The Scottish Rogue

by Heather McCollum

Another man stepped down, his clothes notably richer, with gold thread edging. He wore a plume in his hat, which was pinned atop a long, curly wig. He smoothed his gloved hand over a velvet cloak that lay over one shoulder, and the feather bounced in the breeze. A ridiculous fashion that looked like he waved to everyone. He was shorter, with a paunchy, stout frame, as if he sat much of the day. His features were smooth, without emotion.

  “Lady Evelyn,” he said, bowing his head. He wore a thin mustache, which curled upward at the tips over thin lips. “You look…lovely,” he said after his pause.

  Evelyn did look lovely. She wore the gown that Grey had stripped her out of in the kitchen that morning; curls still broke free from her bun that she hadn’t fixed after they’d attacked each other between their rooms. But her skin looked pale. He stepped closer, while completely aware of her brother’s assessing stare.

  Evelyn looked at Nathaniel. “We must discuss this immediately,” she said, her gaze shifting to Grey. When no one said anything, she cleared her throat and gave a small curtsy to the feathered fop. “Lord Philip, welcome to Finlarig Castle,” she said. “I am sorry that you came all this way for nothing.”

  “Evelyn,” Nathaniel started, but the fop interrupted him, raising his pudgy hand.

  “Nothing?” the Englishman asked. “I came right away once I found to where you whisked away your sister.” He smiled broadly. “And I posted the banns two weeks ago in the gazette.”

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  Banns? Wedding banns? Grey looked between Evelyn and Lord Philip. “Evelyn?” Grey asked and felt the heavy gazes of both Englishmen. Evelyn’s lips opened as if she breathed a silent lament, and she tipped her head slightly to one side, exhaling a long sigh as if her strength was escaping her. But it was her eyes that knotted his stomach. Desperation mixed with regret.

  The fop pulled a lace-edged handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his nose. “Yes, Lady Evelyn, by this time next week, you and I can finally be wed.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “We will, of course, be married at Whitehall with King Charles in attendance,” the bastard named Philip said, unaware of the barely contained fury growing within Grey.

  “My school…” Evelyn murmured, tearing her gaze from Grey to rest on her brother. Nathaniel’s expression was dark and unmoving as she seemed to silently beseech him.

  Philip peeled off his gloves, tucking them into a hidden pocket. When Nathaniel didn’t respond, Philip waved his pale, soft hand. “Nathaniel told me about your idea,” he said with an indulgent smile. “But I daresay that you will be too busy being a wife and mother to entertain such an endeavor. Especially all the way up here in the north of King Charles’s kingdom.”

  Wife and mother? The bloody cock wanted her for a broodmare, and her brother was standing by to let him take her. Grey wasn’t sure which one he hated more.

  Scarlet flew down the steps. “Good God, Lord Philip.” She halted next to Evelyn, taking her arm. “Nathaniel?” Scarlet asked as if the questions were apparent without further words.

  Nathaniel came across and gave Scarlet a kiss on the cheek. Grey could see her lips move near her brother’s ear, and the look on her face surely accompanied a curse.

  Nathaniel backed up, clearing his throat. “Yes, we have come to let Evelyn know that Lord Philip has received an official royal blessing for the union by King Charles and Queen Catherine.”

  Evelyn wobbled, but Scarlet held on to her so that he didn’t need to pick her up out of the dirt. There was no doubt that Evelyn wanted nothing to do with Philip Sotheby. Mo chreach. Grey could claim her right there before them. Go against the royal blessing from the king of England and Scotland. What would the feathered fop do then?

  Flaming torches. Screams filling the air. Killin cottages ablaze. If the man went to Cross, the English captain would have the perfect reason for razing the Campbell clan. Bloody foking hell. He needed to talk to Evelyn alone.

  Evelyn sniffed. “I did not realize you were close to the king and queen.”

  Philip’s soft face remained neutral. “I mentioned our upcoming union when I introduced him to one of my lovely cousins.” He smiled. “The king was quite grateful for the acquaintance.” His gaze shifted to Scarlet. “Although King Charles did ask after you, Lady Scarlet. He hopes you will soon return to Whitehall. You left in such haste.”

