To Enchant a Highland Earl

by Cameron, Collette

  Oswald raised his bland gaze for a moment before attending to his spectacles once more. Something deep within the depths of his eyes shifted. The briefest flash before he sank his attention to cleaning his eyewear.

  “As you can imagine, my lord, Lady Montforth is quite beside herself, awaiting news of her future and that of her children, as well. She is a gentle creature, devoted to her daughters, and the epitome of refinement.”

  Aye, Broden grudgingly admitted to himself. The countess was in a precarious predicament through no fault of her own.

  “The household staff, the tenants, not to mention the villagers, all await your directives.” Oswald spoke clearly and deliberately as if striving to make a bacon brain or mutton head understand a complex mathematical formula. “These past months have been a hardship for them all as the stewards and solicitors could only make superficial decisions.”

  The twig of a man all but implied Broden owed it to those people he’d never met—strangers—to ensure their futures and well-being. He wasn’t a selfish man, by God, but to uproot himself and charge off to England? To become part of that uppity set—the haughty aristocrats who looked down their snooty noises upon the Scots?

  Nae.

  Not as long as he drew a breath.

  The familial home he shared with his mother, a cook, a maid of all work, and on occasion, his childhood friend, Quinn Catherwood, until he’d married last Christmastide, was simple but comfortable.

  And the eighteen acres he owned, which fed sheep, a few cows, and other livestock quite nicely. Conveniently, a brook rambled through the northernmost edge of his property, where he enjoyed fishing as time permitted.

  He also employed two laborers who tended everything from the garden to the stables, and he worked alongside them at whatever task most needed completing. Hence his dirty nails and soiled garments today.

  Broden highly doubted the previous Earls of Montforth had ever even broken a sweat, let alone cleaned hog sties, dug peat, helped deliver lambs, or used a blade upon another man.

  Though he’d never attended a fancy university, Broden was well-educated and knew how to wield a sword and a dirk, thanks to his scholarly father’s tutelage. And thanks to his mother, he could maneuver a ballroom when required to dance, spoke a dab of French, and when pressed, could conduct himself like the poshest of gentleman.

  But don the shroud of a noble?

  An earl?

  Wouldn’t that make him the worst sort of hypocrite?

  “At the very least, I would expect, your lordship, that you’d want to examine your holdings.” Oswald rubbed his reedy nose, leaving a faint ink trail down the side. “After all, Sommerley Parke House is not even two days’ journey from here.”

  A better man might’ve told the man of law about the ink smear.

  Broden wasn’t such a man.

  With the smudge on his thin nose, Oswald resembled an over-sized rodent. Appropriate, since Broden regarded all attorneys as vermin. He had yet to meet one who didn’t serve his selfish interests first. Oh, no doubt there were a good number of ethical and honest lawyers in their field. He’d just not had the privilege of meeting one as yet.

  “I suppose, you could hire a man of business to oversee your estate or expand the duties of your current stewards,” Oswald continued, as if thinking aloud, his eyes slightly narrowed and fingers loosely steepled. “The countess did ask me to inquire what your wishes are for her and her daughters—now your wards. Should they remain at Sommerley Parke House? Retire to the dower house? One of the other estates? Bellewaite House? Come here?”

  Dower house? Other estates?

  Wait, the bloody hell!

  Here? Them come here?

  Where in God’s name would he put six females and no doubt a lady’s maid for the countess, a nanny for the youngest girls, a governess for the older lasses, and a nurse for the infant?

  “Shite,” Broden swore beneath his breath, furious and foul.

  The care of the former earl’s wife and five daughters were now his responsibility. Hell and damnation. He’d never even met Standish, the fourth earl, and certainly never anticipated inheriting.

  Inheriting?

  Derision curled his lip.

  He hadn’t even been aware of the title until Oswald, very much appearing like a drowning mongrel, had banged most insistently upon his door two hours ago.

  Broden’s mother coughed delicately before entering with a laden tray. Her lace cap flapped upon her graying hair as she limped to the low table before a well-worn, sage green sofa.

