For the Sake of a Scottish Rake

by Anna Bradley

  Meander along the edges of my life…

  Wasn’t that what he’d been doing in the months since he’d left Scotland? Meandering along the edges of his life? Wasn’t that how his brothers had wheedled him into this Brighton nightmare in the first place? Because Ciaran hadn’t had the energy to protest?

  Or was it just that it didn’t matter to him where he was anymore? Wherever he happened to be, he never felt as if he belonged there.

  “I make no promises not to swim tomorrow,” she said, startling him from his thoughts. “Despite what you may think, however, I don’t court scandal, sir. I’m fully aware of the precariousness of my position, but as I said, some things are worth the risk—worth the scandal. Don’t you agree?”

  Did he agree? He would have once, when he’d still believed risk led to reward. Now, he wasn’t so certain. So, he said nothing and stared at her instead, trying to make her out.

  She was an odd lass, to be sure.

  She was younger than he’d first thought, with a dainty jaw, creamy skin, and coppery red hair drifting around her temples. He might have called her delicate, but that kick she’d dealt him earlier said otherwise. She couldn’t be any older than nineteen or so, yet here she was, this tiny little lass, seizing her chances as they came, despite what anyone might think of it.

  She made him ashamed of himself.

  He should be grateful to her for it—for forcing him to see himself so clearly, but he wasn’t. Instead he felt exposed, and all at once he wanted to escape her. How had he come to be standing about on the beach in wet breeches, arguing with some troublesome chit who was chasing scandal, anyway? His nose ached like the devil, and icy water was dripping down the back of his neck.

  He wanted a bath, and his bed. “Come, I’ll escort you home.”

  She didn’t move, but gazed up at him, her expression thoughtful. “Do you come to the beach every morning?”

  “Why do you ask?” She wasn’t the only one who knew how to dodge a question.

  “Well, since we’re friends now—”

  “Friends! Beg your pardon, lass, but I hardly know you.”

  She gave him an impatient look. “Not yet, no, but that’s easily remedied. You could come down here to the beach in the mornings, if you liked. It’s one way to reassure yourself I won’t drown.”

  Ciaran gazed down into her dark, hopeful eyes, and some long-forgotten part of him struggled to the surface. What was the harm in accepting her invitation? It would give him something to do, anyway. But he smothered the impulse before he did something foolish, like agree to meet her here tomorrow. It wasn’t a good idea. It would be bad enough if she were caught out here alone, but far worse if she had a gentleman with her.

  Especially one of his reputation.

  He shook his head. “There’s only one way to make your morning swim even more scandalous, lass, and that’s by inviting me to join you.”

  She shrugged, not in the least perturbed. “I already told you. Some things are worth the risk.”

  Ciaran laughed, but there was a hard edge to it. “Maybe, but I’m not one of them.”

  She stared at him for a long, quiet moment, but then she turned away to pluck up the cloak spread neatly across the rock. She laid it across her knees as she perched on the edge and took up the pair of shoes beside it. “I suppose we won’t be friends after all, then. It’s a pity. You would have been my only friend in Brighton.”

  She didn’t speak again, but finished with her shoes and rose from the rock. Without asking, he took the cloak from her and brushed the sand off it. When she held out her arms, he helped her into it. It was a fine gray wool one, with a bright green satin lining.

  “Thank you.” Her hair had dried a bit in the breeze, and she pulled the bright mass of curls into a haphazard knot at the back of her head. He’d never seen hair that color before, so bright even the weak morning sunlight was drawn to it, toying with the loose strands around her face and turning them one by one toward the light to study each color.

  She drew up her hood to hide its dampness, and tugged the neck of the cloak tighter about her chin. Ciaran caught himself admiring the way it framed her features. She was a pretty thing, with those deep, velvety brown eyes.

  He cupped her elbow and began to guide her across the sand. “Where are your lodgings?”

  She pulled her arm gently from his grasp. “I don’t need an escort, sir. You’re very kind, and I’m, ah…grateful for your heroic efforts on my behalf, but I’d just as soon make my own way home.”

