His Rebellious Lass (Scottish Hearts)

by Hutton, Callie

  Startled at first by her request, since Bridget had no home after her father’s estate had passed to the cousin she had claimed to be rude, he assumed she meant Constance’s house.

  “I feel ill.”

  “Calm down. Let’s go out to the patio.” He opened the French doors to a chilly evening. “Put on your wrap.”

  She grasped the thing in her hands but seemed unable to function. He, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than to drag the man from the house and beat him senseless. Prying the wrap from her tight-fisted hand, he wrapped her in the garment and led her down to the garden.

  They walked a few steps as Bridget took deep breaths. “I apologize for my behavior. It is just that…”

  “I understand. However, if we leave the party to return to London, there will be questions asked, speculations made, and rumors started.”

  They came to a stop, and Bridget wrapped her arms around her middle. “He is such a horrible man. What he did to Minerva… The first time I visited her after one of his beatings, she was embarrassed. Can you imagine that? She was embarrassed, and he was the culprit. She tried to take the blame for his actions and hid herself from me.” She shook her head. “Eventually, she allowed my visits when she was ‘under the weather.’ No matter how many times I begged her to leave him, she refused to even consider it.”

  “This was in London?”

  “Yes. At my father’s request, I lived with my mother’s aunt after I finished school. I think he hoped I would enjoy London so much I would not want to return to the country and wither away as a spinster. After he became ill, I returned to Scotland. It was there that I received word of Minerva’s ‘accidental fall’ down the staircase.” Her voice broke.

  Cam pulled her to him and wrapped her in his arms. The poor girl shook like a leaf in a windstorm. He ran his palm up and down her back as her shuddering continued. He told himself what she needed was a distraction. He tilted her head up with his knuckle and kissed her.

  As wrong as he knew this was, he couldn’t stop himself. She was warm and pliant in his arms. Her lips tasted sweet and minty, the scent of her hair like spring flowers. He gripped her head and turned it so he could go deeper.

  No shrinking violet, she touched his lips with her tongue, and he gladly opened to her. A fast learner, she matched him touch for touch, soft moans coming from her. Realizing anyone could walk out and see the two of them, he pulled back. By the glazed look in her eyes, she’d forgotten all about Davenport.

  “We should return to the house.” He ran his hands up and down her arms. “You must be quite cold.”

  “No.” She smiled at him. “I am rather warm, actually.” As she took his arm, she said, “Your distraction worked quite well. But I will not tolerate being in the man’s presence, nor will I speak with him.”

  “There are enough guests here that I believe you’ll be able to avoid him. If he troubles you in any way, let me know and I will speak with him.”

  About ten minutes after they returned to the drawing room, a butler announced dinner, and they filed into the dining room. Lady Banfield indicated to the guests that it would be an informal dinner, so there was no need for them to line up according to rank, which pleased Cam, because he escorted Bridget and kept her far from Davenport.

  He had never thought of the man one way or the other, but after Bridget’s revelation, he took a second look at the devil’s spawn. There was, indeed, something shifty about him. If he was correct, Bridget’s friend had been his second wife, and the only reason the man was at this house party was to find another one.

  As a good hostess, Lady Banfield had steered Cam and Bridget to different ends of the table. It was time for him to stop thinking of his ward in any other way than a responsibility. The kissing needed to stop, as it could lead nowhere.

  Cam sat between Miss Lovett, obviously on a prowl for a husband, and Lady Dumfries, a recent widow aged about thirty years, who kept touching his arm every time she spoke to him. Neither woman appealed to him. At one time he would have been receptive to Lady Dumfries’s overtures, but tonight she seemed abrasive and almost desperate. As far as he knew, she’d warmed the beds of most willing men, well before her husband had even cocked up his toes.

  On the other hand, Miss Lovett was everything a gentleman wanted in a wife. Pretty, sweet-tempered, well-mannered, and obviously skilled in all the traits of a gently bred lady. She also came with a nice dowry. Why the chit was still unmarried was a puzzle, but not one he wished to discover.

