Scot Under the Covers

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Damned shame that they didnae. That would’ve solved some problems.”

  “I would have to agree with you.”

  Aden looked down into her chocolate-colored eyes, and time simply … stopped. Sweet Saint Andrew. It would be wiser to keep his thoughts to himself, to do what he’d sworn and just wait. And yet he was always wise and logical, and this time it was tearing at his insides like an angry wildcat. “I promised myself I’d nae put any more weight on yer shoulders, Miranda Grace,” he murmured.

  Her brows furrowed. “Where in the world were you? Is something amiss? Something more, I mean?”

  “Nae for me. For ye, well, it could be. I meant to wait until ye had yer life free from Vale, until ye had choices, real choices, in front of ye again. But I love ye, and I have for some time now. If I dunnae tell ye how I feel right now, then I’m liable to shout it out loud the next time I set eyes on ye.”

  Miranda’s sweet mouth opened and then closed again. “You—”

  “I dunnae expect ye to say anything in return, boireannach gaisgeil. And I’ll help ye whether ye want me about or nae. I just realized that yer being in trouble or nae has naught to do with how I feel about ye.”

  “Say it again, Aden,” she whispered after a too-long moment.

  “All of that?”

  “I will punch you, you know.”

  That made him grin. Remarkable, this lass. “I love ye, Miranda. I like ye, I admire ye, and I love ye.”

  She looked down at her hand as she tugged on the top button of his waistcoat. And aye, he wanted to hear her say the words back to him. But then he’d just told her that she didn’t need to do any such thing. And he’d made it clear that her feelings wouldn’t affect whether he continued to aid her or not—though he would have liked to know whether he was risking ruining his own life for more than a passing smile. If he was a fool, at least he was aware of that fact.

  “I went to Portsmouth,” he said, trying to give her room to maneuver if she wanted it. “I decided that short of sailing to India, finding a sailor or two who served with Vale would give me the best chance at getting some answers about his character.”

  No response. Just more carnage to his waistcoat buttons.

  “We had the right of it. He’s lied and cheated and manipulated his betters at every corner. He especially liked bleeding the sons of admirals dry, and then asking their das for medals and assignments and promotions. I doubt he’s ever had a man challenge him to his face, and I reckon he’s nae lost a wager he wanted to win.”

  “I insulted you the first moment we met,” she stated.

  “So ye did.”

  “The first words I spoke to you.”

  Deep down he’d hoped for a slightly more romantic exchange. But then, conventional, sugary-sweet romance was damned dull. “Ye spoke yer piece. I’ve nae had any trouble figuring out where ye stand.”

  “Don’t make excuses for me,” Miranda retorted. “I was rude, when I’m almost never rude to anyone. And I kept asking myself why I said what I did.”

  “Ye thought me a gambler, and ye’d at least two good reasons to nae like wagering. Ye still do.”

  Miranda put a hand over his mouth, and he just barely resisted the temptation to kiss her palm. “Yes, I still have several good reasons to dislike wagering. Even more now than I did then. I thought … You’re a striking man, Aden. You walked into that room with a dog you’d just rescued and your shirt dirty and wet and … clinging to your muscles, and a kilt and boots and your poetical hair, and … my mouth went dry.”

  “‘Poetical hair’?” he repeated behind her hand, lifting an eyebrow. She’d get around to making her point when she was good and ready to do so, but thus far it all seemed to be shifting in his direction—which lent him a touch more patience.

  With her free fingers she tugged a lock of his so-called poetical hair down over one of his eyes. “Oh, please. I think you know exactly the effect you have on women. Half of them at luncheon were practically drooling over you.” She freed his mouth. “You made me angry, strolling in there and being so grimy and not even caring. And yes, I do have reason to dislike wagering. And wagerers.”

  And now this didn’t sound so positive. “We’ve established, then, that ye dunnae like my hobby and that I’m too uncivilized for ye. Anything else ye’d care to stab me with?”

  She tugged on one of his ears. “I’m not finished. There’s one thing—one only—for which I’m grateful to Captain Robert Vale. He made me seek out someone uncivilized—unscrupulous, I thought—who was proficient at wagering. I did not expect to like you, Aden MacTaggert. I did not expect to trust you. And I certainly did not expect to fall in love with you.”

