The Scot is Hers: The Scots of Honor Series

by Knight, Eliza

  Giselle had told her mother she thought the baronet was a little handsy, and Lady Bothwell shooed away her concerns. Something about how all bachelors were eager, whatever that was supposed to mean.

  “Giselle!” Her mother’s piercing call interrupted her thoughts once more. “I want to hear ye practice the introductions again.”

  “We’ve already been introduced. Many times.” Giselle tried to keep her voice sweet, but it was hard. Why on earth her mother wanted to pretend as if this was a shiny new moment was baffling.

  “Still, first impressions upon gracing his doorstep will be most important.”

  Giselle sucked her tongue against her teeth, trying to stop herself from being impertinent, but she couldn’t help it. “I do no’ wish to marry him, and so I’m no’ worried about first impressions.”

  “Oh, do quit that whining,” her father interrupted.

  Giselle did not think her matter-of-fact statement to be considered whining, but her father couldn’t stand when she argued with her mother, even if Giselle’s opinion was just and logical when her mother’s was not, as was the case currently.

  “We’ve already been over this. Sir Joshua is taken with ye, and he boasts a sizeable fortune that will do ye quite well in the future. Not to mention the land in the Americas,” her mother said.

  Giselle stifled her groan before it came out in all its raging glory. “I do no’ wish to go to America. I wish to return to Edinburgh.”

  “Giselle, now see here, I told ye no more whining.” Her father’s tone had sharpened.

  “I am no’ whining.” She hadn’t meant to snap, it wasn’t in her nature to be so sour, but honestly, this whole situation was becoming too much. The stress of an impending match with a man who was going to stifle her entire being left her feeling ragged and distraught.

  Her father slammed his hand down on the seat beside him as if that crude and violent gesture were meant to silence her by squashing her words beneath his meaty hand. She didn’t jump. Not as she did when she was a child. Her father might have had a loud bark, but that was the extent of it. He left most of her punishments to her mother.

  As the daughter of an earl, Giselle could expect to marry a man of equal status, which the baronet was not quite yet. But once his father passed on, Sir Joshua would become the Earl of Marischal, which was indeed a prestigious, if not antiquated, title. In medieval times, it used to mean something more. The nobleman who protected the Scottish Royal Regalia and the king’s personal guard when he attended parliament. Despite the title being irrelevant in today’s age, her parents seemed a bit obsessed over it.

  And for Sir Joshua’s part, he was interested in her dowry, for he’d never asked her one thing about herself, and so he could not, therefore, know who she was in the least. Besides, she was fairly certain he didn’t care who she was.

  For her part, Giselle had learned a great deal about Sir Joshua, and that was because she’d had the not-so-great privilege of listening to him babble on about himself for hours and hours. Arrogant didn’t begin to cover what he’d revealed about his attitude. He was selfish, pompous, idiotic, mean—she could go on for hours. But her parents batted away her worries whenever she sought to bring his true nature to light. Instead, their eyes flashed in the way they had when they met anyone of importance, and right now, a marriage between herself and Sir Joshua was going to elevate their social standing to one they’d not been able to reach before. Or at least that was their opinion.

  Giselle was a means to their elevation, and they would hear none of her complaints.

  “Now, when we arrive, ye will offer to play the piano, and ye will sing as we practiced at home.” Her mother went on to mention several songs that Giselle had practiced a million times and still not perfected.

  Giselle grimaced, trying to quell the turmoil inside her. Her belly rolled and lurched. Thank goodness she’d only picked at her breakfast. She was by no means a talent at either of the tasks her mother set before her—maybe that was a favor on her side. She’d show Sir Joshua that he would want a more accomplished wife to host his many events, rather than one who sang as appealing as the squeal of a rabbit being chased by a fox.