  Despite his best intentions, he kept glancing down the table to where Bridget sat between Lord Devonshire and Mr. Michaelson. Both men were single, wealthy, well-connected, and seemed to show an interest in Bridget. Either would be a perfect husband for her. He tried as hard as he could to think of a reason why one or the other would not suit and came up with nothing.

  Bloody hell.

  The dinner came to an end, and Lady Banfield invited the ladies to join her in the drawing room for tea, leaving the men to their port. The gentlemen stood as they exited and settled back in their seats as bottles of port, whisky, and brandy were placed on the table.

  Just as Cam took a sip of his brandy he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Campbell, I would have a word with you.”

  Cam looked up into Lord Davenport’s eyes. He immediately tensed, grateful that Bridget had left the room. “What is it?” Perhaps he came off cold, because Davenport seemed taken aback, but with what he knew about the man, he had no desire for niceties.

  Davenport pulled out the chair next to Cam and reached for the brandy bottle. He poured a good half glass of the liquid, then held it up to him in a salute and downed most of it in one gulp.

  “What can I do for you, Davenport?” He had no time for friendly banter with the man who had most likely killed his wife and gotten away with it.

  “I understand Lady Bridget is your ward.”

  What the devil was the man up to? The last thing he wanted to do was discuss Bridget with the blackguard. “Yes.”

  “Good. Good. I understand you are hoping to find a match for the chit.”

  “I have no idea who passed that information along to you, Davenport. While I am open to offers for the lady’s hand, I am in no hurry to marry her off.”

  “Well, I would like to be considered.”

  Cam almost spit out his drink. “What?”

  Davenport offered Cam a smile that he wanted to wipe from his arrogant face. “Yes. I’d like to offer for Lady Bridget. I think she and I would suit quite well.”

  Chapter Twelve

  For the very first time in his life, Cam was speechless. This man, who had beaten his wife, then most likely pushed her down a flight of stairs to her death, wanted to offer for Bridget? He truly didn’t know whether to laugh at the man’s arrogance or ask him to step outside so he could pound him into the dirt.

  Pretending ignorance about what Bridget had told him, he said, “Do you even know Lady Bridget? I have been with her the last few weeks, and your name has not come up.”

  At least not in a way that makes me want to consider allowing you to continue to live, let alone marry my ward.

  Davenport waved his hand. “Yes. Yes. We are old friends.” He winked at Cam, threatening the last bit of control he had.

  “Care to elaborate, Davenport?”

  The nitwit did not pick up on Cam’s obvious distaste. “My dear departed wife and Lady Bridget were schoolmates. The chit spent a lot of time at our house. I must say, she is quite easy on the eyes, if you know what I mean.”

  Even if Cam had not known the story behind Lady Davenport and her death, he would dislike this man. He didn’t care for what he was suggesting, and his arrogance at assuming a marriage prize such as Bridget would be his for the taking was supercilious to the extreme. Deciding to have some fun with the man to indulge his dislike and desire to ruin him, Cam sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Tell me about this you know what I mean, because I am not quite sure to what you are re
ferring.”

  “Nothing untoward, you see, but it was obvious the chit had a fancy for me.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. I discouraged her, of course, considering I was happily married, but no doubt she would be pleased with my offer.” He straightened in his chair and hurried on. “Naturally, it is best if we keep this between us gentlemen. You know, get your permission, draw up the marriage contracts, and then I’ll propose to Bridget.”

  “Lady Bridget.”

  “Yes. Yes. It’s just that I know the girl so well and all…” He grinned again, reminding Cam of the devil himself. The only thing missing were horns and a pitchfork.

  Blood pounded throughout Cam’s body. This cretin, this blackguard, knew precisely why he wanted the marriage contracts drawn up before he spoke to Bridget. There was no doubt in Cam’s mind that Bridget had made her dislike of the man obvious while he was married to Lady Davenport.

