To Redeem a Highland Rake: A Historical Scottish Romance (Heart of a Scot Book 2)

by Collette Cameron

  Arieen opened her mouth to ask Morag for permission to visit the retiring room when Douglas McDowell waved. A delighted grin arcing his mouth, he wended his way toward her and Morag.

  Directly behind him, a look of seductive determination on his face, the pirate strode in her direction. Surely he didn’t intend to ask Arieen for a dance? She couldn’t deny the excited flutter in her middle, but he was a distraction she didn’t need.

  She could escape from Douglas with a hastily contrived excuse. Her instincts screamed the buccaneer would be much harder to elude.

  If she even wanted to.

  Decision made, Arieen acknowledged Douglas’s greeting with an exuberant wave and swiftly changed her tactic. “Morag?” she asked.

  “Aye?” Morag turned a bored gaze upon her, raking over her pirate’s garb. Disapproval sloped her mouth downward. “I dinna understand why yer father permitted ye to dress like a common wench.”

  That had taken some doing.

  Likely, Da had assumed no harm could come of pushing the bounds now that her wedding loomed near.

  “I’m a female pirate.” Arieen gave a flourishing wave above her head. “A grand dame of the high seas. A swashbuckling wench who knows what she wants. A woman in control of her destiny.”

  Her stomach took another gleeful leap.

  Or she soon would be.

  From beneath her lashes, she cut the swashbuckler a glance. He’d slowed his steps, and then firming his mouth, pivoted and marched the other direction.

  Finally. He’d taken her not so subtle hints. Then why did disappointment sweep her?

  “Ye look like a strumpet,” Morag huffed, disapproval riddling her countenance. “I cannae imagine what his lordship will think.”

  Ach, since his lordship was wont to bugger hoores on a regular basis, he would probably think it a grand costume. She didn’t dare voice that thought aloud.

  “I’m sure Mr. McDowell means to ask me for a dance, Morag. I should hate to disappoint our kindly neighbor.”

  Morag sniffed and pursed her mouth. “Yer father said ye might dance with him. But only once, mind ye. Laird Quartermain is most jealous and possessive of ye.”

  Bile burned Arieen’s throat and nausea tightened her stomach. What a cartload of horse droppings. Most of the time, Quartermain looked right through her. ’Twas her vulgarly large dowry he was enamored of, and he’d never pretended otherwise.

  No one had.

  Nonetheless, she forced a compliant tone and said, “Just the one dance.”

  For the fourth or fifth time since arriving, she absently reached for her fan hanging from her wrist, only to remember she hadn’t one to wield. Instead, she grazed the handle of the small dirk sheathed at her waist and winced at the overtight stays torturing her ribs and waist.

  Da had no idea she carried a real blade. Two actually. The other was a short sword. The blunderbuss shoved into her belt wasn’t loaded though. He also hadn’t an inkling she meant to put an end to her unwanted betrothal before evening’s end—no matter what it took, short of sticking Quartermain with one of her weapons.

  On second thought, if that was what it took...

  “Mrs. Flemin’. Miss Flemin’.”

  Douglas made an elegant leg. Well done for a man his size, truth to tell. An earnest fellow, not one for costumes or fripperies, he’d donned a simple black domino.

  “Mr. McDowell,” Arieen and Morag murmured in unison.

  Sitting taller, Arieen peered over his powdered wig.

  Dear Douglas. He’d help her if she asked him.

  Except, the instant the viscount had been exposed for the immoral reprobate he was and her troth was called off, Douglas would declare himself once more. He’d done so since she was fifteen, and he’d managed three proposals since she returned from London six months ago. He’d been crushed to learn Da had promised her to that handsome vermin across the room, presently intent upon a dalliance with Mrs. Jameson.

  Arieen did love Douglas, like the older brother she’d never had, and she’d rather lop off a finger or two with her dirk than hurt him again. He’d look at her with those gentle, slightly damp, dark honey-brown eyes, and blinking away the moisture and his disappointment, he would nod his acceptance.

  And she’d loathe herself for months and months afterward.

  In any event, Da would never agree to a match between them.

