Secrets to Seducing a Scot

by Michelle Marcos

  There was hardly any room to walk around, dense as it was with men. Malcolm shouldered his way to the bar. At six and a half feet tall, no one impeded him. Still, the room got progressively quieter as he ordered a pint of ale and some stew and bread. By the time he made it to an empty bench in the back, the pub had silenced altogether.

  A man wearing a Cameron tartan walked up to Malcolm. “What’re ye doing here? We’ll have no slaighteurs here.”

  Malcolm hung his head, fighting to control his temper. He had forgotten to put on his gloves, which hid the scar that betrayed his dishonor. “I’m here for a meal and a bed, friend. I’ve no quarrel with ye.”

  “I’m not yer friend. And ye’ll get no hospitality from any of us.”

  A Dundas man spoke next. “Leave him be, Charlie. The cause can use all the men it can get.”

  Charlie waved a hand at Malcolm. “Bah! Ye’ll no’ get help from the likes of him. He’s a villainous slaighteur. Him and his kind are naught but rogues and knaves. They’re traitorous all, to a man. Look at him! Why do ye think he wears a black kilt? ’Tis because he’ll claim no clan … and no clan will claim him.”

  “Let the man speak his own mind.” Dundas was a huge Clydesdale of a man, with shoulders heavy with muscle and a head of copper-tinged hair. “My name’s Will. Ye’ve come opportunely. This here’s a meeting to come to an accord about the tax. We’re going to take a stand against the English. Are ye with us?”

  Malcolm ran his right hand down his tired eyes. “I’ve come for a meal and a bed. If I can’t get them here, I’ll be back on my way.”

  “There. D’ye see?” exclaimed Charlie, loud enough for all to hear. “Weak as water! Go on with ye. Piss off.”

  Will looked Malcolm up and down, his intelligent eyes sizing him up. He pointed down at Malcolm’s crimson-stained left hand.

  “How bad are ye hurt?”

  Malcolm looked down at the dried, rust-colored layer coating his fist. “It’s no’ my blood. It’s someone else’s.”

  A smile lifted the corners of Will’s blue eyes. “Not so weak as ye think, Charlie. At least we know who came out the winner in that fight.”

  A tide of laughter swept through the pub.

  “Who lost his blood to ye?” asked Will.

  Malcolm inhaled sharply. “Jock McInnes.”

  Will’s auburn eyebrows flew up. Even Charlie’s mouth fell open.

  “Ye killed Jock McInnes?” asked Will.

  “No. More’s the pity,” Malcolm answered. “But he’ll be dead enough once he answers for his crimes.”

  A rotund man sitting at the bar slammed his schooner onto the table, the contents sloshing out onto the wooden surface. “Jock McInnes was a hero to the cause!”

  A thundercloud darkened Malcolm’s features. “Tell that to the mother of the bairn he killed.”

  The man’s bushy beard bristled. “Freedom from the English carries a price.”

  “Oh? How many of yer own children are ye willing t’exchange for it?”

  The man vacillated, his jaw tensed. “I wouldna turn over my own countrymen, that’s for certain.”

  Malcolm’s eyes stormed over. “Patriotism and justice are seldom compatible.”

  It was a sad truth that had changed the course of Malcolm’s entire life. It was impossible for him to achieve one without forfeiting the other. Even now, at just past thirty-three years of age, he had probably amassed more enemies than most other men. He didn’t have just the English to deal with—the Scottish, too, were against him. He belonged to an outcast kinship, a bastard clan with no lands, no heritage, no honor. All his life he had struggled to reclaim what was taken from him. And now he was being asked to help the very countrymen who denied him justice. Wearily, he lifted his satchel and stood.

  “Carry on with yer meeting. I’ll trouble ye no longer.”

  Will dropped a heavy hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. Instinctively, Malcolm’s hand flew to his concealed dagger.

