by Tarah Scott
“bring me the finest mare we have—saddled.”
A low murmur rippled through the crowd, but Iain kept his gaze on Victoria until Thomas returned moments later and handed him the reins to a fine chestnut.
“I can have men ready in fifteen minutes,” Iain said. “They will escort you anywhere you wish. Montrose Abbey. England. You no longer have anything there to fear.”
Pain flickered cross her face, and Iain knew she would struggle with the knowledge that she had distracted Edwin, allowing Glen to deliver the final, fatal blow that had killed him.
Iain dropped the reins to the ground and went down on one knee before her. “Every day, every hour, every one of us, stands on a cliff. The decision lies not in the choice to jump or stay,” he paused, feeling himself spiraling downward, arms out, heart, at last, open wide, “but whether we go in fear or anticipation.” He paused again, these final words the hardest of his life. “It is your choice now, Victoria.”
She uttered a low laugh. “Even now, you seek to chain me to you, my lord. What a funny game you play.”
“I do not jest,” he replied. “I offer freedom, plain and simple. I will not renege, no matter the answer.
You have my word.”
“How can I be freed from these bonds? It matters not how many miles lie between us, or how much time passes. Mayhap even death cannot break these chains. Yet, you act as if I can shake them off by simply riding through those gates.” Iain stared.
She sighed. “Iain, stand up.”
He did as she said, but remained mute as a child awaiting instruction.
She leaned toward him. “I believe this is where you should declare your undying love.”
Iain shook from the spell. He took her hand in his. “How shall I best tell you that I can do naught but love you forever? Shall I speak of your beauty?” “I would not mind,” she replied.
“Perhaps your sweet charms?” He traced an invisible line along her cheek. “Or the fire…the innocence?”
Victoria blushed.
“Perhaps, I could speak of a woman who, of her own free will, chose to give the only thing she had: herself. A woman of courage. One who was a far better friend to me than I was to her. Aye, I shall love you always, and count myself fortunate you were in my arms even a short while. But any more days that pass between us will be by your choice.”
“You will give me a divorce?” Victoria asked.
“I will give you anything you desire,” Iain answered, his voice shaking.
“Aye, then,” she said. “Give me your hand.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Iain glanced up when Thomas entered the library.
“You asked to see me,” Thomas said.
Iain nodded, and Thomas threw himself into the high backed wing chair that sat opposite the desk.
“What have you there?” Thomas nodded to the parchment Iain held in front of him.
“See for yourself.” He handed it to his cousin.
Thomas showed no emotion when his eyes fell on the letter written in his own hand. He laid it on the desk.
“I wondered how Hockley discovered she was here.” Iain studied him. “Do you deny the letter was written by you?”
“Nay.”
Iain picked up the letter that was addressed to England’s King Henry and read it aloud.
Be it known, sire, that, though word may have reached you to the contrary, the Countess of Landsbury of her own accord, sought out the safety of one Iain MacPherson, chief protector of the MacPherson clan.
Rest easy knowing she is in the best of health and enjoys every luxury available within the MacPherson home.
Your Most Obedient Servant,
A Friend
“This goes too far, even for you,” Iain said.
“Aye,” Thomas agreed.
“I am in no mood for games,” Iain shot back.
“Forgive me, mon ami. I understand how you feel, and I agree. I wrote the letter, but I did not send it.” Iain frowned. “But the letter.”
“Until you found it, it remained where I left it,” he said, regret in his voice.
“You regret not having sent it?”
“I regret having left it there. While writing it, I…well, you know how I love French brandy. When I awoke the next morning, I thought I had done away with the evidence. Where did you find it?”
“Behind the sideboard.”
Thomas shrugged. “As I said, you know how I love French brandy.”
“If you did not send it, then who contacted
Hockley?”
“There was only the one copy.”
“A mystery.”
“Indeed.” Thomas’s lips drew together thoughtfully.
“It was not, by chance, your cohort?”
A flash of surprise crossed Thomas’s face. “Cohort? Jesu, Iain, are you sure you are not gifted with second sight?”
Iain leaned back in his chair. “There were things our good priest said. To be honest, it was your part in the matter that remained unknown to me. Had you not left this letter, I might never have known.” He paused. “I assume you will not consider giving up the brandy?”
Thomas shrugged.
“Aye, then,” Iain said. “You may as well pour us both one.”
* * *
“Nay,” Victoria whispered with a stern shake of her head as Liam opened the door to her chambers. She stepped inside the antechamber, waited until he entered, then closed the door behind him. “I will not keep it from him. God help me if he ever found out. I have already kept silent too long. Either you tell him,
Liam Fraser, or I will do it for you.”
“Now, lassie—”
“Do not think to soothe me with your sweet talk, Father. And you had best make short work of the matter, or you will be explaining to my husband why I call you that in public.” She ignored the flush that rose in his cheeks.
“You would not do that,” he said in a near whisper.
Victoria crossed her hands beneath her breasts. “I would, and very soon.”
