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

by Collette Cameron

  Or maybe the laird worried about his new bride associating with a tarnished woman. Wouldn’t he have considered that before retaining Arieen? Did he regret the impulse now? Or... possibly Miss Findlay didn’t want another woman working closely with her husband. Arieen couldn’t fault her on the latter, which was why females were rarely employed in such positions.

  “Nae, ye haven’t done anythin’.” Coburn blew out another breath, and cupped his nape, his expression compassionate. Or did contriteness darken his eyes to the color of mulled cider?

  “What does that mean? Either I have or I haven’t.”

  “I warned Logan before we left Edinburgh,” he said, staring off into the horizon.

  “Warned him about what?” she managed to ask between numb lips, terrified of his answer. Her heart beating a staccato rhythm against her rib cage, she clenched her reins between shaky fingers. After all, what could be so awful he looked like he’d swallowed hot coals?

  “He didna think ’twas an issue.” Was it her overwrought nerves, or did his demeanor appeared almost apologetic? “Because he’s to be wed soon. But with Mayra arrivin’ tomorrow and the whispers increasin’, ye need to ken.”

  For Guid’s sake.

  Would the infuriatin’ mon spit out whatever he had to say?

  “Please speak plainly. What whispers?” She tilted her head and pursed her lips. “Coburn, are there suggestions there is something untoward going on between the laird and me?”

  If so, everything was ruined.

  Was the gossip so very unexpected?

  Nae.

  Naturally she couldn’t continue on if such was the case. It made sense though, and that was why she’d never understood why he’d offered her the position in the first place.

  Brows high on his forehead, Coburn pinched the bridge of his nose, so obviously discomfited, if this situation wasn’t so bloody awful, she might’ve giggled.

  “Mary, Joseph, and Jesus, Coburn. What. Is. It?”

  Taking her hand, he cupped it in his calloused palm, running his thumb over her knuckles.

  Trailing the soothing movement with her gaze, she fought for composure. “Can I presume a certain pompous viscount has made a point to defame me all over Edinburgh? And that it’s taken a remarkably short amount of time for the chatter to reach the Highlands?”

  She meshed her lips against the foul oath thrumming there.

  “Aye, almost as if someone deliberately spread the gossip and embellished the sordid details, draggin’ Logan into the muck too.” Coburn gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “A few nasty-minded folks have suggested ye are Logan’s mistress, and to protect him and Mayra, I said...”

  Leveling him a wooden stare, she yanked her hand away.

  She could barely form the words through her stiff lips.

  “You told them I was your mistress?”

  Coburn jerked his head up.

  “Nae, I’m no’ that much of an arse.” He made a brusque motion toward his chest. “I told them I proposed to ye in Edinburgh. I also said ye insisted on helpin’ at Lockelieth, and that’s why yer assistin’ Logan.”

  Frustration clogged Coburn’s throat. He despised twisting the truth or lying, and self-loathing thrummed through his blood, both for his deception and for involving Arieen in it.

  “So, I cannot accept wages, else it will look all the more suspicious.” Accusation laced her voice and filled her eyes. She shook her head, and the hood slipped off. “You’ve left me with no recourse. None at all.”

  Each syllable was another sharp jab to his already guilty conscience.

  He’d anticipated Arieen’s anger.

  After all, he’d basically entrapped her.

  But devil take it, Logan loved Mayra, and she adored him. His cousin had almost lost her once, and Coburn wasn’t going to stand by and let gossip, no matter how farfetched and contrived, destroy what they had.

  Most people didn’t care about the truth. A hint of scandal, a whispered lie, and Society tried and convicted the parties involved. He didn’t give a ragman’s scorn what the tongue-waggers said about him. But their rumormongering destroying others? That he did care about.

  More fool he, but he hadn’t expected Arieen’s icy castigation.

  She gave him a wintery glare, frigid enough to freeze his ballocks on the spot. He actually felt them shrivel inside his trews. They might’ve squeaked in fear too.

  Damn, but she was magnificent.

  Without another word, she turned her mare around and pelted away like a banshee out of hell, her black cloak billowing behind her.

