Laird of Longing
Lords of Scandal
Tammy Andresen
Copyright © 2021 by Tammy Andresen
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Contents
Untitled
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
Her Wicked White
About the Author
Other Titles by Tammy
Untitled
Laird of Longing
Lords of Scandal
Tammy Andresen
Chapter One
As far as plans went, Sophie had to confess, this likely wasn’t her best.
Lady Sophie Everclear, daughter to the Earl of Templeton, darling of the ton, and diamond of the first water—as had been printed just last week in the society section of The Times—currently crouched behind several large crates in the hull of a ship.
What ship, she couldn’t say. Where it was going exactly, she wasn’t certain. And how she’d begin her life again, she hadn’t a clue. But here she was and as wave after wave licked at the boat, causing it to rock in a nauseating fashion, she knew there was no turning back.
Her legs ached from her crouched position and she straightened them out as best she could. They were long for a woman’s and she wondered briefly if she had been shorter, if she could have stretched them all the way.
If they’d been shorter, perhaps she wouldn’t be here at all.
It was a silly thought. Her legs were not really the issue, but her height made her stand out in a crowd. Which had led to that ridiculous article. And that outrageous piece of writing had brought the Honorable Maxwell Hughes straight to her door. Honorable. Even hungry, tired, and sick to her stomach she rolled her eyes at his character’s description.
Hughes was the furthest thing from honorable a man could possibly be.
Raucous male laughter drifted down from the deck and Sophie winced. Lord help her if she’d landed herself in a far worse situation than the one she’d left.
But she’d had to escape Max Hughes and all of his ill intentions.
First, he’d sought her out at a ball. Tall, lean, and handsome as sin, he was the second son of a baron and it was widely known that he was on the hunt for an heiress. Lesser known was the fact that he made his money by visiting the beds of widows and bored wives.
A fact Sophie likely shouldn’t have known either as she was an innocent lady in only her second season. But the Countess of Wilber had taken great delight in informing Sophie of this fact after her father had announced her engagement to Hughes. Apparently, Lady Wilber was one of his regular customers and the woman had informed Sophie that just because Hughes was getting married, Lady Wilbur fully expected him to continue visiting her bed.
A piece of Sophie’s blonde hair fell across her chest as her head tipped forward, her eyes fluttering closed.
Her hair must look a fright. The thick, blonde curls were difficult to tame under the best of circumstances, but it had been hours since she’d adjusted her pins and the sea air was wreaking havoc on the locks.
She twirled the strand around a single finger, tempted to pull out all the pins and allow the tresses to hang down her back. What did perfect hair matter here? Still, she habitually worried about her appearance. A reflex from careful training.
Training that had completely gone to waste.
She thought back to that first ball. He’d asked her to dance, and she’d agreed because… she let out a sigh. Because he’d been handsome and enigmatic and because she thought little harm could come from a single dance.
How wrong she’d been.
He’d been a perfect gentleman that night. And the next.
And when he’d arrived for her calling hours. Yes, his eyes had held an intensity that had been…titillating.
She could confess that she’d enjoyed his attention at first.
But then his touches had grown less innocent and more... She searched for the correct word. Sinister.
It sounded dramatic, and she was certainly painting his actions then with what was to come, but even in the beginning he’d made her uncomfortable.
His hand had started at her lower back, but somehow, he’d end up brushing the side of her breast, or the curve of her behind, or…
Sophie squeezed her eyes shut as she stopped the memories. He always pushed her beyond what she wanted or expected. There hadn’t been any patience in his touch or understanding.
She’d stopped dancing with him, and she’d certainly never allowed herself to be alone with him. She’d remained close to her chaperones and carefully avoided any of his invitations.
Her good sense had been part of what made her a successful debutante.
But she’d never gone up against a rake. And honestly, while she was prepared for polite society, she did not understand how ruthless a man could be when he knew how to break the rules.
One night, upon leaving the ladies’ repose, she’d found herself alone in the hall, her friends having gone ahead of her.
She remembered it so clearly. She’d stopped to adjust her skirt, pressing an errant wrinkle from the fabric.
“Always so lovely,” he’d murmured, his voice just behind her. “It’s one of your many qualities that will make you an excellent wife.”
Her head had snapped up. “Mr. Hughes,” she’d said straightening, her gaze darting around him to see how far ahead her friends were. Too far, she’d realized, her heart hammering in her chest. They’d rounded a corner, gone from view and he now stood between them and her.
“Lady Sophie.” He smiled, showing his incisors in an almost predatory grin. “What a pleasant surprise to find you alone like this.”
Worry had fluttered down her spine, settling in her lower legs, making them heavy. She began backing away, praying her friends would notice her absence and turn around. Wondering if she’d catch them if she ran. “We’re not alone. My friends…” But the words died as he looked from side to side.
