Brigand (13 page)

When he’d picked his sister up at Lady Satterlee’s, he’d
been poleaxed by the difference in her. She was all grown up. It seemed she’d
turned from a wild Scottish hoyden into a refined British woman in the space of
two years.

Though her enthusiasm for adventure had not dimmed. Even
now, she practically hung out the window. Every now and then she would spot a
famous sight and call it out and her face would glow.

She’d been a little perturbed to learn she would be staying
with Moncrieff at Wyeth House—the Dark Duke’s reputation was something of a
legend in Lady Satterlee’s hallowed halls. But now that Edward was married—and
to a Scot and, apparently, one of Sophia’s school friends—she was looking
forward to it.

Ewan hadn’t known Kaitlin had attended Lady Satterlee’s. He
hoped the new duchess could overlook their unpleasant past and treat his sister
well. He couldn’t bear the thought of waspish tongues turned in her direction.

Sophia didn’t deserve to suffer for his sins.

The carriage turned down a broad avenue and rolled to a stop
in a curved drive before an enormous mansion.

Ewan’s pulse kicked up a notch. His throat went dry.

Well. This was it. This was where he discovered whether or
not Moncrieff was a man of his word.

He goddamn better be.

He clenched his fingers into a fist and then, when he
realized he had, deliberately forced them to relax. He’d sent a missive with
their arrival plans in good time for Edward to cry off. Make some lame excuse.
Or simply tell him to go to hell.

Ewan had held the man’s cousin in his dungeon after all.
Debauched her. Fallen head over heels for her. Surely she had told the duke
everything by now.

Well, perhaps not everything.

At any rate, Moncrieff would be well within his rights to
refuse them entrance.

So Ewan had cause to sweat.

And if he was being honest, a great portion of his anxiety
stemmed from the fact that finally, after one full month of aching hell, he was
going to see her again.

He wouldn’t be able to touch her, not as he wanted to. He
certainly would not be allowed to speak to her alone—society had very stringent
rules for unmarried women. Ewan had no illusions about that.

But surely it would be enough just to see her face.

He was wrong.

It wasn’t enough to see her face. Not in the slightest.

Transom admitted them into the grand foyer with all the pomp
a Scottish lowlife could command. Though to be fair, Ewan sensed a discomfort in
his welcome. As though Transom was torn between his friendship with Ewan and
his loyalty to the duke.

Transom spared a smile for Sophia. But then who wouldn’t
smile at the sight of those ice-blue eyes and bobbing amber ringlets? Sophia
had the countenance of an angel and a nature to match. Her face was a
heart-shaped alabaster work of beauty, the very image of her mother, though
with a charming dent in her chin their mother had not possessed, as well as a
raft of dimples that exploded in her cheek when she smiled. Her figure, which
had blossomed in the past two years, was perfect for her height and set off
exquisitely in the gold traveling dress he’d bought her.

There would be many more fittings to come.

If Moncrieff kept his word.

If he did not, this would be a short visit to town indeed.

“Please wait in the sitting room.” Transom showed them into
an elegantly turned out chamber decked in blue and festooned with miniature
furniture Ewan was certain he would crush if he so much as perched on an arm.
“I shall notify His Grace you are here. And have tea sent in.”

Sophia’s face lit up. “Tea would be lovely. Thank you. It
was such a long, dusty drive.”

Transom gaped. Ewan longed to shut his mouth with a finger.
Or fill it with his fist. Sophia was his sister, for mercy sake. He didn’t
appreciate anyone gawking at her. Not with that expression.

But she was rather stunning when she smiled like that.

Instead of pummeling the butler—he was trying to be refined,
after all—Ewan cleared his throat. “The tea?”

“Ah yes.” Transom sent a dazzling smile to Sophia, who
beamed back. “Please make yourself at home.”

After the door closed behind the butler, Sophia whirled
around, throwing out her arms and tipping up her face. It was transfixed with
joy. “Oh, Ewan, I am so happy to be here,” she gushed. “Thank you so much for
arranging it.”

“You’re welcome.” This in a gruff grumble. Because, truly,
he didn’t know if he had arranged this. Not yet. She threw herself into a
delicate Hepplewhite. He cringed and eased onto the divan, hoping to God it did
not collapse under his weight. Destroying Moncrieff’s drawing room—on top of
everything else—would not go over well.

A maid scratched on the door and presented a tea tray, and
Sophia, as a refined society girl should, poured him a cup. Ewan didn’t drink
it. His throat was far too tight to force anything down. Also, it was tea. He
deplored the stuff. The cakes, however, he managed. They were lemon and quite
delicious and apart from the dusting of powdery sugar, which drifted to his
newly purchased fancy breeches and would not be wiped away, he quite enjoyed
them.

