Sinful Scottish Laird--A Historical Romance Novel

by Julia London

  “No, of course not,” she said, as if that was a ridiculous question, and a wee bit of light shone on an old, deep wound in Cailean.

  “I’m really not to say, but I suppose there is no harm in telling you. After all, you’re not acquainted with the gentleman.” She straightened her shoulders and said proudly, “My cousin will marry Captain Robert Spivey of the Royal Navy. When his commission ends, that is. We do not as yet know when that shall be.”

  It seemed to Cailean as if everything around them slowed, the sound receding as he reeled at the mention of that name. It was impossible. Impossible.

  Cailean knew Spivey—he was an adversary, had been in pursuit of Aulay and Cailean for more than a year. They’d outrun him on at least two occasions and the last time had been terribly close. Their ships had passed so closely as Spivey’s ship, the Fortune, tried to turn starboard to fire at them, that Cailean and Spivey had seen each other through their spyglasses. Cailean had seen Spivey very clearly when Aulay’s first mate, Wallace Mackenzie, fired his musket and killed a sailor on Spivey’s deck. Aulay had maneuvered their unmarked ship expertly, and they’d outrun the royal rig. But the Fortune’s cannon had clipped their foremast. They had barely escaped.

  The ship had to be sent to Skye for repair. And the Mackenzies had continued on with their trade.

  It was an impossible coincidence that Lady Chatwick would be marrying one of the few men on this earth who would gladly see him hang.

  “But who among us is a farmer?” Miss Hainsworth said.

  Cailean realized she was still talking to him.

  “Certainly not I!” she said with a snort. “I can’t be long in the sun as it gives me a wretched headache—oh, there is my uncle. Pardon me, sir,” she said and stepped away.

  Cailean stared at Lady Chatwick, stunned by this news. He had the sudden thought that Captain Spivey had sent her here to ferret him out. But he quickly dismissed the idea—Spivey would need to catch him in the act of smuggling to bring him to justice, and he was presumably so far from the Highlands that it was an impossibility. So was it just a bad coincidence? A peculiar, absurd twist of fate?

  Fergus MacDonald startled Cailean, accosting him, whisky in hand. “Mackenzie, lad,” he said with much jocularity. Apparently, it was not his first whisky of the evening. “I wagered I’d no’ see you among us.”

  “I’d have thought the same of you, MacDonald.” That was not exactly true—shipbuilding was not entirely profitable, particularly when one built a ship for a Scotsman who promised to pay, then watched that Scotsman sail away and never return.

  “How did you gain an invitation, then?” MacDonald asked. “Had to wrangle it from the da, we did. He was right crabbit about it, too.”

  “You’ve come in your father’s stead?” Cailean asked, not understanding.

  “No’ in his stead, lad. Left him tied to that bloody shrew of a wife, aye? Ach, donna look at me in that way, Mackenzie. He’s his own fortune, he has. He doesna need another.” He threw a companionable arm around Cailean’s shoulders. “Like you, we’ve an interest in the lady’s affairs,” he said low, and waggled thick ginger eyebrows at him. “You’ve heard, have you no’? She’s a bloody fortune to her name and must marry a Scotsman by the end of the year.”

  Cailean hadn’t heard it quite in that way, but nevertheless he shrugged MacDonald’s heavy arm off his shoulders. “I’ve no interest in her affairs. I’ve come only as escort to my sister.”

  MacDonald laughed and clapped Cailean on the back. “Aye, of course you have, Mackenzie! Of course you have.” He was still laughing as he wandered away.

  Diah, Cailean could scarcely abide it, watching these men jockey around the lady, working to gain her attention. And worse, assuming he was working for the same.

  But he’d rather see one of these men prevail than Spivey.

  Somerled had attached himself to her side, he noticed. The rumors of his debts must be true, then. Lady Chatwick was enjoying his attention, obviously—she was quite animated when Somerled said something. She laughed, tossing her head back, her hand going to her belly as if to contain her glee.

