This Scot of Mine

by Sophie Jordan

  Dedication

  For Rosanne, pumpkin bread–maker extraordinaire . . . and so much more.

  You’re the best.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  The Curse

  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

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Announcement

  About the Author

  By Sophie Jordan

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  The Curse

  Once upon a time, a beautiful peasant girl fell in love with the laird of the castle. The young and handsome laird took the maid’s love and gave her his in return—but not enough. For when she told him she was with child, he spurned her, too ashamed to wed someone so beneath him. Heavy with the laird’s child, the heartbroken lass was turned out into the cold where she and the babe perished to the Highland winter . . . but not before she invoked this curse:

  May all future lairds of Clan MacLarin live out their days knowing they are marked to love, but not to live. Until a laird of the MacLarin line lives to see his firstborn draw breath, this curse shall never be broken.

  Chapter 1

  Lady Clara Autenberry was ruined.

  She knew it just as she knew the color of her eyes—a rather dull shade of brown.

  Indeed. Her eyes were like mud . . . and so was her reputation. Two unchangeable facts. As invariable as the stars. With every passing mile that carried her farther and farther from London, the reality of her new circumstances became all the more tangible to her.

  She was gone from London. Gone from Society. Gone from any life she had thought to have for herself.

  Gone. Gone. Gone.

  The bricks at her feet and on her lap had long since turned cold. She burrowed into the many blankets occupying the carriage for warmth. The musty pelts prickled her face.

  Mama had made certain they packed plenty of furs and blankets for the journey. Between tearful farewells, Mama had warned of the frightful cold. Not that her mother had ever ventured so far north. Mama was warm-blooded and London was cold enough for her. She could scarcely wrap her mind around her children living in such a frigid clime—or being so far away. But away Clara must go.

  “I will visit. We all will,” Mama had promised with fortifying breath. “In the summer months.”

  Nodding, Clara had fought back tears. “Of course.” She’d donned a smile and tried to be brave as she hugged the rest of her family good-bye. All stood on the stoop, waving as they sent her off to her banishment.

  Shivering inside those blankets she now clutched up to her chin, she wondered how much longer it would be until they reached Kilmarkie House and whether she would be frozen to the core before that happened. Almost immediately she squashed the peevish thought.

  She didn’t deserve comfort. Especially not on this journey. This journey was her penance. As would be the rest of her days. She was a foolish, rash girl and she might as well grow accustomed to the consequences of her behavior.

  Guilt was not a misplaced sentiment. After all, Clara was not the only one to bear the weight of her actions. Her entire family was affected. Mama and her stepfather. Her little brother and sister. The twins were but children yet. They did not deserve to suffer the stigma of her actions. Even Enid could suffer as a result of her behavior. Her half sister was presently being courted by the second son of a viscount. Hopefully that budding relationship did not fail because of Clara.

  It had become clear to her the moment Rolland broke their engagement and denounced her that she had to go. At once. She must flee.

  Before her family became as lost as Clara. She’d known what needed to be done. She was taking herself far away. Removing herself entirely until she was but a foggy memory to all those in Town.

  It would be as though she were dead. A dismal thought, but true nonetheless.

  It had been her suggestion to travel to Scotland to her brother’s home. Scandal would not touch him all the way to the Black Isle where he lived and kept very little Society. Apparently, from his letters, he and his wife enjoyed life there quite well. Clara hoped she would, too.

  At least she hoped she would find some contentment, for now it was to be her home.

  Her life was forever changed. She would never again be that much-sought heiress, invited to all the most coveted parties, her name included on every hostess’s guest list. No more.

  Ruined. What a wretched word. As though she were some soured piece of fruit rotted to the point of inedibility.

  “You could not have fallen to disgrace when the weather was more temperate?” Marian complained, grabbing the loop swinging above the door as the carriage gave a sudden lurch.

  “I didn’t plan my disgrace,” Clara grumbled, gripping the edge of the seat and readjusting her position.

  “No?” Marian asked archly, skepticism ripe in the single word.

  Clara winced, but didn’t object further. There was nothing Marian did not know of her situation. No sense pretending. She knew all of Clara’s secrets and could be trusted to keep them.

  The carriage hit another rough spot in the road.

  “Heavens,” Marian moaned, pressing a hand to her stomach. “Will the agony never end?”

  “The roads are wretched,” Clara agreed.

  Soon, however, the agony did come to an end. The carriage pulled to a stop. A scrabbling sounded from the driver’s perch as the groom hopped down, followed soon after by the coachman. Her stepfather had insisted they take an armed groom in addition to their driver. Marian claimed it was because Scotland was full of dangerous men.

  Clara did not think there could be too much danger, however. Her brother would not choose to live here otherwise. Especially not with his expanding family.

  The armed groom opened the door for them. They descended with assistance from the groom and the aid of a block.

  “Ohhh.” Marian released a long breath. “How good to be on solid unmoving earth again.” Her lovely round face bore a green hue. Her skin had been that unfortunate shade for most of the journey north.

