“Da told me he named Ewan laird.”
Fiend seize it.
Alasdair made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. He’d anticipated just such a thing, but for her sake, had hoped Farnsworth wouldn’t actually go that far.
She shrugged and tilted her head sideways. “He left me everything else. At least he said he did. We’ll know for certain after Mr. Gwyers reads the will.”
Wine flute half raised, Alasdair cocked a brow. “Everything?”
“Yes.” She lifted her glass in a silent toast. “And he named you war-chief. If you want the position.”
“War chief, huh?” Laughing softly, he shook his head. “That crafty old buzzard.”
She frowned and inched her adorably stubborn chin up a notch. “I don’t think it’s very humorous, and not very respectable, considering he’s lying just a few rooms away. And I’m still miffed at him about it, truth to tell.”
“Dinna go all prickly on me, sweetheart, and dinna be mad at yer da either.” He set his wine aside and after bundling her against his chest, rested his head atop hers. “He ken the title be next to useless without the estate, and I’ll bet he ken Ewan wouldn’t want it. He provided a way fer ye to wait fer me to divorce Searón.”
Her brow furrowed in confusion. “I don’t see how.”
“I canna speak fer my cousin, but I be fairly certain, ye just say the word, and he’ll transfer the title to ye.” He traced her ear with a finger, enjoying her little shudder of pleasure.
Angling her head, she narrowed her eyes the tiniest bit. “Is that what you want, or would you prefer he appoint you? Once I put my pride aside, I realized it would be a wise move.”
“Nae. A woman be every bit as capable of leading a tribe as a man, and a lass such as ye will be brilliant in the role.” He brushed her cheek, affectionately.
And she would be too. As a female chief, Lydia could do much good for womankind.
“And I’d be honored to be war-chief under ye, lass.” He tipped her chin so that she had to meet his eyes, then waggled his eyebrows, whispering naughtily, “And over ye too.”
Rather than bluster and blush at his innuendo, Lydia coyly elevated a sable brow. “I should hope ye’d eagerly do anything yer chief requests of you.”
“Aye, it’ll be my pleasure. And yers.”
“Such a wonderful promise.”
The kiss she gave him had him reconsidering his earlier honorable notion about waiting a respectable time after Farnsworth’s burial. Several lengthy, and satisfying minutes later, she curled into his chest, her arms about his waist.
“Now, what is it you wanted to tell me, Alasdair?”
Second thoughts plagued him. What if she refused him after he told her? He could lie or omit parts, and Lydia would never know the difference.
He would know, and his honor wouldn’t permit him that escape.
“Ye should ken that I wronged Searón. Not intentionally, but wrong her I did by speakin’ so vilely of her to ye when I didna ken the truth.” He tightened his embrace, forcing himself to tell her the rest. “If she hadn’t taken her own life, I wouldn’t have divorced her. We’d have to have waited to marry until she died.”
He waited tensely, afraid of her reaction, but also determined she know the whole of it. She’d be stepmother to Al and mustn’t think poorly of his son’s mother because of the things Alasdair had told Lydia, even if he thought he’d spoken the truth.
His hardened heart and bitterness had prevented him from considering any other possible explanation for Searón’s actions, and he’d regret his callousness for the remainder of his days.
Lydia stiffened and drew away. She searched his face, a concert of emotions—confusion, worry, sorrow—shadowing her fine features. “And what could’ve so thoroughly changed your mind?”
In short order, he told her everything.
“Please tell me ye understand, lass. I love ye so much it hurts to breathe, and knowin’ I’d wound you, crushed my soul. I’d rather put a knife to my chest and carve my heart out than ask ye to wait, but I couldn’t abandon her again. Especially after she’d given me a son.”
With every minute Lydia remained statue-like, staring into the flames, his meager hope waned.
He’d known he risked losing her by telling her all, and still, he wasn’t prepared for the anguish.
