My Highland Lord (Highland Lords)

by Scott, Tarah

  What did she want?

  He wrapped a hand around her waist and began a slow walk back toward the ballroom. “It was foolish of you to run off as you did from Brahan Seer,” he said. "And then the inn.” He made a tsking sound. “You can imagine my concern when I learned you were gone.”

  “For all the good it did me,” she said under her breath. Were her legs ever going to feel strong again?

  He laughed. “Don't expect me to believe you would have it any other way. By the way,” he added, and reached into his breast pocket, “I believe this is yours.”

  He took her hand and pressed something into her palm. Phoebe discerned the cool metal of a ring and held it up in the moonlight.

  “What—my God, it’s not?”

  “Yes, it's your mother’s ring,” he said.

  “But how—”

  “I can't take credit. It was Donald. He realized the importance of the piece and procured it for me. I am eternally grateful, of course.”

  “How did you know it was my mother’s ring?” Phoebe asked.

  “Your uncle recognized it. How else?”

  How else, indeed? Phoebe groaned. She had all but forgotten about her uncle.

  *****

  When Kiernan led Phoebe back into the ballroom, his father turned from the group he was talking with as if aware of their entrance. Over the heads of the couples dancing, their eyes met and Kiernan knew exactly what his father was thinking: any more stolen moments alone in the garden with your future wife and I'll horsewhip you.

  The twitch of a smile pulled at Kiernan's mouth and his father's expression darkened. Kiernan shifted his gaze to Phoebe and understood his father's irritation. Her left sleeve had slipped too far down her shoulder, exposing the curve of her breast more shockingly than did the low bodice of the olive green gown. That would teach him to half undress a woman—his betrothed—in public.

  Kiernan pulled her tight, pressing the lovely breast against his side.

  Her head snapped up, eyes dark with indignation. "Sir, I am not some streetwalker to be mauled."

  "I quite agree," he said. "Which is why you might want to adjust your sleeve."

  She frowned and looked down. "By heavens."

  Phoebe grasped the sleeve and jerked it up. His cock jerked in response to the shift of creamy flesh as she pulled the bodice back into place over her full breasts. Damnation, he'd only managed to control his lust so that he didn't draw stares when they entered the ballroom.

  He looked up to see his father still staring. Kiernan sighed. "Shall we, my dear?" He guided her through the crowd surrounding the dancers toward his father.

  They neared the duke on the far side of the ballroom and her eyes widened when he smiled at her.

  Kiernan bent his head and whispered, "You jumped from a moving carriage, but my father terrifies you?"

  "Your father is determined that I marry you," she said under her breath.

  "Phoebe, I am determined that you marry me."

  "You, I can ignore."

  "You weren't able to ignore me in the garden."

  "My lord," she exclaimed, then blushed at a woman who was staring.

  "Good evening, Lady Benette." Kiernan canted his head in the woman's direction. Her gaze flew to his and he lifted a brow. She visibly swallowed, then whirled away from him. "Lovely woman," he commented. "I believe her daughter ran off with Lord Phillips when she was eighteen," Kiernan said in a loud whisper. He didn't miss the stiffening of Lady Benette's shoulders as he and Phoebe passed her. They neared his father and Phoebe slowed. "Courage, my dear," he whispered. "He isn't an ogre."

  "No," she said under her breath, "that would be you."

  Kiernan brought them to a halt before his father, and Phoebe dropped into a low bow. "Your Grace."

  He grasped her hand and pulled her upright. "None of that. As I said before, you can call me Father. You're well?" he asked.

  "Yes, Your-er, sir."

  He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "Lass, we welcome you into our family."

  Surprise flickered in her eyes. "I see where your son gets his straightforward manner."

  Kiernan's father shot him a look that said he'd better not be too straight forward, then said to Phoebe, "Honesty is the best, wouldn't you agree?"

  "I do," she said.

  He released her hand. "Your uncle is here, he and your aunt accompanied us. I understand you haven't seen him since your arrival in London."

