The Taming of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

  “Francis Prescott, Lord Teversham, may I present my husband, Broderick MacPherson, and his brother Rannoch.”

  The interloping bastard’s blue eyes flared as they took in Broderick’s size and patch and scars. And, yes, probably his expression. He felt ready to kill.

  Then the dandy flashed a white-toothed grin. “Such splendid serendipity! I am heartily gratified to meet the”—he glanced at Kate—“how did you phrase it? Ah, yes. ‘The consummate confluence of all superior Highland attributes.’”

  Kate blushed berry-bright. “A tad exuberant, perhaps.”

  “Nonsense. Your letters epitomize eloquence, my lady.” The dandy affected an elaborate bow.

  Kate tapped the man’s arm with her folded fan. “No silliness, if you please. You must tell me what brought you to Scotland.”

  “Did you not receive my last letter?” When she shook her head, Francis waved forward the man behind him, whom he introduced as his valet, George Parker. The brown-haired, pleasant-featured Parker was shorter and less handsome than his employer, but equally lean. “George’s grandfather, unfortunately, passed away, necessitating a visit. And, as I cannot be without my valet for longer than an afternoon, I have taken the occasion to visit the city of his birth.”

  Kate murmured her condolences to George and asked after his family. Broderick might have thought it odd that she would show such friendliness to a servant, but he’d seen her with Janet and Mrs. Grant. Kate’s warmth with everyone, regardless of rank, was one of her many admirable qualities.

  Francis touched Kate’s elbow, twisting Broderick’s gut into a burning knot. “Dearest Kate.” The dandy smiled at her with too much affection. “After Edinburgh, we had planned to venture into the Highlands to see you and your new home.”

  “Oh, yes. Francis, you must come for a visit.”

  Broderick’s ears began to roar. His fists clenched. Rannoch’s grip on his shoulder tightened. “Easy, brother,” Rannoch whispered.

  “Clarissa, too?” the dandy asked. “Her last letter said she and her grandmother feel the need to escape Ellery Hall for a sojourn in Scotland. I hope you don’t mind that I invited her to make the glen her destination. She’s keen to join us for Christmastide.”

  Kate bounced on her toes. “How lovely! Of course, Broderick and I would adore it.”

  The dandy sent Broderick a cautious glance before turning back to Kate. “Now, about the play. Did you laugh when the cauldron overturned? George thought it was intentional, but I assured him witches prefer their cauldrons open-side-up.”

  The two chatted about actors and stage props and severed heads for several minutes before Broderick had had enough. Shrugging off Rannoch’s staying grip, he slid an arm around his wife’s waist, yanked her against him, and caught the dandy’s sky-blue gaze. That gaze turned wary in a flash.

  Good.

  “Sounds as if the music is startin’, Teversham,” he said softly. “Ye wouldnae wish to miss the show, eh?”

  Broderick’s intimidation appeared to be working, as he watched “dear Francis” grow increasingly alarmed. Much like a stag who’d heard the cocking of a hunter’s rifle.

  “Francis, I insist you and George join us in our box.” That was Kate. Friendly. Oblivious. Broderick squeezed her waist tighter. Her only response was to pat his arm and continue, “We have ample room. You simply must. German opera is your favorite.”

  The dandy raised a brow, but he didn’t answer. Didn’t take his eyes from Broderick’s face.

  “Rannoch, take Kate back to the box,” Broderick said. “I’ll be along soon.”

  Kate sputtered a protest, but Rannoch murmured, “Best ye do as he says, Katie-lass. Limit the damage.”

  “Damage? Don’t be silly. Oh, is that woman selling oranges? I am a bit peckish.” Their voices faded as Rannoch guided her away.

  Finally, Broderick stood alone with the dandy. “How long have ye been ‘dear friends’ with my wife, Teversham?”

  “Three years,” he answered, sizing up Broderick’s frame. He glanced to his valet and back to Broderick with a sheepish expression. “Look, MacPherson. Whatever affection you perceive between Lady Kate and me is purely platonic, I assure you.”

  “Right.”

  “George, tell him.” The plea sounded a bit desperate. “Have you ever seen a single impropriety—”

  Broderick interrupted, “What would a valet ken about it? He folds yer drawers and shaves yer whiskers.”

