How to Seduce a Scot (17 page)

Catherine thought she heard a shriek from behind her, but Lord Farleigh did not turn back from their stroll, so neither did she. No doubt it was Mary Elizabeth creating a diversion of sorts to keep her brother happy and out of Catherine's hair.

Catherine wished it were Alex walking beside her, and chastised herself at once for the wicked thought. This man had saved her family's land, and had no doubt saved her family from ruin. It was a kindness and a debt that she would never truly be able to repay.

“I must thank you,” she said.

He quirked an eyebrow at her, and for a moment, he looked like a more exciting, rakish man. “Indeed? It is my pleasure to bring you here, and to give your family lunch. Even your
cousins
.”

She laughed a little at that, but would not be dissuaded from her course. “No, I must thank you for calling on Mr. Philips.”

“You were quite right about him,” Lord Farleigh said, taking her arm to assist her over a small branch that lay in their path. “Philips is a good man. I do hope your mother heeds his advice in future, instead of going her own way.”

Catherine felt her hated blush rise for at least the third time that day. Her humiliation rose from the ground to swamp her, and she wished the river might swallow her whole. He seemed to sense her mortification at once, and went to work trying to put her at ease again.

“Please do not trouble yourself. I know that you feel at a disadvantage, but please know that I am honored that you leaned on me.” He looked down at her, and stopped dead in the center of the well-trodden path. The river flowed beside them, offering a soothing sound that did little to assuage her frayed nerves. She stiffened before she forced herself to relax. It was time.

“I do hope that you will consider leaning on me for the rest of your life.”

She stared at him, dumbfounded. Was that a proposal of marriage or not? He tried again.

“Forgive me. This was not at all how I meant to do this. I always thought that I would inquire after my future wife to her father, and then speak to her once the matter was settled. But as your father has gone on before us—” He must have seen the hint of tears that threatened to blind her, for he reached into his coat pocket and offered her a handkerchief.

She took it and wiped her eyes. It should have smelled like bergamot, but it did not. It smelled only of clean, fresh linen that had been dried in the sunshine. A pleasant scent, but not heady, not transporting. Very much like the man himself.

“I must apologize again. I had no notion of making you weep, save perhaps for joy.”

She smiled a tremulous smile, knowing that this kindhearted, good man deserved kindness from her. Her pain was her own business.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You are not weeping for joy,” he said.

Catherine breathed deeply, and her tears receded. She was a woman, and had made a woman's choice. She knew what she had to do. She simply could not bring herself to do it.

“No,” she answered.

There was a long silence between them, broken only by the sound of birdsong, and of the river shushing by. Lord Farleigh stared at her a long time, as if waiting for her to speak. When she did not, he did.

“You love another,” he said.

The bald truth lay between them like an unsheathed blade. She wished to lie or, at the very least, to deny it with something resembling vehemence, but she did nothing. She did not weep, but stared at the ground, wondering if her future, and her father's legacy, was about to go up in smoke.

She should have known that he would not press her. Instead, Lord Farleigh spoke as calmly as if they were discussing the weather, or something that had happened to someone else.

“You love another, and you cannot have him.”

“No,” she said. “In all honor, I cannot.”

Arthur Farleigh nodded and looked down toward the river. There were willows leaning into the water, their long branches trailing like braids of a woman's hair.

“There was a woman I loved once, long ago.”

Catherine's eyes were drawn to his face as if to a lodestone. “And she loved you?”

Arthur did not meet her gaze, but his face softened, and for a moment, he looked like a man who was not always careful, a man who felt deeply. Just not for her.

“She did,” he answered. “She loved me better than her own life.”

“Where is she now?” Catherine asked.

“Italy, I think. I lost touch with her during the war. I have not seen her nor heard from her for years now.”

“Is she dead?”

Catherine saw the pain on his face and wished her words back again. Lord Farleigh swallowed hard, and when he spoke, his voice was muted. “I do not think so. But I do not know.”

Catherine touched his arm once, very gently, before drawing her gloved hand away. “I am sorry,” she said. “I am sorry for your loss.”

