The Wicked Viscount (The Campbells)

by Heather McCollum

  His gaze held more questions, but he finally flipped over a red five. Glancing up, he smiled. “What was it like growing up in your home?”

  She frowned. “That is not a five question.” She tapped the card. “That is more like a jack or higher question.”

  “How so?”

  Cat flapped her hand at him. “Perhaps for ye, your growing up life is a five, but not for me. Ask something else or I am done.”

  “Then…what was your most favorite gift you have ever received?” His gaze was steady, as if he once again wished to read her mind. But he couldn’t, no one could know what Cat kept locked inside.

  “The kitten,” she said. “A gift from my father to celebrate the day of my birth when I turned six.”

  She flipped a card quickly. A black nine. “Very well,” she said, tipping her head. “What was it like growing up at Hollings Estate, the son of a Viscount?”

  Nathaniel leaned back in his chair. “I was tutored at Hollings until the age of ten when my father, Benjamin Worthington, sent me away to reside and learn at Broughton Manor outside London. ’Twas the home of one of his parliamentary friends who had been a prestigious general in Charles I’s army. I was to learn the ways of war from Lord Broughton, along with lessons in the classic languages, government, and philosophy. He was a brilliant man with wit and discipline. I was called back to Hollings during the holidays, where my father would then school me in being a gruff, forceful strategist. Whenever I could escape his lessons, I would play with my little sisters and Blue.”

  “Your father, he cared for ye then, to help ye rise and learn a trade.”

  “Cared is a rather strong word,” Nathaniel said with a sardonic smile. “Benjamin Worthington really just cared about power and looking powerful. He wanted to create a successful son, family, and heritage for the Worthington name. As long as Evelyn, Scarlet, and I followed his plans, things were relatively calm. Otherwise, Hollings Estate was filled with furious outbursts, smashing objects, and dire threats. And, of course, our mother’s hysterics.”

  “Your mother? She…cried often?”

  “Yes,” he said succinctly with a nod. “And you just won another answer from me.”

  Before she could say anything, he flipped over another card. “A three of hearts.” He smiled at her. “Easy then. What is the loveliest thing that you have ever seen?”

  Cat glanced around the small cabin, the firelight splashing in muted flashes across the far wall. The question made her stomach tight with longing. “There is a glen between two valleys outside Killin.” She raised her hand, diving them down to meet. “The mountains rise up around it and form the perfect vee where the blue sky comes down to kiss the grasses. In the summer, the breeze blows the grasses and wildflowers, so they look like waves. ’Tis the loveliest place I have ever seen.” She turned back to him, meeting his gaze.

  “I would like to see it,” he said, his words sincere.

  Cat nodded, a tingle sliding through her that made her rub her arms under the woolen blanket. She pulled one hand out to turn a card. A black king. She could ask him something large.

  He grunted, stood, and took up a flask of water that they’d melted from the snow. She watched him add another log to the fire and sit back down to meet her stare. “Go ahead,” he said. “Ask me anything.”

  It was his question, but the answer could reveal her. She could throw it away and ask something frivolous like when he’d first lain with a girl, though she’d heard from his sister that it had been a widowed kitchen maid when he was seventeen. She could ask about his career or his political aspirations, important things to know since they were headed to court where traitors and assassins may try to influence them both. Topics around his family, past loves, and aspirations would all suffice, but they didn’t sit on her tongue like the first question that had fallen there from her mind. She wet her lips.

  “Do ye want to kiss me again?” she asked, the crackle of the fire the only other sound.

  “Absolutely,” he answered, his gaze steady. The quickly given answer caught at her breath.

  “But I am a distraction,” she said, using his words.

  He nodded. “You asked me if I wanted to, not if I was going to.” He took another drink of water, set the bladder down, and looked down at his cards. “Now my turn.” It was his last card.

  Without a pause, he flipped it face up.

  A red ace.

