Seductive Surrender (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 6)

by Collette Cameron

  One hand resting atop the heavy desk, Mr. Christie, almost gloating in the power he commanded at the moment, relaxed into the chair, his mouth twisted in a satisfied—no, smug as the devil—smile.

  The snake-eyed, double-crossing, backstabbing, whore-mongering . . .

  The room remained uncannily silent as those present digested the news he’d gleefully revealed.

  She’d check the legality, of course. Dugall might well know the truth of it. Lloyd, too. After all, they’d attended law school. Though given her new cousin’s astounded expression, he was as staggered as she.

  Or, he might be a damnable fine actor. At this juncture, it didn’t matter which.

  Wrath and despair burgeoned in her belly, and she clamped her jaw, curled her toes, and balled her fists so tightly her neatly trimmed nails cut into her palms. Through sheer doggedness, she dredged up a composed countenance. Madder than an ol’ wet hen as Kandie would say, Gwendolyn struggled to inhale a calming breath.

  “As I’m sure you’ve anticipated, I require that the documents and amendments be reviewed by another solicitor. One chosen at my discretion.” She sent Dugall, sitting beside her, a rapid glance, and he gave an almost indiscernible nod.

  Little good that would do.

  Ire bubbled hotly beneath her poise.

  Most likely every possible teeny tiny loophole had been considered and addressed. If Mr. Christie’s satisfied expression were any indication, one of Scotland’s plentiful midges couldn’t find a gap big enough to poke an ant’s antenna through.

  If only the documents were forged.

  “Certainly.” Mr. Christie agreed, with such arrogant confidence she wanted to—?

  What was that Scottish word?

  Kelp him?

  Clobbering him was the least of what she’d like to do to the wretch. Tarring and feathering might be a good start, however.

  Lily-livered, deceitful, turd in the punchbowl.

  “But I assure you, the codicils are perfectly legal,” Mr. Christie droned while tapping his spindly fingertips on the papers, almost as a deliberate, taunting reminder of their devastating contents. “And as I’ve explained, as executor, I’m at liberty to use my professional discretion—”

  Dugall’s contemptuous snort cut him off. “Disna mean ye lose sight of common decency in the process.”

  “Precisely,” Lloyd confirmed. “This should’ve been revealed prior to uprootin’ Gwendolyn and her family.”

  She’d have thought he’d be pleased at the turn of events.

  Mr. Christie cut him a superior glance. “It’s all perspective, isnae it? My loyalty lay with Gerard McClintock, and toward that end, I carried out his dictates to the letter. He dinna ken all his male relatives except the child had expired. Had Gawyn saw fit to respond to his brother’s correspondences over the years—”

  “And what good would that have done?” Grandpapa had never, not once, mentioned Gerard. What had happened between the two men to cause such a divide that decades later, the elder brother felt compelled to exact revenge after his death? “You still failed to reveal critical information.”

  Rather than answering her, Mr. Christie quirked his thin lips. “Ye, Miss McClintock, are the one unforeseen variable he dinna factor in. And now I must decide what’s to be done with ye.”

  Not what you want to do.

  Gwendolyn longed to unleash her tongue. Instead, she pressed it to the back of her teeth. She’d give him nothing to use against her. If she’d been worried before that he’d wrest the guardianship from her, she was nearly frantic now.

  But he’d never know.

  He’d see it as a sign of weakness, and like a raptor preys on wounded or sick animals, Mr. Christie would sink his talons deep and tear her to shreds.

  Women had minimal rights when it came to children, particularly if they weren’t her own offspring. Single women had even fewer.

  It had never occurred to her that the guardianship might be challenged in Scotland. The English didn’t recognize many Scottish laws. Was the same true of Scotland upholding American decrees?

  The oatmeal she’d eaten for breakfast lay like a lodestone in her gut.

  Christie would challenge her position. He had everything to gain by doing so. He controlled the funds, and if he managed to gain the guardianship, he’d control the heir, too.

