Say Yes to the Scot

by Lecia Cornwall, Sabrina York, Anna Harrington, May McGoldrick

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she assured Murray, although her long-suffering sigh made Garrick smile to himself. Whatever was between the two, it wasn’t love.

  With a scowl, Murray took her arm and pulled her aside, then began to lecture her quietly enough that no one could overhear. But he jabbed his finger at her, belittling her with every point he made.

  Hot anger flared inside Garrick’s chest. How dare that bastard! Clenching his fists, he started forward—

  Reeves laid a hand on his shoulder.

  He stopped. And felt like a damnable fool.

  He turned away, to gaze once more up at the coat of arms and remember why he was here—and why he’d left. And to curse himself for the rush of jealousy spilling through him at seeing Arabel with another man.

  He rubbed at the knot of tension forming at his nape. Christ. He was behaving like some insecure lad instead of the man he was.

  Murray stepped away from Arabel, having finished the admonishment he’d leveled at her. And which she’d calmly accepted. From the way fire blazed in her green eyes, though, Garrick knew she’d not forget it. When Murray caught Garrick watching the two of them, he placed an improper kiss to her lips. One that left her glaring at the banker in irritation, and one that twisted Garrick’s insides.

  “Safe travels,” he called out as Murray marched toward the door, the devil inside him too powerful to resist. “I’ll be happy to look after Arabel for you.” He lowered his voice to a possessive purr, “Very closely.”

  Murray’s stride hitched, and he jerked up straight. Then thinking better of confronting Garrick, he hurried on, snatching his hat and gloves away from the butler and stomping on to the waiting carriage.

  “So what’s your plan, now that we’re here?” Arabel demanded, turning on Garrick. “Sell the livestock, raze the house . . . salt the earth so nothing ever grows here again?” She raised her chin. “Just like your cold heart?”

  She’d meant to insult, but satisfaction pulsed sweetly inside him that he was able to get a rise out of her so soon on the heels of Murray’s parting. At this rate, she’d flee Highburn by week’s end.

  He ignored her comment and drawled instead, “It’s always so heartwarming to see an affianced pair so deeply in love with each other.”

  She glared at him but said nothing, knowing not to antagonize him further. For now. With a dismissive sniff, she turned to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Stewart, would you be kind enough to show me to my room? Then I’d like to visit with Aunt Matilda.”

  “Aye, Miss. This way.”

  The housekeeper led her up the stairs. She didn’t deign to cast a parting glance at him.

  Reeves arched his neck to watch her leave, his eyes shining appreciatively as he tugged at his gloves. “Thistle, hmm?” A grin broke across his face. “Might be worth a few pricks.”

  “Perhaps,” Garrick said quietly, struck by the force of her. Arabel was never more alluring than when the untamed spirit inside her flared to the surface.

  “So it seems you’re determined to remain,” Reeves mused. “Do you wish me to stay as well?”

  He shook his head. “I need you to oversee the earldom while I’m gone. I’ll have my hands full here.”

  “Oh, I’m certain of it.” Reeves accepted his caped greatcoat from the butler and then glanced meaningfully up the stairs with a grin. “But what would Scotland be without its thistles?”

  Knowing to ignore that, Garrick nodded toward the door. “Make certain the banker returns to Edinburgh, will you? I don’t want him interfering here.”

  Reeves arched a knowing brow. “So you do have plans.”

  “Pursue that hellion?” He smiled grimly at that. Hadn’t he learned the hard way where pursuing Arabel Rowland led? It had taken him a decade to crawl out of the hell she and her family had thrown him into. He wasn’t about to go back. But . . . “It would be sweet.”

  “Because you’d seduce the estate from her?”

  “Because having her would be the perfect revenge,” he muttered, contemplating the irony as he looked once more at the Rowland coat of arms. But that revenge he had no plans to enact. Arabel had burned him once. He had no intention of getting that close to her fire again.

  The butler cleared his throat. “Yer lairdship.”

  Garrick’s gaze darted to the man. He’d forgotten the butler was still there. “Yes, Jamieson?”

