Wicked Highland Lords: Over 1100 pages of Scottish Regency Romance

by Tarah Scott

James looked sharply at him.

  He nodded. “Aye. My wife and I were completely unaware of their relationship.”

  “I am sorry,” James said.

  “It could have been worse.” He shifted his gaze to James. “He could have murdered her.”

  An unexpected relief flooded James. “But that did no’ happen.”

  “Because of you.”

  “It is my job,” James replied.

  “You are a titled lord. Ye did no’ have to do a thing. But you did.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “I was furious with you when the magistrate told me you were watching our home. You should have come to me. I was wrong, of course. I wouldn’t have believed a word you said.”

  They walked in silence as they neared the mansion.

  “I am in your debt,” the baron finally said.

  “Think nothing of it,” James replied.

  “You realize everyone here will have heard what happened. Even if they didn’t read about it in the gossip sheets someone will have told them.”

  “Mayhap ye should have stayed home,” James said.

  “Our absence would have fed the rumors far more than coming. We must act as if we are untouched by the gossip.”

  They reached the mansion and took the three steps to the door, then James lifted the knocker and knocked.

  “Why pretend?” James said. “If ye do no’ care what they think, then you are untouched.”

  The baron smiled. “My thoughts exactly.”

  The door opened and a stout butler stepped aside as James entered with Morgan. The butler led then down a hallway to a large parlor.

  “Ah,” Morgan said when they paused inside the doorway, “that,” he nodded toward a group of men to their right, “is the duke.”

  Amongst the group of men, James had no trouble distinguishing the tall, young, well-dressed duke. The way the other men directed their attention to him, as well as the lazy confidence he exuded, bespoke a man of power. The duke met his gaze. Another man whispered something to him and he gave an almost imperceptible nod. James knew the man had told the duke who he was. So the gossip had reached as far as His Grace, the Duke of Brodrick. And given the gleam in the man’s eye, he relished a good piece of gossip.

  James groaned inwardly when the duke left the group and started toward them. James told himself to take Morgan’s advice and stay untouched by gossip by simply not caring and realized he didn’t care. He simply didn’t want to be bothered.

  The duke reached them.

  “Your Grace,” Baron Morgan canted his head.

  “Morgan. Good to see you.”

  “May I present Lord Ruthven,” the baron said.

  “Your Grace, it is good to meet ye,” James said.

  “So, this is the infamous James Waterson, the new Viscount Ruthven.”

  “I wouldn’t say infamous,” James said.

  The duke’s mouth twitched. “There are worse things to be known for than putting a murderer behind bars.” His humor vanished. “In truth, you did us all a service. Is it true he murdered four young women?”

  “That is what I believe,” James said.

  The duke studied him, then gave a slow nod. “I imagine, then, that he did. Come, there are a few people you will want to meet.”

  James doubted that, but followed the duke—for who ignored a duke’s request?

  After three brandies, James began to relax. He had to admit, he liked the duke. He was a blueblood through and through, but he was fair and surprisingly pragmatic. The half dozen men he introduced James to were clearly part of an inner circle, and James found them all to be of a decent sort, even if half of them were spoiled.

  They clustered around a small table in a far corner of the room, brandies in hand, discussing politics. James said little, but the duke was relentless in pulling opinions from him.

  “What say you, Ruthven?” The duke’s eyes twinkled in what James was already coming to recognize as unadulterated mischief. “Do you believe our king poisoned his wife?”

  “I say there isn’t a married man alive who has no’ considered the idea,” James replied.

  The men laughed heartily.

  “And what court would convict us?” the duke asked.

  James felt her presence. He sipped his brandy and casually shifted his gaze to the doorway. Lady Annabelle stood beside her mother with the Marquess of Northington beside her. Lord Montagu stood on the other side of his wife and Lord Grayson and his wife waited behind them. So the entire Montagu clan had banned together to attend the party.

