Secrets to Seducing a Scot (13 page)

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Authors: Michelle Marcos

BOOK: Secrets to Seducing a Scot
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The lady blushed to the color of her hair. Her entire demeanor changed, and once more he caught a glimpse of the innocent young girl long gone from the wise eyes.
“Sir! What would the other servants think if they saw?”
“They’d realize what a treasure you are.”
Serena sat at her vanity desk, slowly brushing out the wet strands of her long blond hair. Her bath had left her scented of English roses, and her afternoon tea was still warm in its cup. Her muddied dress lay in a heap on the floor like a shed skin, and her elegant evening clothes were laid out on the bed. Though everything had returned to its normal routine, nothing was as it had been. And at the heart of the transformation was the man who lay just beyond that secret door …
The memories of the eventful day swirled about her like a snow flurry. The sheen of the rainwater on Malcolm’s skin; the feel of his hand on her wrist in the carriage ; the elation at his arrival on the battlefield; the mortifying sensation of being chastised like a schoolgirl. The remorse at putting his life in danger.
A soft knock sounded on her bedroom door, bringing her daydreaming to a screeching halt. “Miss? It’s Caointoirn, miss.”
“Come in, Quinny.”
The petite maid ventured in. “I’ve come to do yer hair.”
For the first time, the prospect of pinning her hair up in an elegant coif depressed her. “Very well,” she said with a sigh.
“I’ve brought some salve for Mr. Slayter. Would it be
all right if I go through here rather than the library door, miss?” She nodded in the direction of the secret passageway, a place where Serena’s thoughts had been just moments before.
Serena glanced at the brown glass bottle and white cloth, and an idea came to her. “No. Leave it with me, Quinny. I’ll take it in to him. Come back later. You can do my hair then.”
“Very well, miss.”
Medicines. How she hated them. They were a reminder of how imperfect the world was … and how mortal. Her father was reduced to taking powders and restoratives every day, each of them foul and unpleasant, in an effort to extend his life. The thought that she was the cause of Malcolm’s need for them needled her with guilt.
She tightened the dressing gown around her and knocked on the secret door.
A moment passed. And then the door swung open.
The sight of him took her breath away. He was back to trousers, but he didn’t have on a stitch of clothing above them, displaying a torso that seemed sculpted from gold. His chest was smooth, like marble statues of old, with just a smattering of hair down the middle. Muscles fanned out from his neck and connected with two chiseled shoulders. Odd scars told a tale of a tortured life.
A look at his face brought a fresh stab of guilt. His cheek had purpled, and now she could see a tiny cut on his lower lip.
“I-I’ve some salve for you.”
He looked her up and down. There was no judgment in his expression, only a reserved air. “Thank ye,” he said, holding out his hand.
Ill at ease, she clutched the bottle tighter. “May I come in?” she heard herself ask. There were dozens of
reasons why it was a mistake to suggest it. Impropriety, indecency, shame … spiders. She put all those out of her head as she stepped over his threshold.
For the first time, she got a close look at the chamber he now used as a bedroom. The walls were bare of plaster, and he used the interior wood framing as shelves. A few books, probably borrowed from Lord Askey’s library, lined one shelf, and a comb and razor lay on another. A narrow bed, certainly too short for a man of his height, edged the wall separating them. On the framing above his pillow lay his pistol holster and daggers. The smell of antique wood and mold permeated the room. It was surely a misery having to live here. And yet he put himself through it willingly. For her.
“Let me help you apply it,” she said.
“I can manage.”
“No. I want to. It’s … the least I can do.”
His frown softened, but only a little. “Very well.”
She glanced nervously at his semi-nude body. “Show me what pains you.”
He raised his right hand before her eyes, palm downward. The knuckles were discolored, and a tear sliced through the middle knuckle. She couldn’t look him in the eye, lest he see how remorseful she felt.
She opened up the bottle and poured some of the grassy-smelling liquid onto the cloth. She placed her hand beneath his to sustain it, and gingerly dabbed at the broken skin. The branding scar on the back of his hand was visible to her now, and she drank in each of the ugly details with her eyes.
