“I imagine your wife would not so easily forgive her husband for shooting her uncle.”
Cameron gave a slow nod. “Aye. But you would be wise not to count on that. Erin will be living with us. She will marry a man of my choosing.”
“How dare you? I will not—”
“Let us dispense with the pretense, Lennox. You were involved with Napier and Montgomery’s sex trade ring.”
The fear that flashed in his eyes confirmed all.
“If pressed, I can prove it, or make your life hell in the process. You will agree to my terms or, when the constable arrives to question me about Napier’s death, I will have you arrested.”
“You cannot do that,” he shot back.
Cameron shrugged. “Make no mistake, I can. He may release you within a few days, but you will be ruined. All of Inverness will know you were accused of kidnapping women and selling them to men for their sexual pleasure.”
“It isn’t true,” he sputtered.
“But it is. I am well aware of the two young maids who disappeared from a household on Bright Street two months past.”
Lennox’s eyes widened.
Cameron stepped close. “I should shoot you on the spot.”
“But my daughter—”
“Get out,” Cameron growled.
Lennox hesitated, then strode from the room.
Cameron drank another glass of whiskey, then went upstairs to his chambers. He opened the door to find Alison and Erin sitting on the bed talking. They looked up. They wore clean dresses and their hair had been combed and pulled back into soft chignons. He was relieved to see that the tension had eased on their faces.
Erin rose. “I suppose Father is waiting for me.”
“Nae,” Cameron said. “You will be staying with us.”
Her brow furrowed. “But Father…”
Alison stood and grasped her hands. “Did we not say we would ask Cameron to speak to your father about staying with us for a while?”
She nodded slowly and Cameron caught the relief in her eyes.
Alison kissed her. “Run along now. I will see you a little later.”
Erin smiled then turned to Cameron. “You are certain you do not mind, sir?”
He lifted a brow. “I thought we were family.”
He started when she took three steps and then hugged him.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
She left.
When the door clicked shut behind her, Cameron strode toward Alison. “I can assure you, you will not be seeing her again tonight.”
Epilogue
A week later, Alison stared at the half-written letter to Robert’s father that lay before her on the desk in her chambers. She had rewritten the letter a dozen times and still didn’t know how to tell her former future father-in-law that she mourned Robert as Viscountess Weston. With each attempt, she had considered not telling him she was married, but that would delay the inevitable. Once he returned from sea, he would learn the truth.
Cameron entered the room and she looked up.
He halted beside her and pressed a kiss to her forehead. He motioned at the letter. “Still no luck?” he asked.
Alison sighed and set down the quill. “I will find a way to tell him.”
Cameron lowered himself into the chair to the left of her desk. “Men appreciate straightforward speech.”
She gave a slow nod. “I will try to remember that. The doctor was here today. Bob will be up and about in another week.”
“That is excellent news,” Cameron replied.
“What has the magistrate to say?” Alison held her breath.
“Lennox is cooperating. With the information we gleaned from the interrogation, we should be able to track Montgomery.”
“Then we are all still in danger—including the girls who are still being kidnapped.”
“Bow Street is watching too closely. Only a fool would continue to kidnap women here in Inverness, and Montgomery is no fool.”
“Edinburgh, then?” she asked.
He gave a slow nod. “Anywhere but here. He’s cunning, dangerous, but he’s made mistakes. We will get him.”
“I suppose this means you plan to continue your clandestine pursuits?”
“I am a servant to the king. I will do what is asked of me.”
Alison bowed her head. “I will never forgive myself. Not only did I almost get all of us killed, I botched your investigation.”
“There was no guarantee we would have caught Montgomery. News of the rescue of Sallie and the other girls would have reached Montgomery in another two days at the latest. That would have ended our investigation.”
She looked up at him. “You might have caught him.”
“We cannot change the past, love.” A corner of his mouth ticked up in a smile. “I will admit, I am relieved you have refrained from any further shenanigans.”
