My Highland Lord (Highland Lords)

by Scott, Tarah

  Doubt flickered in his father’s eyes and Kiernan burst out, “Heddy, bloody hell!”

  The din of the room quieted.

  “Kiernan,” the duke admonished in a low voice.

  Kiernan gave the men nearest him a glare that sent them about their business, then he stepped closer to Phoebe. He placed a hand on the back of her chair and said in a low voice, “Forgive me, Phoebe, but you mistake my surprise for reluctance.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Don't act as though you are a willing groom.”

  He scowled. “You know I want you.”

  She gasped. Regan cleared his throat, and his father sighed.

  “Don't pretend you have no idea what I'm talking about,” Kiernan muttered.

  “Miss Wallington,” his father cut in, “you said my son didn't force his attentions on you.”

  “Of course, I didn’t,” Kiernan retorted. But he'd come damned close, truth be told.

  “You said he was a perfect gentleman.”

  “I knew, er, thought she was Regan’s.” He looked at Regan and shrugged. “That didn’t stop me from—”

  “Sir.” Phoebe shot to her feet and shoved at her chair with the back of her leg, but it didn’t slide and she nearly fell back into the seat. Kiernan and his father reached for her. She slapped at them, then her eyes widened on the duke.

  “Your Grace,” she whispered, then added under her breath, “By heavens.”

  "Phoebe,” Kiernan said, then, “love.”

  “Oh no, you don’t.” This time she managed to shove the chair aside. “I am not some schoolgirl who will swoon with your charm.” She started to turn, but whipped back around and poked her finger in Kiernan’s chest, causing him to jerk back with every jab of her forefinger. “I am not your love. I wasn’t your love before, and I—ohhh—” her blazing eyes turned on his father “—and I am not your—your—anything.” She stalked to the far side of the room and disappeared up the narrow staircase.

  “Interesting,” his father remarked.

  “Interesting?” Kiernan scowled. “Has everyone gone mad?”

  The duke regarded him. “You are a fine one to talk. Abducting a woman?”

  Kiernan sat in Phoebe’s chair. “I had no idea who she was.”

  His father’s mouth twisted down reprovingly.

  “Yes, yes,” Kiernan said impatiently, “she told me her name, but did she tell you the circumstances?”

  “I believe she explained things quite thoroughly,” Regan said.

  “Did she explain she was in Heddy’s coach?”

  Regan and his father nodded.

  “Did she tell you she was flirting with Lord Beasley?”

  His father reached for the mug of ale sitting before him. “I would be careful about mentioning that, lad.”

  Kiernan stared at him.

  “A future wife doesn't care for being reminded of past flirtations.”

  *****

  Phoebe took a sip of her morning tea just as the Duke of Ashlund stepped from the staircase into the great hall. She took another slow sip in the seconds before he reached her side, then set the cup aside and rose from her seat.

  “Your Grace.” She dipped into an elegant curtsy.

  He grasped her hand, lifting her to her feet. “Lass, you needn't be so formal, you will soon call me father.” He smiled. “You may begin now, if you wish.”

  "You're too kind," she said, then, “Might we speak privately?”

  “Of course.” He looked toward the kitchen. “Marinda,” he called to a girl passing by the door, “have tea sent up to my library.”

  Phoebe followed him up the stairs and down the long hallway to his library. He opened the door and motioned her in. She entered and seated herself in the chair opposite his desk as he stepped behind his desk and lowered himself into his chair.

  Phoebe took a deep breath. "Your Grace, there is something about me you must know. When I was seventeen, I eloped with a man to Gretna Green."

  "Seventeen is young to marry," he said.

  "My uncle thought so, too, and came after us. I will be blunt. He did not arrive in time."

  "In time?"

  Phoebe's cheeks warmed. "You must know what I mean."

  "I assume your reputation was tarnished?" he asked.

  She gave a nod. "With good reason. So you see, your son can't possibly marry a woman like me."

  "A woman like you?" There was no mistaking the amusement in his voice, but before she could reply, he added, "No need to worry, Miss Wallington, no one will dare impugn your reputation once you and Kiernan are married."