  Damp weather always made her joints stiffen and ache. Rather than waiting upon him and Oswald, she ought to be snuggled in her bed, sipping a hot willow bark and turmeric toddy, heated flannel encasing her legs, and a ripping good book between her work-worn hands.

  “Mr. Oswald,” she said with a cheery smile, “I’m certain ye must be famished.”

  Her simple plaid gown and white apron pinned to the front bespoke a woman of gentle, but humble, means. The McGregors weren’t impoverished by any stretch, but neither were they affluent.

  Oswald perked up as the aromas of Scotch pies and warm bread wafted from the tray’s direction.

  “Indeed, Mrs. McGregor. A most welcome respite.” Oswald stacked his papers into a neat pile, and once he’d closed the inkpot, he hurried to the sofa and availed himself of a Scotch pie.

  Mother poured him a cup of coffee. “Broden, would ye care for coffee?”

  “Nae.” He strode to his desk and pulled the bottom drawer open. Removing a glass and a whisky bottle, he poured three finger’s worth of the dark, amber liquid. Reluctantly, he angled the bottle toward Oswald. “Whisky, Oswald?”

  The solicitor lifted his long nose, his nostrils flaring in distaste. “Thank you, no. I’ve found Scottish spirits are too strong for my palate.”

  Och, the toff probably takes milk in his coffee, too.

  Before Broden had finished the thought, Oswald said, “May I impose upon you to add milk to my coffee and three sugar lumps, Mrs. McGregor?”

  “Aye.” His mother swiftly complied, her right eyebrow elevated. That always meant she had a great deal more to say but had elected to hold her sharp tongue, which could strip a heather bush bare when she was incensed.

  Broden, on the other hand, had to bite his tongue to keep from telling the rickle-a-bones his mother wasn’t a servant.

  A fine line pulling her eyebrows together, his mother peered at him with knowing, pale brown eyes. Eyes very much like his own. The hue not quite the shade of strong tea but more fawn colored. “Are ye no’ eatin’, son?”

  “I shall later.” He dropped a kiss onto the crown of her head as he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Why dinna ye rest now? I ken this damp weather wreaks havoc on yer joints.”

  Her gaze avid with curiosity, she sent the solicitor a considering look.

  A wry, mocking smile skewed Broden’s mouth at her not-so-subtle hint. “I’ll tell ye everythin’—”

  “The earldom owns houses in Brighton and London, as well,” Oswald said between bites and uncouth, appreciative noises. “One of those climes might be beneficial to your health, Mrs. McGregor.”

  In England?

  Not bloody likely.

  Broden lanced the man through with his gaze. Did he truly think to manipulate him by playing upon his sympathies?

  “Earldom?” His mother’s attention swept between the men. “Have ye inherited Standish’s title, Broden?”

  She knew about the title?

  Chapter Two

  Laughing out loud, Kendra bent low over Pandora’s creamy neck and raced across the moors, her unbound hair streaming behind her. The rain had finally stopped, and the land had dried enough that she dared take a ride today.

  Astride!

  Mother had permitted the outing if Kendra also rode into Eddleshaugh and picked up the skeins of wool she’d ordered. Never in her memory was there a time Mother wasn’t knitting away at something or other.


  Since Kendra also needed a length of violet ribbon for the bonnet she was retrimming, and any excuse to be out of doors would suffice, she’d eagerly agreed.

  Naturally, Mother had no idea Kendra hadn’t dutifully ordered the sidesaddle placed upon Pandora, and the extra coin she slipped the stable lad assured he’d keep her secret.

  Both rider and horse panting, she reined the mare to a halt atop a grassy knoll. An appreciative half-smile curving her mouth, she took in the quaint village nestled in the shallow valley below. As much as she enjoyed venturing to Edinburgh, and the busy social scene the city afforded, she never tired of this friendly hamlet of her girlhood.

  “Let’s go, lass.”

  Clucking her tongue, she nudged the mare’s sides with her heels and continued onto the well-worn path from Eytone Hall. Left over from the tempest that had blown through two days ago, the weather remained frigid and blustery. The wind insistently tangled her long hair and whipped bright color onto her cold cheeks.

