“Everything we thought we knew was a lie.”
“They lied to protect us. And themselves, too. They’re not perfect. Laurette said something interesting to me before my father came. She said she could never think that she had made a mistake with him, because she couldn’t think of you as a mistake. She loves you a lot, Bea.”
“I don’t know what to do.” Her voice was snuffly. Damn it, she was crying again. But he had cried himself quite recently, and much more vigorously, so it wasn’t fair to tease her this time.
“You don’t have to do anything. Go back to that poky little house in Penzance. Go back to school. Come to Dorset for a few weeks next summer.”
“You really don’t want me as your secret sister.”
“I just said that. I didn’t really mean it. I suppose if my father and Laurette get married, there might be another sister, although I’d prefer a brother.”
“James! They’re too old.”
James gave her a scornful look. “Do they teach you nothing at your school? I could draw you a picture—”
“You are disgusting!”
He grinned at the compliment. Beatrix promised to be a thorn in his side for the foreseeable future. He could almost guarantee it.
Con sat rigid in a threadbare chair in the mean little parlor counting to one hundred. He wondered what these people had done with all the money they had received for Beatrix’s upkeep over the years. There was no evidence of it anywhere, from his chipped teacup to the battered old doll Bea had shyly shown him. He got all the way up to eighty-seven when he stood up abruptly and walked out into the busy street. Perhaps he was a coward for leaving the girls he loved to manage without him, but if he stayed inside, he would commit murder and they’d have to do without him permanently.
He walked to the quay, a blast of briny sea air clearing his head. He had his son to thank for Bea’s decision to throw her lot in with the Conover clan. She had been closeted with James that Monday afternoon for hours. When she emerged, she was pale but resolute. She would consent to Con’s guardianship if the Vincents agreed to it. When Con asked his son what had transpired, the boy had merely shrugged and said they played a game of cards. And that he’d won. Con hated to think that Bea’s future had depended upon a game of chance, but he was grateful nonetheless.
He couldn’t endure one more minute with Jonas and Mary Vincent. Beatrix had gone up to pack her meager belongings, so was spared the hypocritical proselytizing. While pleased by a lifetime income far exceeding any amount they had ever dreamed, they were nevertheless vocal in their disapproval of the upcoming nuptials. In their opinion, those who had sinned deserved no happiness. All their hard work with Beatrix would be undone.
But he disagreed wholeheartedly. The sooner he could get her away from these grasping, heart-shriveled zealots, the happier he’d be. In less than an hour they would be on the road again, back to his sheep farm and a wedding. They would return to Ryland Grove when Laurette was ready. If she was not accepted as his marchioness, he was prepared to live somewhere where she was.
The children would keep to their school schedules no matter what happened. As hard as he’d considered hiring a tutor and a governess for the Grove, James and Beatrix could fight as though they’d been siblings all their lives. There would be no peace for the Conovers if they lived together year-round.
Things were not exactly how he planned, but they were good enough and would get better. Or worse. He laughed out loud, pushing his wind-blown hair from his face. Each day with Laurette was a gift he didn’t deserve.
Guilty, he retraced his steps to the door of the dreaded cousins to rescue his girls.
Chapter 25
Very early on the morning of her wedding day, Laurette crept down the long hallway from Con’s room, avoiding the squeaky spot right before the landing. This was her last time to sneak around, although perhaps everyone knew where she’d spent her nights anyway. She’d had a ghastly “birds and bees” talk the other day with her daughter, who was being cheerfully corrupted by her mischievous halfbrother. James reminded her so much of Con at that age that it brought a smile to her face.
But today was a day for seriousness. She was to be married to the man she’d loved most of her life. Turning the door handle of her room, she entered the dim chamber and opened the curtain to let in the dawn. What she saw spread on her bed stunned her.
There was her wedding dress, not the yellow confection she’d planned to wear, but the stiff midnight-blue satin gown covered with moons and stars she had worn at seventeen at the standing stones.
“Sadie, what else does Mama have in her trunks in the attic?”
Mrs. Miller took the knife out of Laurette’s clumsy hand. “There’ll be nothing left to eat if you keep that up. Just sit still and do your talking.”
“Well?” Laurette prompted.
Sadie screwed up her face. “There’s nothing fit up there for a young miss.”
“Excellent. Let’s go upstairs. Mrs. Miller, you are done with us, are you not?”
The cook sighed in defeat. “Go on, then. You won’t stop plaguing us until you get your way, and you murdered that carrot.”
Laurette pulled Sadie up the back stairs to the top floor, throwing open the door to the attic. Pails and pans were placed strategically across the slanted wood floors in case of rain. The smell of heat and dust and mice was overwhelming. Sadie sneezed.
“Just tell me which trunk it’s in and we’ll go right down to my room.”
“Don’t know as I recollect.”
“Pshaw. You were just up here.”
“The dress I’m thinking of belonged to your great-aunt, not your mother. Might be in the black trunk in that corner.”