  After the contracts were drawn up, it was legally binding, and Bridget would be hard-pressed to get out of it. At that moment, Cam decided to destroy the man. Crush him and leave him broken and ruined. ’Twas a much better solution than violence. And he would enjoy every minute of it. Excitement more than anger had his blood pounding.

  Let the game begin.

  It would seem odd if he agreed immediately, and he wanted to keep Davenport close by—keep your enemies close per Niccolò Machiavelli’s The Prince—so he had to pretend to take his offer seriously.

  “What do you have to offer my ward?”

  Davenport’s demeanor changed from jolly to serious. The man could tread the boards on Drury Lane if he so chose. “Since my late wife—God rest her soul—did not produce an heir, Bridget, er, that is, Lady Bridget, would be mother of the next Earl of Davenport.”

  The man’s conceit was remarkable. “What else?”

  “While I am not as wealthy as some, I do have sufficient funds to provide for my next countess.”

  Cam nodded. “And?”

  Davenport looked a bit taken aback. It appeared he had not been questioned so thoroughly when he’d married Minerva. Unfortunate for the girl.

  “Naturally, while I don’t profess to love the gel, I have a fondness for her, and who knows where that will end?”

  Cam almost spit out his drink, knowing precisely where “fondness” for his deceased wife had ended.

  “You have given me something to think about, Davenport. Let me mull this over for a couple of weeks, and I’ll get back to you.”

  Davenport’s eyes lit up at the idea of having Bridget. Sourness rose from Cam’s stomach into his throat. “One last thing. Until we settle this matter, it is best for you to avoid Lady Bridget. Keep it between us men, eh?”

  “Yes. Yes. My thoughts exactly.” His enthusiasm for secrecy was sickening.

  He didn’t want Bridget setting back his newly constructed plan by shoving Davenport into a river.

  Shortly after Davenport’s startling request, Banfield rose and suggested they join the ladies. Cam made a beeline for Bridget, who was conversing with Lady Esther, Miss Lockhart—Cam shuddered—and Lady Forsythe, another widow well-known for constantly looking for someone to warm her bed.

  “My lady, are you up for a stroll around the room?” He ignored the interest in Miss Lockhart’s and Lady Forsythe’s eyes. Bloody hell, he hated these house parties. He wouldn’t be surprised to find Lady Forsythe either lying in his bed when he returned to his room or tapping on his door after everyone was asleep.

  Bridget stood and took his arm. Cam nodded to the three women and whisked Bridget away.

  “You look like the cat who stole the cream. The only thing missing is your white mustache.” Bridget’s plump, kissable lips curved into a slight smile. Almost distracting him.

  “Ah, I have news to convey.”

  “Oh?” Curiosity twinkled in her eyes. “Do tell.”

  “Lord Davenport has offered for your hand.”

  Bridget sucked in a breath, came to a complete halt, and stared at him. “I don’t believe it.” Good grief, the poor girl looked as though she were about to swoon. Or march over to where Davenport stood and slam his bollocks with such force he ended up with them in his stomach.

  He winced the image. “’Tis true, sweeting. He approached me after the ladies left and asked to be considered as a candidate for your hand.”

  “That no-good… I can think of words, but I don’t want to shock you.”

  Cam threw back his head and laughed. “You won’t shock me, I assure you, but in the event someone overhears you, perhaps you can keep them to yourself. But I am quite sure of the few choice words running around your head right now.”

  “Did you punch him in the face? Break his jaw? Flatten him out? I didn’t hear any ruckus or the sound of furniture breaking.”

  “Tsk, tsk, my dear Lady Bridget, such violence from a young lady.” When he noticed she was growing more and more agitated, he revealed his plan. “No. I did not do what needed to be done and beat the man right there. However, while he nattered on about what a prize he was, I came up with a plan to ruin him.”

  Now Bridget smiled. “Pray tell.”

  “I did not refuse his offer out of hand. I decided an easy way to have access to his finances—and therefore a way to destroy him—would be to pretend I considered his offer seriously.”