  “Friend,” began Will astutely, “I’ll wager ye’ve been ill treated by yer own kind. But ye’ll get no bother from me. Let me buy ye a drop of whiskey. And if ye don’t mind turning the blood on yer hands from that of the Scots to that of the English, ye may just find the justice ye are seeking for yerself.”

  FIVE

  “Scotland? What the hell is there to do in Scotland?”

  In the editor’s office of the Town Crier, Archer Weston leaned against the four-foot stack of newspapers that formed his seat back. It was his trophy, that stack, and his goal was that when it got as tall as he was, he would start his own paper.

  Serena chuckled at Archer’s response, which echoed her own words to her father. “I told you I had unfortunate tidings.”

  Archer bolted out of his chair, his lean frame shaking loose his compact energy. “Unfortunate I expected. Not catastrophic.”

  She sighed. “Don’t be so hysterical. Mine is just one column.”

  “Just one column?” Archer cocked his blond eyebrow. “Allow me to illustrate.” He turned and pointed to a spot on his stack about a foot from the top. “This is where you started writing for this paper. And this,” he said, about an inch from that point, “is where we finally started to turn a serious profit. Your column is the reason that women—and not just men—buy the paper. The ‘Rage Page’ has launched for us an entirely new readership—ladies of the upper classes. And more importantly, it’s the reason a whole new segment of businesses have started advertising in our paper. We are finally starting to emerge as a threat to the other major London papers. Two months ago, the Times launched a column similar to yours. But it had no cleverness, no sparkle, and it was so disparaged by the readers that they discontinued it. The public loves your writing. You can’t stop now.”

  She was a kaleidoscope of emotions. From one moment to the next, she felt flattered, proud, needed, wanted, and disloyal. It seemed as if she was abandoning not only Archer but also the many readers who followed her work. She looked into his pleading eyes.

  “What can I do?”

  Archer folded his arms in front of his chest. His navy-colored tailcoat set off the windswept blond locks that were just a shade darker than her own. “You must stay in London! You can’t make observations on what happens in Society from the remote hinterland of Scotland.”

  Serena worried her lip. “Maybe Scotland’s social set is more interesting than London’s. Maybe I can expose a new set of stories to the readers.”

  Archer tossed his hands in the air. “London readers don’t want to hear about who is seen at the caber tossing. They don’t know Lady MacWhatsit. And they don’t care what she’s up to. They want to hear about people they know, people they admire or admonish. They enjoy guessing who you’ll be talking about next. You are their eyes and ears among Society’s elite. If you’re gone for too long, you’ll lose touch with all those people. You can’t leave London. You mustn’t.”

  She covered her face with her gloved hands. “I can’t let my father go alone. He needs me, Archer. He’s not well, and I know he hides the truth from me. If he goes to Scotland by himself and anything happens to him …” She dared not even finish the thought.

  Archer went to her side and took her by the arms. “I’m sorry, Serena. Come here.” He enfolded her in his arms. “I shouldn’t make you feel accountable for our paper’s profits. Of course you must go with your father. You’d only worry yourself sick if you let him go on his own. In fact, help him. The faster he brings order to that savage country, the sooner you’ll come back, and the less the readers will miss you.”

  Serena gazed into Archer’s caramel-colored eyes. Handsome and energetic, Archer was to Serena an exceptional man. At almost thirty, Archer was well aware of his power to change the world, one word at a time. His boldness and rapier-sharp intelligence excited her, and their conversations sometimes lasted hours. Of all the men she knew, only Archer made her toes curl. Maybe it was not her column or London that she’d miss the most. Maybe it was this embrace, and
the gentle kiss he now placed upon her lips.

  “Bugger the readers. I’ll miss you.”

  She smiled into his cravat, her heart thrumming with excitement. “You’ve been absolutely horrid to me today. I won’t miss you at all.”

  “Then I’ll leave you with this to remember me by.” He took her lips in a solid kiss that made her giddy with delight.

  “If my father saw you kiss me like that, he’d have your head on a stack of your own newspapers.”

  “I’ll cherish that thought,” he said with a wink.

  Serena contemplated that kiss as their town coach rumbled through the English countryside bound for an unfamiliar northern destination.

