to his. “He wants ye happy too. Let me at least try.”

  She dropped her gaze, her mouth stretched into thin pink ribbon. “You won’t regret not marrying for love?”

  But he was.

  “I shan’t. I did that once, and the results were disastrous. I’d prefer the respect of a worthy woman I admire, and one I readily admit I canna wait to bed.” He was well onto loving her, but she wasn’t ready to hear that yet. Not until Bretheridge had been expunged from her heart. “Can ye marry fer convenience rather than affection? At least at the onset?”

  She gazed into his eyes, her expression open and honest. That was one of the things he most admired in Lydia. Her sincerity, lack of guile, her willingness to be transparent.

  “It would be a brilliant match from the perspective of the clan, and I do hold you in the highest regard, Alasdair.” She stared out the window, silent for a few moments before searching his face. “I’m not sure what else I feel for you. Honestly, my emotions are in such turmoil given all the deaths and Da’s ill health, but I am afraid you might regret shackling yourself to me or resent my role as laird. In my experience, men don’t take well to female leadership.”

  Alasdair squeezed her to his chest for a brief moment. “Not a bit of it. I like a bossy lass, and I’d never thought to marry again. But the idea of some mushroom like yer blackguard of a cousin, tryin’ to wrest the lairdship from ye, makes me determined to see yer rights protected.”

  She smiled impishly, her eyebrows cocked high on her smooth forehead. “And how do I know you aren’t such a man? You could do the same thing afterward, could you not?”

  He squinted the merest bit, nodding thoughtfully. “Aye, ye make a valid point. We’ll include a clause in the marriage contract that specifically protects the lairdship, yer property, and monies from me.”

  Lydia angled away from him, one hand braced on his chest, the other on the forearm wrapped around her tiny waist. Her inquisitive hazel gaze, more forest green than caramelized sugar at the moment, explored his face.

  God help him, but her tight buttocks rubbing across his groin had his member springing to life, and he gritted his teeth and sucked in a steadying breath.

  “You’d do that? Why?” She brushed his hair off his forehead then must have realized the intimacy of the action, and cheeks flushed, dropped her hand into her lap.

  “Aye, I would. As fer the why, it’s nae complicated nor terribly gallant. I care fer ye, lass, and I think ye deserve yer chance as chief. I’ve never aspired to the position, but by God, I’d make sure nae one else ever tried to usurp ye. I’d clobber any who dare.”

  Nibbling a corner of her lower lip, she nodded slowly, a faraway look in her eyes. “It is a sound suggestion, to be sure. I’d need time to deliberate it, nonetheless. I’ve never considered marrying a divorced man.”

  Even in eighteen hundred and nineteen a divorce was scandalous, though far less for a man than a woman. “I agree it introduces another set of issues, though nae any that canna be overcome.”

  Did she think of Bretheridge? Or perhaps, resist relinquishing another chance at love? Quite possibly, Alasdair had spoken too soon, but she knew as well as he, time was against them.

  He clasped her hand. “Aye, I understand, but time we may not have.”

  “I know, but I cannot be rushed in this. Too much depends on my decision.”

  She obviously loved her father and wanted to please him, but her independent spirit rebelled at being manipulated or forced.

  Leveling him an inquisitive gaze, she scrutinized his face with an intensity that touched his innermost being.

  “Before I make a decision, I must know the truth, Alasdair. Do you have a single qualm about divorcing your wife, even after all these years?” Lydia hesitated, her focus dipping to her lap before she forged onward. “And, are you prepared, I mean truly equipped, to learn she may have died? It saddens me to think she has, though I don’t know her.”

  “I long ago forgave Searón, Lydia, but it be far past time I was free of her and the memories. Our time together was brief, and I’ve been fool enough letting her haunt and hinder me this long. Whether you accept my offer or not, I intend to pursue this.”

  She made a soft noise in the back of her throat, not quite an affirmation, but not entirely disbelieving either.

  “Very well. What excuses will we give for cancelling the contest? Won’t it reflect badly on Da? On Tornbury?” Her expression cleared, and she swung to face him. “Couldn’t we instead allow the tournament and even expand the fete, make the event into a fair and include a bonfire, games, and dancing?”

  Excitement fairly bubbled from her, her eyes bright as she squirmed on his lap.

  How Alasdair managed a strained smile and nod with his cock pressing instantly against his buckskin, and that Lydia hadn’t noticed the involuntary pulses against her rear, had to have been God’s grace.

  To prevent humiliating himself, he slid her off his lap and onto the cushion beside him. He hooked an ankle over his knee to conceal his obvious arousal, and she curled her legs beneath her bottom, still chattering away.