  Bridget shook her head. “I understand what you’re trying to do, but I must admit I feel dirty just knowing that he thinks there would be a chance to marry me.” She shuddered and moved closer to Cam, as if needing his protection from her own thoughts.

  “I have no right to call him out to avenge Lady Davenport’s death, therefore the best way to ruin the man is to wreak havoc with his finances. We will also start some rumors that will bring his honor into question.”

  Bridget grinned. “I like it.”

  He squeezed her hand where it rested on his arm. “I thought you would. You are a bloodthirsty little chit under that gentle lady veneer. Must be the Scottish in you.”

  She dipped her head. “’Tis a gift, my lord.”

  …

  Bridget slowed her steps as she descended the staircase from her bedchamber to the front door. Although still a bit sore from her toss the day before, she was determined to go hunting with the men. However, should she encounter any of the ladies, she would have to find a potted plant to hide behind. The whispers and gossip about her attire would keep them busy for the rest of the house party. And probably until the start of the next Season. But she had no qualms about what the men thought. If they found her less than desirable, then so be it.

  Once free of the house, she headed to the stables, where several men had already gathered. As she strode up to the group, Cam turned in her direction after Lord Banfield said something to him.

  Cam’s brows rose, and he broke from the crowd and strode directly to her, taking her by the elbow and moving back to the house. “What the devil are you doing, Bridget?”

  She attempted to pull her arm free, but he held tight. “I am going shooting.”

  “In breeches?” The horror in his voice almost made her laugh.

  She tugged again, to no avail. “Yes. I can neither ride sidesaddle nor shoot with skirts wrapped around my legs.”

  “Which is precisely why hunting is not a ladies’ sport.” The words barely made it past his tightened jaw.

  “It is this lady’s sport.”

  He continued to drag her, despite her pulling back with her full weight. Good heavens, the man was strong. She was no dainty lady, having inherited her Scottish forefathers’ strong frame and bulk, but he moved her as if she weighed no more than a mere child.

  “What are you doing?” She panted, trying to catch a breath as he got closer to the house.

  “I am returning you to spend the day with the ladies, doing all the proper things ladies do at a house party.”

  When he loosened his hold, she was able to break free from his grasp. “I have never been subjected to th
e horrors of a house party before, but from what I learned from Minerva and your sister, all ladies do is sit around and gossip while the men do all the fun things.”

  Cam stared at her, the two of them facing each other, both glaring, hands on hips, upper bodies leaning forward. “Go back into the house, Bridget, and take off those breeches and pretend you are a lady.”

  “You mean an English lady. This Scottish lady wishes to hunt.” Her hand itched with the desire to slap his arrogant face. That would show him how much of a lady she was. Isn’t that what ladies did when men took advantage of them?

  He ran his fingers through his hair and turned in a circle. “Dammit, Bridget, you could get shot.”

  Ah, was he weakening? “The idea is to shoot the birds, my lord, or do you need instructions on how these things are done?”

  He glared at her. “It is dangerous.”

  “I rarely miss a target.”

  He stopped and narrowed his eyes. “I assume this is a ridiculous question, but have you hunted before?”

  She rolled her eyes, thinking of all the times she and Alasdair Douglas had ventured out together, hunting game for the table and birds for sport. The stable master had been her friend and teacher as much as an estate employee. He’d taught her many things besides riding astride.

  “Yes. I have hunted before.” She closed her eyes and spoke as if to a slow-witted child.

  “As your guardian, I am responsible for your reputation.”

  Bridget raised her chin in the air. “I disagree, my lord. I am responsible for my reputation, and I fail to see how wearing sensible hunting clothes and engaging in a sport I am fond of, and quite good at, would affect my precious reputation.”

  “That’s because you are Scottish.”

  “And you are a Sassenach!”

  Silence reigned as they glared at each other. She had no intention of giving in. She was about to pull her hair out by the roots, this house party was so very boring. She’d been banned from the billiard room the night before and would love a Scotch whisky, but all she’d been offered since her arrival had been sherry and tea.