  Chapter Six

  Nathaniel watched Cat straighten in the chair, her fingers gripping the edge of the table as if ready to push away. If he asked something too personal, she’d refuse and abandon the game. If he asked something mild, he’d lose possibly his last chance to figure out what sat within Cat, driving her anger and her unique views on life.

  One thing that Lord Broughton had taught him was how to study people, learn how to influence them, and trick them into trusting you. Just like divulging his past military experience, asking Cat straightforward questions could push her further away. To be partners in trying to help King Charles and Queen Catherine, he must learn all he could about Cat. Hence his new favorite card game.

  He wanted to know what made her afraid, why she’d looked so sad when the subject of her family came up, and why she’d asked him if he wanted to kiss her again. Of course he wanted to kiss her, wanted to do more than that. Truth be told, Nathaniel wanted to connect the freckles along her skin with his finger first and his tongue second. But saying all that would either get him impaled with a flying sgian dubh or left with a partner who didn’t trust him.

  He cleared his throat, his mind latching onto a question that might give him some more clues to her nature without making her storm off. “Cat, what is the one thing you refuse to ever do in this life?”

  She blinked but didn’t say a word. They sat opposite one another, the scarred table in between them, in the silence of the cabin until he thought she might not answer.

  “Perhaps kill a child,” he suggested, giving her an easy answer.

  “What if the child was trying to slice my sister’s throat?” she answered, shaking her head.

  “True, I suppose. Or perhaps you would never marry an Englishman.” He smiled over this, expecting her to grab the easy answer, but she shook her head.

  “Nay,” she said, making his shoulders relax with an exhale. She leaned slightly forward over the table as if she were imparting some crucial wisdom. “The one thing I will never do in all my life is…fall in love.”

  His brows lowered. “Fall in love?”

  “Aye. That I will never do,” she said, pushing back in her seat. She caught the corner of her one remaining card to flip it.

  “Wait,” he said. “You will never… Of all the things you could have answered, you pick that you will never fall in love?”

  “There is a question in there that I don’t have to answer,” she said with a smug smile. “But I will give ye one anyway.” She crossed her arms to rest on the table before her. “Love makes a mess of life. It makes one weak and stupid.”

  “You love your sister,” he said.

  “Aye, and my love for her will make me risk my life for her. Someone could take her again, like that bastard Burdock, and if she is killed, I will go insane in my misery. She was thrust into my life when she was born, but now she is all I have left. Not even my kitten, Jasmine, remains to make me fill up with sorrow if something terrible should happen. Only Izzy, and she is safe at Finlarig Castle.”

  “You will not love anyone else because you are afraid to be sad if they die?” he asked slowly.

  She frowned. “Love makes one weak. Love for religion, whisky, and country killed my father. Love for my father killed my mother.” She shrugged. “I will not die for loving someone or something else.” Before he could repeat her answer to get her to talk more, she flipped her last card. “A three of hearts.” She smiled at him. “My favorite color is also green.”

  The chair scraped across the wood floor as Cat stood. “Good eve,” she said and walke
d toward the bed in the corner.

  …

  Roses filled the garden despite the brilliant white snow, giving off their alluring fragrance. Sculptures of marble and stone sat about in classic and horrifying poses. David with his arms cut away. The infamous Greek Medusa holding up her own snake-covered head. Alexander the Great on his horse, both of them toppled over and missing their legs.

  Nathaniel strode amongst the labyrinth of flowers, snow crunching under his feet so loudly that he looked down to see that the snow was crusted with ice and marble, as if the landscape itself were also turning to stone. He stepped over a mound and realized it was a fallen man. Ravens landed ahead onto several more dead, and his gaze stretched out across a battlefield of dead Scots, all of them with red hair. He started to run, dodging corpses, searching.

  Up ahead, a flash of red hair rounded a tree, and he gave chase. His boots pounded on the crunchy ground, the sound beating in his head, and he began to slow. Looking down, he saw that his boots were beginning to change. Gray veins spread crookedly up the leather, transforming his boots into marble, their heaviness preventing him from catching the woman. He opened his mouth to yell for her, but rose petals flooded his face, making him cough and swipe a hand across his mouth.

