Secrets to Seducing a Scot

by Michelle Marcos

  Serena smiled back at him. What a charmer she was. More beautiful than any woman he’d ever met. Those sapphire eyes of hers could silently convey a thousand emotions. It had taken an eternity to get his body under control after he escorted her to her room. All he could think about were those plump lips, opening to him like petals in full bloom. He could taste them still. But the most magical part of it was that she had kissed him.

  He inhaled deeply, his chest filling with pride. He had changed in her eyes. She didn’t see him as just her protector now, or even as her servant. His reflection in her eyes had become one of a man. A gentleman, even. A gentleman suitor.

  He liked that thought. Even Ambassador Marsh had told him that he was as good as part of the family.

  Family. The word was so unfamiliar to him, and yet deep in his heart, beneath the years and the calluses, he still remembered what it felt like. It had been two decades since he had felt the joy of his own loving family. The happy memory of it was still there—not quite obliterated by the terrifying day he last saw them alive.

  Still, there was something else that worried him. As a protector and a fugitive hunter, he lived by a series of rules—foremost of which was never to become emotionally entangled. It clouded the judgment and made one react with the heart instead of the head, which was the first step in getting oneself or someone else killed. The growing closeness with the Marshes would make him less effective at his job … and make Serena more vulnerable.

  “So there’s the hero I’ve heard so much about!” said Lord Askey jovially when Malcolm stepped into the parlor. “Marsh told me what happened today. My boy, you deserve a drink.”

  “Thank ye, sir,” he said, taking the glass of golden-colored whiskey.

  “How are you, my dear?” Lord Askey asked Serena. “I trust you weren’t hurt by the experience?”

  “No, Lord Askey. I’m quite well.”

  “Thanks to Slayter here. Looks like they took a croquet mallet to his face.”

  Lady Rachel Askey threaded her hand around Malcolm’s elbow. “Come, Mr. Slayter. Sit next to me. I want to hear every detail of your misadventure.”

  Malcolm shifted uncomfortably. “Surely not, my lady. It’s not fit for ladies to hear.”

  Serena cleared her throat. “I suppose it’s fine for ladies to experience?”

  Malcolm smiled sheepishly. “Ye’ve got the better of me there. Well, it seems that these men were trying to frighten Miss Marsh. I just persuaded them to rethink their plans.” Briefly he touched upon the events of the afternoon.

  “Honestly, Mr. Slayter,” admonished Serena, “you’re about as open as a vault. If the incident had been a newspaper article, your account of it would have consisted of the headline.” Serena described everything in detail that had happened once she encountered the group of men.

  “One against so many!” remarked Lady Askey. “Mr. Slayter, weren’t you frightened?”

  Malcolm shrugged. “I suppose so.”

  “But that you should leap into the midst of those ruffians without a care … how did you do it?”

  “I had to.” He glanced at Serena. “I wanted to.”

  There it was again … a remark from Serena’s vocal eyes. She smiled back at him.

  “Enough, Rachel,” admonished Lord Askey. “You don’t ask a hero to recount his own heroics. Let’s into dinner, Slayter. I can see that Marsh here has a few significant questions to put to you.”

  To Malcolm’s disappointment, Lady Askey had placed Serena opposite him at the table. Though it was the proper thing to do, Malcolm had looked forward to having Serena’s new warmth nearby. Still, Lady Askey had put him in a place of honor, just to her right, and that made him feel appreciated.

  Malcolm looked with confusion at all of the glasses and pieces of cutlery. A bowl of soup was placed before him, and he had to hunt among the spoons for what looked like a proper utensil.

  Earlington spread his linen napkin across his lap. “Tell me, Mr. Slayter, did you recognize any of the men who attacked you?”

  “No, sir. But I did recognize a few of the tartans. There were two MacDonnels, a Ferguson, and a McInnes, but the others I couldna make out. I only wish I knew what they were doing so far from the rest of the Games.”

  “I know what they were doing,” said Earlington, his veal soup untouched. “They were preparing for war.”

  Serena went cold. “War?”