  "He came with you?" Her eyes narrowed. "So my new father and uncle are ganging up on me."

  "I wouldn't say ganging up."

  "No?"

  "No. We had business to settle."

  "Is that what you call me: business?"

  "Phoebe," Kiernan began, but her gaze shifted past his father. Kiernan followed her line of sight and saw Regan talking with Lord Mallory. Lord Harrington joined their group.

  "When did Lord Stoneleigh return to London?" Phoebe asked.

  "I believe he arrived two days ago. If you recall, I was forced to convalesce," Kiernan said.

  "You saved my son's life," his father said.

  Phoebe smiled sweetly. "One good turn deserves another, wouldn't you agree?"

  "Aye," he replied. "But allowing you to become a pariah isn't a good turn."

  "Your Grace—" She stopped when Regan, Mallory, and Harrington arrived at Kiernan's father's side.

  "I believe congratulations are in order," Regan addressed Kiernan, then faced Phoebe. "Miss Wallington." He gave a slight bow. "May I present Lord Mallory and Lord Harrington.

  Lord Mallory bowed. "Miss Wallington."

  "Madam." Lord Harrington inclined his head.

  "My lords." She offered a graceful bow that was the epitome of gentility, but had her gaze lingered for a bare instant too long on Lord Mallory?

  Lord Redgrave appeared at Phoebe's side and Kiernan was sure he heard her groan.

  "Your Grace," she addressed his father, then looked at Kiernan, "Lord Ashlund, may I present Lord Alistair Redgrave. He is a long time family friend and my escort tonight."

  "Your Grace," Alistair said to the duke, then looked at Kiernan, "Lord Ashlund, my congratulations on your upcoming marriage."

  Kiernan nodded. "Thank you."

  "So, when is the wedding?" Regan said.

  Phoebe shot him a look filled with daggers, but his grin didn’t falter.

  "We're in the planning stage," Kiernan said.

  "A year from now," Phoebe put in.

  The duke cut his gaze onto her.

  "As I said," Kiernan quickly added, "a proper wedding takes some time to plan."

  "A year," Phoebe emphasized.

  Her gaze moved past him and her eyes widened. Kiernan glanced over his shoulder to see her uncle headed toward them.

  Kiernan grasped her hand and slipped it into the crook of his arm as he turned to face her uncle, and whispered, "Forgot all about him, didn't you?"

  Her head snapped up and he read in her eyes that she would avenge herself on him for having brought his father and her uncle to corner her at the party. He was sure she would have said something had her uncle not reached them and pulled her into a hug.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Phoebe wished she could forget about her uncle. It was immediately clear a night’s rest hadn't softened him. They sat in his library, him behind his desk, her in the chair opposite him. She glanced at the portrait of her mother and father hanging on the wall behind him. Lord Albery had never replaced the picture with one of him and his wife. Tenderness rippled through her and she looked back at him.

  “Uncle,” she said, “Lord Ashlund has explained the circumstances. Surely you understand my position?”

  “The marquess was wrong to have taken you against your will," he replied. "But he wouldn't have mistaken you for Miss Ballingham had you not been in her company.”

  “I wasn't in her company—”

  “You're friends with her, aren’t you?”

  Phoebe sighed. “Yes.”
r />   “You were in her coach and,” he paused to give her a reproving look, “you were cavorting with her lover.”

  “It's not as bad as all that, I assure you, Uncle.”

  “Phoebe, I have tried my best to guide you.” Guilt replaced her earlier tenderness when his expression turned anxious. “But this sort of behavior... It is past time you married. Your aunt and I had never hoped to make such a fine connection for you. You will marry Ashlund."

  “I have told him I will marry him,” Phoebe replied, “but not before a year.”

  “A year, is it?”

  “A year is an acceptable engagement.”

  “Given the circumstances, don’t you think that is a bit overdone? Not to mention, women of your age don't usually wait any longer than necessary.”

