Caught by the Scot

by Karen Hawkins

  Declan’s eyebrows rose. “You’re nae going straight there?”

  “We’ve four months, so there’s nae rush, and the lady’s father is awaiting orders that are nae expected for two months or more, so she’s going naewhere soon. I might as weel enjoy the time I have left as a single mon.”

  Declan didn’t look convinced. “You’re taking a lot for granted.”

  “Never take a woman for granted,” Jack added in a grim tone.

  Conner waved them off like pesky flies. “You’ll see. Meanwhile, what will you two fools do? Any likely candidates in mind?”

  “Bloody hell, nae.” Jack raked a hand through his hair. “I want a wife like I want a shot in the arse. I’ve nae idea who I’m to marry; I dinnae care overmuch for respectable women.”

  “They are boring,” Declan agreed.

  The coach rattled around the castle and stopped before them, two portmanteaus strapped to the back. As the footman hurried from the castle to open the coach door, Declan frowned. “Where’s my black trunk?”

  The footman blinked. “I’m sorry, sir, but these were the only bags in the foyer.”

  “Dammit. That fool valet must have forgotten to send it doon.” He turned to his brothers. “Go ahead. I’ll meet you at the ship.”

  “Dinnae be late.” Conner climbed into the carriage and took a seat, Jack joining him. “With this wind, we cannae wait.”

  Declan stepped back from the coach. “If I’m nae there when the tide turns, leave withoot me. I’ll catch another ship in a day or two.”

  Conner banged on the ceiling to signal to the coachman to head to the port, anxious to leave. These next few weeks would be his last days of freedom, and he was determined to wring every possible ounce of pleasure from them. But in the meantime, he could relax, for his path—and Thea’s, though she didn’t yet know it—was set.

  2

  The door of the coach swung open, spilling bright sunlight inside. Conner threw a hand over his eyes as shards of pain splintered through his aching head. “Bloody hell, Spencer, close the damned door!”

  “We have arrived, sir.”

  Vaguely surprised, Conner squinted past the tall, slender footman to the building behind him. Of drab gray stone, the two-story manor house was kept from blandness by a profusion of deep green vines that climbed up its stone walls. Most likely one of Thea’s additions—no matter what climate or country her father set up house in, the woman was forever planting greenery.

  It had been five weeks and two days since his brother-in-law’s ultimatum. A prudent, careful man would have rushed to secure his bride, but Conner had never been prudent, and he damned well wasn’t about to start now. Besides, he knew he had time as Derrick had mentioned casually in one of his many letters that their father was awaiting orders and thought they’d be in residence for at least two more months.

  Conner rubbed his face and sat up, the carriage blanket falling to his lap. “I suppose I should climb oot and get this over with.”

  “Indeed, sir,” Spencer said in a repressed tone. The footman served as bos’n’s mate on ship, but made an excellent footman/valet when on land. Tall and brown haired, he sported a round face sprinkled with freckles that made him seem far younger than his thirty-odd years.

  “Indeed,” Conner agreed and fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, noting that while he still wore his boots, his nether regions had no covering. He found his kilt flung over the opposite seat and picked it up to reveal a nearly naked woman.

  Ah yes. He’d almost forgotten.

  The female who’d been sprawled under his kilt was dressed only in her chemise and she cradled a bottle of his best whisky like a doll. He reached over and raised her arm from the bottle, then uncorked it and lifted it to his dry lips. It was empty.

  Of course.

  He sent her an unforgiving scowl, dropped the bottle to the floor, donned his kilt and pinned it in place, and then tugged his coat over his shirt. As he did so, he untangled her red silk gown from about his boots and spread it over her. She continued sleeping heavily, her long brown hair flowing over the edge of the seat to the floor like a muddy waterfall.

  He rescued his cravat from where it hung from the ceiling strap, and grimacing against the throb in his head, he climbed out of the coach and into the harsh daylight, where Spencer waited.

  Conner tucked in his shirt and adjusted his sporran, hoping Theodora wasn’t watching from a window. “Did you bring a fresh shirt? This one reeks of Lady Winstead’s perfume.”