“Is that better?”
“Aye.” His expression had gentled, and he regarded her thoughtfully. “Thank ye.”
“What else pains you?”
He raised his left elbow up to reveal a dark bruise on his rib cage. “I can’t take a breath without remembering the face of the bastard that gave me that.”
She sighed, and moistened the rag once more. He winced a little as she applied the unguent, so she took her time. He had a lovely warm smell to him. His abdomen was strong and sturdy, each muscle well defined. Too late she considered how wonderful it would have been if she had thought to apply the medicine with her fingers rather than a cloth.
“And your cheek?” she asked.
“Aye. It throbs a good deal.”
He was too tall for her to get to it comfortably. “Please sit down.”
He perched himself on the edge of the bed, and she wedged herself between his open legs. The hair at his temples was still wet from washing. She lifted the damp cloth and dabbed it on the swell of his cheek. It was an ugly bruise, discoloring and deforming his otherwise handsome face. Another pang of guilt damned her. That mark was a direct result of a deformity in her own character. If it hadn’t been for her, none of this would have happened to him. She glanced into his eyes, which were looking straight at her.
Her tattered pride was unable to contain her true emotions any longer. “I’m so sorry for getting you into all this trouble.”
“So am I.”
His agreement stung. “I shouldn’t have stormed off as I did. Never mind that I left Zoe unchaperoned, which on its own was a thoughtless thing to do. But to put you in harm’s way was inconsiderate and foolish … and cruel.”
He closed his eyes, revealing silky white lids above
thick black lashes. “Apology accepted. Glad I am to know that ye’ll not be doing it again.”
But there was more that she had to say. “You stood up for me. Not many men would have done what you did, especially after the way I’d treated you. I’m really very grateful. And I just … wanted to …”
Everything in her being told her not to do it, but she refused to listen. She put her hands on his bare shoulders, and brought her lips to his.
It was a gentle kiss, nothing more, bestowed upon him while he sat before her. His lips were soft and warm, yet surprised by the affection. But then he wrapped his thick arms around her as he stood up, and suddenly, she was engulfed by him. His head descended over hers, and he returned the kiss, transformed into a passionate thing.
His lips smoothed over hers, igniting her body. She closed her eyes as she inhaled the soap-and-water smell of him. Wrapped in a blanket made of skin and flesh, Serena hummed in contentment. The kiss of gratitude had become a kiss of need, and he was quick to give her what she demanded. She could taste the salty-sweet blood from the cut on his lip, and it roused a carnal desire that she could not subdue.
The feel of his bare skin under her hands reawakened her passion for a man. But this was so very different from her first love affair. Back then, that one fumbling tryst was born of a need to win a man’s love, and a curious desire to be pleasured. This embrace was compelled by her need to show Malcolm Slayter her own feelings, and a desperate longing to pleasure him.
But his kisses were like nothing she’d ever known. No practiced techniques, no contrived approach. At first, his mouth opened softly to her, his response to her
as guarded as a wild animal. But when he tasted her desire for him, the truth of his own yearnings broke forth. His kisses were foreign and strange, but artless—as if his whole heart expressed itself through his kisses.
A crease formed between his thick black eyebrows as his kiss deepened. She felt his fingers spread into her still-damp hair, gently directing her in the dance of his possessive kiss. A familiar hunger pulsed in her feminine opening, desperate to be fed by his flesh.
How glorious that his body connected with hers at every point! Their legs touched, their hips pressed against the other’s body, her breasts were flattened against the ridges of his abdomen. A rush of eroticism flowed inside her.
Her arousal must have provoked his own, for she began to feel a thickening against her belly. And just as it started, he pulled away.
His hands gripped her shoulders and held them at bay. “I canna carry on.”
She could not disengage from that paralyzing bliss. “What?”
He fought to catch his breath. “Yer da has entrusted ye to me. I canna betray that.”
She had never resented her father until just that moment. “But …”
“Ye should go back now,” he said, jerking his head toward the secret door. “Before I forget myself.”