  “I’m afraid so. Negotiations have been faltering. Each side remains entrenched in its positions. The Scots are suing for various freedoms, chief among them to maintain their own judicial system, and a complete liberation from taxation.”

  Askey sighed. “That’s preposterous. No taxation? How do they expect to support the cost of the military, the monarchy? All British subjects must pay taxes. And the less said about their own judicial system, the better. Those clans you mentioned are a monarchy unto themselves, some of them no better than bands of street toughs. What laws can exist among such people?”

  Malcolm rubbed the brand on the back of his hand, which he kept hidden under the table. “I canna argue with that.”

  “It is to the Scots’ benefit to live as free men under a single British Crown, rather than under chiefs who impose their own laws.”

  “But there’s more to their quarrel,” Earlington continued. “They want a republic. They want to secede from Great Britain altogether.”

  “You mean like America?” Askey cried.

  “That is what I’m hearing.”

  “I don’t understand it,” Rachel added. “Scotland has been part of Great Britain for over a hundred years. Why should they want to succeed now?”

  “Secede, my dear,” her husband corrected, with a light chuckle. “But the question is a valid one. Why separation? Why now? And for the love of God, how? Scotland is, as far as nations go, the poor relation. She’ll never make it on her own.”

  Earlington shook his head. “It is a small minority that disagrees with you, but a vocal one. The Scots have moved beyond the negotiation stage. Bills are plastered all over Glasgow rallying support for a Scottish government. The Scots are acquiring weapons, provisions. It appears as though they are establishing a more aggressive posture.”

  “Why can’t the Scots be more like the Welsh?” Serena quipped, the music in her voice trying to lighten the mood. “You never hear a peep from the Welsh.”

  Malcolm chuckled and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Scots have never been supple at the knee. Even within our own clans, it is difficult for us to be servile.” He turned to Ambassador Marsh. “I must ask ye—are there any terms under which the Prince Regent will allow a self-governing Scottish nation? Is there any chance at all that Scotland may in fact become independent?”

  Earlington responded without pause. “None. The British Empire will not be divided. The Prince Regent has been very clear on this point—he will not have his government subverted. He has told me in no uncertain terms that he will suppress the insurrection, even if he must obliterate his Scottish subjects to do it.”

  Silence filled the room as they looked around the room at one another.

  Askey set down his glass, and his voice became grave. “Si vis pacem, para bellum. If you seek peace, prepare for war.”

  Earlington spoke in soft, even tones and measured words. “I’m afraid so. My desire and my most fervent wish, therefore, is for the Scots to crave peace as much as I do.”

  Being the only Scotsman in the room, Malcolm felt the weight of the outcome of this conflict shift to his own kind.

  “Sir, if I may say so, the common folk are no’ in favor of war. It’s true there’s a new patriotism among the Scots. But they’re content to sing songs in the pubs and tell old stories. They don’t want to be disloyal to the Crown. But they must do what the chiefs tell them to.”

  Earlington nodded. “I know that. The Council won’t listen to reason, preferring an ill-conceived rebellion to any reconciliation. But I am not unmindful of the truth of their griev
ances. I know that the new tax will be a terrible burden on the poorest of the Scots people. Therein lies my problem. What does one do when both sides have an equal claim on justice? When both sides to an argument are in and of themselves justified? Right is not always an absolute. Do we allow the man to choose which laws he obeys, leading to chaos? Or do we enforce his loyalty at the expense of his blood?”

  Askey put down his glass. “Judas on the one hand and Pilate on the other.”

  “Precisely,” Earlington responded, his forehead creasing in despair. “And I don’t mind confessing that I just don’t know what to do.”

  “Father?” Serena put her hand on top of her father’s.

  Earlington gripped her hand. “I know I am in a position of leadership, but that doesn’t mean I have all the answers. I know where I would go, but not how to get there.”

  Malcolm regarded Ambassador Marsh thoughtfully. The older man may not have had all the answers, but he had extreme clarity in the midst of so much uncertainty, and that was something he knew the people would want.