  “Before he was my valet, he was my footman, and often about when Kate and Clarissa visited.” Francis gestured to the other man, who nodded.

  “It’s true, Mr. MacPherson,” George confirmed, his voice shy yet firm. “Lord Teversham would never countenance a slight against Lady Katherine’s reputation. They are fond of one another, but that is all.”

  Footman. George the footman. A bell of familiarity rang in Broderick’s head. Everything crystallized. Looking between the unearthly handsome Lord Teversham and the former footman, he finally noticed what he’d missed in his red haze. Francis’s hand repeatedly brushed George’s. The angle of their positions was close, with Francis’s being the more protective.

  Bloody hell. Francis had declined Kate’s proposal. Francis had been caught kissing his footman behind a hedge. Because he didn’t want her—nor any woman.

  Like an unraveled rope, Broderick’s tension abruptly slackened. His gut relaxed. His chest untightened. His vision cleared.

  Relief flooded in. Francis was no rival. In fact, he’d done Broderick a great service by refusing to marry Kate.

  “Plainly, I’ve misjudged ye,” Broderick admitted at once, offering his hand.

  Francis darted a glance at his companion then accepted the handshake with a confident grip and a steady gaze. He smiled wryly. “No harm done. A man in love is part halfwit, part lunatic. Happens I know something about that.”

  Feeling a wee bit ashamed of his daft, uncontrolled jealousy, Broderick nodded to both men. “Kate’s right. Ye must join us.”

  An hour later, Kate sat at the front of the box between Rannoch and George. All three raptly focused on the incomprehensible caterwauling onstage. Meanwhile, seated well behind them, Broderick conversed with Francis. The dandy was, in actuality, quite a decent fellow. Good-humored, sensible, intelligent. And a fount of knowledge about Kate.

  Broderick found the last quality particularly useful.

  “So, havin’ a pianoforte would be important to her, then?”

  “I can scarcely imagine Kate without one,” Francis murmured. “Whenever she is distressed, she must either play music or ramble. Stifle her too much, and she sinks into melancholy.”

  “She said the two of ye often sang together.”

  Francis chuckled fondly. “Indeed. Her voice falls into a rather unfortunate middling range, neither alto nor soprano nor a pleasing blend of both. She’s lamented this fact many times, but her dearth of talent cannot persuade her to abstain from that which brings her joy. I would have it no other way.” He leaned closer and nodded toward where Kate clapped in delight. “A joyful Kate is the loveliest sight imaginable; don’t you agree?”

  Broderick had to catch his breath as she beamed a happy grin at him over her shoulder. “Aye. The bonniest creature in heaven and earth.”

  Francis fell silent. When Broderick managed to tear his gaze away from his wife, he found the blond man assessing him with a wry smile.

  Broderick frowned. “What?”

  “She’s worked her magic with you, too, hasn’t she?”

  Oddly, he felt his face heating. “Nah.”

  “Oh, yes. She does it with everyone. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

  “I’m nae embarrassed.” It was warm in the theatre. That was all.

  “Take our mutual friend, Clarissa Meadows, for example.” Francis casually gestured. “Kate, as previously noted, is lovely. Everyone agrees. But in her first season, a family scandal relegated her to a seat amon
gst the wallflowers.”

  “Aye. She told me.”

  “Clarissa had been a wallflower for seven years.” Francis pointedly caught Broderick’s gaze. “Seven. Years. That is an eternity for a young woman to sit on the fringes of the ballroom and watch her matrimonial prospects wither.”

  “What was wrong with the lass?”

  Francis waved away his question. “A bit overplump in her youth. Perhaps a bit too frightened of leaving her grandmother’s side. In any event, Kate befriended her in a trice, as Kate does. Within a year, she transformed Clarissa Meadows from a plump gosling into an elegant swan.” Francis chuckled. “The thing of it is, Clarissa didn’t realize what was happening. Kate simply listened to her. She discovered her love of dancing. Then, Kate dragged me to her house every day so we could practice together. Soon, Clarissa’s confidence brightened, her form trimmed, and her fashions became eminently more suitable. I may have had a hand in the last bit, but the rest was entirely Kate. She senses what people need, what they desire most, and she finds a way to deliver it to them, all without anyone the wiser. I don’t even know if she’s aware she’s doing it. It just seems to … happen.”

