The Bridegroom Wore Plaid

by Grace Burrowes

“Talk to Ian. If you’re truly averse to marriage, he won’t force it.”

  “Yes, he will. Papa investigated your finances thoroughly. I’m a fatted calf, and I’m going to be slaughtered on the altar of your brother’s ambitions.”

  He’d never heard such bitterness in a woman’s voice, but her myopic view of the situation was the outside of too much.

  “Has it ever occurred to you, Eugenia Daniels, that my poor brother is the one being slaughtered on the altar of your family’s ambitions?”

  Her chin jutted. “A man can’t be forced to the altar.”

  “A man who holds himself responsible for the well-being of his clan—what remains of it—can. A man loyal to his family, a man who sees no other options.”

  “The clan chiefs no longer have any authority.”

  This was a schoolgirl’s recitation of history according to the English, and arguing with her over it would keep Gil from kissing the pout off her pretty face.

  “The English are the ones with no authority. Oh, they make laws, they make pronouncements, they send their regiments all over the world to pillage and destroy, but an army is nothing compared to the love and loyalty of a Scotsman for his family. I bid you good day, and I advise you once again to speak honestly with my brother.”

  She gave him a measuring, purely female look. A look that made Gil think of things far beyond kissing.

  “That was not the kiss of a loyal, loving brother, Gilgallon MacGregor.”

  He cursed long and fluently in Gaelic, then departed, making very sure he did not slam the library door.

  ***

  Honor was a burdensome thing. It invariably shouted at a man to march off this-a-way when the man’s common sense, instincts, and heartfelt preferences were begging him to trot out smartly that-a-way.

  Ian struggled with this paradox for the hundredth time as he sat at his desk, knowing he’d been a negligent host for dodging the evening’s postprandial gathering around the decanters.

  He did not want to face Daniels the Younger, not when the poor sod was likely reeling from having been caught in Mary Fran’s feminine gun sights at close range. Mary Fran was hard on her followers, showed them no mercy in either the pursuit phase or the rejection phase of the goings-on. What came between was something a conscientious and well-intended brother did not dwell on.

  Fortunately Daniels was a soldier, a man inured to suffering in silence. By the time he boarded the train for southern climes, he might have regained his dignity if not his masculine self-confidence.

  Daniels the Elder was no more attractive company. Ian had a strong suspicion one of the scullery maids was allowing the baron to trifle with her, which created an uneasy ambivalence in Ian’s gut. A laird of old would have either given the girl to the baron for his amusement outright or forbidden the girl to share her favors. In either case, the baron as a guest, the girl as a menial in the laird’s household, and the entire household as a family and clan would have known where authority and responsibility for the decision lay.

  But now… Who was Ian to deny a lowly maid the dubious pleasure or paltry coin resulting from the baron’s attentions? Yesterday, Ian might have taken the girl to task—Ian would be the one left paying for the resulting child’s every need, after all—but after the morning’s outing with Augusta, certainty in any moral realm eluded him.

  He let his thoughts circle back to her with a sense of inevitability.

  He was going to court Augusta’s cousin—if the blighted woman ever allowed him a start in that direction—and exhibiting interest in another woman while he did was not… honorable—or smart.

  It wasn’t quite dishonorable, either, though not in these enlightened, bedamned times. Many a man considered the only obligation owed his womenfolk was to keep the decent ones ignorant of and distant from the other variety.

  The more interesting variety. The fascinating variety.

  The available variety, among whom Augusta Merrick did not and could not number.

  Ian stared at the documents before him, so many writs of execution for his remaining chances of happiness. He knew that now in ways he hadn’t even twenty-four hours earlier.

  And that would have been tolerable, except he was certain marriage to him would make Genie Daniels utterly miserable, and Augusta Merrick… Violet-blue eyes soft with sated passion flashed into Ian’s mind along with the scents of heather, lilacs, and impending rain.

