How to Catch a Sinful Marquess

by Amy Rose Bennett

  Olivia smiled. “I like that idea very much.”

  She retrieved two flasks from the basket stowed beneath Hamish’s seat—a leather one containing water and a pewter one of whisky—then clambered down from the carriage. Hamish stood beneath an oak tree at the side of the road, hunched over with his hands on his thighs. He was breathing heavily, but the fit of vomiting appeared to have passed. Hudson waited nearby, concern creasing his brow.

  When the valet looked up and saw her approaching, he gave her a small nod and then retreated to a discreet distance. Olivia cast him a grateful smile in return.

  “Hamish?” she murmured. She hovered a few feet away, unsure how any offer of assistance would be received.

  He straightened and leaned a shaking hand against the oak’s trunk. “I’ll be all right. No need to worry.”

  “I . . . I fished out the flasks of water and whisky,” she said, taking another few steps forward.

  Hamish wiped his forearm across his brow before turning to face her. “Thank you. I must confess, I wouldn’t mind a sip or two of water.” He took the leather flask and, after rinsing out his mouth, swallowed a long draft.

  “How’s wee Tilda?” he asked as he handed back the water.

  “She’s concerned you have a bell . . . bellyache,” replied Olivia. “And she’d like to tell you a story when you return—”

  But Hamish shook his head. “No, I don’t think that would be a good idea. I need fresh air. Hudson can sit with you and Tilda. I’ll sit up with the driver.”

  “Oh . . .” Olivia blinked in surprise. “Well, if you’re sure . . .”

  “I am.” Hamish’s voice had a steel-like edge to it. “We’ll be in Glasgow in an hour or so. And by tomorrow, I’ll have secured another carriage. This won’t happen again.”

  “Hamish, it . . . it really wasn’t a prob—”

  He took a step closer and grasped her arm. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t argue with me. Please . . .” His tone softened as he added, “I feel bad enough already that you had to witness that . . . Just do as I ask.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  The corner of his mouth quirked with a weak smile. “Thank you. You’re too good for me, Olivia.”

  “I’m really not.”

  He cocked a dark brow. “Are you arguing with me again?”

  Olivia couldn’t help but smile back. “It . . . it would seem so. But it shouldn’t really come as a surprise to you after last night. Didn’t you agree that I can be ‘difficult’ after you unceremoniously carted me back to my room?”

  A spark of genuine amusement lit Hamish’s gaze. “Aye, I did, didn’t I? Well, off you go, my difficult-but-undeniably-kindhearted wife. Don’t make me unceremoniously cart you back to the carriage.”

  If only you would. That was the thought uppermost in Olivia’s mind as she retraced her steps and Hudson handed her in. And would that I could somehow ease your pain.

  An impossible feat considering Hamish appeared to be determined to keep her at arm’s length, no matter what.

  CHAPTER 13

  While they waited till the servant within should come to open the gates, she anxiously surveyed the edifice: but the gloom, that overspread it, allowed her to distinguish little more than a part of its outline, with the massy walls of the ramparts, and to know, that it was vast, ancient and dreary.

  Ann Radcliffe, The Mysteries of Udolpho

  Isle of Skye, Scotland

  September 24, 1818

  The next four days passed in a blur for Olivia. Seemingly endless hours spent alone in Hamish’s carriage with only Tilda for company—and then on horseback after they crossed by ferry from Glenelg over to the village of Kylerhea on the Isle of Skye—left her exhausted and aching. Poor Tilda was so tired, she slept for most of the final leg, rugged up in blankets in the back of the dogcart that Hudson drove over the vast tracts of rough moorland between Kylerhea and Muircliff Castle.

  By the time their small traveling party reached the tiny village of Dunmuir on the very northwestern edge of the island, the afternoon had turned cold and dark. Sullen clouds threatened rain, and a chill, brine-laden wind tore at Olivia’s bonnet, traveling gown, and woolen cloak. When Hamish informed her they only had three miles left to travel, she was thankful the journey was almost over.