  She looked across the seat at her father. He had been reading a sheaf of diplomatic papers until he quietly dozed off. He slept more and more, weak as he had become following his heart seizure, yet he was more determined to return to office. Nothing could keep her father from his duty to king and country.

  Although her father was headed toward his destiny, she was moving away from hers. Not only was London her home, it was her delight, and each mile that she pulled away from it was a physical pain. It was as though an invisible thread tied her heart to that great and bustling city, and it grew tauter and tauter the farther away she drove. Until, she suspected, the cord would finally snap.

  Now it became evident just how far she had traveled from the glittering London ambience. The landscape began to change as she traveled over the rugged terrain of Scotland. Gone were the vast manicured gardens and majestic mansions of England. Now she could only see the ruins of ancient castles and tiny crofts on the edges of farms. There were endless lonely miles between villages. Even the weather seemed to belong exclusively to this bleak country, as she left the summertime sunshine behind and entered a world grayed out by mist and rain.

  And as they drove past a solitary croft enclosed on all four sides by a mossy stone dyke, only one thought filled her head.

  How soon can I get back?

  The woman leaned against the doorjamb of her tworoom croft. Beyond the mossy stone dyke, a quarter mile from her farm, a beautiful black carriage rumbled down the lane.

  There had been a time when she had thought she, too, might be riding a carriage like that one. But that was long before. Before she had married too young a man too old. Before the shine in her copper hair had tarnished to a dull bronze.

  The good Lord had seen fit to deliver her of eight beautiful bairns, but now she wished she’d been barren. The crops hadn’t come in yet, and there wasn’t enough in the house to feed those who lived in it. The sheep had been sold off last year, and that money was long gone. And her a widow with no man in the house to look after them … It was a losing battle each day to keep body and soul together.

  She lifted the lid on the cupboard she used as a larder. She counted its contents out into her apron. One leek, four potatoes, and maybe a pound of liver. She stared at the assortment in dismay. Nine people had to be fed on this.

  Maybe if she had some oatmeal or flour, she could bulk up the meager offering, even make a crude haggis. But grain had become way too dear. The tax on it was beyond her ability to pay.

  If only she had a bit more, her children might not cry in the night again. The old ones were used to the rumblings of their tummies, but the wee ones only knew to wail. To hear them cry was a physical pain for her, and her exhausted embraces were not enough to soothe their emptiness. She swept an alarmed glance down onto the ingredients for their supper, as if somehow wishing would make them multiply. But this was all there was. The liver, the five vegetables … and the apron.

  An idea germinated in her desperate mind. She unfastened the apron from her waist. It might work. After all, the apron was made of soft cotton, loosely woven. If she tore it into strips, and ran it through the meat grinder together with the liver, it just might do. Minced together with the leeks and potatoes, and browned on the griddle over the fire, she might be able to turn a meal for four into a meal for nine.

  At least she’d be able to fill the little ones enough for tonight.

  But what would she do about tomorrow?

  SIX

  Though the long trip from London had been arduous, Serena and Earlington received a warm welcome when they arrived at Copperleaf Manor.

  Their hosts, Lord and Lady Askey, were as pleasant and hospitable as Serena could expect. Though he was English by birth, Lord Askey’s family had held lands in Scotland for generations, and he spent a great deal of his time there. He loved Scotland and its people, but he was a loyalist and he advocated a unified Britain. Politically, he was the perfect man to host Commissioner Marsh, being so well liked among the Scots. And personally, he and his wife made every effort to ensure that Serena and her father felt at home.

  Josiah Askey was a man of fifty whose graying hair seemed to have melted from the top of his head to the sides of his face. He had a jolly air to him, and when he smiled his eyes became little blue crescents. Comfortable living had given him a paunch, but he was yet a man of unbounded energy.

  His first wife had died of the fever, but she had given him two daughters: Lady Georgina, who had married the year before to a young man of means in Dumfries, and Lady Zoe, who was only fourteen. Although Serena was homesick for London, Zoe’s youthful zest and irrepressible friendliness made the separation easier to bear.