  Finally reaching the tree, he grabbed the marbleized trunk to pull himself around. Hair, as red as fire waved out from Cat’s face. She stood, covered in her white leather trousers and jacket. Only her hair and the red, pink, and yellow roses around her were made of color. The rest of the world was white as fresh snow. “Cat,” he called, but it came out as a harsh whisper, and he swiped at the rose fragrance before his face. She smiled, her lips suddenly bloodred, and she drew back her dagger, aiming directly toward him.

  The dream darkened in a flash as Nathaniel sucked in a swallow of air, the thickness of it making him choke. He blinked at the webbing before his eyes as he opened them. Hair. Brilliant red hair. It was all he could see, and he felt it in his mouth. With a wide swipe, he raised his arm, lifting the mass to throw back toward Cat where she slept on her side, her back toward him.

  Dawn had come, the sun lighting the snug cabin. Their combined body heat made the bed deliciously warm. And all of it smelled like roses from whatever Cat had used to wash with the night before. She stirred on her side, her knees rising, which pushed her nicely rounded arse into him. He stifled a groan. The woman was warm, fragrant, and soft, despite her almost turning him to stone and killing him in his dream. He reached down to adjust his cock. Even outside the nightmare, Cat was turning him to stone.

  Hell and damnation. How was he going to stay away from her during the whole trip down to Whitehall? Then there was the whole trip back. If he thought her indifferent, it would be easier, but she’d asked him if he wanted to kiss her again. That must mean something. Right? He inhaled, the blasted rose smell funneling down into him. But he had reasons for keeping his distance, least of which was that his sisters would murder him if he slept with Cat without offering to wed her. And he couldn’t wed her without violating his father’s damnable dictate that he marry a woman from a “powerful family” a woman of “good breeding and standing in the eyes of the English monarchy” as set forth in the man’s iron-clad will.

  Cat murmured something in her sleep, and he stilled, trying to decipher the words. “Pòg mi,” she said. Clear but in Gaelic. Damn. He had to learn their language. Latin and French weren’t very helpful in the Highlands.

  Shifting and straightening her legs, Cat’s words tumbled softly from her lips. “A bheil thu a ‘tuigsinn Gàidhlig?” Slowly, Nathaniel rose, trying to lean over her without touching. Perhaps if he spoke English to her, she’d respond in English.

  “What was that?” he asked softly, marveling at the soft look of her cheek. A pale canvas covered in tiny speckles of brown, covering her, even under the hair at her nape where her hair was pulled away to tumble in waves over the top of her pillow. He leaned in farther, his gaze sliding to her full lips, the freckles muted by their pink hue.

  “I asked if ye know Gaelic,” she said, and he realized that her bright green eyes were open and fully alert.

  He didn’t move but hovered directly over her. “When did you wake up?” he asked, prolonging the intimate moment. Hair mussed, lips parted, collar bone showing as her smock dipped low on her breasts. She was the goddess Athena: beautiful, smart, and lethal.

  “I woke when ye threw my hair over my head,” she answered, a small pinch tightening between her arched brows.

  He froze as her arm came up out of the blankets, reaching for his face. As her open palm came closer, he fought the urge to pull her into him, wrap her in his arms, and love her all day in this private little cabin in the woods. Two slender fingers reached toward his lips and plucked off a long, red hair. “Ye were eating my tresses?” She pushed back, giving them space as she inspected the loose strand.

  Nathaniel rolled off his side of the bed, standing with his back to Cat. He reached to adjust his rock-hard jack. There was no use trying to hide something so large and obvious, so he turned back to face her. “You nearly suffocated me in a tangle of red, rose-scented curls.” He’d slept in his short trousers and grabbed up his shirt from the end of the bed to toss over his head. When it came down over him, he caught Cat staring at the front of his breeches.