He smiled then, and it was a shadow of the calm, bland smile she was used to seeing on his face. “Thank you. I do not tell you this to bring you pain, or to put you off. I tell you only because I understand you. There are times when those we love do not suit us, and we do not suit them. And we must choose whether to cling to them, or to go on.”

“You have chosen,” Catherine said.

“I have.” Arthur Farleigh faced her, and did not flinch from her. “I have chosen to go on. I hope you will do the same, and go on with me.”

“I don't know,” Catherine said. “I'm not sure I can.”

“Believe me when I say that I understand.” Arthur pressed her hand between both of his. His touch was not importunate, nor was it grasping, but warm, like the touch of a friend.

“Do not make up your mind just now,” he said. “There is no hurry to have the banns posted. Take the time you need, and consider my suit. I think we would do well together. But it is not my decision to make.”

He reached into his pocket and drew out a ring. It was a lovely old piece, no doubt an heirloom—three pearls nestled in a bed of silver. The ring gleamed in the sun, and she watched as if seeing it happen to another as he stripped off her glove and placed his ring on her finger.

“Wear this while you consider my offer. It was my mother's. When I wrote to her of you, she sent me this.”

“It is very beautiful,” Catherine managed to say. “Thank you. Please tell her thank you from me.”

“You will thank her yourself, perhaps,” he answered, smiling down on her.

That a grand lady would welcome her into her son's life and family, sight unseen, moved her almost to tears. But she blinked, and did not weep.

Tears would not signify. She had an entire afternoon to get through yet, and then an evening, and then a whole, sleepless night. She would think later of what they had spoken of, of what she still must do. For now, her mind was one large bruise. She could not think again.

She accepted her glove from him and drew it on over his mother's pearl ring. Though hidden, the weight of it dragged down the length of her whole arm.

He offered her his arm as succor. Having no other, she took it, and let him lead her back to the others.

The picnic site was in an uproar. It seemed Margaret had fallen into the river somehow, and had managed to dog paddle to keep afloat until Alex had fished her out.

Catherine left her almost fiancé and went to her Highlander's side. He was beginning to dry a little in the sun, but his coat and trousers were still wet through, though he was no longer dripping. One shoe was gone, and his stocking, it seemed, had a hole in the toe.

She wanted to take him home, set him by a fire, and give him clean clothes to wear and whisky to drink, while she darned that sock before she sent it to the laundry.

The odd fantasy seemed absurd, and her eyes were watery as she suppressed both mirth and terror at the sight of him. She would have to speak to him as well, but she could not bear to do it that day.

Tomorrow. She would put off all unpleasant conversations until the morrow.

“What's wrong?” Alex asked, surveying her face as if he might find the answer to his question there.

She did not know how to answer him, for she did not want to lie. “I will tell you tomorrow,” she said. “Today, I think we need to get you home.”

“And into dry clothes,” he said, drinking from a small flask that was not his.

“Where is your flask?” she asked him.

He waved one dismissive hand toward the River Thames. “At Tilbury by now, most likely.”

She did laugh then, and he quirked a brow at her, his own eyes warming a little. Still he watched her close, dissatisfied with her answer to his question. But he was gentleman enough not to press her, and for that she was grateful.

Robbie was home drinking when they got back from their purgatorial picnic in Richmond. He took one look at Alex, shook his head, and poured him a whisky.

“You need to get changed.”

“I'm dry by now.”

“Don't ruin the duchess's fancy settees.”

When Robbie said that, Alex downed his drink and went upstairs to change. When he came back down, a quiet, chastened Mary Elizabeth stayed in her room. Contemplating her sins, he assumed. For the girl to go against the family, in even such a foolish and minor manner, told him how angry she was at their mother and, by extension, at them.

He could not concern himself with his sister at the moment, though she clearly needed a firm hand and more guidance than he had been giving her. He could think of nothing but his angel, and the look on her face when she came back from her walk with Lord Farleigh. Like a woman going to her execution.

It was beginning to look as if he was going to have to save her from herself.

