Authors: Sabrina York
Brigand (17 page)
Ewan winced as the reed-thin girl dressed in a blowsy gown
hit a note that was not quite human. It brought to mind the warbling cry of a
vixen in labor. He’d winced quite a lot this evening. And not just because the
singing—if one could call it that—had been atrocious.
He hadn’t been able to get close to Violet. She’d been
surrounded at every turn. Edward had done a credible job of distracting Ned,
but Violet had been plagued by suitors and engaged in conversations with other
girls and boxed in by matrons all evening.
Panic had begun to creep into his soul.
If his men could see him now they would laugh like lunatics.
Here he sat, sweat beading his brow like an untried boy, dressed like a buffoon
in a starchy suit with points that could take out an eye.
He had to find a way to talk to her. And he had to do it
tonight.
She was carrying his child, for Christ’s sake. Also, he
wanted very much to kiss her.
“There.” Kaitlin took the seat next to him. “I’ve set it up
for you. Violet’s waiting for you in the library.” He gaped at the duchess. She
nudged him with an elbow. “Well? Go on. She’s waiting.”
Anticipation and excitement and dread warred within him. He
leapt to his feet. But as he headed down the hall, he was waylaid by Robin
Granger. An older gentleman was with him, a man he introduced as his father.
The Earl of Walsham.
Ewan glanced at the man, impatience nudging him to move on.
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t just nod and say something banal and pass them by.
There was something about the older man, something that poleaxed him.
The glint in his—very familiar—eyes. The cut of his jaw. The
shape of his lips.
“So,” he gusted. “You’re Ewan St. Andrews.”
“Aye.” Ewan took, and shook, the extended hand. Walsham
didn’t seem inclined to let it go.
“Tell me, boy. What was your mother’s name?”
Ewan’s brow quirked. “Fiona.”
The man paled. Swallowed. Staggered back just a bit.
Robin stepped closer. “Father, are you all right?”
“Yes. Yes. I’m…fine. Just a bit of a shock, is all.”
Ewan quirked his brow. Really? “A shock, sir?”
Their gazes met, locked. “Hearing her name again. You see,
my boy, I knew a Fiona once. Fiona Carlisle. Lovely girl.”
“I see.” He did not.
“We met in St. Andrews. We were both there on holiday.” His
intensity made it clear there was much more to it than that. “I was quite in
love with her.” His throat worked. “After we parted, I realized I couldn’t live
without her so I went to Aberdeen and found her family. They said…she’d left.
Didn’t know where she’d gone. Didn’t care.”
Ah. The picture was becoming clearer. His mother’s people
hailed from Aberdeen. People who had tossed her out. When she’d discovered she
was carrying him.
Tears teased at the old man’s lashes. “I never did find her
again though I took my holiday at St. Andrews for years.” He sighed. “I
eventually married. She was a charming girl. A wonderful mother.” He patted his
son on the shoulder. “But I never forgot my Fiona. Would she…could she be your
mother?” His voice cracked just a bit. When Ewan didn’t answer, he added almost
wistfully, “You have her dimples.”
Emotion, regret and heartbreak for this man—and his
mother—clogged his throat. He set his hand on Walsham’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,
sir. My mother passed away fifteen years ago.”
The man shrank. His hopeful smile collapsed. “I, ah, oh. My
sympathies.” He said nothing more but continued to stare at Ewan. “And your
father?”
“Never knew him.”
“Ah. I see.” The old man’s eyes welled up. “You look very
much like my son.”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
“You realize I could very well be your father.”
He had realized that. The first time he’d seen Walsham. The
first time he’d seen Robin, really. “I would be honored, sir.” He glanced at
Robin and nodded. “I always did want a brother.”
Robin grinned. “Four.”
“Four?”
“Indeed.”
Walsham scrubbed with a handkerchief. “You will have to come
’round for dinner. Meet them. We need to talk. I would…very much like to
hear…about her.”
Ewan nodded. “I will.”
The man thrust out a hand and they shook once more, but then
without warning, he pulled Ewan into a desperate hug. His body quaked with the
weight of his sobs but Ewan didn’t push him away. There were tears in Robin’s
eyes as well.
