Laird of Longing: Regency Romance

by Tammy Andresen

  A low rumble erupted from his throat and her chin tilted up to look into the beast’s face. At least he sounded like a beast. And his sheer size…

  Her light blue eyes collided with a pair so dark, they looked almost black. His brows were drawn down into two straight lines of irritation. A strong nose and stronger cheekbones were set off by a ridiculously square jaw. This man was the furthest thing from an English lord she’d ever encountered. His hair was overlong, brushing his shoulders.

  He wasn’t unpleasant to look at, quite the contrary. But he looked irritated, and big, and intimidatingly dangerous… She swallowed a nervous lump as her hands pressed into the folds of her skirt.

  He crossed his arms as he grimaced down at her. “Do ye ken what we do to stowaways?”

  The cook gasped behind her but said not a word.

  She winced. Apparently, the man who’d just fed her three plates wasn’t going to jump to her defense now. Clearly, throwing her lot in with the cook had been a mistake. “I’ve not a clue,” she answered, attempting to keep her voice from shaking.

  “Me lord,” the cook behind her implored, his voice holding a note of pleading.

  Lord? Was it just a term of respect? Something they called the captain? Not that it mattered. But perhaps if he were nobility, she might be able to—

  “We throw them overboard.” The man growled low and deep.

  She trembled, closing her eyes and wrapping her arms about her waist. Would he really toss her over the side of the ship? He looked like he might be carved from stone. A marble statue who probably wouldn’t budge from his stance. Drawing in a shaking breath, she held up her hands. She didn’t look at them, her eyes still shut but she could feel them shaking. “Please.”

  “Begging will not help ye.”

  She took the tiniest step closer, finally opening her eyes, trying to calm her racing thoughts. “I could work off my debt.”

  He sneered at her, his lip curling. “And how do ye plan to do that?”

  She shook her head, her mind trying to land on something that would be of use. “I could aid the cook. Mend sails—”

  “Neither is necessary.”

  Her trembling grew worse. Think, Sophie. “I’m sure there must be something I could do.”

  He harrumphed. “There isn’t.”

  “Oh, but there must be,” she gasped.

  “Perhaps ye should have thought of the consequences before ye boarded my ship without permission,” he fired back.

  Her tongue darted out to wet her suddenly dry lips even as she inched closer to him again. She had to win this man over. “Consequences?” She nibbled at her lip. “You’re going to toss me into the ocean?”

  He didn’t answer as he stared down at her with hard eyes. Was he bluffing? Was he serious? There was only one way to find out.

  “Can I make a request?” She dropped her hands then, smoothing her rumpled silk skirts as she attempted to gather her wits. She’d call him out with a bit of humor and hoped he shared her affection for witty bravery.

  “Request?”

  “I can’t swim,” she said, attempting to make her eyes as wide as possible. “Would you kill me some other way before you toss me into the water? I don’t wish to drown.”

  The woman was completely daft. That was the only thing that Ewan could think as he stared down at her large blue eyes.

  Pretty didn’t even begin to describe her.

  Angelic.

  Divine.

  Stunningly beautiful.

  He gave up. Words just weren’t good enough. A thick mass of dark blonde hair ringed her head, several strands falling about her creamy shoulders, exposed thanks to the blue silk gown that hugged her curves.

  And showed her cleavage. Not ample but quite nice.

  Her features were flawless, a light flush staining her ivory cheeks, which matched the delicate pink of her lips beautifully. All features he could admire thanks to her height.

  “Kill ye first?” he asked, not quite able to keep the incredulous note out of his voice. Dear God, he was losing this exchange. She’d completely called his bluff. She was a lone woman on a ship full of rough men, she ought to be terrified. Instead, she stood there looking as though she were in the middle of a social event. Her smile was relaxed as her eyes sparkled in the dim light of the galley.

  She nodded. “Hanging sounds dreadful, but still better than drowning.” She tapped her chin, her large blue eyes, fringed with dark lashes, crinkling at the corners even as her lush lips pressed into a thin line. “I should like to be shot if you can spare the lead.”

