A Rake Like No Other (Regency Rendezvous Book 12)

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  “You cannot prove a word of your accusations.” The lady misjudged him.

  “I know them to be true,” he said, his tone as cool as hers. “And as they are, you cannot be allowed to remain in this house. But I am not entirely heartless. As one of my reasons for journeying to London was to sell my townhouse and that has not yet happened, I propose that you, your daughters, and your staff, take up residence there. I shall have my own staff moved here.”

  “Are you mad?” She looked amused.

  Lady Melissa said nothing, her eyes round as she watched them both.

  “No doubt I am crazed, my lady,” he admitted, shaking his head. “I should not offer you a new home at all.

  “But…” He paused, his gaze on a large gilt-framed portrait over the hearth, a painting of Lady Melissa’s father. “As my bride’s father clearly had feelings for you, I will not see your neck stretched. Nor will I see your daughters made to suffer the lack of a decent roof over their heads. London will also-”

  “My girls and I will not be moving to your townhouse.” She lifted her chin. “You can leave now and take my stepdaughter with you. Good riddance to you both.”

  “London will afford you all opportunity to secure advantageous matches for your daughters,” he said, knowing that was also true.

  The girls were prickly and vain, but also beautiful. Three poor sods would fall for them, paying any price to claim such lovelies as their brides.

  “Are you quite finished?” She eyed him haughtily.

  “Nae.” He looked her up and down, annoyed that he had to admit that she, too, was stunning. “You will surely attract a third husband for yourself as well, should you desire one.”

  “My desires are none of your business.”

  “Indeed,” he agreed. “But seeing you removed from Cranleigh does concern me. You have heard my suggestion. Accept it, or you will be left to fend for yourself without such aid.”

  “I do not need your help.” She spoke with finality. “I am not going anywhere.”

  “Ah, well…” Lucian turned from her to stare out the window at the gardens. “That is your choice, but be aware that I have witnesses who will swear that they not only heard but saw you instructing the men who tampered with the footbridge. Likewise, they will testify to having seen your men carry away the damaged planks and then burning the wood out on the moor.

  “Other men will swear they witnessed you order someone to hurl the stone planter from the roof, hoping to strike your stepdaughter dead.”

  “Someone?” She lifted a brow. “You cannot even name this person?”

  “Och, that I can indeed,” Lucian lied. “But I will allow the entire matter to rest if you agree to leave this property and sign over all rights to it, to Lady Melissa.”

  She folded her arms. “If I refuse?”

  “Then you shall bring out the worst in me,” he warned her, patting his sword hilt. “You dinnae want to see a riled Highlander. The blood of my ancestors runs thick in my veins. I’d make short work of this problem, no’ caring for the aftermath.

  “Only that wrongs are righted.” He gripped his sword, lifting it a few inches from the scabbard. “Have I made myself clear?”

  “You have.” Once again, she looked at him with pure disdain. “My daughters and I accept your offer.”

  ~*~

  He’d said he was going to kiss her.

  He hadn’t.

  Melissa frowned, wondering what did it said about her that such a thought even crossed her mind now, after Lucian’s kilt-clad, sword-carrying arrival at Cranleigh?

  Not to mention the revelations he’d brought with him.

  She glanced at him, here at the edge of the estate’s empty grazing pasture, with the rolling hills and woods beyond, sweeping down to the gorge and the now-infamous footbridge.

  Not surprisingly, her pulse quickened, her heart thumped, and she again wished he’d kissed her.

  She was doomed.

  “I’m sorry she called your kilt a skirt.” It was all she could think to say that didn’t come anywhere near to asking why he hadn’t made good his vow to greet her with a kiss. “She doesn’t know anything about Scotland.”

  He chuckled. “I have been called worse than a man in a skirt, lass.”

  Melissa smiled. “You do take one’s breath away.”

  “Is that so?” He lifted a brow, looking pleased.

  “It is.”

  His own smile flashed, revealing a dimple. “Then I shall wear my kilt more often.”

  “I would like that.” She nodded, her gaze flicking over him.

