To Redeem a Highland Rake

by Collette Cameron

  He seemed to speak to Arieen, rather than Morag or Da.

  “Ye’ve done enough already, Wallace.” Da sneered.

  “Come, Morag.” A hand on either elbow, Da helped her stand. “Everythin’ will be all right. Ye’ll see. We need to get ye home and tucked into bed. The bairn will be right as warm porridge in the morn.”

  “Let me help you to the carriage.” Once more Arieen tried to add her support on Morag’s other side.

  “Nae,” Morag hissed through clenched teeth as another contraction wracked her. “I dinna want ye anywhere near me. Ye’ve always been jealous of me and my bairns. Always wanted yer da to yerself.”

  “That’s not true,” Arieen whispered. She’d never resented Morag or the children she’d carried.

  Such animosity contorted Morag’s face, Arieen dropped her arm to her side, and could only look on helplessly.

  Mr. Wallace edged to her side, his presence warm and welcoming. He spoke low into Arieen’s ear. “Leave her be, lass. Women in the throes of labor say all manner of ugly things they dinna mean. She’ll nae even remember her temper afterward.”

  Casting him a swift glance, she encountered his encouraging smile. She tried to summon her composure and tilt her lips upward in acknowledgement, but failed. “How do you know?”

  He quirked a brow. “I’ve been nearby on several occasions when a bairn made its way into the world.”

  Now that was just peculiar. As much as he’d raised her curiosity, Arieen’s focus remained on her stepmother.

  She understood Morag’s fear, and perhaps her accusations were justified about the early labor’s onset. After all, what did Arieen know of childbirth? Nonetheless, the hostility directed toward her stunned.

  Throat aching with unshed tears, she side-stepped away and glanced to the crowd. How had it grown this large without her noticing? Guests regarded her with pity or sympathy, others with accusation and condemnation, and a few seemed amused or enjoyed the spectacle.

  The whole time, Mr. Wallace remained by her side, almost in a protective manner.

  Da searched the crowd and motioned to a pair of matrons. “Please assist my wife to our carriage.”

  The women hurried forward, all empathy and caring, one to either side of Morag. No doubt their husbands owed Da money.

  “Robbie?” Morag grimaced as another contraction overcame her.

  “Never fear, my dear. I’ll be along in a trice, and we’ll make sure yer settled comfortably at home. I need a wee word with Arieen first.”

  Before he finished speaking, he seized Arieen’s elbow, then roughly guided her to the end of the terrace.

  “Och, Da. You’re hurting me.”

  Trying to disengage her arm, she cast Morag an anxious glance.

  Hunched over, her stepmother had made the entrance with the other women’s help.

  Hands on his hips, and his face pinched into hard planes of concern, Mr. Wallace regarded Arieen. He opened his mouth, as if he intended to interfere or object, but she shook her head.

  He had no right, and Da was already in a fine fettle. He practically dragged her along and didn’t release her until they rounded the corner.

  Somewhere out here is where the viscount had dallied with Mrs. Jameson.

  Her stomach churned anew at the ugly truth.

  She rubbed her sore arm. For certain she’d have a bruise. He’d never laid a hand on her before. It must have been fright for his child and wife that had Da this overwrought.

  “Da, cannot whatever ’tis you want to say wait until we get home and make sure Morag and the bairn are safe?”

  “Nae, it cannae wait.”

  The way he glared at her, as if he could barely stand to look upon her, send a shudder tip-toeing across her shoulders.

  He’d become a stranger in an instant.

  “Da?”

  The earlier premonition returned with renewed force.

  “I’ve waited nineteen years to say this.” He jerked his lopsided wig back into place. “Even Morag disna ken the truth. I’ve cared for ye, been kind to ye, treated ye like my own flesh.”

  The increasing breeze blew more strands across her face. Arieen impatiently brushed them away. “I don’t understand. I am yours.”

  The evening had grown cold, and she wrapped her arms around her shoulders.

  “Nae, ye are no’. I gave ye my name, but ye are no’ mine. Why do ye think yer mother, a noblewoman, would marry the likes of me? She was carryin’ ye, the seed of her blue-blooded lover, when we wed. But she died birthin’ my son. My son!” He jabbed his chest with his forefinger. “All these years I’ve patiently waited to have my own child.”