  Gwendolyn wasn’t above fleeing with her family if that’s what it took to keep the children, but if he succeeded, she’d be a criminal. And they couldn’t leave Scotland, damn Gerard McClintock’s crafty soul. Not if she wanted Jeremiah to claim his rightful inheritance.

  Neither could they move someplace obscure and live unnoticed. She’d seen scarce few Negroes—truth to tell, only one other—since arriving in Scotland, and their southern accent acted like a glowing beacon to draw attention to her and her family.

  Besides, the monies from Thistle Glen would only last so long. Perhaps she could obtain a position as a governess.

  She tapped her chin with a fingertip.

  Yes, indeed. That was a definite possibility. Educated alongside her brothers, she also could claim experience in managing the plantation and household. Surely the McTavishes had connections or knew of someone who might be seeking a governess.

  That would only solve the monetary consideration, however. If she were married, her husband could assume the guardianship, and Mr. Christie would find it a deuce more difficult to seize the position.

  Well, she wasn’t.

  She notched her chin higher and met Mr. Christie’s gaze head on. She wasn’t totally at his mercy. Might as well know now what he intended. “Do you mean to challenge my guardianship of the children?”

  Something akin to admiration flickered in his pale eyes. “Ye’re a spirited, intelligent lass, Miss McClintock. I’m sure we can come to an accord.”

  His gaze dipped lower, lingering on her bosom suggestively.

  By her agreeing to become his mistress? Not as long as it rained in Scotland.

  Only a blind person could’ve missed his meaning, and given the rough, muffled sound Dugall made, he’d hit upon the truth, too.

  “Is there anything in there that specifically addresses any sort of guardianship?” She pointed at the papers. “Anything that would prevent me as a single woman from remaining the children’s guardian?”

  Worry scythed a jagged path across her shoulders. No one had witnessed Markus’s laboriously written directive.

  “McClintock assumed an adult would inherit,” Mr. Christie finally said. “But if’n ye were married, yer husband would assume the role, and I wuldna see any reason to contest the arrangement.”

  “Because the courts would deny ye, and we all ken it,” Dugall said.

  Mr. Christie barely spared him a glance. “But ye aren’t, lass, so the matter bears deliberatin’.”

  Gwendolyn couldn’t prevent her small, jubilant smile.

  “But as the executor, with sole discretionary rights, I can tell ye that I’m no’ convinced a young, attractive, unmarried female is the best custodian for the children.” He angled his head. “What can ye offer as a guarantee of yer fitness for the position?”

  Alarm whisked the smile from her face.

  His vapid gaze slowly roved over Gwendolyn, in such a leering manner, Dugall and Lloyd turned heated glowers on him.

  It was nice to know she had two champions, even if her world had just been hurled teacup over ass.

  “Have a care, Christie. Ye’re no’ above suspicion, and I suggest ye act accordin’ly,” Dugall warned. “With Miss McClintock’s permission, I’ll review those.” He flicked a thick finger at the neat pile. “At once.”

  “I would like to as well. If ye dinna object, Gwendolyn,” Lloyd said.

  “You and Dugall can review t
hem at the same time.”

  What was Lloyd’s game? True concern or scheming? She didn’t know him well enough to determine which. He’d been the epitome of congeniality and cooperation since she agreed to allow him to act as steward.

  Did Gwendolyn dare trust him?

  She’d started to, but in the last thirty minutes their circumstances had altered dramatically.

  Pinning the solicitor with a disapproving scowl, she adjusted her shawl, taking care to cover her chest to her collarbone.

  “You might’ve divulged this information prior to me selling our home and trundling my family across an ocean, Mr. Christie.”

  Now what was she to do?

  She refused to meet Dugall’s eyes for fear the pity there would undo her. This little toad of a man would not make her cry, nor would she be blackmailed into a scandalous liaison with him.

  Fool! She’d been so stupid. So trusting. So desperate to flee her fourth botched betrothal. To prove being thrown over again hadn’t mattered, because she could boast she had a new, more exciting life to pursue.