  Despite the troublesome circumstances, he couldn’t help but admire her fine seat and her expert horsemanship. She was a woman designed to ride.

  Regret a heavy yoke upon his shoulder, he scrutinized the path she had disappeared down. Best to allow her to calm a bit before pursuing the matter—for he must. The truth of it was, he told the gabble jaws his wedding was next week. The longer an unwed woman of her station remained beneath Lockelieth’s roof, the more difficult it would be to undo the damage.

  After dismounting and leaving Ibor’s reins dangling, Coburn sat on a boulder amongst the purple-tinged heather. Snapping off a blossom-laden twig from a nearby plant, he crossed his ankles.

  He’d come full circle.

  First, he’d proposed to Arieen to save her reputation, and for the same reason and to protect Logan, Coburn had announced she was his betrothed.

  The matter might seem trivial, but it wasn’t.

  While men keeping a mistress was commonplace, a laird moving his paramour into his Keep a fortnight before his wedding could expect sharp criticism. The clan must respect Logan. The old laird had neglected his tribe, demanded much from them, and gave nothing in return.

  Dangerous discontent had burbled beneath the surface those years Logan had been away, and a few disgruntled men yet complained amid those clansmen loyal to Logan. Both contributed to Coburn remaining at Lockelieth rather than following his dream of traveling.

  He tossed the heather aside and raised his face to the sky, soaking in the warm rays intrepidly shining between the clouds.

  Since when had he become such a bloody saint?

  The truth of it was, he wouldn’t mind taking Arieen to wife.

  Nae mind at all.

  These past weeks, he’d come to enjoy her presence, her ready wit, and keen intelligence. He’d also taken a goodly number of frigid dips in the burn beyond the stables. She’d set his blood afire with their kiss at the ball, and his passion had simmered hot and fierce since.

  But how to convince her he wanted to wed her?

  In a week, to boot?

  Coburn couldn’t profess undying love.

  She was too astute to fall for false sentimental gibberish. Besides, he wouldn’t lie to her. He’d spun numerous falsehoods of late and despised himself for it. Until now, he might’ve had a reputation as a rapscallion, but he was famed for his honesty.

  True, he felt more affection for Arieen than he had prior females, but he wasn’t a besotted fool like Logan. He was capable of concentrating and carrying on a conversation without distraction—unlike his cousin of late. Didn’t that prove he wasn’t enamored?

  He couldn’t help but grin at the memory of Logan clanging around in too-big armor at the ball, his pride kicked to the gutters in his determination to convince Mayra to have him. Logan—

  Coburn’s reserved, practical cousin—would’ve done anything, sacrificed everything for Mayra.

  Coburn’s humor faded.

  Logan’s taunt at the ball pealed in Coburn’s head. “Just ye wait, Coburn. Yer day may come yet. And if it does, I’ll be right there mockin’ ye, rubbin’ yer nose in yer warmer affections.”

  Nae, Coburn couldn’t say he was madly in love with Arieen. But if he must marry, she was his choice. Besides, she had nowhere else to go, and he wouldn’t allow her to be cast out again.

  Could she be happy with him?

  He’d do his best to en
sure she was. Bedsport wouldn’t be an issue. Of that he was certain.

  Passion simmered beneath her surface, and he was experienced enough to know how to release her desire. But he yearned for more than physical attraction from Arieen. Until now, he hadn’t thought he desired any such thing from a woman, and he held her responsible for changing him.

  He puckered his lips and puffing out a breath, eyed his gelding.

  “Och, Ibor, how do ye advise I win an unwillin’ lass’s heart? I’ve nae heavy purse to shower her with valuable baubles, nor am I a poet or an artist.” He brushed a bit of heather from his thigh. “I dinna think Arieen would care for either, actually.”

  The horse, nibbling a bit of succulent grass, snorted and raised his head, almost as if he indicated the swath of bluebells farther along the slope.

  Flowers?

  Coburn shrugged. It couldn’t hurt.

  An hour later, he knocked at her arched chamber door, a handful of bluebells clutched in his fist.

  Ibor had better be right.

