The Whiskey Laird's Bed

by Donna MacMeans

  “I don’t really know about the women, but I believe everyone is assembled in the parlor.” James paused for a moment. “They’re waiting.”

  Cameron turned back. “Point taken. Let’s get this over with then.” He grabbed his jacket and slipped it over his waistcoat so as to be presentable in his own house.

  ***

  “Here’s my son, the laird of the Macphersons,” his mother said, beaming as if she had just introduced the late Prince Albert. “May I present the Marquess of Lothian.” Cameron shook the hand of the marquess. As the Secretary for Scotland, Lord Lothian held the highest political office as concerning the government of Scotland. He had a firm handshake and an eye that drifted toward Lady Macpherson. Cameron suspected he was well accustomed to the hunt.

  “And these are his children,” his mother continued. “The Earl of Ancram . . .”

  Cameron nodded to the earl, who was a comparable age to himself. “Ancram.”

  “And the earl’s sisters, Lady Kerr and Lady Helen Kerr.”

  They were husband-shopping, he could see it in their smiles. The oldest, Lady Kerr, could have been a twin to her brother, so alike were they in age and coloring. He guessed the youngest, Lady Helen, was recently out of finishing school. Those were dangerous years for men who were determined to remain unattached.

  “It’s a pleasure to have you as guests at Ravenswood. We have two other female guests visiting from England. I expect they’ll be joining us shortly.”

  The earl perked up. “Other female guests?”

  Cameron smiled. “May I offer you and your father a wee dram before dinner?”

  “It’s one of the reasons we come to Scotland,” Lord Lothian said in acceptance.

  Cameron reached for the decanter.

  His mother fretted nervously. “I do hope you’ve found your rooms satisfactory. I so enjoy it when this old castle is full of people. If you have a need of anything, anything at all, simply—”

  A stillness settled over the group. Cameron glanced up while pouring whisky to see Miss Huddleston and Miss Starke standing in the doorway of the parlor.

  Sweet Lord in Heaven, she was beautiful. Something about the color of her gown, the dressing of her hair, or maybe the sudden vulnerability in her eyes called out to him. The splash of wetness on his leg alerted him that the wee dram had turned into an overflowing glass.

  ***

  The voices in the parlor had increased in volume as she and Faith had slipped down the steps. She forced a smile to her lips to hide her lack of confidence. Please God, don’t let them break out in laughter. She’d noted three distinct male voices as they approached, all of which came to a complete halt the moment the two of them entered the room.

  She sought Cameron’s eyes, hoping for approval. She found him by the sideboard, pouring whisky. He looked stupefied, not unlike the dazed animal trophies lining the walls, while whisky overflowed from the intended glass. She parted her lips to warn him of the overflow, but the splash of liquid on his knees beat her to it. She heard him mumble something in Gaelic while trying to clean the mess.

  The distraction gave her opportunity to appreciate how ruggedly handsome he was, even down to that funny sporran that drew the eye to exactly where women weren’t supposed to look.

  “There’s nothing quite like a virile Scotsman in full ensemble, is there?” Claire wasn’t certain who the woman who spoke was, but she agreed with her assessment. He quite took her breath away.

  “It’s why I married his father,” Lady Macpherson replied. “Those were glorious times.”

  Another man, dark and eloquent, moved to her side with the grace that came naturally to the aristocracy. She hadn’t noticed him when she’d initially scanned the room’s occupants, but that was understandable. Dressed in a black frock coat with his black hair and the thick scruff around his chin, he blended well into the shadows. Claire’s breath caught. She may have referred to Cameron as the Devil, but this man more accurately fit that description.

  “Lady Macpherson,” he said without so much as a glance to the matron, “perhaps you should introduce us.”

  “Indeed,” she replied, a bit flustered at seeing Claire. “Miss Huddleston and Miss Starke, may I present the Earl of Ancram.” She turned to the earl. “Miss Huddleston and Miss Starke are our two guests from London. Miss Huddleston had the misfortune of recently injuring her ankle and is just on the mend.”