It was precisely the thing she wanted to do … forget herself. Forget Society with its fashions and foibles, forget the need for ease and eminence, forget the pursuit of ostentation and adoration. Above it all, she desired the colossal simplicity of just her … and just him.
He bent his head over her hand, and kissed it tenderly. She found herself shaking her head. She wanted
to lie down on the too-small bed and let him open her dressing gown. To let him kiss her breasts. To give her willing hands the freedom to possess every part of his body. She wanted more …
A lingering look from his emerald-colored eyes told her he wanted more, too. But it also begged her to help him be strong.
Disoriented by the thrumming inside her, she let him lead her back to the doorway in the wall. But when she stepped through it, the room no longer felt like hers. She gave a last look toward Malcolm, and slowly, he shut the door between them.
She stood against her bed for some time, reassessing her surroundings. The vanity with its ornate brushes and hairpins; the wardrobe bursting with the best of London’s fashions; the elegant bedspread covering a down-filled mattress—all the accoutrements of a lady—looked like mere toys in a child’s playpen.
And she had very quickly outgrown them.
For the first time, Malcolm Slayter felt like a true gentleman.
He was headed into a formal dinner with an ambassador and the lord and lady of the manor. And on his arm was Serena Marsh.
For once, he was walking not behind her, but beside her. And she was only too happy to have him there.
He glanced down at her. She looked exquisite in a white gown with blue flowers sewn into it.
Serena smiled back at him. What a charmer she was. More beautiful than any woman he’d ever met. Those sapphire eyes of hers could silently convey a thousand emotions. It had taken an eternity to get his body under control after he escorted her to her room. All he could think about were those plump lips, opening to him like petals in full bloom. He could taste them still. But the most magical part of it was that
she
had kissed
him.
He inhaled deeply, his chest filling with pride. He had changed in her eyes. She didn’t see him as just her protector now, or even as her servant. His reflection in her eyes had become one of a man. A gentleman, even. A gentleman suitor.
He liked that thought. Even Ambassador Marsh had told him that he was as good as part of the family.
Family.
The word was so unfamiliar to him, and yet deep in his heart, beneath the years and the calluses, he still remembered what it felt like. It had been two decades since he had felt the joy of his own loving family. The happy memory of it was still there—not quite obliterated by the terrifying day he last saw them alive.
Still, there was something else that worried him. As a protector and a fugitive hunter, he lived by a series of rules—foremost of which was never to become emotionally entangled. It clouded the judgment and made one react with the heart instead of the head, which was the first step in getting oneself or someone else killed. The growing closeness with the Marshes would make him less effective at his job … and make Serena more vulnerable.
“So there’s the hero I’ve heard so much about!” said Lord Askey jovially when Malcolm stepped into the parlor. “Marsh told me what happened today. My boy, you deserve a drink.”
“Thank ye, sir,” he said, taking the glass of golden-colored whiskey.
“How are you, my dear?” Lord Askey asked Serena. “I trust you weren’t hurt by the experience?”
“No, Lord Askey. I’m quite well.”
“Thanks to Slayter here. Looks like they took a croquet mallet to his face.”
Lady Rachel Askey threaded her hand around Malcolm’s elbow. “Come, Mr. Slayter. Sit next to me. I want to hear every detail of your misadventure.”
Malcolm shifted uncomfortably. “Surely not, my lady. It’s not fit for ladies to hear.”
Serena cleared her throat. “I suppose it’s fine for ladies to experience?”
Malcolm smiled sheepishly. “Ye’ve got the better of me there. Well, it seems that these men were trying to frighten Miss Marsh. I just persuaded them to rethink their plans.” Briefly he touched upon the events of the afternoon.
“Honestly, Mr. Slayter,” admonished Serena, “you’re about as open as a vault. If the incident had been a newspaper article, your account of it would have consisted of the headline.” Serena described everything in detail that had happened once she encountered the group of men.
“One against so many!” remarked Lady Askey. “Mr. Slayter, weren’t you frightened?”
Malcolm shrugged. “I suppose so.”
