How to Catch a Sinful Marquess

by Amy Rose Bennett

  “That’s different.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Olivia. I am not the saint you believe me to be. I’m deeply flawed and dangerous.”

  “We all have flaws, Hamish. And from what I’ve seen, the only person who was ever in any danger from you was my odious cousin Felix. And he deserved everything you meted out to him.”

  Hamish shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Then enlighten me. Because I’m really struggling to understand.”

  Hamish tossed back half of his whisky, then put down his glass. He could down a vat of the stuff and it still wouldn’t erase his pain.

  “All right, lass. Let me speak plainly. And if you still think I’m a good man, don’t be surprised if I think you’re a fool.”

  Olivia swallowed, but her gaze was steady. “I’m listening.”

  “You already know my father was an abusive man. When I was a youth, he was fond of wielding a strap at the slightest provocation. Isobel was the only one he left alone, perhaps because she was crippled. But he also believed Isobel wasn’t really his, that our mother had been unfaithful, so he barely regarded her at all. But it was our poor mother who bore the brunt of his anger. She tried to hide how bad the beatings were, but I knew. And so did the servants.”

  Olivia paled. “Oh . . . I . . . your mother intimated they fought . . . Oh, Hamish, I’m so dreadfully sorry to hear that. You were all living in a real nightmare.”

  He shrugged and leaned his forearms on his thighs. Clenched his hands together so tightly, the knuckles strained against his flesh. “When I was about fifteen, I began to fill out. Grow stronger. And my father sent me away to Eton. When I came home during the holidays, he began to leave me alone. Little did I know that when I was away he was taking his pent-up frustrations out on Mother.” Hamish caught Olivia’s shocked gaze. “She’s endured far too much. And there isn’t a day that my heart doesn’t weep for her.”

  Olivia nodded. “She told me that she and your father had a terrible fight the night of the fire. But she doesn’t recall everything.”

  “Aye. I was twenty at the time and home from Oxford. My bedchamber, Isobel’s, and Angus’s were all located in the wing adjacent to the south tower and our parents’ suite. I’d retired to my own room for the evening to watch a summer storm roll in across the Minch, but when the argument began, my father’s thunderous voice was so loud, I could hear him even from afar. I couldn’t stand by. I couldn’t stay away. I knew he’d been in a filthy mood all afternoon, brooding and stacking up his anger like the storm clouds of the oncoming tempest. But I was ready for him . . .

  “You see, I’d taken up boxing and wrestling at university, and because of my size, I was getting damn good at both. My father was a tall man, too, and, like me, as muscular as an ox. But that summer, I wasn’t intimidated by him anymore. And when I heard the shouts and curses floating down the gallery to my door, I was just spoiling for a fight. I was ready to take my father down a peg or two. Make him pay for all the beatings and whippings I’d taken in the past. To punish him for all the terrible things he’d done to our mother.”

  Hamish swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “And then everything changed when my mother screamed in a way I’d never heard before. It was bloodcurdling. It will stay with me until the day I die.”

  He glanced at Olivia, and her expression was fearful yet unwavering. “What happened, Hamish?” she asked gravely. “But tell me only if you can bear it.”

  He nodded, grateful that she seemed to understand how difficult this was. That he felt as though he were in the process of scourging an old, festering wound deep within his soul. “By the time I got to my mother’s room, it was already on fire. I don’t know what happened exactly, but the bed hangings were ablaze, and my mother was knocked unconscious. When I burst in and my father saw me taking everything in, he gave an almighty roar and charged at me. I swear there was murder in his glare, Olivia. And we fought.”

  Hamish wiped a shaking hand across his jaw. “It was messy and vicious, and at one point we tumbled down the spiral stairwell at the end of the gallery. Because my father took a blow to the head and seemed dazed, I seized the opportunity to rush back to my mother’s room. By that stage, the room was well and truly alight, and thick with smoke. How I managed to pull her from the burning bed, I’ll never know.”

  “But you managed to get outside,” said Olivia. “To safety.”