  Arieen’s mind reeled in denial as the puzzle pieces settled into place. Robert Fleming hadn’t wanted her around.

  It all made sense now. How he’d always been too busy for her. How she’d been left in the Highlands with nurses and governesses when he’d spent most of his time in Edinburgh. Why he’d sent her away for three years, and she’d not been allowed one visit. How she’d been summoned home, already promised to Lord Quartermain, then locked in her chamber when she’d said she’d rather marry Widow Gebbie’s ancient, one-eyed boar.

  It had been no accident Robert had promised her to a man who’d take her from Scotland.

  She clamped her jaw to stop her teeth from chattering, not from cold, but from shock.

  “Morag has taken my seed to her womb four times. Three of those, I’ve grieved mightily when another bairn died.” He swallowed audibly and shook his head, glaring at her with such loathing, tears burned behind Arieen’s eyelids. “The child she carries means more to me than ye ever have,” he said. “I owed ye nothin’, yet I tried to find ye a position and a title.”

  Pain twisted her heart with each harsh word. His determination to see her titled was more for his and Morag’s benefit than hers, but now she understood it wasn’t just lust for position. They truly wanted to be rid of her.

  “And this is how ye repay me, Arieen?” he said, lifting a hand as if to strike her. “Yer like yer loose-moraled mother.”

  Such disgust and contempt shone in his eyes, she gasped and retreated a few swift steps.

  He dared accuse her of wickedness and besmirch her mother when he’d been frequenting brothels? How she so longed to be brave enough to speak her thoughts, but she’d pushed him too far already.

  “Ye could’ve been a viscountess, but ye and yer pride, yer high opinion of yerself. Ye tossed yer only chance for a decent match away. Do ye think anyone will have ye now?” Gesturing wildly toward the house, he spat upon the ground. “I’m good and done with ye, Arieen.”

  A sob ripped from her throat, and a single scalding tear trailed down her cheek. She fisted her hands tight against her sides to keep the fragile amount of control and pride she had left intact.

  “I’m goin’ to have to honor the settlement terms which will cost me a bloody fortune, and I dinna benefit from it at all. Ye’ve shamed me and my name with yer slatternly behavior,” he ranted on. “And now…” His hostile glare scraped over her, leaving her as raw and tender as if he’d taken a dull razor to her. “And now, I may lose another child.”

  His voice broke, and chin quivering, he gulped several times, in an attempt to rein in his emotions. “I’m no’ a youn’ mon. This may be my last chance to father a child. A son.”

  His pain ripped through her, stark and ragged.

  Dashing at another tear, she touched his arm, needing to make amends. She wasn’t remorseful that she tried to avoid marriage to Quartermain, but with everything in her, she regretted causing the early onset of Morag’s labor.

  “I am truly distressed—” She couldn’t call him Da now. “I never meant harm to come to the bairn or Morag. I didn’t think—”

  “Nae. Ye didna.”

  Jerking away, he turned his back. He might have lifted a drawbridge, so deep and wide was the chasm between them. So impenetrable and fortified, the wall he’d erected.

  “Ple
ase.” She extended a hand in supplication.

  He mightn’t have been the most doting or affectionate father, but she’d loved him. Morag too. They were all the family that Arieen had ever known.

  Except for servants and the time spent in London, she’d been isolated most of her life. She’d tried to be brave. To not complain. To find something to appreciate. But never, never, had she felt as unwanted and utterly lonely as she did in this moment. A dreary cold gray shroud enveloped her, and she wrapped her arms around her shoulders.

  “What would you have me do?” she asked through the vice clamping her throat.

  He gave a disinterested lift of one shoulder. “Ye are nae longer my concern, and ye are no’ welcome under my roof. Send word where ye are stayin’, and I’ll have yer clothin’ and personal belongin’s delivered there. ’Tis more than ye deserve.”

  “But...” She swallowed bitter, salty tears, real despair battering the walls of her chest.

  She had no family that she knew of. There’d never been contact with her mother’s relations. Neither had she friends able to take her in for a time. Or a position and means of earning a living.