  Nothing of Francis’s story surprised Broderick. This was what he’d seen. Facilitating a romance between her lady’s maid and Stuart MacDonnell. Recommending Mrs. Grant’s sister as a new cook for Annie. Teaching Rannoch to improve his table manners beyond those of a donkey. Kate’s generous heart changed everything for the better.

  He cast a curious glance at Francis. “What did she do for ye?”

  The other man’s eyes began to glow with profound emotion. He nodded to where Kate chatted with George, patting the valet’s hand and avidly explaining the German caterwauling.

  “That,” said Francis. “She accepted me. An innocent girl who had just been rejected by the man she wanted to marry. She did not understand, but she accepted. Then, she warned me that real, honest love is a treasure, and only an ‘addlepated ninny’ would fail to claim it, whether society thought it acceptable or not.” His gaze dropped. “She could have ruined me, you know. Instead, she gave me magic and asked nothing in return.”

  That was Kate. Pure magic. It was why he must win her. He must keep her safe. He must defeat Lockhart and then spoil his wife until she never suffered a single doubt about where she belonged.

  “Guard her well, MacPherson.”

  Surprised at the man’s grim tone, Broderick shot him a glance.

  Francis’s gaze turned steely. “She shared a bit about your current troubles in her letters. If you have need of my assistance, consider me an ally.”

  “I’m grateful for the offer.” He huffed out a chuckle. “I dinnae suppose ye ken a man named Kenneth Lockhart.”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Ah, well. ’Twould be an odd day for my luck to turn.”

  “Lockhart is the man we must protect Kate from, yes?”

  “Aye.”

  “She indicated you’d already done him some injury.”

  “Aye, but it willnae stop him. Rannoch and I have been trackin’ his business partner, a man by the name of Rob McKenzie. McKenzie runs a club for men of particular appetites. Lockhart is a silent partner, livin’ off his share. But he also uses his knowledge of the club’s members to coax them into doin’ his bidding. If we can get inside and locate McKenzie’s member list, we can use it to shut down the club and render Lockhart’s blackmail schemes worthless.”

  Francis’s brow furrowed. “What is the name of the club?”

  “Second Circle. Somethin’ to do with the levels of hell, I take it.” He grunted. “Apt way to describe a house on the fouler end of Cowgate. Nevertheless, they’ve secured the place well. Nobody comes in or out without membership, a code, and bein’ on that night’s list. I’ve none of those.”

  Francis leaned forward to catch Broderick’s eye. “I’ve heard of the Second Circle. Or, rather, George has. His former employer was a member there.”

  “Can he help us gain entry?”

  Francis smiled. “For Kate? Consider it done.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Kate took a moment to adjust her mask before she descended the staircase to join her husband. He might not agree to this, but she must try. Did Lady Macbeth sit idly by while her husband charged into the fray? No.

  Drat, perhaps that was not the best analogy. Regardless, she intended to bring Lockhart down, and helping Broderick infiltrate a scandalous club was one small way to do so.

  She smoothed red silk over her hips and tugged her cape into place before making her way down to the parlor, where Francis, George, Broderick, and Alexander had gathered. All four men wore frowns. Those frowns deepened when she entered. “Gentlemen, I am coming with you.”

  A chorus of denials erupted.

  She sniffed and adjusted her gloves. “The decision is made. You need a female, and I am female.”

  “Kate,” Broderick growled. “We discussed this. The first time ye have to lie, ye’ll give us away.”

  “I shan’t speak. We’ll pretend I’m the timid sort cowed by her domineering husband.”

  Said husband snorted and rolled his eye. “Might as well say ye’re a bottle of whisky.”

  Francis tried next. “Kate,” he said reasonably. “The Second Circle is a den of iniquity. You will see things there you’ll heartily wish you hadn’t.”

  “What things?”

  He cleared his throat and cast nervous glances at the other men. “Even to explain them would shock your sensibilities.”

  “Rubbish. This is important, Francis. To enter the premises, we must be a group of four men and one woman. That is what you said, is it not?”