  “We could invite the villagers, tenants, perhaps even nearby tribes. And booths could be set up to sell handcrafts and foods. It’s short notice, true, but we could make it an annual event.”

  Gathering one of her hands in his, Alasdair studied her tapered fingertips before rubbing the rice-grain sized callus on her index finger. Probably caused by the bow string rubbing through her gloves.

  Lydia seemed completely oblivious, as she tapped her forefinger on her slender thigh, her expression contemplative. “What do you thin
k?”

  “Fer certain, the men who’d journeyed to Tornbury Fortress fer the tournament will be disgruntled, but if we turned it into a May Day event? A community celebration?” He gave an approving nod. A perfect way to earn loyalty and unite her people. “Aye, that’s quite brilliant, lass. Verra diplomatic. We can say the tournament terms have been changed due to the laird’s ill health, but still offer a monetary reward.”

  She slid him a shrewd sideways look as she rubbed her arms, as if suddenly chilled. “Naturally, we can’t mention anything of our pending arrangement. And we’ve still Da to convince. But if I can assure him marrying you will make me happy and also protect the clan, Tornbury, and the lairdship, he may very well agree.”

  He’ll pounce on the chance faster than a starving flea on a fat dog’s arse.

  “And will ye be happy, lass? I ken how ye loved yer marquis.” He traced her jawline, so velvety, delicate, and fine. But also strong and determined. Like her.

  She caught his hand in her small palm and turned her satiny cheek into it.

  Dared he hope affection shone in her eyes?

  “It will be a different kind of happiness, Alasdair, but no less wonderful. Flynn was my first love. A green girl’s infatuation with all that glittered and bewitched a London debutante.”

  How would she describe her feelings toward him? Best not to push her in that arena, just yet. Take what she offered at present and relish it.

  He nuzzled her neck, whispering against her silky, fragrant flesh. “Ye have to promise we’ll take a weddin’ trip to someplace warm.” So he could sample all her charms without a foot of bedding piled atop them.

  “Yes,” she whispered, offering him her sweet mouth.

  Like a ravenous man long starved, he accepted the bold invitation. He kissed her over and over, devouring the honeyed cavern, encouraged by her little mewling sighs and moans.

  The door burst open, and McGibbons rushed in. “Miss Lydia. Come at once. The laird fell.”

  Chapter 20

  Alasdair charged after Lydia as she flew up the stairs, taking them two at a time, each stride pulling her breeches taut across her shapely bum.

  He was a bloody cad for noticing the temptation during a crisis.

  “Did you send for Doctor Wedderburn?” She flung a frantic look over her shoulder.

  McGibbons trailed Alasdair, grasping the handrail and ascending the risers as swiftly as his game leg permitted. “Aye. I sent a footman to the barracks and asked Lennox to ride out at once. I also sent Jinnah fer water and cloths. Miss Adams be with the laird.”

  “What happened? Is Da conscious?” Panting, her breath coming in short rasps, Lydia didn’t slow her pace or turn around to ask the questions.

  “I dinna ken what happened, Miss. And he’s nae awake.” His face twisted with pain and a white line bracketing his mouth, McGibbons resolutely continued his labored climb. “Jinnah found him when she went to tend his bedchamber fire. It appears he had a seizure or fainted and hit his head on a table when he fell.”

  The one thing Alasdair hadn’t fully considered was what would happen if Farnsworth died before naming a successor. Best hope he appointed one in his will, or the chaos he’d hoped to spare his daughter would erupt in full force. And even with the McTavish clan here to help maintain order, Alasdair couldn’t guarantee they’d be able to stifle an uprising or a coup.

  God’s bones. What would happen to Lydia then?

  At least Ross wasn’t here inciting discord, though Alasdair, unlike Lydia, didn’t think they’d seen the last of the scoundrel. Another thing Ewan ought to look into. Farnsworth was hardly in condition to do so, and as yet was unware of his nephew’s treachery. Alasdair feared Lydia underestimated Ross’s threat.

  After the attack, Alasdair followed a hunch and began poking around. He bloody well didn’t like what he’d uncovered so far. Too early to say anything; he still gathered evidence after all. Nonetheless, if either Lydia’s brothers’ boat sinking or her carriage losing a wheel had been chance accidents, he was a Turkish concubine.

  Add her riding accident and her father’s series of misfortunes, not to mention her mother’s sudden death, and every single sign suggested the family was systematically being eliminated.

  And only one person benefited from their demise.

  Gordon Ross.

  Was the coward capable of such treachery, or had the deaths and accidents been purely coincidental?

  Lydia sprinted the corridor’s length, but outside the laird’s chamber, she drew to a faltering stop. Hands at her waist, she shut her eyes, her lashes inky wings across her wan cheeks, and drew in several deep breaths. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, and her lower lip quivered.