  Lord Ancram . . . the name struck a cord. Claire had heard it mentioned before, but couldn’t remember the exact context. Somehow she didn’t think it was a positive reference.

  He offered Faith his arm. “Then you must allow me to assist you, so as not to burden your ankle further.” He turned to Claire and offered his other arm. His lips twisted in a wicked fashion. “Come, Miss Starke. Allow me to introduce you to the rest of my family.”

  She glanced helplessly at Cameron, but her view of him was blocked by a fresh-faced miss who was demanding his full attention.

  “When my father suggested we come to Scotland for the hunt,” the earl said, “I hadn’t imagined he had such attractive quarry in mind.” His lascivious smile suggested he wasn’t referring to the trophies hanging on every wall.

  Dear Heaven! Claire’s eyes widened. She glanced at Faith, but she seemed preoccupied searching for someone else. If the uncomfortable prickling at Claire’s nape was any indication, they were in the company of a rake—the very sort of rapscallion they’d hope to thwart!

  After the introductions, the earl helped Faith into a chair. “I understand that the women this far north enjoy a small whisky before a meal. May I get you a drink?”

  Suddenly in her area of expertise, Claire prepared to launch into an exposition on the evils of alcohol when a shrill note pierced the quiet conversation in the parlor. Ned from the tavern, dressed in full ensemble, stood at the entrance to the dining room forcing breath through a set of bagpipes. She squinted a bit, just to see that her eyes hadn’t lied, and the bearded man winked at her.

  “It’s a tradition to be piped into dinner,” Lady Macpherson announced, as if the piper’s appearance were a normal part of their evening meal.

  The earl escorted them into the dining room and expressed delight that while Faith had been seated next to the laird, Claire had been placed next to the earl at the opposite end of the table—and as far as possible from Lord Lothian, Claire noted. Any hopes of speaking with the man who had authority over the laws of Scotland would have to wait until after dinner, or perhaps before tomorrow’s hunt.

  Cameron frowned down at her from his position at the head of the table. Was that a warning not to challenge Lord Lothian about habitual drunkenness in the Highlands? If he thought he could thwart her mission with such a look, then he didn’t know her very well. Claire smiled to herself as she attacked the soup before her. She wouldn’t let this opportunity to leave a mark on society pass her by. In fact . . .

  “It must be something of a heady experience having the Secretary for Scotland as a father,” she said to Lord Ancram. “As such, you must have some influence over its governing.”

  The earl looked at her a moment, seemingly surprised by her statement, then he smiled. “I’m surprised someone from London would have an interest in Scottish politics.”

  “It’s not an interest as such,” she said, realizing she hadn’t a clue about current issues concerning Scotland. “There are some aspects of Scottish life that I believe can bear reform.”

  “Reform?” He barked a quick laugh. “Not likely under the current prime minister. You are familiar with Lord Salisbury’s philosophy?”

  She didn’t answer, certain that she was about to hear it anyway.

  “‘Whatever happens will be for the worse,’” he said, imitating the prime minister. “‘Therefore, it is in our interest that as little should happen as possible.’” He sipped his wine while the footman replaced h
is bowl with the next course. “It is not a philosophy that encourages reform.”

  This did not bode well for her chances of success. “But your father—”

  “My father has been involved in politics for as long as you’ve been alive, Miss Starke. There comes a time when every politician of lengthy service is given a position as a reward for prior service, not as encouragement to be a champion for change.”

  “Oh.” She glanced up the table to where Lord Lothian sat engaged in conversation with Cameron. He appeared to be a man in his early sixties. While he was not ancient by any means, she supposed it would make sense that he wouldn’t be placed in an overly challenging position.

  She looked across the table, but Miss Lothian’s head was bent in private conversation with her sister. Claire picked at her plate, her appetite waning.

  “Why is a Londoner so far north?” the earl asked. “Did you come for the hunt?”