Laurette darted between the containers and the mouse droppings and lifted the lid. Beneath a layer of linen sheeting was the most exquisite midnight blue dress she had ever seen, trimmed in tarnished silver lace, embroidered with silver threads and beads and spangles, tiny glimmering moons and stars scattered across the fabric. Yards and yards of fabric, the skirts gathered up with silver ribbons to reveal more graying silver lace. This gown was very old. But gorgeous.
Laurette brought it downstairs to a patch of sunshine, loose stars and moons and circles sparkling in her hand. She tucked them into the apron pocket and fetched her sewing box. It took her some time to unravel a spool of dark blue thread, not quite a match but close enough. Silver thread would be better, but she knew none was to be had at the village shop.
Carefully, she swept her hand over the front of the gown, discovering what held fast and what was relentlessly determined to detach. She threaded her needle and anchored the strands of silver back into the gown at tight long intervals. No doubt Sadie would have unstrung and restrung every single bead, but they did not have time for that. It was tedious work, but the end result would be worth it, stabbed fingers and all.
Sadie would have to do the rest. Laurette sucked on her injured thumb, imagining the look on Con’s face when he saw her walk through the flowered archway to the little ballroom at the Blue Calf Inn. If he thought to keep resisting her, he was mistaken. This dress was pure magic.
And its magic had worked, just not in the way Laurette expected. She had worn it twice—to her debut and her secret wedding to Con. But she’d need some of its magic this morning—she doubted very much she could get into it. She was no longer the slender girl she’d been, and the new baby growing inside her had thickened her waist and plumped her breasts to the point that even Con had noticed. He was pleased, thinking she was finally eating more.
She hadn’t told him yet. That would be her wedding gift to him tonight. She didn’t think he’d mind that she had kept this secret to herself for a few days. But there were to be no more secrets between Lord and Lady Conover.
She turned the dress over and saw that Sadie, blessed Sadie, had added a panel of almost-matching fabric, with tiny tarnished beads stitched over it. Laurette remembered the little muslin bag Con had carried w
ith him everywhere and closed her eyes.
Con had thought of everything to surprise her, even, she saw, a hat with blue and silver ribbons and silver slippers. But she had a surprise for him too, and hers was better.
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“Man up’ for God’s sake, and drop the damn thing.”
“We’re not sending in nude shots,” Roan replied with an even smile, as the chants and taunts escalated. “So I don’t understand the need to take things to such an extreme—”
“The contest rules state, very clearly, that they’re looking for provocative,” Tessa responded, sounding every bit like a person who’d also been forced into a task she’d rather not have taken on—which she had been.
Sadly, that fact had not brought them closer.
She shifted to another camera she’d mounted on another tripod, he supposed so the angle of the sun was more to her liking. “Okay, lean back against the stone wall, prop one leg, rest that… sword thing of yours—”
“‘Tis a claymore. Belonged to the McAuleys for four centuries. Victorious in battle, ‘tis an icon of our clan.” And heavy as all hell to hoist about.
“Lovely. Prop your icon in front of you, then. I’m fairly certain it will hide what needs hiding.”
His eyebrows lifted at that, but rather than take offense, he merely grinned. “I wouldnae be so certain of it, lassie. We’re a clan known for the size of our … swords.”
“Yippee,” she shot back, clearly unimpressed. “So, drop the plaid, position your … sword, and let’s get on with it. It’s the illusion of baring it all we’re going for here. I’ll make sure to preserve your fragile modesty.”
She was no fun. No fun ‘tall.
“The other guys did it,” she added, resting folded hands on top of the camera. “In fact,” she went on, without even the merest hint of a smile or dry amusement, “they seemed quite happy to accommodate me.”
He couldn’t imagine any man wanting to bare his privates for Miss Vandergriff’s pleasure. Not if he wanted to keep them intact, at any rate.
He was a bit thrown off by his complete inability to charm her. He charmed everyone. It was what he did. He admittedly enjoyed, quite unabashedly, being one of the clan favorites because of his affable, jovial nature. As far as he was concerned, the world would be a much better place if folks could get in touch with their happy parts, and stay there.
He didn’t know much about her, but from what little time they’d spent together that afternoon, he didn’t think Tessa Vandergriff had any happy parts. However, the reason behind her being rather happiness-challenged wasn’t his mystery to solve. She’d been on the island for less than a week. Her stay on Kinloch was as a guest, and therefore temporary. Thank the Lord.
The island faced its fair share of ongoing trials and tribulations, and had the constant challenge of sustaining a fragile economic resource. Despite that, he’d always considered both the McAuley and MacLeod clans as being cheerful, welcoming hosts. But they had enough to deal with without adopting a surly recalcitrant into their midst.
“Well,” he said, smiling broadly the more her scowl deepened. “‘Tis true, the single men of this island have little enough to choose from.” The crowd took a collective breath at that, but his attention was fully on her. Gripping the claymore in one fist, he leaned against the stacked stone wall, well aware of the tableau created by the twin peaks that framed the MacLeod fortress, each of them towering behind him. He braced his legs, folded his arms across his bare chest, sword blade aloft … and looked her straight in the eye as he let a slow, knowing grin slide across his face. “Me, I’m no’ so desperate as all that.”