  He’d traded his plaid and sword for a sturdy tweed jacket, but he still wore his kilt and sporran, and as he walked along the low stone wall that bordered the pasture, his kilt swung smartly in stride.

  He had the most fetching knees. And not far above them, swinging as well…

  She felt a blush warming her cheeks. “Some say a kilted man is a god. Seeing you in yours, I do agree.”

  “Aye, well.” He stopped, his smile broadening. “I say the finest sight hereabouts is thon deserted pasture. I didn’t expect Steckles to gather his lads so quickly, nor to arrange shipping for the horses with such a swift departure.

  “Helping round up the poor beasts and get them on their way is what made me so late.” He strode over to her, set his hands on her shoulders. “Can you forgive me?”

  Melissa glanced aside, guilt pinching her. “I have every reason and more to be ever so grateful to you,” she said, her heart swelling as she stared at the pasture’s empty grass, so thankful that her carriage horses were now safe.

  All of them, and for all time.

  She lifted a hand, dashed at her eyes. “I do not know how to ever thank you.”

  “For what?” He captured her chin and turned her face back to his. “For rescuing your horses or ridding you and Cranleigh of the worst conniver in all England?”

  “For everything,” Melissa spoke past the thickness in her throat. Blinking, she peered up at him. “How did you know?”

  “You cannae guess?”

  She shook her head. “Not in my wildest dreams.”

  “And if I remind you Scots are canny?”

  “Not in my wildest Scottish dreams,” she amended, smiling. “Lady Clarice came here with a seemingly impeccable past. No one anywhere spoke poorly of her. Not even in London.”

  “Did she ever return to Brighton in all those years?”

  “No.” Melissa again shook her head. “She said the resort held too many sad memories.”

  “No’ a lie,” he agreed, his eyes twinkling.

  “You still haven’t answered me.”

  He lifted a brow. “Will you believe me if I tell you the truth?”

  “Of course.”

  “Right, then.” He released her and stepped back, drew a long breath. “It was her. Our very own old Scottish woman her black boots and red plaid shoelaces.”

  Melissa’s eyes rounded. “You can’t be serious?”

  He nodded. “I am. ‘Tis true as I’m standing here.”

  “But how?” She frowned, trying to understand. “Where did you see her?”

  “Out on the bog at Hampstead Heath,” he told her. “I’d ridden away from Steckles’ Frogbottom and was about halfway back to the Spaniards Inn when I spotted an old, black-garbed woman hobbling along the side of the track. She was a good way ahead of me. It’d been raining and the ground was slick so I worried she’d slip and hurt herself. I spurred my horse, hurrying to catch up with her.

  “She kept on, apparently not aware I was chasing her.” He paused to rub his chin. “It was the strangest thing. There I was racing after a tiny, slow-footed crone, and yet the distance between us didn’t diminish. I couldn’t figure that out, until-”

  “You saw her boots’ laces?” Melissa guessed, the chills racing through her, telling her that was way of it.

  “So it was, aye.” He lowered his hand, a look of wonder in his eyes. “A strong wind came up out
of nowhere to tear at her skirts and – lo! – for a beat, I glimpsed her little black boots with the red plaid laces.”

  “And then she disappeared?”

  “She did.” He closed his eyes for a moment, shook his head. “In all honesty, she could have nipped off the path, vanishing into the mist. When the sudden wind settled, a thick bog mist rolled in out of nowhere. Such fog is frequent on the heath, so who knows? Either way, she was gone, and I did search for her.”

  “But you didn’t find her?”

  He shook his head. “No’ even her tracks in the mud along the edge of the road.”

  “Oh, my.” Melissa shivered.

  Lucian shrugged. “There are stranger things in this world than man can e’er explain, lass.”

  “So it seems.” She rubbed her arms against the chills. “But how does seeing her have anything to do with my stepmother?”

  “Therein lies the magic, sweetness.” He smoothed his knuckles down her cheek. “As I kept on through the ever-thickening mist, I felt the most persistent urge to turn back and question Steckles about your father and his wife. It was an overpowering sensation that only grew in intensity the farther I rode from Frogbottom.