And then, with long strides, he’d made his way toward her.
She’d attempted to dart away but he’d grasped her waist, pulling her close. His arms had been like bands of steel around her back and his breath was hot against her ear. She’d tried to push away but he was so much stronger and, even as she’d flattened her palms on his chest, he didn’t budge.
Fear stiffened her limbs as she’d twisted. Her breath came in short gasps, but he’d only tightened his hold.
“You’ve been difficult to catch, my little bird.”
“Anyone can tell you, I’m not little.” Humor was her way of deflecting most uncomfortable conversations and it was a reflex in that moment.
He’d laughed in her ear. “No. Fucking a woman as tall as you is going to be pleasant.”
The crass word, one a gentleman never spoke to a lady, had stilled her movements. Not that she’d been less afraid. In fact, she might have been paralyzed from the fear. Blood had rushed in her ears. “I beg your pardon,” she’d managed to stutter out.
“I do like begging.” He’d returned and then they’d moved, him pushing her backwards until she’d b
een pressed against the wall, his lips on her ear, on her neck.
“Stop,” she’d gasped, redoubling her efforts to escape, but the wall had made her feel like an ant trying to move a boulder.
And then his mouth had covered hers, silencing her protests.
She’d never kissed a man before and so she couldn’t say how it was supposed to feel but she knew it wasn’t like that. Her stomach had churned as his teeth crashed into the softer flesh of her lips.
Tears had sprung to her eyes as she’d tried to breath, tried to move.
“Good sir,” someone had admonished behind them.
Slowly, Mr. Hughes had lifted his head as Sophie had slumped in relief. The salty taste of blood had touched her tongue and she’d licked the wound on her lip. Though it didn’t matter, she’d told herself. They’d been discovered and she’d been saved.
“Oh dear, my love,” he’d started.
It was the oh dear that first alerted her to the fact that he’d been far from done with whatever game he played at. He was not a man prone to soft words or endearments.
She’d tried to speak up. To scream. To beg for help, she didn’t know. But before any sound left her mouth, he spoke again. “We’ve been caught in our lover’s tryst.”
She’d blinked several times. Lover’s tryst? What he’d done hadn’t been a tryst. He’d forced himself upon her.
“Well, I say,” the man behind him had muttered. “I’ve no choice but to take you directly to her father.”
“Agreed.”
Hughes had grinned down at her again with that same predatory look he’d had earlier, and suddenly she understood. He’d put on this little show, hoping to get caught. Her father, a man concerned about public opinion above all else, would have no choice but to accept the match and she’d be forced to marry the man who’d just attacked her.
But then again, there were always choices. Which was why she now sat in the hull of some boat headed somewhere that wasn’t London.
And she’d never see the so-called honorable Maxwell Hughes again.
Ewan McLaren sat at his desk as he poured over the ledgers in front of him. They’d dropped off several crates in London and had loaded more freight to return to Scotland. A careful tally had to be kept of goods and coin that entered and left the ship. Keeping the books wasn’t his favorite part of the job, he could confess that, but he had a good eye for it and so he did the work himself. Besides, when one ran a business as large as Carrington Shipping, remaining in touch with the details was important.
Only recently, a ring of thieves had infiltrated their ranks and set about stealing from them with a regularity that still made his blood boil.
Fortunately, he and his partners had solved the mystery and rooted out the thieves, but something in the task had left Ewan bone weary.
He didn’t wish to go home exactly. While his father had passed a few years back, making him laird, his mother remained at the family estate and staying any length of time always proved unpleasant. But the trips to and from Scotland had grown…tiresome.
His life had become an endless cycle of work, stopping thieves, and work again.
He had reconnected with his English cousins, all of whom had married recently. They appeared…happy. For now. But his experience with marriage, thanks to his parents, had taught him that happiness and matrimony did not coexist for any length of time.
He sat back in his chair, kicking one massive leg up on his desk. Perhaps he should take a boat and sail to France. Drink wine and enjoy the scenery.
Or he could go further. To some island where the sun shined more days than not, and the birds were brightly colored.
“Laird McLaren,” his first mate Cutter called as he knocked on the door. “There’s a matter that needs yer attention.”
“A matter?” he asked, his foot thumping back down on the floor. “At this time of night?”
Had the men been fighting? He let out a rumble of dissatisfaction. He’d break some heads if they had. Even among Scots, Ewan was large. A head taller than many and thickly muscled, men obeyed him, generally without question.
“Aye, my lord,” Cutter replied from the other side of the door. “I’m afraid it’s a bit delicate.”