She grunted. “You may rest assured I will not interfere in your business again.”
He released a breath and she realized he was truly relieved. “Do you need help with your letter?” he asked.
She glanced at the scant lines. Sadness welled in her heart. She had loved Robert, but not the way she loved Cameron. She hadn’t known she could love a man the way she loved him. Yet the guilt hadn’t abated.
She started when Cameron’s hand covered hers. “Are ye certain you do not want to spend some time at Longgate?”
Her pulse kicked up. “You told me you were not the sort of husband to shut his wife up in the country.”
“I’m not, Alison. I want you to be happy. If you need time to grieve alone...” He paused. “I know you loved him. I can accept that. In time, your feelings for me will grow.”
“I did love him.” She laid her hand on his. “But not the way I love you.”
His gaze sharpened. “Alison, there is no need—”
“Nae,” she cut in. “I am not simply trying to save your feelings. Surely, you can see I love you.”
He didn’t immediately answer. “Aye. It is clear you have a tenderness for me.”
She laughed. “Just a tenderness?” Her amusement vanished. “Might you have a tenderness for me?”
His gaze darkened. “You are my world.”
Her breath caught. “Then I will definitely not go to Longgate. Will you live with me at Eversley Place?”
Devilry lit his eyes. “Am I to be a kept man?”
“Forever,” she replied, a little breathless.
“Seems I have a wife who intends to keep her husband close.”
Alison rose and settled on his lap. She wound her arms around his neck and lowered her mouth toward his. “Aye, very close, Highlander.”
###
Dreaming of a Gentleman
The Marriage Maker
Book Seventeen
Flowers of Scotland
Summer Hanford
Scarsdale Voices
The Flowers of Scotland
Only the Marriage Maker can pull flowers from the ashes…
Few men are legends in their own time, great fame more often coming years, even centuries later, and by the pens of scribes who rely on long-told tales rather than fact. Even so, now and again, larger-than-life heroes appear, the sheer force of their personalities raising them above all others. These are the fabled ones, flesh and blood men whose lights blaze so bright they eclipse all who’ve gone before them, as well as those who follow.
In the early years of the thirteen century, when medieval Scotland was entrenched in the treachery and chaos of the Wars of Independence, one such man emerged from the tall shadow of the great William Wallace. This man went on to lead Scotland in a fierce fight for freedom that culminated with his 1306 crowning as King of Scots and then, in 1314, with his stunning victory against Edward II of England at the Battle of Bannockburn.
This man was Robert the Bruce, Scotland’s greatest hero king. Even after his triumph at Bannockburn, he railed against England for another fourteen years, finally secur
ing full Scottish independence in 1328, one year before his death.
Extraordinarily beloved by his men, Robert Bruce was also known for his good looks and charm. Yes, he loved the ladies, and they flocked to him. Such adoration from beautiful women is hard for any man to ignore, especially a warrior king always on the move, long away from hearth and home. The Bruce was married twice and is known to have especially loved his second wife. Yet, medieval wars were brutal and it proved too great a temptation to decline the feminine comfort offered him at every turn.
In short, he succumbed. The hero king who came to be known as the Flower of Scotland for his chivalry, sired many bastards and, great-hearted as he was, he ensured that each one lacked for nothing.
But time rolls on, and after but a few centuries, glory-seekers claimed descent from Scotland’s most revered king. Fortunes turned, and some of his true descendants fell from favor. Eventually, no one remembered that their blood carried the richness of such a great and heroic man.
Of course, no one forgot Robert Bruce. His fame burns as brightly as ever. Some historians are obsessed with him, delving deep into history to uncover every nuance of his life and deeds, including the amorous tales.
When one such historian discovers four young women whose lineages trace directly to the Bruce, this man is deeply troubled. The Flowers of Scotland, as he views these Bruce descendants, should not suffer lives of hardship and obscurity as these women do.