  “More than that,” he concluded, “once I started back, everything you heard simply ‘appeared’ in my mind. I just knew it all, and I did because I heard the crone’s voice telling me so.”

  Melissa looked at him, not doubting a word. “Alan Steckles confirmed everything, didn’t he?”

  “He did.”

  “Oh, my…” She put a hand to her cheek. “Was there really a letter from my father?”

  “Aye, and it remains at Frogbottom for safekeeping.” He smiled then, his dimple flashing. “You’ll never guess where it’s hidden.”

  “Beneath Steckle’s pillow?”

  “Nae, much better than that.” He leaned in, and a waft of his sandalwood scent delighted her. “Bamber the Badger guards it. The letter is tucked inside a secret niche carved in the back of the cottage name sign that the badger holds.”

  Melissa smiled. “How like Steckles to put it there. But…” She paused, thinking. “Did he say why my father wrote such a letter? I’m sure he gave it to Steckles because he knew the farmer all his life and trusted him. But why would he pen things that are damaging to Lady Clarice? He did love her, I’m sure.”

  Lucian shrugged. “We can only suppose, lass. I asked the same of Mr. Steckles and he said your father did indeed worship his wife, hence leaving the estate to her. But…”

  He glanced out across the pasture again, then back to her. “Apparently he did not wholly trust your stepsisters. The farmer said your father was aware of their resentment, how they often treated you, and that troubled him greatly.

  “So he took measures to see everything restored to you should they someday turn their mother against you. He included a full explanation for the authorities, if needed.”

  “He must’ve also worried they would seek to damage me once my stepmother died,” Melissa guessed.

  “That is the way of it, aye.” Lucian’s face was solemn. “I am sorry, lass.”

  “You have no reason to apologize.” She touched his face. “Far from it, I am most grateful, as I’ve said.”

  “You have.” He caught her wrist and brought her hand to his lips, kissing her fingertips. “I would just spare you the hurt.”

  “I am not hurt.”

  I just want more than finger kisses.

  “There is one thing…” she added aloud. “What about the witnesses you mentioned? Did the mysterious old woman tell you about them as well?”

  His smile returned.

  “No’ at all,” he said. “The idea was mine alone and came to me as I was leaving Frogbottom Cottage the first time. I suggested it to the farmer. Should we need such measures, and he agreed.”

  Melissa knew he was keeping something back.

  “What else?” She tilted her head, peering at him. “There is more.”

  He looked embarrassed. “That measure is no’ needed, so best forgotten.”

  “No.” Melissa smiled. “You surely know that Scots are stubborn? Well…” She poked two fingers at his tweed-jacketed chest. “My Scottish half insists you tell me everything.”

  His chagrin vanished, replaced with amusement. “You, lass, are as refreshing as a fine summer’s day in the Highlands.”

  “That isn’t an answer.”

  He leaned in, again treating her to a heady whiff of sandalwood. “If you must know, sweeting, I made Steckles promise he’d have everyone at Spaniards swear you and I spent a night there, and that your cries of ecstasy shook the inn’s rafters.”

  Melissa stared at him, her eyes rounding.

  Then she burst out laughing, bending double as she nearly convulsed. He patted her on the back, between her shoulders, and when she straightened, he gave her a handkerchief to dry the laugh tears from her cheeks.

  He waited until she returned the now-crumpled linen. “That amusing?”

  “Yes.” She swiped a knuckle beneath her eye. “Almost as funny as you telling my stepmother and Sir Hartle that we are to wed.”

  “But we are,” he declared, looking entirely serious.

  “You can’t mean that.”

  “I do.”

  She blinked, her heart pounding. “You don’t even know me. Not really.”

  He slid his arms around her, drawing her to him. “Do either of us know a mysterious old woman who toddles about wearing red plaid shoelaces?”

  “Not, really, but…” She couldn’t finish.

  He was right.

  “You’re saying stranger things have happened and do.”

