A Rake for All Seasons: A Regency and Victorian Romance Boxset

by Samantha Holt

  “Are ye unwell, Mrs. Merriweather?”

  She shook her head. “A little tired, that is all. What can I do for you, my laird?”

  He noted he was back to being laird. Maybe she really did blame him.

  “I had hoped to see Rose.”

  “Of course. I am afraid that cannot happen.”

  “I also hoped to speak with ye,” he persisted. If he could just persuade her he loved Rose more than life itself, perhaps she would forgive him.

  “You may speak to me.”

  He swallowed the knot that had wedged in his throat. “I think ye know that I have feelings for yer niece.”

  She nodded.

  “I believe she has feelings for me too.”

  She nodded again.

  “I would like very much yer permission to court her,” he said quickly.

  Mrs. Merriweather gave a soft smile. “Yer a fine man, my laird, but I am afraid I cannot give you that permission.”

  “If ye are worried about whether I will look after her…”

  A hand held aloft, she shook her head. “I have seen what you would do for her. But I am afraid, my laird, she will not see you.”

  He scowled. “Why not? Does she blame me for what happened?”

  “Not at all. As for why, I cannot really explain myself. It is not up to me. But she specifically said that if you called, she would not see you.”

  “Ye must let me speak with her.”

  Aunt May sighed. “I will let her know you called, and I will try to persuade her to at least write to you. There’s not much more I can do. My niece is a stubborn girl.”

  “Aye, that she is.”

  “I am sorry I cannot be of more help, my laird, but at this point I must respect her wishes. Goodness knows I have wronged her in many ways. I will not deny her wishes on this, no matter how I feel about it.”

  He puzzled over her choice of words. What could Rose’s aunt have possibly done to wrong her? As far as he knew, the woman had raised an orphan and had been a loving and wonderful aunt.

  He debated trying to argue with her, but the sudden fragility washing over her face and making her hands tremble prevented him. Instead he rose and dipped his head. “I shall write to her, if ye dinnae mind. Perhaps I can persuade her to see me.”

  “Yes, I am sure that will be fine. Excuse me if I do not…” She made the motion of standing with her hand.

  “Of course. Good day to ye, Mrs. Merriweather.”

  He ducked out of the parlor only to find Mrs. Shaw waiting for him. She twined her fingers together, the petite woman looking as though she might burst out of her skin. “You came to see Rose?”

  “Aye.”

  “She is in her room.”

  “I had assumed as much.”

  “The gardener is working just under her window. I believe he is cutting back some of the vines. It means he must use a ladder.”

  He peered at the woman. Why the devil was he getting a lesson in gardening?

  Mrs. Shaw gave a huff and shook her head. “Och, I didn’t think you daft, lad. Use the ladder and sneak into her room. Speak to her.”

  A chuckle escaped him. “Aye, if ye wish. But if I end up thrown off the top of a ladder, it will be on yer head.”

  “I would offer to hold the ladder, but I do not think I should be doing as much when you’re wearing a kilt.”

  “I can manage, I think. I wouldnae wish to give ye a scare, Mrs. Shaw.”

  “Hurry then. I shall distract the gardener.”

  Hamish trekked around the outside of the house. He found the ladder on the east side, tucked under a slightly ajar window. Mrs. Shaw must have had some hand in ensuring it was open, the canny woman. Without hesitation, he clambered up the ladder, aware the brittle wood was likely not designed for someone of his weight or stature.

  Oh well, Rose was worth a broken leg or two.

  With great effort, he hauled himself through the window. He released an oof when he landed on the floor and Rose squealed. He cursed silently. He’d be lucky if Aunt May or the housekeeper did not come in brandishing a broom, ready to see off the invader.

  Coming to his feet, he pushed a hand through his hair and straightened his jacket. He lifted his gaze to Rose, who had huddled herself in a corner, a glass vase in hand.

  “I hope ye dinnae intend to use that.”

  She glanced at the vase and hastily put it down. “What are ye doing here?”

