Brigand

by Sabrina York

  How had he ever thought he could come here and try to fit in? What madness had possessed him?

  But he had. Somewhere in the deep, dark recesses of his mind, he had harbored a hope. A tiny sprig of hope that somehow, in the next three months, he could woo her. Win her.

  Woo her?

  Win her?

  Yes. He was, he feared, a lunatic.

  Now that he saw her in the environment in which she belonged, he knew—knew—he could never have her. Why would she want him, a base, tainted, common man? Why would she ever want him when she could so easily land a decent man? A gentleman?

  A dark cloud settled over him. A miasma so murky, so disheartening, he wanted to rip his hair out at the roots.

  The coward nestled deep in his soul longed to run. Just leave. Sophia would be fine here without him. This was more her world than his. He would never fit in here. Society would not allow it. The arrogant members of the haute ton would certainly never accept him—

  “Robert Granger. Upon my soul,” a deep female voice warbled. “Whatever brings you to Wyeth House?”

  Ewan turned. An old woman, tottering against her cane, approached him with untoward vigor. She stopped and squinted, peering at him through rheumy eyes. “My apologies, sir. I thought you were someone else.”

  “Ewan McCloud, ma’am.” He bowed. He supposed that was what one did in these circumstances.

  “Ah. The brigand.” She cackled, presumably to herself.

  He should not have blushed. It was hardly a manly thing to do. But he couldn’t stop the hot tide flooding his cheeks. He forbore glancing at Violet though he could feel her gaze on him. He could always feel her gaze when it lit on him. It was a curse. “Ma’am. The very same.” He bowed again.

  “I am Hortense Bigby. Delighted to meet you.” She settled herself with a great gust on the divan and selected a cake from the platter, raking him with an assessing perusal. Then she winked. “I always had a preference for the wicked ones.”

  His mouth fell open. Was she flirting with him?

  She tittered and turned her attention to the ladies, pinning Sophia with a sharp scrutiny. “I understand I’m to groom your sister for her season.”

  “Yes, ma’am. And thank you.” He struggled with what to say next. He should say something more. Shouldn’t he? He couldn’t fathom what that would be. Fortunately, Hortense Bigby did not require niceties.

  “Well,” she trilled. “Stand up, child. Let me see what we’re working with.”

  Sophia did as she was asked. Bless her. She always did.

  “Turn.” Hortense studied her. “Nice. Good hair. Pretty face. The dress, however, is horrid.” Ewan bristled. He’d picked it out. Thought it complemented her quite nicely. “She has a wardrobe, I presume.”

  Ewan blinked. “A…wardrobe?”

  Hortense blew out a snort. “Dresses. Evening dresses, day dresses, walking dresses, morning dresses.”

  “I have school dresses, ma’am.” Sophia offered a little curtsey with the admission.

  “School dresses?” One would think she’d admitted to keeping a full selection of widow’s weeds. “Bother. We shall have to shop.” Hortense braced her hands on her cane and blew out a sigh—though Ewan suspected she was not disappointed in the slightest. She turned her attention on him. “You have the means to pay for what she may require?”

  He tried not to laugh. “Anything.”

  “Anything?” If it were at all possible, her eyes glowed even more.

  “Anything, ma’am.”

  “My, yes,” she chortled beneath her breath. “I do fancy the wicked ones.”

  On that note, blissfully, Edward arrived. He didn’t sit down for tea, as Kaitlin suggested. Rather he pinned Ewan with a commanding stare and raised a brow. “My study?”

  Eager to escape his discomfort, the constant reminders of how out of place he was in this world, he nodded. But he remembered to bow and murmur a vague “ladies” as he left. He made it a point not to look at Violet. That, he had discovered, was far too painful altogether.

  He’d barely glanced at her.

  Violet tried desperately to follow the conversation after Ewan and Edward left. And she tried desperately to keep her tears at bay.

  Ever since her cousin had told her of his agreement with the McCloud, ever since she’d known he was coming, she’d been on pins and needles. Playing and replaying their reunion in her head.