  “The earth never moved. We were the ones moving,” Clara reminded drolly.

  “It’s like the North Pole here,” Marian complained with a shiver, her breath escaping in cloudy pants.

  “Been to the North Pole, have you?” Clara inquired.

  “I’ve never been north of Cheshire before. But it’s a reasonable guess.” Marian lifted her skirts, mindful of the muddy yard, and moved ahead.

  Clara assessed the white stone building with its thatched roof. Warm light glowed from its windows, a much welcome sight.

  “Come, you. Let’s get out of the cold,” Marian called back to her.

  Nodding, Clara followed.

  As soon as they entered the dim interior of the inn, the buzz of conversation wrapped around them. A fortnight ago, she would have been wide-eyed entering such an establishment. Even under escort and accompanied by Marian, she would not have dared crossed the threshold. She was a duke’s daughter, after all.

  The voices were heavy and thick as syrup, masculine brogues that warmed one from
the inside . . . similar to the Spanish Madeira Mama liked to sip after dinner. Mama never minded if Clara joined her in an occasional glass. In Spain, her family had been served the drink with every meal, after all. It had been mother’s milk to Mama. Moving to England from Spain had been an adjustment for her to be certain. Ladies rarely, if ever, imbibed. One of many differences she had to endure when she became the Duchess of Autenberry.

  Clara shifted her shoes on the rough wood planks. The place was dim and musty. She could smell years of smoke in the bones of the building. Cobwebs hung from the high beams. A faded old tapestry depicting warriors armed with swords and pikes, running Roman soldiers into the sea, hung on one wall.

  Marian wrinkled her nose as she looked around, looking decidedly unimpressed.

  Clara rather liked it. It felt . . . medieval. Almost as though she had stepped through time. She did love reading of knights and ladies. The Canterbury Tales. Beowulf. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. She might look exactly like her mother with her olive complexion and coal-dark hair, but she possessed a keen interest in the literature and history of her father’s country.

  She shook back her hood, letting the rich velvet fall to her shoulders. A quick pat to her head assured herself that the thick mass of hair was still in place.

  It took Marian a long time every morning to restrain the waves for Clara, and even then her hair never felt very secure. One of the housemaids back home typically dressed her hair every morning. Arranging ladies’ hair wasn’t Marian’s forte. She was a governess by training, not a lady’s maid.

  Hopefully there was someone in her brother’s household who could tackle the chore with some success. Otherwise, Clara was going to cut the mass into something more manageable. Whack it off just above her shoulders. The idea was bold. Young debutantes did not wear their hair short. She winced. But then she was no debutante anymore. The reminder produced both relief and a pang of loss. Bewildering, to be sure.

  Clara no longer had to concern herself with propriety. She had seen to that. She would live out her days a spinster. But she was free from Rolland at least. That was all that mattered. It was reason enough for her to embrace a life of solitude.

  She inhaled the tempting aroma of something savory and delicious that lapped over the musty odor of the inn. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she had not eaten a full meal since breakfast.

  “Good day, ma’am.” An older man, presumably the innkeeper, bobbed his head several times and performed a sloppy bow before Marian.

  All of this after giving Clara a quick cursory assessment and dismissal.

  Clara gave a resigned sigh. It was something she was accustomed to. Marian with her golden beauty was the quintessential English rose. People were awestruck by her appearance. It happened all the time. Back home and apparently in the wilds of Scotland, too.

  Marian’s fair curls and sea blue eyes and porcelain complexion were the subjects of sonnets. Usually very bad sonnets, but sonnets, no less.

  Clara inspired no poets.

  Marian never gloried in the attention. Clara knew it made her uncomfortable. Especially when gentlemen callers would spend more time gawking at Marian, sitting dutifully nearby and embroidering quietly, as they paid call to Clara.

  The innkeeper looked to Marian expectantly. “Shall I escort ye tae a table?”

  Marian motioned one hand toward Clara, the action quick, her ducked gaze almost embarrassed. “Yes. My mistress and I would like that very much.”

  She was always quick to correct any misapprehension.

  The innkeeper gave a slight start, his eyes shooting to Clara. He looked her over with a small amount of astonishment, as though seeing her for the first time. “Madam?”

  Nodding brusquely, Clara addressed the proprietor. “Please tell me there is a very large fire nearby, kind sir.”

  “Indeed,” Marian seconded, chafing her gloved hands together and then pressing them to her cheeks for added warmth. “And refreshments?”

  Clara nodded in agreement.

  “Aye.” The innkeeper motioned vaguely to a closed door on the left. “The parlor is private and where I would typically place such proper ladies as ye, but it is verra drafty, I fear, and ye both appear tae be unaccustomed tae the cold.”

  “Noticed that, have you?” Marian muttered under her breath as she continued to warm her cheeks with her gloved hands. “Isn’t it supposed to be spring soon?” she asked to no one in particular.

  Clara cut her a chiding look. “The public room will be fine for us to wait while our horses are refreshed,” she reassured him.

