He stood, walking over to crouch down and pick up the scattered, ruined cards and ruffle the fur on Brògan’s head, then straightened and strolled out of the room with the dog at his heels. Francesca stood where she was for a moment.
She’d tried to explain her reasons for leaving Scotland to her sons, back when she’d first fled back to London. Faced with boys aged seven, ten, and twelve, she’d talked about what she thought they would understand—arguments and being far away from where she’d grown up and wanting Eloise to have the best life possible. She hadn’t attempted to explain what happened when an overwhelming passion driving two people together began tearing them to pieces, and she hadn’t told them that she’d tried to bring them back to England with her. Angus had had the final word, and when he’d refused to relinquish them, she’d granted him the favor of not making him another villain. Her boys needed a parent, and she’d let them keep one.
Stirring, she walked over to close the open windows, shutting the chill out of the room. Niall had forgiven her, in large part because she’d turned half of Mayfair upside down to enable him to give Amelia-Rose—Amy—the life she wanted. When she’d asked him for insight into his brothers, though, he’d been less forthcoming. A suggestion that she figure them out for herself answered the question over whether the MacTaggert boys were still the closest of allies, but it didn’t help her understand the men they were now.
“Smythe?” she called, heading back toward the main staircase. “I will need a footman to deliver a note for me.” If Aden wouldn’t talk, perhaps Miranda’s mother would. Knowing one way or the other if the two of them had a connection would tell her whether to focus her attentions or turn them elsewhere.
“Of course, my lady.”
She would figure the MacTaggert brothers out, though, with or without their cooperation. Her sons were in London, beneath her roof. Relinquishing them again, without knowing they would return willingly and without her making more threats to their future, would destroy her. Aden might not trust her, but she hoped he realized that she would do anything for him. For any of them. Even if she had to resort to underhanded means to do so.
Chapter Five
“Who is this Captain Vale?” Mrs. Elizabeth Harris asked, looking up from the dinner menu she’d been plotting for the past twenty minutes. “He seems to have made an impression, because you haven’t been able to sit still since yesterday morning.”
Miranda looked away from the front window, even though she remained half convinced that Vale would appear the moment she did so. “I told you, Mother. He’s Lord George Humphries’s cousin. He’s been serving in India.”
“He doesn’t mean to drag you across the ocean, I hope,” her mother returned. “I won’t have it.”
“We’ve just met, Mama, for goodness’ sake, and Matthew says he’s retired from service. If I care to join him for more than a single luncheon, though, I will certainly make a point of asking where he means to settle.” She knew that already, actually, but if this was going to be a love match, she meant for it to proceed as slowly as possible. The longer it took, the greater her chance of finding something—anything—to help her escape it.
Oh, she hated lying to her mother about this. Playing along seemed the wiser choice, though, at least until she found a way to escape. So as far as her parents were concerned, she and Vale were barely acquainted. Nor did she intend to pretend to be easily smitten. Every one of her acquaintance knew she was not some doe-eyed debutante wearing her heart on her sleeve.
She’d been foolish yesterday to place her hopes in the hands of horrid Aden MacTaggert. He might claim to be a gambler, but Captain Vale’s play seemed to be completely beyond his ability to comprehend, much less to contribute anything useful toward countering. Ruin herself. That was laughable and selfish. She couldn’t imagine him simply giving in if someone presented him with an untenable choice. She couldn’t imagine him falling into that sort of trap in the first place, actually, though of course she had very little idea of his level of skill in anything but clever card tricks and evasive conversation. Even so, she would eat her bonnet if he would ever even consider handing over his sister to settle a debt.
Or maybe that was just all fanciful thought, a wish that she had found herself in different circumstances. Miranda shook out her hands, trying to warm her cold fingers. She might have stayed upstairs and fretted more openly, she supposed, but at the moment she preferred to have Millie sitting quietly and hemming her riding outfit rather than loudly lamenting the death of chivalry and decency in the world.