  He shifted his attention to the windows that overlooked the loch and the gloomy vista of never-ending rain. But he could see the reflections of the people behind him, could see Lady Chatwick’s hair towering above the men. Spivey.

  What a tragic waste of a beautiful woman.

  He moved away, unwilling to look at her just now, and nearly stumbled over a lad seated in a chair.

  Cailean paused. Lady Chatwick’s son had either not noticed him or was refusing to acknowledge him. He had his hands braced against his knees and his head down, staring at the floor. The child seemed to be in abject misery. Well, then, they’d make good bedfellows.

  “Good evening,” Cailean said. The lad would not lift his head, so Cailean nudged his foot. “My lord?”

  The lad spoke then, but in a tone so soft that Cailean couldn’t understand him. “Pardon?” he asked, and squatted down on his haunches beside him, dipping his head to see the lad’s face. At last, the young lord looked at him. A Diah, what a despondent lad he was.

  “Would you like some company?”

  The lad shook his head, pressed his lips together and averted his gaze.

  “No?” Cailean asked. “A pity, then. I had hoped you might share what you think of the Highlands and Auchenard.” He didn’t really care, but the lad did look as if he could use a friend about now.

  “I hate it,” he whispered.

  “Hate?” Cailean repeated. “What could you possibly hate?”

  “There’s nothing to do here.”

  “Och, you donna know what you say. There is much for a lad to do here, aye? Hunting and fishing, stalking and birding. And you canna argue that there is a better diversion than the summer feill.”

  That earned him a glance from the corner of the lad’s eye. “What’s a feill?”

  “A festival. It’s held at Balhaire every year, then. You know of Balhaire, surely.”

  The lad shook his head.

  “The Mackenzie stronghold. An old castle with a village and whatno’, aye?”

  The lad said nothing.

  “All the Mackenzies and more come round for the weekend. There is food and ale, games of chance and strength. Musicians, too, and enough dancing to make a lad a wee bit dizzy. And the men—they play men’s games to challenge their strength and cunning. It’s the likes of which you’ve no’ seen in England.”

  Still the lad said nothing.

  “I suppose you know that the strongest man on earth hails from these very Highlands.”

  “He does?” the lad said, turning his head slightly toward Cailean.

  “Oh, aye,” Cailean said, nodding. “They call him the Mountain, for he’s as big as one and twice as strong.”

  “How can he be stronger than a mountain?”

  “You’ve no’ seen a man as big as this. He’s as tall as an elk,” he said, lifting his hand well above his head. “And he’s as broad across as two grown men.” Cailean leaned forward. “He can toss a caber farther than you might throw a stone.”

  “What’s a caber?” the lad asked timidly.

  “Diah, do my ears deceive me? Have you no’ seen a caber?” he asked with feigned incredulity.

  Young Lord Chatwick shook his head.

  “Why, it’s the trunk of a tree, It’s whittled down and sanded, aye?” he said, miming the process. “It’s as long as this room and as wide as you. It’s an important part of the games we play in the Highlands.”

  Lord Chatwick twisted a bit in his seat so that he could see Cailean. “But how can a man throw the trunk of a tree?”

  “With two hands,” Cailean said, turning his hands palms up. He made a shoving motion. “He tosses it up in the air and hopes it lan
ds on its head and falls forward.” He smiled and came off his haunches, settling into a chair next to the bairn. “How far do you think you might toss a caber?”

  He shook his head. “I couldn’t.”

  “What’s this? Of course you could,” Cailean said. “With good Highland air and perhaps a wee dram of ale, you could do it. You need only try.”

  The lad shook his head again. “My mother won’t allow it. She doesn’t want me to be harmed.”

  What coddling! Boys could not become men if they were coddled. “Heed me—you canna grow to be a man if you donna earn a few bumps and bruises along the way. A caber toss will no’ harm you, will it? On the morrow, if we have clear weather, I’ll show you if you like.”

  “Yes,” he said, nodding.

  Cailean extended his hand to him. “I’m Cailean Mackenzie, by the by. You may call me Cailean.”

  “Cay-lin,” the boy repeated carefully.

  “What’s your name, then?”

