Rose In Scotland

by Overfield Joan

  Caroline took great issue with his answer, but she decided she’d already pushed harder than was perhaps wise. Not that she intended letting the matter drop, she told herself, turning her head to gaze out the window. Mr. MacColme might think his reasons for marrying her were none of her concern, but she did not. Until she knew what he was doing and why, she would never feel safe from her uncle’s machinations.

  Idiot! Gaupie! Hugh berated himself as the duke’s carriage returned him to his rooms. How could he have been so foolish as to kiss the chit? The greenest lad faced with taking his first woman would have shown more finesse, and it infuriated him he should have so little control over his actions. It was plain the lady had the most disastrous effect upon his senses, and had he any say in the matter, nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to give her the widest berth possible. Unfortunately, he didn’t have such a say, and he cursed again at his impotence.

  At least she hadn’t gone running to her grandfather to complain of his behavior, he brooded, grudgingly giving the lady her due. Granted, an engaged man was allowed some liberties with his intended bride, but he was grateful he’d been spared the indignity of explaining himself to the general. Instinct told him the old soldier would not view the matter with any great forbearance, and he valued the general’s good opinion too much to risk losing it over something so foolish as a kiss.

  Unbidden, the memory of her mouth, soft and supple beneath his own, flashed in Hugh’s mind, and he gritted his teeth as his body hardened in response. He’d always been a man of deep hungers, hungers that evidently had gone unfulfilled for too long. Why else would he find himself burning for a wench who was buying him as if he were no more than a bauble in a shop window?

  The thought was infuriating enough to cool the passion firing his blood, and Hugh latched on to it as a drowning man would to a lifeline. Buying him. That was precisely what the Lady Caroline was doing. Oh, to be sure, the general had wrapped it all up in pretty linen, doing his best to convince him it was naught but a simple business arrangement, for his benefit as well as Lady Caroline’s. But Hugh had learned long ago to accept the unvarnished truth for what it was. He’d sold himself to buy back Loch Haven, and that was that. He would forget that at his own peril, and he was a man who protected himself at all costs.

  Angus was waiting when he entered the room, and Hugh had scarcely set down his hat and gloves before the elderly valet pounced upon him. “What did the general say?” he demanded, hurrying forward to help Hugh out of his tight-fitting jacket. “Will he help or nay?”

  Hugh’s fingers tore at the cravat that suddenly seemed to be choking him. “He will help,” he said shortly, having already worked out how to explain the unexplainable. “For a price.”

  “Aye,” Angus grumbled, “with the English there’s always a price to be paid for what an honorable man would offer for free. How much did the gileynour ask for, then?”

  Hugh paused to cast his valet a warning glare. “The general is not a swindler,” he said, his voice edged with menace. “He is an honest and fair man, and he asked not a pence for his help. I’ll thank you to remember that.”

  “Then it’s land he’s after.” Angus ignored the admonishment, concentrating on helping Hugh out of the brocade waistcoat. “The English are forever lusting after good Scottish soil.”

  The man’s unreasonable hatred put Hugh in mind of his father, and he wondered what Douglas would say were he here now. If the thought of his son’s taking up his sword for England had driven him to disown him, Hugh mused, how would he respond to the knowledge that same son was about to take an English bride?

  “General Burroughs is a duke with a fine estate and more than enough land for any man,” he said, an unbearable weariness making him sigh. “He’s no use for ours.”

  “Since when has more than enough satisfied the English?” Angus asked rhetorically. “Well, if it’s not land and money the duke’s after, what is it? What are ye giving him for his help?”

  “My name.”

  The blunt reply had Angus’s brows meeting in a scowl. “Eh?”

  “My name,” Hugh repeated, deciding the simpler the explanation, the better. “He wants me to wed his granddaughter, and in exchange he has promised to throw his support behind me. I have agreed.”

  The look of shock on the valet’s face would have been amusing had Hugh been of a mind to laugh. “Marriage!” Angus gasped, his eyes all but bulging from his face. “Ye canna be meaning it! A MacColme would never wed an English bi—”

  Hugh whirled on him. “Guard your tongue, old man,” he warned, the glitter in his eyes sending the other man stumbling back. “You are speaking of the lady who is to be my wife. Insult her and you will regret it, I promise you.”

