“Oh, my,” Millie whispered.
Miranda sat upright again, twisting around to face her maid. “You must not speak a word about any of this, Millie,” she said, trying and failing to keep her voice steady. “Not to anyone. Promise me.”
“I … Yes, Miss Harris. I promise. Not a word. But what will you do? He … I had the shivers just seeing him standing there.”
He had given her the shivers, too. And a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that made her want to vomit. Aden MacTaggert had figured Captain Vale’s character nearly to perfection without even knowing the man, and with only a few vague sentences from her. She expected gamblers to be … nefarious. Perhaps it was silly of her, but she’d simply been flailing for help. She hadn’t actually expected Mr. MacTaggert’s insights to be useful, much less sharply on target.
She stood up, reaching over to retrieve her bonnet from a chair. “Millie, put that mending aside. I have a call to make.”
Clearly she was in well over her head. She recognized that, even if Matthew hadn’t until far too late. She couldn’t afford to wait that long.
Chapter Four
Smythe the butler pulled open the front door of Oswell House before Miranda could do more than touch the brass lion’s-head knocker. “Miss Harris,” he greeted her. “Lady Eloise is not in presently, I’m afraid. Nor is Mrs. MacTaggert.”
Yes, Eloise and Amy had gone to shop for hats this morning. She’d planned to go with them, until Captain Vale had demanded an audience this morning. “I actually had a query for Aden MacTaggert,” she said, keeping her chin up. She had no reason to be embarrassed, of course. She wasn’t some debutante throwing herself at the Highlander; just the opposite. If not for some desperately needed advice, she wouldn’t have been anywhere near Oswell House this morning.
A grimace ruffled one side of the butler’s mouth, but he stepped aside to allow her entry. “You’ll find him in the billiards room, I believe. Do you know the way?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Since Matthew’s engagement she’d visited Oswell House perhaps a dozen times, though only for Eloise’s luncheon since her older brothers had arrived from Scotland and Miranda had left to care for her ill aunt Beatrice and baby cousins in Devon. If she hadn’t gone, would Matthew have confided in her that he’d stepped in over his head with this Captain Vale? Would she have been able to stop his foolishness before he decided that sacrificing her was his only recourse?
As she stepped through the foyer today, she still half expected to see clan Ross tartans hung on the walls and men playing bagpipes in every corner. Aden had definitely made a stir at Eloise’s luncheon, and his sister had previously mentioned that a large degree of chaos had arrived in conjunction with the MacTaggert men. Instead, though, the grand house looked as neat and well appointed as ever—until she reached the main stair landing where the grand staircase split off in two directions. There, close by the back wall, stood a full-grown stag, his antlers wide and impressive, and his personage adorned with a bonnet, a beaver hat, and a pearl necklace hung from one tine. An earbob sparkled beneath one alert ear, while the beast boasted a wilted cravat around his neck and a green lace and satin skirt around his waist and hind legs.
“Good glory,” Millie whispered from behind her.
“The poor thing looks like it crashed through a party and took half of it away with him, doesn’t it?” Miranda whispered back, and the maid giggled.
She hadn’t noticed the deer when she’d attended the luncheon two days ago, but then she’d remained downstairs had been busily and stupidly thinking she didn’t have a care in the world. Today that seemed like ages ago. Taking a breath, she paused in the billiards room doorway, eyeing the pair of men seated across from each other at a small table set beneath a window in the blue-and-red-wallpapered room.
“I’ll do it for ye one more time,” Aden was saying, shuffling a stack of cards. “Pick the one ye want, show it, and shove it back in the deck.”
His younger brother, Niall, the one who’d just returned from a supposedly planned elopement to Gretna Green where he’d married Amelia-Rose Baxter in spectacularly romantic fashion, selected a card and flipped it over in his fingers. “Seven of hearts,” he said.
“Ye certain that’s the one ye want?” his brother asked. “Nae an ace or a diamond or someaught? The king of hearts? I can wait while ye decide.”
“Shut up, ye skellum.”
“I’m only trying to make this as simple as I can for ye, bràthair.”
