Scot Under the Covers

by Suzanne Enoch

  The waltz ended, and she kept the smile on her face as he escorted her off the dance floor. “Get rid of this MacTaggert, or I will,” he muttered, releasing her as Eloise and Matthew approached. “Ah, Matthew. And the lovely Lady Eloise,” he crooned, his tone perfectly even and respectful. A non-tone, if any such thing existed. No doubt he thought it made him sound charming and reasonable.

  “Captain Vale,” Eloise said, inclining her head. Then she hopped forward and seized Miranda’s hands. “You must come with me. I have questions only you can answer.”

  Deepening her smile, Miranda allowed herself to be led away from the two men. Thank goodness. A moment or two for her to breathe before she worried over who might claim the next dance. Perhaps Aden w—

  “Miss Harris?” a low brogue rumbled from beyond Eloise.

  For the barest of seconds she thought it must be Aden, but the voice was a touch lower and didn’t have the smooth ease of the middle MacTaggert brother’s. As she turned, she found herself looking at a broad chest and a thistle cravat pin. “Lord Glendarril,” she said, craning her neck up and then offering a curtsy. “How are you this evening?” They’d barely exchanged a sentence in the two or three times they’d crossed paths, but any distraction tonight was welcome.

  “Bonny,” he returned. “Do ye have a dance to spare? Nae a country dance; I dunnae like hopping about like a rabbit.”

  “I … Yes. The next quadrille, if you please.”

  “Aye. Do I have time to fetch myself a whisky?”

  “Just.”

  “Coll,” Eloise broke in, her eyes narrowed and her tone a warning.

  The large Highlander frowned. “Ye’re my wee sister. I’ll nae have ye telling me what to do.” The corner of his mouth quirked. “And it was a figure of speech, ye ken,” he rumbled. “A man doesnae like to say he has a thirst for a dainty pink punch.”

  His sister chuckled. “By the end of the night the punch may not be so dainty. Be wary, big brother.”

  “Aye. A man’s a fool to trust any of ye Sassenach. Write me down on yer card, lass. Ye’ve a herd of pretty lads stampeding in this direction. They claim I’m a giant with nae manners, but they trudge about after me, anyway.”

  Miranda glanced over her shoulder. She wouldn’t have termed it a stampede, but a dozen male acquaintances had gathered a safe distance away from the giant Highlander and were sending her hopeful looks. Apparently, Lord Glendarril being granted a dance had signaled that her card wasn’t yet full. And thank goodness for that. The only thing worse than dancing with Captain Vale would be standing aside for every other dance with nothing else to think about.

  As she wrote down names and smiled, yet another MacTaggert arrived. The youngest brother, Niall—the one who’d eloped to Scotland with Amy Baxter—stepped to the fore and somehow avoided offending the three other young men he’d cut in front of. “I’ll wager Coll didnae want a country dance, aye?” he said with a grin.

  “No, he didn’t. Something about rabbits.”

  “It’s nae about him looking like a rabbit. It’s because when he jumps, those about reckon they’ve felt the earth shaking. I’ll take one of ’em, though. I’m more graceful.”

  Chuckling, she added his name. “I have a suspicion,” she said, lowering her voice, “that Aden put you up to this.” Why, she had no idea, but she remained grateful, nonetheless.

  “Ye’re to be part of the family. I reckon we should act like it, aye?”

  Miranda’s heart leaped nearly out of her chest. A bare second later she realized he meant that she would be the MacTaggerts’ sister-in-law once Matthew and Eloise were wed. Of course. Silly girl. “Of course.”

  “How many dances do ye still have free?”

  Still smiling, she checked her card. “Not a single one.” If someone, Aden, say, had claimed her second waltz instead of it going to Captain Vale, she would have been willing to call this night nearly perfect. Ifs, however, hadn’t served her at all well lately.

  “Then I’ll nae ask ye for another one,” Niall returned, nodding as he turned to claim his sister for a quadrille.

  So the intent was to fill her dance card. Miranda looked down at it again. Between friends and MacTaggerts they’d accomplished just that. But Aden hadn’t taken a dance at all. She glanced up, looking for him. Now that she wanted a word with him, he, of course, was nowhere to be seen.