  “I suggested you bring a new set of clothing, but Lady Winstead dinnae wish to wait whilst one was fetched.”

  Normally, Charlotte was a jolly, enjoyable companion, but this time her company had palled after a day or so. Most likely because he was still torn by grief over Anna’s death, irritation at the demands of that blasted will, and fighting a growing reluctance at the thought of giving up his precious freedom.

  He caught Spencer’s observant gaze and noted the frown lines between the footman’s eyes. “Oot with it. You’ll rip a seam like a too-full sail if you keep your thoughts bottled oop.”

  “Sorry, Cap’n, only . . . I hope you will nae hurt Miss Cumberbatch-Snowe’s feelings.”

  “Feelings? How would I do that?”

  “By appearing as you do, and asking her to marry you for nae better reason than to gain your inheritance.”

  Conner wished he hadn’t shared the purpose of his errand with his footman, but such was the cost of drinking such an amount. “Come, Spencer, ’tis nae so ugly as all that.”

  Spencer held his ground, his round face pink with outrage. “I dinnae blame ye for wishing to find a malleable, agreeable wife, nor for drinking like a fish since your sister’s funeral. The first is the dream of all men, and the second—” Spencer’s face fell. “Och, Cap’n, Her Grace will be badly missed. I never knew a kinder soul.”

  Conner’s throat tightened, his chest aching as if he’d just this moment walked away from Anna’s grave. He’d been unprepared for the way grief snuck up on him and crashed over him like ocean waves. One moment, he’d be close to fine, and then next, sadness would dig her cruel claws into his heart and drag him so low, he feared he’d never surface. He forced a smile. “I miss her, too.” But now is nae the time to think of Anna. I need to start thinking about Thea. “Rest easy that I know what I’m aboot.”

  Conner raked a hand through his hair and smoothed his wrinkled coat. “After all, ’tis just Thea, nae some grand lady.”

  At Spencer’s surprised look, Conner waved a hand. “I mean, she’s a lady, but she’s also my friend, and she’d never want poetry nor flowers nor such flippery nonsense.”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  “I do. You can trust me on that, for I’ve known her forever.” Just as he knew her brother Derrick. When Conner and Derrick had first met at school, they’d engaged in a relentless battle to see who was the better lad, and after many battles, tricks, and pranks had finally decided they were tied, and became best friends. Anna used to complain that Conner had spent more Christmases with the Cumberbatch-Snowes than with his own family, which was a fair complaint, he had to admit. But then at the holidays it was always easier to be a guest than to be a family member, wasn’t it?

  The sound of a female yawn made him move away from the coach and say in a low voice, “Return Lady Winstead to the ship and have MacDougal take her home. Meanwhile, you and Ferguson return with the coach and bring my luggage and horse.”

  “Aye, sir. Will we be heading for Gretna Green once you’ve spoken to her ladyship?”

  “Guid lord, nae! Why would I run for the border? Miss Theodora and her parents will welcome me. We’ll post the banns this coming Sunday and marry as soon as we can after that. It’ll take three weeks at the most, I should think.”

  Spencer blinked. “Three weeks? To plan a wedding?”

  “I dinnae wish for a large event, and neither will she.” Spencer was beginning to sound annoyingly like Conner’s brothers. Conn
er wished everyone would quit acting as if they knew better than he what Thea would want.

  “Verrah weel, sir. If you say so.” Spencer turned toward the house and frowned. “I wonder where everyone is? Nae a single porter nor footman has greeted us.”

  “Most likely they are busy elsewhere. Miss Cumberbatch-Snowe is forever appropriating the household servants for her gardening projects. Her mother complains aboot it frequently.” Thea would be glad to get away from her mother, he was certain of that. Kind as Lady Cumberbatch-Snowe had been to him, she was a bit of a termagant when it came to Thea, ordering the poor lass aboot as if she had no other purpose in life than to be of service to her family.

