This Scot of Mine EPB

by Jordan, Sophie

  “I beg your pardon?” She leaned closer, her dress rustling against the brocade upholstery.

  Marcus lifted his head, his eyes flat. “Marry him.”

  “Marcus?” Alyse’s voice rang with reproof. “He only wants to marry her because he thinks she will deliver him another man’s child. He is convinced he will die if he goes about matrimony in the natural way of things. It’s utterly mad!”

  “Indeed. Entirely ridiculous. He wants a child. Eventually, he shall have one and see the error of his thinking.”

  Had her brother been speaking with Marian? They both used the same logic.

  Marcus continued, “Once he’s married and sees what a splendid wife our Clara is, once she’s given him a son of his own, he will drop to his knees and thank her.”

  “Thank her?” Alyse echoed, shaking her head doubtfully.

  “That’s quite a great amount of supposition, brother. Although I should thank you for assuming I shall be a splendid wife.” And fertile. Who was to say she would give him a child?

  Alyse looked affronted. “Of course, you would be a splendid wife, Clara. You’re wonderful.”

  Marcus swiftly pressed on. “Tell me, Clara, do you believe there is the slightest veracity to this . . . curse?” He moved from the mantel and approached her. “Do you believe it even remotely possible?”

  She made a sharp sound of derision. “Of course not. There are no such things as curses.”

  “There you have it then. Marry him. It will benefit you both.” He dropped down into the wingback chair across from her.

  “You think I should marry him under pretense.”

  “If you tell him, he won’t go through with it.” Marcus’s eyes held hers. “So for yourself. For him. Yes, I do think you should marry him under pretense.”

  She shook her head, still terribly conflicted. “I’ve lied enough and made my share of mistakes lately. I’m trying very much to do the right thing now.” She rose to her feet. The right thing didn’t present itself in any clear or obvious path, however.

  She moved toward the door.

  “Clara,” her sister-in-law called after her. “Where are you going? What will you do?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. She didn’t know what she was going to do. Or worse.

  She did know and she was afraid it would only be another mistake.

  Gossip in the Fife was not that different from gossip in a town or city. As soon as anything of interest was released into the ear of even one soul, it spread like wildfire from castle to village to crofter’s cottage to peddler’s cart. For that reason alone, Hunt knew he had to visit Catriona.

  If Clara accepted his proposal, that juicy bit of gossip would travel on the wind. He needed to be the first one to tell Catriona he might be marrying. She deserved to learn that news from him.

  They had been friends without expectations of anything else, anything more. And yet the intimate nature of their relationship compelled him to give her an explanation. She deserved that simple courtesy.

  Hunt woke early to set about his task. Not that he had slept much the night before. He was up before dawn and ready to ride.

  After Clara knocked on his door the night before and announced she would accept his suit and give his proposal consideration, he had stared into the dark, contemplating his potential future as husband and father. He had not realized how much he wanted either of those things before. Life was full of surprises. One moment he was busy about reclaiming his bull, and the next he was seized with the need to marry the Duke of Autenberry’s sister.

  For years, he’d believed no woman was safe. No woman allowable into his life except Catriona, and now there was this lass. Clara with her soulful eyes and hair like midnight. Someone so different from all of his experiences.

  He wondered at the identity of the man who dallied with her and then abandoned her. He assumed that was the situation. What other reason could she be here, unwed and in the family way?

  Then he realized it didn’t matter.

  He didn’t care about the man in her past because he was just that—in her past. If she would have Hunt, he would be the man in her present. Her present and future.

  Eagerness hummed along his nerves. He looked forward to that. Looked forward to bedding her. Looked forward to raising a child and being a father. Certainly after the child was born, he’d stay out of her bed. It was the wisest course of action. He would not take a chance. He would not risk the curse. But they could enjoy each other for several months. Certainly that would be long enough to satiate his desire. More than enough time for him to have his fill.