  But she didn’t want to argue with her parents anymore, not in this small compartment where there was no room to escape. Instead, when they arrived, she would ask her soon-to-be betrothed if he wished for her to play and then modestly say she didn’t think her talent would impress him. Once he heard a few notes, if he were a gentleman, he’d put her out of her misery. This would be a tough spot because he was likely not going to be a gentleman. He’d likely dismiss her so he could discuss with her parents the coin they were about to bestow on him in a large coffer as her dowry. She’d be left to go through the entire musical list her mother had compiled.

  Rather than the jovial songs her mother wanted her to perform, perhaps Giselle would take matters into her own hands and play Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven, which she always found to be quite a lot more satisfying to a melancholy mood. If only she had a black veil she could don as well. A lass had to find her fun somehow, didn’t she?

  The silence inside the carriage was as good a prediction of doom as Giselle could have conjured up in her mind. She felt like one of the heroines from her books, about to be imprisoned in a tower for a very long time and not by the sort of hero who would let her out and that she’d fall in love with. Nay, Sir Joshua was most definitely not that sort of man. He was just as likely to lock her up for the rest of her life as set her free in the wild to fend for herself with the wolves.

  Except she had the sneaking suspicion that he was one of the wolves. And not in the way she’d once thought Alec Hay to be. Now, that man had been wolfish brooder, but something was aching and broken beneath that moping exterior that she wanted to soothe. Sir Joshua was just mean.

  The miles crept past in agonizing slowness, and eventually, they arrived at the long gravelly path toward Sir Joshua’s castle. The carriage rumbled along in such a way that Giselle was concerned for the structural support of the axle they’d had fixed less than twenty-four hours ago.

  Boddam Castle was not as impressive as Slains had appeared on the cliffs, but it was not exactly minuscule, either. The towers were imposing, and the stone edifice was commanding. Befitting the man who’d calmly nattered rude judgements about every person in his vicinity when he thought they weren’t listening.

  Her mother turned to her and started to pinch her cheeks a little harder than was necessary. “Do look alive, darling. Ye’ll need to impress the baronet with your charms.”

  Giselle forced a smile because to do otherwise was only to start an argument she didn’t have the energy for. She needed all the energy she could muster to deal with Sir Joshua. The way he’d practically salivated over her while her mother sat beside her in a drawing room, and while her father stood beside her in a ballroom, made her uneasy about being with him in his castle where he might happen upon her alone.

  But once again, there was nothing she could do about that. Giselle, who normally cowered from nothing, and had no qualms about sneaking out from under her parents’ watchful gazes, suddenly felt very trapped.

  How far was it to Slains? If she showed up on the Beast of Errol’s doorstep, would he let her inside to escape the Wolf of Boddam?

  Before she had more time to think on it, they pulled up to the front of the grand castle, and the grooms alighted from the carriage, set down the steps and opened the door for them to exit. Giselle stepped out, feeling every bit of the long journey as she stretched the kinks as subtly as possible so that she wouldn’t earn another pinch from her mother. Rain splattered down on them, even with the grooms rushing to hold umbrellas over their heads. The tips of Giselle’s shoes were quickly soaked with water, and she wished her mother had listened when she’d tried to wear traveling boots rather than these flimsy slippers.

  Giselle hurried toward the front door, which opened as she approached, with water soaking clear through her stockings now.
The butler ushered them inside, where she shook the rain from her limbs as delicately as she could and attempted to suppress a shudder. The castle might have been a relief from the rain, but it was not a relief from the chill. A rush of air stirred around her ankles, making the wetness of her stockings all the more frigid.

  “Welcome to Boddam Castle,” the butler said. “Please allow me to escort ye to your rooms. Sir Joshua will return shortly to greet ye in the drawing room for tea.”

  The butler indicated a winding marble staircase with a deep maroon carpet running down the center. The handrail was polished wood, either from the number of people who’d run their hands on it or from a recent wax, she couldn’t be sure.

  They followed the butler up the stairs to the guest chambers, a long, windowless corridor of closed doors. The sconces were lit and flickered with the breeze that seemed to come from nowhere. To be frank, the castle was depressing and most probably haunted.