  His breath stopped for a good dozen beats of his heart. “But ye did, aye?”

  She lifted up on her tiptoes and kissed him, achingly soft, on the mouth. “Aye,” she whispered.

  Aden kissed her back, putting his palms flat on the table on either side of her thighs. “That’s more like it,” he murmured. “Now as long as everyone knows what’s afoot, I’d like ye to stay here today while I get a bit of sleep.”

  “I can do that. But first I need to know what you’re planning.”

  “I’ve told ye w—”

  “No, you haven’t. You’ve said you’ll take care of things, and I’m assuming you mean to wager against him, but fifty thousand pounds, Aden? If you mean to tell me that number is in your reach, I will call you a liar.”

  “Dunnae call me a liar.”

  “Then tell me what is going on, for God’s sake!”

  He could damned well understand why she didn’t want to be kept in the dark. The men in her life hadn’t done so well at protecting her, thus far. Aden shifted to sit on the edge of the table beside her. That way he could hold her hand. “I reckon it doesnae matter if I’m a better gambler than he is, however much my pride wants me to prove that I am.”

  “That’s a fair beginning,” she commented.

  “Thank ye for that. So I’ve been considering, and we only need one thing from Vale. The papers.”

  “The papers worth fifty thousand pounds.”

  “Aye, partner. We can win them, which isnae likely given that at any minute he could refuse to put them on the table or, worse, go get a special license and wed ye to keep me from interfering.”

  “That is not acceptable.” Her fingers tightened around his.

  “I agree. And I’ll nae allow it. Which leaves me one other way to get the papers.”

  Her fair face paled. “Aden, you are not going to kill him. As much as I want him to go away, you would be throwing away your own life, as well. And that … And that is not acceptable.”

  “Because ye’d miss me, lass?”

  A tear ran down her cheek, and he immediately regretted teasing her. Before he could apologize, though, she sighed. “I didn’t expect any of this, you know. I don’t need to marry; my parents have seen to that. I thought I might marry, if I found someone I could love, but I never felt any great urgency. I certainly didn’t mean to like you, much less love you. All of this”—she gestured around the breakfast room with her free hand—“is so far from anything I could have imagined that it doesn’t even seem real sometimes, except for the shivers running down my spine whenever anyone says his name.”

  “I dunnae have a plan to kill him.” That wasn’t exactly a promise not to do so, but it would have to suffice for now. Because if everything else failed, he had made a promise to save her. And he would do so. Regardless.

  “Then what?”

  “Lass, he’s spent his entire adult life luring men into disaster and then offering them a hand up—in exchange for becoming his man, doing his bidding. He’s broken men and left ’em gasping and desperate for air. But I reckon in all that time he’s nae sat across from a MacTaggert. From me.”

  “Considering that you just said you’re not likely to win, I hope your skill matches your confidence. You’re not the only one who pays a price if you lose.”

>   “Dunnae ye fret, Miranda. I know what the true prize is. And it’s nae the fifty thousand pounds.” He smiled at her exasperated expression. “Winning’s nae the only way to win.”

  “I am going to punch you, Aden. Right now.”

  “Well, I’ve nae wish to be punched.” Taking a breath, he told her what he meant to do, and how he meant to go about it. While he did gloss over a few of the details, from her expression and the alarming paleness of her face she’d caught enough to fill in the spaces he’d left empty.

  “Aden, you can’t do that.”

  He tilted his head at her. “Do ye see a hole in my logic, then?”

  “Y … Well, no, but don’t you realize what it will mean?”

  “Aye. I realize.”

  “I won’t allow you to do that for m—”

  “Excuse me,” his mother said, pushing open the door and shifting sideways to allow Brògan into the room before her. “Your dog, it seems, missed you so much last night that in her despair she saw fit to disassemble the blue footstool.”

  Aden hopped down from his seat on the table and crouched to ruffle Brògan’s ears. She’d gained weight in the few weeks since they’d found each other, and her bedraggled coat had taken on a much healthier sheen. “Sorry, lass,” he said, straightening again.