  Why hadn’t they stayed home? Surely Lord Montagu was aware his daughter was the current hottest tidbit. Yes, he knew and, like Baron Morgan, clearly believed that meeting the storm head-on was the best way to render the storm powerless.

  Lady Annabelle shifted and James cut his gaze back to the group. Lord Ailes spoken animatedly about a lady who wasn’t much of a lady, but the duke’s gaze lingered on James. A knowing look gleamed in his eyes and James tensed. The men burst out laughing at something in Lord Ailes’ story and the duke joined in. James laughed, as well, despite feeling Lady Annabelle’s eyes on him. How was he going to slip away from the duke, then make a discreet exit from the party?

  He had intended to avoid her—for the rest of his life—but there she stood sipping champagne and blocking his path to freedom. She’d been at the party all of ten minutes and already her family had left her alone. Had they no idea how dangerous she was?

  Dangerous? To the rest of the world or to your heart?

  James started to turn back toward the cluster of men behind him when her eyes lifted and met his. He froze. He could give her a polite smile and turn away. And that is what he did, but not before glimpsing the furrow in her brow...and the hurt in her eyes.

  The moment Lord Fletcher finished speaking, Mr. Gibson looked at James and said. “Have you heard anything concerning Harley’s fate, Ruthven? Will he hang?”

  “I am neither judge nor jury,” James replied.

  “That devil deserves worse than hanging,” Lord Fletcher muttered.

  “Horrible business,” another man said.

  “The ladies were damned lucky you were on the case,” Fletcher said.

  “Exactly how did Lady Annabella and Miss Summerfield come to be with Harley in his carriage?” Gibson asked.

  The other three men in the group said nothing, but James could feel their curiosity as keenly as if they’d chimed in with ‘Yes, how is it two gently bred women entered a man’s carriage without a chaperone?”

  James had taken an instant dislike to Brian Gibson when he met the man. Now he knew why. He had known the evening wouldn’t pass without at least one bastard making a comment about the kidnapping.

  James finished his champagne and set the glass on the tray of a passing servant. “I’m sure the gossip sheets explained it all.”

  “There was some mention of kidnapping,” Gibson said. “But how can two women be kidnapped in that part of town in broad daylight? Sounds melodramatic, if you ask me.”

  James locked gazes with the man. “It isna’ melodramatic when it is the truth.”

  “I will admit that Lady Annabelle comes from an impeccable family, but those women are always the ones with the wildest streak,” Gibson said.

  The mood shifted to tension.

  “I am certain ye are not saying that Lady Annabelle had an assignation with Harley,” James said in a low voice.

  “Ah, so that is the way of things,” Gibson said with a laugh.

  James stepped closer to Gibson. “I will see ye tomorr—”

  The duke appeared at James’s side. “James, I have some business I believe will interest you.”

  “Forgive me, Your Grace,” he said, “but I have unfinished business with Mr. Gibson.”

  “I am sure Brian won’t mind waiting.” He looked at Gibson and lifted one brow.

  Gibson canted his head. “Of course, Your Grace.”

  The duke grasped James’s arm and led him away. Af
ter they’d gone a few paces, the duke said, “Dueling really isn’t fashionable anymore.”

  “I do no’ mean to contradict you, Your Grace, but only a month ago Lord Edwards shot and killed some young viscount who made the mistake of bedding his wife.”

  “A very good example of why dueling isn’t done anymore,” the duke said. “Someone usually gets killed.”

  “In fact, few men die in duels,” James replied.

  “You are determined to be contrary on this matter,” the duke said in an amiable tone. Before James could reply, he added, “What did Brian say to anger you?”

  “I would rather not say, Your Grace.”

  “Ah, it has to do with the lady.”

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you see too much, Your Grace?”

  “No, I don’t think they have,” he said with amusement in his eye. “Now, as to the duel. First, despite the fact that Brian is an ass, he is an excellent shot. You do, indeed, have a very good chance of getting killed if you duel with him.”

  “I happen to be a very good shot,” James said, feeling oddly injured.