  “I can see ye’ve a desire to bring peace to this country. Yer vision is a noble one, sir, and as a Scotsman, I would follow it to the death.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Slayter. It only remains for me to convince the man who accosted Serena. His vision is the only one the nobles are following.”

  Serena swallowed hard. “You know who he was, Father?”

  “Yes. The one you heard called Brandubh … his name is Brandubh McCullough.”

  Malcolm felt a surge of ire course through his blood. “So that was Brandubh McCullough. I know the name well. McCullough stands in line to inherit the chiefdom of one of the wealthiest clans in Scotland. His father, the current chief, is on his deathbed, and most think that Brandubh will succeed him.”

  “That’s right,” concurred Earlington. “You might say he’s the Scottish equivalent of the Prince Regent. He’s convinced of the Council of Scotland’s ability to self-govern, and is vociferously recommending that no one pay any more taxes or duties to the Crown.”

  “Let me guess,” said Malcolm. “He’s telling the chiefs to bring the revenue into his treasury instead.”

  “Why, yes. That is what our intelligence is telling us. That he is using the money to secretly acquire arms from foreign governments. How did you know?”

  “Yer man McCullough is not just a rebel, sir. Given half a chance, he’ll become a tyrant.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know this man McCullough. I’ve heard he’s a glutton for power and money. I think he’s after more than just rebellion. I think he wants to rule the country.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  Malcolm thought back to what Will Dundas had told him at the Thorn & Thistle. By their third glass of whiskey, Will had whispered to Malcolm that it was in his favor to join the revolt. Anyone who fought for the revolution and helped name Brandubh McCullough the leader of the new republic would be rewarded with land and animals. “Word gets around.”

  The wrinkles in Earlington’s face deepened, making him look haggard. “Then I fear now more than ever for the Scottish people. For when such a villain is elevated …”

  “Father,” admonished Serena, “what have you always told me about fear? You are forever on about not fearing imagined dangers. Please don’t trouble yourself now with the uncertainties the future holds.”

  Earlington smiled wanly at her. “You’re right, of course. As was I in saying it,” he chuckled. “However, it is my duty now to see that my imagined fears don’t become real ones.” He turned to Malcolm. “Mr. Slayter, I ask you to be exceedingly vigilant. I am concerned that McCullough’s tactics may become increasingly violent. He will hire scoundrels, ruffians, men with no code. If my daughter were to fall into their clutches, they know that I would say anything, do anything, to get her back. But the Crown will not be coerced by rebels. Do you take my meaning?”

  Malcolm did, loud and clear. McCullough believed he could bend the will of Parliament if he kidnapped Serena. But Ambassador Marsh was telling him that if Serena were ever to be captured, she would be considered the first of many losses to come.

  Malcolm glanced at Serena.

  A man didn’t exist who could take her away from him.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Though it was nigh on nine o’clock, the gloaming was not yet over. The sky was swathed in a hundred shades of blue and purple, as if the heavens were lit only by candlelight. A chill air wet the night.

  Serena clutched her wrap tighter around her shoulders as she took a stroll around the gardens with Rachel Askey. She stole a glance at Malcolm, who trailed a few paces behind them.

  It had been two weeks since the Saint Swithin’s Day Festival, and during that time Malcolm had spent a great deal of time with her father. Earlington had found a surprise treasure in all of Malcolm’s knowledge of the clans in general, and of Brandubh McCullough in particular. But Serena missed having him around most of the day, and she relished the opportunity to step outside the house, even for something as simple as a walk, just to be able to reclaim him.

  Rachel rearranged the blanket around the sleeping child in her arms. “There, my wee rabbit. Mother missed you at dinner.”

  Smiling, Serena glanced down at the baby, who raised a tiny fist to her face. The baby had Rachel’s strawberry curls, but Lord Askey’s plump cheeks. “She’s a sweeting. And such a quiet babe, too.”

  “Aye. Hardly ever cries when I hold her. Nanny Muire-all is a blessing to have around—she was my nanny, too—but she likes to sing to the baby, and between you and me, she sounds like a cat caught in a roomful of rocking chairs.”