The front door opened. Miranda jumped, every nerve already stretched nearly to breaking point, and shot a glance at the mantel clock. Blast it all, he was twenty minutes early. She hadn’t managed to circle her thoughts back around from self-pity to useful plotting yet.
Billings knocked at the open morning room door. “Miss Harris, a Mr. Aden MacTaggert has requested a brief word with you.”
“Aden MacTaggert? One of Eloise’s brothers?” her mother asked, setting aside her menu and rising. “Show him in, Billings.”
The butler moved sideways to allow the tall Scotsman entry. “Shall I fetch tea, ma’am?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Miranda interjected, pushing away the sudden flutter of hope and … warmth that jangled through her at Aden’s arrival. He’d offered nothing but witty repartee and some suggestions of scandalous ruination yesterday. Today he might well be there simply to posit that not all professional gamblers were blackhearted, and that perhaps she should give Captain Vale a chance to win her affections.
“Mr. MacTaggert,” her mother said, a wide smile on her face. “Matthew told us Eloise’s brothers were impressive sorts. I see he was not exaggerating.”
The Highlander inclined his head, strands of his poet-length black hair falling across one observant eye. Perhaps his appearance wasn’t as poetical as Miranda had originally thought; poets didn’t have that alert, coiled sense of alertness surrounding them, sinew and muscle and a keen awareness of … everything. Or perhaps she’d simply become delirious from lack of sleep.
“Ye’d be Mrs. Harris. I see ye in Matthew and Miss Harris, here,” Aden commented.
He’d worn his kilt and a pair of Hessian boots, which together with his proper blue jacket, cravat, and black waistcoat actually looked rather dashing—half civilized and half wild. Not that it mattered, because he was still the same man he’d been yesterday. Physically perhaps he could make a Greek god jealous, and mentally, well, he seemed to be a great deal sharper than she’d first expected, but morally … she didn’t want to quite equate him with Vale for reasons she couldn’t fathom, but neither could she tell where the difference might be.
But there he stood chatting about the weather and clearly charming Elizabeth Harris while he held a very large secret that could decimate the entire Harris family. However useless he’d been, she had given him a degree of trust, which put her in his hands. Miranda shook herself, hoping that she’d been correct in doing that, at least. “I only have fifteen minutes or so to spare, Mr. MacTaggert, as my afternoon is spoken for. What was it you needed?”
Aden faced her, six-foot-one of formidable, unreadable Highlander. “Ye’d mentioned that book the other night. I wondered if I might borrow it.”
Well, he could be discreet, then. A believable, innocuous reason for his presence and the suggestion of a location where they could speak in relative private. She nodded. “Of course. I’ll show you. Millie?”
As she left the room, her mother reached over and squeezed one elbow. “He’s delicious,” she whispered, grinning. “Whoever this Captain Vale is, he must be perfection to outmatch this Highlander.”
No, he wasn’t anywhere near that, and yet his appearance didn’t even signify. It was Vale’s black heart that troubled her. And Aden’s mysterious-colored one.
Miranda brushed past Aden and Millie to lead the way down the hall in the direction of the Harris House library. Once the three of them were inside the la
rge, well-lit room she closed the door. “Have you thought of something after all?” she asked, facing him. “Or are you here to suggest that I surrender?”
“Do ye always go directly to the bleakest explanation, or is that just for me, lass?” he countered, walking over to peruse the contents of one bookcase.
“My world has become a bit bleak over the past few days. Don’t expect me to apologize for not showering you with compliments for whatever it is that’s brought you here. Yesterday you suggested I ruin myself, after all.”
Leaving the books, he returned to her, stopping close enough that she had to lift her chin to meet his gaze. “Ye’re a sharp-tongued woman.”
She imagined she was, or she could be, though no one had ever dared say such a thing to her face before. “And you are a mannerless gambler.”
His mouth quirked, as if her insults had once again amused him. “And I didnae suggest ye ruin yerself. I suggested that I ruin ye. It’s more fun that way.”
How in the world was a lady supposed to respond to that? “I’ll take your word for that.” Good heavens. They certainly made them bold in the Highlands.