  Ciaran drew back, strangely stung by this rejection, though he hadn’t any right to be. If he had any sense at all he’d be relieved to be rid of her, but instead uneasiness rolled over him, as if he’d never see her again if he let her walk away now.

  “Wait!” He took a few halting steps after her. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

  “No, I didn’t.” She didn’t offer it now, but only lifted her hand in a wave. “I’m sorry I nearly broke your nose. Goodbye.”

  She turned without another word and began to pick her way daintily across the beach, leaving Ciaran standing there alone. The cool breeze blowing off the water sliced through his damp shirt, chilling his skin. His nose was still burning, and he could taste blood on the back of his tongue.

  None of these things were at all pleasant, but as he turned to walk back to his lodgings, he wondered—for the first time in a long time—if it wasn’t better than feeling nothing at all.

  Chapter Three

  Brighton Racetrack

  Two days later

  It was amazing what a lady could get away with if she only dared to seize her opportunities when they presented themselves.

  Lucy had spent the morning at the Pump Room with Eloisa, and her Aunt Jarvis. She suspected her uncle had been in a temper the night before, because her poor aunt was having one of her bad days. When they’d returned to the villa, Aunt Jarvis had heaved herself out of the carriage, a muttered prayer for the recovery of her nerves on her lips, and disappeared up the stairs. Eloisa had flown after her, her brow furrowed with concern.

  As for Lucy’s uncle, well…he took little notice of his wife, even less notice of his daughter, and none whatsoever of Lucy. Especially when he was in his cups, which was often. By the time Lucy came back downstairs after seeing her aunt comfortably settled, Uncle Jarvis was sitting alone in a dim corner of the tiny parlor, his bleary gaze fixed on the glass grasped in his meaty paw.

  And beyond him an open door, light spilling through it like a beckoning hand.

  It was an opportunity, and Lucy couldn’t resist seizing it any more than Uncle Jarvis could resist a bottle of port. A dozen steps saw her through the courtyard. She paused when she reached the road, but a quick glance over her shoulder told her no one had taken any notice of her departure. She’d just have a quick stroll down the road, and then return before she was missed.

  She hurried along the road, her heart fluttering with anticipation. The shouts grew louder as she drew closer to the tangle of wagons and horses she’d noticed earlier. She’d been on the far side of the carriage when they passed, and the windows had been shut tight against the dust of the roads, so she hadn’t been able to see what all the fuss was about, but she’d seen enough to know there were a great number of people wandering about. She’d heard the muted sounds of shouting and laughter, and sensed the air vibrating with suppressed excitement.

  Was it a village fair, perhaps, or some local holiday celebration? Whatever it was, Lucy knew with utter certainty she’d never been to one before.

  As she drew closer, she noticed that despite their haphazard appearance, the carriages and wagons were arranged into a rough, oblong sort of ring around a large, open space. The bulk of the crowd was huddled tightly together inside the ring, their gazes riveted on something happening in the center. Something wildly entertaining, if she could judge b
y the delighted roars of the surrounding spectators.

  It wasn’t just gentlemen, but men of every class and description, all of them shrieking and howling like a pack of wild beasts. Lucy saw a few women here and there, also shouting and shaking their fists, but no ladies. It looked to be a crowd of several hundred, and not a lady among them.

  Not a fair, then, or a local celebration. A race of some sort? A cockfight? That would explain the shrieks and howls rising from the crowd. Men were always at their most savage when blood and wagering were involved.

  Lucy passed through the clustered wagons, but paused at the edges of the crowd. This was the moment when a proper young lady would deduce this was not an event meant for proper young ladies. Lucy was much more concerned with adventure than propriety, but she’d told herself she’d only take a quick peek, and then she’d be back on her way to her villa before any harm was done.

  Instead of retreating, she drew closer, and closer still…

  She was within two dozen paces of the center ring when she encountered her first obstacle. Dash it, she couldn’t see a thing except a row of broad backs. Many of them were draped in billowing cloaks, the skirts of which further obscured the view.