  “Mrs. Stewart requested that I show ye to yer room, m’laird. She dinna think ye’d find it on yer own.”

  “Thank you.” He nodded toward Reeves, then started up the stairs. “Safe travels to you.”

  Reeves doffed his hat. “And safe staying at home to you.” Before slipping out the door, he laughed as he threw one last glance upstairs after Arabel. “You’re going to need it!”

  Grimacing, Garrick took the stairs two at a time, leaving the portly butler struggling to keep up. When they reached the first floor landing, he let Jamieson lead the way down the hall . . . and right toward where Arabel stood with Mrs. Stewart. The door to the guestroom was open wide, with Mrs. Stewart giving orders to the footmen about where to put Arabel’s luggage.

  Jamieson opened the door to the room directly across from hers.

  Garrick stopped in pleasant surprise and smiled. “Mine?”

  “Aye, yer lairdship.”

  When Arabel’s face paled at the sleeping arrangements, Garrick nearly laughed. This day was getting better and better!

  “We’ve shut off most o’ the rooms, ye see,” Mrs. Stewart explained. “Only those in this wing are open, an’ none on th’ floor above.” When the two of them stared silently at the other, with Arabel clenching her teeth and Garrick grinning like the cat who’d gotten into the cream, the housekeeper shifted nervously. “But they be good rooms,” she assured them, misunderstanding the tension between them. “Practically the same. An’ her ladyship’s is just there, at the far end o’ the hall.”

  “How cozy,” he murmured, goading Arabel by dropping his gaze to her mouth. “And how convenient for wishing you a good night.” Her full lips parted temptingly at his audacity. “Or a good morning.”

  Her face flushed scarlet, and he bit his cheek to keep from laughing. But he wasn’t naive enough to think her blush was anything more than barely restrained fury.

  Knowing she was beaten on this front, Arabel tossed her head and spun on her heel to march into her room. “This will be perfect, Mrs. Stewart. Thank you.”

  Yes, he thought, as he sauntered into his own room. Perfect.

  Day Five

  Arabel reached into the armoire in Aunt Matilda’s boudoir to pull out the last stack of shifts.

  “We’ll need another trunk,” she told the maid, who was helping to pack in preparation for the move to the dower house. Although the house was located just across the estate from Highburn, Arabel had moved enough in her own life to know that a clean break was best, and her aunt’s things all needed to be ready to go at once. Auntie would be more comfortable if all was waiting for her when she moved in, right down to the last shift.

  Of which there appeared to be several dozen. She frowned as she handed the stack to the maid. Heavens. How many shifts did an octogenarian widow need?

  “I think we’re done with that one,” Arabel told the maid as she gestured at the full trunk. “Would you call for a footman to carry it downstairs?”

  “We’ll put it in the drawin’ room ’til we’re ready to send them all on to the dower house,” Mrs. Stewart instructed the maid as she helped sort through a pile of shoes.

  Arabel asked curiously, “Has the house been made ready, then?”

  “Yes, miss.” Handing the sought-after slipper to Aunt Matilda, Mrs. Stewart answered over her shoulder, “Been ready fer a while. Jus’ waitin’ on Mr. Davidson t’ settle the will.” She added in a weary voice, “An’ packin’.”

  Arabel bit down her smile. Judging from the mess of clothes, accessories, and other whatnot filling her aunt’s rooms, she could only imagine h
ow long the household staff had already been at the task. “Perhaps, Mrs. Stewart, you’d be good enough to accompany me to visit it? I’d like to see if there’s anything I can do to make Lady Rowland feel welcome there.”

  Aunt Matilda let out a scoffing laugh. “If I were made any more welcome there, I might think you were attemptin’ to be rid of me.”

  “Not at all, Auntie. You know that.” The twinkling gleam in her aunt’s eyes told Arabel that the old woman was teasing. “Besides,” she countered mischievously, giving back as good as she got, “it was either the dower house or the old sheep barn for you, and at the dower house there seemed less chance of the shepherds attempting to shear you.”