He turned even paler.
“Liam, if you had not been there the day I made the discovery, I would have confessed all to him.” She smiled gently. “You cannot expect me to keep the
knowledge from him?”
“Do you realize this could shake not only the foundation of the Fraser and MacPherson clans, but Clan Chatten as well?”
“I understand ’tis powerful.” She crossed to the chaise lounge near the window and sat down. “There is no denying that.”
“Aye. And that being the case—”
“Liam,” she cut in, “do you think we have the right to keep it from him?”
Liam strode to where she sat and sank down beside her. He sighed. “I suppose you are right.”
“It is not so bad as all that, is it?”
“The lad will be pleased to hear the news. We have been enemies a long time.”
“Nay,” Victoria said. “You and Eric were enemies.”
“Aw, lassie,” he said, “’tis the same thing.”
* * *
Victoria watched the two men from the solitude of the couch. Liam sat motionless in the chair opposite Iain’s desk. Iain hadn’t moved, other than to turn the pages of the journal. At his muttered, “Christ,” she knew he understood the full meaning of the document.
A muscle in his jaw jumped and he looked up.
“I am sorry, Iain,” Liam said.
“Why?” Iain asked. “Because the man I thought was my father was not, or because the one who is my father I have been fighting my entire life?” He shook his head. “I cannot regret the first. Eric was never a father to me.”
“And the latter?”
Iain laughed harshly. “Seems fate has found her revenge.”
“We have all paid,” Liam said.
“Including Eric,” Victoria said, drawing the attention of both men. “He threw away the most precious thing of all.”
Iain smiled grimly. “He
did, but I will not. My life is yours. They belong to you, every one.” He extended a hand.
“They?” She rose and came to him.
He took her hand in his.
“Aye, love. All my tomorrows.”
###
To Tame a Highland Earl
Tarah Scott
Chapter One
March 1807
Manchester, England
If ever a woman deserved to be shot, it was Miss Crenshaw. But dawn appointments weren’t meant for the weaker sex. Weaker sex. The lady was anything but weak, which is why Erroll intended to throttle her.
Erroll laid a shilling in the innkeeper’s palm. “You understand the need for discretion.”
“Indeed, I do, my lord,” the man replied. “Your betrothed’s reputation is safe with me.”
Erroll managed to maintain a bland expression as the innkeeper handed him the key to the lady’s room. So news of his impending nuptials had sped from Coventry to Manchester even quicker than he had—which meant London society would hear the news by morning light and the story would cross the border to Edinburgh just as quickly.
Which of the gossipmongers had he to thank for that? He was grateful to the heavenly powers that his mother had remained in Scotland and not accompanied his father to England this month. God help him if she got wind of this entanglement before he had a chance to extricate himself from the tenacious claw of the husband-hunting wench.
“A beautiful woman is hard to resist,” the innkeeper said.
“Indeed,” Erroll murmured, glad the man had interrupted the mental picture of his mother outfitting the deceitful huntress in her wedding dress. No bachelor’s mother was more determined to see her son wed than Erroll’s own dear mamma, and since his return from the navy, his father had put his considerable weight behind her efforts.
He whirled toward the stairs, climbed to the second floor and made a left down the hall. At the third door on the left, he stopped. Erroll had endured his father’s hour-long diatribe that ended with the command to marry the woman who had accused him of compromising her—a woman he’d never laid eyes on—before he finally broke away to discover his accuser had fled Coventry. The hard five hour ride to catch her before she reached her father’s estate would have been in vain if not for the fact a wheel on her carriage broke forty miles distance from Manchester.
This experience would teach him to dally with the women outside of London. Had he satisfied himself with the eligible ladies in Town—if those females could be called ladies—he wouldn’t have gone to Coventry and attended the damn house party that had gotten him into trouble. The fact he’d spent a pleasurable hour with a lady in the hostess’ gardens had only served to put him in the very place his accuser said he’d been. Erroll felt sure the cunning creature was well aware he’d been in the gardens, and therefore claimed to be the object of his attentions.
Erroll quietly unlocked the door, slipped into the darkened room, then eased the door shut and slipped the key into his pocket. Faint moonlight filtered in through thin curtains and outlined the sleeping figure in the bed. Erroll crept forward until he reached the bed. He braced a knee against the side of the mattress, then placed a hand on each side of the woman and brought his face to within an inch of hers.
She shifted in her sleep and lush breasts grazed his chest. He wondered how long it would be before she became aware a man was in her bed, then concluded that since she hadn’t awoken with a shriek she must be accustomed to having a man in her bed. He should ravish her as she’d said he had just for good measure. The thought froze at the pressure of a pistol jammed against his abdomen.
“I am a crack shot.” The feminine voice was steady—as was the hand holding the gun. “But even the worst shot in Great Britain couldn’t miss.” The gun dug deeper into his belly. “Move away.”
Erroll considered. Her calm response to his presence almost made him think she’d expected him. “If I’m to be shot, I should at least commit the crime for which I’m accused.” The click of the pistol’s hammer being pulled back was his answer. “I see you do not agree.” He straightened off the bed.