  She shook her head. What would the earl say if she replied that she had? Not for tomorrow’s hunt—the thought of which still turned her stomach—but the hunt of the human sort: Miss Patricia Townsend’s hunt for a husband, Lady Macpherson’s hunt for grandchildren, her own hunt for friendship. That last thought surprised her. Was that why she’d hurried to Scotland? Not because she thought to protect Faith, but rather because she was afraid Miss Townsend had usurped her friendship?

  She nodded up the table to where Faith sat. “My friend, Miss Huddleston, accompanied an acquaintance to Ravenswood to meet the laird.” Claire thought it best not to explain the purpose of the visit. “When she hurt her ankle in an unfortunate incident with the laird’s dog, I felt it best if she had a friend nearby.” True enough. “So I stayed.”

  “And the acquaintance?”

  “Returned to London.”

  He smiled in approval. “You are a loyal friend. They are a rare find.”

  Claire looked down, smiling at the thought of her friends of the Rake Patrol. Faith, Sarah, and Edwina. Loyal friends weren’t so rare as the earl seemed to think.

  “I do hope that smile is intended for me,” he said, leaning close. “You know, I’m rarely seated next to such an attractive and unattached woman. I’m afraid I have a bit of a reputation.”

  She almost laughed. “A reputation for outrageous flattery, I suspect.”

  He chuckled. “A reputation for experience,” he said. “And, I hope, pleasure.”

  Perhaps it was his reference to pleasure, combined with her recent reminiscence of Sarah, but she remembered the reference to Ancram. “You’re a rake!” she exclaimed low, a little in awe.

  He smiled in the manner of a cat spying a bowl of cream. “Some have applied that moniker to me, but only those who are jealous that I’ve made the acquaintance of so many attractive women.”

  He’d used that word, attractive, again. If ever there was false flattery, this was it. She glanced up at the laird, remembering that at one time she thought he must be a rake to invite strange women to his home. Yet he’d never indulged in such obvious portents of seduction. In fact, he’d been a gentleman from the moment Miss Townsend had collapsed that first night. At least, until she’d kissed him in the stable. Something had changed that night.

  “I see my overtures are wasted,” the earl said, settling back in his chair. “You’ve aspirations for another.”

  “I beg your pardon?” She turned toward him. What was he talking about?

  He pointed his chin to the front of the table. “You’ve set your sights on the laird. I can see that now.” He glanced toward the end of the table as well. “You shall find stiff competition from my little sister. She fancies herself the mistress of a castle.” He turned back to her. “And I see by the positioning that Lady Macpherson fancies the pretty blonde for her son.”

  “I assure you, I haven’t aspirations to be the mistress of Ravenswood.” The thought was ludicrous. “We’ll be returning to London now that Miss Huddleston’s ankle has healed sufficiently.”

  Yet even with those words, her stomach squeezed tight. She would miss Ravenswood, but she would miss Cameron more. He was Scotland to her. The two were inseparable.

  “That is probably wise.” The earl surveyed the room with a critical eye. “I would guess that the laird shall be needing a wife with a large dowry. An estate such as this requires upkeep. Castles can be expensive.”

  She supposed she shouldn’t feel insulted; he was merely stating the truth. But she couldn’t help feeling slighted. “I shall try not to take offense that you believe a large dowry is not attached to my name.”

  “Ah, Miss Starke.” He smiled in a knowing fashion. “If a large dowry were attached to your name, I would have made your acquaintance long before now. Such assets are never kept hidden.”

  Fortunately, Lady Macpherson took that moment to suggest the men retire to the billiards room for whisky and cigars, while the ladies would repair to the parlor. Saved from the need to reply to the earl, Claire stood to follow the exodus, but the earl held her in place for a moment. He took her hand in his, stroking his thumb over her sensitive palm.

  “My apologies if my blunt assessment of your financial value was misplaced, Miss Starke. I assure you that I am in a position to assist you with any financial difficulties you might have in exchange for making this trip, shall we say, a bit more interesting.”

  He was making a sexual overture! She’d never received an indecent proposal before. Her shock must have been the reason for her hesitancy in removing her hand from his grasp.