“But that you should leap into the midst of those ruffians without a care … how did you do it?”
“I had to.” He glanced at Serena. “I wanted to.”
There it was again … a remark from Serena’s vocal eyes. She smiled back at him.
“Enough, Rachel,” admonished Lord Askey. “You don’t ask a hero to recount his own heroics. Let’s into dinner, Slayter. I can see that Marsh here has a few significant questions to put to you.”
To Malcolm’s disappointment, Lady Askey had placed Serena opposite him at the table. Though it was the proper thing to do, Malcolm had looked forward to having Serena’s new warmth nearby. Still, Lady Askey had put him in a place of honor, just to her right, and that made him feel appreciated.
Malcolm looked with confusion at all of the glasses and pieces of cutlery. A bowl of soup was placed before him, and he had to hunt among the spoons for what looked like a proper utensil.
Earlington spread his linen napkin across his lap.
“Tell me, Mr. Slayter, did you recognize any of the men who attacked you?”
“No, sir. But I did recognize a few of the tartans. There were two MacDonnels, a Ferguson, and a McInnes, but the others I couldna make out. I only wish I knew what they were doing so far from the rest of the Games.”
“I know what they were doing,” said Earlington, his veal soup untouched. “They were preparing for war.”
Serena went cold. “War?”
“I’m afraid so. Negotiations have been faltering. Each side remains entrenched in its positions. The Scots are suing for various freedoms, chief among them to maintain their own judicial system, and a complete liberation from taxation.”
Askey sighed. “That’s preposterous. No taxation? How do they expect to support the cost of the military, the monarchy? All British subjects must pay taxes. And the less said about their own judicial system, the better. Those clans you mentioned are a monarchy unto themselves, some of them no better than bands of street toughs. What laws can exist among such people?”
Malcolm rubbed the brand on the back of his hand, which he kept hidden under the table. “I canna argue with that.”
“It is to the Scots’ benefit to live as free men under a single British Crown, rather than under chiefs who impose their own laws.”
“But there’s more to their quarrel,” Earlington continued. “They want a republic. They want to secede from Great Britain altogether.”
“You mean like America?” Askey cried.
“That is what I’m hearing.”
“I don’t understand it,” Rachel added. “Scotland has
been part of Great Britain for over a hundred years. Why should they want to succeed now?”
“
Secede,
my dear,” her husband corrected, with a light chuckle. “But the question is a valid one. Why separation? Why now? And for the love of God, how? Scotland is, as far as nations go, the poor relation. She’ll never make it on her own.”
Earlington shook his head. “It is a small minority that disagrees with you, but a vocal one. The Scots have moved beyond the negotiation stage. Bills are plastered all over Glasgow rallying support for a Scottish government. The Scots are acquiring weapons, provisions. It appears as though they are establishing a more aggressive posture.”
“Why can’t the Scots be more like the Welsh?” Serena quipped, the music in her voice trying to lighten the mood. “You never hear a peep from the Welsh.”
Malcolm chuckled and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Scots have never been supple at the knee. Even within our own clans, it is difficult for us to be servile.” He turned to Ambassador Marsh. “I must ask ye—are there any terms under which the Prince Regent will allow a self-governing Scottish nation? Is there any chance at all that Scotland may in fact become independent?”
Earlington responded without pause. “None. The British Empire will not be divided. The Prince Regent has been very clear on this point—he will not have his government subverted. He has told me in no uncertain terms that he will suppress the insurrection, even if he must obliterate his Scottish subjects to do it.”
Silence filled the room as they looked around the room at one another.
Askey set down his glass, and his voice became grave. “
Si vis pacem, para bellum.
If you seek peace, prepare for war.”
Earlington spoke in soft, even tones and measured words. “I’m afraid so. My desire and my most fervent wish, therefore, is for the Scots to crave peace as much as I do.”
Being the only Scotsman in the room, Malcolm felt the weight of the outcome of this conflict shift to his own kind.