  Surely, he wouldn’t be that cruel.

  “Cannae ye send me back to the Highlands?” She hated the desperation in her voice, yet she beseeched him. “Ye’d never have to see me there.”

  “Nae. Morag wants to raise the bairn—if he lives—away from the city. I’ve already sent word to have the house readied for our arrival.”.

  “Where shall I go?” she asked in a small voice, hating how pathetic and desperate she sounded. But she was desperate.

  He spared her a scornful look over his shoulder; the mask he’d worn all these years ripped away from grief and anger.

  “I honestly dinna care, Arieen. Consider yerself disowned from this moment forward.”

  After Mrs. Fleming had departed and Fleming had hauled his astounded daughter out of sight, Coburn shooed the others inside. The curious guests had witnessed enough dramatics to keep them entertained and the rumor-mill buzzing for weeks to come.

  His focus gravitated to the terrace’s shadowy far end.

  What could’ve been so urgent that Fleming sent his distressed wife to their carriage alone?

  If Coburn’s wife were in labor, he’d have seen to her care first.

  A wry chuckle escaped him. That was the first time he’d ever considered being a father. For reasons he couldn’t identify, the notion didn’t appall him as the idea generally did.

  He didn’t know if he could be a good father. What example had he had? His own sire had deserted him and his mother when he was a toddler. Coburn didn’t remember him at all, and Uncle Artair had been a manipulative cull who’d betrothed his six-year-old son for gain. The men who lived in the slums, the home of his early years, weren’t exactly model parents either.

  The question that begged answering just now was, why did he linger on this frigid terrace?

  He wasn’t waiting for Miss Fleming, he admonished himself.

  Nae.

  Not at all.

  He was simply making sure no harm came to her.

  Hadn’t Fleming already proved he was a scunner when it came to his daughter?

  Besides, Coburn acknowledged, he was partially responsible for this situation. He didn’t have to kiss her. He could’ve walked away. Refused her enticing invitation.

  And heather didna grow in the Highlands.

  Why he cared about the well-being of a woman he’d only just met mystified him more than it should. Spending the evening worrying about a stranger was not how he’d envisioned his last night in Edinburgh. Nae, more romantic pursuits had topped the list. Perhaps his cousin Logan’s gentlemanliness and nobleness was rubbing off on him.

  Hound’s teeth. What a horrid concept for an admitted Highland rake.

  A bonnie Egyptian queen—was she Berget Jonston?—and a serious-faced shepherdess he wasn’t acquainted with loitered outside the ballroom’s entrance. They kept casting worried glances toward where Arieen had disappeared with her father. At last, after exchanging a few whispers, they slipped into the ballroom.

  His scarf dangling from one hand, the wind whipping the ends about his legs, Coburn, too sought the house’s warmth.

  Likely, Arieen and her father had re-entered the mansion through a different doorway. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind then Fleming rounded the terrace corner.

  He stamped toward Coburn, his shoes clacking nosily on the flag stones. His face berry-red and his spine rigid, the diminutive man fisted his hands and snarled, “She’s ruined. Nae decent mon will have her now. And ye aren’t remorseful, are ye, ye scurrilous swine?”

  Was her ruination the cause of his anger, or was his fury due to the viscount having fled the cage?

  With another disgusted upward curl of his lip, Fleming stomped away.

  Coburn had a few choice words he’d like to have said, none of which were an apology. Not to Fleming, in any event.

  Expecting Arieen to follow on her father’s heels, he stepped back onto the veranda to apologize for his part in this disaster.

  She was nowhere in sight.

  Mouth pulled into a harsh line, he slid Fleming’s retreating back another glance.

  Why wasn’t his daughter with him?

  How was she supposed to travel home after he accompanied his wife? Surely arrangements had been made. Although, a cur who imprisoned his daughter mightn’t worry himself overly much about how she was to find transportation.

  ’Twasn’t Coburn’s nature to entangle himself in private matters, so his concern baffled him all the more.