  Matilda cackled with laughter. The white lace edging the black sleeves of her mourning dress waved in the air as she brandished a finger at Arabel. “You’ve still got the same fierce spirit, lass! The city hasn’t completely stripped the highlander from you.”

  “No.” Arabel smiled as she closed the armoire’s doors. “Not completely.”

  Just mostly. But then, how else could it be? She’d been gone from the highlands nearly as long as Garrick.

  “There’s no reason for you to change houses,” Arabel assured her as she crossed the room to where Matilda and Mrs. Stewart had moved closer to the window to get a good look at a pair of boots that had been shoved beneath the bed. “You’re perfectly fine staying right here. I don’t mind.”

  “Aye, you don’t. But does Townsend?”

  Arabel startled at the use of Garrick’s title. Would she ever get used to that? He’d left her to become a head groom and returned an earl. The change was unsettling. Just like the man. “It’s none of his concern. I’ve invited you to remain.”

  “But Highburn’s half his.”

  “Not for long,” Arabel mumbled beneath her breath, then turned toward the window. For once, the day was bright, warm, and clear, so she pulled back the heavy drapes to let in as much light as possible.

  “Quite a bind for you, eh?” Matilda commented.

  Arabel glanced out the window to take in the expansive view . . . the blue mountains in the distance, the heather fields and loch further in, and close to the house the narrow strip of lawn stretching between the gardens and the stables. “What do you mean?”

  “For Townsend to return so close to your weddin’.”

  Arabel tensed, not turning around to face her aunt until she’d controlled the emotions on her face. A forced smile hid the racing thumps of her heart. “And so much to do between now and the wedding, too. I hope you’ll consider giving me your opinion on my plans.”

  “No worries about that, lass! I’ll be sure to give you my opinion on everythin’.”

  Another laugh spilled from her thin lips, but Arabel suspected they were speaking of two completely different things. “Good.” She kept her smile firmly in place. “Because it’s going to be rather difficult to make arrangements for Edinburgh while I’m in the highlands.”

  “Let that be the first I give—move the wedding to Kincardine. ’Twill be unavoidable then for ev’ryone.”

  “I think you mean ‘closer’,” she corrected, yet only drew another cackle from her aunt. Oh, they were certainly speaking of two different things! She wished she knew what, though. “It’s not what Ewan wants, but I’ll consider it.”

  “Not what the banker wants,” Matilda repeated with a scoffing wave of her gnarled hand. “Haven’t you figured it out yet, lass? This whole thing is about finally doin’ what you want.”

  With a long sigh, Arabel turned back to the window. When had her life ever been about what she wanted? Long before she was expected to marry Ewan, before she had to dedicate herself to helping Mama and Aunt Ethel in Edinburgh, before she was forced to leave the highlands . . . Truly, the last time she could remember doing as she pleased was when she gave her heart to Garrick. Loving him had been her choice, completely and freely hers. But in the end, she’d lost even that.

  “All we need is for Ian Campbell to come ridin’ up the lane,” Matilda laughed, “and then wouldn’t we all have a grand time!”

  “I don’t believe Lord Townsend would be welcoming to visitors,” Arabel muttered, imagining the fisticuffs that might break out if all three men were together.

  “Oh, the lad would surprise you, given a chance.”

  As Arabel rolled her eyes, a movement at the front of the lawn caught her attention. Speak of the devil . . . Garrick.

  He strode across the lawn with two workmen flanking him, forcing them into quick steps to keep up with his long strides. Behind them bounced three young boys who were shadowing their fathers on whatever errand had brought them to Highburn.

  Garrick gestured at the house’s façade, then said something to the two men that made them nod. With his back ramrod-straight, shoulders squared, and legs wide, he possessed a commanding air, the force of which struck her all the way up here on the first floor. She couldn’t tear her eyes away, even as her chest clenched at the sight of him. Not because she still cared about him, but because the irritating man strutted around the lawn as if he owned the place.

  Well . . . perhaps he did. But only half of it.

  Arabel frowned as he engaged in conversation with the men, all of them gesturing in turns toward the house. “Lord Townsend seems to be making plans.”