Her profile silhouetted by the fire didn’t reveal her thoughts. Didn’t give him a single clue whether he’d destroyed the precious gift they’d been given.
How he’d go on, knowing she’d never be his, he couldn’t begin to imagine.
He’d damned sure leave Scotland.
For good.
A tear leaked from her eye, and he slumped in defeat, shutting his eyes against the agony fracturing his soul. His sword and dagger wounds had been insect stings in comparison. Death was preferable to this pain.
“My heart hurts so unbearably for her and Al,” Lydia said, her voice choked with compassion.
Alasdair popped his eyes open in disbelief.
She wiped another tear away, then several more. “So wretched unfair, the poor thing. How she must have suffered. And you too, all these years.”
The tiniest seed of hope dared to sprout. “Yer nae angry?”
Lydia jerked her head up, her expression incredulous. “Of course I’m angry. I’m furious, but not at you. I’d like to tar and feather Searón’s father. Indeed, I would.”
For emphasis, she punched the pillow beside her.
“That makes two of us.” He brushed the moisture from her soft cheek with his thumb. “Then ye’ll marry me? When yer out of mournin’?”
Mischief and love fanned the corners of her sparkling eyes. “I distinctly remember asking for a proper proposal, but since we’re both sitting on the floor, you may proceed from here.”
Alasdair came to his knees, and taking her hands, pressed them to his heart while framing her face with his other hand. “I love ye Lydia Alline Therese Farnsworth, and I’d live the rest of my life the most privileged of men if ye’d consent to be my wife.”
Her gaze dipped to his mouth, and her small tongue peeked from a corner of hers. “No, I don’t believe I shall, after all.”
“Pardon?” Had she said no?
Truly?
Lydia maneuvered to her knees as well, and after gently closing his slack jaw with her forefinger, grinned. “Well, since you think a woman is equal to a man, I’ve decided I shall propose to you.”
Alasdair’s heart resumed beating, a trifle uneven, but thumping away, nevertheless.
He’d never underestimate this unpredictable, enchanting woman again.
She took his big hands in her small ones, his tanned and rough, hers smooth and creamy. “Will you, Alasdair . . .?” She wrinkled her nose then shook her head. “I don’t know your full name.”
He squeezed her fingers. “Alasdair Graham Erik—”
“Never mind. I’ve decided to take another tact.”
Of course she had.
God help him.
“Because I cannot imagine living the rest of my life without you by my side, because you are the first thing I think of when I wake each morning, and the very last thought that drifts through my mind before I fall asleep, because I do not want to lead the Farnsworth clan without you by my side, because I love you so much, it is a sweet ache that I never want to cease—”
“For the love of God, lass! Aye. I’ll marry ye. Now stop talkin’ and kiss me.”
“Only if you promise to make me a woman tonight.”
Alasdair nipped the sensitive hollow where her graceful neck met her shoulder. “Aye, lass. I canna refuse ye anythin’.”
And as the fire popped and crackled in the hearth, with practiced hands and tendern
ess, he granted her request, taking them both on a shattering, soul-melding journey of exquisite bliss.
“Alasdair,” Lydia cried, on the precipice of her release, “I love ye.”
“And I ye, sweetheart.” Groaning, straining to contain his own powerful explosion, until she reached the ultimate summit, he plundered her mouth and passion carried them tumbling over the glorious edge.
Epilogue
Tornbury Fortress
May 1, 1820
Lydia gritted her teeth, squeezed Alasdair’s hand, and closing her eyes, bore down. Sweat trickled down her face in sticky rivulets, and soaked her nightgown.
“How much longer?” she panted.
Her pains had started before dawn, and the sun had set some time ago.
Cradled between Alasdair’s massive legs, his broad chest supporting her, she strained to bring their child into the world.
He’d insisted on being present for the birth, and truth to tell, she welcomed his strength and presence. He’d been a pillar of calmness and encouragement. In part due to the infrequent sips from the silver flask within arm’s reach. But now she grew weary.