  Serena laughed. “My nanny sang about as sweetly as a wooden bell. And she smelled of old woman.”

  Rachel laughed. “Oh, aye. She does that and all!”

  They dipped their heads as they passed under a low-hanging branch. “You’re so attached to your baby, Rachel. I know we’re about the same age, but I wonder if I’ll be nearly as devoted a mother as you are.”

  “Certainly you will! It’s inevitable.”

  “I’m not so sure. In London’s set, I’ll wager most of the ladies hardly even see their children most of the day. Some of them go days or even weeks without sending for them.”

  Rachel looked aghast. “Sending for them? You make them sound like they were servants.”

  Serena shrugged. It seemed to be the way of things.

  Rachel pouted down into the baby’s face. “Oh! I can hardly stand to be apart from Annabella, even for the length of a meal. Don’t women in London love their children?”

  “It’s not a question of not loving them. Among the ton, children are meant to be seen and not heard. It’s just not very fashionable to have your children about all the time.” Even as Serena said this, she could fathom the absolute stupidity of the fashion.

  “Well, count me unfashionable. Imagine keeping my own daughter out of sight and out of mind! I don’t think I could do it. What do they do when their children cry?”

  Serena reflected on it. Whenever she’d gone to someone’s home to call, she’d rarely seen children in the company of her hosts. Sometimes they’d be presented to her, usually just to parade their clothes or their manners, and then they’d disappear with the governess. She hadn’t ever questioned it. Until now.

  “Gosh, I don’t really know.”

  “Well, I can’t speak for the ladies in the southern kingdom, but we here in the north handle things a bit differently. I know that when I hear my babe cry … my insides ache. No matter what I’m doing, I must go to her. Everything natural within me yearns to soothe her and care for her.”

  As if to test the theory, the infant Annabella began to fidget and then snuffled out a fussy cry.

  “There, there, rabbit. Don’t you fret.” Rachel shifted the child to her shoulder. “I’ll just go back inside and lay her abed.”

  Serena glanced at Malcolm, who stood with his hands crossed behind his back. “
Er, I’ll come inside in just a moment. I’d like to take a turn around the rhododendrons first.”

  Rachel’s gaze followed Serena’s, and she smiled surreptitiously. “Don’t be too long, now. It’s turning chilly.”

  Not where she was standing, Serena thought. Whenever Malcolm was around, she felt decidedly warm all over.

  Serena turned and walked deeper into the garden. Everything was steeped in shadow, the whole world in silhouette. But she could still smell the fragrance of the night-blooming flowers drifting to her on the ever-cooling breezes. A centuries-old wall, part of it in ruins, edged the formal garden. Behind it, invisible from the house, the wall was overgrown with shrubs and ivy, and it was there Serena was headed.

  A warm, husky voice caressed her from behind. “I’d like to see ye with a bairn in yer arms.”

  She flicked him a mischievous grin. “And one in my belly, no doubt,” she said as she plucked a pink bloom.

  “Aye. And that.”

  Serena hid her smile in the rhododendron blossom. “And in this tender picture of domesticity, do you also see me with a husband?”

  “No.”

  She spun around to face him. “What?”

  Even in the dearth of light, a sparkle glinted in his eye. “I imagine ye’d already sliced him to shards with yer tongue.”

  She rolled her eyes and continued walking. “I can see now that protectors are a lot like children,” she tossed over her shoulder. “They, too, are meant to be seen and not heard.”

  Malcolm sighed. “Serena, Serena. Feathers on the one side and thorns on the other.”

  “Are you going to continue to make belligerent remarks?”

  “I speak as I find.”

  “That’s the trouble with you. In England, a lady can tell a man anything, and the gentleman’s code would compel him to believe it … or at least pretend to. It would do you good to be more circumspect.”

  He laughed. “And leave myself defenseless to yer verbal fencing? No.”

  “Verbal fencing? You make me sound like I should be wearing a suit of armor.”

  “Ye’ve already got one of those. And a mace and shield. I can lob words at ye all I want, but they’ll just fall away like rocks against a turret wall.”