  “But you are the laird of Loch Haven,” Angus protested, gazing at him in horror. “The people have suffered too greatly under the heels of the English to accept one as your wife. You owe it to the clan to—”

  “Never speak to me of what I owe the clan!” Hugh exclaimed, a great fist of pain striking at his heart. “All I do, all I have ever done, is for the clan! I have fought for it, bled for it, nearly died for it, and now I am marrying for it! So dinna tell me what is owed and what is not. I’ll nae be hearing it.”

  “But MacColme, you—”

  “Enough!” Hugh roared the word. It felt as if he was being ripped to pieces by wild beasts, and he knew that if he didn’t get out of the stuffy room he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions. Cursing beneath his breath, he stalked over to the corner of the room where his clothes hung neatly on pegs. The jacket he’d worn from Edinburgh hung there, and without pausing to don a waistcoat he yanked it on. Where he meant to go, he doubted anyone would remark on his casual dress.

  “What are you doing?” His actions brought Angus scurrying to his side. “You cannot go out without a waistcoat and cravat!”

  Hugh shot him a look that made it plain he would tolerate no interference. “I can, and I will,” he said, buttoning the front of his jacket. “And if you’re a wise man, you’ll hold that poisonous tongue of yours. I’m in no mood to haggle.”

  Angus sniffed loudly, raising his great beak of a nose in disdain. “If ye wish to go about looking no better than a penniless beggar, it’s naught to me,” he said, sounding as disconcerting as Aunt Egidia. “But mind ye leave yer watch and fob wi’ me, else the cutpurses will slit yer throat for certain.”

  The request struck Hugh as sensible, and he surrendered the items without comment. He also took the precaution of slipping a dagger up his sleeve and another in the top of his boot; a pistol went into the pocket of his coat, and at last he felt ready to partake of Bath’s less elegant entertainments.

  “Do not wait up for me,” he advised Angus, pausing to snatch up his hat and cane. “I’ll be out the rest of the evening.”

  “Out whooring is what ye mean, and ye a man handfasted to another,” Angus muttered, disapproval evident in his stiff posture. “ ’Tis shamed of yerself ye ought to be.”

  Hugh’s jaw set. His original plan had been to go out and drink himself into oblivion, but he liked the sound of Angus’s plan better. Mayhap a willing female was just what he needed to quiet the beast inside him. It had been longer than was comfortable since he’d last lain with a woman, and the notion was sweetly tempting. He closed the door behind him.

  Less than twenty minutes later he was seated comfortably in a tavern, a tankard of ale at his elbow and an agreeable wench on his knee. Both had materialized magically when he had tossed a gold coin on the table, and in his black mood, he was of a mind to slake himself with both.

  “Such pretty hair you have,” the woman cooed, running her hands through the waves streaming to his shoulders. She had untied his queue and unbuttoned his jacket within moments of latching on to him, and was doing her best to arouse him. That she wasn’t succeeding worried him, and he decided it was time he took a more active role in the situation.

  “Not nearly so pretty as your
s, my sweet,” he lied, giving her too-bright blonde curls a playful tug, and doing his best to drum up some enthusiasm for her expert caresses.

  The compliment obviously pleased her, and the blonde preened and wriggled closer. “I don’t usually get so many as handsome as you,” she confided, placing one hand over the front of his trousers and running an audacious finger down his cheek. “Even with this scar, you’re better-looking than most. Gives you dash, it does.”

  The image of Lady Caroline flashed in Hugh’s mind, and the memory of her touch and the passionate kiss he had stolen from her brought forth the result the prostitute had been seeking. She murmured with delight and gave him a gentle squeeze.

  “My room is on the next street,” she said, kissing the side of his neck. “A few shillings, love, and we’ll have a lovely time.”

  For a moment, Hugh almost said yes. His body was throbbing with a desire more potent than anything he’d ever experienced, and he literally ached for relief. The woman’s breasts, lush and ripe, tempted his mouth and hands, but even as he was reaching for them his conscience stayed his hands.