“Soon, sweetheart,” he encouraged.
Another contraction interrupted the weak smile she’d summoned.
Not bloody soon enough.
God’s toenails, teeth, and bones!
Alasdair dabbed her forehead with a cool, damp cloth, and looked at Doctor Wedderburn and Midwife McCreary busily puttering about the bedchamber in last minute preparation for the bairn.
The doctor smiled reassuringly and lifted the sheet covering Lydia’s lower half. “Ah.”
Ah?
What the devil did ‘ah’ mean?
Ah, the baby’s about here? Or ah, my God, there’s a problem?
“Push, Mrs. McTavish. Yer bairn’s nearly here,” Doctor Wedderburn urged.
Oh, thank you, God.
Lydia closed her eyes and pushed again, swearing a most unladylike oath under her breath.
If he’d ever birthed a child, the Almighty would surely forgive her.
Alasdair chuckled, and she elbowed him in the stomach, finding great satisfaction in his grunt of pain.
He deserved to suffer a little for putting her through this, the oaf. Given his great size, she probably birthed a toddler.
A moment later, the babe finally slid free, bringing almost instantaneous relief.
Midwife McCreary scooped the baby into a towel.
“A bonnie, wee girl, Mr. and Mrs. McTavish.”
Wee?
Not by half.
The bairn let loose a gusty, angry wail.
Midwife McCreary chuckled, as the infant kicked up a royal fuss. “Oh, and she be a feisty one.”
Alasdair’s, “Like her mother,” earned him another well-aimed elbow to his gut.
Lydia held out her arms. “Let me hold her, please.”
“I needs clean her up, and ye needs deliver the afterbirth first.” Wiping the crying newborn’s face, Midwife McCreary offered an apologetic smile.
A jovial smile crinkling his eyes, Doctor Wedderburn nodded toward the squalling babe. “The next laird?”
“If she chooses to be.” Alasdair pressed a kiss to Lydia’s crown, and for the first time, she noticed his shuddery breaths and felt the dampness on her scalp.
She looked over her shoulder. “Alasdair?”
Tears swam in her brawny, warrior husband’s eyes.
“Ye were magnificent, darlin’. So strong and brave.” He bent and gave her a tender kiss on the mouth. “Thank ye fer the braw daughter. My heart be so full, I’m fair to burstin’.”
Who knew the birth of his daughter would bring this war chief to tears?
Doctor Wedderburn peeked above the sheet and winked. “I never heard of a man wantin’ to be present fer the birth, but then, I never had a lady laird afore either. I canna say it didna do ye good to have yer husband present.”
Lydia tiredly turned her lips upward. “We scandalized the tribe when we wed a mere two months after Da’s death. I suppose having my husband attend our bairn’s birth will give them more to titter about.”
“Nae, it only shows how much we love each other. And they think it’s terribly romantic.” Alasdair eased from behind her. He smiled tenderly as he fluffed her pillows before lowering his head to give her a reverent kiss.
An hour later, once again resting in Alasdair’s arms, the bairn nestled in the crook of hers, Lydia counted their daughter’s fingers and toes. “Little Eilean. She’s perfect in every way, isn’t she?”
“Aye, she be at that.” He touched her hand, and she wrapped her tiny fingers around his big forefinger.
A soft rap sounded at the door.
“Al and Esme, I’d guess. You’d better let them in. I’m sure they’re dying to meet her.”
“Have I told ye I love ye today, Mrs. McTavish, Laird of Tornbury Fortress?” Alasdair whispered in her ear.
Lydia raised her mouth to his. “Yes, but tell me again and again and again. And every day for as long as we have together.”