“Aye, and sheep grow coats of satin,” Niall intoned, and stuffed the card back into the deck his brother still held.
Aden shuffled again, his fingers sure and quick. No fumbling, no stacking, just a blur of cards flitting effortlessly together. Even from the doorway it mesmerized Miranda a little, and she detested it all the more for that reason. She wanted to detest him, as well; after all, she’d as much as said so at luncheon the other day. He gambled, and apparently very well. That made him unacceptable.
Everything about him—his careless black hair with its long, straying strands and the way it seemed to always be stirring in some mysterious, otherwise unfelt breeze, his hard, lean frame and grace, that handsome face and the way she wanted to sigh every time she looked at him—it all seemed designed to disarm her, to keep her from seeing a man with very questionable morality. And now that she knew he had some wits about him, he seemed even more dangerous.
Setting the deck down, Aden cut it, putting the lower half on top. “Turn it,” he said, moving his hands away from the cards.
His brother reached over and turned over the top card. The seven of hearts looked up from the table. With a scowl Niall flipped the entire deck faceup and spread them out. “I didnae see it, damn it all.”
“So ye reckon I’ve an entire deck of naught but sevens of hearts?”
“I’d nae put it past ye.” Picking up the card, he examined it. “Tell me how ye do it.”
“Nae. I showed ye four times just this morning, Niall. Figure it out yerself.” He took the card back, danced it through his fingers, and put it back into the messy stack before he straightened the pile. “And do it elsewhere; I’ve a lass come to see me.” Turning his head a little, he caught Miranda’s gaze with gray-green eyes.
His brother turned as well, his eyes a startling light green very like his sister Eloise’s unusual ones. As he stood, she noticed the medium-sized black dog curled beneath Aden’s chair. Brògan, who wasn’t at all a male dog, whatever Aden claimed, and whomever he chose to fool. “Ye’re Matthew Harris’s sister, aye?” Niall asked as he reached the doorway.
“Yes. Miranda. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop; I didn’t wish to interrupt.”
“Have at him. I’m grateful ye appeared before I started losing blunt to him.” With a nod and a loose grin, he moved past her into the hallway and toward the stairs.
Aden remained seated, a king in his own well-appointed domain. Hiding her scowl at his very unsurprising lack of manners, she went over to sit in his brother’s vacated chair. “I’m not a lass who’s come to see you. I am a female acquaintance who would like to speak with you on a particular subject.”
“And I’m a male acquaintance all aflutter over what ye want to say to me. An unmarried lass coming to call—to speak with—an unmarried lad. Ye’ll have so many Sassenach tongues wagging, we’ll all feel the breeze.” He shuffled the cards again, this time using only one hand to do it.
Miranda supposed he could imply whatever he liked, as long as he did end up helping her. And the fact that for a moment she thought him clever—well, she was not some fickle female who changed her opinions simply because she required some assistance. “If it flatters you to think I’m setting my cap at you, then indulge yourself. I only ask that you answer my questions.”
He chuckled. “Relentless, ye are. If ye’re nae here because our waltz made ye swoon, then, I reckon ye’re here for more free advice. An angel seeking out the devil for help with another demon, aye?”
�
��Your insights last night were useful,” she admitted, ignoring the fact that he’d called her an angel and suggested she made a habit of swooning. A man like him wouldn’t mean either one as a compliment. In his world no doubt angels served only to spoil all the devil’s fun. And swooning in his presence could be … precarious. It was beginning to seem, though, that he had more than a keen insight into fellow reprobates. No, he seemed to have taken her measure and decided he could stand toe-to-toe with her. And though she hated admitting it even to herself, he’d managed to do so—for the moment, at least. “My difficulty, however, remains unresolved. I require more information.”
His gaze assessed her, though she had no idea what he looked for, or what he saw. Worry? Fear? Frustration? Anger? They’d all been taking turns with her for the past half hour. “I’ll make ye a bargain,” he offered. “Ye tell me how I produced that card for Niall, and I’ll give ye all the insight I own.”
Miranda’s jaw clenched. The nerve of this Highlander continued to astound her. No, he wasn’t poetical at all. Devilish, yes. “You’re actually wagering me.”