  Brave love.

  Alasdair touched her shoulder, and her eyes sprang open, anguish and fear in their moist depths.

  He’d never seen her cry.

  Not once.

  Not a single tear.

  And she’d been in situations where even a woman possessing stalwart fortitude would have dissolved into waterworks.

  “Shall I wait here or accompany ye inside?” He wouldn’t intrude on the family’s privacy.

  “I’d like you to come too.” She slanted a distressed glance toward the carved door. “I may need—”

  She needed comforting, had no one, save a cousin and a handful of servants to depend on, but feared asking for support. Feared seeming weak or undignified. Had she imposed that burden on herself because of her gender, or had someone else?

  Alasdair reached around her and pushed the latch down, whispering in her ear as he pressed near. “I’ll be with ye the entire time. It might nae be as bad as all that.”

  True. It might be worse.

  The door swung open, revealing a chaotic scene.

  A smallish table lay sideways near the hearth, a tray and remnants of a meal, a bronze candlestick, as well as several books scattered nearby. A chair had toppled, its riser and a serviette dangerously close to the unscreened hearth.

  Nearby, a newsprint partially hid a bedroom slipper and a piece of wood, while an inkpot, its contents pooled in a purple-black circle staining the carpet, lay shattered.

  A stray spark might have ignited any of them.

  Damned negligent on the maid’s part, but shock at her master’s condition no doubt made her careless and forgetful.

  McGibbons clicked his tongue and shook his head. “What do ye need me to do, Miss Lydia?”

  “Would you please await the doctor? Oh, and tell Cook we’ll not dine formally tonight.”

  He dipped his head, his troubled gaze resting on his laird. “Aye. I’ll see what be delayin’ Jinnah too.”

  As he limped from the room, Alasdair scowled at the leaping flames. Jinnah had taken the time to feed the fire but not pick up the wood she’d dropped or clean any of the mess?

  Her face contorted in worry, Miss Adams pressed a scarlet stained cloth to Farnsworth’s head. Congealed blood covered the right side of his ashen face and neck, and had seeped onto the pillowcase.

  “Oh, Da,” Lydia whispered, dashing to his bedside. “How badly hurt is he?”

  “Lydia, it won’t stop bleeding.” Miss Adams still held the makeshift bandage firmly to a spot above his ear. “This is the third cloth I’ve used to stem the flow.”

  “Let me see, please.” Lydia bent near and gasped, clapping a hand to her mouth as Miss Adams lifted the cloth. She sat on the bed and took one of her father’s hands in hers. The anguished gaze she raised to Alasdair shimmered with tears.

  “Nae fear, lass. Head wounds are notoriously messy. The amount of blood doesn’t necessarily indicate the injury’s severity.” Alasdair edged nearer, relieving Miss Adams of the bandage.

  She promptly retreated to an armchair a few paces away, her face
as ash-gray as the dress she wore.

  He’d seen far worse gashes, but Farnsworth sported a fist-sized bump and would likely suffer an eye-crossing headache for a few days.

  “He must have glanced off the table’s edge when he fell.” Lydia rose from the bed and after checking the washstand for water, rubbed an eyebrow. “Esme, might I trouble you to see what is taking Jinnah so long?”

  “Of course, Lydia.” Giving a weak smile, she slipped from the room.

  Lydia bent and gathered the books and newssheet, exposing a lone piece of parchment. Her brows crashed together and a soft gasp escaped her when she read it. She held the paper up, disbelief draining her face of color. “This is part of Da’s will.”

  Hell’s bells.

  Something smelled foul as a basket of eels gone to rot.

  Alasdair checked Farnsworth’s two-inch gash, which had finally stopped flowing. Hands on his hips, he, too, surveyed the room. A struggle could account for the toppled furniture. Or, if someone had struck Farnsworth, and he’d fallen on the table.

  Rotating slowly, Lydia examined the area nearest her before her attention gravitated to the snapping fire. She crossed to the hearth, dropping the books and newssheet with a thud and crackle on a chair as she passed by. Fireplace tongs in hand, she sank to her knees and pushed the logs back, sifting through the ashes.

  Leaning forward, she snatched a charred paper from the grate. “I don’t believe it. Who’d burn Da’s will?”

  She straightened, outrage shaking her voice. “This,” she swept her hand over the disarray, “was nae accident.”

  In four strides, Alasdair was at her side. He gathered her trembling form into his arms, smiling despite the dire circumstances when she wrapped her arms around his waist. “Aye, I fear ye be right, and this confirms what I’ve suspected for some time.”

  Tilting her neck, she peered up at him, a hint of accusation in her eyes and tone. “What’s that? What do you know that you haven’t told me?”