“Step back,” she ordered.
He retreated two paces.
“More.”
He moved back another two paces.
“I promise you, sir, my aim is as true at such short a distance as it was when you were an inch from my face. Back against the door.”
Erroll complied. A light click indicated she had released the hammer back into place. She rose, a small figure in the shadows, and picked up something from the night table. The clink of glass was followed by the scrape of a match on wood, then light flared and he got his first look at the woman who claimed he had ravished away her innocence. Dark brown eyes pinned him with a hard stare. Honey-brown hair tumbled down her shoulders. The top of her head was no higher than his chest.
The muff pistol remained pointed at him as her attention shifted to the lamp on the nightstand. She bent slightly and her full breasts strained against the nightgown as she lit the wick. His cock jerked and he couldn’t deny his good fortune in not having met her at Lady Baldwin’s party. He very well might have fallen prey to her charms and been guilty of her accusations.
She blew out the match and tossed it onto a metal tray, then took a step toward him. The lamplight illuminated the outline of her body through the nightgown. The curves he discerned were fuller than were fashionable and the kind he’d sought without success. His cock began to lift. He might end up shot after all.
“You are no common housebreaker,” she said. “Who are you?”
Erroll’s mind snapped to attention. The wench didn’t recognize him. Fury doused his lust. He gave a mocking smile and bowed. “Lord Erroll Rushton, at your service.”
Shock registered on her face, then an answering fire appeared in her eyes. “I see we shall have to break you of the habit of entering a lady’s room uninvited.”
“You use the term lady too loosely.”
“That is the pot calling the kettle black.”
He nearly laughed.
“One would think a prospective groom could keep his cock in his pants with his wedding but two days hence,” she said.
“Three days,” Erroll corrected. That was how long it would take him to get the special license his father ordered him to procure. “Pray tell, what sort of lady carries a gun?” He didn’t ask what lady used the word ‘cock’ as easily as the word ‘groom?’ That was perhaps too obvious.
“The sort who knows what to expect of a man,” she replied.
“The very sort who understands a man might object to being forced into marriage?” he said.
She gave a derisive laugh. “You are a rakehell, sir.”
“I never denied being a rake, madam, but I am no liar.”
She wasn't what he’d expected. He’d been told this was to be her second season, but this woman was no debutante and, given the way she unabashedly stood before him in her nightclothes, he would wager she was no virgin.
“Surely, you’re a little old for this game?” he drawled.
Her brow knit, but he detected no shame. She was too collected. But a level head—along with a liberal dose of nerve—is exactly what it took to accuse a complete stranger of compromising her.
“Did you really think you could get away with it?” she asked.
The question startled him.
“Now who is the pot calling the kettle black?” he said. She shifted and Erroll could have sworn he discerned a dark patch between her legs. “A shame we met under these circumstances.” He flicked a glance at her breasts. “We could have been friends.”
Her mouth thinned. “By God, I really should shoot you.”
“Tut tut, love, not until the vows are said and I claim what is left of your virtue.”
She drew in a sharp breath.
“Your righteous anger is completely undone by the fact that you’re nearly naked.”
Her mouth twisted in a derisive smile. “Fo
rgive me, my lord. Had I known you were coming, I would have dressed for the occasion.”
“You are impeccably dressed for the occasion.”
Did she have any idea how visible the contours of her body were with the lamplight behind her…or how her nipples pressed against her nightgown? She shifted, widening her stance slightly and his cock jerked harder. Oh yes, the witch knew.
“I should send you to hell this instant,” she said.
He lifted a brow. “The marriage vows will take care of that—had I any intentions of marrying.”
“My father will ensure that you do not escape this time.”
“That sounds as though you think I am getting what I deserve.”
“You do not deserve such a good and innocent wife.”
Erroll laughed. “Innocent? A woman who puts herself in such a position is no innocent.”
“How dare you?” she hissed.
“How dare I? I understand there were several suitors for the honorable Miss Crenshaw’s attentions at Lady Baldwin’s party. I wager none of them were as good a prospect as I, which is why you gambled that no one would notice if I was included on that list.”
He didn’t miss the way her fingers flexed on the gun.
“Everything I’ve heard about you is true,” she said. “You have no conscience.”
“In that we are alike. Should my father succeed in coercing me into marriage, I will make the worst sort of husband you can imagine. I will not settle down and sire an heir as he expects. Instead, I will send my wife to the family estate in Scotland while I go about my pleasures in London.”
“So the choice is desertion or ruination?”
“Be honest, the ruination was done long before you concocted this plan.”
“Plan?” she repeated. “I feel certain I can convince the magistrate of self-defense. After all, you broke into my room.”
“Think again.” Erroll reached into his pocket.
“Beware,” she said.
He slowly withdrew the key from his pocket and held it up. “The innkeeper was very obliging. He feels nothing should stand in the way of true love.”