  “Aye. However, the winds blowing in from the sea had fanned the flames, and when I turned to see whether my father had emerged, the tower was completely ablaze. The servants, as soon as they’d smelled the smoke, had roused Isobel and Angus and taken them outside, thank God.”

  “You saved your mother, Hamish.” Olivia’s voice was soft with compassion. “I still don’t see why you think you’re deeply flawed and dangerous.”

  This would be the hardest part to confess. Hamish drew a deep breath into his lungs. He’d never told this to anyone else, ever before. “What you don’t know is that when I was carrying my mother down the stairs, my father roused as I passed him. He grabbed at my ankle, trying to trip me, I suspect. And I kicked out at him. Not just because I was desperately trying to get away, but out of spite and white-hot anger. He’d tried to kill my mother. Burn her alive.”

  “Oh, Hamish . . .”

  “I didn’t look back. Not once as I rushed down the stairs. And I knew I’d hurt him. I heard the crack clearly as my boot connected with his jaw. And I was glad of it. And when I was outside and turned around, and I saw that I couldn’t go back for him, that the stairwell was clogged with thick smoke and the flames were devouring the turret walls, I was glad of that too. Because it meant that, at long last, we’d all be free of that devil of a man.”

  “Hamish, how can you blame yourself for being relieved your monstrous father was dead? And from what you’ve just told me, it is not your fault he perished in the tower. Even when you were trying to save your mother, he still interfered. Of course you had to lash out at him. If you hadn’t, all of you would have died.”

  Hamish shook his head. “You’re trying to paint me in a better light, lass. But it won’t work. I know the shameful, hideous truth about how I felt in that moment when I kicked him. I know how I feel even now. I was possessed by murderous rage. I hated him. I wanted him to die. And he did.”

  He caught Olivia’s gaze. “But if that’s not enough to convince you I hide a violent streak, just wait until you hear what I have to say next.”

  “I know you were an officer in Wellington’s army.” A small line appeared between Olivia’s brows. “You can’t be condemned for anything that happened during battle. You were fighting for your country.”

  “No. I don’t harbor guilt about anything I did during the three years I served.”

  Olivia’s frown deepened with her confusion. “I’m afraid you’ll have to explain why you think you are an inherently violent man then, Hamish. Just because you’re physically strong and powerful, that doesn’t mean you’re also cruel and vicious and vindictive. And I’ve seen nothing to indicate that you are.”

  Hamish rubbed a hand down his face. There would be no skirting about the truth. The time for brutal honesty had arrived. “These nightmares I suffer from,” he began, “they aren’t just about the war. I’ve battled nightmares for years and years, and many of them are about my father and the night of the fire.”

  “That’s perfectly understandable.”

  “What I’m trying to say, and quite badly it would seem, is that after I was injured”—he gestured at his ruined eye and face—“when I was convalescing in London, my nightmares grew worse. I began to have them every night rather than every now and again.”

  “Also perfectly understandable.”

  “But what you don’t know, Olivia, is that they also became violent.”

  Her brow crea
sed. “Wh-what do you mean?”

  “One night, I was having a particularly bad nightmare, and just like you did tonight, Hudson came in to check on me. He attempted to rouse me . . . and I’m ashamed to say, I attacked him.”

  Olivia swallowed. “Attacked him how, exactly?”

  “I didn’t know what I was doing. I was deep within the dream. But apparently I went berserk. I hit him so hard, I sent him flying across the room. He struck his head and was knocked unconscious.” The stab of guilt in the vicinity of Hamish’s chest felt fresh and new, as if he’d just been split open. His voice was little more than a ragged whisper as he added, “I could have killed him, Olivia.”

  Olivia’s brown eyes were wide with shock. “How terrible. You must have been horrified.”

  “Aye.” Hamish nodded, and his mouth twisted with the effort not to cry. “I still am. And I’m absolutely petrified I’ll do it again.”

  “But, wasn’t that three years ago? Have you ever done anything like it since?”