  Tomorrow was his wedding day. Never mind the marriage was a temporary one and not of his making; tomorrow he would stand before God and pledge his troth to a woman he scarcely knew. He would vow to honor her, and how could he do that, he wondered, if he took a whore to his bed this night?

  “Sorry, sweeting,” he said, easing her off his lap. “I’m expected elsewhere.” He dug out another coin and pressed it into her hand. “Some other time perhaps.”

  The money did much to soothe the woman’s ire, but Hugh thought he detected a flash of genuine regret in her sulky pout. “Like that, is it?” she said, rising to her feet and shaking out her skirts, her eyes already scanning the smoke-filled room for her next customer. “You can tell her for me she’s a lucky woman. There’s not many men as would turn down Polly.”

  Hugh’s mouth twisted in an ironic smile. “I’ll be certain to mention it to her,” he drawled, and then turned and left the tavern, his tankard of ale forgotten.

  Chapter 5

  It was her wedding day. Caroline stood before the glass, her expression composed as she studied her reflection. Her gown of rose and blue striped satin over a brocade underskirt was suitable, and she supposed the lace cap and wreath of roses wound through her blonde curls made her look the perfect bride. But the feelings in her heart were far from bride-like. This was to be the happiest day of her life, but instead of trembling with joy she was shaking with fury.

  “Jug-bitten, he is,” one maid had confided to another.

  “Drunk as a lord and sick as a cat,” came the reply, and both had shaken their heads with sad sighs.

  Neither knew she was listening to their every word, her anger mounting as she heard their assessment of her bridegroom’s deplorable condition. Granted theirs was but a marriage of convenience, but that didn’t mean she was without her pride. What bride could possibly relish the notion of a groom who had arrived for the nuptials thoroughly in his cups? It was not to be borne.

  ‘Oh, how lovely you look, my lady,” the first maid exclaimed, her plain face wreathed in smiles as she beamed at Caroline. “You look just like one of the princesses, you do.”

  Caroline, who had met the king’s plump and homely daughters many times, was far from flattered by the comparison, but her smile was no less kind for that. “Thank you, Grace, it is sweet of you to say so,” she murmured. “Is it time to go downstairs now?”

  “Yes, my lady.” The other maid came closer to admire her gown and hair. “The bishop’s assistant is officiating, and he arrived while you were dressing. Everyone is waiting for you, your groom included.” She gave a high-pitched giggle that grated on Caroline’s exacerbated nerves. “He’s most handsome, they say. Lucy all but swooned when she saw him.”

  Then she must have been standing downwind of the sergeant, Caroline thought sourly, since Lucy had said Mr. MacColme smelled as if he’d been swimming in a keg of brandy. An exaggeration perhaps, but it was her experience servants’ tattle wasn’t without a grain of truth. She only hoped her groom could repeat his lines before passing out. A fat lot of good he would do them snoring through the ceremony!

  With her maids’ eager assistance she was soon downstairs, fighting for composure as she waited to walk into the formal drawing room where the wedding was being held. She was about to give the footman the signal to open the door when she noticed her grandfather’s elderly butler studying her, the oddest expression on his face. She waited for him to speak, but when he remained silent she motioned him forward with a wave of her hand.

  “Yes, Campton, is there something you wish to say?” she asked, assuming he was waiting to offer her the best wishes of the staff.

  “I … er … indeed, yes, my lady,” he stammered, turning an alarming shade of red. “I … that is to say, Mrs. Brown, His Grace’s housekeeper, suggested I speak with you. She wishes to know if you wish to speak with her about anything.”

  Seconds before she was to be married struck Caroline as an odd time to be discussing household matters. “No,” she said slowly, “I cannot say that I do. Was there anything in particular Mrs. Brown thought I might wish to discuss?”

  Mr. Campton’s thin face turned even redder. “She thought that as you have no mother, there might be matters of a … er … delicate nature you may wish to discuss with another lady,” he said, looking as if he might swoon at any moment. “Questions or worries which may be plaguing your mind. She has offered to counsel you, should you have need of it.”