  Some color was back in her cheeks, but there were still rings around her eyes and they looked red, as though she had been crying. He swore to God, if he had been responsible for those tears, he’d throw his damned self out of the window. He took one step forward, and she pressed herself back against the wall.

  He took in the feminine decor of the room, all powder blues with flowers on just about everything from the bedding to the curtains to the seat padding. It was certainly fitting for Rose.

  With her golden hair a little mussed and in a simple dress scattered with a sprig print, she reminded him of the first day they had met. All she needed was a few more dirt streaks. Hamish could not help but smile at the thought.

  “Yer aunt said ye would not see me.”

  “I-I was going to write to explain.”

  “I would rather ye tell me in person.”

  She sighed and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “I know it was cowardly of me, but I knew if I saw you I would…”

  “Would what?”

  “Want you.” The last word cracked and he scowled. He took a swift step forward. All he wanted to do was sweep her up in his arms and take away whatever her troubles were.

  “Why is that a problem? Is this about Marianne?”

  She shook her head.

  “What were ye going to write to me about?”

  Rose slumped onto the bed and eyed him. “I found out something that makes it impossible for me to marry you.”

  “Well unless yer married or my sister, I cannae think what it could be, and I am fairly certain ye are neither.”

  “No.” She gave a weak smile. “I am illegitimate.”

  Air escaped his lungs. He laughed.

  Her eyes widened. “It is not funny!”

  “Forgive me, but I thought ye were dying or something. It’s funny indeed.”

  “Do you not see? I cannot marry a laird. I would bring shame upon you.”

  Gingerly, he inched over and placed himself on the bed. The ropes creaked as he lowered his weight fully onto it. Rose’s thigh brushed his and he gritted his teeth. All he wanted was to hold her close and kiss her until she forgot every foolish thought in her head of not seeing him.

  Instead, he lifted her hand off her lap and threaded his fingers through hers. He eyed the creamy paleness of her slender fingers against the darker roughness of his.

  “Rose.” He squeezed her hand to urge her to look at him. “I couldnae care if ye were the daughter of a damned donkey. I love ye and I cannae imagine living my life without ye.”

  Tears blossomed in her eyes. “I love you too.”

  “Good. Then that’s all that matters.”

  “But…”

  “No buts. I dinnae give a damn what yer past is. I know ye, lass, and yer a fine woman and more than fit to be married to a laird, especially a rough highlander laird like myself. Do ye no’ think people have more objections to me than my choice of bride? In truth, it’s likely that ye shall ingratiate me toward people, because who could not adore you?”

  “But, Hamish…”

  “Enough now, lass. I’ll hear no more on it.” He brought his mouth down upon hers and kissed her firmly until any sounds of protest vanished. Drawing back, he saw the doubt had vanished from her eyes. “This highlander wants ye for his bride and he’ll no’ take no for an answer.”

  “I suppose I had better say yes then,” she said, laughing.

  “Aye, ye should.”

  He kissed her again for good measure.

  Epilogue

  Rose kissed her moth
er farewell, and Hamish handed her up into the carriage. She gave her mother a last wave before her husband tapped the roof and the carriage started off. He wrapped an arm about her and stared intently at her.

  “What is it, Hamish?”

  “Are ye well?”

  She smiled and took his hand. “I am. It was good to see her, even if she could not publicly acknowledge who I am.” She leaned back against the carriage seat. “I confess, London is exciting but I am looking forward to returning to Scotland.”

  “If there is anything I have learned from marriage, it is dinnae argue with yer wife,” he declared. “And I woudlnae argue with you on that.”

  Rose smiled. They had both missed home. She had explored much of London and though they had not spent time with the finer elements of society, she had seen more than enough of the town that never seemed to stop moving. Her mother had been overjoyed to meet her. Although Rose could not claim to feel much like her daughter, they got on beautifully and she was pleased to have met her. Her husband was a kind and doting man who had long since known the truth.