“Aye. Ye insulted me. Climb down into the mud for a damned minute if ye want help from a man ye called a pig.” He held out the deck in one hand. “I’ll even show ye once.”
“I never called you a pig, sir.”
“Ye did; ye were just more polite about it. I may nae sound like ye, but I do speak English.”
Very well, he did have a point. At the same time, he hadn’t precisely disproven her original assessment of him. Pride pushed at her to refuse, to stand up, fling the cards at his face, and walk away. At the same time logic refused to budge, insisting on reminding her that having a little familiarity with this world into which she was being dragged might actually prove helpful. Clenching her jaw, she picked up the top card between her gloved fingers. “The queen of clubs,” she stated.
“If I were a superstitious lad,” he commented, lowering the remaining cards in his closed fist as he spoke, “I’d say I reckon ye’ve chosen the card that most resembles yerself. Regal and confident, and ready to whack at me with a solid weapon.”
Under other circumstances she might have found that amusing, and even slightly complimentary. “No doubt you arranged the deck precisely so you could make that comment. Let’s get on with it, shall we?” She gestured for him to produce the deck.
Opening his hand, he held the stack of cards out, and she removed a good two-thirds of the deck, set the queen into their spot, and placed the rest back on top. He tapped the cards against the table and began shuffling with nimble fingers. Then he set down the deck and cut it. Reaching over, she turned over the exposed card. The queen of clubs again.
Looking at him through her lashes, she picked up the queen and turned it over, examining the back for a cut mark, the edges for a bend or a sign that he’d marred it with a fingernail. Nothing. She rubbed it against the soft white kid of her glove. No ink came off against the material.
If his brother hadn’t already suggested he had a deck full of the same card, she would have demanded to see them all. It was a trick of some sort, but what was the trick? What wasn’t she seeing? Had he secreted it up a sleeve and only returned it as he cut the deck? She’d been watching carefully, but she wasn’t accustomed to deviousness.
“Do ye give up, lass? Should I wish ye good day so I can go find someaught to eat? I’m feeling a bit peckish. Or do ye have someaught else ye’re of a mind to offer me in exchange for my insight? Someaught more personal might suffice, I suppose.”
Miranda scowled. Everyone wanted something from her, apparently. Every man did, anyway. At least this one was thus far only annoying and arrogant. “May I touch you?”
“That was swiftly decided,” he returned, his gray-green eyes amused and, unless she was greatly mistaken, a little surprised. “Well, I’m a man of my word. Do ye want to do it here, or somewhere more private?”
What? “Oh, for heaven’s sake. May I touch your damned arm, Mr. MacTaggert. To decipher your card trick.” There. And she’d spent barely a second imagining herself kissing him, as if she would ever wish to do such a thing. Just because his appearance was likely to set other, more naive women swooning didn’t mean she was the least bit tempted by him.
His grin only deepened at her rejoinder, and if her clarification disappointed him, he didn’t show it. “Oh, aye, then. Such language, Miranda Harris. Ye’ll make me blush.”
She very much doubted that, though she couldn’t recall ever cursing in a man’s presence before. Well, this one deserved it for being so aggravating and handsome and more complex than she’d expected. Sitting forward, she reached for his right hand. He had large hands, with calluses across the palm and several fingertips—marks of someone who labored. That surprised her. Gamblers gambled. That was their occupation and their means of support. They didn’t do whatever hard work it would take to make calluses.
“Do ye reckon I hid it inside my skin, then? That’s a worse guess than any Niall’s ever made.”
“I’m not finished.” When she glanced up at him, his gaze was on their joined hands, his palm up with one of hers holding it there and the other touching his fingertips. His hand did have an elegance to it despite the calluses—a sculptor’s or a wood carver’s hand rather than that of a common laborer. And his skin felt warm, even through her gloves.
Mentally shaking herself, she felt up along his sleeve to the elbow. This wasn’t a seduction, and it wasn’t simply about trying to solve a puzzle; her future might well depend on whether he would answer her questions or not. No springs or wires lurked beneath his coat sleeve or the superfine shirt beneath; no sign that he’d hidden a card away.