  Catriona lived halfway between Kilmarkie House and MacLarin lands. Convenient. Whenever he visited Autenberry he’d stop and stay overnight with the widow.

  She was always happy to see him and it was no different today. She was carrying a bucket of beetroot toward her cottage when he rode into the yard. He dismounted, tethered his mount and relieved the bucket from her.

  She flashed him a bright smile. Catriona was a few years his senior at eight and twenty. Widowed three times, she professed herself done with marriage. She’d been a young lass when she first married. Soon after she lost her first babe. It was a brutal experience that very nearly took her life. The midwife declared her lucky to be alive in the same breath she pronounced Catriona barren.

  It would seem the midwife’s prognosis held true. In the ten years since, Catriona had buried three husbands and never found herself with child again.

  She lost her first husband to cholera; her second drank himself dead, falling in a nearby stream as he stopped to relieve himself and drowning. The last died of an infection. None gave her a child. Her unfortunate history made her the ideal lover for Hunt.

  She, like everyone else, knew of the MacLarin curse. She’d called upon him after her third husband expired, making the trip herself, bold as you please.

  I’m no’ hunting fer husband number four, but I’m no’ inclined tae live the rest of my days as a nun. I dinna suppose ye are fond of living as a monk, Laird MacLarin.

  They’d wasted little time divesting themselves of their garments right there in his office. It had been quite a satisfactory arrangement these last four years. It served them both well. He’d thought it enough. More than enough.

  He’d thought he could live his life quite contented with occasional visits to Catriona. But now that had changed.

  It was no longer enough.

  She pressed a kiss to his cheek in greeting. “Come in out of the chill.”

  He followed her inside and set the bucket on her worktable.

  She hung her coat on a peg near the door while keeping her heavy tartan cowl on. “Can I make ye some tea?”

  He nodded. “That would be verra nice, aye.”

  Still smiling, she set the pot to fire.

  He studied her as she moved about her cottage. She was still an attractive woman. The tiny lines around her hazel eyes marked her as a female given to pleasure. Despite the grief that too often afflicted her, she was given to merriment. She would have no trouble attracting another lover.

  “I dinna expect tae see ye. Assumed ye would be scouring the countryside searching fer yer prized bull.”

  He winced. His quest for his missing bull suddenly felt a lifetime ago. How quickly his interests had deviated. “Heard of that, did ye?”

  “Indeed, it is all the titter through the Fife.”

  “Aye, well, I’ve gotten a little sidetracked from that chore.”

  “Enacting revenge on Bannessy?” She chuckled. “Reclaiming yer property? Upholding the MacLarin clan honor? I dinna think anything more important to ye than those things.”

  As annoying as the observation, it did have a ring of truth. Not that he would admit to such a thing. “I do concern myself with other matters.”

  “Do ye? Such as?”

  She poured their tea. He watched her a moment, appreciating her work-roughened hands as she prepared him a cup. She was accustomed to hard lab
or, and he had always respected that about her.

  “I’ve decided tae marry,” he announced.

  Her gaze shot to his. She set down the teapot with a sharp clack. “Ye jest.”

  He continued, “You deserved tae hear it from me. It is no’ for certain yet, but I have proposed tae a lass.”

  She shook her head. “’Tis suicide.”

  “Circumstances make it feasible.” He did not need to air all of his and Clara’s personal affairs.

  “Who is she?” She slid his cup toward him, tea sloshing over its sides.

  “The Duke of Autenberry’s sister.”

  “Och! A fine lady then.” She laughed with a touch of bitterness. “Does that have anything tae do wi’ yer sudden change of heart?”

  “You ken me better than that.”

  “I thought I did. Now I’m no’ so certain. I never ken ye tae be a fool.”

  He opened his mouth and then closed it. He wouldn’t argue the matter with her. He didn’t come here to persuade her into believing as he did. He came her to apprise her of his potential change in status. “I’m verra sorry if I’ve hurt you, Catriona.”