  Matilda followed her gaze out the window. “An’ you should inquire ’bout what those plans are.”

  “I will.” But the thought of confronting Garrick filled her with dread. She’d managed to avoid him since they’d moved into Highburn, which was no easy feat given that their rooms sat directly across the hall from each other.

  “We’ll take the first trunks over to the dower house, an’ Townsend will come with us,” her aunt decided. “You can ask him then.”

  Arabel stiffened. That was decidedly not the way she wanted to spend her afternoon, having to make polite conversation with that devil in front of her aunt and the servants.

  Sensing her unease, Matilda wrapped her arm around Arabel’s. Then she smiled as Garrick finished whatever instructions he was giving to the men and threw aside his commanding presence to catch one of the boys as they darted past. He tossed the boy into the air, and the child laughed with such glee that the happy sound drifted up to them.

  “The most important families aren’t the ones we’re born into, but the ones we choose,” Matilda commented as she watched the other two boys fling themselves at Garrick’s legs to capture his attention.

  Choosing a family? Heavens. Arabel already had enough trouble with her blood relations. How many more families did she need to be concerned about?

  She patted Matilda’s arm. “I don’t think—”

  “Your own,” her aunt challenged. “Your own wee bairn you’ll have. And soon. I want to live to see the next generation of clan Rowland.”

  “You will, Auntie,” Arabel assured her quietly. After all, wasn’t that the main reason she was marrying Ewan? For security and children? But as she watched Garrick play with the boys, chasing them in a spontaneous game of tag, she couldn’t imagine having any man’s child but his. In all her fantasies, even in the decade since he left, she’d always imagined children who resembled him. The same emerald eyes, the same mahogany brown hair, the same crooked grin . . .

  “His lordship will make a good papa,” Matilda commented as Garrick handed the smallest of the boys over to his father, his hand tousling the lad’s hair. “The lucky lass he chooses to make his countess will give him the family he deserves.”

  “I’m certain,” Arabel agreed, but did her reply sound as brusque to her aunt’s ears as it did to her own? It was not jealousy.

  “He has no family left in Kincardine, nor anywhere in the highlands, in fact. His mama died when he was young, an’ his father right ‘fore he came to work at Highburn. His brothers and sisters had all died off or moved away by then, too.”

  Arabel knew all that, but she’d never really considered what that meant to him until this
moment. Seeing him with the children only reinforced how alone he must have been in those years before he left. Was that the reason he never understood why her family meant so much to her?

  “He had no one in Kincardine to call kith nor kin when he left.”

  “He had me,” Arabel countered softly, unable to stop the old pain from tightening a knot low in her belly.

  “Did he, lass?” Matilda slipped her arm from Arabel’s as she stepped away, to leave her standing there, staring down at Garrick. “Did he truly?”

  * * *

  Garrick squinted against the afternoon sun as he watched the carpenter and stonemason from the village walk down the sloping hill toward the road that would take them back to the village. The boys bounced in energetic circles around the two men, chasing each other and knowing just how far they could stray from their fathers before they’d be called back.

  A smile tugged at his lips. He was once a lad like those boys, following his own father around his blacksmith’s shop. Now he wanted sons of his own, to follow him around his estate with that same boundless energy and carefree happiness.

  Sons he’d once wanted to raise with Arabel.

  The weight of the past pressed heavy onto his shoulders. Soon, he would have to marry and sire an heir. But he couldn’t imagine having a child with anyone other than Arabel. It was always Arabel he’d envisioned in his bed, she who was heavy with his unborn child, and she who held the babe in her arms, singing it softly to sleep. But none of that would ever happen now.

  He turned toward the house, and froze.

  As if conjured up by his imagination, Arabel walked slowly toward him. The soft summer breeze stirred her skirts, and the sunlight burnished golden-red over her hair, her smooth cheeks flushed with fresh air. His heart thumped wildly as she approached. For one fleeting moment, it was as if ten years’ distance and her family had never come between them.

  She caught him staring and hesitated, and he was nearly undone by her distrust for him, visible in every inch of her.