Something must be done and he knows just the man to help them; Sir Stirling James, The Marriage Maker. Sir James is a regular at the Inverness pub run by the hobby historian, an establishment named The Melrose for the final resting place of Robert the Bruce’s heart; Melrose Abbey.
Sir James, a true patriot, and history buff himself, agrees that the four young women deserve triumphs of their own. He knows just the four men worthy of them—men who, like the Bruce, possess charm, rank and standing. These heroes can sweep the lassies off their feet and into a world of happiness and love they never dreamed possible.
Chapter One
Cold seeped into her knees as Rebecca knelt on the parlor carpet before a threadbare footstool. With care, she applied pins to her cousin’s hem. Beneath Maggie’s gown, one slipper-clad foot took up an agitated rhythm atop a faded, hand-stitched rose. Rebecca didn’t need to look up to know Maggie frowned. Her gaze dropped to the well-rendered flower. Surely, the skilled stitches deserved better treatment.
“Becca, are you certain you’re raising the hem enough?” Maggie pitched her squeaky voice even higher than usual.
Rebecca pulled several pins from between pursed lips and glanced up. “I am raising the hem the perfect amount.”
“You know I want it distressingly high.” Maggie tossed white-blonde curls. “I plan for this dress to be quite daring by the time you’re finished with it.”
“There is daring and there is vulgar, Maggie.”
A slippered foot stamped down on the decorative rose. “If you don’t take the hem up as high as I wish, I shall only have you redo it.”
Lips pursed in disapproval, though Maggie could only see the back of her head, Rebecca yanked out the pins so she could raise the hem higher.
Her foot still in the face of Rebecca’s capitulation, Maggie let out a gusty sigh. “Someday, I will marry a wealthy gentleman, one so rich he doesn’t care that I come with a scant dowry, and then I will have new gowns sewn to suit me from the start, not Mother’s made over.”
Rebecca nodded, though she doubted Maggie saw, or cared.
“But until then, this shall have to do.” A foot prodded Rebecca’s shoulder. “And don’t think I can’t tell you’re glowering. Heaven knows why. You should be happy to take the hem up as high as I like. That gives you more scrap for your garments.”
Rebecca nodded again and skirted around to Maggie’s side. She fingered the worn fabric. Sometimes, Rebecca despaired at receiving scraps of handed-down garments, but she bore in mind that scraps were far preferable to nothing. If her mother’s cousin, Maggie’s mother, hadn’t taken Rebecca in, who knew where she might have ended up? Even though her mother and father had been gentry, there were few places in the world for a three-year-old orphan without funds. Especially one who’s only living relations were her late mother’s cousin and a distant, reputedly mad, great aunt.
She wished she could share Maggie’s dream of marrying well, but that prospect was so far beyond Rebecca, she saw little point in such daydreams. She would never be permitted a Season, or even to join in local events. What would she attend them in, anyhow? Her patchwork gowns made her look like a poor dressmaker’s assistant, not a member of the gentry.
Even someone who knew her well, like Charlie, the Bartons’ son, would be hard-pressed to see past her drab appearance, though she hoped someday he would. Charlie, the only person who was ever kind to her. She cherished his affection, even if it was slight.
She cast a quick look about the parlor, as if Missus Barton might lurk nearby to read her thoughts. If the Bartons ever realized how Rebecca felt about Charlie, they would cast her out. They wished much better for their only son than his threadbare distant cousin.
Their greed brought a fresh glower to her face. The Bartons were not impoverished. Yes, they counted money carefully, but money existed. Aside from the ancient footstool, kept more for Maggie to stand on than out of sentiment, the parlor was quite modish. Missus Barton invested every spare shilling in the appearance of the more public areas of the Bartons’ country manor. The dining room was resplendent with fine china, polished silver and sparkling crystal. The marble-floored foyer teamed with candles on the off chance a neighbor might pop by. One of the guestrooms, nearly always empty, boasted a large, canopied bed and expensive linens. Sometimes, Rebecca snuck inside and pretended the room belonged to her. Large, airy and infinitely better than her cramped, windowless room alongside the servants’ quarters in the attic, the guestroom felt like a haven.