  It was official. The woman was mad.

  “Shot?”

  She nodded. “I can only assume a man as clearly adept as you appear to be would know how to kill a person quickly and cleanly with a pistol?”

  He noted the compliment inserted into the middle of the request. Adept? She wasn’t crazy after all, unless crazy smart counted. She was manipulating him.

  He shook his head. What was worse, she was correct. He could no more hurt her than he could harm a puppy or a baby bird.

  Ewan was not a man prone toward violence. Odd, considering his late father’s affection fer it. “Aye. I ken how to kill well enough.”

  He saw it then, the way her irises darkened and her skin paled. She was frightened. And that only softened him further. He should have worn the blindfold as Cutter had suggested. This was the sort of woman a man wanted to tuck under his arm and protect. Which was ridiculous. She’d invaded his ship. But as he stared down at her worried face, he let out a sigh of half frustration, half resignation.

  “Cookie,” he said to the cook behind her. “Bring two buckets of hot water to my room, along with the tub.”

  “Aye me lord,” the man replied. “I’ll ‘ave Stew and—”

  “Ye’ll do the work yerself. And then we’ll discuss yer punishment fer feeding her without permission.”

  Her eyes dilated. “Oh no. Please,” she said again, stepping closer.

  He liked that she’d stood up for Cookie now. It demonstrated character. As did the fact that she hadn’t wept, or begged, or used the usual female tactics for getting out of trouble. “He kens the rules, Miss, and he broke them.”

  Then he reached for her arm, to take her to his cabin. The moment his fingers wrapped around her smooth flesh, she gave a violent shiver and made to jerk away.

  His touch had been gentle enough and the strength of her words had made him certain she was no wilting flower. But his light touch had frightened her considerably.

  “What’s yer name?” he asked, not letting go but not moving either, stilling to put her at ease.

  “S-Sophie.” Her lip trembled.

  “Sophie,” he repeated far more quietly and more gently. “I’d like ye to explain exactly why ye boarded one of my ships, but it feels like a conversation that requires some privacy.”

  She relaxed a bit, and this time when he tugged, she moved, walking down the hall with him.

  When they reached the ladder, he saw her look up and then back down at her dress. He could see the problem. With its length and fit, there was no way she could gracefully maneuver up the ladder on her own.

  “How’d ye get down it?” he asked.

  She frowned as she stared up the hatch. “I hiked up my skirts.”

  His eyebrows rose as he noted the problem. She couldn’t very well lift them in his company.

  Well, if she were a different sort of woman, she might. Ewan was already aware of several facts. This was a lady of society. Her dress, her manner of speaking, and her innocence all spoke of breeding.

  And she was an innocent.

  A married woman would have been far more aware of the duties a ship full of men would want a woman to perform. And it wasn’t sewing their sails.

  Without another word, he wrapped an arm about her waist and lifted her against his body to carry her up the ladder.

  She screamed, clutching him even as she gave another violent jolt.

>   He grimaced. Another fact was obvious. While she’d sparred verbally with an ease that was admirable, the moment he touched her she was frightened half to death. Some man had abused her, there was little doubt. He clenched a fist in the fabric of her skirts.

  She’d have to explain, but he could already guess as to the why she’d snuck onto his ship.

  “Lass,” he said as though speaking to a frightened animal, dropping his voice to a soothing low rumble. “If I’m not going to toss ye over the side, I may as well keep ye from breaking yer neck on the ladder.”

  His words helped her relax and her body pressed closer to his as she held his shoulders. “Oh. Thank you.”

  “Ye’er welcome.” He quickly climbed the ladder, and stepping on deck, he considered whether or not to set her down. The boat swayed with the swells, and while sailors were accustomed to the motion, she was surely not. And in that dress…

  He continued to carry her, making his way to his cabin.

  “You can put me down,” she squeaked, tightening her grip.