For now, aye.” He regarded her for a few hard beats of her heart.
Arrogant, insufferable or not, he was a very fine-looking man. Deliciously so, as her mother had said. It would have been silly to pretend that he wasn’t physically tempting, the stuff of heated dreams. But she didn’t have the luxury of dreams right now. “You still haven’t said why you’re here.”
“When ye go to yer luncheon with Captain Vale, ask him a couple of questions for me.”
“Ask him yourself.”
Aden tilted his head at her. “I have a different set of questions to ask him. These are better coming from ye. If ye say a couple falling in love would be learning things about each other, and that yer parents already have questions, ye can likely get him to chat. Ask about his parents, brothers or sisters, why he purchased a commission in the navy, what he thought of India, how he kept himself entertained, the name of the ship he captained, clever things he’s done—and anything that might give me some insight, a place to begin studying him.”
She looked at him, something very like hope stirring in her heart. “You mean to help me, then?”
“I’ll take a gander at him. Men wager for all kinds of reasons, but a man deliberately destroying someone in order to steal a lass and a position has someaught wrong with him. I’d wager this isnae the first time he’s ruined a man to gain an advantage. But he’s been in India, ye said, and I’ve been in the Highlands, so I need to know where to begin looking for the skeletons following him about.”
Miranda nodded, her heart giving a hopeful little hop. She had no idea if he could actually be of assistance or not, but if he could be, and if he’d suddenly decided to be her ally, she’d be foolish not to do as he suggested. “I’ll find out whatever I can.”
“Be a wee bit cautious, lass. I reckon he has a high opinion of himself, but an idiot couldnae have orchestrated all this. That makes him a villain, but nae an idiot.” Aden brushed a straying strand of her hair off her forehead, the gesture seemingly innocuous except for the slight, pleasurable shiver it caused along her scalp. “Were ye pleasant to him yesterday, or did ye talk to him the way ye talk to me?” he went on, as if he hadn’t even noticed that he’d rather intimately touched her.
The caress didn’t mean anything, Miranda reminded herself. He must be proficient at distracting people, and he’d just attempted it with her, whether he realized it or not. Well, she would not be distracted. And in all honesty, she didn’t think she’d ever spoken to anyone else with the same … vigor she exercised in her conversations with Aden MacTaggert. “I was polite, I think,” she said aloud. “I did attempt to reason with him. Why?”
“Go at him in that same way. Polite, looking for an escape, but also hoping to be impressed by him if ye cannae see a way out of this. If ye’re too fawning ye’ll make him suspicious, and if ye’re too hostile ye may convince him to do someaught ye’ll regret.”
It all made sense, even if the idea of a long conversation with Captain Vale left her feeling distinctly queasy. “While I’m convincing him that I’m reluctantly amenable to a match, and when you’ve learned who he is, what do you mean to do, Mr. MacTaggert? This would all seem to rely on me trusting you, and on you being trustworthy.”
“Aye, I reckon it does.” He took half a step closer so that she had to lift her chin to keep her eyes on his face. “Ye keep batting at me, and I keep returning for more. Mayhap I see a kinship with a lass being pushed to marry against her wishes, or mayhap I like ye more than ye like me.” He shrugged. “Or mayhap ye won a wager and I’m paying ye what I owe ye.”
She held his gaze. What she’d heard about him, specifically his wagering, hadn’t impressed her, because nothing about wagering did anything but dismay her to her bones. The man himself, though, wasn’t nearly as easy to dismiss. A sharp-eyed poet or a Highlands warrior, Aden MacTaggert made an impression. She didn’t feel uneasy or threatened in his presence, but she did feel more … aware. Alert. Exhilarated. His wit, his insight, kept her on her toes. That bit of him, at least, she almost enjoyed. And of course his face, his attire, his physique, even his careless hair, only added to his appeal. The fact that at least the part of it he could control might be deliberate just made him seem more dangerous.
Taking a slow breath, she nodded. “As you’ve given yourself a trio of possible explanations, I have a trio of responses. I am hopeful, cautious, and willing to attempt just about anything if it helps me escape this trap. I’ll even put a small degree of faith in you, if you give me your word that you won’t wake up tomorrow feeling less generous and abandon me.”