When the door opened, he leapt to his feet.

And that was when he saw her. Standing there, framed in the
doorway in a lavender gown that made her eyes seem impossibly violet. Her face
was more fragile than he remembered. Her lips riper…

And that was when he knew. Seeing her—just seeing her—would
never be enough.

Not ever again.

His heart set up a rapid thrum, beating so hard it made his
throat ache. His palms went damp. His scalp prickled. He stared at her and she
stared at him for an aching span of time. An eternity, but somehow not nearly
long enough.

When she turned away and pinned a smile on her face for
Sophia, it sent an agonizing barb through his chest.

There were others with her. It took some effort to notice
who they were. Ah. Kaitlin—who sent him a surreptitious
behave yourself
glower—and Ned. Whose glower wasn’t surreptitious in the least.

But thanks to the merciful Lord in heaven above, none of
their rancor was turned to Sophia. Indeed, her welcome was extraordinarily
warm.

“Sophia, darling!” Kaitlin cooed. “How long has it been?”

Sophia bounded out of her chair and cried out—in a very
unladylike fashion—and threw herself into Kaitlin’s arms. Then hugged Violet as
well.

Hell. He hadn’t realized they knew each other too.

As the girls chattered nonsense about their journey and the
things Sophia had seen along the way, Ewan studied Violet.

She had lost weight, he noticed, a frown etching his brow.
And she appeared a little wan. He didn’t care for that. He would have to ask
Moncrieff if he was making sure she ate properly because—

“Ewan?”

He blinked. Attempted to turn his focus back to the
conversation. The new arrivals had taken their seats and Kaitlin was passing
’round cups of tea. Ned, he noticed, was perched on the edge of the chair next
to Sophia’s, gazing at her with a besotted expression. Ewan’s fingers curled.
Ned Wyeth was not the sort of man he had in mind for his sister. She deserved
an earl at the very least.

“Ewan!”

“What?” he barked. Then at Kaitlin’s frown, he cleared his
throat. “Um. Yes?”

“Would you care for more tea?” She enunciated rather
precisely, as though she feared he was incapable of grasping the question.

“No. Thank you.” He set down his still-full cup and saucer.
They rattled on the table.

“Another cake then?”

“No. Thank you.” Ewan shifted. The divan was uncomfortable.
His knees were up about his chin. What he wanted was a conversation with
Moncrieff. Though their welcome—or Sophia’s at least—had been warm, he burned
for confirmation that all was settled. “Is His Grace joining us?”

Kaitlin tipped her head to the side, a sour look on her
face. “He’s in the middle of something important. He’ll be down shortly.” She
narrowed her eyes. “He knows you’re here.”

Ewan tried not to grunt. But he wanted to. It was his
natural inclination to make noises like a rutting pig when he was displeased.
And being kept waiting—well, that displeased him mightily. It took effort but
he forced the churning in his gut to quiet.

His calm was hard won. For one thing, he was impatient to
have this over with—he hummed with nervous energy. For another, whenever Violet
spoke, her voice sank into his soul and awoke a hunger he could not quench.

Certainly not with lemon cakes.

The ladies chatted amongst themselves like chirping birds,
renewing their friendship and catching up with all that had happened since
they’d seen each other last. Ned said little. He was too busy studying Sophia’s
smile, her laugh, her dimples when they winked.

Ewan would have been annoyed at that if he hadn’t had so
many other annoying things crowding his mind. In the end he had to stand and
pace to the window. He glared out onto the street. Well, the drive. Wyeth House
was seated on an enormous estate, even nestled in the heart of Mayfair as it
was.

How had he ever thought he could come here and try to fit
in? What madness had possessed him?

But he had. Somewhere in the deep, dark recesses of his
mind, he had harbored a hope. A tiny sprig of hope that somehow, in the next
three months, he could woo her. Win her.

Woo her?

Win her?

Yes. He was, he feared, a lunatic.

Now that he saw her in the environment in which she
belonged, he knew—knew—he could never have her. Why would she want him, a base,
tainted, common man? Why would she ever want him when she could so easily land
a decent man? A gentleman?

A dark cloud settled over him. A miasma so murky, so
disheartening, he wanted to rip his hair out at the roots.

The coward nestled deep in his soul longed to run. Just
leave. Sophia would be fine here without him. This was more her world than his.
He would never fit in here. Society would not allow it. The arrogant members of
the
haute ton
would certainly never accept him—

“Robert Granger. Upon my soul,” a deep female voice warbled.
“Whatever brings you to Wyeth House?”

Ewan turned. An old woman, tottering against her cane, approached
him with untoward vigor. She stopped and squinted, peering at him through
rheumy eyes. “My apologies, sir. I thought you were someone else.”