  “I’ll carry ye so that ye don’t fall.” He opened the door and paused in the doorway. While spring was turning into summer, out here on the open ocean, it was still cold. Her exposed skin raised with goose pimples. “Listen, Sophie,” he said slowly as he studied her face. Not because he really liked looking at it and not because her body fit to his with a snugness that felt…right. Simply because he wished to gauge her reaction. At least, that’s what he told himself.

  “Yes?” she asked, her eyes now big as saucers.

  “First ye’re going to take a bath. I’ll wait just outside the door. Then ye’ll dress in clean clothes. A sailor’s shirt and pants will likely be best.” It was all he had, and the baggy garments would do a far better job of hiding her curves than that dress. Even now, if he notched his chin down, he had a fantastic view of her delightful cleavage. “And then ye’re going to tell me what he did to ye to make ye run.”

  “What who did?” she asked, but he saw the truth flash across her face. The fear, the pain, the worry that made the color drain and the light leave her eyes.

  “I don’t ken,” he answered. “That’s what ye’re going to tell me.”

  Chapter Three

  Sophie sat in the only chair available in the room. It had been either that or the bed, and the latter frightened her half to death.

  What exactly did the burly Scot intend to do with her? And what was she going to say to him in the meantime? Did she tell him her whole situation? Half? None? Lie completely?

  There was no precedent in her life for this sort of thing.

  Her wet hair hung down her back and while the clothes were much rougher than her own, it felt wonderful to be clean. She’d washed some of her more intimate garments, then hung them to dry. He was going to see them, of course, there was nothing to be done about that.

  The door creaked open, and she tensed, not having developed any sort of plan.

  She’d thought any fate was better than being forced to wed the very rogue who’d attacked her, but she realized now that there were worse things to suffer.

  She looked at the man who’d entered. The large Scot with the perpetual frown stared at her as he crossed the room, and she wrapped her arms about herself. Would he hurt her? What did he expect from her?

  “My lord,” she said, rising and giving a curtsy in her sailor’s pants. It was ridiculous, but if he truly was a lord then reminding him of social rules seemed prudent.

  “Sophie,” he replied. His frown deepening. He stood a few feet away, his gaze travelling up and down the overlarge shirt and the baggy pants. “Better,” he said. “What can I give ye that ye can use to tuck away yer hair?”

  Tuck it away? That was a most excellent sign. “Even a piece of cloth will be enough to braid it and hide it in my shirt.”

  He gave a stiff nod. “Why don’t we start with actual names. Mine is Laird Ewan McLaren.”

  Her mouth opened and then shut. Sophie rarely lacked for words, but she still hadn’t decided how to proceed. “It’s nice to meet you, Laird McLaren.”

  His brows lifted. “And ye are?”

  She let out a bit of a sigh. She was a terrible liar and so it seemed the best course to just tell the truth. “Lady Sophie Everclear.”

  “And yer father is?”

  Double drat. “The Earl of Templeton.”

  His eyes closed. “Fer feck’s sake.”

  Sophie winced. Perhaps she should have lied. She clasped her hands as she silently watched him. Slowly his dark eyes opened again, his composure seemingly back in place.

  “And ye ran away because?” he asked.

  She looked to the floor, unable to hold his dark gaze. “A man, a suitor I’d tried to throw off, attacked me at a party, making certain we were caught embracing.” It all sounded so simple when she said it like that.

  “Did he…?” Laird McLaren’s voice faltered, trailing off. “What did he do during the attack?”

  Her face flamed with heat. “He pushed me against a wall. He…” She couldn’t say it, especially not to a stranger. She hadn’t even been able to repeat it to her mother.

  She didn’t hear him move, didn’t know he was near until his hand slid under her elbow. She jumped in fear and surprise, but his touch remained gentle as he guided her back into the chair. “I can’t,” she whispered, her throat closing as tears burned at the corners of her eyes.

  “Answer me just one question and I’ll ken enough. Did he lift yer skirts?”

  She blinked, her gaze moving to his. His face was an impassive mask, betraying no emotion that helped calm her nerves. “No.”