  Rachel Askey, his young wife, was only slightly older than Serena, but her May–December marriage seemed to have been made in heaven. Rachel Askey was a Scot from a noble family. She had a creamy complexion and strawberry freckles on her face that matched the rosy tones in her lovely hair. Recently delivered of an infant daughter, she was never seen without her nearby. She was bright in face and mind, and her kindness drew in the young Zoe, who embraced her as an older sister rather than as a stepmother. They were a warm family, and tried very hard to make Serena feel at home.

  But home was back in London. Serena made every attempt to keep her chin up for the family’s benefit, but she was secretly very unhappy. Being away from the City—at the very height of the Season—was a misery. At this very hour, she’d probably be climbing into a carriage, en route to a ball. She’d be wearing her new cornflowerblue confection with her pearl necklace and her white silk gloves, and her hair would be done up à la cascade with blue ribbons interwoven through the curls. It was a fashion she was looking forward to showing off. Her styles were always talked about and emulated.

  She’d be drinking champagne and dining on lobster, Cornish hens, and vegetables in heavy French sauces. She’d be surrounded by peers, politicians, and playwrights—men of ideas and influence—and ladies who drove the culture of the day. She’d attend the theater, Almack’s, museums. There’d be lawn tennis, picnics, card parties, and dancing. There’d be no end to her laughter and her discourse.

  Until Scotland.

  Zoe came in through the open drawing room door, munching on an apple. Her reddish brown hair streamed down her back. “The sun has come out. Would you like to go riding today?”

  Writing was what Serena really hungered to do, and the activity she missed the most. But she didn’t want to be a misery around the girl. “Certainly. Though I must warn you that I haven’t had a chance to buy a riding habit this season, so please don’t gasp in horror when you see me in last year’s style.”

  Zoe rolled her pretty brown eyes. “Once we leave the stable, it wouldn’t matter if you rode completely unclothed. There’s no one to see you for miles.”

  Serena smiled, but there was no mirth behind it. She closed the book she was reading. “Zoe, I’m really grateful to your father and stepmother for sharing their home with us. And staying in Fort Augustus has been most restful. But sometimes I wonder if it doesn’t get rather lonely here for you. Is there no set to which you belong, no place for you to enjoy the company of others your own age?”

  Zoe sat next to Serena. “Of course! Sometimes I’ll drive down to Dumfries and stay with my sister and her husband
. Or we’ll drive to Glasgow and stay with my cousins. They’ve just had their coming out.”

  Serena blinked, trying to phrase her question better. “What I mean is, is there anything for you to do that doesn’t require two days’ journey and several changes of horses? A party or ball to go to, at least once a week? Somewhere where there’s food and entertainment, and lots and lots of people? Where you can see what ladies and gentlemen are wearing, and where you can show off your latest design, too? A place where people of all sorts get together, and they talk about things that matter … or things that matter just to them? Where people whisper their dastardly little secrets, and other people whisper them over to the next person? Fun places like that?”

  “Well,” Zoe began, “in the fall, when we return to York, we reunite with our friends by organizing an autumn ball.”

  “In the fall,” Serena repeated with an edge to her voice. “And meanwhile? What will you do here in Scotland during these interminable summer months?”

  “Um … well, there will be the Saint Swithin’s Day Festival in Invergarry next month. That’s a great deal of fun, with lots of people. The Highland Games will be held then … apple juggling, caber tossing, and beer-cask rolling. And you can get all sorts of delicious sweets at the festival. That is, of course, provided there’s no uprising to cancel it.”

  Next month? Serena smoothed out an invisible wrinkle in her new silk dress. There was no way she was going to endure another month without the distraction of a social gathering. It was bad enough that she was far removed from the thrilling bustle of London, but to have to wait another month for the relative excitement of apple throwing, caber eating, and beer bathing was just too much to endure. She had to do something about this.

  She had to do something now.

  SEVEN