  “Afraid the marquess will change his mind?"

  “Not in the least. The special license he obtained proves his intentions.”

  “Special license?” Phoebe blurted. “He said nothing of this last night.”

  “My guess is, he knew better.”

  “I won't marry before a year,” she said.

  “If you think to wait until after your twenty-fifth birthday, collect your inheritance, then thumb your nose at the lot of us, you can think again.”

  “The money isn't the issue.”

  “Indeed, it is,” he replied. “The arrangements have been made.” He paused, then added, “You are aware that I am in charge of your finances?”

  “Of course.” She angled her head. “And a fine job you have done. I have no complaints.”

  “Enough of the flattery. I have more control over matters than you might like.”

  She stilled.

  “There's a codicil to your mother’s will that gives me control of your inheritance.”

  “What sort of control?”

  “Your mother was concerned that fortune hunters…”

  Phoebe kept her gaze steady. “Fortune hunters such as Brandon?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have the authority to withhold my inheritance?”

  He nodded again.

  “So, it would have done Brandon no good to marry me. Did he know this?”

  Her uncle didn't answer immediately, but finally said, “He did.”

  “Most interesting. Yet he married me anyway. How do you account for that?”

  Silence drew out between them so long, Phoebe wondered if he would answer, but he did. “He told me that if I didn't pay him, he would ruin you.”

  Phoebe drew a sharp breath.

  “Forgive me, Phoebe. I didn't tell you then, because I felt you had suffered enough at his hand.”

  “So,” she said, “when you wouldn’t pay, he made good on his threat.”

  “Not exactly.”

  Phoebe frowned.

  “I did, indeed, pay.”

  “Oh, Uncle,” she cried, “you didn’t.”

  “Of course I did.” Lord Albery’s eyes softened. “I knew you were very much under his spell, and he had no compunctions about carrying out his threat.”

  Phoebe reached across the desk and took his hand in hers.

  A small smile touched his mouth. “It was well worth the money, my dear.”

  “Why, then, did he marry me?” she asked.

  Albery’s hand tightened on hers. “He thought to play both ends. He believed that when he told you I had paid him off, you would hate me, and I would do anything to regain your good graces to the extent of sanctioning your marriage.”

  “Might I ask how much you paid?”

  A bushy brow shot up. “You may not.”

  “That much?” She released his hand and sat back in her chair. "And I wager you paid with your money, not mine." Red tinged his cheeks and she knew she'd hit the mark. "I have caused you a great deal of grief, haven’t I?” How much more would she cause if he knew she was a spy for the Crown?

  “Enough of that," he said. "You're my brother’s daughter. I could not…” His words trailed off.

  Phoebe smiled. “I know.”

  “You understand, my dear, why it is I must withhold your inheritance?”

  “You mean, the fact that you won't allow me to wait a year just so I can, as you say, thumb my nose at the lot of you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose I do. But I tell you, Uncle, I won't be rushed into marriage.”

  Lord Albery leaned forward onto his desk. “He does seem a decent sort, Phoebe. His father was in full accord that the boy make things right. You know how rare that is for a man in his position.”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “I do. But that doesn't change the fact that I will be marrying a man I hardly know, and one who, despite his honor, doesn't care for me.”

  “Such alliances aren't based on love.”

  “True, but I hadn’t thought I would be forced into the typical marital mayhem.”

  Memory surfaced of Kiernan's hard body pressed against hers and she couldn't help wonder what the typical marital mayhem would be like with him. His words from the night before came to mind, "I will pursue you, court you, and, lastly, seduce you." Desire sent a tingle through her. Yes, the seduction would be everything he promised. The marriage, however, was another matter.

  Phoebe released a breath and was surprised to realize her heart had picked up speed. “I promise to give the matter full consideration,” she said in an even tone.

  Lord Albery sighed. “The marquess has agreed that your inheritance will remain yours. However, if you don't marry him, I will see to it your inheritance does not fall to you until the age of thirty.”