  Out of habit, she scanned the trees on either side of the rutted track. Sane people were tucked up comfortably in their houses. Most animals too.

  Singing a naughty ditty loud enough to send a red grouse skyward from the cover of a clump of heather, she cast a cautious glance overhead. A few charcoal-colored clouds hovered on the horizon, and though it was bitterly cold, the outdoors was a welcome reprieve to Eytone Hall’s confines.

  As Pandora clopped along, entering the woodlands that preceded the small township, Kendra scrunched her eyebrows, and her singing trailed off.

  There was that unnerving sensation again.

  That undefinable restlessness.

  An edginess she couldn’t put an exact name to, but which came increasingly more often in recent days. Unfamiliar discontentment had niggled for weeks now. And confound it all, she couldn’t quite put her finger on the reason.

  She wasn’t lonely or bored.

  Yet a disquiet had entered her spirit, discomfited her soul, and disrupted her peace of mind. And of late, she’d found herself staring off into space or woolgathering about nonsensical silliness. Silliness that heretofore hadn’t beleaguered her.

  Mainly, what would it be like to have a husband? Children? To be mistress of her own home? To have a man gaze at her with hot passion simmering in his eyes? To feel his mouth and large hands upon her body? Her bare skin? His sinewy weight atop her?

  For certain, in part, her fantasies might be attributed to her brother Liam Mackay, Baron of Penderhaven’s recent marriage. And their cousin Skye had married Quinn Catherwood Christmas day, too.

  As it frequently had since their weddings, her mind turned to her unwed state.

  At twenty, some might consider her past her prime.

  She, however, wasn’t one of them.

  Honestly, she’d hadn’t given her marriage a whole lot of thought until lately. Oh, on occasion, Mother would murmur something about Kendra settling down, but she still wasn’t in any hurry to exchange vows.

  Chiefly, since she’d yet to meet a man who interested her that way. Neither Mother nor Liam seemed inclined to force her into exchanging vows, either. Most probably, Liam’s awful first marriage had a great deal to do with that blessing.

  Broden McGregor’s ruggedly striking features pushed to the forefront of her mind. One of her brother’s closest friends, she’d known him since she was a wee lass. He’d been a sharp sliver buried in her heel and paining her for that long, as well.

  Five or six years ago, while he and Liam had shared a bottle of whisky in the library, she’d overheard him refer to her as a splotchy-faced dumpling with perpetually knotted hair and grubby smudges on her chubby cheeks. He’d laughed before adding, “I’ve never kent a lass who eats more sweets. I feel sorry for her pony.”

  For a girl hopelessly infatuated with the too-bloody-handsome-for-his-own-good-man, his words had wounded her to the core. Each had lanced deeply. And each had inflicted a gaping sore, ripped her youthful self-confidence to shreds, and left her uncertain—then and now—that any man would ever desire her.

  She’d secretly cried herself to sleep for a fortnight and had promptly given up all manner of sweets and the like. She rarely indulged in them now, afraid those excessive, round curves of her youth would reappear—to once more make her an object of scorn and ridicule.

  Truthfully, and to be fair, she had been plump as a partridge with a penchant for getting into scrapes, and cared not a whit about her appearance. Her complexion had been horrid and spotty for two entire years, too.

  Kendra might’ve only been a child at the time, and Broden had been well into his cups. Nonetheless, his words had an enduring effect on her.

  After hearing his slurred, unkind pronouncements, she’d stopped finagling excuses to come upon him and Liam. In fact, she’d begun avoiding Broden as much as possible, a habit she often employed now, as well.

  From her observations, she was the only woman to do so. Lasses flung themselves at him, and he took their worship and adoration in his masculine stride. As if it were his due.

  Arrogant devil.

  Snorting, she shook her head, causing her hair to swirl around her shoulders.

  “Broden McGregor. A royal pain in my backside. When I do take a husband, he’ll be nothin’ like that great conceited lout. He’ll think I’m the most splendid thing he’s ever set eyes upon because he’ll love me.”