  She didn’t answer, and he tested the handle. Unlocked. He opened the door and peeked inside.

  Arieen wasn’t in here.

  He hadn’t been in this room since he and Logan played hide-and-seek as children.

  The bedchamber was tidy, but stark. Except for a hair brush and comb, along with what looked to be a small jewelry box on the dressing table, it held no signs of her personal touch or belongings.

  How could it?

  She’d come to Lockelieth with but a single satchel. She’d worn the same two gowns, alternating them each day, for the past weeks. Not once had he heard a complaint from her bonnie lips about her lack of gowns, bonnets, or fal-lals.

  He laid the bluebells on her pillow.

  Maybe he should’ve written a note too.

  A simple, sincere apology.

  Did she have paper and ink in here? He twisted round to search her chamber, and pulled up short.

  Wearing her cloak, Arieen stood a few inches inside the doorway. Several strands of ebony windblown hair had escaped their pins and tumbled around her face and shoulders. Desolate eyes, framed by lush, pointy sable lashes accused him.

  Had she hidden away to cry again?

  I’ve done this to her. His heart skipped a beat. Wounded this intrepid woman.

  “What are you doing?” She looked from him to the flowers, their blue a brilliant contrast to the faded yellow coverlet atop the bed.

  “Tryin’ to make amends.”

  “A bunch of flowers cannot compensate for you lying.” She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. A flicker of pain flashed in her eyes, and he wished he had another choice—one that would give her the life she deserved.

  He pressed his lips together and rubbed the side of his head. “I ken, leannan, and I am woefully regretful.”

  Leaving the door open, she unfastened the clasps at her throat and wandered toward the wardrobe in the corner.

  For a woman her height, she moved with a sensual, elegant grace. It struck him how much he enjoyed observing her—the slope of her swanlike neck, the elegant way she moved her hands. How she captured her lower lip when vexed or troubled, the delicate upward sweep of pink on her cheeks, and the way her right brow arched high in skepticism or humor.

  After sliding the cloak from her shoulder and placing it with the other sparse contents inside the armoire, she shut the narrow door. Hands behind her back, she leaned against the wardrobe. Expressionless, she stared at him, her eyes squinted the merest bit as her gaze roved his face.

  “What do ye seek, lass?”

  An apology? He’d already offered a genuine one.

  A different solution? Coburn couldn’t contrive one.

  Or did she try to discern what kind of man he was?

  Right now, he wasn’t certain.

  The man he’d formerly been had undergone a dramatic change since meeting her, and he scarcely recognized himself in many respects.

  Shoving away from the wardrobe, she dropped her attention to the stone floor.

  “Arieen…”

  She lifted forlorn eyes, and the hurt and betrayal there twisted his gut like a rusty blade, eviscerating him. A gasp nearly wrested from his throat at her palpable pain.

  “Arieen I...”

  He tried again, but she lifted a slender hand.

  “I’ve had time to think, and I know you were protecting the laird and Miss Findlay,” she said. “Your loyalty lies with them, and I suppose you thought you were being noble—offering us like a sacrifice to ensure their happiness. I understand, although I shan’t pretend to like it.”

  Except for her pulse ticking rapidly at the juncture of her throat, she gave no indication of her upset. Must she be calm and logical?

  He’d feel better if she railed at him. Cursed or skelped him in the face. If the icy fury he’d seen earlier flamed again in her eyes, and not this defeat that had stolen the light from her face. His heart buffeted the walls of his chest, and he longed to be able to tell her not to worry. That everything would work out in the end.

  But he couldn’t, because it wouldn’t.

  Not the way she wanted things to.

  “But...” She swallowed, her composure slipping. “What am I to do now?”

  Ach, leannan. Yer tearin’ my heart from my chest.

  Arieen rallied her comportment and continued with a degree more self-possession.

  “I cannot be responsible for a wedge between the laird and his lady. He’s done much for me, and I was a stranger to him. Neither shall I have you entering a marriage I know you don’t desire.” She stood there, wounded and fragile, her voice the merest shred of brittle sound. “Therefore, I have no alternative but to leave Lockelieth.”