  “I’ve never slept near anyone since to find out. Well, except for when I fell asleep in the carriage outside of Glasgow.”

  “But you didn’t lash out at Tilda or me.”

  “But the point is, I could have. Remember that night at the Hart and Hare when you knocked on my door?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you recall that I’d managed to knock a bottle of brandy onto the floor?”

  “Yes. But, Hamish, anyone can accidentally knock things off a bedside table. I’ve done it before.”

  “It’s not the same at all. I have a history of going on the attack. I feel sick to the stomach just thinking of what might have happened to you and Tilda if I’d gone berserk in that carriage. Or if I’d hurt you tonight when you woke me up.”

  “Is . . . is that why you were ill each time?”

  He dragged a hand down his face. His belly was still churning, in fact. “Aye.”

  “Oh, Hamish. When you had that bad dream in our carriage, not for a minute did I think that Tilda and I were in the slightest bit of danger.”

  He shook his head. “That’s because you didn’t know about my father. Or the incident with Hudson.”

  “Yet Hudson still serves you,” she ventured.

  “Hudson knows not to disturb me, ever.”

  “Hamish, you are not a monster. My cousin Felix is a monster. Your father was too. As far as I can see, your only real fault is that you have a history of being a very wicked rake. Why deny yourself the gift of children—?”

  “God damn it, Olivia. I’m not just a wicked rake. Why can’t you see that my sins go far deeper?” Hamish snapped, frustrated that she couldn’t see what he knew to be true. “I’m the son of Torquil MacQueen. My blood is tainted. My mind is scarred. My soul has stains on it that can never be washed away. I’m a devil too. A sinner to my very bones. And I don’t want a male heir, indeed any children, because I won’t be responsible for passing on my bad blood.”

  He scrubbed a hand through his hair and gentled his tone. “And I can’t be with you, Olivia, not the way you want me to be. The possibility I might hurt you, albeit accidentally, is very real. If we have sexual congress, and I fall asleep beside you, I would never forgive myself if I attacked you during one of my nightmares. I can never, ever sleep beside my wife. And no amount of whisky, or chamomile tea, or lavender slipped beneath my pillow, or nights filled with sexual pleasure will ever cure that.”

  “But what of love?” Olivia slipped from her seat and sank to her knees before him. Caught one of his hands and kissed his battle-scarred knuckles. “Hamish MacQueen, I love you,” she said with such conviction, there could be no doubting the veracity of her declaration. “And I think you care for me too. Please, for both our sakes, let’s try to make this work. I believe that we can.”

  Dear God, she was shattering what little heart he had left into a million pieces. Hamish shook his head sadly and cupped her beautiful face. “You shouldn’t love me, lass. And this will never work. I’m not the man of your dreams, or your knight in shining armor, no matter how much you wish it to be so. I can’t be reformed or fixed. I’m damaged. Broken beyond repair.” With his thumb, he wiped away the tear that slipped down her pale, smooth cheek. “I married you to protect you from your family’s predation and because I thought you could help my family in return. Yes, we desire each other and you say that you love me. But . . .” He inhaled a bracing breath, preparing himself to inflict a wound. “I do not love you and never will. That’s how heartless I really am.” It was a lie. But he needed to say it if it would help Olivia to see that the dreams she harbored were hopeless.

  She shook her head, and he could see that she desperately wanted to deny what he’d said. “That’s not true. I can see how you feel whenever you look at me. When you kiss me. It’s why you keep pushing me away. Even your mother said—”

  “Olivia, you need to stop this. Pleading with me will not help.” He urged her to rise, then slid a hand behind her neck. Dropped a kiss on her forehead and inhaled her sweet violet scent. “I think our relationship—such that it is—has run its course. Once Brodie and Isobel are wed, the day after tomorrow, I’ll return to London with Tilda. It will be easier to continue the search for her mother if I’m there. You can stay here or accompany me or go wherever you like, for that matter. Stay with your friends, or I have a number of properties in which you could establish a household. In Edinburgh and in London and in the country too. I . . . I think it’s best we live apart until the question of your inheritance is sorted out.”