  It made no sense. He’d tried to take a waltz, knowing full well that she was already spoken for. And now, when he’d had a chance to claim one, he’d vanished. Whatever he was up to, she wished he would enlighten her, because this was exceedingly frustrating.

  At another time, and in a less public place, she might also have been asking herself a few pointed questions. Accepting Aden’s continued offer of assistance had been both a relief and a logical thing to do; she’d had no other alternative but surrender to Vale, after all. That, though, didn’t explain why Aden MacTaggert had been the first person she’d gone looking for when she’d walked into the Darlington ballroom, and why her heart had practically leaped out of her chest when she’d heard his voice behind her.

  She didn’t believe in love at first sight. For heaven’s sake, she’d been pursued by several exceedingly pleasant-featured young men over the past five years and hadn’t fallen for any of them. Aside from that, she’d disliked Aden before she’d ever set eyes on him. Her opinion hadn’t been entirely fair, of course, because Aden had never preyed on Matthew and her brother’s self-delusional gaming skills, and he’d been up in the Highlands when her uncle John had succumbed.

  Now she’d become acquainted with him, and she’d altered her opinion. Not of wagerers in general, but of him in particular. Whatever happened at the end of all this, thus far Aden had been honest, helpful, and toe-curlingly arousing both to her body and to her mind. She couldn’t point to the moment when he’d become so … necessary to her, but there it was. And that was why she felt disappointed even with a full dance card and very limited chances for Captain Vale to approach her again tonight except for the one additional waltz he’d demanded. She wouldn’t be dancing with Aden.

  Letting Aden know her thoughts would be a horrid mistake; if he somehow managed to help her then she would owe him a great deal without adding in her feelings and emotions. And he’d already expressed hesitation at the idea he might be taking advantage of her, as if she’d ever allow anyone to do that ever again.

  Before she could begin to decipher what the devil was wrong with her, Thomas Dennison returned to claim her for a quadrille. Next was an old-fashioned reel, followed by a very vigorous country dance with the charming Niall MacTaggert. All of the quick-stepping and hopping and turning left her breathless and with a genuine smile.

  Then, as she turned to find her next partner, Aden appeared in front of her. “Ye’ve been a popular lass this evening,” he said with a faint grin. “I reckon ye’re accustomed to that, though, aye?”

  “Generally, yes,” she admitted. “I have a large and generous circle of friends. Honestly, though, I’d thought not to do much dancing tonight. I suppose I’m trying to avoid having to explain Captain Vale to my friends.”

  “Dunnae explain him, then, is my advice,” Aden returned. “He doesnae deserve yer lies.”

  “I agree, which is why I’ve been avoiding my friends. So why are you trying to see my dance card filled?”

  He put his palm on his chest, lifting both eyebrows. “Me?” the very image of innocence queried. “Let me have a gander at this card of yers, then.”

  Even more suspicious now, she handed it over. Aden perused it, a slight frown furrowing his brow. “Ye’ve nae a single dance free.”

  Miranda took back her card. “Why do I have the feeling we’re in the middle of a play where you’re the only one who knows the lines?”

  His expression stilled for half a dozen beats of her heart, which she knew because she counted them. “If I had any assurance at all that ye’d nae punch me in the face, I’d kiss ye right now, in front of
all these Sassenach,” he finally said. “I’m sorely tempted as it is.”

  “Considering that would give me a whole new set of problems in addition to not ridding me of the ones I already have, I think I would have to punch you.” Of course, for a moment or two she would also have very much enjoyed it—until the moment her entire present and future came crashing down around her ears.

  His gaze held hers, gray-green and holding, she decided, far more secrets than he’d yet chosen to disclose to her. “I’m still tempted.”

  As her cheeks heated, she abruptly realized what this exchange must look like to anyone who might happen to be watching them. “Vale told me to send you away. Are we playing out that conversation in semaphores? You frown, demand my card, I frown, I blush, you turn your serious, soulful gaze on me?”

  “I—”

  “You might have simply said something,” she went on. “But no, you have to set your own stage and put on a play. Do you think I’m completely helpless and lost without your overlarge muscles and brain to come to my half-witted rescue?”