That got a collective gasp from the crowd. But rather than elicit so much as a snarl from Miss Vandergriff, or perhaps goading her so far as to pack up and walk away—which he’d have admittedly deserved—his words had a rather shocking effect. She smiled. Fully. He hadn’t thought her face capable of arranging itself in such a manner. And so broadly, with such stunning gleam. He was further damned to discover it did things to his own happy parts that she had no business affecting.
“No worries,” she stated, further captivating him with the transformative brilliance of her knowing smile. She gave him a sizzling once-over before easily meeting his eyes again. “You’re not my type.”
This was not how those things usually went for him. He felt… frisked. “Then I’m certain you can be objective enough to find an angle that shows off all my best parts without requiring a blatant, uninspired pose. I understand from Kira that you’re considered to be quite good with that equipment.”
The chanting of the crowd shifted to a few whistles as the tension between photographer and subject grew to encompass even them.
“Given your reluctance to play show and tell, I’d hazard to guess I’m better with mine than you are with yours,” she replied easily, but the spark remained in her eyes.
Goading him.
“Why don’t you be the judge?” Holding her gaze in exclusive focus, the crowd long since forgotten, he pushed away from the wall and, with sword in one hand, slowly unwrapped his kilt with the other.
He took far more pleasure than was absolutely necessary from watching her throat work as he unashamedly revealed thighs and ass. He wasn’t particularly vain or egotistical, but he was well aware that a lifetime spent climbing all over the island had done its duty where his physical shape was concerned, as it had for most of the islanders. They were a hardy lot.
The crowd gasped as he held the fistful of unwrapped plaid in front of him, dangling precariously from one hand, just on the verge of—
“That’s it!” Tessa all but leapt behind the camera and an instant later, the shutter started whirring. Less than thirty seconds later, she straightened and pushed her wayward curls out of her face, her no-nonsense business face back. “Got it. Good! We’re all done here.” She started dismantling her equipment. “You can go ahead and get dressed,” she said dismissively, not even looking at him.
He held on to the plaid—and his pride—and tried not to look as annoyed as he felt. The shoot was blessedly over. That was all that mattered. No point in being irritated that he’d just been played by a pro.
She glanced up, the smile gone as she dismantled her second tripod with the casual grace of someone so used to the routine and rhythm of it, she didn’t have to think about it. “I’ll let you know when I get the shots developed.”
He supposed he should be thankful she hadn’t publicly gloated over her smooth manipulation of him. Except he wasn’t feeling particularly gracious at the moment.
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Armed Englishmen riding across Scottish land only meant one thing, and it had nothing to do with friendship.
As she had just learned. They would use violence to gain what they wished without any remorse. She looked at the dirty plumes crowning the English knight’s helmet and decided that they fit him well.
“If ye’ve any sense, ye’d start for the border before Ryppon discovers what ye were about with his sister.” Laird Barras leaned down over the neck of his horse. “And if I see ye again on my land, I’ll not leave ye drawing breath to test my good will again.”
His voice was hard as stone, leaving no doubt that he was a man who would not hesitate to kill. He looked every inch the warrior, but Jemma discovered herself grateful for his harshness, even drawing comfort from it. The man was saving her life and sparing her a painful death too. The English didn’t wait but began walking towards England. It was humbling to set armored men on their way without their horses, but to return the animals would see the men becoming a force to be reckoned with once more. Laird Barras proved to be merciful by sparing their lives, but he was not a fool.
He turned to look at her. The night sky was beginning to fill
with tiny points of light and that starshine lit him. It cast him in white light, making him appear unearthly, like a god from legends of the past. A Norseman Viking that swept across the land, unstoppable because of his sheer brawn.
A ripple of sensation moved over her skin, awakening every inch of her flesh. It should have been impossible to be so aware of any single person’s stare, but she was of his. His stallion snorted and pawed at the ground a moment before he pressed his knees into the sides of the beast. Lament surged through her, thick and choking as she anticipated his leaving.
But he pulled the stallion up alongside her, a grin of approval curling his lips up when she remained in place without a single sound making it past her lips. Jemma found herself too fascinated to speak. Too absorbed in the moment to ruin it by allowing sounds to intrude.
“Up with ye, lass. This is not the sort of company ye should be keeping.”
He leaned down, his thighs gripping the sides of his horse to keep him steady. Her gaze strayed to his thighs and she stared at the bare skin that was cut with ridges of muscles, testifying to how much strength was in him.
“Take my hand, lass. I’d prefer not to have to pull ye off the ground again.”
But he would. She heard that clearly in his voice. That tone of command that spoke of a man who expected his word to be heeded no matter what her opinion might be.
Of course, staying was not something she craved. She lifted her hand and placed it in his outstretched one, only to pull it away when his warm flesh met her own. That touch had jolted her, breaking through the disbelief that had held her in its grasp. Her body began to shake while her face throbbed incessantly from the blow that had been laid across it. She suddenly felt every bruise and scrap, her knees feeling weak as the horror of what she had faced sunk in deep to torment her mind with grisly details of what the English had been intent on doing to her. The idea of touching any man was suddenly repulsive and she clasped her hands tightly together.
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