  Truth be told, as much as she loved South Carolina, missed the culture and the people, the deaths of her brother and father combined with being jilted once more had taken a severe toll. And when the letter had arrived from Mr. Christie, she’d seized the opportunity to escape.

  She could make all manner of excuses, justify her actions had been for the children’s benefit, but deep in the recesses of her battered soul, the truth lingered. And every now and again, it bobbed to the surface, reminding her she’d been foolhardy and impulsive.

  Still, had she known even a portion of what Mr. Christie had just revealed . . . “One has to wonder why you didn’t divulge everything in your letters.”

  The solicitor lifted a sardonic brow, his smile growing even oilier. “I but carried out my client’s wishes, Miss McClintock. He wanted his heir in Scotland. It’s unfortunate if that excuse doesn’t satisfy ye.”

  “I find excuses are rather like behinds, Mr. Christie. Everyone has one, and they usually stink.” She shot Dugall a don’t-you-dare-laugh glare.

  To his credit, other than his lips twitching, he restrained himself.

  Lloyd, on the other hand, gawped as if seeing her for the first time. A slow, appreciative smile bent his mouth as he shook his head and rubbed the side of his nose with his forefinger.

  She’d never been able to control her tongue when thoroughly riled. And at the moment, a threatened eastern diamondback, coiled and fangs bared to strike, had nothing on her.

  Christie had to have known how outraged she’d be, and he’d still inveigled an invitation to stay the night. Was the man slower than a bread wagon with biscuit wheels?

  No, not a bit of it. That description was too kind and implied he couldn’t help himself. He’d planned this, the manipulating blackguard.

  But why?

  Did he think to finagle his way into her bed?

  That didn’t make sense either. She might’ve been an aged, horse-faced tabby for all he knew.

  A movement beyond the study’s leaded glass windows caught her attention.

  Jeremiah—jogging backward, gesturing wildly, and chattering like a magpie—and Kandie, holding Julia’s hand, wandered toward the stables. No doubt they wanted to take a peek at the kittens.

  They’d best hurry. The slate clouds looked about to spill their contents.

  How was Gwendolyn to tell them that Jeremiah held the title of Lord of Parliament, but Christie controlled everything else?

  Chapter 19

  Suttford wasn’t entailed as she’d been led to believe. Everything, right down to those kittens, had been put in a trust, controlled by none other than Mr. Christie’s firm. For which he no doubt received a tidy compensation.

  An annual allowance would be provided for Jeremiah’s care, education, and the operation of the properties, but Jeremiah—Gwendolyn—didn’t have access to the funds until he was of age. And only if he remained in Scotland until then. If not, Mr. Christie was to disperse the properties and funds as detailed in yet another secret amendment.

  For heaven’s sake. How many were there?

  The old laird certainly had been a mysterious, distrustful sort. And a manipulating cull. He neatly maneuvered her between a rock and a hard place. Had she decided not to move to Scotland, Jeremiah would’ve still inherited the title, but forfeited the rest.

  But she hadn’t known that. Hadn’t been allowed to base her decision on all the facts.

  Would it have made a difference?

  Could she have denied Jeremiah his birthright?

  Likely not, but she’d have demanded more information. Might have even required the troll to present himself at Thistle Glen.

  Now she was faced with an impossible situation.

  Because the rat of a solicitor hadn’t told her, claiming he wasn’t permitted to reveal that detail until Gerard’s heir was actually at Suttford House.

  As if she believed that. Mr. Christie’s conditions changed as often as the wind’s direction.

  Just who was the recipient in the event Jeremiah left Scotland was to remain a secret—only to be revealed should that situation occur.

  Awfully convenient that the solicitor was the only person privy to this critical information. She’d doubted she could trust Mr. Christie before. But now, she didn’t believe a syllable he uttered.

  The shooting episode of a few weeks ago lurched to the forefront of her mind, too. If someone had tried to scare her enough to make her leave Scotland, they’d no doubt assumed she’d take her nephew with her.