If they could afford all that, surely their finances were such that Charlie could marry for love. What were sconces and linens compared to happiness? Why, nothing at all.
She suppressed a sigh. Nothing at all also described Charlie’s feelings toward her. He’d never once noticed her in that way, she was sure of it.
Her oft-mended gown rustled as she shifted around behind Maggie. Hidden from her cousin’s gaze, Rebecca shook her head at the unseemly display of ankle. She resolved to leave an extra span of fabric. Like as not, once Maggie’s mother saw the hemline, she’d require the garment redone. With near certainty, Rebecca mournfully reflected that she’d have to redo her work at least once, no matter what height she set the hem.
“Are you finished with the pins yet?” Maggie turned.
Fabric yanked from Rebecca’s fingers. She scuttled to reclaim it.
“I want to go look in the mirror,” Maggie continued. “And it’s nearly time to change for dinner.”
Rebecca pulled pins free of her mouth. “I’m nearly done.” She popped the pins back between her lips, keeping one to use.
Knocking resounded through the foyer, immediately outside the parlor. Rebecca startled, nearly spitting out pins. She glanced at Maggie. Were her cousins expecting guests?
The knock sounded again.
“You’d better answer the door,” Maggie said. “The maid will be helping cook. She won’t hear that racket from the kitchen.”
Rebecca placed a final pin, piqued over the lack of a butler, who’d been let go for requesting a raise. Far from perfect, the hemline would still serve to guide her as she repinned the dress away from her squirming cousin. Another knock sounded. Rebecca shoved the extra pins into a cushion and climbed to her feet. Standing put her nearly eyelevel with Maggie, though her cousin perched atop the footstool.
For a fourth time, someone pounded on the door. With a frown for their impatience, Rebecca headed for the foyer. She shook out her patched skirt as she walked. Behind her, fabric rustled, and slippers landed on the carpet, followed by t
he soft swish of the dilapidated footstool being pushed out of sight.
Rebecca yanked open the door. A blast of cold air swirled in around a short, thin man, arm raised to knock. His coat and suit were a drab brown, and spectacles balanced on his narrow nose. He lowered his arm, a satchel clutched under the other.
Her gaze slid past him, irrepressibly drawn to the tall, black-clad gentleman standing a deferential distance behind. Not young, but certainly not old, his strong features were comely, his bearing assured. A twinkle of amusement lurked in his gaze and tugged at the corners of his mouth. He dipped his head in acknowledgement of her scrutiny.
The skinny man cleared his throat.
Rebecca brought her attention back to him. “May I help you, sir?” She suppressed a shiver as another gust of ice-tinged wind made the foyer’s candles flicker.
The man cast a quick, dismissive look across her. “I doubt it, girl. I’m here to speak with Mister Barton on a matter of business.”
“And you, sir?” Rebecca addressed the second man.
“He is my clerk,” the little man snapped. He proffered a card. “I am Mister West, attorney. I have come this ridiculous way from Edinburgh, in this unbearable weather, to discharge my appointed task, and should very much prefer to have done with it, thank you, so hurry along, girl.”
“I will inquire if Mister Barton is at home.” Rebecca tamped down the temptation to make the little man wait without while she informed Mister Barton he had visitors. She chided herself for the notion. His poor manners needn’t ruin hers, and certainly his clerk had done nothing to deserve such treatment. She took the card and stepped back. “Do come in. I won’t be a moment.”
The little attorney bustled inside, his clerk a tall, well-favored shadow in his wake. Rebecca took in that wry expression again, sure there was more to the man than the role of assistant to Mister West. Though silent and deferentially in the background, the dark-clad man exuded a commanding presence.
A Lord's Kiss Page 51