  Soon she won’t have to worry about such things. There had been a garden of sorts at Dunskey House when he’d bought the ancient manor, but he hadn’t bothered doing anything with it since he was rarely there, so it was now more a jungle than else. But Thea would soon set it to rights. They’d need more servants at Dunskey now that Thea was to live there, and he’d set aside a handsome fund for renovations so she could garden and decorate to her heart’s content.

  He looked at Spencer now. “Off with you, before my guest awakens. I’ve nae wish to hear her lamentations when she discovers she’s to be sent home to her husband.”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n.” Spencer bowed and returned to the coach, clambering into his seat. With a lurch, the equipage turned toward the drive.

  As soon as it disappeared from sight, Conner strode to the front door and grasped the heavy brass knocker. The second his hand closed about the ring, the door moved. It’s ajar. That’s odd. He pushed it open and waited for a footman or the butler to greet him, but the foyer was empty.

  The hair on the back of his neck tickled as a sense of foreboding pressed upon his shoulders. Frowning, Conner walked through the foyer, his footsteps echoing in the silence.

  An hour and a half later, Conner hurried up to the coach as Spencer leapt down, looking surprised to find his master waiting in the courtyard. The footman looked past Conner to the house. “Where’s the miss?”

  “She’s eloped.”

  Spencer blinked, looking as if someone had kicked him in the gut. “She did what?”

  Conner knew the feeling well, and he answered through clenched teeth. “She eloped, dammit!”

  “The devil she did!” Ferguson, Conner’s first mate at sea, and butler when on land, tsked loudly. He’d left Coxswain MacLeish at the reins and had clambered down on hearing Conner’s loud denouncement. A wiry, bowlegged man with a red face and a wisp of white hair combed over his shiny pate, Ferguson was a marvel at organizing both crew and ship. “With what scalawag?”

  “Some bloody squire.” Conner untied his horse from the back of the coach. An hour and a half ago he’d entered the house to find it in an uproar, the servants clustered about the doors of the drawing room where Thea’s mother sobbed upon the settee, while Thea’s father paced the thick carpet like a caged lion, a note crushed in his hand. Derrick, who’d been trying to console his mother, had taken the time to explain to Conner the events leading to such a tragic scene—he and his parents had returned home a week early from a short visit to the capital only to discover Thea gone, leaving nothing behind but a note announcing her elopement. From what Conner had been able to surmise, she’d left for her misadventure several hours before he’d arrived.

  How in the hell had this happened? Dammit, I shouldn’t have tarried.

  But who could have foreseen this? Never in a million years would he have thought quiet, demure Thea Cumberbatch-Snowe capable of doing anything so scandalous.

  Furious, Conner swung onto his horse.

  “What are you going to do, Cap’n?” Spencer asked.

  “Find Thea and bring her home.”

  “So you know where she is?” Ferguson asked eagerly.

  “Nae, but I’ll find her. She’s eloping, so she’s bound to be on her way north to Gretna Green.” Conner ground his teeth. “She’s to marry me, dammit, nae some country bumpkin who’ll do naught but bury her in the countryside.”

  As soon as he said the words, Conner realized he’d planned on doing the very same thing. But somehow it was different. He would have left her well taken care of, with a generous allowance, a house full of servants, all the books she might care to read, and a garden that cried out for her. Conner clenched his jaw. It’s not the same. Not even a little. “I’ll overtake the misdirected couple and convince Thea to abandon her plans, return home, and have a proper wedding—to me.”

  Ferguson scratched his chin. “Forgive me, Cap’n, but does Miss Cumberbatch-Snowe’s parents know you mean to marry her yourself? Or do they think this is a rescue mission?”

  Conner let loose a long string of curses that made both of his men blush. When he could contain his temper, he snapped, “Follow the North Road; I’ll ride ahead. Once I’ve located Thea, I’ll send a courier to meet oop with you and bring you to us. And dinnae tarry. The sooner we bring her back, the less damage there’ll be to her reputation.”

  Without waiting for another word, Conner turned his horse and cantered down the drive. As the trees blurred by, he wondered where Thea might be and how far she and her ridiculous squire had gone. Bloody hell, Thea, what’s gotten into you? When I find you, I’ll not let you out of my sight until we’re married.

