The Bridegroom Wore Plaid

by Grace Burrowes

  “Trevisham?” The name was familiar.

  “The place Altsax acquired from the Merrick family,” Gil clarified. “Until Genie’s come-out, it was where they lived part of the year. She says it’s a lovely estate, and the baron has boasted that it’s quite profitable.”

  “I’m looking into that.”

  Mary Fran regarded him from where she stood by the hearth. “You don’t sound very pleased with matters, Ian.”

  “I am not pleased at all. Genie has made it clear she’s marrying under duress, the baron will take it out on our social standing if the wedding doesn’t take place, and every instinct I have says there’s something underhand in Altsax’s finances.”

  “I am against this wedding.” Connor spoke quietly then glanced around at his siblings. “Ian is being put in the position of having to force a woman to the altar. It isn’t honorable. We don’t need the coin, we just want it. Compromising honor for discretionary coin makes us whores.”

  Ian wanted to lift a toast in agreement with Con’s summary of the situation, wanted to take his siblings into his confidence. And yet, if Ian’s plan, shaky as it was, didn’t come to fruition, then his confidences would have been for naught.

  Gil pushed away from the windowsill where he’d been lounging. “If Ian doesn’t marry the woman, can you imagine her fate at Altsax’s hands?”

  “That is her brother’s concern,” Mary Fran said. “I’m confident Matthew can keep his sister safe if the situation is explained to him clearly enough.”

  “Matthew,” Gil spat, “who isn’t here.”

  “This gets us nowhere,” Ian said. “I haven’t signed anything, nor will I until I understand Altsax’s source of wealth. I’ll speak to Daniels when he returns, and we will comport ourselves graciously to our guests until he does. Mary Fran, are we in readiness for the weekend’s festivities?”

  Ian saw his siblings exchange fulminating glances. Yes, he’d just pulled rank, and yes, Connor’s position was the one supported by honor and integrity. Yes, Matthew Daniels’s disappearance was very untimely—as far as Ian’s siblings knew—and yes again, the Baron Altsax was a viper under their roof.

  And notwithstanding any of that, notwithstanding all plans and wishes to the contrary, come Friday night, Ian might very possibly have to permit the baron to make Genie’s betrothal announcement before every titled guest in the shire.

  Thirteen

  “Explain something to me.” Ian’s weight dipped the mattress as he sat on Augusta’s bed. “How is it your uncle claimed Trevisham was deep in debt eight years ago, but Genie says it’s the most profitable of his holdings now?”

  “Ian?”

  “Don’t shoo me away, Augusta Merrick. You avoided me for most of the day. I have questions for you.”

  Augusta struggled to a sitting position, only to see Ian shucking his clothing where he stood beside the bed. “Is it necessary that you be naked to interview me, Ian?”

  “No.” His hands stilled at his waistband, his expression shuttered. “But I would dearly like to be.”

  “This is not wise.” It was the best she could do, a little remonstrance. A sop to common sense at complete variance with what her body—and her heart—desperately wanted.

  “I do not see a wise course before me, Augusta. Not in the direction of your cousin, not in the direction of your bed, not in the direction of the docks where I am very tempted to take ship as my older brother and so many of my clan have before me.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Because I cannot remain away from your side.

  Augusta was slow to translate his Gaelic. Slow and unsure.

  “I’m here because something greater than wisdom compels me to be here, Augusta. I’ll leave if you like, and I won’t come back, but as early as this weekend Altsax might attempt to announce a betrothal and then…”

  “Then, no more heeding things greater than wisdom.”

  “I fear not.” He rolled his head on his neck. “I vow not. You have my word on that. Regardless of the outcome of Altsax’s schemes, I will do nothing to jeopardize your standing in the eyes of your family.”

  So their time was running out, as they’d both known it would. “Come to bed.” She patted the place beside her. “What do you want to know about Trevisham?”

  He did indeed interview her, though Augusta almost didn’t realize what he was about. He started by asking her to recount her memories of the place, to describe its metes and bounds, the size of its herds and the reckonings of its various harvests. She was surprised at how much detail she recalled.

  “And what of Altsax?”

  “It’s a pretty little place in a pretty corner of Kent,” Augusta said, drawing a pattern on Ian’s chest as she spoke. “Very little of the land around it was entailed with the manor, though, so it was sold off in lean times until it became not much more than a home farm and some tenancies. Mama said her younger brothers were welcome to squabble over it.”

  “And Gribbony?”

  “I never saw it. Papa said we needed to make the trip some year, as it was part of my birth right, but then it became time for my come-out, and life unraveled shortly after that.”

  “Unraveled. That’s a good word.” He sucked in a sharp breath as Augusta’s hand drifted lower. “A very good word.”

  “Ian?”

  “Beloved?”

  How she loved it when he spoke in his native language. “Last night, you mentioned something about a woman being on her knees before the man. How would that work?”

  ***

  As a young fellow at university, Ian had quickly realized he needed to exercise judgment in his amatory affairs. Reasonably good looks, some charm, and a title dangling a few branches over on the family tree meant women took an interest in him often before he took more than a passing interest in them.