  “I cannot help feel it was all for the best,” she said. “Aunt May taking me in,” she explained.

  “Aye, if she had not, ye both would have been shunned from society.”

  “Precisely. And neither of us would have met such fine men,” she said with a smile.

  “Oh? Where is this fine man ye met? Do I have to fight him for ye?”

  Tapping his arm, she laughed. “Give me a braw highlander over a London gentleman any day.” She peered out of the window at slow-moving traffic. It would take them quite some time to navigate the busy roads of London and make their way to the traveler’s inn in which they would be staying. “Rupert will have missed us too. We should have brought him with us.”

  “He’ll be perfectly happy running yer aunt and Mrs. Shaw and Miss Taylor ragged. London is far too long a trip for him.”

  “Aunt May has quite the soft spot for him, I think.”

  “I noticed. That mutt has more friends than I do, I think. I dinnae know how he gets away with it. He causes mischief and yet everyone adores him.”

  “Well, I adore you.” Rose leaned into her husband. “Oh.” She straightened and peered out of the window. They were stuck behind several curricles that were holding them up as the drivers argued over something. But that was not what had drawn her attention. “Look.” She pointed in the direction of a generous town coach parked on the side of the road.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  An older gentleman hustled along a group of several children—nine, Rose realized—but that was not the exceptional thing. Miss Marianne Andrews was herding them along with him. Dressed in an extremely fine gown, her appearance should have been quite elegant except that her hat was askew, the children were tugging at her dress, and the infant in her arms was smearing its face across her chest. Marianne grimaced and said something to the gentleman. He shook his head, and Rose saw her huff and roll her eyes.

  “That is Viscount Winterbourne. I had heard he had remarried to a Miss Marianne but it didnae occur it could be her.”

  “I guess she found her rich husband,” Rose mused.

  “She did, though by the looks of it, she is regretting as much.”

  They giggled as the infant yanked the hat from her head and issued a wild scream that was then echoed by Marianne.

  “The viscount’s wife died during childbirth,” Hamish confided. “He was looking for a mother for the children.”

  “It looks as though he found one, though I am not sure she is relishing the opportunity.”

  Hamish chuckled. “It doesnae indeed.”

  The argument ahead had passed and the carriage moved again. They rolled past the town coach and Marianne glanced her way. She froze, her eyes wide. Hamish sat forward and gave her a little wave. Her eyes narrowed, but her attention was soon dragged away by a child trying to clamber up her dress.

  “For goodness’ sake,” they heard her say, “can you not control them?”

  “That is your duty now, my dear,” the viscount snapped back.

  Leaning back against the seat, they laughed and Hamish pulled her close. “It seems Marianne has more than paid for her misdeeds.”

  “I would say that I would not wish that fate on the worst of my enemies, but it seems fitting for her.”

  Hamish slipped a hand under her chin and peered into her eyes. Any thoughts of Marianne or squalling children were gone. His other hand slid down to her barely rounded stomach. They had yet to tell her aunt and Mrs. Shaw and Miss Taylor the good news, but she could hardly wait. Her braw highlander would make a wonderful father.

  “Let us think no more on her.”

  “I have barely spared her a thought,” Rose said, looping her arms around his neck. “How can I when I am so content?”

  “And I intend to keep ye that way forever, my beautiful lass.”

  “I know.” She smiled before he kissed her.

  THE END

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  Read on for a sample chapter from You’re the Rogue That I Want

  Chapter One

  Cornwall, England 1811

  Red spat out another mouthful of salty water. The sea spray struck him across the face, bitter and unpleasant. Waves rolled in, sloshing over the edges of his boots and filling them. He grimaced. The seas were particularly rough tonight. They’d be lucky to haul in all the goods before sunrise. His muscles burned as he dragged what had to be the tenth keg of the night to shore.