  “Then there is an even better chance one of you will die. If it is you who does the killing, you may be arrested by the same magistrate that arrested Lord Harley, and you may even be thrown into the same cell.”

  James looked sharply at him. “That is an interesting prediction, Your Grace.”

  “I am an interesting man. Now, then, as to the lady. If you intend to fight every man who gossips about her, the odds are, you will eventually end up dead.” He stopped and looked James in the eye. “That would not help anyone. Particularly not the lady.”

  “She does no’ care one way or the other if I am alive.”

  The duke smiled. “You’ve named the best reason to stay alive. Staying alive gives you time to make her care.”

  “This is a moot point,” James’s irritation escaped his control. “Even if I wanted her to care, she is to be married.”

  “Marriage contracts are broken quite often.”

  James snorted. “Not by women like her.”

  The duke lifted a brow. “And what kind of woman is that?”

  “The daughter of a marquess betrothed to a wealthy marquess.”

  The duke nodded. “Northington does embody all a woman could want.”

  “Aye,” James said, then realized this entire conversation had revealed too much.

  “You are probably better off avoiding her,” the duke said. “She has already caused you a great deal of trouble. Though, without her, you wouldn’t have secured Lord Harley’s imprisonment. She did you at least one great favor.”

  “And nearly got herself killed in the process,” James muttered.

  The duke shrugged and motioned with his head at something to James’s right. James shifted and looked in the direction he indicated. Lady Annabelle and her fiancé chatted with another couple. She looked at Northington, eyes bright, and James’s chest tightened.

  “Definitely a troublesome woman,” the duke said.

  “Aye,” James replied, and wished he’d never met her.

  Chapter Eleven

  The words on the page of Annabelle’s book blurred with an unexpected blaze of sunlight through the window of the inn’s dining room. She squinted, then stilled. Good Lord, he was behind her. She waited for the feeling to pass, for Lord Ruthven to turn away from her as he had two days ago at the party. Instead, his stare seared into the back of her head.

  Annabelle closed her eyes and prayed for him to leave, but the flesh of her exposed neck warmed. Worry caused her stomach to do a flip. Was it worry that she might be caught alone with Lord Ruthven, even in a public place, or was it the fact he hadn’t moved? Perhaps he didn’t recognize her. No. What man would stare at a woman he didn’t know? What man would stare at a woman he did know?

  She opened her eyes. “I am surprised you can countenance being in the same room with me.”

  No answer.

  “You need not offer even a polite smile before you go this time,” she said.

  Still no answer.

  Embarrassment washed over her and she suddenly wondered if she’d been mistaken. Annabelle twisted in her seat and gasped softly at sight of Lord Ruthven standing inside the open doorway just as she’d imagined.

  “It is rude to stare,” she snapped. “Have you nothing better to do than to follow me?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  His voice seemed deeper than it had when she last heard him speak in their drawing room five days past.

  Annabelle lifted her chin. “As I was here first, it is you who followed me.”

  “I beg to differ, my lady. I lunched in a private room.”

  “Here, at the Rossmount Inn?”

  “That is where we are. Where are your parents? I am surprised they allowed ye to dine alone.”

  “I am a grown woman. I do not need a nursemaid.”

  “Forgive me for disagreeing with ye a second time, my lady. But you do.”

  She blew out a frustrated breath. “Why do you not go away? That is what you do best, is it not?”

  “Where is your family, Lady Annabelle? It is no’ safe for you to be here alone.”

  “My God, you are arrogant,” she said. “It is no concern of yours.”

  He gave a low laugh that sent a flutter across the inside of her stomach.

  “Your father would no’ understand if I left you to your own devices. I am surprised he doesn’t keep a closer watch on you.”

  Josephine and Nick accompanied her. Josephine had excused herself to go to the privy and Nick had left her and Josephine alone while he met with a business associate in a private room—

  “You met with Nicholas,” she blurted.

  “Ah, so ye are here with Lord Grayson,” he said.