  “Hurt me? I’ve buried a baby and three husbands. I’m barren. Ye havena hurt me, Hunt. Ye dinna possess such power.” She leveled him a look that conveyed he was silly to even consider such a thing. She gave a disgusted shake of her head. “If ye want tae kill yerself over a lass, then go on wi’ ye. I wish ye all the best.”

  He sat for several moments before pushing back his chair and standing. Taking tea now felt pointless. A pretense. He’d done what he had come here to do. He turned for the door when her voice stopped him in his tracks and had him looking over his shoulder.

  “Am I tae assume this puts an end tae us then?”

  He nodded. “If she accepts my proposal, I shall hold tae my vows.”

  She canted her head, her lips twisting wryly. “So ye will be that manner of husband. I should no’ be so surprised.”

  “What manner?”

  “Loyal.”

  He shrugged. “She has no’ even accepted. It may no’ come tae pass.”

  “Oh, she will.” She leaned back and sipped from her cup. “Look in the mirror. Lasses swoon over that bonny face of yers. She will no’ be able tae resist.” She nodded vigorously, sending her auburn plait bouncing over her shoulder. “She will be counting herself the most fortunate of lasses on yer wedding night.”

  He sighed wearily. “Catriona.”

  Her hazel eyes sparked. “Wot? I ken what it’s like tae share yer bed. I shall mourn the loss of yer fine body.”

  He opened the door, holding on to the latch for a moment. “Take care of yourself. I hope you find happiness.” A rather sentimental thought, but he meant it.

  She lifted her teacup in a salute. “Enjoy yer marriage, Laird MacLarin, however short-lived it be.”

  As he left her cottage behind and walked into the chilled air, he pushed her words aside, telling himself she was wrong. She did not understand.

  He was doing the right thing.

  Chapter 9

  Hunt did not arrive back at Kilmarkie House until after dinner.

  He found the duke and duchess in the drawing room, and after a few minutes of forced niceties, Autenberry took pity on him.

  “Well, MacLarin, I can tell from the look of you that you’re anxious to see her. Clara is in the music room.”

  He found her there, tapping idly at the keys of a pianoforte. Her profile was lovely, her skin like heavily creamed tea. His mother had taken her tea that way. Almost more milk than tea. And a good dollop of whisky in it, too. He frowned a bit at the memory of his mother. Whisky had been her crutch. She could not make it a day without the stuff. Correction. She could not make it hours without imbibing.

  Shaking off such thoughts, he inquired, “You play?”

  Clara turned on the bench, startled at his entrance. “I’m a gently bred lady.” This she said with some sarcasm. “Of course I play. My mother saw to that.”

  “I suppose I will have tae obtain a pianoforte for you.”

  “Oh?” She looked at him with an unreadable expression. “So certain I shall be living under your roof then, are you?”

  He forced a smile. This wooing a woman was new to him. Understandably, it was not one of his best skills. He’d lived his life avoiding any deeper engagement with the fairer sex. “Will you no’ be?” For some reason his chest tightened, as though a great deal depended on her answer—and he supposed a great deal did. His entire future, in fact.

  She stared at him a moment with those deep brown eyes and then looked down at the keys again, stroking them idly with slim, elegant fingers. The tightening in his chest increased to a twisting discomfort. He wanted that hand to pet him in such a way . . . in long, stroking brushes of her fingertips.

  “Where were you today?” she finally asked.

  He shifted, the question unexpected. Not only was wooing a new experience but having to answer for his whereabouts was new, too. “I had an errand.”

  “An errand.” She smiled as though amused, still not looking his way. “Is that what you call her?”

  “Her?”

  “Yes.” She looked up, her gaze unflinching. “Your friend. The widow. Your lover?” She arched a fine eyebrow at him and lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “The staff talks. They knew at once where you went. Apparently you visit her often.”