  True, Douglas owned a nice parcel of land, several head of sheep and cattle, and a not-unimpressive home. His stables boasted fine horseflesh too. He mightn’t have the deepest pockets, but his coffers weren’t empty either. Alas, he didn’t possess a title, nor was he nobility—two requirements Da insisted upon.

  Since Da had married Arieen’s former governess six years ago, they’d become obsessed with Arieen making a brilliant match and acquiring a title. Basically, using her generous dowry to buy—bribe—a prestigious husband.

  She couldn’t even argue the arrangement was unusual. Maddening as ’twas, arranged unions, marriages of convenience, even forced unions were as common as mice in oats.

  How, though, could Da have promised her to a Sassenach?

  A prig who’d take her from her beloved Scotland?

  How?

  Especially that foppish piece of...shite?

  She allowed a mutinous curve to tip her mouth.

  Her tutelage in refinement mightn’t have been as successful as Da had hoped. Not nearly as fruitful, truth be known. In fact, she’d been a dismal failure at most everything except learning to speak like a proper Englishwoman, and that singular accomplishment dived south faster than a cannonball in the ocean when she became upset.

  Despite the handsome fees Da had paid for Arieen’s education, his money hadn’t bought her acceptance or respect. For the most part, she’d been treated like an upstart commoner, shunned and belittled for her Scots heritage. But Da needn’t ever know that unfortunate fact.

  Her nerves bowstrings taut, she searched the room for her unfaithful betrothed once more.

  Arieen curled her hands into fists, so tightly even through her gloves, her nails pressed sharply into her palms.

  In accord, Lord Quartermain and Mrs. Jameson casually angled toward the doors at the ballroom’s far end.

  That’s it.

  Out ye go.

  Find a hidey-hole to roger in.

  I’ll be along shortly.

  Please dinna wait for me to begin yer romp.

  Arieen bit her lower lip, smothering the laughter her coarse humor produced.

  But how to escape Morag’s shrewd regard? She’d have to exploit Douglas, and he didn’t deserve to be mistreated in that way.

  Neither did Arieen deserve the humiliation the viscount and Mrs. Jameson were dealing her.

  From behind her mask, Arieen eyed Mrs. Jameson’s scandalously revealing Roman goddess toga.

  Mayhap the hothouse was their destination.

  Mrs. Jameson’s virginal white gown—scarlet better suited the woman’s reputation—and the brisk April evening didn’t allow for a carnal frolic amongst the shrubberies. Although it wouldn’t be the first time Lord Quartermain had mated like a randy hare in the bushes.

  On multiple occasions his lordship had returned indoors, slightly out of breath, his striking face riddy, and Arieen had spied a bit of leaf or blade of grass in his previously perfectly styled wig. He attributed his breathlessness to a brisk walk in the fresh air.

  As for the assorted greenery poking from his curls?

  Giving her an indulgent, condescending smile, he’d brushed long, elegant fingers down the sleeve of his purple, or gold, or pink, or whatever other gaudy color he wore that night, and suggested Arieen consider wearing her spectacles more often.

  Odious oaf.

  She only needed her pince-nez for reading, not for spying foliage adorning his ridiculous wig. Did he think her dafty?

  “M…m…may, I have th…this dance, Miss Fleming?”

  Douglas swiped a dab of moisture from his upper lip
with his handkerchief. Before he’d returned the monogramed cloth to his coat pocket, more beads appeared.

  A hoard of unwashed bodies in a too-confined space resulted in a beastly hot and malodorous ballroom. God’s teeth, she should’ve stuffed a fan inside her belt too. The foul odors wafting about were reason enough to need the accessory.

  Laying her palm in Douglas’s huge paw of a hand, she stood. “I’d be delighted to join you in a set, Mr. McDowell.”

  Although they’d been neighbors Arieen’s entire life, Morag insisted on formal addresses.

  A future viscountess must act the part of a lady at all times, Arieen, her stepmother lectured.

  “Please return Arieen directly to my side when ye’ve finished, Mr. McDowell.”

  Morag adjusted her lace fichu. Her bosoms, as well as the rest of her, had grown enormous in recent weeks, and her garments strained at the seams.