  Aden took half a step closer. “What I think, Miranda, is that ye dunnae like to lie, and ye arenae comfortable with it. If I can put a bit of the weight ye carry on my shoulders, I reckon I’m strong enough to bear it. And to make it clear as glass, partner, I mean to uphold my end of our agreement. If ye dunnae like my methods, or if ye dunnae trust me, find a more righteous man.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Miranda lifted a hand to touch Aden’s cheek. Before she could complete the motion, the setting, the hundred pairs of eyes, crashed back into her thoughts like an unwelcome nest of hornets, and she swiftly lowered her hand again. She couldn’t help herself. After the first time he’d kissed her, she’d felt like a moth before a flame. “I trust you,” she murmured, clenching her fingers. “But for heaven’s sake, don’t spare me from unpleasantness. I want to know the steps. I will take them with you.”

  His gaze searched hers for a moment before he nodded. “Then I’ll tell ye Vale’s looking at us right now. He’s nae happy. If ye tell him that ye tried to be rid of me and I wouldnae take the hint, that would be helpful. Dividing his attention, turning some of it away from ye, is helpful. Now walk away, or he’ll reckon ye’re as reluctant as I am to part company.”

  Frowning, she took a step backward, the motion harder than she expected. In his presence she felt … not safe, but protected. Turning away from that wasn’t pleasant. Or remotely easy. “If you want to avoid people gossiping about how you approached me twice and weren’t granted a dance either time, I suggest you go find someone pretty and popular with whom to waltz. Patricia LeMere would suffice, as would Alice Hardy.”

  Aden narrowed one eye. “I’d rather shave a hungry bear than dance with Alice Hardy,” he said, taking two steps away from her and then turning his back.

  She nearly went after him. He’d more or less admitted to staging their conversation in order to tell the tale he wanted Vale to see, and he still hadn’t promised to tell her what, precisely, he happened to be planning. And she couldn’t even claim that it was her own common sense that stopped her. Rather, it was his mountain of a brother, Lord Glendarril, arriving in front of her for the quadrille.

  “Ye ready, lass?”

  “Yes.” She put her hand around his forearm. “Your brother enjoys keeping people in the dark, doesn’t he?”

  “Aden? Aye. He specializes in nae telling another soul what he’s about,” Coll agreed, walking with her onto the dance floor. “Half the time we dunnae ken whether he’s even in the house or nae.”

  A quadrille wasn’t the best opportunity for conversation, but it marked a definite improvement over a country dance—and Miranda decided this was an opportunity she couldn’t let pass her by. Yes, rumors had set her against Aden before they’d ever met, but Coll was his older brother. If anyone had some insight into a MacTaggert brother it would be another MacTaggert.

  “Aden is unreliable, then?” she began as they took their place around one of the five circles of dancers on the floor.

  “I didnae say that,” the viscount rumbled. “Aden keeps his thoughts and plans to himself, is all.” As the music began, he bowed, and she curtsied. “I’ve nae been in a brawl when he wasnae there to bloody noses alongside me.”

  In Highlander terms, that was no doubt a high compliment. Her predicament, however, couldn’t be solved by punching. “I heard that he once began wagering with a shilling and ended with a horse a day later.”

  Glendarril swung around behind her and back to the front again. “He didnae wager with the shilling. Our da was making a point about the value of a shilling. Aden wagered him he could trade nae but a shilling and end with a fine-quality horse. It took him an entire turn of the sun, but I can swear to it that that shilling became a pot of stew, a basket of trout, a chair, a goat, bagpipes, a sheep, some things I cannae remember, a pair of coos, and then Loki. And that chestnut is a damn fine animal. Aden’s been riding him for three years, now.”

  Miranda did two turns about the circle as she pondered that bit of information. The very thing she’d flung at his face when they’d first met, the incident she’d seized on as proof that Aden was a deep-playing gambler and therefore untrustworthy, had only peripherally been about wagering. And he’d never bothered to correct her.