  However, her relief was short-lived. The approach to Muircliff was along a narrow stony track, high above the hissing, roiling sea. Waves hurled themselves at the basalt cliffs and jagged black rocks below, sending plumes of spray and foam into the air. Olivia had learned to ride when she was a girl and felt comfortable in the saddle, but not at the present moment. Her stomach was a mass of tangled knots, and she kept a tight grip on the reins of her small gray mare as she followed Hamish. He rode his fine black gelding with practiced ease even though the cutting wind whipped his sable hair and the cape of his greatcoat all about.

  Olivia wanted to glance back over her shoulder to see how Hudson was managing to steer the dogcart along the path, but she dared not in case she lost her seat. Daniels now sat with Tilda—he’d hopped into the back of the cart at Dunmuir—so she trusted the footman was taking care of her.

  Some hours ago, as they’d clattered over a stone bridge spanning the shallow Sligachan River with the rugged Cuillin mountain range rising above the surrounding heather-covered moors, Hamish had explained to Olivia that Muircliff had been built by the MacQueens of Skye several centuries ago. “Even though various ancestors have added improvements over the years, it’s still a hulking pile of stone and essentially inhospitable,” he’d remarked without enthusiasm. “At least I think so. Although, you might disagree.”

  As they gained the top of the headland and Muircliff loomed ahead, Olivia decided Hamish’s assessment was quite accurate: the medieval fortress was entirely unwelcoming. Its dark brooding mass, complete with sawtooth battlements and mismatched towers, crouched upon the cliff top like a great fossilized beast. A slain dragon, perhaps. Nothing relieved its bleak, menacing bulk. Not a tree, nor a trace of shrubbery. Every window Olivia could see was devoid of light.

  There even appeared to be a ruined tower; the turret roof and part of the wall had collapsed, leaving a wide, misshapen scar along its side. Toppled brickwork and boulders lay like scattered, ancient bones among the clumps of wind-ravaged grass.

  The castle’s and indeed the whole landscape’s forbidding air only worsened when a freezing rain blew in; sharpened by buffeting gusts straight off the sea, the icy needles pricked at any exposed skin, and within a few minutes, Olivia was shivering.

  Hamish slowed his horse as he neared the gatehouse so Olivia could draw alongside him. “Welcome home, my lady wife.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the howl of the wind and the crash of the waves.

  Olivia nodded and attempted a smile—although she feared it might have been more of a squint-eyed grimace—and then she followed her husband beneath the raised portcullis and into the shadowy barbican passage, the dogcart and the remainder of the mounted staff trundling behind them.

  Once inside the main courtyard—a massive, cobblestoned area—the elemental assault lessened considerably. The sound of the sea had reduced to a dull roar, and the wind no longer battered Olivia from all sides. Additional staff appeared as if from nowhere to take care of the horses and luggage, but it was Hamish who lifted Olivia down from her saddle.

  “Let’s get you and the bairn inside,” he said as Daniels approached with Tilda in his arms. She was bundled up in several woolen blankets, her small thumb planted firmly in her mouth as she gazed in wide-eyed wonder at the towering walls and ramparts surrounding them, but she seemed happy enough to stay with the footman.

  Considering she was half-frozen—and Tilda must be too—Olivia wasn’t about to disagree with Hamish’s suggestion. To her surprise, her husband slid an arm about her waist, and she had to quell the urge
to nuzzle into him, to get closer to that invitingly hard, warm body lurking beneath his greatcoat. Such moments had been few and far between since the carriage incident just outside of Glasgow, so this small display of affection was welcome indeed.

  A pair of massive iron-studded wooden doors in an arched recess, clearly the entrance to the main keep, stood wide open. As Hamish led Olivia up a wide set of worn stone stairs, a young man, dark of hair and well dressed in tonnish attire, appeared in the doorway. A large, shaggy deerhound stood at his side.

  “Hamish, you came,” cried the gentleman, rushing forward to envelop the marquess in a hug. But when he saw Olivia, he stopped abruptly and simply reached out a hand to grip Hamish by the shoulder.

  “Angus.” Hamish’s face split with a genuine smile. “Of course I came. But let’s continue the greetings and introductions inside, shall we? Out of this infernal rain.”

  Olivia was so flabbergasted by the sheer size of the great hall Hamish ushered her into, she started when a young footman stepped forward to relieve her of her bonnet, cloak, and gloves.