At long last, Walsham gained control of himself and pulled
back, dabbing at the wet spot on Ewan’s coat in a fruitless attempt to wipe his
anguish away. He tipped up his chin and sucked in a fortifying breath. “Please
tell me she had a happy life.”
Ewan swallowed. It took everything in him to nod. “Yes,” he
croaked. “A very happy life.”
It was the nicest lie he ever told.
* * * * *
Though he wanted nothing more than to stay with Lord Walsham
and his son, to continue their conversation, the emotions assailing him were
far too poignant. He could hardly bear to look at the man.
Tomorrow would be better for a lengthy chat.
And Violet was waiting for him.
In the library.
For her proposal.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside and froze.
Oh, Violet was there.
In another man’s arms.
He had his mouth on her face.
Rage boiled through him. A red tide descended. The urge to
kill possessed him.
At his entrance, Dittenham spun around, still holding Violet
close. Far too close. Dangerously close. The fop’s eyes went wide. “Oh dear,”
he simpered. “We’ve been caught kissing in the library, my dear. It appears
you’ll have to marry me after all.”
“The fuck she will.” Ewan stormed toward them, glowering at
the bastard as he approached.
Dittenham wilted.
And then he fell. Probably because Ewan’s fist—completely of
its own accord, mind you—plowed into the bridge of his nose, right between his
two piggy eyes.
He turned to Violet in a rage. “You’re not fucking marrying
him.”
“I didn’t intend to.”
“You were kissing him!”
“He was kissing me. I was fighting him off.”
He could barely hear her through the rushing in his ears.
He’d had enough. E-goddamn-nuf.
She was his. He loved her. No one else was having her.
And if he had anything to say about it, no one else would
ever kiss her again.
Ewan hefted her over his shoulder and stormed from the room.
He carried her down the hall, through the swarm of members of the polite
ton
escaping their torture. Ignored their gapes and mutters at the sight of a
brawny Scot with a woman over his shoulder.
He didn’t care.
He didn’t care anymore.
At all.
Edward halted him at the door. “Where do you think you’re
going?”
“I’m kidnapping her.”
Gasps rounded the foyer. Several matrons began to faint
until they realized no one was paying enough attention to catch them.
Kaitlin leaned in. “I wasn’t serious about that.”
“Kaitlin!” Violet chirped. “You told him to kidnap me?”
The duchess had the grace to blush. “It was only a
suggestion.”
Violet tugged Ewan’s coat. “Ewan, put me down at once.”
“I will not,” he barked.
“My head is starting to spin.”
“I’m taking you to Scotland. We can be married in a few
hours.”
“But you haven’t asked me to marry you,” she wailed.
His heart jerked. “You…do want to marry me, don’t you?” His
voice wobbled there at the end.
“Of course, you big oaf, but put me down!”
“Nae! I cannot wait. Not a moment longer.”
“You may not have to.” The Earl of Walsham’s deep voice
washed through the foyer. All eyes turned to him. He smiled at Ewan with great
warmth.
“Why not?” Edward asked.
“Because the Archbishop is in the next room.”
* * * * *
They did not hie off to Scotland.
But the Archbishop didn’t marry them that night either
because just then Violet cast up her accounts…all over the back of Ewan’s
lovely new tailcoat.
And then she told him it was his fault because he really
should have put her down when she told him to.
The Archbishop was an accommodating sort for a man of his
stature. And he was a friend of The Earl of Walsham. There was no problem
convincing him to come by Wyeth House the next day and give Ewan St. Andrews,
the notorious McCloud, the justice he deserved.
They were married in a lovely, blissfully brief ceremony on
a special license Edward insisted on paying for.
Dittenham was not in attendance.
Her Royal Hotness, Sabrina York, writes naked erotic fiction
for fans who like it hot, hard and balls-to-the-wall, and erotic romance and
fantasy for readers who prefer a slow burn to passion. An award-winning author
in multiple genres, Sabrina loves writing hot, humorous stories in all kinds of
settings.
Sabrina York: Read Her Hotness, feel the heat.
Sabrina York welcomes comments from readers. You can find
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Sabrina
York
Ellora’s Cave Publishing
Brigand
ISBN 9781419947285
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Brigand Copyright © 2014 Sabrina York
Edited by Carrie Jackson
Cover design by Dar Albert
Cover photography by Wisky/fotolia.com
Electronic book publication April 2014
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