  Giselle was the first to be placed in her room. The door creaked as the butler pushed it open and stepped through, indicating she should follow. For a split second, she almost took a step backward, but her mother gave a small nudge in the center of her back, and Giselle pressed on.

  The rose-colored carpet beneath her wet slippers was lush, and she looked forward to taking off her slippers and stockings and pressing her bare toes into it. The room was gorgeously appointed with silver silk wallpaper in a floral pattern and matching bedding on a colossal oak four-poster canopy bed. There were dozens of pillows on the surface, enough that she could sink into the mountain of them and get lost. Quite a bit different than the corridor, to be sure.

  A great marble hearth housed a healthy fire. A massive floral arrangement sat on the mantle and set before the hearth was a yellow brocade settee, the back of which was almost in the shape of a heart.

  This was a room fit for a princess, but it only made Giselle uncomfortable. As beautiful as it was, she couldn’t help but think it was some sort of bribe. A lure to keep her here. As if she would look at the beauty surrounding her, and it would erase the ugliness of the owner.

  Giselle thanked the butler, who disappeared, shutting the door behind him to take her parents to their room. It was the first time she’d been alone for some time, and she wanted to cherish the moment. Closing her eyes, she drew in a long, cleansing breath and then blew it out slowly. Though it didn’t completely revive her, even after ten times, she did feel marginally better until she thought about having to leave the room, and then her heart started to pound all over again.

  A chill swept through her, and she approached the generous flames in the hearth, removing her gloves to hold her hands nearer to the flames. Some of the chill dissipated, but there seemed to be a permanent shiver in her spine that made her anxious.

  She went to the window to stare out at the gray landscape and wished she were anywhere but here, about to do anything but sign betrothal papers with Sir Joshua Keith, the most loathsome man she’d ever known.

  A soft knock sounded at her door. Giselle whirled to face the white expanse of wood, staring at the intricately carved silver handle. When she didn’t answer, the knock came again. Well, her mother wouldn’t knock twice. Actually, the Countess of Bothwell wouldn’t even knock once. Believing it to be her luggage, Giselle called out, “Ye may enter.”

  But it wasn’t her luggage. Giselle’s stomach soured, and she was glad it was hours since the last time she’d had anything to eat.

  Sir Joshua Keith stood in the expanse of the doorway, his sandy-blond hair windswept but dry as if he’d been out riding in another world. There was a crooked, pleased grin on his lips that someone more naïve than herself might find attractive, daring even, for he was quite a handsome man. But to her, his smile only bespoke of all the ways in which he’d attempted to violate her before today.

  “Lady Giselle,” he drawled, coming into the room in a long, lanky prowl. His murky brown eyes traveled possessively and intrusively over her body, lingering on the places that were impolite to mark.

  She stared past him at the open door, taking note of the empty corridor and that the white expanse of the door was slowly inching closed. Och nay, that will no’ do. She couldn’t be alone with him, and especially not with the door shut.

  “The door, sir.” She pointed, pursing her lips and trying not to sound as brittle as she felt. The closer he got, the less she could breathe.

  He looked back at the door, then frowned at her, perhaps at the panic he’d perceived in her tone. “’Tis fine, my lady.”

  But it most certainly was not fine. She didn’t want the door to close, as if that small movement would forever seal her fate, and she’d not yet signed papers agreeing to be sealed. She still hoped for a way out of this. That her parents would come to their senses and take her back to Edinburgh. They’d laugh as their carriage rolled away at the momentary lapse in sanity for coming here.

  “Lady Giselle.” The snap in his voice drew her attention back from the fantasy of escape, and she stared at his sharp eyes that assessed her without mercy. “I wanted to welcome ye to Boddam Castle personally. Your future home.” He bowed low, and she took in his attire. Breeches, crisp linen shirt, jacket with shiny buttons, cravat. Everything about his clothes was neat and tidy. The epitome of a courtier rather than a Highlander. She decided he tousled his hair to make himself look a little more like a rugged Scotsman. To take away from the very precise and rigid way he dressed. What was the point? It only made him appear confused.