  Giving Arieen a severe look, she flattened her palms on her grotesquely-mounded belly, a tender smile framing her mouth. She wasted no opportunity to remind Arieen that after three miscarriages, in a matter of weeks she’d bear Da a child.

  No one needed to say Arieen’s parents prayed for a boy-child. Neither did anyone have to explain the bairn was also why Morag was eager Arieen wed soon—but only to a peer, mind you.

  As improbable as ’twas to conceive, Morag’s social aspirations exceeded Da’s. Arieen presumed he wanted aristocratic blood to run through his descendants’ veins. Morag, on the other hand, craved the social connections and prestige such an arrangement could afford her and the child she carried.

  Hence her climbing into the wealthy, aging shipping magnate and spice merchant’s bed, and finding herself with child within weeks of becoming Arieen’s governess. Da married Morag, but she’d lost that babe three months later.

  Or so she claimed.

  An unspoken doubt had always niggled in a secluded corner of Arieen’s mind as to whether her former governess had been pregnant at all.

  Morag hadn’t had an easy time of it with her succeeding pregnancies and openly admitted she feared childbirth. Arieen’s mother had died giving birth to a stillborn son nearly fourteen years ago. Though she’d only been five years old, Arieen recalled that awful night, and despite Morag’s keenness to be rid of her stepdaughter, Arieen worried about her, the bairn, and the birth.

  From across the ballroom, Da gave Arieen a dinna-forget-ye-are-betrothed-smile.

  A sad twinge pained her heart. She swept her gaze over the other women present. Each of them was a pawn in one way or another too, even Morag.

  Arieen steered her focus back to her father.

  Other than permitting her to attend tonight’s ball, he’d never once listened to her pleas. Everything he did served a purpose. Stifling a scorching surge of rebellion, she tightened her grip on Douglas’s arm.

  Eyes questioning, his face creased in concern.

  “Remember, come back straightaway,” Morag reminded them. She made an exceptionally attentive prison warden.

  Douglas slanted his head in agreement. “Aye, Mrs. Flemin’.”

  Arieen made no such promise.

  If Arieen’s plot to catch Quartermain fell through, she meant to switch to her second, more audacious plan, the consequences be cursed.

  Could she go through with something that scandalous and compromise herself?

  Hopefully, I shan’t have to resort to such extremes.

  As Douglas led her toward the dance floor, she tried not to appear too obvious, craning her neck to learn if that toff, Lord Quartermain, had made the terrace.

  For voicing her dismay at her father’s choice of husband, Da had confined her to the house this past month. She’d only seen her betrothed twice in recent weeks, both humiliatingly brief exchanges supposedly to discuss wedding details. Almost immediately, Quartermain had requested a private conference with Da, she suspected to collect promised funds.

  Only by pretending to accept her lot and engage in the wedding planning had she managed to convince Da and Morag of her sincerity. She assumed that was why he relented and allowed her to attend tonight after all.

  Arieen had finally been presented the chance she’d long awaited, and she wasn’t going to let it pass.

  Da openly admitted he’d married for position when he wed Mother. He’d likely have done so again if Morag hadn’t found herself with child. He’d shocked many by doing the decent thing and marrying the beauty, only slightly older than Arieen.

  As long as Arieen could recall, he’d been keen on arranging a brilliant match for her. She was confident he wouldn’t want a scandal tainting the dynasty he’d methodically built.

  Surely, he wouldn’t.

  He hadn’t sent her to live in England for three years and paid a small fortune to have her tutored in etiquette and other essentials in order to mold her into a woman of refinement to then waste the efforts on a philanderer like Quartermain.

  Had he?

  She paused near an empty bench tucked into a quaint nook and reached for her fan again. Cool leather strips met her searching fingers as they brushed over the handle of the sword sheathed at her hip.

  By Odin’s toes.

  No fan to give credence to her fib of being overheated.

  Well, she’d have to improvise. That was all.

  She waved her open palm before her face.

  “Mr. McDowell—Douglas?”

  His eyes rounded and a pleased smile arched his mouth. A nice mouth, but not as impressive as the pirate’s.