  “Bloody, bleeding damn…”

  The library door clicked softly shut in exact synchrony with Ian’s curse.

  “Damn who or what?” Gil stood there, his smile sardonic.

  “Life in general. Apologies for leaving you to play host.”

  Gil sauntered over to the desk and propped a hip on one corner. “How was your outing with Miss Augusta?”

  Fraternal concern, this was not. Ian pulled his spectacles off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Why do you ask?”

  “When you got back to the house, you had dirt in your hair, Ian. I do not profess to be a student of the more arcane erotic arts, but dirt in your hair? One doesn’t get good Scottish soil in one’s hair striding about the tor and admiring the views.”

  No, one did not, and damn all little brothers who’d notice such a thing.

  “There was a little rockslide, a few boulders bouncing down the hill. We were unharmed, though a few feet in either direction, and the outcome might have been different.”

  Gil’s brows drew down. “A rockslide? This time of year?”

  “I haven’t gone up there in so long I hardly know how frequent they are. In any event, we did admire the countryside, and we did stride about the tor. The lady has decided opinions.” On many topics, and not the opinions Ian might have ascribed to her before he’d taken that hike with her.

  “Miss Augusta? The one who lets Fee drag her around by the hand all day?”

  “I believe she might be fond of children.”

  “The maiden ladies often are.” Gil’s gaze fell on the documents spread around on the desk. “You’re burning midnight oil on the settlements?”

  “Unless I’m to line the coffers of the bloodsucking toadies in Aberdeen, it falls to me to draft the documents.” An exercise that combined penance with futility. “I’d appreciate it if you and Con would have a look as well.”

  “What’s this?” Gil squinted at the page in his hand and moved closer to the branch of candles at Ian’s elbow. “‘By signature below, it is warranted that Eugenia Daniels will be marrying a son of the house of MacGregor who is in expectation of a title.’ Why not just say she’s marrying you, and you’re Balfour?”

  Ian settled back in his chair, prepared to use Gil for a legal sounding board. Gil wasn’t one for documents and heavy tomes, but he was a shrewd tactician able to see a situation from many perspectives at once.

  “I have two reasons for the more vague language: First, I am not quite Balfour yet, am I? Asher hasn’t been declared legally dead as far as Altsax knows, so the only title I hold beyond dispute is Viscount Deesely.”

  “Which is a title.” Gil set the page down. “The baron didn’t specify that you’re to be holding the title? He’ll settle for the courtesy title?”

  “I honestly don’t think the man smart enough to consider the difference. His darling Genie will be called Lady regardless, and she’ll be able to swan around Balfour House when Her Majesty and His Highness are in residence across the glen. Then too, Asher might reappear, and I don’t want him obligated to marry the woman.”

  “Asher’s dead, Ian, and even if he weren’t, having to wed into the Daniels family would be no less than he deserves for leaving us to wonder all these years.”

  Gil moved off to stand by the windows, his back to Ian.

  “You’d do that to Genie
?” Ian asked, rising and going to stand beside his brother. “Bad enough she’ll have to marry me, whom she can at least look over and start to fashion into some semblance of a husband she can tolerate. To betroth her to a ghost or a stranger hardly seems like a kindness.”

  Gil eyed Ian up and down, his expression unreadable. “I’ve told her you’ll be kind to her.”

  “Of course, I’ll be… When did you have occasion to tell her this?”

  “She’s not sanguine at the prospect of wedding you.”

  Understatement, particularly from Gil, who was blunt even for a Scotsman—also a dodge where an answer to Ian’s question ought to have been.

  “I understand this, Gilgallon, for she’s made no effort to hide her hesitance from me. Nonetheless, she and I have agreed to try, to attempt to become better acquainted, and to establish some mutually agreeable means of going on. If you have a better plan, even if you have a worse plan, I’m happy to hear it.”

  “I have no plans at all.”