  Understanding dawned in a blaze of light, and it was all Caroline could do to keep from bursting into laughter. Only the knowledge that poor Mr. Campton would doubtlessly expire from embarrassment kept her from doing just that, and she managed to dredge up a polite smile on his behalf.

  “You may thank Mrs. Brown for her kind offer, Mr. Campton,” she said in a strained voice. “It is very good of her to consider my … er … sensibilities, but my governess believed in a thorough education. I have neither questions nor worries about anything, I assure you.”

  Mr. Campton’s thin shoulders sagged with relief. “Very good, my lady,” he said, offering her a formal bow. “And pray accept the best wishes from the staff and myself. Sergeant MacColme strikes me as a most worthy gentleman, and I know this marriage will make His Grace very happy.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Campton,” she murmured, glad this farce of a marriage was pleasing someone. The Lord knew she was less than pleased with the prospect, and if there was the slightest bit of truth to the tales of his inebriated state, neither was Mr. MacColme. Still, she didn’t see that they had any choice. They might neither be the other’s dream intended, but they were stuck with each other. For just a year, though, she reminded herself, turning back toward the door. At the end of it, she would be free. Free. She savored the word, drawing strength from the promise of it, and then stepped forward, motioning the footman to open the door.

  To her surprise there were at least half a dozen people waiting for her in the sunlit drawing room. She saw her grandfather first, impressive in his regimentals, and then her gaze settled on the tall, russet-haired man waiting beside him. He was also in his uniform, and the sight of him made the breath catch in her throat. Gazing at his broad shoulders and muscular chest, shown to their best advantage by the cut of his scarlet coat, she could see why the unknown Lucy should have grown weak at the sight of him. He was without doubt one of the most handsome men she had ever seen.

  “My dear.” Her grandfather stepped forward to meet her, his blue eyes shining with happiness as he carried her hand to his lips. “How beautiful you look. Your father and mother would be so proud if they could see you.”

  “Thank you, Grandfather,” she said, a painful lump lodging in her throat. Her parents had married for love, and she knew it had been their hope she would follow in their footsteps. That she was not made her feel as if she was betraying them on some fundamental level, and for a harrowi
ng moment tears threatened. She blinked them back, and gave her grandfather a bright smile.

  “How dashing you look,” she said with a light laugh. “I hope you don’t go about in your regimentals very often, else there won’t be a feminine heart safe in the whole of Bath.”

  He preened at her words. “Oh, I much doubt the ladies would pay an old warhorse like me any mind,” he chuckled, guiding her to where Mr. MacColme was standing. “Not with so many handsome soldiers littering the Pump Room and assemblies. And speaking of handsome soldiers …” He took her hand and placed it in Mr. MacColme’s. “Your groom, my lady.”

  “Lady Caroline.” His gaze held hers, his gloved fingers warm as they closed around her own. “Are you ready?”

  She gave a jerky nod, a sudden burst of sheer terror rendering her speechless. Now that the actual moment had arrived, her courage wavered, and she wanted nothing more than to pick up her skirts and run screaming from the room. Her muscles tensed in readiness, but before she could give in to the panic clawing at her, Hugh did the most extraordinary thing. He smiled at her.

  “There’s no need to break rank and flee,” he murmured, his deep voice reassuring. “It will be all right. Everything will work out in the end; you’ll see.”

  Would it? Caroline didn’t see how such a thing could be possible, but she let herself be persuaded. If he could be so calm, she told herself, then so could she.

  The ceremony was brief, and she kept her attention firmly fixed on the minister; her voice was cool and steady when she repeated her lines. Finally the blessing was given, and she turned to the man who was now legally her husband.

  His expression was surprisingly solemn, his green eyes full of shadows as he gazed down into her face. Standing so close, she could feel the warmth emanating from his strong body, and catch the faintest whiff of the spicy cologne he favored. It made her remember the servants’ gossip, and she breathed a sigh of relief it had been so wrong. His face might be strained and his eyes the slightest bit bloodshot, but Mr. MacColme—Hugh, she corrected herself—was far from bosky.