  "Your Grace, a marquess simply does not marry a tarnished woman."

  He laughed. "I think a marquess marries anyone he chooses."

  "I am certain your son won't be so blasé about the situation."

  "Miss Wallington, as Kiernan said last night, you have no choice."

  "But society—"

  "Society will likely make the Marquess and Marchioness of Ashlund their darlings," he said.

  "You—you can't be serious," she breathed.

  "Society thrives on just such a story as yours," he replied.

  Panic swept through her. Did he really consider himself that far above society's reach? Was there nothing that would sway him, nothing he cared about? She understood all too well society's barbs. She enjoyed parties and received many invitations, but no man of rank would think of offering for her and—she abruptly recalled the Duke's reaction yesterday when he thought she was related to the Wallington he knew. By heavens, the answer was right in front of her. Why hadn't she thought of it before? The duke might think his position put him above society's rules, but even a man of his rank couldn't flout society's view on a woman whose father was wanted for high treason.

  Phoebe's stomach twisted as she said, “Your Grace, there is something much more serious than a green girl's mistakes."

  His brows rose in polite inquiry.

  "When I was a child, my father involved himself with the wrong sorts of men: dissidents, malcontents, murderers. In a word: traitors.” She suddenly realized the irony of the fact that the lie that had enslaved her all her life was about to buy her freedom. “These traitors, along with my father, planned to assassinate a group of nobleman. All but my father were hanged. He escaped and hasn't been heard from since. Your Grace, he is wanted for high treason.”

  “High treason,” the duke repeated. “That is serious business."

  Hope surged through her. "Indeed it is."

  "A very interesting tale,” he said.

  “Tale? It's the truth. The incident is known as the Cato Street Conspiracy.”

  His forehead wrinkled thoughtfully. “I seem to recall…the Spenceans, correct?”

  “Why, yes. I'm surprised you know of it.”

  He smiled, the light in his eyes indulgent. “My generation does read the papers.”

  Phoebe flushed. “Forgive me. Of course, I-I didn't mean to imply otherwise—oh, surely you see, your son can't marry me?”

  “Why not?” said Kiernan MacGregor from the doorway.

  Phoebe cursed and, an instant later, when he stood at her side, she demanded, “What are you doing here?”

  He lifted a brow just as his father had a moment ago and she experienced an urge to box his ears.

  “I live here, my dear.”

  He took her hand in his. She tried to yank free of his grasp, but his hold tightened and he bent over her hand, brushing his lips across her knuckles.

  Kiernan’s gaze captured hers. “Good morning, Phoebe,” he murmured.

  His thumb brushed the spot he had kissed, then he released her. She snatched her hand back so quickly, her elbow banged the cushioned back of the chair.

  “Are you all right?” He glanced meaningfully at her elbow.

  “Fine, no thanks to you,” she muttered.

  “Your future wife was just telling me of her father's involvement with Arthur Thistlewood,” the duke said. "You wouldn't remember, you were a boy
then, but Thistlewood was found guilty of high treason and hanged in May of 1820."

  A tremor rocked Phoebe's stomach. The duke remembered the incident even to the details of Thistlewood's execution?

  "What did your father have to do with him?" Kiernan asked.

  "He was accused of taking part in Thistlewood's plan to assassinate the Cabinet," she answered.

  "I see. So you know a bit more about assassinations than I first thought."

  She didn't miss the flicker of surprise on the duke's face, but had no time to consider it when she noticed—what, recognition?—in Kiernan's eyes.

  "Why didn't you say something?" he asked.

  "If you recall, my lord, you thought I was Heddy."

  He cleared his throat in an obvious attempt to keep from laughing. "Indeed. Was your father also hanged?"

  "Good God, no," Phoebe blurted before catching herself.

  "What happened to him?"

  "He was never caught."

  "You told me your father died when you were seven."

  She gave him a deprecating look. He would have the memory of an elephant. "What should I have said, my lord?"

  "Was he guilty of the accusations?" Kiernan asked.