  “Aden,” Miranda said through clenched teeth, a smile on her face, “do not leave me sitting up here on your mother’s breakfast table.”

  He lifted her down, then bent his head and kissed her for good measure. “Ye’re a fine, bonny lass, ye are,” he whispered, his forehead tipped against hers. “I didnae expect ye, either. Nae much surprises me. Ye have. And the only thing that scares me is that when ye realize ye’re free, ye’ll nae wish to be caught again.”

  With that he put her in his mother’s care even though he would have preferred to take her with him, and instead went upstairs with Brògan to try to get some sleep. Wagering took a clear mind, even when one of the players meant to lose. Especially then, because Vale couldn’t know that was the plan.

  But he did. And he knew what the real prize was. A lass, a lifetime, and a love he’d never expected to find at all, much less in London. He had her in sight, in touching distance. And he did not mean to lose this war, because doing so would cost him far more than he was prepared to give.

  * * *

  “But yer majesty, he’ll throw someaught at ye,” the odd young man the three brothers shared as their valet whispered, blocking Francesca from approaching Aden’s closed bedchamber door. “And he’s got good aim.”

  “He will not throw anything at me,” she countered.

  “But—”

  “That will be all, Oscar.”

  “Aye, yer majesty. Do duck, though, for Saint Andrew’s sake.”

  As the valet backed away from the door, Francesca stepped forward, rapped her knuckles against the hard, old oak, and then pushed it open. “Aden?”

  He sat up from the middle of a pile of pillows and sheets. “What’s amiss?”

  “You’ve received a note. From Captain Vale.”

  Cursing, her middle son slid to his feet. Bare-chested, naked in fact but for an old kilt, only traces of the skinny young boy he’d been remained. In that lad’s stead stood a tall, well-muscled young man of twenty-seven years with a mop of unruly black hair even longer than he’d demanded to wear it as a boy.

  “How long was I asleep?” he demanded, crossing the floor to her and taking the folded note out of her hand.

  “Not even thirty minutes, I’m afraid.”

  “I can believe that.” He broke the wax seal and opened the paper. “Bloody damnation,” he muttered, followed by a few words in Scots Gaelic that sounded very familiar and very colorful.

  “May I ask what it is?”

  He handed her the note, turned on his heel, and dove into his wardrobe. “Is Miranda still here?”

  “Yes. I’ve sent over a note asking her parents to allow her to spend the night.”

  She looked down at the missive. In plain, unadorned lettering, it said, Aden MacTaggert. I’m at Boodle’s, and I’m tired of waiting for you to screw up enough courage to face me. Do so now, in the next thirty minutes, or I will call you a coward and a bounder. Whatever you’re planning has already failed. Meet me across the table, or slink back to Scotland like the craven you are. Captain R. Vale.

  “Well, that’s quite pointed,” she commented, folding it again. “You’re going, I presume?”

  “Of course I’m going.”

  As he unbelted his kilt she turned her back. There were some things a mother simply didn’t want to see. “You were going to meet him anyway, yes?”

  “Aye. I meant to call him out tonight. No doubt one of his lackeys told him I’d been gone all night, and he reckoned to catch me while I’m tired.” Material rustled. “My nethers are covered again, my lady.”

  “So you’re going to challenge him—or accept his challenge, rather—to a game of cards?”

  Aden pulled a shirt over his head and tucked it into his trousers. “I did as ye asked. Coll and Niall know what I’m about. I keep my word, màthair, but I dunnae owe ye anything else.”

  Her heart had very nearly melted when the first of them had called her “mother.” She’d waited so long to hear it again from her boys. Aden, though, used the word like a weapon. “Are you implying that I don’t keep my word, son?”

  “I’m nae implying. I’m saying it straight out.” He slipped into a waistcoat and buttoned the trio of buttons up over his chest, then picked up a starched cravat and slung it around his neck.

  “You’ve insulted me. Please explain.”