If you enjoyed Scandal’s Splendor,
be sure to read Collette Cameron’s
Castle Bride Series,
now available from
Soul Mate Publishing at Amazon.com:
HIGHLANDER’S HOPE
Not a day has gone by that Ewan McTavish, the Viscount Sethwick, hasn't dreamed of the beauty he danced with two years ago. He's determined to win her heart and make her his own. Heiress Yvette Stapleton is certain of one thing; marriage is risky and, therefore, to be avoided. At first, she doesn't recognize the dangerously handsome man who rescues her from assailants on London's docks, but Lord Sethwick's passionate kisses soon have her reconsidering her cynical views on matrimony. On a mission to stop a War Office traitor, Ewan draws Yvette into deadly international intrigue. To protect her, he exploits Scottish law, declaring her his lawful wife—without benefit of a ceremony. Yvette is furious upon discovering the irregular marriage is legally binding, though she never said, "I do." Will Ewan's manipulation cost him her newfound love?
Buy now at:
http://tinyurl.com/pq4dhds
THE VISCOUNT’S VOW
Part Romani, noblewoman Evangeline Caruthers is the last woman in England Ian Hamilton, the Viscount Warrick, could ever love—an immoral wanton responsible for his brother’s and father’s deaths.
Vangie thinks Ian’s a foul-tempered blackguard, who after setting out to cause her downfall, finds himself forced to marry her—snared in the trap of his own making. When Vangie learns the marriage ceremony itself may have been a ruse, she flees to her gypsy relatives, declaring herself divorced from Ian under Romani law. He pursues her to the gypsy encampment, and when the handsome gypsy king offers to take Ian’s place in Vangie’s bed, jealousy stirs hot and dangerous.
Under a balmy starlit sky, Ian and Vangie breech the chasm separating them, yet peril lurks. Ian is the last in his family line, and his stepmother is determined to dispose of the newlyweds so her daughter can inherit his estate. Only by trusting each other can Ian and Vangie overcome scandal and murderous betrayal.
Buy now at:
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THE EARL’S ENTICEMENT
She won’t be tamed.
A fiery, unconventional Scot, Adaira Ferguson wears breeches, swears, and has no more desire to marry than she does to follow society’s dictates of appropriate behavior. She trusts no man with the secret she desperately protects.
He can’t forget.
Haunted by his past, Roark, The Earl of Clarendon, rigidly adheres to propriety, holding himself and those around him to the highest standards, no matter the cost. Betrayed once, he’s guarded and leery of all women.<
br />
Mistaking Roark for a known spy, Adaira imprisons him. Infuriated, he vows vengeance. Realizing her error, she’s appalled and releases him, but he’s not satisfied with his freedom. Roark is determined to transform Adaira from an ill-mannered hoyden to a lady of refinement.
He succeeds only to discover, he preferred the free-spirited Scottish lass who first captured his heart.
Buy at:
http://tinyurl.com/lfddq59
Also read the other books in the
Hightland Heather Romancing a Scot Series:
TRIUMPH AND TREASURE
A disillusioned Scottish gentlewoman.
Angelina Ellsworth once believed in love--before she discovered her husband of mere hours was a slave-trader and already married. To avoid the scandal and disgrace, she escapes to the estate of her aunt and uncle, the Duke and Duchess of Waterford. When Angelina learns she is with child, she vows she’ll never trust a man again.
A privileged English lord.
Flynn, Earl of Luxmoore, led an enchanted life until his father committed suicide after losing everything to Waterford in a wager. Stripped of all but his title, Flynn is thrust into the role of marquis as well as provider for his disabled sister and invalid mother. Unable to pay his father’s astronomical gambling loss, Flynn must choose between social or financial ruin.
When the duke suggests he’ll forgive the debt if Flynn marries his niece, Flynn accepts the duke’s proposal. Reluctant to wed a stranger, but willing to do anything to protect her babe and escape the clutches of the madman who still pursues her, Angelina agrees to the union.
Can the earl and his Scottish lass find happiness and love in a marriage neither wanted, or is the chasm between them insurmountable?
Passion and Plunder Page 23