  “Miss Starke?” Cameron narrowed his eyes. “Do you require my assistance?”

  “No.” She pulled her hand free. “I was just thanking Lord Ancram for his most entertaining and educational company.” She smiled up at Cameron. “I doubt I shall have the opportunity to experience more of it.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Ancram said softly. “I fear this shall be my loss.”

  “Yes,” Claire assured him. “It will be.”

  Chapter 27

  She’d received an indecent proposal! Her own reflections on that subject allowed her to ignore the otherwise meaningless banter about fashions, gossip, and social calendars spoken around her. She’d never entertain accepting such a proposal from Ancram; nevertheless, she felt a strange thrill of accomplishment.

  After boarding school and her mother’s death, maintaining the household and assisting in her father’s photography business had shielded her from social gatherings. She’d not been available for advances, improper or otherwise. As the years passed, she assumed men avoided her due to her “unseemly nose,” as her father had put it, or perhaps due to her reduced financial circumstances, but apparently, she was mistaken. The laird had kissed her, and the earl had made improper suggestions. Perhaps she wasn’t a misfit after all!

  Of course, a stolen kiss was rather innocent compared to the illicit activity implied by the earl. Without a reliable way to know the future, the earl’s invitation may well be her last opportunity to discover the sort of thing that occurred behind closed bedroom doors. She’d didn’t regret saying no to the earl . . . not exactly. But she did suddenly feel defeated, as if she’d just missed the last train bound for an exciting adventure.

  She glanced over at Lady Helen Kerr, who was regaling Lady Macpherson with tales from her London season. She was young enough to have many men offer her trysts and romantic rendezvous. Claire’s gaze shifted to Faith, who had been unusually quiet this evening. She was pretty enough as well to catch the attention of any man. She imagined Faith had discouraged many a man’s unwarranted attentions. It wasn’t something they talked about, but Claire had her suspicions.

  Yes, she should accept that, while the earl was not offering a sanctioned union, he may have been her last chance for a sexual encounter. She might as well accept the fact that she was bound for the lonely existence of a spinster.

  The tumultuous journey of her
thoughts left her feeling old and tired. She made her regrets to the ladies in the parlor and pleaded the need to retire. Faith wanted to remain a while, so Claire climbed the stairs alone.

  Once she entered her small bedchamber, she unfastened the high neck of the lace cape. As beautiful as it was, the stiff lace chafed, so she placed it on the bed. What was it the earl had said? He was experienced at giving pleasure, or some such variant? Well, it was a pleasure she’d never know.

  Being alone in the silent, dark room just amplified her maudlin thoughts. What she needed was to become lost in a book. Yes, that would silence her discontent. Especially as the library was on the same floor as she. Without hesitation, she closed her bedroom door and continued down the hall to the library.

  ***

  Cameron gazed at all the tomes of wisdom surrounding him in the library. So many books, but not one to tell him what to do. Tensions surrounding the League of Distillers continued to mount. He’d tried to discuss the matter with Lord Lothian but hit a solid wall of indifference. The man was far more interested in hunting deer and drinking Scotch whisky than in any form of Scottish governance. And this was the path his mother wanted him to pursue? A politician’s game of avoiding responsibility? It was just another example of how well she didn’t know her own son. He sipped from his glass, letting the whisky sizzle the edges of his tongue.

  Then there was the matter of the Earl of Ancram, a slick English snake if ever he saw one. Another politician, his mother said. Following in his father’s footsteps, was he? Well, that shouldn’t be difficult from what he could see. Lord Lothian had clearly been put out to pasture by assigning him to be Secretary for Scotland. Meanwhile, Scotland had no clear voice in its own governance. Bah! Cameron took a larger swig of whisky. Other than James and, at times, his mother, nothing good ever came from England.

  Except Miss Starke, he modified. Lovely Claire Starke. As forthright as the wind stirring the heather and as loyal as a faithful deerhound. He reached down and scratched Peat’s head. She was an unexpected gem, Claire Starke, who hid her beauty under a basket until the arrival of that bastard earl. He ground his back teeth.