  “What are ye doin’ lurkin’ by the door, Wallace?” Liam MacKay grinned, the movement stretching the scar lashing his right cheek taut. MacKay shook his shaggy black, silver-threaded head. His costume, a Roman gladiator, fit the burly Highlander and flattered his muscled calves. “Normally ye’d be flirtin’ with a dozen lasses, decidin’ which should warm yer bed tonight.”

  “Ye exaggerate.” Not by much, truth be told. Unfamiliar chagrin scratched Coburn’s pride.

  Wearing an exasperating smirk, MacKay rubbed his bountiful beard. He ought to trim the unkempt bush. His wife had despised it, which, Coburn would bet his favorite whisky, was why MacKay kept it.

  “Kennedy said ye have yerself in a wee bit of a predicament.”

  Coburn merely quirked a brow.

  “Were ye actually caught kissin’ Flemin’s daughter? I didna think ye fool enough to dally with respectable lasses.” MacKay crossed his ankles and leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, his sword clanking against his shield. “Is it true? Flemin’ insists ye marry the lass?”

  Coburn’s gaze snapped back to his friend.

  Leave it to the gossips to fabricate horsesh—jobby. He re-tied the scarf around his head. “Nae such thin’, and she kissed me, nae the other way around.”

  Initially, anyway. It had been a moving kiss too, and he could yet taste the sweetness if he ran his tongue across his lips.

  “I’m nae about to be trapped into marriage over a stolen kiss.” He peered past MacKay.

  Where in Hades was Arieen?

  Inside now? He scanned the ballroom, then veered his gaze toward the far doors. Maybe the study, where he ought to be indulging in a dram of some of the finest spirits in Scotland? He shifted his focus to another entrance. Could she be in the ladies’ retiring room?

  It wouldn’t surprise him if she’d escaped there to regroup after the debacle outside.

  “Will ye please excuse me, MacKay?”

  Coburn wasn’t explaining what he intended. He’d never hear the end of it if he admitted he went in search of Arieen.

  He couldn’t explain to himself why he did.

  MacKay dipped his chin, and with an awkward pat on Coburn shoulder advised, “Be careful. A mon like Flemin’ cannae be trusted. He didna get filthy rich by bein’ a kind-hearted gent, and I’ve found with wenches fruit disnae fall far from the tree. The lass m
ightn’t be better than her sire, and her kissin’ ye might be part of a calculated plan.”

  If MacKay wasn’t genuinely sincere, Coburn would’ve laughed. MacKay spoke from personal experience, and aside from his mother and sisters, he trusted no other women in Scotland.

  “She refused a viscount, MacKay. Why would she try to entrap me? Ye ken full well, as Logan’s cousin and second-in-command, I dinna own my own house. I’ve little to offer a wench, if’n I ever entertained the idea of marryin’, which I dinna. Nae, she said she didna want to marry at all, and I believe her.”

  Actually, she’d said if she couldn’t have a husband of her own choosing she didn’t want to wed.

  “Watch yerself,” MacKay said. “Lasses have a way of trappin’ a mon before he kens what’s happened.”

  He ought to know.

  Fierce creases marring his once handsome face, MacKay slipped a flask from inside his costume, and raising it in a silent salute, strode out into the chilly night.

  Coburn scanned the crowd once more, his gaze hitching on Arieen gliding into the ballroom’s other side.

  Ridiculous relief flooded him.

  She must’ve used the study entrance after all.

  Several people presented their backs as she passed, but shoulders squared and head held high, she swept past them. Regal as a Highland chieftainess, she made directly for the Egyptian and the shepherdess huddled in a corner.

  From where he stood, he recognized the relief on her friends’ faces as she approached.

  Arieen spoke briefly, then floated away, as gracefully as she’d entered, heading once more to the passageway leading to the study. She paused, and glanced over her shoulder, her ravaged gaze snaring his.

  The air left his lungs in a mighty whoosh, much like a punch to his gut.

  Several people bent their heads near and whispered as she walked away, and a handful of men assessed her in a lewd manner that made Coburn want to plant his fist in their faces.

  The gossips had wasted no time rendering judgement.

  He was as guilty as she of being imprudent, but he’d get sly pats on the back and winks from the men—likely invitations from the more brazen of the women as well, while Arieen faced ostracism.