“Are ye finished now? Ye can check beneath my kilt if ye like, but I can promise ye there’s nae room for a spare deck of cards down there.”
“I will not be rattled, Mr. MacTaggert,” she stated, even as her cheeks heated. “Not by your crassness or your lack of empathy.” She couldn’t afford to be dissuaded; she didn’t know where else to go for advice that wouldn’t tear her family apart and break several hearts in the process.
The idea of trying to find a way out of this disaster all on her own left her cold. Thus far Captain Vale had had a ready answer to every argument she presented. It felt like he’d already been there, seen all the paths she might use to escape, and laid out snares and dug pits, and now just waited for her to realize she had nowhere to turn.
On the outside she felt chilled as well, but then half the windows in the room were open to the overcast outside. Clearly that didn’t trouble Aden and his warm hands, but then he was from the Highlands and likely accustomed to a much colder clime.
Miranda blinked. Releasing his sleeve, she sat down again, reviewing the trick in her mind—him shuffling one-handed, his fingers closing over the deck as she selected her card, his chat about queens and clubs as she held the card in her gloved fingers in the cold room. Could it be that simple? And that clever?
She took a slow breath. He’d wanted her to wager her mind against his skill, but how far was she willing to trust his instincts? Could she trust him at all?
“I require your advice and quite possibly your assistance,” she said, tapping her fingers against the tabletop as she spoke. “And in order for you to be of the most use to me, I also require your discretion, your word that whatever I tell you will not go beyond the two of us. Will you agree to those terms?”
He lifted an eyebrow. Then a slow smile touched his mouth once more. “Ye reckon ye’ve figured it out, then, do ye? And ye’re confident enough to double yer wager? Aye, I’ll accept those terms. If ye’re wrong, though, ye have to leave and nae trouble me again. But before ye go, I’ll require a kiss from ye. Yer mouth to my mouth, right here at this table.”
She’d already been looking at that smile of his, an amused, cynical temptation to sin, an expression that dared her to trust what she thought she knew and place a value on that decision. If he hadn’t just proven once again that he was
nothing but a game player who twisted people about to suit his own whims, she would have noted that he had an attractive smile, that altogether he made for an astoundingly well-featured man. That only made him worse, that he had the means to lure someone in with a pleasant, compelling countenance and then ruin them. At least her eyes were open, thank goodness, and she was already under threat of ruination. “Agreed.”
Leaning back, he folded his arms across his chest. “What is it, then? How did I find yer queen?”
“Temperature,” she replied, mentally crossing her fingers. She needed to be correct. Everything depended on it. “You keep the room cold, the cards in your hand warm, and when a card is chosen you distract your victim with chatting about something or other until the air cools it. Then you feel it as you finish shuffling and cut the deck appropriately.”
For a long moment he gazed at her, gray-green eyes still assessing and measuring for something she couldn’t guess. “I’ve been fooling Niall for three years and he’s nae come close to guessing. Ye did it in one morning, with one shuffle. I am impressed, Miss Harris.”
She was rather impressed with herself, and with how sensitive his callused fingers must be. That, though, was neither here nor there. “You gave me your word that you will not speak of what I’m about to tell you.”
“Ye are a single-minded woman, Miranda Harris. Ye’ve my word. What’s sent ye running up here to find me, of all people? Because after that dance last night and now ye coming to me here, I’m beginning to think mayhap ye’re smitten with me, after all.”
“I am most certainly not smitten with you. I’m somewhat amazed your swelled head could even fit through this doorway.”
Aden laughed aloud at that, watching as she gathered her thoughts together. The lass was desperate about something, or she never would have sought him out—twice, now. He’d watched these lunatic Sassenach over the past few weeks, though. A sideways look from the wrong man, some bread crumbs on a waistcoat—anything might send one of them spinning off into ruin. This had something to do with wagering and a man who wouldn’t forgive a debt, he’d surmised; had she done a bit of wagering and lost a bauble? That might explain her dislike for the whole enterprise.
Scot Under the Covers Page 6