  “Ellis Bristol, Lord Chatwick,” he said, as if he had uttered those word a thousand times today.

  “Well, then, Ellis Bristol, Lord Chatwick, I look forward to demonstrating the toss of a caber on the morrow.” He stood up and winked at the lad. He intended to move on, but he very nearly collided with Lady Chatwick.

  “Oh my,” she said, folding her arms. “That worries me. What is to happen on the morrow?”

  Cailean could detect her perfume. It was light and clean and reminded him of fresh oranges. No, not oranges, exactly—but something so enticing that he wanted to lean closer to her to smell it.

  “He means to show me how to toss a caber,” Ellis said.

  “A what?”

  “It’s a tree trunk, Mamma,” he said as if it were quite common knowledge.

  “A tree trunk,” she repeated and glanced at Cailean. “You might show him how to toss something a bit more manageable, mightn’t you?”

  “A Highlander doesna toss things that are manageable—we leave that to the lassies and the Sassenach. Lord Chatwick and I have discussed it, and we have decided that we shall toss a caber or be damned trying. Is that no’ so, lad?”

  “It is,” Ellis said, looking suddenly and fiercely determined.

  Lady Chatwick smiled and put up her hands. “Far be it from me to interfere with the work of men. Ellis, darling, it’s time you had your supper. Will you go and find Mr. Tuttle?”

  “Aye, Mamma,” he said. He stood up, bowed stiffly to Cailean and made his way across the room.

  Lady Chatwick watched him go, then glanced up at Cailean, her eyes wide with surprise. “Aye? He said aye!”

  “There is hope for him yet, then.”

  She smiled warmly, and Cailean felt it swirl through him. “Thank you,” she said. “And I mean that quite sincerely. He’s been despondent, really. The landscape is intimidating so he doesn’t venture far. He’s charted all the stars so—”

  “He’s what?”

  She laughed softly. “He’s developed an interest in navigation.”

  Because of Spivey?

  “And, curiously, rocks,” she said with a lopsided smile. “He’s collected several. I’m very happy that he has something to look forward to. Although, I am a bit concerned that he might harm himself tossing tree trunks about.”

  “Milady?”

  Lady Chatwick shifted her smiling green eyes from Cailean to the butler.

  “Supper is served.”

  “Yes, thank you.” She turned back to Cailean and stepped a little closer, tilting her head back to look him in the eye. “My son has a delicate nature. Please remember it.”

  Cailean leaned slightly forward, bending his head over hers. “And he’ll be a delicate man if you donna let him away from your side.”

  Her smile deepened. “Are you now advising me how to raise my son?”

  “I’m advising you to allow him to toss a caber or two.”

  She lifted her gaze from his mouth, her smile sparkling in her eyes and in Cailean’s blood. “Have you any further advice for me, Arrandale? Or have you delivered it all?”

  His looked at her, at her smooth skin, her cheekbones. And her mouth, painted red for the evening. He tried to imagine the faceless English captain kissing those lips and felt a slight hitch in his gut. “Aye, I do. Keep close watch of your purse.”

  Now the dimples appeared. “Why, thank you, sir. I cannot imagine how I’ve carried on as I have without you to direct me.”

  Cailean couldn’t help his smile. “Neither can I.”

  She smiled with amusement. Cailean could feel a draw of energy from somewhere deep within him, which was broken the moment she looked away. “Please excuse me—I must play the part of gracious hostess now.” She glided away from him, her skirts brushing against his legs as she passed, the scent of her perfume lingering in her wake. Her fingers trailed over the back of the settee as she moved to her uncle’s side to announce supper was served. Oh, this woman—she knew very well how to tease a man without as much as lifting a finger.

  “Astonishing, is it no’?”

  Cailean looked to his left. Mr. Murray had sidled up to him and was eyeing Lady Chatwick shrewdly. “What is?” he asked.

  “That she has come to the Highlands at all, aye? Seems passing strange to me that a lady of her means and situation would waste as much as a day in these hills. I suppose she means to negotiate a devil’s bargain and trade Auchenard for a husband.” He sipped smugly from his whisky. “It meets all the stipulations of her husband’s will.”