  He scowled at his twin image in the dressing mirror as he began knotting the cravat. “‘This year for your birthday, Aden,’” he said, in a quite remarkable imitation of her London-raised accent, “‘you and I are going to York. And whatever your father says, I am purchasing you that saddle.’”

  Memories flooded back, scented with moors and pines and fresh-cut lavender. “And I left three weeks before your birthday. You resent me still because of that?”

  “Nae. I resent that Da told me I couldnae trust the word of a Sassenach woman, and I believed him. And so I nearly didnae see Miranda with her standing right in front of me. I nearly didnae trust that she wasnae using her wiles on me to get me to help her. I was wrong. Da was wrong. And ye were wrong to promise a ten-year-old boy someaught ye knew ye couldnae deliver.”

  “Aden, I—”

  “I dunnae need to hear an explanation or an apology. But if ye’re going to warn me now nae to make a stir when Miranda’s troubles dunnae concern the MacTaggerts—or the Oswell-MacTaggerts, rather—ye may as well save yer breath.”

  “Oh, stop that,” she said, walking forward to pull the ruined cravat out of his fingers and toss it to the floor. She picked up a fresh, crisp one and pulled it around his neck. “How much debt is Matthew in? Miranda studiously avoided mentioning a number.” Twisting the ends of the cloth, she put in a knot and pulled the middle into an understated cascade of ruffles. She had to reach up to tie it; Aden might be the shortest of the brothers, but that was akin to being the third highest peak in a range of mountains.

  “I’ll nae be responsible for stepping between Eloise and her beau.”

  “Despite the fact that doing so would mean you and Coll will have an indefinite reprieve in your task to find an English bride?” From what she’d learned and deciphered, Aden had been plotting with Miranda for at least a fortnight. From the first moment he’d learned of Matthew’s losses he could have stopped his sister’s engagement. He could have freed himself from the agreement between Angus and herself—at least for a time. If he’d returned to Scotland and found some bonny Highlands lass to wed, she wasn’t certain she would have had the nerve to declare the agreement broken.

  “Was Matthew unlucky, then? Or unwise?”

  “He was foolish. He crossed paths with a snake and didnae realize it until he’d already been bitten.”


  “And he traded his sister to cover his debt.” She finished his cravat, but continued tugging at it to give herself an excuse to remain standing there. “I find that much more troubling than the debt itself.”

  “Miranda was the prize all along,” he returned, lifting his chin a little to accommodate her. “Vale pushed at the lad till he had nae other way to go.”

  “So you’re not angry with him? I got the distinct impression that you’re rather fond of Miranda Harris.”

  Aden put his hands over hers and gently removed her fingers from his neck. “Ye’re sly, Lady Aldriss, but I’ll keep my own counsel. If ye’ve misgivings about Matthew Harris, ye break Eloise’s heart. I’ll nae do so.”

  “I cannot make that decision without all the necessary information.”

  “I gave ye the necessary information. And I’ll give ye a wee bit more. I’m off to Boodle’s, and I mean to make a ruckus. A large ruckus. Feel free to tell all yer blue-blooded Sassenach friends that ye strongly disapprove of me.”

  Pulling on a dark-green coat and picking up a matching beaver hat and a pair of gloves, Aden moved around her to the bedchamber door. Highlanders. He made her want to stomp her feet. “If you gave me a few more damned details, I might be able to assist you, Aden Domnhall MacTaggert.”

  That earned her a raised eyebrow. “That would require me trusting ye now, wouldnae?” He set the hat over his longish hair, the very image of a handsome English gentleman until he opened his mouth and spoke. “Keep my lass safe, and then I’ll consider it.”

  Francesca waited a beat before she followed him downstairs and watched him out the front door. He had perhaps a thousand pounds with him, and she presumed he meant to win enough money to pay off Matthew’s debt. But it somehow involved making a ruckus at one of the most prestigious gentlemen’s clubs in London, one to which he hadn’t even yet been granted full membership.

  “Smythe, alert me the moment Lord Glendarril returns from wherever he went off to,” she instructed, and the butler nodded. “And we’ll all be staying in today. They know better, but under no circumstances are Eloise, Amy, or Miranda Harris to leave this house.”