  She had at the very least expected a smile. She hadn’t even gotten one of those.

  He’d been surly and solemn and had ignored her completely.

  Her heart wrenched.

  How silly she’d been to think a man like Ewan McCloud would ever share her feelings. Was he capable of love? Of course not.

  He had used her. Taken what he wanted. And now that he’d had it, he wanted nothing to do with her.

  The truth so dispirited her she couldn’t bear to pretend civility. So when Kaitlin and Hortense showed Sophia up to her suite, Violet begged off, claiming a megrim. It was a complete lie.

  But lies had a way of turning into truth, and before long she was splayed on her bed with a damp cloth over her face. Which was wonderful. Because it soaked up the tears.

  She’d always dreamed of her season—even when the family had gone under the hatches and she’d been convinced it would be an impossibility. She’d dreamed of glittering balls and handsome men and suitors and swains. Of choosing gowns and wearing lovely jewels and silk petticoats and slippers…

  She wanted none of that now.

  The very thought of dressing up and going to Almack’s and facing a teeming throng—and selecting a husband—sickened her.

  Lots of things sickened her lately. She’d spent more time hunched over the basin than she cared to admit. She’d spent a lot of time in her room, weeping, as well.

  She’d never been a weepy sort. She hated that she was now.

  Hated what he’d done to her.

  Well, not all of it.

  Even under the cover of night, when there was no one there to witness her mooning, she would remember him, his touch, his kisses, his passion. She would remember him and her body would weep.

  A familiar ache arose in her womb and she gave a growl, tossing the cloth across the room. Why was she so stupid? Why was she so weak? Why couldn’t she just put him from her mind?

  Yes, that was what she should do.

  Thrust him from her thoughts. Enjoy her season. Grab hold of the very first man who approached her at her very first ball and convince him she was utterly besotted—perhaps convince herself as well. Then she would marry him, this soulless, faceless man. They would be blissfully happy.

  And Ewan McCloud could go to the devil.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Edward threw himself into a large chair by the fire and, without hesitation, Ewan joined him. This was a man’s chair. It would not crumble beneath him. Also, there was a decanter of brandy at his elbow. He blew out a sigh.

  Edward poured them both a drink without asking.

  “So… That was Sophia.”

  Ewan nodded. Took a healthy gulp.

  “I begin to comprehend your passion. She’s quite lovely.”

  “She is. She deserves nothing but the very best. Your Grace—”

  The duke snorted. “Call me Edward.”

  “Edward then. Thank you for honoring your promise.”

  Moncrieff’s brow notched up. “I always honor my promises.” Though it was not inferred in his tone, a flush crawled up Ewan’s neck at the reminder he had been less than honorable in his dealings with this family.

  He stared into the fire, hunting for something to say. Finally he thought of something. It was bland and inane but it would fill the silence. “I hear you married Kaitlin. Congratulations.”

  Edward nodded. The sound he made might have been a sigh. “I was rather pleased to learn you had not debauched her.” Ewan’s bowels churned. No. He had not debauched Kaitlin. He’d been too busy ruining Violet to get aro
und to it. “By the way, how’s your cheek?”

  Ewan rubbed his jawline. “Hardly a twinge anymore.”

  “Sorry about that. It’s just, when she came down those stairs wearing nothing but your shirt and a blanket, I lost my mind.”

  “No need to apologize, Edward.” Ewan raked his hair. He’d deserved it. “I-I feel the need to apologize as well.”

  Moncrieff raised a patrician brow. “Do you? For what? Kidnapping Violet—”

  “That was Callum MacAllister—”

  “Or holding her in that wretched keep? Or strong-arming Kaitlin into an unwanted betrothal. Or…was there anything else?”

  Hell yes. There was.

  “For all of it. I was a desperate man. I regret any harm I’ve caused.”

  “Hmm.” Edward refilled their glasses and they sipped in silence. “On that note…” Ewan’s pulse kicked up a notch as Edward picked up the thread of the conversation. “What did happen between you and Violet while she was at the Cloud?”