  Tilda tugged at her skirts. “Is this a castle, Lady Livvie?” she whispered, staring up into the shadows of the impossibly high ceiling. Dark beams arched overhead, and an enormous and somewhat wicked-looking chandelier—apparently constructed from antlers—was suspended from the very center.

  “Yes, it is indeed,” Olivia returned as she bent down to help remove the little girl’s damp bonnet and coat.

  “It’s so big . . . Is Lord Sleat a prince?”

  “No, Lord Sleat is a marquess.”

  Tilda nodded sagely, as though she understood what that meant. “It’s dark in here. And a bit scary. I hope there aren’t any ghosts.”

  Olivia gave her a quick hug. “I’m sure there are none at all,” she murmured. Although, she couldn’t disagree with Tilda’s initial observations. The great hall was rather dark and more than a little sinister. The flagstone floor was bare, and the gray stone walls were covered in gruesome-looking weaponry—swords, axes, shields, and maces—as well as the mounted heads of glassy-eyed stags and tapestries of hunting scenes. The only welcoming feature Olivia could see was the huge fire blazing in the ornately carved black marble fireplace at the other end of the hall.

  But then she’d discounted the amiable smile of the young man standing before her as she straightened.

  Placing his hand in the middle of Olivia’s back—another unexpected yet entirely welcome gesture—Hamish made the required introductions. “Angus, may I present my lovely new wife, Olivia. And Olivia”—Hamish caught her eye—“this is my brother, Lord Angus MacQueen.”

  “Oh . . .” Angus’s blue eyes widened with surprise as his gaze traveled over Olivia; no doubt she looked like a disheveled wreck in her rumpled, damp, travel-stained clothes, and not marchioness material at all. “I . . .” Bright color flooded his face as he affected a courtly bow. “My Lady Sleat,” he said with scrupulous politeness. “Welcome to Muircliff.”

  “Th-thank you,” she replied with a small inclination of her head. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Angus. But please, call me O-Olivia.” Her smile slipped a fraction, and her gaze darted between and Hamish and her new brother-in-law. “If th-that’s all right with you, of course. We’ve only just met, and I d-don’t want things to be aw-aw-awkward . . .”

  She blushed. She was flustered and stammering, and the whole exchange was as awkward as could be. She suddenly wished she could fade into one of the tapestries on the nearby wall.

  But Lord Angus was charm personified. “I would be delighted to call you Olivia as long as you call me Angus,” he said with a kind smile.

  Hamish held his hand out to Tilda. She stepped out from behind Olivia’s skirts, and his fingers all but swallowed hers as she placed her small hand in his. “Angus, allow me to introduce my ward,” he said. “Miss Tilda. And, Tilda, this is my brother, Lord Angus.”

  To Olivia’s surprise—and Hamish’s, judging by his startled expression—Tilda dipped into a small curtsy without prompting. “How do you do, Lord Angus,” she said quite clearly. The child had obviously been schooled in the etiquette surrounding formal introductions.

  “I’m very well, Miss Tilda,” replied Angus. “And it’s a great pleasure to meet you too.” He tilted into another gentlemanly bow. “And this is my dog”—he gestured at the deerhound—“Shadow.”

  “He’s not a wolf?” asked Tilda, her eyes wide and fearful.

  “No, he’s just a dog. And a friendly one at that. You may pat him if you like.” He clicked his fingers, and the hound loped over to Tilda. She reached out a tiny hand and stroked one of the dog’s ears.

  The younger MacQueen then threw Hamish a quizzical look. “It seems your life has been rather eventful of late, dear brother,” he observed. There was no mistaking the speculative twinkle in his eye.

  The corner of Hamish’s mouth quirked. “Indeed. And it seems life at Muircliff has been rather eventful too.” His brow descended into a deep frown. “I quit London as soon as your letter arrived. I trust everything is all right at the moment . . . with Isobel . . .”

  “Aye.” Lord Angus sighed. “All things considered, I would say the situation is now . . . Well, things are tolerable.” His gaze darted to Olivia and then back to Hamish. “Isobel is safe, even if she’s not entirely happy with me for sending for you. I imagine you’ll soon see for yourself.”

  “Olivia knows about Isobel,” said Hamish in a low voice. “In fact, she’s here to help.”