  His life had always been a point of interest in the Fife. There were wagers on whether or not he would reach his thirtieth year, after all. In five generations, no man of his line had succeeded in living to such a ripe age. He was the subject of much attention. Just as everyone knew his story, they knew Catriona’s, too. They knew why the cursed MacLarin dallied with Catriona. She was cursed in her own way, thereby making them a suitable match.

  “I did visit a friend . . . tae tell her that I’ve proposed marriage.”

  “Indeed? A little premature, don’t you think? I haven’t said yes.”

  From her stiff posture and evading gaze, he feared he had her answer now and it wasn’t a yes.

  She stepped forward abruptly, moving past him, as though she could not be gone from him soon enough. “I was already once engaged to a man whose suit I should never have accepted,” she tossed over her shoulder. “I’ve learned much from that mistake. I won’t repeat it. If I were ever to agree to marry again, I must be absolutely certain of the gentleman.” Turning, she faced him fully, her dark gaze sweeping over him in distaste. “I am most assuredly not certain of you, Laird MacLarin.”

  He released a huff of frustration. “There is nothing in this life you can be absolutely certain of.”

  “That is a cynical view.”

  “It is truth. Something I doubt the father of your child ever gave you.”

  She flinched.

  “Life is risk,” he added, gentling his tone. He did not wish to hurt her. Obviously that would not help win her.

  “You are not a risk I wish to take.”

  He seized her hand, stopping her from going. “Is that it then? We are done.”

  “Did we ever begin?”

  “You said you were considering my proposal.”

  “And I did.”

  “It has not even been a full day. You made up your mind so quickly against me?” He lowered his voice, hoping it affected her because touching her affected him. It got to him—she got to him—tightening his gut and sending a delicious thrill along his spine.

  His thumb brushed her pulse point at her wrist and her breathing hitched, grew raspy and came noticeably faster. Damn it.

  Sensation traveled from his hand to his arm and shot to every part of his body. How did she affect him with such lack of effort? Was he really that weak? That susceptible to her allure?

  The answer was glaring. YES. Yes, he was.

  “My rejection of your suit comes as a shock?” she asked with a toss of her head and lift of her chin. “We’ve only known each other for a short amount of ti
me.”

  “Strangers marry all the time,” he countered reasonably. “Arranged marriages are no’ so uncommon. Not where you’re from . . . not here either.”

  “But this is not that scenario. We both have a choice here. I have a choice. Why should I choose this? Why should I choose you?”

  “I’ve always been a man tae ken his own mind, and I have my mind set on you, Clara.”

  “Do you now?” Mockery laced her voice. “Well, that is your problem. It has nothing to do with me.”

  “We would be well suited.”

  “Because I can give you a child?” she countered, her voice twisting into something bitter, as though she resented this as his reason for wanting to wed her.

  “In part.”

  She hesitated at that admission. “Only in part? What else could possibly motivate you? What could benefit you?”

  “Perhaps I should explain the benefits tae you since you’ve brought up a verra valid point. Why should you choose me? Shall I explain that so there is no confusion?”

  She took the bait, straightening and leaning forward. Clearly he had her interest now. “Very well. Perhaps you should endeavor to explain that to me.”

  His thumb roved over the inside of her wrist. “I’m offering you a chance at a new life. Away from boring, oppressive London.” He paused, letting that sink in. “As my wife, you will have freedom. You can do more . . . experience more. Travel, if you wish. I will no’ inhibit you. I ken that will make you happy. I can see it in your face. You’ve an adventurer’s soul. Also, married tae me, you will never have tae worry about your tainted reputation returning tae haunt you.”

  She looked at him with a faintly mesmerized expression. He took that as encouragement and continued, “Do you want tae be a burden tae your family? Your brother and sister-in-law? The rest of your kin?”

  “Of course not,” she snapped with a touch of indignation.

  “Then marry me and they shall never have tae bear that burden.”

  It was her Achilles’. He knew it because he knew she was a good person. Her family suffering because of her? She could not stomach that. Not if she could help it.

  Her eyes flickered over his face for several moments until she finally shook her head, clearly reaching a decision.