  Grey heard Scarlet hiss as she exhaled. “For now, I am committed to helping my family with our Scottish endeavor,” she said. It was the first time Grey had heard fear in Scarlet’s voice. Both sisters had more reasons for leaving England than wanting to educate the women of Breadalbane.

  Philip tipped his head as if examining Scarlet closer. He seemed curious. “You know that our Merry Monarch despises delays set against his desires.”

  “Scarlet is in need of time away from the bustle of court,” Evelyn said, her voice firmer. “For her health. Here the air is clean and sweet.”

  Philip nodded, his expression flattening back to neutral. Grey could tell that the man was used to getting what he wanted. Grey’s palm rubbed against the pommel of his sheathed sword. How much did the man want Evelyn?

  Philip’s chin raised, his gaze sliding to Grey. “We have not yet met. Are you one of Finlarig’s hired hands?”

  Meet our new groundskeeper. Evelyn’s condescending words, from their first meeting, dug into him. Everyone in the bailey stood motionless, as if they waited for the spark to ignite a battle. Grey didn’t need to look at the armed men near the carriage to know that they held muskets, lit and primed to fire.

  “This,” Evelyn said, and laid her hand against Grey’s chest. Grey watched her brother’s eyes narrow at the familiar touch. “This is Greyson Campbell, the fifth chief of the Campbells of Breadalbane, the town of Killin, and Finlarig Castle.”

  Nathaniel met Grey’s gaze with unblinking questions and growing anger. Would the man order him shot at the mere suggestion of his sister’s attachment?

  “Formerly of Finlarig, now that your brother owns it,” Philip said.

  Evelyn’s gaze shifted to Nathaniel. “That is something we must discuss. The Campbells were—”

  “I am an instructor at the Highland Roses School,” Grey said, his voice overriding Evelyn’s. Until he knew that Nathaniel wasn’t the Surgeon of London, the letter should be kept a secret. Evelyn’s brother didn’t need another reason to attack his clan.

  “Instructor?” Philip asked, feather bobbing as he turned to Nathaniel. His thin lips tilted in a small smile. “On what subject?” The smaller man’s words were considerate enough, but the underlying tone was that of a man who believed his own shite didn’t stink. If he wasn’t the king’s friend and apparently Evelyn’s betrothed, he’d pick his velvet-clad arse up and throw him off the grounds.

  “Lifting heavy things, perhaps? Or war cries?” Philip continued. To think, the weakest of England’s dandies could influence kings when he probably couldn’t lift a sword. Such was the way of men with coin and hired muskets.

  “He instructs on self-defense,” Evelyn called out, her words rushed. “And French philosophy.”

  “He is also vastly important to the defense of the property,” Scarlet said, following Evelyn to stand next to her. They were defending him. Against a foking prig with a feather flapping about his head.

  Grey let a smug smile curve his mouth. “I also lift heavy things and shout war cries, especially when I’m skewering Englishmen who try to steal my castle.” He let his unblinking stare focus on Philip’s dim eyes before moving on to meet Nathaniel’s gaze.

  From the corner of his sight, Grey saw Evelyn run her hand down the side of her face. “I think we should all step inside and discuss…things…over a brewed pot of tea.”

  Silence. Grey continued to suck air through his nose, readying himself to drag Evelyn away if guns exploded. Evelyn cleared her throat. “Nathaniel, Lord Philip, James can show your men where to water their horses. Come now, for a bowl of tea.”

 
“It is good to see the wilds of Scotland haven’t stripped away your manners, Lady Evelyn,” Philip said, though Grey continued to meet the silent stare of Nathaniel. “Your lovely mother’s influence, no doubt.”

  Damn. This man knew Evelyn’s family and moved in the same societal circles. He possessed obvious wealth and intended to wed her. The fact, however, that she had given herself freely to Grey meant that she didn’t want to marry the fop. Didn’t it? Had she used Grey to take her maidenhead? Would she use her ruination to get out of the marriage? What would the fop do then, or King Charles do to Killin, if he realized that Grey was responsible for liberating Evelyn from their marriage plans?

  Grey stepped back, glancing to where Hamish and Kerrick waited. He could leave this conversation over tea to join his men. He glanced at Evelyn as she turned toward the castle. Straight and strong as always, but then he spied a slight tremor in her hands as she clasped them before her. Grey stepped forward briskly, offering her his arm before either of the other men could. She took it without hesitation, her fingers curling in to him.

