Lachlan interrupted at that point, as Megan started to lead a relieved Kimberly away. “Ah, darlin’, don’t be leaving me yet. “Tis been way tae long since I’ve basked in your glorious sunshine.”
Megan snorted beneath her breath, loud enough for only Kimberly to hear. She continued to lead Kimberly away for a moment, but must have thought better of it.
She paused to swing around, frowning sternly, and hissed at Lachlan, “I have a guest to see to who is welcome here, whereas you are not. Have one of the servants fetch Margaret for you, and see that you inform her of your previous involvement with Devlin. She’ll tell you herself that you have to change your plans, I have no doubt, for that dear lady couldn’t have been aware of your nefarious activities. She never would have knowingly invited a thief into our home.”
“Reaver, darlin’,” he corrected with a pained expression. “Kindly make the distinction.”
Megan sighed in exasperation before she replied, “There is no distinction, MacGregor, not when it was Englishmen you were robbing. You Scots might see it so, but we English certainly don’t.”
“Ah, but ’tis a moot point, since my reaving days are behind me now,” he assured her. “I canna undo what was done wi’ good reason afore now, yet you’ll give me credit for turning o’er a new leaf.”
“Will I? Not likely. And we’ve discussed it long enough. Good day.”
Kimberly was witness to his chagrined look just before she was led off, then the determined look that followed. He apparently was a man who refused to accept defeat easily, yet in the case of acquiring Megan St. James’s affections he was bound for failure. All of England knew that the Duke and Duchess of Wrothston were madly in love with each other. That news had come to the far reaches of Northumberland, but apparently it wasn’t common knowledge in Scotland.
A Highlander. Too bad. Kimberly had felt somewhat attracted to Lachlan MacGregor—well, that was putting it too mildly. She’d been very attracted. There was no point in denying it. But it was a moot point for two very good reasons. His affections were already taken, albeit by a married woman. And he was Scottish. And even if the first reason could be overcome, the second one was insurmountable. Her father would never approve of a Scotsman for her husband. He would flat out disown her first, and bedamned to the scandal that would cause.
A Scotsman. That was really, really too bad.
5
“You poor, dear boy,” Margaret MacGregor said in sympathy after Lachlan had finished explaining to her, in full honesty, the circumstances that had led him here looking for a wife. “And Winnifred? Who could have guessed she’d do something like that. She seemed like such a nice gel.”
Lachlan had to smile. Winnifred was close to fifty, not exactly a girl. But Margaret, being in her seventies, tended to call anyone sixty or below a girl or a boy. She was a dear, sweet lady, a little on the plump side, and always cheerful, at least whenever Lachlan had ever been in her company. But he had to agree with her on that point. No one could have guessed that Winnifred was capable of such a dastardly deed.
As Margaret refilled Lachlan’s teacup—they were alone in the mammoth parlor at Sherring Cross—she admonished, “Why did you never come to me for monetary assistance? Your Great-uncle Angus left me quite well in the pocket, God love him, though he knew it was unnecessary. I have more money than I’ll ever find things to spend it on.”
Lachlan was embarrassed enough by the subject, but it would be even worse if he tried to explain his reasons. Borrowing from blood kin was one thing and perfectly acceptable. But Margaret wasn’t that. She had married into his family instead, and her husband was no longer living, or Lachlan wouldn’t even be here. He’d have gone to his Uncle Angus for assistance long ago.
So he said simply, “I mun do this on my own, Aunt Margaret,” and hoped she’d leave it go at that.
She did, though she made a tsking sound to indicate she didn’t agree. “Very well. And you do seem to be on the right track now. A wife with plump pockets is just the thing to put an end to your difficulties. Why, it’s done all the time, don’t you know.”
He nodded his agreement, even though he wished he didn’t have to take advantage of this method himself. “But there’s another thing I need tae be telling you, Aunt Margaret, that I didna ken would be a problem until I arrived here. I’ve met your nephew Ambrose under less than ideal circumstances. He was using a different name at the time, which is why I was unaware that I’d met him—until today.”
“A different name?” She frowned. “Would that be when he was in Scotland last year?”
“Aye, exactly then. I’m afraid I stopped him to—ah, relieve him of a few of his coins, but instead, I relieved him of his fiancé.”
Margaret’s faded turquoise eyes widened briefly, then crinkled as she began to chuckle. “Good God, that was you? My sister and I had heard a bit of that story from Megan—Devlin, of course, would never have repeated such a story, even though his rescue was quite heroic. But Duchy and I had a great good laugh over it, I must say.”
He was relieved that she found it amusing. He didn’t, and he knew damn well Devlin wouldn’t either.
“The thing is,” he pointed out, “Megan seems tae think he’ll no’ let me stay on here.”
“Oh, bosh, of course he will,” she scoffed, only to amend seconds later, “At least, he will after he is apprised of your situation, and I’ll see to that. Don’t you worry, dear boy. We’ll have you married in no time a’tall.”
Lachlan smiled his acceptance of that, though he couldn’t help blushing over the thought of Devlin learning of his dire straits. What rotten luck, that the bonny Megan had married his aunt’s relative. Then again, if she hadn’t, he likely would never have found her again.