  "I-I beg your pardon?"

  "Was he guilty?" Kiernan asked again.

  By heavens, she hadn't expected this question—hadn't expected any questions. "I have accepted that he wasn't the man my mother thought he was." The truth. But she'd had enough of this. Phoebe looked at the duke. “Your Grace, yesterday you asked if I understood the gravity of my situation. I ask you the same. When you thought I was related to the Wallington you knew, you weren't pleased. My father is no better than the man you knew.”

  "What are you talking about?" Kiernan said.

  "Never mind," the duke said, then regarded Phoebe. "The Wallington I knew was a deranged killer. Is that the case with your father?"

  "No, Your Grace, but—"

  “Excuse me, laird,” a woman entered the room. “The tea you asked for.”

  “On the sideboard,” he instructed.

  She hurried to the sideboard and set the tray down, then began filling the cups.

  “I'll take care of the tea," Kiernan said.

  The girl cast a blushing glance in his direction, then hurried out the door. Kiernan crossed to the sideboard as Phoebe leaned toward the duke's desk. “As I was saying, Your Grace—”

  “How do you take your tea, Phoebe?” Kiernan asked.

  She glanced at him, exasperated at the interruption. “Cream, two sugars.” Focusing again on the duke, she said, “Dukes do not marry their sons to the daughters of traitors.”

  "Even if the duke himself descends from a traitor?" he asked.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Kiernan returned with the tea and set it on the desk in front of her. He leaned against the desk, one leg brushing hers as he stretched them out before him. Warmth rippled through her and she froze at the realization that he was purposely enticing her.

  “We come from just that sort of stock,” he said.

  “What?”

  “About two hundred years ago, our ancestor Ryan MacGregor was a hunted traitor. Didn’t stop him from marrying into the Ashlund line.”

  Kiernan’s eyes flashed the same devilishness she glimpsed the night he had burst into her carriage, and her stomach did a flip. What was wrong with her?

  “You'll fit in just fine,” he said.

  She gave a questioning look to the duke.

  “He's right.”

  Good Lord, had she stumbled into a family of traitors? Did this explain Kiernan turning a blind eye to Alan Hay's assassination plot? Maybe it was in the blood. This cast a new light on the idea of the family business.

  “Has it occurred to either of you I don't want to marry?” she demanded.

  “Why not?” Kiernan asked.

  Phoebe hesitated, but knew she had no choice. “My twenty-fifth birthday is a few months away. I come into a sizeable inheritance. The money will allow me to do as I please.”

  “So that is what you meant by my honor for your freedom,” Kiernan murmured.

  “You do understand? Well, perhaps not. My uncle is a wonderful man, but his wife isn't so wonderful, and her son—well, he's a nuisance.”

  “What's he done?” Kiernan demanded, and Phoebe realized he thought Ty was trying to get into her bed.

  Damn him, she had no desire to explain Ty's love of gambling or her fear that Ty's mother would find a way to access Phoebe's inheritance. Phoebe planned to take possession of her money, then ensure that Lady Albery and Ty didn't ruin her uncle. But first she had to escape this mess.

  “You misunderstand," she told Kiernan, "Ty—they simply aren't my family.”

  Kiernan squatted beside her, bringing his face level with hers. “I will be your family now.”

  “I have a life," she went on in a rush, "things I wish to do, things that don't include being at the beck and call of a husband.”

  “As to whether or not those things include being at the beck and call of a husband,” the duke said, “I cannot say, but they do now include having a husband.”

  Phoebe stiffened. “Even you, Your Grace, cannot force me into marriage.”

  “It is done. The notice has been sent to the papers and a letter to your uncle.”

  She reeled. A message already sent. How—when? How long to reach London with a message? Two days, if the messenger changed horses along the way? When had the messenger left?

  “You sent the message last night,” she said in a whisper to the duke. "When you allowed me to send a message to my uncle." Her pulse quickened. “Sweet God in heaven, what have you done?”

  An acute silence fell upon the room, broken a moment later by Kiernan’s, “Phoebe, love.”