  He nearly spilled his drink. “Did-did she say anything?”

  Edward pinned him with a sharp stare. “She’s told us nothing. But if she did, what would she say?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  Moncrieff shrugged. “She’s just not been herself since she came back.”

  Concern skirled through him. “What do you mean, not herself?”

  A shrug. “She’s listless. Quiet. Stares off into space at dinner. Sighs a lot. Granted, the house is more peaceful without her mischief—when the boys aren’t lighting fires in the garret. But she’s a far cry from her old self. Kaitlin is worried.”

  Ewan slumped in his chair and steepled his fingers, brooding. The prospect that Violet languished over her ordeal, over their encounters at the Cloud, tore at his heart. He rather hoped she would remember him fondly, if she thought of him at all. “Do you think she’s ill?”

  Moncrieff barked a laugh. “Ill? Does that sound like an illness you’ve ever heard of?” His gaze sharpened until Ewan felt like a bug pinned to a wall. “I think she’s pining.”

  “Pining?”

  “Is there any reason she would be pining?”

  Hell. Ewan tried desperately not to squirm. “Not that I… I don’t… She… We…” Hell.

  Edward shot him a simmering glance. “I thought as much.” He tossed back his drink and stood. “Do I need to ask for satisfaction?”

  Ewan blanched. He leapt to his feet as well. “S-satisfaction? Are you challenging me to a duel?” Why his voice squeaked on the word, he had no clue.

  “Do I need to?”

  “Might I remind you, duels are illegal in England.”

  “When has something as inconsequential as the law ever stopped you?”

  Ewan’s mouth opened but an appropriate retort escaped him. So he snapped it shut.

  “Don’t get me wrong, McCloud. Of all the men in the world I would choose for Violet, you are far from my first choice. But if she has tender feelings for you… If what I suspect happened between the two of you in Scotland did happen, you will offer for her.”

  Every fiber of Ewan’s being seized. His mind went blank. Was he being ordered by a peer of the realm to marry the only woman on earth he wanted to hold in his arms? He knew it was an impossibility—hell, she hated him, after all, and after all he was a foul lowlife—but he couldn’t still the little thrill that scoured through his veins at the thought.

  His voice was ragged when he responded, “She won’t have me.”

  Edward stilled. “You don’t deny it then?”

  “I cannot. I also cannot deny I am in love with her.”

  Ah. That took Moncrieff aback. “You-you’re in love with her?” This he sputtered on a laugh.

  “Utterly.” He scrubbed his face. “And she despises me.”

  “I suspect she does not despise you.”

  Ewan leveled him with a frown. “I am hardly refined. She deserves a gentleman at the very least.”

  “We can polish your edges.”

  Ewan snorted. “I have very rough edges.”

  “Have you met Aunt Hortense? She turned me from a degenerate rake into a devoted husband. Surely she can turn a Scottish brigand into a well-trained house pup.”

  Ewan wasn’t sure he cared for such a fate. But hell, if Edward was offering to help him win Violet, he would do whatever it took. “All right. But it may take time to…woo her.”

  Edward seemed less than pleased. “I will expect an offer by the end of the season. But know this, McCloud. If you so much as bruise that girl’s heart—I will kill you.”

  And Ewan didn’t doubt him for an instant. He was hardly that big a fool.

  But it wasn’t trepidation dancing in his soul. It was hope.

  Blissful, glorious, glittering hope.

  It wasn’t even shattered when Edward added as an afterthought, “Oh, and don’t tell Ned you despoiled his sister. If he finds out, he will shoot you.”

  * * * * *

  When Ewan arrived at William’s townhouse, where he planned to stay for the duration, he found his friend in residence. He greeted him with surprise and not a small fraction of pleasure. Truth be told, he’d felt a little bereft driving away from Wyeth House all alone and wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of spending the next three months in his own company.

  William clapped him on the shoulder and led him into the library. “Welcome to London, my friend,” he said with a wide grin.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  William shrugged and poured them both a drink. “I wasn’t planning on coming when I offered you the house but then some business…arose.” He slanted a glance in Ewan’s direction. “I hope you don’t mind my presence?”