“How long do you think it might take to get from here to the border?” he asked his brother, a fresh whisky in hand.

Robbie stared at him, but answered the question. “Three days, if you change horses every two hours. Why?”

“I might have to kidnap my girl.”

“Is she still looking at that Englishman?”

“She is.”

Alex swallowed his whisky and set his glass down. He knew he could not take another before dinner and still keep his head. Part of him wanted to drown himself in a vat of the stuff. But they had only brought two barrels, and he was not going to risk running out. God alone knew how long it was going to take to get Mary Elizabeth tied to some Londoner.

God help them.

He put his sister out of his thoughts again. He had bigger fish to fry.

“For some godforsaken reason, she won't let me get close enough to propose marriage myself,” Alex said. “And all the while, my girl's trying to get engaged to the bastard.”

“While she's in love with you?”

“We've not discussed her feelings, but I am fairly certain. Yes.”

Robbie shook his head. “Women.”

His brother tossed him the sealed envelope that had come from their uncle that afternoon while he was out. He found the marriage license within. “Special license, my arse,” Alex said. “These English are too pretentious to live.”

“That must be why we killed so many of them,” Robbie said.

Alex laughed in spite of himself.

“You've got the license in hand,” his brother said. “You don't need to run to the border.”

“If she won't sign it, I might.”

“As bad as that?”

“When she came out of the woods after being alone with the bastard, she looked as ill as if she'd swallowed a snake. I fear she may have agreed to marry him already.”

Robbie swore. “Do you need to kill him?”

“I doubt it,” Alex answered. “He's too thin blooded, and too much a gentleman to offer her insult. But my time is growing short. I must be ready to make my move, if I'm forced to it.”

“You know I'm behind you. Father and Ian will be, too. David will laugh his arse off at you, but he'll back you. You've only Mother to contend with, but after you've married the girl, even Mother will have to overlook the abduction.”

Alex felt grim. He, the man who had to push women off him most times, was actually contemplating taking a girl away to the border to be wed. The Apocalypse truly was nigh.

“I am not best pleased,” Alex said at last.

“I imagine not.”

The brothers sat in silence, contemplating the large pianoforte that Miss Margaret Middlebrook had knocked out of tune with her overenthusiastic playing.

“I'll go see my girl tonight,” Alex said.

“An evening call?”

“A midnight call, more like.”

“If you have to head north, go. I'll look after Mary Elizabeth.”

“Something's wrong with the girl,” Alex said.

“Something has always been wrong with her. Da indulged her too much, I'd say.”

“No,” Alex said. “It's more than the usual. I think Mother sending her away has broken her heart. She cried yesterday. And she almost cried today. She would have, and in public too, if I hadn't hugged her.”

Robbie swore again, this time louder. “Mother was harsh to her when last they spoke. And sending her south to marry—I would not wish that on a Campbell, much less my own flesh and blood.”

“Aye.”

“She needs a woman's touch. Your girl's too distracted to be of much help.”

Alex smiled. “And when I marry her, she'll be more distracted still.”

Robbie laughed, and held up both hands as if to shield himself. “Say nothing more, Brother. Think of my delicate ears.”

Alex laughed out loud. His brother was the only one on earth who could always get a laugh out of him, whatever disaster was rising. “And how is Madame Claremont?”

“Still from Cheapside, I warrant. I had an amusing time with two of her girls earlier this afternoon before you came home.”

“Not here.”

“Do I look like I've suddenly gone daft? No, I kept my whores where they were, happy in their own rooms. I pay so I can leave, you know. Otherwise they'd never let a fine-looking man like me out of their sight.”

Alex swatted his brother, and Robbie swatted him back. They were halfhearted, glancing blows that subsided at once. They both went back to silence, each contemplating the afternoon they had spent. Alex knew his brother had had a much better one. But Alex would rather be miserable and in his angel's presence than happy and apart.

He was certainly doomed. But he would go to his own end whistling.

“I'll go to her tonight,” he said.

All the advice Robbie offered was this: “Wear black.”