  He sighed. “Yes.”

  She tilted her chin, eyeing the men. “So, which of you would care to wear a gown?”

  Alexander grinned. “Mayhap Rannoch could do it.”

  Broderick cursed.

  “Now, do stop behaving like missish old women and be sensible.” Kate waved at the four of them. “Surrounded by all of you, I shall be in no danger whatever.”

  Broderick stalked toward her, stopping only when they were inches apart. “Listen well, lass. There is nae way on God’s earth I shall take ye into that place. And that’s my final word on the matter.”

  An hour later, sandwiched between Broderick and Francis in the coach, Kate leaned forward in an attempt to catch her first glimpse of a notorious “den of iniquity.” From the outside, it appeared rather more modest than she’d anticipated.

  “Are you certain this is the right house, Broderick?” she inquired. “It looks … plain.”

  He didn’t answer. He’d been sulking ever since she’d forced his hand by calmly threatening to hire a coach and follow them after they left. When he’d threatened to lock her in their bedchamber, she’d raised the stakes with a promise to lock him out of their bedchamber—after she bribed one of the kitchen lads to release her.

  Now, the coach halted, and all the men except her husband exited onto the street. Jaw flickering, Broderick gritted, “Ye’ll stay by my side, do ye ken? I want ye close as my bluidy skin. At all times, some part of ye must be touchin’ some part of me.”

  “Stay close. Yes, I understand.”

  “Nae close,” he growled, his eye flashing in the faint light from a nearby streetlamp. “Touchin’.”

  “Yes. Touching.”

  “Dinnae get curious. Dinnae speak. Dinnae remove yer mask for any reason. If somebody touches ye apart from me, they’ll lose whatever part did the trespassin’.”

  She caressed his flexing jaw with her gloved palm. “Everything will be fine.”

  He yanked away and tied on his mask—a gold full-face mask with a blank expression. Then, he exited the coach and reached for her, lifting her down with breathtaking ease. He looped her arm through his, clasping her hand firmly against his body.

  They approached the quiet, modest house not from the front, but along the
side, where a dark, narrow close led to a service entrance. Francis removed his glove and knocked in an odd rhythm. The door opened. Francis murmured something nonsensical about ships and mutton to the bald man inside. The man opened a small book and peered down through reading spectacles. He asked for Francis’s name, and Francis replied, “Robin Goodfellow.”

  It was one of the names for the mischievous Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream—Kate’s suggestion. She’d liked the whimsy.

  The bald man eyed their group with squinting skepticism. He appeared puzzled by the unusual height of two of their party. “Ye were noted as havin’ a lass among ye.”

  Reluctantly, Broderick drew her forward into the light.

  The bald man nodded and waved them inside. “This way, sirs. Madam.”

  They passed through a small, gold-hued antechamber occupied by two masked men who rivaled the MacPhersons in size. The bald man unlocked a black door with a pair of overlapping circles painted in gold. They entered a long, taper-lit corridor that ended in a staircase winding down. Broderick’s arm squeezed her waist until her ribs nearly merged with his hand. She tapped him and wheezed. Beneath the edge of his mask, she saw his jaw flex, but he loosened his grip.

  They descended two flights and entered a long room that smelled of lilies and musk. The open chamber was lit by red lanterns and white chandeliers, casting the space in an odd, pink glow. Rose-red velvet daybeds, black divans, and the occasional gilded chair formed conversation areas and lined the walls.

  But the furnishings were far from the most riveting sight in the room. No, indeed. That distinction belonged to the dozens of people in varying states of undress from naked to somewhat naked, frolicking on said furnishings.

  Kate wanted to ask why a man would beg a woman to use her riding crop on his backside and then ride him like a pony, but her curiosity would have to wait. Broderick was hauling her through the crowd as if it were a leper colony. To be fair, among the shockingly lewd acts carrying on before her eyes, some were revolting. Others, however, were intriguing.

  She’d never considered using her mouth to pleasure Broderick in a way similar to the woman kneeling on a pillow nearby. The recipient of her attentions appeared most appreciative, moaning his ecstasy while fondling her bosom. Later, Kate must ask Broderick if he would enjoy such an act. She felt certain she would.