  “Not at all. In fact I think I might appreciate seeing a friendly face now and again.”

  Gray eyes glittered with humor. “Was it that bad?”

  Ewan blew out a breath. “Worse.”

  “Moncrieff was an ass then?”

  “Not a bit of it. He was actually quite cordial. Once I apologized.”

  William barked a laugh. “Never say it. The indomitable McCloud? Groveling for forgiveness?”

  “Hardly groveling.”

  “Still, a sight many a man would pay to see.”

  “Thankfully it was a private conversation.”

  William lifted his glass. “Small favors.”

  “Aye.”

  “So what are the plans for the season?”

  “Apparently I shall be spending a lot of money.”

  William threw back his head and laughed again. “I could have told you that.”

  “There’s to be a party and a debut ball. I’ve been instructed to attend dinner tonight to discuss the details of those.”

  “Instructed?” A tawny brow winged upward. “By whom?”

  “Hortense Bigby.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “She’s Moncrieff’s aunt and the general in charge of this assault.”

  “You say that in jest, my friend, but you have no idea how fierce these tonnish harpies can be.”

  “I have no idea about any of this.” It was true. Discomfort—that horrible sense of being completely out of his element—prickled at his nape.

  “Not to worry. I shall coach you. Don’t gape at me so. My father is a baron and a member of the House of Lords. I’ve been through all this before.”

  “Your father is a member of Parliament?” Good God. When he thought of all the mischief he and William had gotten into together, his blood went cold.

  William just laughed. “The expression on your face is priceless. Yes. My father is a member of Parliament. But I, good sir, am the black sheep of the family. Nevertheless, I should be able to give you some pointers. I take it you can arrange an invitation to the soirees for me?”

  “Yes. Certainly.” At least he assumed he could.

  “Excellent. Now,” he rubbed his hands together, “where shall we begin?”

  * * * * *

>   “You look beautiful, Violet.” Kaitlin’s voice was a balm, soothing and soft. But still, all Violet wanted to do was run away from the girl in the mirror, the girl decked out in a gorgeous white gown laced with dazzling stones, with her hair arranged in an exquisite knot at the top of her head. She wanted to run away and burrow in the covers of her bed.

  She set her palm to her belly, trying to ease the churning there. “I don’t see why I need to attend.” This, a whisper. But Kaitlin heard.

  “Silly girl.” Her friend softened the words with a smile. Kaitlin was breathtaking as well. She wore an exquisite burgundy-and-gold gown—the Moncrieff colors. Diamonds winked in her ears and around her neck. She looked…like a duchess. “It’s your coming out as well.” They had decided to combine debuts for the two girls although, in truth, most of the attendees would be there purely to get a glimpse of the new Duchess of Moncrieff. Judging from the responses they’d received, tonight would be a crush. Violet was dreading it.

  The past two weeks had been a whirl of fittings and teas. There had been dancing lessons for Sophia and ceaseless visits to the mantua-makers and milliners. An endless parade of appointments and meetings and lectures from Aunt Hortense.

  Of Ewan, she’d seen nothing.

  And she was happy about that. She was.

  Oh, he’d been to the house. He’d come to visit Sophia or speak with Edward nearly every day, but other than dinner the night he arrived, she hadn’t so much as caught a glimpse of him.

  Probably because whenever she was not expected to be somewhere else, she was in her room. Under the covers. She glanced longingly at her bed.

  Kaitlin sat down on the bench next to Violet, wrapping her arm around her. “Remember when we used to talk about a night like this? Back at Lady Satterlee’s? A glittering ballroom. Handsome men vying for our attention? Dancing until we were breathless?”

  A tear leaked from the corner of Violet’s eye. Those had been the stupid dreams of a child.

  “Now, now. None of that.” Kaitlin dabbed at her cheek with a lacy handkerchief. “Chin up, Violet. You need to be happy tonight. You need to smile.”