  Perhaps she ought to bring up the incident after all and gauge his reaction.

  No. No. She clenched her hands.

  She wasn’t going to say or do anything before thoroughly thinking the consequences through.

  The will’s other conditions created an additional pebble in her shoe, too. More like an elephant napping on her bed. The codicil specifically stipulated that for as long as Lloyd desired, the estate’s agent position was his.

  It seemed Lloyd wasn’t old McClintock’s great-nephew at all, but his illegitimate grandson.

  Given his slack jaw and rounded eyes, she’d wager Lloyd hadn’t known.

  Or had he?

  She considered him from beneath her lashes.

  Was that why he’d said she couldn’t so easily be rid of him?

  All this speculating and suspicions had her scattered from hell to breakfast.

  In any event, Dugall needn’t remain at Suttford now. He’d have no authority as steward if Lloyd was the acting agent.

  Such a profound wave of sorrow deluged her, Gwendolyn almost gasped aloud. Instead, she focused on breathing calmly and keeping her face expressionless.

  After the wonderfulness in his chamber, a tiny flicker of hope had ignited. One she dared not fan into a full-on flame.

  Besides, she’d already surmised he wasn’t needed at Suttford except to educate her on the operations of a tenant estate.

  Lloyd couldn’t be faulted for his superb management of the old laird’s holdings. So, until Jeremiah was of age, Lloyd would oversee the properties and Mr. Christie the monies.

  Which left her precisely where? With no authority to even order food for the kitchen without permission.

  Lord in heaven, the other ugliness the solicitor had disclosed! Good thing she’d been sitting, or she might’ve stumbled or fallen, so calculated and severe had that blow been.

  Steeling her riotous emotions, Gwendolyn swallowed.

  Was it possible to hate a man she’d never met? Even if he might’ve been her grandfather? Because, by jimble, she hated Gerard McClintock so passionately at this moment, her loathing sickened her.

  The old reprobate had alleged Papa was his so
n, not Grandpapa Gaywn’s.

  No! It couldn’t be true.

  But how to prove otherwise?

  There’d been nothing in all the documents she’d sorted through before selling Thistle Glen to validate or refute Christie’s claim.

  Truthfully, there’d been scant little in Grandpapa’s or Grandma’s possessions to suggest they’d ever lived in Scotland. Only a thistle brooch embedded with amethysts, a stack of ribbon-tied, faded, nearly illegible letters written in Gaelic, a couple of scribbled recipes, and a faded McClintock tartan. All lay tucked in the bottom of a trunk in her chamber.

  Dugall spoke Gaelic, but did he read it, too? Mayhap she ought to ask and have him read the letters. The contents might be useful given this disturbing claim.

  Christie rose and stretched his spine before rubbing his hands together in a satisfied manner. “I’m in the mood for a brisk walk about the grounds before dinner. I’d be honored if ye’d accompany me, Miss McClintock. We can discuss my suggestions about the best way to proceed.”

  Did he think she’d comply because he held all the cards at the moment? He might have a winning hand, but she wasn’t ready to quit the field just yet.

  Make that toss my cards onto the table.

  He’d probably try to steal a kiss or grope her as soon as they were out of sight of the house, too.

  “I’ve yet to arrange for your chamber, so I must decline your offer and do so at once.” She rose and shook out her skirts. “Cook had a question for me regarding the menu as well.”

  Both lies rolled off her tongue as if she were given to fibbing on a regular basis.

  Bewilderment lined Mr. Christie’s ugly-as-an-old-potato face. “But I thought a footman took my bag upstairs when I first arrived.”

  “Quite possibly, but it’s most likely on the landing or nearby.” Another taradiddle.

  Other than demand she heed his invitation, Mr. Christie had no choice but to yield. Mouth pressed into a peeved line, his lips like a goose’s backside, he slanted his head. “Very well, but I must insist on discussin’ how I’ll require things to proceed henceforth.”