  Cold wind slapped his face and ruffled his shirt. Through his teeth, he cursed the unpredictable English weather. Though, truth be told, they’d dealt with worse. However, considering the mood he was in tonight, he did not much fancy dealing with anything other than a shot of whiskey. Some days he wondered what possessed him to drag his arse out in the middle of the night and fight the weather—and sometimes the local excise men—all in the name of a profit.

  Beside him, two other men worked hard to fight the waves and ensure their cargo was not lost. Frosty ribbons of moonlight glinted off the white tips of the waves farther out. The rowboats that had been used to bring in the goods were long since stowed away, and the ship would be headed to the docks.

  As another strong wave nearly toppled him, he muttered what could perhaps have been conceived as sarcastic thanks. At least they had avoided the worst of it when rowing in, but could that damned wind have not waited until after they’d brought in their haul?

  Red glanced over at Knight, who worked a darned sight faster than he or Nate. Of course, the muscle-bound man had quite the advantage over them and seemed to cut through the waves like a frigate.

  “Nearly done,” Knight declared over the wind, hefting a trunk onto the cart.

  Red pushed his sodden hair from his face with one hand and dragged the cask out of the sea by the fishing net. He paused to squint into the sea. Once upon a time they had been able to unload their cargo in broad daylight while the weather was calm, but the customs men had increased their patrols of late. Red and his crew had been forced to become sneakier.

  Nate brought in what looked to be the last keg and paused to take a breath. “At least it isn’t raining,” he said with a grin.

  “That’s all of them?” Red asked.

  They all paused to study the surf as it churned and bubbled. Their haul had been left in fishermen’s nets just past where the waves broke. The nets could be spotted easily enough in the light, but the knotted floats were not so easy to spy in the inky ocean at night. However, their new method of bringing smuggled goods in from France was worth it. It gave them time to bring in the cargo—and time, they had discovered, could be vitally important when it came to the customs men.

  “Let’s get this stowed away before we get any wetter. I have a hankering for a whiskey.”

  Nate chuckled. “When do you not?”

&n
bsp; Red grunted at this. “Don’t be jealous of my finer tastes. You’ll enjoy the nicer things in life one day—once your balls have dropped.”

  Nate, only two years his junior and his brother, laughed again. Knight clapped him hard on the shoulder, and Red saw Nate wince. Sometimes the giant of a man seemed to forget he was twice the size of them all.

  “We had better get moving. Louisa said the excise men had already been in tonight.” Knight nodded to the cart.

  Red nodded. “Hopefully that means they have been and gone but—”

  “They’re sneaky bastards,” finished Nate.

  “Yes,” he agreed. He let a grin break across his face. “But we are sneakier.”

  They all chuckled. After he and Nate clambered onto the cart, he took the reins and urged the horses forward. With the help of a push from the behemoth that was Knight, they eased the vehicle off the stony shore and onto the grass. Knight walked behind them until they hit the dirt tracks and then he climbed onto the cart. He understood well enough that they could do without his extra weight until they were on the roads.

  Red directed the wagon along the narrow track until the hedgerows grew close. The road itself could hardly be considered a road—more like a dirt track—and was impassable when it rained. On days like those they were forced to bring in the haul on foot, stowing it in a cave not far from their landing spot until the path dried out.

  He shuddered, aware of water still sloshing about in his boots. As much as the cursed wind made life difficult, Nate had been right. The rain would have made their job twenty times harder and their last lot of cargo had been a bother to bring in when they’d been struck by a downpour.

  Christ, he longed for the days when they could bring in their goods with as much ease as a merchant man.

  Once they reached the barn, he paused to drag on his greatcoat.

  “Cold?” Nate asked.

  “Damned right I am.”

  “It’s that noble blood of yours,” he said with a smirk.

  “Yours is the same,” Red muttered.

  “I’m plenty warm,” Knight remarked.

  They both glanced at him. Red shook his head. Knight could not fail to be warm with the bulk of him. He suspected the man could stand out in the snow for two weeks and be perfectly content. He’d never met a man so hardy, and in their business, it was quite the asset.