  He who had little independent wealth, had no plans to wed in the near future. Con was in the same boat, Mary Fran as well. Fiona had their only prayer of amassing some coin, because her entire family would see to it, and they had ten years to work on the problem before Ian would consider allowing the girl to wed.

  Ian regarded his younger brother. “Bachelors all over Scotland with no plans are raising up their bairns as we speak, Brother.”

  “I’ve no damned bairns, and you know it.”

  “You’re Fee’s favorite uncle, Gil. That’s a high honor in itself.” And Gil unabashedly enjoyed children.

  Just as Augusta enjoyed children, for Christ’s sake. Ian shoved that thought off a mental cliff, one with a fine view of pleasure, folly, and heartbreak.

  Gil’s face creased into a reluctant smile at the mention of his ranking among the uncles. “Show me these blighted settlements. I can’t promise I’ll get them all read tonight, but I’ll make a start.”

  Ian ambled back to the desk and sorted papers. “These are the financial conditions. These are the special terms. I’ve kept it as simple as I could, but it’s binding as hell, and the details can’t be ignored.”

  Gil followed Ian to the desk and picked up the discarded spectacles. “Are you going to require the younger sister to marry you on the same terms if Genie is unwilling or unable to complete the ceremony?”

  “Bloody damn…” Gil’s tone had been casual, but he’d spotted a glaring oversight in Ian’s draftsmanship. “This grows worse and worse. Hester’s a lovely girl, but she’s barely half my age. She’s a damned child, Gilgallon. I’ve no interest in waiting for my bride to grow up before we can get the consummation of the vows over with—and that’s assuming I can even manage such a thing.”

  Gil took Ian’s chair and put Ian’s glasses on his own nose, giving him an uncharacteristic scholarly air. “You don’t have to do this, Ian. We’re not starving.”

  “We’re living a precarious farce, Gil. You know it and so do I. The only thing we have to barter for a substantial dose of cash is the title. Even after I’m officially installed as earl, there’s no guarantee the solicitors will turn loose of the earldom’s trusts, assuming anything remains there in any case.”

  Gil crossed booted feet on the corner of the desk. “The reports say the trusts are healthy.”

  “Those reports are written by lawyers. They can say any damned thing they please without actually lying.” And Ian was damned if he’d try to wheedle one bloody groat from their aging cousin, the Baron Fenmore, who’d somehow gotten himself appointed overseer of the trusts in Asher’s absence.

  “Go to bed, Ian. Dawn comes early enough. Don’t obligate yourself to marry Hester. Let Altsax be the one to think of that contingency. He wants your title for a trophy so badly he’d probably marry you himself.”

  “Which would be enough to give a brave man nightmares.” More nightmares.

  Gil pulled the candles closer, and Ian left his brother to the inanities of legal construction. Being able to function as a lawyer didn’t mean a man took any joy from the task.

  “Excuse me, my lord.”

  Genie Daniels sat on the top step before the first landing, tucking her dressing gown over her toes. She looked like a schoolgirl caught spying on her elders the night of the ball.

  “Genie. You couldn’t sleep?”

  “I did sleep, but I couldn’t remain asleep.” Her gaze went everywhere—above Ian’s head, to the foot of the stairs, over Ian’s shoulder—never to his eyes.

  Ian lowered himself beside her, experiencing a reluctant stab of fellow feeling for the other person being dragooned with him to the altar. “A wee dram of the uisqe beatha might help with that.”

  “I couldn’t.” She was hiding a smile, a small, dim smile.

  He felt like he was sixteen and standing up at his first assembly, all awkwardness and uncomfortable silences between frequent trips to the men’s punch bowl.

  Maybe she felt that way too?

  “How’s your ankle?”

  “Much better, thank you.”

  “And your head?” Today’s ailment had been a megrim.

  “Much… fine, thank you.”

  Another silence, laden, struggling. Hopeless. Ian blew out a sigh and gave up on polite conversation. “Genie, lass, would you prefer it if I gave you all the flowery words and declarations we both know to be false? I can muster a good show if that will make you less… uncomfortable. I was young once. I remember…”

  He was still young, dammit.