  It became second nature to keep a running mental catalogue.

  That one, for all her flirtation, would want him to read to her in bed rather than romp.

  This one would be great fun, until it was time to part, in which case she’d turn into an emotional barnacle.

  The other wasn’t so very pretty, but she had a great sense of humor and wouldn’t cling.

  Augusta’s hand drifted down his abdomen, nigh stealing his wits.

  “Last night, you mentioned something about a woman being on her knees before the man. How would that work?”

  He trapped her hand before it could wander any lower. “That’s a dangerous question, Augusta.” Dangerous to him, because Augusta wasn’t fitting into any of his catalogue compartments. She wasn’t a romp; she wasn’t a fling; she wasn’t anything casual at all.

  She was a woman with whom he could build something, build a life. A woman with whom he could be not just a casual partner or a cordial spouse, but a lover. A woman with whom he could share such trust; anything would be possible between them.

  And while he was fending off a great load of regret—he could offer her nothing but poverty and long winters, assuming he could disentangle himself from Genie—Augusta wrapped his cock in a firm, warm grip. “This part of you fascinates me.”

  She was asking him for permission. He was helpless to deny her when their time was so limited. “Do what you will with me, Augusta, but turnabout is fair play.” Assuming there was an occasion for it.

  He suffered her exploration all over again, more intimately than he’d done the previous night, because her touch revealed more confidence—confidence in her welcome and in herself as a woman. She ran her fingers over his length, exploring the soft skin of the crown, then along his shaft to sift through the down at the base.

  “These are the oddest bits.”

  His balls, of course. “They’re a man’s most delicate bits too.
That feels good.”

  She cupped him. “Will you show me that business about being on my knees before you?”

  “Of course.” And lest she start making him a list, he shifted her so she was straddling him. “Kiss me, Augusta. I’ll show you the world if you’ll kiss me.”

  Her expression was a combination of confusion and curiosity. Ian flexed his hips, and the confusion faded.

  “We can join like this, can’t we?” She seemed delighted at the idea.

  “Kiss me, beloved of my heart.” She leaned down, braced herself on her hands, and brushed her mouth over his. She was smiling, the baggage. Ian flexed his hips again, teasing her sex while she teased his mouth.

  “Ian MacGregor…”

  Whatever else she might have said was lost in her sigh as Ian used one hand to gently knead her breast and the other to guide himself to her. This wasn’t the most prudent position if a man wanted to protect his lady from conceiving. It was difficult to withdraw, difficult to want to withdraw.

  Impossible to want to withdraw.

  With Augusta, what was possible was to put her pleasure ahead of his own. While she hung over him, her kisses temporarily suspended, he set up a languid rhythm. By half inches, he penetrated her body then retreated, all the while using his hands to caress her breasts, to anchor her to him, to stroke his fingers over the planes and angles of her face.

  “Ian, this is…” Her voice was a whisper in the darkness.

  “Tell me.”

  “I want to move.” She shifted closer to him, onto her forearms. “I must move.”

  “Move then.” Though he didn’t stop his own flexing and withdrawing. The pleasure of it was wondrous, such a combination of satisfying and arousing, he could maintain such a pace all night.

  She hitched closer still and moved right into his rhythm, deepening the penetration and obliterating any fool notion that he could last all night.

  “I like this, Ian.”

  She got her teeth on his earlobe; he closed his thumb and forefinger around one rosy nipple in self-defense. “I like it too. I like it so much I want it to last, Augusta.”

  He wanted it to last for the rest of his life.

  Except Augusta, clever lady, chose that moment to discover she had muscles in places designed to drive a man beyond any restraint. She let go of his ear and fused her mouth to his just as she used her body to glove his cock with a momentary tightness.

  “Augusta, you must not…”

  She did it again, and again, and Ian came unraveled. He lashed his arm low across her back and drove into her, hard, and then, when she started keening against his throat, harder still. Pleasure engulfed him, then drowned him when he felt her body fisting around him in tight, wringing convulsions.

  His awareness of everything save the woman to whom he was joined dissolved, leaving only pleasure, wonder, and oneness for a few shining moments until Augusta collapsed onto his chest in a boneless, panting heap.

  It helped to feel the warm, comforting weight of her on his body. Helped Ian recover from the unprecedented intensity of his orgasm, helped him fix his attention on something real and precious.

  “Tell me I didn’t hurt you, my heart.” He stroked his hands over the length of her back, traced her spine with his fingers, and buried his lips in her hair. “Augusta?”

  She snuggled closer and nuzzled his neck, which was answer enough. They remained entwined for a long time, while Ian tried not to regret what had just passed between them.

  It was one thing to long for what was forbidden. It was another thing entirely to taste the forbidden fruit and learn just how luscious it was.

  “Ian?” She kept his earlobe between her teeth as she spoke.

  “My heart?”

  “Now will you show me the part about being on my knees before you?”

  ***

  He showed her how it worked when she was on her knees, clinging to the headboard of the bed and trying not to scream, and how it worked when he let her drowse on her side as he loved her gently from behind. By the time dawn came stealing along, Augusta felt as if she’d changed yet another increment from the timid mouse tending chickens in Oxford.