“Sir, if I may say so, the common folk are no’ in favor of war. It’s true there’s a new patriotism among the Scots. But they’re content to sing songs in the pubs and tell old stories. They don’t want to be disloyal to the Crown. But they must do what the chiefs tell them to.”
Earlington nodded. “I know that. The Council won’t listen to reason, preferring an ill-conceived rebellion to any reconciliation. But I am not unmindful of the truth of their grievances. I know that the new tax will be a terrible burden on the poorest of the Scots people. Therein lies my problem. What does one do when both sides have an equal claim on justice? When both sides to an argument are in and of themselves justified? Right is not always an absolute. Do we allow the man to choose which laws he obeys, leading to chaos? Or do we enforce his loyalty at the expense of his blood?”
Askey put down his glass. “Judas on the one hand and Pilate on the other.”
“Precisely,” Earlington responded, his forehead creasing in despair. “And I don’t mind confessing that I just don’t know what to do.”
“Father?” Serena put her hand on top of her father’s.
Earlington gripped her hand. “I know I am in a position of leadership, but that doesn’t mean I have all the answers. I know where I would go, but not how to get there.”
Malcolm regarded Ambassador Marsh thoughtfully. The older man may not have had all the answers, but he had extreme clarity in the midst of so much uncertainty, and that was something he knew the people would want.
“I can see ye’ve a desire to bring peace to this country. Yer vision is a noble one, sir, and as a Scotsman, I would follow it to the death.”
“Thank you, Mr. Slayter. It only remains for me to convince the man who accosted Serena. His vision is the only one the nobles are following.”
Serena swallowed hard. “You know who he was, Father?”
“Yes. The one you heard called Brandubh … his name is Brandubh McCullough.”
Malcolm felt a surge of ire course through his blood. “So that was Brandubh McCullough. I know the name well. McCullough stands in line to inherit the chiefdom of one of the wealthiest clans in Scotland. His father, the current chief, is on his deathbed, and most think that Brandubh will succeed him.”
“That’s right,” concurred Earlington. “You might say he’s the Scottish equivalent of the Prince Regent. He’s convinced of the Council of Scotland’s ability to self-govern, and is vociferously recommending that no one pay any more taxes or duties to the Crown.”
“Let me guess,” said Malcolm. “He’s telling the chiefs to bring the revenue into his treasury instead.”
“Why, yes. That is what our intelligence is telling us. That he is using the money to secretly acquire arms from foreign governments. How did you know?”
“Yer man McCullough is not just a rebel, sir. Given half a chance, he’ll become a tyrant.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know this man McCullough. I’ve heard he’s a glutton for power and money. I think he’s after more than just rebellion. I think he wants to rule the country.”
“How do you know all this?”
Malcolm thought back to what Will Dundas had told him at the Thorn & Thistle. By their third glass of whiskey, Will had whispered to Malcolm that it was in his favor to join the revolt. Anyone who fought for the revolution and helped name Brandubh McCullough the leader of the new republic would be rewarded with land and animals. “Word gets around.”
The wrinkles in Earlington’s face deepened, making him look haggard. “Then I fear now more than ever for the Scottish people. For when such a villain is elevated …”
“Father,” admonished Serena, “what have you always told me about fear? You are forever on about not fearing imagined dangers. Please don’t trouble yourself now with the uncertainties the future holds.”
Earlington smiled wanly at her. “You’re right, of course. As was I in saying it,” he chuckled. “However, it is my duty now to see that my imagined fears don’t become real ones.” He turned to Malcolm. “Mr. Slayter, I ask you to be exceedingly vigilant. I am concerned that McCullough’s tactics may become increasingly violent. He will hire scoundrels, ruffians, men with no code. If my daughter were to fall into their clutches, they know that I would say anything, do anything, to get her back. But the Crown will not be coerced by rebels. Do you take my meaning?”
Malcolm did, loud and clear. McCullough believed he could bend the will of Parliament if he kidnapped Serena. But Ambassador Marsh was telling him that if
Serena were ever to be captured, she would be considered the first of many losses to come.
Malcolm glanced at Serena.
A man didn’t exist who could take her away from him.

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