  The thought felt almost like a vow, and he realized how furious he was—which was rather surprising, now that he thought about it. Thea hadn’t known he was coming for her, so her elopement wasn’t a personal insult, although it felt like one. Somehow, in the time between his decision to marry Thea and arriving at her house, he’d come to think of her as his.

  He set his jaw. She was his. All he had to do was inform her of this new development, and turn her from the ridiculous path she’d chosen for herself. With any luck, he’d have her back in the arms of her waiting family by dinner. And without it—well, he’d think about that when the time came.

  Jaw set, he urged his horse to a faster pace, the dust flying.

  3

  Never had an elopement been so poorly planned nor so shabbily executed. Huddled in a wooden chair pulled up to the fireplace in the parlor of the Wild Boar—a rather depressing inn miles and miles yet from the Scottish border—Theodora Cumberbatch-Snowe pressed her hand to her uneasy stomach and hoped she wouldn’t worsen an already horrendous day by retching.

  Though her fiancé, the esteemed Squire Lancelot Fox, possessed many admirable skills, driving a carriage safely was not one of them. When not racing haphazardly down the straight portions of the poorly maintained roads, he oversteered the ancient curricle, leaning wildly through every corner, causing Theodora to hang on for dear life, her stomach protesting the sickening sway while the wheels groaned in protest.

  Which explained why they were not traveling at this moment.

  She’d first suggested and then demanded that Lance slow down, or better yet, allow her to drive. He had refused, saying that while he acknowledged her greater skill with both horse and carriage, he was determined to sweep her away “in the most romantic way possible.”

  Theodora should have held firm, but the squire’s undeniably romantic and noble intentions, as well as her own deeply ingrained training as an ambassador’s daughter to always be polite no matter the circumstances, had left her with a forced smile and an increasingly ill stomach as she endured the squire’s terrible driving.

  However, while she had been willing to endure the squire’s ham-fisted efforts, the antique curricle had not. One of the wheels gave way during a misjudged corner and sent them tumbling head over heels. Lance and the curricle had ended up sprawled topsy-turvy in the middle of the muddy road, while Theodora and her portmanteau had landed in a water-filled ditch.

  She kicked at her wet gown where it clung to her legs, wincing when her swollen ankle protested. Why oh why had she allowed herself to be talked into eloping?

  She sighed. She knew exactly why: for the longest time, she’d been year
ning for a change, a new beginning. And along had come Lance, who had claimed eloping would be romantic and thrilling. His excitement had been contagious. Although she was well past the age of foolishness, she’d been seduced by the exhilarating thought of flinging propriety to the winds and experiencing a real-life adventure before she settled down.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she admonished herself, and reached for the glass of whisky she’d demanded when they’d reached the inn. She and Lance had arrived in the most ignominious way possible—muddied and bruised and in the back of a farmer’s hay-filled cart. It had taken the better part of ten minutes to get all the blasted hay off her wet skirts.

  Of course, Lance had done what he could to smooth the situation over—bespeaking the parlor, pulling a chair to the fire for her, and pressing the demanded glass of whisky into her cold hands. He’d then hired three of the innkeeper’s strongest postboys to accompany him to the overturned curricle to see if it could be righted and brought to the inn for repairs.

  “This is not how elopements occur in novels,” she muttered, shoving a wet curl from her cheek, and wincing when her fingers brushed the scrape on her jaw.

  She took a sip of her whisky, the smooth tones soothing the ire bubbling through her veins. Finally relaxed a bit, she took off her half-boot and put her injured foot upon the footstool, her heel catching in the torn flounce. As she struggled to free it the material rubbed her scraped knee, and she bit back an unladylike urge to curse.

  That’s another reason to drink. She took another sip and leaned her head against the high back of the chair. “That ridiculous curricle,” she muttered. It had belonged to Lance’s grandmother, and for some odd reason he’d thought the lumbering, faded orange, silk-lined contraption would add a romantic cachet to their flight to the border.