  “Oh . . .” Lord Angus gave an astonished blink. “That’s marvelous, then.”

  When Angus smiled at Olivia, she shifted uncomfortably beneath his gaze. Of course she’d attempt to uphold her end of the bargain, but so many things were beyond her control. What if Isobel didn’t like her? And how was she to help the poor girl overcome her heartbreak? Not only that, how could she facilitate Isobel’s debut into polite society when she’d never even attended a ton ball or set foot in Almack’s herself? The task suddenly seemed too overwhelming. An impossible feat.

  These were the questions and anxious thoughts that tumbled about in Olivia’s mind as Hamish introduced her to Muircliff’s servants. A small group had assembled in the hall—the butler, housekeeper, cook, steward, several footmen and chambermaids—to greet their master and his guests. When it was announced that she, Olivia, was Lord Sleat’s bride—and thus the new mistress of Muircliff Castle—there was more than one eyebrow raised.

  Olivia tried not to mind and endeavored to present a brave face—she was certain Hamish wouldn’t permit his staff to be insubordinate—but after years of being put down by Agnes Bagshaw, she found it difficult to believe she’d have any authority or be treated with respect, despite the fact that she was now Lady Sleat.

  The formalities over, Hamish offered to escort her and Tilda upstairs to the north wing where the bedchambers lay. The housekeeper, Mrs. Boyd, accompanied them.

  “Lady Sleat shall have the use of my chamber until the adjoining room has been suitably made up and aired,” he instructed the silver-haired housekeeper as they climbed an enormous oak staircase to the second floor. Portraits of Hamish’s ancestors—the men sporting plaids and the women garbed in stiffly boned gowns and powdered wigs—glowered down at Olivia, and she tried to banish her fanciful and entirely unhelpful thoughts that they were judging her too.

  “Verra good, my lord,” replied Mrs. Boyd. Her expression was dour, her manner brusque. The woman was clearly all business and Olivia wondered how working with her would be. “And shall I have the nursery prepared for Miss Tilda?”

  “Aye . . .” He caught Olivia’s eye. “If that’s all right with you, my lady wife. And Tilda. We haven’t really discussed the arrangements for the bairn, but my old nursemaid, Ellen Swan, still resides here at Muircliff. I believe she’ll do a wonderful job taking care of Tilda. I’ll arrange a meeting after we’ve al
l had a chance to freshen up.”

  “Yes. Of course.” A pang of sadness penetrated Olivia’s heart. Now that she was Hamish’s wife, she understood that she could no longer act as Tilda’s nursemaid. But after spending over a week in the little girl’s company, caring for her every need, she knew she would miss doing so. And she was certain Tilda would miss her company too. Even though she needed to spend time building some kind of rapport with her new sister-in-law Lady Isobel MacQueen, while simultaneously settling into her new role as mistress of Muircliff, Olivia determined that she would visit the nursery whenever she could.

  Hamish’s bedchamber, situated in the north wing, was both magnificent and sumptuously appointed. A series of arched, diamond-paned windows commanded stunning views of the turbulent sea and the lowering sky. A massive bed with carved posts and a headboard of dark oak dominated the room, while the curtains, bed linen, upholstery, and thick carpets were a study in various shades of muted blue, soft gray, and ivory. All of the walls were bare stone except for one—the panels flanking the fireplace had been adorned with toile de Jouy silk wallpaper.

  As Mrs. Boyd was pointing out the dressing room, the main bedchamber became a veritable hive of activity. Hudson and several footmen arrived with all their luggage, while another footman began to light all the candles and the fire in the gray marble fireplace. A pair of chambermaids also appeared bearing fresh towels and hot water for washing. Olivia had never seen so many staff in one bedroom in all her life.

  When Mrs. Boyd was the only servant left in the room, the housekeeper addressed Hamish. “My lord, I imagine you’d like the jib door between your room and Lady Sleat’s to be unlocked . . .” She pulled a large set of keys from a pocket in her gown of black stuff and looked expectantly at her employer.

  Hamish’s gaze met Olivia’s for a brief moment before returning to the housekeeper. “Aye. Thank you.” To Olivia he said, “This bedchamber and the adjoining one, which will be yours, are the only two that are connected at Muircliff. The jib door is rather small, but I imagine it will suffice.”