That he had found her changed his plans somewhat, well, completely, actually. He wasn’t going to be looking for a wife now, at least, not until he’d given it his best effort to win Megan away from her duke. If he could accomplish that, then he’d just have to find some other way to rectify the family fortune, though faith, he still couldn’t think of another way to do that just yet.
Megan—he’d actually found her and she was as beautiful as he remembered, more so, if that was possible. And just as feisty, he thought fondly. The irony was uncanny, though, that his quest for a wife should lead him to her. Aye, she was meant for him, not for the Englishman. He just had to convince her of that, and he meant to do that very thing.
“My sister and I have come up with quite a few possible heiresses for you to consider, m’boy,” Margaret was continuing, unaware of his decision. “In fact, we’re lucky enough to have one of them arriving here anytime now for a protracted stay. In search of a husband herself, don’t you know. A rich earl’s daughter, she is. You can’t do much better there. Her dowry’s rumored to be immense, and includes several prime properties.”
Lachlan nodded, because he couldn’t very well tell her that his plans had changed, that he was no longer interested in any heiresses. He’d be banished from Sherring Cross if he did. Also, he still needed her help so that he could stay here, because he certainly couldn’t see himself appealing to Megan’s husband to let him stay so he could seduce his wife. That really wouldn’t go over well at all.
So he said, “She sounds ideal, Aunt Margaret. You’ll have tae be introducing me tae her when she does arrive—that is, if I’m no’ on my way back tae the Highlands afore then, which seems more likely the case now,” he ended with a sigh.
She leaned over to pat his hand. “Don’t you worry about that now. Our Dev would never be so churlish as to give you the boot just for some little misunderstanding that occurred ages ago. In fact, I will go and speak with him now, just to put your mind at ease. So do make yourself at home, Lachlan, m’boy, you’ll be staying.”
6
“He’s not staying, and that’s final!”
It wasn’t the first time Devlin had said that in the last few hours, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to him
—at least on that subject.
Megan had been the first to find him and inform him who his aunt’s Scottish relative was, and she had left him to mull over what rotten luck that turned out to be. Then Margaret had shown up in his study to drop some ridiculous tale of woe in his lap, explaining that the Highlander had actually been robbed of his inheritance, and so had turned to reaving merely as a means to keep kith and kin together.
A stepmother absconding with the family jewels, as it were, and completely disappearing? Not bloody likely. More likely it was a tale the Scot had come up with because he knew it would stir the sympathies of their mutual aunt, and other such gullible ladies. But now even Megan was changing her tune, when she had at first seemed highly indignant that Lachlan MacGregor was under her roof.
They were in the parlor where the household usually gathered before dinner. His grandmother and her sister, Margaret, had their heads together on the sofa, speaking so softly their voices wouldn’t carry to Devlin and Megan, who stood by the fireplace. Lord Wright, who had come up from London to purchase one of Sherring Cross’s prize thoroughbreds and so was staying the night, was speaking with Lady Kimberly about the weather, of all mundane topics. Too bad he was in his fifties and already married, because he showed a marked interest in the lady.
At least the subject under discussion had the decency to not make an appearance. This was fortunate, because Devlin couldn’t be sure of his own reaction if he came face to face with that scoundrel again. He was still in the house somewhere due only to common courtesy, allowing him to get a fresh start in the morning for his journey back to the Highlands, or wherever he now chose to go.
That Devlin had had to restate his decision was due to Megan now suggesting they let the Highlander stay on. She had yet to say why she had changed her mind, but he was sure she would get to her reasons in her own sweet time, since she never let him wonder for long about her motives—at least, not overly long.
As for his statement, she merely said, “You’re not really angry over some silly thing that happened more than a year ago, are you?”
Devlin raised a brow at her. “Silly thing? The man got down on his knees and proposed marriage to you upon meeting you, and when you refused him out-of-hand as any sane woman would have, he abducted you.”
“Yes, but you got me back and soundly thrashed him for it,” she reminded him. “Or had you forgotten that you’ve already had your revenge?”
Anyone who didn’t know Devlin very well wouldn’t have recognized that slight turning of his lips as a sign of smug satisfaction. The pleasant memory that prompted it didn’t last long, however.
“That hardly pertains to what he does for a living,” he said. “Good God, he’s a bloody thief. Why do you ladies keep overlooking that simple fact? And because of that, he could be my aunt’s stepson, rather than just her nephew, and he would still not be welcome in my house.”
Heads were turning their way, and Megan whispered to him, “Not so loud, if you please. And might I point out that you haven’t even noticed Lady Kimberly, she’s so—unnoticeable—which means we’re going to have a devil of a time finding her a husband, and here you are kicking out one of the possibilities. Have you forgotten already that we were going to try and match those two?”
Now he realized why she’d changed her mind, but it made no difference at all in his opinion. “‘Were’ is the operative word, Megan. His past activities do not make him a suitable match for an earl’s daughter.”