  “So I am,” he agreed. “I have known since we met in the Merrivales’ cloakroom that want you, lass. More than that, that I not only want to take you to Scotland with me, but that I want to make you mine. And in all possible ways, including marriage.”

  She looked at him, seeing the truth in his eyes.

  He loved her.

  At the very least, he was falling in love with her. And – dear heavens! – she felt the same about him.

  “Oh, my,” she said, blinking madly.

  “You say that a lot, sweetness.”

  “Only when I am stunned,” she admitted. “And I find I feel that way quite frequently in your presence. Stunned, and…” She paused to smile at him. “Delighted.”

  “Then I am glad.” He returned her smile. “I want to make you happy.”

  Melissa’s pulse leapt. This was her chance.

  “I would be very happy if kept your word,” she said, hoping he’d understand.

  “My word?” He puzzled. “I always keep my word.”

  “Not this time.” She looked down, nudged a clump of grass with her slippered toe. “When you left me on the road outside Hyde Park, you said you’d kiss me when you came to Cranleigh.”

  “Ahhh…” His eyes warmed, his handsome face splitting in a smile. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

  She nodded.

  “And we are still at Cranleigh, are we not?”

  “We are.”

  “Well, then.” His arms tightened around her. “Let’s remedy my oversight, shall we?”

  “Yes, please.” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, figured that if they were to run off to Scotland together, and to marry, there was no harm whatsoever in a kiss.

  And there wasn’t, he clearly agreed.

  There could be no doubt because before she could blink, gasp, or – as he’d suggested, ‘cry out in ecstasy’ – he crushed her against him, lowered his head, and kissed her roughly, claiming her virginal lips in a bold, hot and stunning open-mouthed kiss that was long, deep, full of tangling tongues, shared breath, and more thrilling than anything she’d ever imagined.

  Indeed, when he kept on kissing her, not satisfied with just one kiss, she decided they should stop and kiss every mile on the journey to Scotland.

  Indeed, she’d insist on it.

  Chapter Eleve
n

  Many days later, somewhere on the Old North Road…

  Better said, to Lucian’s mind, it’d taken more than one hundred kisses, the gods only knew how many loud and rumbling turns of the carriage wheels over ancient Roman paving stones, more nights spent at crowded and creaky coaching inns, and countless feeding, watering, grooming, and resting stops for the horses, for him to reach an inevitable conclusion…

  Under no circumstances could he endure the remaining stretch of the long and arduous journey north without pulling Melissa into his arms, stripping the clothes from her lush and delectable body, and – finally – slaking the powerful lust he felt for her.

  Without satisfying as well, his deep need to open his heart to her, declaring his love.

  The truth was he didn’t want to wait until they reached Lyongate to marry her.

  Indeed, he wouldn’t.

  With luck, they’d finally put England behind them in a scant hour or so, crossing into Scotland with the gloaming. A perfect time, its soft, glowing magic ideal if he needed a bit of help persuading her.

  Somehow he suspected aid wouldn’t be necessary.

  She already liked kissing him.

  He’d stopped counting at one hundred. He hadn’t stopped kissing her and imagined he could do so for a thousand years and not weary of her. She truly was the reason he’d journeyed to London. He hadn’t known it at the time, but he did now.

  And he was grateful, more so than ever before in his life.

  Just now, she leaned against him, her head pressed to his shoulder as she slept. Her ability to do so hinted at her Scottish half’s hardiness, for along with the thinning of towns, villages, and even farmsteads and cottages, the road was also wilder. The smooth Roman paving stones, ancient but still structurally sound, were but a memory, the ‘goat track’ he’d veered off on, was a different matter. Recent rains meant mud and water-filled ruts, along with the usual rocks that made the journey a bumpy one.

  Even so, the great hills rising before them gleamed in the late afternoon light, and the boggy, rolling moorland they were now riding through made his pulse quicken. Each glimpse of black-glistening peat or stretch of heather set his heart to soaring.

  Even the deer grass and rocky outcrops drove home that his beloved Scotland was near.