  How was it that everyone in the Highlands knew of this woman’s predicament? Did they have nothing to occupy them but to guess at what she was about? “Perhaps,” he said with a shrug.

  Murray chuckled. “It’s common knowledge, Arrandale. I myself have heard it from Ned Burns, just returned from London. The lady caused a right scandal, she did, when she upended her house and brought it here.”

  Cailean shifted his gaze from Mr. Murray to Lady Chatwick again. “And what sort of man, do you suppose, would make a bargain that gives control of the purse to his wife?” he drawled.

  “A desperate one, aye? Look around you,” he said. “Look at how they smile.”

  Cailean’s gaze landed on Somerled across the room. His smile was simpering. He would feel like a fool when Lady Chatwick took her leave to wed a captain in the Royal Navy.

  “Any man with a need for fortune might strike a bargain here tonight,” Mr. Murray said. “Mark me, the lady will no’ remain in Scotland for long. These young men, smitten as they are by her fine looks, will be tricked into a situation in which she has the upper hand. I’d no’ be happy with a wife who instructed me,” he muttered.

  “I’d no’ be happy with a wife,” Cailean said, and the two men laughed.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  IN HINDSIGHT, AS much as Daisy hated to admit it, the meet-her-neighbors evening did not appear to be one of her better ideas.

  She looked at the guests around her dining table. Mrs. Finella Murray and Miss Catriona Mackenzie had their heads together, talking in low voices, ignoring everyone else. Daisy had tried to engage them, had asked Mrs. Murray if she’d ever been to Auchenard before.

  Mrs. Murray shook her head. “Only in passing.”

  Daisy didn’t know what that meant, precisely—they were at the end of a road, and one could hardly pass by Auchenard without splintering a carriage wheel. But she’d said, “I hope now that we have refurbished it, our friends will come often.”

  The two young women exchanged a look. “Well...in the winter, it’s right hard to reach Auchenard, aye?” Miss Mackenzie said.

  “Is it?” Daisy smiled and absently looked down at the table, wishing someone else would join the conversation. No one was paying them any heed. When she turned back, the two women were
whispering to each other. About her? No, no—they whispered about a man, surely. At that age, Daisy herself had been quite single-minded about men.

  She wished Belinda was here, but her cousin had retreated as soon as she was able, citing a headache from the damp.

  The men poured their own whisky now, having brushed aside the attentions of Rowley. Their plates, scraped clean, had been pushed away, so that Rowley and Mr. Green had to lean far over the guests to clear the table. Gone were the polite formalities her guests had shown upon arrival, and Daisy heard more than one belch. They were all of them laughing uproariously at one another, slipping in and out of their native tongue and English. Uncle Alfonso sat at the other end of the table, as far into his cups as some of the others, laughing louder than anyone else.

  At least he was enjoying himself.

  Arrandale didn’t seem to be enjoying the company at his end of the table. He sat stoically, his empty whisky tot pushed away, listening impassively to Irving MacDonald, who had commanded the floor with yet another tale of a shipwreck. To hear him tell it, it seemed as if ships were wrecked in droves near Skye.

  Daisy had thought this would be a proper supper party like those she’d hosted in London. She should have known it would be impossible here. Now she wished they’d all go home.

  She couldn’t suppress her second sigh, and she quickly straightened in her seat, hoping that none of her guests had noticed. Naturally one of them had, and that one arched a brow, as if silently chastising her. Daisy gave Arrandale a withering look.

  “Beg your pardon, madam, but is there more of Arrandale’s fine French wine?” Mr. Murray asked jovially, and the others laughed roundly.

  Arrandale? Did they think he’d brought the wine to this supper? “Of course,” Daisy said. “Allow me to bring it.”

  With a look of horror on his face, Rowley rushed to her chair to stop her from rising.

  “It’s quite all right,” she muttered to him. “I really need to take some air.”

  He nodded. The poor man looked as if he could use some air, too. He pulled back her chair, and Daisy stood.