  She looked dumbly at him.

  “It wasn't my father’s doing.”

  She stared. “You?”

  He smiled slightly.

  “Not your damned honor?”

  The smile never wavered.

  She couldn't believe it. A traitor with honor.

  Phoebe looked at the duke. “I wish to return home.”

  “We have time,” Kiernan said. “If we leave tomorrow—”

  “I wish to leave now,” she insisted, her gaze still fixed on his father.

  "All right," Kiernan said. "It's best if the announcement appears in the papers before we arrive in London, so we will go to Ashlund first.”

  “I bloody well plan to cancel that announcement," Phoebe said. "And I have no intention of going anywhere with you.”

  “You can't go without me. In fact, we will ride with a large company of men in case your other admirer decides to waylay you again.”

  “What’s this?” the duke demanded.

  “Did my future wife neglect to tell you of the men who tried to abduct her the same night I did?”

  The duke’s attention sharpened on Phoebe.

  “It was fortunate that I got there when I did," Kiernan said. "If not for me, God knows what would have happened."

  “You're being melodramatic,” she said.

  “Miss Wallington,” the duke said in a stern voice that forced her attention to him. “Who is the other kidnapper?”

  The same man I encountered in the woods the night of the fire, she wondered? But said, "I haven’t the vaguest idea."

  Five minutes later, Phoebe begged Kiernan to give her time to think, and closed the library door on him and his father. She hurried to her room to collect the three articles she had hidden there earlier that morning. First, the sgian dubh, which she'd taken from the great hall. Lifting her apron, she stuffed the sheathed dagger into the pocket of her skirt. Next, she retrieved the small derringer she had found in the duke’s library and pocketed the weapon with the dagger. Lastly, she picked up her reticule, which contained the ruby ring her mother had given her before she died, along with her father’s letter. She stuffed the bag into her pocket and stood.

  Blood pounde
d in her ears in tandem with the rhythm of her thudding heart. She smoothed her skirts, until certain the bulge wasn't noticeable, then hastened from her room and down the stairs to the front entrance. Phoebe forced her pulse to slow and her mind to quiet as she pushed open the door and stepped into the busy courtyard. She resisted the urge to glance at the upper level of the castle. If luck smiled, father and son would be in conference long enough for her to reach the village. If all went well, Kiernan wouldn't seek her out until she was long gone. Leaving on her own was a huge risk, but she couldn't see any other choice. It was simply out of the question for her to arrive in London engaged to a man who she had already reported as a possible traitor to England. The letter she'd sent to Alistair was among those the duke thought was to her uncle, and would reach London with Kiernan's announcement for the papers.

  Keeping her gait casual, she started toward the gate. Halfway across the compound, a high-pitched shriek caused her to jerk her head in the direction of the scream. Two children raced across the courtyard. Phoebe shoved her hands into her pockets and slowed her pace. The open gate was only a few feet away. Easy, she told herself. A man stepped from the battlements as she crossed the gate’s threshold. He glanced at her, but she kept her gaze straight ahead as if not having seen him. She felt his gaze linger on her and her heart sank. But he didn’t call out, and a third of the way down the hill she couldn’t refrain from quickening her pace.

  Upon reaching the village, she spotted two women she'd met the night of the fire. They smiled. By heavens, they intended to stop her. Phoebe gave a cool nod and one woman flashed her a disgusted look. Phoebe winced inwardly, but kept walking. The minutes it took to reach the stables ticked by with the sluggishness of a nightmare. She reached the stables and slipped inside. A quick inspection of the horses revealed two stallions, a mare, and two geldings. She backtracked three stalls to the first gelding, a nice looking chestnut.

  Phoebe ran a hand along the strong back of the animal. “Your brethren in the keep’s stables are finer than you,” she cooed, “but pay them no mind. We have the element of surprise and will outrun them.”

  With a precision born of practice, she had the gelding saddled in ten minutes. Phoebe took a deep breath. “Ironic. Of all the villains I have had to escape, it is a duke insisting I marry his son that makes me quiver in my shoes.”