  No, no. This wouldn’t do at all. She didn’t fancy the idea of watching a cockfight, but she’d come this far, and she wasn’t leaving until she’d had a peek at whatever was unfolding.

  She scanned the row of conveyances at her back. If she stood in a wagon bed she’d be able see over the rows of shoulders, but that much height would make her rather more conspicuous than it was wise to be, under the circumstances.

  A carriage wheel, then—ah, yes! Just there, a smart black carriage with gold fittings and a green and gold crest, and the coachman nowhere in sight. Surely Lord whoever-he-might-be wouldn’t begrudge her a perch.

  Lucy braced her foot on the hub of the back wheel, grasped the edge to haul herself up, then managed to turn herself around and balance her backside against the side of the carriage. Ah, there! Comfortable as could be. Now she could see what was so fascinating, and—

  Lucy’s eyes went wide, and a choked gasp lodged in her throat.

  God in heaven.

  Blood pounded through her body and rushed into her head with such force she nearly toppled off the wheel. She grasped at the spokes with one hand and covered her open mouth with the other.

  Two men, both stripped to the waist, were in the center of a roped-off section of ground, and they were—

  Lucy pressed her hand harder against her mouth as one man slammed his fist into the other’s face. His hand came away dripping with blood, but the man he’d hit—who should, by every law of anatomy have been rendered unconscious by the blow—only turned aside, spat out one of his teeth, then gave the thunderous crowd a ghastly grin as a red stream of blood spurted from his nose and mouth.

  They were pounding the life out of each other.

  She’d stumbled across a bare-knuckle boxing match. A pair of half-naked men, their fists flying, faces contorted with pain, blood gushing from places Lucy had never seen blood gush from before.

  Knuckles, fingernails, ears, and was that…dear God, it was.

  An eye, gone all wobbly in its socket.

  A proper young lady would have fallen into a faint. Or, if she did manage to stay conscious in the face of such brutality, she would scramble down from her perch at once, gather her skirts in her fists, and run back to her lodgings without a backward glance. She’d retire to her bedchamber, lock her door behind her, dose herself with laudanum, and vow never to tempt fate again.

  Alas, Lucy didn’t aspire to propriety, and she wasn’t a young lady at all. She was nearly twenty-one years old, and until she’d come to Brighton, she’d been nowhere, and seen nothing. She wouldn’t be stopped now by a pack of shrieking villains and a dangling eyeball or two.

  Still, there was no reason to be pea-brained about it, either.

  Lucy craned her neck around and peered over the roof of the carriage she’d climbed. A wagon stood a few paces behind, and beyond that was a sleek new phaeton. Neither was near enough to block the way into the open field beyond. If someone did happen to notice her, or the crowd grew too boisterous, she’d simply climb inside the carriage and exit from the door on the other side. A quick dart across the field, and she’d be back on the road in a trice.

  It would be the easiest thing in the world.

  So, she stayed where she was, one hand clutching the carriage wheel, her eyes wide as she took in a scene that would have made her Aunt Jarvis’s blood run cold.

  * * * *

  “It’s astounding, isn’t it, how much the human nose can bleed?”

  Before his opponent could recover, Tom Belcher, hero of the Fancy, landed another blow to the man’s face with a second quick jab of his fist.

  Crack!

  Ciaran winced. Ah, there was the distinctive snap. No mistaking it. His own nose had been abused enough times he knew it when he heard it. “Broken nose.”

  “What, is that all?” Sebastian Wroth, Lord Vale, pulled his hat from his head and drew his coat sleeve across his glistening brow. “With that much blood, you’d think the man’s head had been ripped from his neck.”

  “I hope you don’t have a weak stomach, Vale. It’s about to get bloodier.” Ciaran jerked his chin toward the ring, where Belcher had just landed a third punishing blow to his challenger’s face—a big, strapping Scot named McEwan. “Belcher’s got him, but I’ll say this much for the Scot. The man knows how to take a blow.”