  She’d been brave and courageous, showing such fortitude these past days. Always smiling and lending a hand wherever she could. Determined not to offend or be a burden. Yet beneath her outward bravado, she was afraid, as any woman in her position would be.

  In a few long strides, his cuaran boot heels rapping loudly on the worn stones, he crossed to her. He gently drew her into his arms, desperate to offer her comfort.

  “Nae. Ye’ll no’ leave. Ye’ll stay and marry me, because I want to take ye to wife, and for no other reason.”

  “Ye dinna want to marry me. I heard ye say so.” His chest grew suspiciously damp.

  “I was speakin’ mince out of frustration.” He kissed the crown of her head. “And, I do want to wed ye, lass. Ye and no other. Ever.”

  Even as he spoke the words, their truth resonated within his spirit. No power on this earth could’ve forced him to wed Arieen unless he’d already been amenable to the idea.

  “Ye can continue as Logan’s secretary, if ye wish to. He’ll pay ye, and ye can save the money.” She didn’t respond, and he made the promise he’d hoped he wouldn’t have to make. “After a time, when the bletherin’ has stopped and the gossips have moved on to more fertile fields, ye can file for an annulment.”

  With everything in his power, he’d strive to change her mind in the meanwhile.

  Coburn pressed his cheek to her glossy head and breathed in her essence. Her hair was cold, and as the thought crossed his mind, she shuddered.

  Offering his body’s warmth, he drew her minutely nearer. Hope soared anew when she didn’t promptly pull from his embrace. Today, she didn’t smell of perfume, but her own clean, womanly scent. From the corner of his eye, he scrutinized the dressing table again.

  No fragrance bottle?

  Fleming had denied her that too?

  Horse’s arse.

  Och, Coburn knew what his next gift would be. He had a bit of money stashed away. Tomorrow, he’d ride to Edinburgh. In fact, he’d call upon Robert Fleming and attempt to collect the rest of her possessions.

  What harm could there be in asking the dobber?

  Voice thick and husky, she spoke brokenly into his chest, as if she struggled not to weep again. “Aren’t annulments...practically as impo
ssible to acquire...as a divorce?”

  “Aye. I shall no’ lie to ye, lass.” He ran his hands along her slender spine, as much to soothe her as in guilty pleasure of touching her. “They are.”

  Usually a dissolution was only granted if one spouse was already married or the parties were too closely related. Or if it could be proven the marriage was never consummated. And annulments took years.

  Renewed determination pelted through him. That gave him time to convince her to stay married, to show her they could be a suitable match. If he had his way, he’d never let her go—she’d want to stay with him. Forever.

  She slanted her head upward, moisture making her eyes shimmering green pools in the late afternoon light. “Chances are then, ours will be a marriage until death.”

  Would that be awful? He again wanted to ask, but dreaded her answer. Grazing his knuckles across one satiny cheek, he dipped his head. “Aye. I wouldna mind.”

  She gave a pathetic laugh, shaking her head. More tendrils slipped loose of their pins with the movement. “I’ve gone from being promised to a Sassenach whoremonger to being betrothed to a Scottish rogue.”

  It rankled to be compared to Quartermain, but Coburn held his tongue. He deserved her scorn. Perchance someday, he’d earn her love.

  She extracted herself from his hold.

  “Och, at least I’ll live in Scotland and not England. There’s that to be grateful for.” Rubbing her arms, she peeked at him from beneath her lashes. “I don’t think you’ll lock me in my chamber, as Quartermain threatened to do.”

  The scunner probably would’ve beaten her.

  “I do regret it’s come to this, Arieen.”

  Her rueful, closed-mouth smile held no self-pity or enmity. “I know. And I also know I couldn’t have remained in my position as the laird’s secretary indefinitely.” She lifted a slender shoulder. “’Tis the way of things. Women have little say about their own lives.” Giving a slight shake of her head, she breathed out a resigned sigh. “Maybe someday, that will change.”

  “I vow, I’ll be faithful to ye, lass.” Coburn took her hand and raised it to his lips.

  Ink stained her fingertips, and one finger had a scratch that hadn’t been there yesterday.