  Changed for the better.

  “I want you to know something, Ian MacGregor.” She sat beside him on the edge of the bed while he shrugged into his shirt.

  “This sounds serious.”

  “It is. I’m going to try to stop you from marrying Genie.”

  He was silent for a moment. She could feel him weighing his words before he spoke. “Augusta, I believe we agreed…”

  She put her fingers over his lovely, lovely mouth. “Hear me out. I know you must marry for money, but I also know you deserve to marry a woman who understands it’s a privilege to be your countess.”

  “It’s no bloody damned privilege to pay coin for a man’s title, lass. I deserve the women who deserve me.”

  “Stubborn, MacGregor, but what about Genie? Doesn’t she deserve some chance at happiness? She’ll be miserable married to you.”

  He scrubbed a hand over his face, looking haunted in the bedroom’s shadows. “I know this. I’ve tried to reason with her, but I get the sense she wants to marry me to protect me from Altsax’s vituperation, and I’m to marry her to protect her from his violence.”

  “Matthew can take measures to protect his sister.”

  “You’re the second person to make this pronouncement, but I’ve yet to hear it from Daniels himself. Daniels, who had damned well better get back from his infernal business before Mary Fran’s heart breaks, or I’ll hunt the man down myself.”

  “He’ll come back.” Augusta stroked her hand over Ian’s disheveled hair. “He promised Fee he’d be back.”

  “That’s something. We none of us would disappoint Fee apurpose, but about this other, Augusta, you must desist. The baron is not to be trusted. Genie says he’ll announce a betrothal at the ball just to force my hand, and I have to agree with her.”

  “Announcements do not vows make. If I have this week, then give me this week to see what might be done.”

  He peered at her for a long moment, looking as if some further admonishment hovered on the tip of his tongue, and then his lips quirked up. “I can’t stop you, can I?”

  She smiled at him, a radiant, joyous benediction because he understood he could not stop her, and because he would not try. “Of course, you can’t stop me.”

  “Then promise me you’ll be careful, my heart. I do not trust Altsax one bit. Do not trust that even the most clever scheme will be enough to see that man put in his place. Promise me you’ll take no risks while you’re seeing what might be done, and be damned careful.”

  ***

  The Scottish peerage could put on all the airs and graces it pleased, but from what Altsax had seen in the Balfour household, there was little of true aristocracy about it. The servants, for example, were friendly and eager to please.

  In the Altsax household, they knew better than to be eager, for God’s sake.

  The child—Fiona, little more than a bastard—was indulged by the household at large, supervised by the household at large, and had the run of the household at large. Altsax almost pitied Balfour, having to find a spouse for such a hoyden. She already had her mother’s wicked red hair, as if that weren’t burden enough.

  And the younger sons… They trailed after the earl like loyal hounds, guarding his flank, taking his orders. In a proper household, one would be consigned to the church and the other would be off in the hinterlands serving Queen and Country. They’d each make an effort to produce a few sons as duty required, but here among the Scots? Not a legitimate male child among them.

  They simply had no idea how to go on.

  Which was part of their back
ward, titled charm.

  A footman knocked on the library door, paused inside the room to bow to the baron, then deposited a salver of mail on the estate desk dominating one end of the room. The baron kept his eyes trained on the book in his lap until the man took a silent leave.

  The amount of mail Balfour had to read each day was appalling, and most of it appeared to be personal correspondence. Smudged, faded, and travel worn, a prodigious number of missives bore the simple return address: MacGregor, Boston. Or more common yet, MacGregor, N.S. Canada.

  They apparently propagated like fleas when there wasn’t a title involved. Altsax shuffled through the stack of letters, seeing two from his own solicitors, which was all well and good.

  They would pass along to Balfour exactly what Altsax wanted them to and nothing more. He sorted through more mail until he came to a cream envelope bearing…

  The Seal of the House of Gotha and Saxe-Coburg?

  From His Highness, Albert…

  Altsax had to sit, never before having had the privilege of seeing, much less holding, a piece of truly royal correspondence. Royal mail to a bumpkin of an earl. It symbolized every injustice ever done a lowly baron.

  He set the missive down. It was likely a regret for the weekend’s ball. Royalty could hardly be bothered to watch the locals every time one of them took a notion to sport about in his plaid—though it would be the occasion of Genie’s engagement.

  Altsax picked up the envelope then set it down again.

  This ball would see all his plans and hard work brought to fruition, while Balfour stood helpless to do anything but smile and accept congratulations.

  Altsax stole a glance at the door then rummaged in the desk for a penknife. Sealing wax was sealing wax, and Altsax had been slitting seals and reclosing them since he’d been a boy. How else would he have learned the terms of Merrick’s will and where it had been stored for safekeeping?

  He scanned the contents of the Prince Consort’s epistle, then got up to pace. It wasn’t simply a rejection of the weekend’s invitation. It was a regret for the ball but an acceptance for the next day’s hunt—along with a tidily noted addendum to the body of the letter. Those few words contained information that could bring everything the baron held dear—his wealth, his rank, his influence, his title—crashing down around him in disgrace if he were not exceedingly careful.