  Annabelle leapt to her feet. “You knew all along. What business did you have with my brother-in-law?”

  “That is not your concern.”

  “I see. You can butt into my business, but I must remain quiet. I daresay, next you will report to my father that you found me here alone.”

  “You are alone,” he said. “That is no’ proper. Your father will agree.”

  “Why did you not speak to me the other night?” she demanded.

  “Lord Northington would not have appreciated it.”

  “Calum? Ridiculous. He appreciates that you helped me.” Saved me, she mentally corrected.

  “Aye, he said as much.”

  “I think the truth is that you do not like me,” she said.

  He blinked and a lump rose in Annabelle’s throat. That was it, he didn’t like her. Why would he? She had bumbled into a very important investigation and nearly got herself, Lena and probably him—not to mention Mr. Benning—killed. Perhaps she had even come close to helping that monster Lord Harley remain on the loose. She had, in fact, been very foolish. He had every right to dislike her.

  She released a breath and sat back down, then picked up her book. “I understand, my lord. You need not worry that I will trouble you again.”

  “Oh, you will trouble me, you will trouble me greatly.”

  She twisted and looked at him over her shoulder. “I just said I would not. I am a woman of my word.”

  “I know you try,” he replied. “But the damage is done.”

  “I am trying to be gracious, but you are making it very difficult.”

  “Am I now?”

  Annabelle opened her book with a flourish and turned her back on him.

  “I have angered ye,” he said.

  She concentrated on the page. Her head began to pound and she could no longer stand the silence. “You are an abominable, abominable—” she twisted to look at him again, ‘’—man.” The word died on her lips. Josephine stood next to him, one brow lifted.

  “Lady Josephine.” Lord Ruthven gave a slight bow.

  “Lord Ruthven,” she said, then looked at Annabelle. “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything
is fine,” she said.

  “I must be going,” Lord Ruthven said.

  “I trust your business with my husband went well?” Jo said.

  “Aye, my lady. Quite well, thank ye. Shall I wait for your husband to join you?”

  Jo crossed to the table and sat in the seat to Annabelle’s left. “That won’t be necessary. We are well acquainted with the owner of the inn, and I am sure Nick will be along shortly.”

  “As you wish, my lady.” He turned and started walking.

  “You would not take my word that it was all right to leave,” she muttered.

  He slowed and Annabelle thought he might say something, but he kept going. Her gaze dropped from his broad shoulders to the tanned calves below his kilt. He disappeared from view and she turned to find Josephine staring.

  “An interesting man,” she said.

  “Maddening, is what he is,” Annabelle said.

  “Is he, now?” Jo said. “Then perhaps you should avoid him.”

  “Oh, I intend to. You may depend on that.”

  Now, if she could just forget how warm and safe she felt in his arms.

  Chapter Twelve

  Voices in the hallway caught Annabelle’s attention. She looked up from the needlework that she’d been trying unsuccessfully to complete for the last hour. Who was that with her father? The voice…Lord Ruthven! She jumped to her feet and searched wildly for a place to hide before realizing the ridiculousness of the attempt. They weren’t entering the drawing room—and even if they were, why would she hide? Her father never did business in the drawing room. They would go to his study. She tensed as their footfalls drew near. Then they passed and faded down the hallway.

  Annabelle sat back on the couch. She picked up her needlework, but set it in her lap and stared at the door. What was the viscount doing here? He made it plain she was a nuisance, yet he came to her house. She picked up the hoop and pushed the needle through the fabric. What business could he possibly have with her father? He was a lowly viscount only newly titled.

  Shame washed over her. If her mother and father could read her thoughts they would disown her. They had never valued a person less for their station in life, and it wasn’t well done of her to be so niggardly. She’d let her frustration get the better of her. She looked up at the door. Why was she frustrated? It mattered not who her father conducted business with. Nor did it matter who Lord Ruthven did business with. But what business did they have together? Lord Harley, she realized. That conversation would include her, no doubt.