  If circumstance hadn’t forced her to seek out his help, she would more than likely have seen him at a few family dinners, at Matthew and Eloise’s wedding, and nothing else. After all, he’d come to London expressly to find a bride. That was what he would have been spending his time doing, what he should be doing now. Tonight. And she would be nearly betrothed to Captain Robert Vale.

  While the question of what he thought he was doing about his own matrimony while he found vacant rooms in which the two of them could meet and kiss sparked another set of imaginings entirely, she pushed them aside for later contemplation. Her plate at this moment was far too full for flights of fancy. If they were flights of fancy. If he was who she wanted.

  As she pranced around her circle of dancers again, she caught sight of Captain Vale watching her. His expression, a horrid combination of avarice and smugness, chilled her to her heart. Aden wanted her, had told her so, but he’d also made it clear that the ultimate choice would be hers. Vale wouldn’t bother with such niceties. He coveted her position in Society, and despite all her comments of disgust—or perhaps because of them—he now apparently coveted her. Or at least wanted offspring to carry on his legacy of stolen aristocracy.

  The horror of that thought nearly stopped her heart. Good God. The thought of him kissing her as Aden did, of him … in bed and touching her … She shivered.

  “Ye well, lass?” Coll MacTaggert asked, taking her hand for one last turn through the circle. “Ye’ve got a gray caste to ye.”

  “I’m fine,” she lied, reaching for a smile. “Just a bit warm.”

  “Aye. Ye Sassenach think we Scots are mad, but I reckon I’d be enjoying a cool breeze if I’d worn my damned kilt, tonight.”

  The ladies on either side of him gasped in almost theatrical unison, but Miranda only smiled. If that was their idea of scandal, which it was, they would fall dead after one glance at her thoughts. Of course, they would probably also find her present situation utterly romantic—a man so obsessed with her and her life that he was willing to stoop to ruining her brother to have her. As for herself, she was more taken with the other man, the one who claimed to find her bonny and desirable, and who had given his word to help her for no other discernible reason than the one he’d stated.

  As the quadrille ended, she declined the viscount’s offer to escort her to her parents. She knew quite well the waltz was next, and whether her mother and father had decided to invite Captain Vale to dinner or not, the less time they spent in each other’s company, the better.

  “I cannae leave ye standing here alone,” Coll MacTaggert protested, scowling. “I’m nae a gentleman, but I am a man. And a man doesnae abandon a lass in di
stress.”

  Her smile flattened before she could catch it. “What in the world makes you think I’m in distress?” she twittered, too brightly. If he’d realized something was amiss, what hope did she have of fooling her friends? Staying away from them had been a wise decision, then, even if it did help Vale by leaving her more isolated. Or rather, making him think she had no allies at a—

  “It’s time for our waltz, Miranda.”

  Her back stiffened, her fingers clenching all on their own around Lord Glendarril’s substantial forearm. Miranda took a deliberate breath, putting a smile back on her face before she turned to face the captain. “Is it? I lost count of the dances.”

  She couldn’t thumb her nose at him, but that felt nearly as satisfying. Whether he believed or not that she’d been otherwise occupied and hadn’t spared him a second thought, she’d made it sound that way. If he wanted to pretend this was a love match, he could damned well pretend to work to earn her pretend affection.

  A large hand closed over hers before she could move away. “I reckon now would be a grand time for ye to tell me all about yer brother, before I hand my sister over to him,” Lord Glendarril drawled, abruptly more lion than giant lamb.

  A second MacTaggert willing to protect her. And from what she’d heard, Coll preferred fists to words. If only she hadn’t already convinced herself that seeing Vale bloodied wouldn’t solve any of her problems. She took a quick breath. “At our next family dinner, I will regale you with all—or most—of my tales about Matthew.” She put her free hand over his large one. “You are waltzing with your sister anyway, I believe.”

  His green eyes narrowed, but he released her. “That’ll do, then. I’ll be close about in the event ye change yer mind, lass, and want to regale me now.”

  Her fellows called the MacTaggerts barbarians, and even Aden had decided he desperately required lessons in proper behavior. But Coll was the only person to realize something was amiss without her having first been told about it. Unless “barbarian” meant attentive to more than just his own appearance and standing, perhaps Society needed to find another adjective for these Highlanders. “Thank you, my lord.”