  Flaws and all.

  Pandora raised and dipped her head, almost in a nod of agreement.

  Kendra made a rude noise in the back of her throat. Now Broden only succeeded in pricking her temper every time they were in the same room together, and she struggled to recall precisely what she’d found so attractive about him in her youth.

  Why Liam counted him such a great friend, she would never appreciate. Perhaps because he’d never had a brother and both of Broden’s had died. Liam and Broden had been dear friends since boyhood. Mother said boys needed other boys about, to tussle with. They formed bonds women couldn’t understand, the same way women formed bonds with each other.

  The mare whickered softly and shook her head, shying away from the swaying branches of a nearby bush.

  “Shh.” Kendra soothed Pandora with a calming hand to her warm neck.

  It wasn’t like the mare to be skittish.

  She scrutinized the familiar area, noting nothing unusual. Unlike other parts of the Highlands, which still dealt with tribal strife, bandits, and occasional issues with the gypsies traveling through, this area remained untroubled by those inconveniences.

  Good thing, too, else her mother and Liam would never permit her to ride to Eddleshaugh alone. To her knowledge, no one had ever been robbed or assaulted within thirty miles of Eytone Hall.

  Nonetheless, disquiet prickled between her shoulder blades, and a shudder scuttled down her spine. Shivering against the increasingly icy wind, she pulled the mantle’s hood over her head, grateful for the fine, protective fabric.

  The wool to make the cloth had come from Liam’s sheep. Not that Kendra or her mother spun the wool. Neither possessed the talent and, at least in Kendra’s case, had no desire to learn the craft, as well.

  She doubted her mother did, either. No, the Dowager Baroness of Penderhaven’s interest in wool consisted of what she’d knit next.

  A rider approached from the direction of the village, and raising a hand to cover her eyes against an inconvenient ray of sun determined to blind her, she squinted into the distance.

  Blast and bother.

  Bunions and boils.

  Ballocks and…and…and blisters.

  A muffled noise escaped her lips as she forcibly exhaled a frustrated breath.

  Of all the rotten luck and wholly undesirable people to encounter.

  She well knew the burly form so casually exuding masculine grace atop Sheik, Broden’s light chestnut gelding with its distinct blond mane and tail.

  How many times had she seen Broden’s wide shoulders that easily filled a door frame? Or thos
e ridiculously muscled thighs sprawled out before a fire? Or flexing as he danced or wrestled with her brother or one of their friends?

  Not, she reminded herself sternly, that his physical attributes meant anything to her. She simply made objective observations.

  What a colossal lie. Bald-faced and self-deceiving. Self-protecting too, in point of fact.

  With an unyielding resolve to ignore the unwelcome sensations having the audacity to flit about behind her ribs at the sight of him, she swallowed. What she felt was annoyance. Absolutely—absolutely—nothing more.

  Liar, that damned, vexing little voice whispered again with a distinct note of glee.

  Fine then: irritation, aggravation, and exasperation, as well.

  Could one’s conscience snort in disbelief?

  Kendra did admire Broden’s masculine form. What woman with eyes in her head and a pulse beating in her veins would not?

  She itched to skim her fingers over those granite shoulders and marble thighs—had ever since coming upon him, Liam, and Quinn swimming stark naked in the loch. Heat suffused her cheeks at the vivid memory.

  Praise be to the saints that Liam and Quinn had already dove into the water. Only Broden had stood atop the projecting rock, his glorious back, buttocks, and thighs dripping with water and deliciously bare to her curious and avid scrutiny.

  Even as a child, she’d recognized he was as beautiful as a carved statue: all sculpted hard curves and magnificent planes and angles.

  She’d never quite been able to erase that image from her mind, even when she was most peeved with him. Which was aggravatingly frequent. And, to her utter consternation, many, many, many times over the past years, his glorious, unsettling, and superb form had interrupted her dreams.

  They’d been the focus of a myriad of daydreams, too.

  Self-disgust and self-castigation at her fickleness stomped dual feet upon her pride.