  She shook her head. “Looks damn uncomfortable to have to wake every morning to that,” she said, nodding toward his member, which was now somewhat blocked by his shirt.

  He sighed with a dark chuckle. “You have no bloody idea.” He turned toward the door. “I will be taking another snow bath.”

  “I have tended other lads who did not wake up with something so…large,” she said.

  He glanced back at her where she sat amongst the warm, scented bedding, flaming hair around her shoulders like an angel who’d fallen from grace. Bare legs thrust toward him over the edge, her smock rucked up to her knees and her one shoulder free of the smock… If it was possible, he grew even harder.

  He stifled a groan. “Likely, those lads were not waking up next to a half-naked goddess who smelled of roses and warm woman.” He swung out into the winter’s dawn, inhaling the clear air, letting the chill rake over his hot body.

  Maybe he should let her sleep in trees.

  …

  Cat slid her palm along Stella’s shiny, black neck as she rocked in the saddle. After days of riding and learning how to care for the mare, the horse had relaxed under her touch. Perhaps that was because Cat had also finally relaxed around her. “Ye are a pretty girl,” she murmured, and Stella’s ears flicked as she lifted her head up and down. Cat laughed softly at the horse’s nod. “And so humble.”

  She straightened, her gaze falling to Nathaniel’s broad back where he sat upon his large, brown charger. It had been three days since he’d called her a goddess, and they’d barely spoken. After his snow bath at the cabin, they’d broken their fast, packed up and left, riding all day and sleeping at an inn where he’d paid for two separate rooms. She’d taken the opportunity to wash her hair, drying it by the fire and plaiting it. The last two nights, they’d had to camp, but he’d purchased more blankets and another tarp in the village, so he could build a separate tent for himself. She’d thought about making a bed in a tree, but it was windy, and she was too tired to rig it up safely.

  Aye, Nathaniel was definitely trying to put some space between them, which she should have welcomed. Surely, it was her contrary attitude that kept her pushing the boundaries that he continued to erect. Her prize would be the loss of his mountainous self-discipline, perhaps in the form of another kiss. Just the thought made her lips tingle, and she rubbed them together as they rode. Truth be told, she’d thought of very little else, and he’d begun to invade her dreams, passion-filled-kissing sort of dreams. Och, she needed to think of something else.

  “Don’t ye think it would be a good idea to teach me about the prominent players at court?” she called up to where he led the way through the winter-bare tr
ees, their limbs branching toward the sky as if in search of the elusive sun. “Or do I only need to know how to play Whist?”

  After a moment, he slowed Gaspar so she could pull alongside him. He continued to stare over his horse’s head as he spoke. “You have met the king and queen. The king will be surrounded by physicians. I am not certain who was assigned as the lead doctor.”

  “Would he be someone who could poison the king?” she asked, glancing at Nathaniel’s strong profile. Certainly not all Englishmen were as handsome as he. She’d met some at the English encampment north of Killin, and they were mostly plain or cruel or paunchy.

  “Could poison the king? Yes. Would? Only the most loyal of physicians would be allowed near the king.”

  “They must have assistants?”

  He nodded. “And there are others at court with quiet, yet prominent views on replacing Charles and his Catholic ways.” He glanced to her. “If Charles had learned from witnessing his father’s execution, he would know that the powerful in England will not stand for Catholic rule in any form.”

  “Perhaps Charles thinks the country is more lenient after the strict bent of Oliver Cromwell. It was the English government who called Charles out of exile and put him back on the throne when Cromwell’s son finally resigned after he proved useless,” she said.

  He looked over at her. “You have a strong grasp of political history.”

  Cat nodded, keeping her face neutral over the compliment. She’d made it a point to read up on the government and political strife after the attack at Finlarig in December. Evelyn had been correct in that being able to read opened worlds that Cat hadn’t even known existed before. Knowledge gave one power.