  The great hall was empty. “’Tis rather bare,” Philip said. He turned in a small circle, his heeled shoes clicking on the scrubbed stone floors.

  “Scorch marks?” Nathaniel asked, indicating the wall.

  Grey felt Evelyn wobble, her one hand going to her chest. “Uh…yes.” She cleared her throat. “Captain Cross of the local English company instructed his lieutenant to burn the castle, with the Campbells within its walls,” Evelyn said.

  “Well,” the fop said, drawing a finger down the dark wall. “Seems Captain Cross took your suggestion quite literally, my dear.” His lips tilted up in a smug grin as his gaze cut to Grey. “Scottish vermin indeed.”

  “Suggestion?” Grey asked, his gaze shifting to Evelyn.

  Pale, her lips parted, she pulled in a shallow breath. “The captain gave no indication that the vermin to which he referred were people. I would never have—”

  “Smoke them out,” Philip said, interrupting. “I believe that’s what Evelyn had the solicitor write back. Wasn’t it, Nathaniel? I questioned your solicitor when the ladies disappeared.” He tsked as if their journey north had greatly annoyed him.

  “We had no idea that the captain meant that the Campbells were still in residence,” Nathaniel said, frowning as his gaze slid about the room, following the scorch marks.

  Philip dropped his hand and turned to look at them, his pudgy face firming into foking amusement. “Cross called them Scottish vermin. Did you think he meant rats dressed in Campbell tartan?”

  Grey released Evelyn’s arm, his fists balling up. “A warrior nearly lost his life in the blaze,” Grey said, his voice rough as his heart pounded warrior’s blood through him. “We were held at gunpoint while the English soldiers smashed what they could and set it ablaze. They threw my sister inside with us when they discovered who she was. Cross’s lieutenant ordered the doors bolted once the flames caught.”

  “And yet you survived,” Philip said with the same bloody smile. “A testament to the strength of Scottish vermin.” He saluted.

  In two strides, Grey had the bastard by the neck, shoving him up against the scorched walls. “Strong enough to crush English bastards trying to steal our home.”

  “Grey,” Evelyn yelled, running up to them, but Grey’s focus was on the bulging eyes of the man who currently represented all the English who had stolen his parents, his castle, and the security of his clan. Evelyn pulled on his arm, but he didn’t budge.

  “Let him go, Campbell,” her brother yelled from behind. Did he have a musket trained at his back? Did Grey even care? Evelyn. He’d begun to trust her, despite her English blood. Why hadn’t she told him that she’d insisted that the castle be emptied of rats or men?

  “Grey,” Evelyn said, her voice low. “Think of your clan.”

  Her words cut through some of the blood rushing in his ears, the hollow pain in his middle breaking through to make him want to double over. But he just dropped the sputtering bastard and turned before he changed his mind and drew his sword.

  He turned his face to Evelyn. “Ye didn’t take the time to see if anyone was still in the castle? Ye just wanted us cleared out for your school.” He’d known this from her surprise when she arrived. Or had she been surprised to see him still there after Cross had tried to smoke him out? Aiden’s voice beat in his brain. She’s English. They lie…

  “It…It all happened so quickly,” she said. “I’ve regretted my hasty advice ever since I saw what had happened, who had been hurt.” Her eyes begged for understanding.

  “You assaulted an English gentleman,” Philip said, his voice sounding like a croak. “I want him arrested.” He staggered dramatically to the table and plopped down.

  Nathaniel’s face was drawn in a fierce frown, but he didn’t have a musket leveled at him. “Why exactly was Finlarig seized by the crown?”

  “Because they are traitors,” Philip said and took a gulp off a mug that Molly had brought. His lips tightened as he swallowed, and he set it down. Grey hoped Molly had pissed in it.

  “My father was a known Covenanter,” Grey said. “He wished to worship as a Presbyterian and felt that Charles and his brother were secret papists, remaining loyal to Rome and the Pope.”

  “Exactly,” Philip said, raising his hand as if to say that explained everything. “Traitors. All of them.”

  “No, they aren’t,” Evelyn said. Her voice held the tightness of desperation, but Grey wouldn’t look at her. There was too much to work through to let her softness and beauty distract him.