  Joshua straightened, a wide, toothy grin on his face that made her think again of wolves. As he bent over her hand, she half expected him to bite her fingers off. It took every ounce of courage not to snatch her hand back as he pressed his lips to her bare knuckles. Oh, why had she taken off her gloves?

  “Thank ye for the welcome,” she said, forcing her voice to remain as pleasant as possible. When in doubt, being polite was the only way to respond, even if she wanted to tell him being here was the last thing on her list of desires and to remove his filthy lips from her person at once.

  “How was your journey?” he asked, straightening. He did not let her hand go, however, rubbing his thumb over where he’d planted his mouth.

  Goodness, but she wanted to scream. Instead, she decided to be honest with him and let him know that their journey here had not been pleasant, just as she suspected the rest of her life would not be if she were forced to remain here.

  “Terrible. One of our grooms was struck by lightning, and our carriage had to be repaired when it slid on the road. We should have waited to come. Do admit that such catastrophes on the road are not a good sign.”

  “A good sign of what?” He tilted his head, studying her. His eyes squinted at her, and there was a furrow between his brows.

  Giselle couldn’t decide if he was stupid or if he was challenging her to admit these were all bad signs for their union. There was a twitch in the corner of one of his eyes and a gleam that came into his regard, which had her tongue stilling. This was more than a challenge; it was a dare because he wanted to react. And she had a feeling that reaction would be more unpleasant than his roving gaze or hands.

  How unnerving.

  “Oh, nothing.” Giselle took her hand from his to wave it away, both an escape from his touch and dismissal of her previous statement. She laughed in a way she’d learned during her seasons to convey that she meant to be silly. It was fake but necessary. “Just me being superstitious.”

  But Sir Joseph didn’t laugh with her. He didn’t even smile. His frown deepened, and the air around her became charged with a sense of doom. “Do explain.”

  Giselle licked her lips, fighting back a fit of nerves that suddenly gripped her belly. She gave a little laugh that she’d seen other women in the ballrooms do when they had put their foot in their mouth. “Oh, Sir Joshua, ye are funny.”

  Still, he didn’t bite. “How so?”

  Goodness, but either he was purposefully trying to make her uncomfortable or not at
all good with deflection. Either way, she was utterly failing at her task. Giselle was always straightforward. Out of practice with this sort of illusory conversation. Perhaps it was her face. She’d always had a hard time keeping her expressions hidden. Her mother often lamented that she was like an open book. And right now, Sir Joshua was eagerly reading the pages.

  “Are ye no’ superstitious, sir?” she asked, deciding to do away with the game she was bound to lose and embrace her talent for directness.

  “Nay.” He frowned. “That’s ridiculous. The weather does no’ predict anything.”

  That wasn’t entirely true if one were being literal, but she decided not to argue again because what she really wanted now was for this conversation to be over and for him to leave her room in peace. Her toes were beyond wrinkled from being wet and cold, and she desperately needed to kick off her slippers, yank down her stockings and wiggle her bare feet before the flames in the hearth.

  “Quite right.” She offered a demure smile, hoping that would appease him, even if it made her face hurt.

  His demeanor changed then, and he too smiled as if he’d not been displeased with her. Challenging her. Indeed, possibly threatening her. But his smile was not welcome, nor his advancing step, which closed the already minuscule distance between them.

  Joshua grabbed both of her arms above her elbows, his grip a little too tight, and tugged her against him. Her breasts were suddenly crushed uncomfortably against his chest. A sharp jewel on the pin of his lapel jabbed her painfully on the neck. Shocked speechless at the pain, she attempted to step back, if only to put an inch of space between them, but he held steadfastly.