“Oh, give over, Dev,” she cut him off impatiently. “He’s a Scottish lord, and head of his clan to boot. That makes him highly suitable for an earl’s daughter, and well you know it. And his objectionable past activities can be overlooked, due to the circumstances that prompted them. You heard what your aunt said. The poor man was desperate. Yet he’s put that behind him. And he’s here to find a rich wife so it will stay behind him. With the dowry that comes with Lady Kimberly, he’d hardly have reason to continue his reaving ways, now would he?”
He snorted. “Unless he enjoyed them, which would be a very good reason for him to continue haunting the border for victims, wife or not. And you can’t deny he did seem to enjoy robbing us, Megan.”
“Seemed to, maybe, but we don’t know that for certain. And the very fact that he’s here looking for a rich wife is proof, as I see it, that he doesn’t want to continue in that vein. I don’t see why we can’t give him the chance to show that he’s sincere. Even your grandmother is willing to do that.”
“If he’s sincere, I’ll eat my—”
“Don’t make promises you might regret,” she cut in with a grin. “And admit it, you just don’t like the chap. That is your main objection.”
“That is only a small part of it,” he insisted. “And enough has been said about that blackguard. He is not staying, and that’s final!”
7
So the Scotsman really was a thief. MacGregor had said it himself, called himself a reaver, but Kimberly hadn’t taken that seriously, since the conversation she’d been forced to overhear between him and the duchess in the entryway had seemed more like simple banter than fact. But now the duke had confirmed it.
MacGregor was an actual thief, and, he had once tried to rob Their Graces. And that wasn’t even the worst. He was not just a thief, but an abductor of women. Amazing. Though even more amazing was that a magistrate hadn’t been summoned posthaste to deal with the fellow. But Kimberly assumed that was because he was somehow related to the duke’s aunt.
The only reason she had gone down to dinner tonight, feeling as miserable as she did, was on the off chance that she might see the Scot again. Silly of her. And he hadn’t even made an appearance. She would have been much better served to have gone to bed early, particularly since now that she was trying to get some sleep, whoever was in the next room to hers was making that impossible.
There was banging going on, creaking, an occasional burst of laughter, and voices just loud enough to be bothersome, but not loud enough to distinguish any words. She was reminded of the sleepless night at that inn, though those walls had been thinner, allowing her to distinguish the Scot’s brogue in the occasional words she’d heard. This racket was just as bad, however, and if it persisted much longer, she was going to be forced to do something, though she wasn’t sure what.
Pounding on the walls, she supposed, would cause her the least effort. As tired as she was, she had absolutely no desire to go seek out the housekeeper, if that lady happened to still be up, just to be moved to another room, which would require even more time. Not for the first time, she wished she weren’t such a light sleeper, or she might have at least had a chance of getting to sleep even with that racket going on.
The proper thing to do would be to suffer in silence, but Kimberly simply didn’t feel like suffering any more than she already was. So fifteen minutes later, when the noise hadn’t even lessened a little, she finally pounded on the wall behind her bed.
In response she was treated to immediate silence. She had made her point, obviously. She sighed, fluffed her pillow, and lay back down—only to be startled half out of her bed with a much louder pounding on the wall coming back at her.
Well, that did it. So much for doing it the easy way. She’d get herself moved to an empty wing—there had to be one in a home this large—but first she’d give those inconsiderates in the next room a piece of her mind. If the same thing hadn’t happened to her so recently, she would never have considered a confrontation. But she was furious now, she had gone through this just two nights ago, and because of that, she had no thought at the moment for doing what was proper or ladylike.
She yanked on her robe, nearly cut off her breathing in belting it too tight, slammed her door back against the wall when she opened it, and a few seconds later was banging her fist on the next door down from hers with all the strength she could muster. That it opened immediately wasn’t all that surprising. With that loud crashing in of her own door, she’d given ample warning. What did sur
prise her was that Lachlan MacGregor stood there.
But Kimberly wasn’t dumbstruck by him this time, though she found him no less fascinating. She was simply too furious for that to matter.
She glared up at him and demanded, “Have you no sense, man, to not realize how late it is and that you might be disturbing others with the noise you’ve been making?”
To that he merely raised a curious brow and said, “So the little wren has a voice after all?”
She blushed at being reminded of her earlier gawking. But that didn’t cut through her anger, especially when another voice drew her eyes to a man lounging in a chair farther in the room, the very man she’d upbraided a few mornings ago for keeping her up half the night.
“Aye, I can vouch for that,” the fellow said with a drunken nod. “A voice? More like a banshee wail she’s got. ’Tis her who screamed me ear off at that inn a couple days ago, and for nae good reason.”
“Och, well, I’m no’ surprised they stuck me in the servants’ wing,” Lachlan replied, supposedly to his friend, though his eyes remained on Kimberly. “But I’ll be settling down in my own good time. ’Tis sorry I am that you’re being disturbed, lass, but”—he shrugged—“you can blame your employers for that, inasmuch as this is where they put me.”
He might have mistaken her for a servant when he lifted her out of his way earlier in the entry hall, but unless he was deaf, he must have heard the duchess use her title when she’d apologized to Kimberly. Megan had also mentioned that she was a guest here. So his inference now that this was the servants’ wing simply because she was in it, she saw as purely an insult, a deliberate one.