Delicate? What did that mean? Men fighting was rarely delicate. Had there been a fire? A theft? No good options, he was certain of that. He wrenched open the door, then stared down at Cutter. “Explain,” he said, his voice clipped with impatience. Not at the man, himself. But trouble rarely aged well. He wanted details posthaste.
Cutter swallowed, his hands clasping in front of him. “Well. To put it succinctly, we’ve got a stowaway.”
“Bloody Christ,” he mumbled to himself. Stowaways were always a nasty business. Did he throw the man overboard? Doing so would be cruel, he knew, but the alternative was dropping him at the next port. The problem there was that Carrington Shipping might get a reputation as the ships to board when one wished for free passage. A small problem became a large one then. And he’d just finished solving a large problem at great cost. “Where is the bugger?”
Cutter winced. Which only served to make more apprehension tighten Ewan’s muscles. “In the galley.”
“Ye’er feeding him?” Ewan cried.
Cutter took a step back. “No, my lord. Well, aye, my lord. But…”
“But what…” Ewan barked, growing impatient with this entire conversation.
Cringing, Cutter took another half step back. “It’s not a him, it’s a her.”
A woman? A deep growl rumbled out of his chest. That was sure to cause all sorts of problems. Women weren’t generally allowed on ships such as these for many excellent reasons. Throwing her off was out of the question, but keeping her was liable to cause a great deal of problems with the crew.
Cutter held up his hands. “It gets worse.”
“Worse?” he said, the volume of his voice rising.
“She’s…” Cutter groaned, looking miserable. “Really, really, pretty. The men have all but stopped working, they’re gawking by the galley and—”
“Enough.” Ewan stepped into the hall, slamming his door shut as he started for the galley. “Why didn’t ye tell me that from the start?”
Cutter had fallen in step behind him. “It’s a situation that seemed like it needed some explaining. It’s not every day that a beauty like that lands on yer ship. Ye’d better put on a blindfold if ye want to think this one through with yer head.”
Ewan snorted. Unlike these men who spent most of their time on this ship or in dockside taverns, he travelled a fair bit among women of all types and classes, and he was certain no woman was pretty enough to make him lose his mental faculties. “I’ll take my chances,” he answered, heading down the ship’s ladder to take the final hall toward the galley.
“There’s something else,” Cutter muttered. “Her dress.”
“What about it?” Ewan stopped and Cutter ran directly into his back. Was she half naked? Was that why the crew had lost their senses? He turned to look at the other man. “What is she wearing?”
Cutter took several steps back. His eyes growing wide. “If I didn’t ken any better, I’d say it’s a ballgown.”
Well, Christ. “A ballgown?” he repeated, scrubbing a hand through his scalp. What was a woman in a ballgown doing aboard his ship?
Chapter Two
After nearly two days without eating, the food was delicious. Sophie didn’t know what it was, but she wasn’t sure she cared.
The rotund cook stared at her with a half-dreamy smile as he loaded more onto her wooden plate. “Ye like it, lass?”
“Very much,” she answered with a smile. She’d noted the Scottish accent yesterday. Were they headed for Scotland? That suited her perfectly. Another country would do just fine.
Murmurs filled the doorway as several men attempted to peek into the tiny space. She ignored them. Her instincts told her she needed a single ally. One person who would provide for her basic needs and keep her safe. Th
e cook seemed like a good choice. Not only would he keep her well fed, but he operated in one of the only private spaces aboard the ship.
Not that she’d meant to be discovered. Hunger had finally driven her out of her hiding spot. She’d waited until the middle of the night, but she’d still managed to be caught when the cook had returned to the galley for a late-night snack.
“I’m glad.” He smiled back, stepping a bit closer. “Do ye need more?”
He’d already filled her plate three times. “No, sir. I believe this has been more than sufficient. It was just delicious.”
His grin widened. “Thank ye, kindly.”
Yes. The cook would do nicely.
“Back to work,” a voice, loud and deep, bellowed from behind her. “Now!”
A trill of fear skittered down Sophie’s spine as she sat up straighter. Who was that? Belatedly she realized the flaw in her plan with the cook. Cooks were not the boss. Drat. She hadn’t thought of that.
She heard the scurry of feet as men rushed to do as the man with the booming voice bid, and she wondered what sort of person he was to inspire such quick obedience. By the sound of him, he was large…and possibly mean…and…
Her stomach turned, and she set down the plate she’d been enjoying just moments before. Then she rose from the stool she’d been seated on and slowly turned to face the bearer of the voice…
With her height, she looked into the faces of most men. Some, she even glanced down upon. But as she came about, her gaze collided with an Adam’s apple. Strong and prominent, it rested in a thickly muscled neck that widened out to obscenely large shoulders.
She swallowed down a lump as she automatically dipped into a curtsy.
Laird of Longing: Regency Romance Page 1