  Marian glanced toward the door. Boisterous sounds carried from within the room. “In there? You’re certain?”

  “Of course. Don’t be squeamish.”

  “Och, course ye be welcome tae warm yer bones in there if ye dinna mind sharing the space wi’ others.” He stepped ahead of them. “I’ll show ye tae a table by the fire.”

  Marian looked at her, shrugged and then trailed after him, the lure of a fire apparently too great a temptation.

  Clara followed them through the door into the crowded space.

  The room was rowdy and their arrival did not go unnoticed—not in a room largely populated by men. Several stopped and stared, elbowing each other and nodding in their direction.

  None of these Scotsmen were shiny-armored knights as portrayed on the tapestry in the entrance hall, but they did look like something from another century in their tartan.

  Several boasted beards and hair that flowed past their shoulders. One man picked at his teeth with a dirty-looking dagger, watching them keenly as they were led closer to the fire.

  “I can smell them from here,” Marian whispered over her shoulder at Clara, her gloved fingers cupping her nose.

  “How can that be?” Clara whispered back. “They’re not that close in proximity.”

  “Oh, it can be.” Marian nodded and tapped her nose. “This never lies.”

  “Dinna mind the laddies,” the innkeeper spoke loudly, casting a warning glare over the room. “They’re an uncouth lot, but they ken better than tae bother any of my patrons.”

  One of the Scotsmen lifted his tankard of ale in salute. “I take ’ception wi’ that. We be proper gents! No’ an uncouth lad among us.”

  Marian snorted at that dubious assertion. The innkeeper pulled out their chairs for them while shooting a quelling look to the man.

  Marian wrinkled her nose and dusted off her chair before sinking into it. Mama had often laughed that Marian possessed more airs than a queen. It wasn’t untrue. Certainly her manners were more polished than Clara’s. Marian was circumspect, never rushing into ill-advised situations and warning Clara against doing so. It was usually Marian’s steady advice that tempered her actions.

  Except Clara had rushed headlong into her betrothal with Rolland. Even Marian had not been able to save her from that.

  Sinking down into her seat in this inn in the middle of nowhere, she felt a hot rush of regret.

  Marian had advised her against accepting the Earl of Rolland’s suit from the start—but his charm had blinded her. And other factors, too.

  Factors she was actually ashamed to acknowledge now.

  Every matchmaking mama in Town was eager for him to pay call to her daughter and he had chosen Clara. It had felt nice—good—to be chosen.

  It had felt even better to watch all those mamas and daughters who had treated her so unkindly over the years turn green with envy. So yes. There had been that. Her ego had been a contributing factor to her blindness when it came to Rolland’s character. Ashamedly, she could admit that to herself now.

  Mama had liked him, too. She had seemed proud that her daughter won his favor above all other debutantes. She wanted the best for Clara and she had mistakenly thought the earl was the best.

  Marian had not been so blinded. Not so gullible as Clara or her mother. Servants always talked, and Marian might work abovestairs, but she was still privy to the servants’ gossi
p below and she had warned Clara that Rolland was ill favored by his staff.

  Clara had discovered the truth of what manner of man he was on her own. The hard way—and then it had been too late. The banns had already been read. With only a fortnight until their wedding she had felt desperate, trapped like a cornered animal. Desperate enough to do something rash.

  “I’ll be back wi’ some of those refreshments, ladies.” The innkeeper bobbed his head and backed away.

  The nearby fire succeeded in warming them. They both sighed in mutual satisfaction. Marian finally lowered her hands from her face.

  Clara looked around the room as they waited for their refreshments.

  Several of the men played cards. Bottles of whisky littered their tables. One man spoke loudly, his brogue slurred, evidence that he was well into his cups. In fact, based on the movements of several of the men, she suspected a great many of them were well into their cups.

  “More whisky,” one shouted, banging the empty bottle on the top of the table.

  A harried-looking serving girl with wisps of hair sticking to her sweating cheeks hurried forward with a fresh bottle. Clara watched with bemusement, making certain not to be too bold in her staring. The last thing she wanted to do was attract further interest.

  The same girl who brought the men their whisky soon returned with a tray for Clara and Marian. She set it down and poured steaming tea into cups. Marian wasted no time selecting a buttery biscuit from the tray and biting into it. “Hmm.” She nodded in approval and reached for another one while still chewing. “Ambrosia.” She patted her stomach. “I fear I’ve lost a stone since we started this journey.”

  Clara rolled her eyes at the slight exaggeration. True, some of the inns they had frequented did not boast appetizing menus. Shortly after crossing the Scottish border, they had stopped at an inn that served them a stew more resembling something that would be fed to the hogs.

  “You’ll soon reap the benefit of my brother’s kitchens. I’m told he has an excellent chef.”

  “We cannot reach there soon enough,” Marian murmured around a mouthful. “Aside of this”—she held a biscuit aloft—“I’ve scarcely eaten anything edible this entire journey.”