  “My father had no plans to overthrow King Charles or support the extremist groups in the area,” he said. “To him this was a religious issue, not a leadership issue.”

  “But he was killed?” Nathaniel asked.

  Grey tried to read something from Nathaniel’s features, but the man kept his thoughts hidden. Did he already know the answer? Was Evelyn’s brother behind it all? Surely Evelyn didn’t know. His stomach twisted tighter.

  “Aye, he and my mother. They were invited to a conventicle, a religious gathering on the other side of Loch Tay. ’Twas a trap.”

  “I am practically a servant of King Charles,” the fop blustered from his seat. He pointed at Grey. “He should be arrested and hung for attacking me.”

  Scarlet walked over. “Here, Lord Philip. Have a sip of whisky.” She handed him a cup. “It will help immensely.”

  “Nathaniel,” Evelyn said, walking to him. “There is no treason here.” She shook her head. “These are good people, just trying to live their lives. And their ancestral home was seized, and…it was burned without further provocation.”

  “Me telling the English to bugger off was probably provoking,” Grey said. He watched Evelyn closely as she cut him a look that bordered on anger but still held the heaviness of remorse.

  She turned back to her brother. “Who told you about Finlarig being set to sell right after the new year?” she asked.

  “Father’s solicitor, Edgar Brooks, brought it around. He thought it would make an ideal estate for the sheep farm that I had been contemplating.” Nathaniel’s voice was hard.

  “Who told you that sheep farming was a good investment?” Grey asked, still trying to decipher the man’s cold look.

  “The wool industry is booming,” Philip said and took another sip of the whisky, pulling his lips back at the burn. He coughed into his fist. “Nathaniel would be foolish not to get involved.”

  “Philip and I began discussing it last autumn,” Nathaniel answered. “When my father’s health faltered. Philip thought it would be an effective way to improve the estate income, since parliament continues to be dissolved.”

  “Your solicitor,” Grey said, “had inside information about Finlarig being available immediately after my father’s death, if not before.”

  “And you must let the king know that the Campbells of Finlarig were unjustly persecuted,” Evelyn said. “That they did not deserve to
lose their castle.”

  Philip let out a dark bark of laughter, and Scarlet handed him a tart.

  “What do you propose, Evie?” Nathaniel asked. “That I forfeit the six thousand pounds that I’ve invested by purchasing Finlarig?”

  Grey stared hard at the Englishman. Did he see them merely as Scottish vermin? “The worth of my parents’ lives is far greater.”

  “Certainly,” Nathaniel replied, his gaze moving to Grey. Strength met strength as the two regarded each other. “I but point out that this is not a simple matter of handing over the key to the front door, and six thousand pounds is not a sum easily relinquished.”

  “Perhaps Charles can be persuaded to give back the money,” Evelyn said.

  Philip snorted, speaking around chewing. “Likely he has already spent it.”

  Nathaniel tapped his two fists together as he thought. He looked up, brows lowered. “Why would traitors try to take Finlarig out of Campbell hands and place it in mine?” His stare pierced Grey’s, without blinking. “Since a mere six thousand pounds is hardly worth all this effort.”

  Grey felt his lips twitch to pull back in a growl. He relaxed his jaw enough to speak. “Exactly my question,” he said, his eyebrow raising. Was Evelyn’s brother so talented at lying to blatantly call out his own guilt and still look outraged at the thought of manipulation?

  They stood in silence, and Grey felt Evelyn’s gaze on him. She hadn’t mentioned the letter. He glanced at her beautiful face, full of concern.

  Philip pushed upright. “I would be taken to my rooms while I contemplate what to do about all of this,” he said, as if the castle and matter at hand were his. Grey bit down to keep from telling him to bugger off, too.

  “Molly,” Evelyn said, beckoning the maid. “Can you please find two rooms, on the third floor, for Lord Philip and Lord Nathaniel?”

  “I already have fires leaping about like witches in two hearths.” Molly cut a brief curtsy. “And I’ll find some pottage and fresh bread to bring up. Follow me, milord.”

  Philip followed after her, a fierce glare in his close-set eyes. “You should leave the premises, Campbell, before I have Captain Cross drag you away.”