  Vale nodded approvingly. “Seventeen rounds, and he’s still standing. Not every man who gets into the ring with Belcher can say the same. Shame we didn’t wager, Ramsey.”

  Ciaran glanced around them. The bout would be over in another round or two, but the crowd at the Brighton Racetrack continued to swell. “Good Lord. Would you look at this pack of scoundrels, Vale? Every villain and blackguard within thirty miles of Brighton is here.”

  “Here, foxed, and spoiling for a brawl.” Vale nodded at a group of seedy-looking fellows cursing and shoving at each other. “It’ll get ugly before it ends. The smell of blood always sets them off, and the Scot is oozing from every orifice.”

  Ciaran didn’t have a chance to reply before the big, bloody Scot in the ring managed at last to land a fierce blow. Tom Belcher’s head snapped sideways. He swayed, then dropped to his knees in the dirt. The crowd howled with rage to see their favorite brought so low by a damned Scot, and it might have gotten ugly right then, but Belcher was able to rise for the next round, and the dark rumbling of the crowd turned again to enthusiastic cheers.

  “Ah. That’s lucky. Brawl averted, at least for now.” Vale shoved his hat back onto his head, then dug into his coat and retrieved his pocket watch.

  “It’s nearly three. Isn’t Lady Felicia expecting you back at the Abbey this evening?” Ciaran asked, referring to Vale’s country seat in Lewes. Vale lived there with his three younger sisters when he wasn’t running amok in London.

  “She is, and I will be. Why don’t you come to London for the season, Ramsey? It could be good fun, and God knows you’ve nothing better to do. It might get you back in Felicia’s good graces.”

  Ciaran snorted. “Nice of you to invite me to share your misery, Vale, but I’ll have to decline. I’m not in the market for a wife.”

  Ciaran had coaxed Vale to join him in Brighton with promises of shameless dissipation and wicked debauchery. Lady Felicia, the eldest of Vale’s sisters, hadn’t been pleased to see her brother go. She’d extracted a promise from him to return within a week to begin preparations for her second London season. Vale had promised, and for all his frivolousness, no one could accuse him of being an undutiful brother.

  No one could accuse Ciaran of it, either. Lachlan had used phrases like “refreshing change of scenery,” and “invigorating sea air” when he’d wheedled Cia
ran into taking this trip, but Ciaran hadn’t been fooled.

  There was nothing invigorating about spending a month in Brighton with Lady Chase, Lachlan’s sharp-tongued grandmother-in-law, and Lady Chase’s bosom friend, Lady Atherton. Even so, Ciaran hadn’t put up much of a fight. Not because he relished the idea of a month in Brighton with two cantankerous old ladies, but because Vale was right.

  He didn’t have anything better to do.

  “Belcher has him.” Vale nodded at the ring just as Belcher forced his fist into the Scot’s ribs. The crowd shouted with glee as the giant staggered backward and lost his footing. “It won’t last more than another round or two.”

  “Just as well. Damn shame to ruin such a lovely afternoon with a riot.” Ciaran crossed his arms over his chest and ran a practiced eye over the crowd. Vale had the right of it. They were a rough lot. They surged closer to the ring with every blow, shoving and pummeling at each other to get a closer look. Nothing but a bloodthirsty mass of writhing rogues as far as the eye could see, except for—

  Ciaran snapped to attention, his spine going rigid as he rose to his full height. A flash of something bright had caught his eye, and for a moment he’d thought it was…

  Another flash of color, a familiar bright green satin, lining the hood of a lady’s dark gray cloak.

  Ciaran blinked, stunned. Good Lord, it was.

  She’d pulled her hood low over her face. He couldn’t see much of her aside from a heart-shaped chin and a few stray tendrils of hair, but there was no mistaking it.

  No mistaking her.

  That stubborn mouth, and those coppery red curls…he’d only ever seen one lady with hair that color. It was the troublesome chit from the beach. The lass with a kick so vicious it could put a mule to shame.

  Of course, it was her. Who else could it possibly be?

  First a near-drowning, and now a violent brawl. He shuddered to think what she had planned for next week. Highway robbery?