  “Please, my lord, let’s not make this any more false than it already is.” Her hands clenched around fistfuls of robe, but she said nothing else.

  How could something be made more false?

  “Will you ride out with me after luncheon tomorrow?” It was all he could think of to offer her. On horseback, she would be assured he’d keep his hands to himself—the idea of taking liberties with her being absurd in any case—and the grooms would stay in close attendance.

  “I’ll see if my aunt can accompany us.” She laid her cheek on her knees in a posture reminiscent of the way Augusta had sat on the blanket that morning, nothing merry about it.

  Augusta…

  Ian got to his feet and extended a hand down to her. “A general outing, then. We’ll muster the household and hope the rain moves off. May I escort you up to your room?” Where, if he had any sense, he’d steal a little kiss, presume to touch her hair, or at least take her gently in his arms. At some point they had to become accustomed to touching each other beyond the civilities.

  The very idea made him queasy.

  “No, thank you, my lord.”

  She sat right where she was, and Ian was so relieved not to be tried any further, he bid her good night and took himself off to bed. It wasn’t until he was tossing himself from one side to the other for the twentieth time that it occurred to him to wonder: For whom did Genie wait on the stairs all alone at midnight?

  Nine

  Julia Redmond was a sound sleeper, so sound Con had a few extra minutes to doubt his sanity and argue with himself over his presence in her bedroom—fruitless minutes while his cock clamored for him to be about a lusty man’s typical business in a willing woman’s bed.

  Too bad for his cock, that wasn’t the plan.

  “Connor?” Julia struggled up to prop herself back on her elbows, her braid a thick, coppery rope over one shoulder. “It is you, isn’t it?” She blinked in the moonlight streaming through her windows then reached out to where he stood beside her bed to take him by the wrist. “Say something, or I’ll think I’m dreaming.”

  “Maybe you are dreaming.” He put one knee on the bed, pausing long enough to pull his shirt out of his breeches and over his head. “Lie back, Julia, and be
silent.”

  There was risk involved. Risk that she’d start shrieking, belatedly recovering her previously misplaced sense of decorum, but Con had seen the loneliness in her eyes, had heard the bewilderment and hurt in her voice when she’d tried to apologize to him in the stable.

  “You have one chance to change your mind, Julia Redmond. You shake your head if you don’t want me here, or you nod if I’m staying.”

  He waited as if he had all the time in the world, as if a Chinese rocket weren’t trying to launch itself from his breeches into her body. She nodded, slowly, solemnly.

  Good. She understood this was no small concession on his part. He pulled the covers aside and settled his body right over hers, caging her with his bigger frame.

  “Kiss me, Julia.”

  He didn’t give her time to get all those female gears spinning in her brain; he charged forth, intent on seizing his prize, which was to say, he kissed her. Set his mouth on hers and consigned himself to the sweetest suffering known to man.

  She kissed like a young girl, lips sealed, not like a widowed lady who went around propositioning near strangers in the woods. Her reticence pleased him, helped him lecture that trouser rocket into submission and gave him the patience to savor her.

  Sweet, was his first impression when he traced her lips with his tongue. Sweet, soft, enticing—like the rest of her. He felt himself getting pulled into the kiss, the exploration and pleasure of it, while he sank a hand into her hair.

  “Connor…”

  “No words, Julia.” Except the mention of his name had parted her lips. He didn’t invade. He explained and waited for her to catch on, then demonstrated again. On the second try, she got the idea and touched her tongue to his lips, a little lick of warmth that coursed down through his body and made him want to clutch at her.

  To shuck his pants and swive her witless.

  He let the thought go, thanking the Deity he’d had sense enough to wear trousers rather than a kilt and to keep his trousers on and buttoned. Her tongue grew a tad bolder, venturing to explore the soft flesh inside his lips then retreating uncertainly.