“I give ye my word, then,” he returned without a trace of hesitation. “I’ll nae abandon ye without making a fight of it.” He stuck out his right hand.
He couldn’t promise success, of course; that would be ridiculous, and she wouldn’t have trusted it. Matthew hadn’t promised a fight, or even an argument, with Captain Vale. In fact, he’d hurried off this morning again before she could even set eyes on him. Miranda reached out and grasped Aden’s hand, large, callused, and steady. In response something warm and electric trailed slowly up her spine. “Thank you, Mr. MacTaggert.”
“We’re allies now; ye’d best call me Aden,” he drawled, keeping hold of her hand for a good dozen seconds before he released her again.
“Miranda,” she returned. “Thank you, Aden.”
His name on her tongue felt intimate, almost as if they’d kissed. That thought then made her cheeks heat, because she certainly had other, more important things to consider than what it would be like to kiss Aden MacTaggert—who either felt some empathy, owed her for a lost wager, or … liked her.
“Miranda,” he said, heading for another bookcase.
Her name in his brogue, with the soft, rolled “r” and the elongated first “a,” sounded rather splendid, but he likely knew that, just as he knew his large-muscled, soulful appearance made people, players across the table, underestimate just how keen-eyed he truly was. She shook herself. For the moment, at least, he and his surprisingly acute perception were her allies. “Which book am I lending you, then?”
He pulled one down from the shelf and opened it. “I reckon this one’ll do. I’ve been meaning to read it.”
Approaching, she looked at the tome he held. “The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling,” she read aloud, and blushed again. “I’m fairly certain I would not have recommended such a scandalous book to anyone.”
With a grin that made her insides feel bubbly, he tucked the Henry Fielding book beneath one arm. “If anyone asks, then, I wanted to read about being a Sassenach, and ye were being sarcastic.” He pulled a pocket watch from his coat and clicked it open. “Vale will be here soon. I reckon I’ll say hello to him on my way out.”
The unexpected warmth tingling through her cooled into ice. “No!”
Aden lifted one eyebrow. “
And why should I nae? Ye and I are nearly in-laws, aye?”
That was true, yes, but he was her secret.
The thought startled her a little. First of all, he’d agreed to assist her. Therefore, she should be following his advice and whichever plan he’d begun to lay out, at least until she had her own ideas regarding strategy and battle. “Vale thinks I’m alone in this,” she said, choosing her words as she deciphered them in her mind. “Isn’t it to our advantage for him to continue to believe that?”
“Aye. And he will. I only want a look at him.” He took a step closer, his gaze lowering for just a second to her mouth before he lifted it again. “I gave ye and yer ma my reason for being here. That’s why I’m here. Dunnae lie about me; he’ll likely ask yer brother, and Matthew’s bound to say I’m known to gamble.”
Miranda found herself nodding. If she couldn’t trust him to be helpful, it seemed best to discover that now, rather than after she’d begun relying on anything he said or did. “Very well. On your way out.”
“I may embarrass ye a bit, but then I’m a mannerless Highlander.”
His swift grin was the only hint that he might be jesting with her. Or not. “I still wish I knew why you decided to help me,” she said in a low voice, opening the library door.
He put his hand out to stop her and half closed the door again. “So do I. But I reckon we both ken it wasnae the wager.”
That left two remaining choices: empathy or affection. As Miranda watched him lean back against the wall, his gaze through the cracked-open door in the direction of the foyer, she didn’t know which she preferred. Empathy seemed more reliable, if he saw his own situation mirrored in hers and wanted at least one of them to be able to escape.
The other one … Well, he’d only said that perhaps he liked her more than she liked him, and four days ago she had declared to his face that she detested him. “Like” was therefore a very broad category in this circumstance. In truth, she liked him a bit more than she had yesterday, because he’d bothered to come see her. It didn’t mean anything romantic, even if everything about him seemed pure sin.
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