  He let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping. “Good.” Then he did something completely unexpected. He sat down on the floor, looking up at her. A breath she didn’t even know she was holding whooshed from her lungs. “What happened after ye were caught?”

  “My father demanded Mr. Hughes wed me, as honor dictated, and Hughes readily agreed.” Her mouth pressed firm again. “I’ve no doubt it was his plan all along.”

  McLaren nodded. “Ye are beautiful.”

  She shook her head, bitterness clogging her throat. If only Hughes had just admired her beauty. “I believe it was my dowry that was of interest.”

  McLaren’s eyes widened in understanding as his brows lifted. “I see.”

  “Please understand,” she whispered, leaning closer. “I couldn’t marry a man willing to force his way with me. He’d already proved himself calculating, callous, cold, and violent. I just…I ran.” She scooted forward, wetting her lips. “I had to leave.”

  He winced then. “Lady Sophie,” he said shaking his head as he rose up off the floor. “I understand yer position but—”

  She rose too, a different fear from earlier tightening her muscles. “Please don’t say but.”

  “But there is little I can do fer ye,” he finished. “Ye can’t stay here. I can’t just drop ye at a port.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I have to bring—”

  Her stomach pitched wildly. He was going to return her to her father. She should not have revealed her identity, should not have told him the truth. “No,” she gasped. “Please. Anything but that.”

  She stepped close to him until their chests were almost touching. Titling her chin she looked up into his eyes. “There must be something I could do for you. Please don’t send me back.”

  His face grew hard again, like it had been down in the galley, as his gaze bore into hers. “There is nothing I want from ye.”

  She blinked then. She could not be sent back to her father, back to Maxwell Hughes. “Where are we travelling now?” she asked, desperately trying to clutch at any thread that might keep her from being returned to London.

  “Edinburgh.”

  “Perfect,” she gushed, her gaze casting over his shoulder. She was a terrible liar but her very life depended on it today. “I’ve an aunt in Edinburgh. Once we arrive there, I’ll find her, and you never have to see me again.�
��

  Her eyes darted to every corner of the room, avoiding his.

  He straightened up, knowing full well she was lying. Badly.

  His plan was to take her to his cousin-in-law, the Duke of Devonhall. The man had a knack for matching unfortunate debutantes with appropriate husbands. Lady Sophie most certainly was an unfortunate debutante and in desperate need of an appropriate husband.

  Not that he could be guaranteed that Bash would help her. And God’s honest truth, he didn’t know what he’d do with her if Bash refused, but asking the Duke to help was his best option.

  She hadn’t even given him the opportunity to tell her the plan before she’d come up with that ridiculous lie. He was from Edinburgh and he knew every person with any pedigree, Scottish or English. There were no sisters or sisters-in-law to the Earl of Templeton. “An aunt?”

  “Y-y-yes,” she said, nodding even as her hands twisted.

  “What’s her name?”

  She drew in a gasp and he tried to keep from rolling his eyes. “Mrs. McTavern.”

  A snort escaped through his nose. McTavern? “And where will we find this Mrs. McTavern?”

  She waved a hand, knocking him in the chest, which only caused her to drop her hands again, clutching them in front of her. “You needn’t concern yourself, my lord. If you’ll just see me to the docks…”

  And now he was back to thinking her mad. “The docks of Edinburgh are some of the roughest places ye’ll ever go. Ye really expect me to just send ye off on them with a wave and a good luck?”

  Her chin dropped. “I can’t have you send me back home, my lord. Truly, I’d rather be shot.”

  Something inside him swelled, like a tide of anger. What sort of man abused such a lovely creature and what kind of father then tied his daughter to her abuser? “No one is shooting ye and no one is sending ye home.”

  “What?” she said, her chin snapping up as her clear blue eyes met his.

  He let out a sigh, sure he was going to regret this. “I’ve a cousin, a duchess.”

  “Your cousin is a duchess.” A smile split her face as her eyes danced with delight.