  Guid, what am I thinkin’?

  Certain that red tinged her cheeks, she flapped her hand faster. Thank goodness her flushed face would only lend credence to her lie.

  “I’m fare parched from the ungodly heat of this room. Would you mind terribly fetching me something to drink?” She joggled her wrist toward the ornate bench. “Perhaps we can sit here and cool off instead of dancing? I’m certain Morag won’t object.”

  An expression between disappointment and relief washed over his unremarkable features. He also possessed two left feet, making him almost as awful a dancer as she.

  Another area in which she’d failed miserably whilst in England.

  “Of c…course, Arieen,” he agreed readily. “I’ll b...be right b...back.”

  The instant he turned away, and the throng swallowed him, she made straight for the nearest doorway, praying neither Da or Morag would spy her.

  If memory served, a library lay farther along, which likewise opened onto the terrace.

  She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder.

  No one paid her any mind.

  As she rushed along the corridor, passing side passage after side passage, the tiniest stab of guilt poked her for deceiving Douglas.

  She’d make amends. She would.

  Once back in the Highlands, she’d bake black bun and invite him for tea.

  “Arieen. When did ye arrive? It’s been ages since we’ve seen ye.”

  Swallowing an oath, Arieen plastered a smile on her face as she turned to greet Berget Jonston. Emiline LeClaire accompanied Berget, and delight framed both of their pretty faces.

  Emiline had befriended Arieen in London. One of the few British who had.

  Normally, Arieen would be thrilled to encounter her friends.

  It had been over a month since she’d seen them, thanks to Da’s confinement. But every second that passed meant she might lose her chance to catch Quartermain.

  “Och, yer costume is positively charming, and risqué too.” Emiline, dressed as a shepherdess, complete with a tall staff and a riot of bronze ringlets framing her face, looked down at her peasant skirt. Sighing, she plucked at the fabric. “Aunt insisted I wear this.”

  No one said no to Mademoiselle LeClaire, a strictly religious woman and the daughter of a French count.

  “’Tis fabulous, indeed, Arieen. Oh, my word ye’ve a sword and a dirk too.” Berget bobbed her head, and as usual, a dark russet curl escaped. Lines of annoyance puckered her
forehead as she tried to tuck the unruly tendril beneath her elaborate Egyptian headdress.

  “Darlings, forgive me, but I’m in desperate need of the necessary. I think the fish I ate earlier might’ve been off.” Arieen grimaced and pressed a hand to her midriff, managing to subdue a smile at their similarly sympathetic and horrified countenances.

  “I’ll find you as soon as I am able, and we’ll have a nice chat.”

  After fluttering her fingers, she swung in the other direction without waiting for their response. She hated her rudeness and dishonesty, but the situation required it.

  She must catch Quartermain in his indiscretion.

  God help her if Berget and Emiline came upon Morag and mentioned Arieen wasn’t with Douglas. Perhaps she should’ve taken them into her confidence. She hadn’t a doubt they’d cover for her. Especially Berget. A widow at one-and-twenty, she’d been forced into a loveless marriage at seventeen. She’d understand Arieen’s desperation to avoid the same fate.

  But Madam LeClaire would punish Emiline severely. More than once she’d locked Emiline in her closet-like chamber without benefit of a candle and fed her nothing but gruel for a week.

  Turning part way around, Arieen searched the passageway, and relaxed a fraction.

  Excellent.

  They’d disappeared into the ballroom.

  Her satisfied smile slipped, and her heart tripped over itself.

  Och, ballocks and bilge rats.

  Douglas stood beyond the entrance, two glasses in his hands as he slowly swiveled in a circle searching for her. He spoke to a man wearing armor much too large for him, before the fellow shook his head and clanked away.

  Breath held and skirts hiked indecorously high, Arieen ran the last few feet down the corridor. With a cautious glance around, she tested the study’s handle. A triumphant smile tipped her mouth as the latch gave way, and with another hasty glance down the length of the empty passageway, she edged the door open and slipped inside.

  With luck, it would be several minutes before her parents noticed she wasn’t dancing and came in search of her. Enough time for her to set her plan in action.