  Olivia pressed her hands against his chest. “I can’t believe you’re saying this,” she whispered, searching his gaze. “I thought that we were growing closer. Of course I’ll return to London with you and Tilda, but do you really want us to live separate lives once we’re there?”

  Somehow, he hardened his heart. “Aye. I do.”

  “I don’t want this. You’re making a mistake.”

  “You have no choice.”

  More tears slipped down Olivia’s cheeks, but she held her ground. Lifting her chin, she said, “All my life I’ve struggled to articulate anything clearly. I’ve lost count of the number of occasions I’ve been disregarded and brushed aside because of the way I am. But hear me now. I love you, Hamish MacQueen—all of you, even your flaws—and I will never give up hope that one day you’ll be ready to acknowledge you feel the same way about me. And that you’re willing to find a way for us to live happily together. You . . . you might not believe that you are worth it, but I do.”

  And with that, she retrieved her branch of candles and retreated to her room, leaving him alone with nothing but a dying fire and a half-drunk glass of whisky to ward off the cold, lonely darkness that always threatened to engulf him.

  CHAPTER 21

  At the day appointed for Solemnization of Matrimonie, the persons to be married shall come into the body of the Church, with their friends and neighbours, and there the Presbyter shall say thus: Dearly beloved friends, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of his Church, to joyn together this man and this woman in holy Matrimonie.

  The Scottish Book of Common Prayer, 1637

  Muircliff Castle, Isle of Skye

  September 28, 1818

  Olivia was grateful that the next day and a half passed in a flurry of activity as preparations for Isobel’s marriage to Brodie MacDonald went into full swing. Isobel, of course, was simply incandescent with joy that Hamish had accepted Brodie into the family fold. While Olivia found it difficult to witness her sister-in-law’s happiness given the insalubrious state of her own marriage, she was nonetheless pleased for her too.

  To ensure that Margaret could attend her daughter’s wedding ceremony, Muircliff’s long-disused private chapel was opened up and cleaned from top to bottom. The flagstones were scrubbed, the stained-glass windowpanes were washed, t
he altar and wooden pews were polished, and all the carpets were beaten. Fresh bunches of pale pink heather, purple lavender, and rosemary were gathered to decorate the interior of the chapel, and once the preparations were all complete, the cool, sacred space smelled like fresh sea air, beeswax polish, and the wild moors outside.

  As Olivia expected, Hamish avoided her whenever possible; he clearly wanted them to begin leading separate lives straightaway. On the odd occasion they did bump into each other, he was scrupulously polite and considerate, but the warmth had left his gaze. Whatever passion or tender emotions he’d hitherto felt for her were gone; he’d either steadfastly buried them or rooted them out completely.

  He was conspicuously absent at mealtimes—he took trays in his room or the library. And because he wanted to make sure everything was in order before he departed for London, he also spent a good deal of his time either touring his estate with Brodie and Mr. MacArthur, or holed up in his study, going over the books with one or both of them. It seemed Hamish had decided to let Brodie help manage the vast MacQueen estate, which meant the newlyweds would be staying at Muircliff—a situation both Isobel and the dowager marchioness were inordinately thrilled about.

  Most telling of all, the jib door between Olivia’s and Hamish’s bedrooms was locked once more.

  It wasn’t until Isobel and Brodie’s wedding ceremony took place that Olivia had the opportunity to spend any length of time with her husband again. Seeing him in all his kilted finery when he first appeared in the doorway of the chapel made her foolish heart long for their estrangement to end.

  Of course, Isobel made a beautiful bride; she’d chosen a gown of misty blue muslin for the occasion, and her rich auburn hair was piled high and threaded with seed pearls and delicate ivory ribbon. Tears filled Brodie’s eyes as Hamish escorted her down the aisle. Beneath her lace veil, Lady Sleat dabbed at her own eyes with a delicate lawn kerchief, and Tilda whispered to Olivia that she thought “Lady Bel” looked like a princess.