  She was dumbstruck. “You can't be serious.”

  “Five more years, Phoebe.”

  “Why? My inheritance will see me safely through life. Surely you see that?”

  “Phoebe,” he implored, “the money will see you have a house, but not a home. Not children, not a man to care for you.”

  “He will care for me only as far as obligation demands. Once obligation is fulfilled, he will amuse himself elsewhere."

  A speculative light came into Lord Albery’s eyes. “Why argue, then? That will leave you free to do as you wish.”

  Oddly, the idea brought a stab of sadness, and she realized what she'd never let herself admit: her parents had been a love match and, in some distant future, she'd hoped for the same. To be tied to a man who had married her out of obligation was the worst prison she could imagine. No, she realized with a jolt. There was one worse fate: To be tied to a man she cared for who didn't care for her in return.

  *****

  The clock struck one and Phoebe rose from her bed. She lit the taper on the nightstand, then went to her bedchamber door. As expected, the hallway was deserted, and she closed the door, then carefully turned the lock with a soft click. By now her uncle would have retired, and her aunt had left hours ago, intent upon attending several soirées.

  Phoebe retrieved a small locked chest in a corner behind other boxes in her armoire and carried it to her bed. She pulled the key from the nightstand drawer and unlocked the box. Her hands shook as she lifted Stafford’s letters from the chest. She laid the envelope containing the journal on her mattress beside her, feeling as if they weighed more than her strength could hold. She settled back against the pillows and unfolded the documents she wanted to reread.

  It came as no surprise to hear the terror in Jenkins' voice when the brute demanded to know why Mallory was dealing with the likes of him. Jenkins related the same tale he had to me of how Mallory wanted Jenkins to discover if Wallington still lived. The brute demanded to know why Mallory wanted information on Wallington. Jenkins denied knowing his client's motives. I heard a sound that was clearly a fist against a man’s jaw, and Jenkins cried out. The man threatened worse if Jenkins didn’t come up with something more. Jenkins sniveled that it was all because of that ‘Lord Redgrave.’

  The brute asked the very question I burned to know: who was Redgrave and what had he to do with the affair? Jenkins explained that Red
grave had been a close friend to Wallington, and since Wallington’s disappearance, Redgrave had made half a dozen trips to France.

  “Nothing strange about that,” the brute said.

  “There is when you go through Scotland,” Jenkins replied. “Mallory says Redgrave is trying to throw us off the track because he’s in contact with Wallington."

  “Where in Scotland does he go? the brute demanded.

  “Tain.

  “Tain?" the man repeated. “Then he’s got to be going out of Dornoth Firth. Where does he go in France?”

  "Paris.”

  The brute made a few more threats, but Jenkins, no matter the menace, had nothing to add. The brute at last left and I followed. We soon left the seedier part of town and even as we entered the more affluent section of London, I knew where he was going. I instructed the hackney driver to slow as the brute's hackney turned onto the alley I'd expected him to take and, as we made the same turn, I saw the brute entering through the rear entrance of Lord Harrington's mansion.

  December 1826

  My investigations turned up nothing to indicate Redgrave was involved in any illicit activities. In the six months I observed him, he made one trip to France. It wasn’t until the fifth month, however, that I discovered that, like Wallington, Redgrave was employed as a British spy.

  I began these investigations a year and a half ago, and only now does it occur to me that I should find out more about the one man who played the key role in Wallington’s condemnation: the young constable, Barry Doddard.

  March 1827

  I quickly learned that Doddard was a notorious rake, gambler, extortionist, and was quite willing to take bribes—just the sort of fellow from whom we are sworn to protect the citizens of London. There is only one way to deal with a man like Doddard. I waited outside the Golden Mount, a favored hell of his, and followed him until he was alone. He took me for a brigand set on killing him for his money, but I showed him my pistol before he could produce his, and said I only had questions for him. He lit a cigar, leaned against the wall of the building we stood near, and gave me leave to ask any questions I liked.