“Ewan McCloud, ma’am.” He bowed. He supposed that was what
one did in these circumstances.

“Ah. The brigand.” She cackled, presumably to herself.

He should not have blushed. It was hardly a manly thing to
do. But he couldn’t stop the hot tide flooding his cheeks. He forbore glancing
at Violet though he could feel her gaze on him. He could always feel her gaze
when it lit on him. It was a curse. “Ma’am. The very same.” He bowed again.

“I am Hortense Bigby. Delighted to meet you.” She settled
herself with a great gust on the divan and selected a cake from the platter,
raking him with an assessing perusal. Then she winked. “I always had a
preference for the wicked ones.”

His mouth fell open. Was she flirting with him?

She tittered and turned her attention to the ladies, pinning
Sophia with a sharp scrutiny. “I understand I’m to groom your sister for her
season.”

“Yes, ma’am. And thank you.” He struggled with what to say
next. He should say something more. Shouldn’t he? He couldn’t fathom what that
would be. Fortunately, Hortense Bigby did not require niceties.

“Well,” she trilled. “Stand up, child. Let me see what we’re
working with.”

Sophia did as she was asked. Bless her. She always did.

“Turn.” Hortense studied her. “Nice. Good hair. Pretty face.
The dress, however, is horrid.” Ewan bristled. He’d picked it out. Thought it
complemented her quite nicely. “She has a wardrobe, I presume.”

Ewan blinked. “A…wardrobe?”

Hortense blew out a snort. “Dresses. Evening dresses, day
dresses, walking dresses, morning dresses.”

“I have school dresses, ma’am.” Sophia offered a little
curtsey with the admission.

“School dresses?” One would think she’d admitted to keeping
a full selection of widow’s weeds. “Bother. We shall have to shop.” Hortense
braced her hands on her cane and blew out a sigh—though Ewan suspected she was
not disappointed in the slightest. She turned her attention on him. “You have
the means to pay for what she may require?”

He tried not to laugh. “Anything.”

“Anything?” If it were at all possible, her eyes glowed even
more.

“Anything, ma’am.”

“My, yes,” she chortled beneath her breath. “I do fancy the
wicked ones.”

On that note, blissfully, Edward arrived. He didn’t sit down
for tea, as Kaitlin suggested. Rather he pinned Ewan with a commanding stare
and raised a brow. “My study?”

Eager to escape his discomfort, the constant reminders of
how out of place he was in this world, he nodded. But he remembered to bow and
murmur a vague “ladies” as he left. He made it a point not to look at Violet.
That, he had discovered, was far too painful altogether.

He’d barely glanced at her.

Violet tried desperately to follow the conversation after
Ewan and Edward left. And she tried desperately to keep her tears at bay.

Ever since her cousin had told her of his agreement with the
McCloud, ever since she’d known he was coming, she’d been on pins and needles.
Playing and replaying their reunion in her head.

She had at the very least expected a smile. She hadn’t even
gotten one of those.

He’d been surly and solemn and had ignored her completely.

Her heart wrenched.

How silly she’d been to think a man like Ewan McCloud would
ever share her feelings. Was he capable of love? Of course not.

He had used her. Taken what he wanted. And now that he’d had
it, he wanted nothing to do with her.

The truth so dispirited her she couldn’t bear to pretend
civility. So when Kaitlin and Hortense showed Sophia up to her suite, Violet
begged off, claiming a megrim. It was a complete lie.

But lies had a way of turning into truth, and before long
she was splayed on her bed with a damp cloth over her face. Which was
wonderful. Because it soaked up the tears.

She’d always dreamed of her season—even when the family had
gone under the hatches and she’d been convinced it would be an impossibility.
She’d dreamed of glittering balls and handsome men and suitors and swains. Of
choosing gowns and wearing lovely jewels and silk petticoats and slippers…

She wanted none of that now.

The very thought of dressing up and going to Almack’s and
facing a teeming throng—and selecting a husband—sickened her.

Lots of things sickened her lately. She’d spent more time
hunched over the basin than she cared to admit. She’d spent a lot of time in
her room, weeping, as well.

She’d never been a weepy sort. She hated that she was now.

Hated what he’d done to her.

Well, not all of it.

Even under the cover of night, when there was no one there
to witness her mooning, she would remember him, his touch, his kisses, his
passion. She would remember him and her body would weep.

A familiar ache arose in her womb and she gave a growl,
tossing the cloth across the room. Why was she so stupid? Why was she so weak?
Why couldn’t she just put him from her mind?

Yes, that was what she should do.

Thrust him from her thoughts. Enjoy her season. Grab hold of
the very first man who approached her at her very first ball and convince him
she was utterly besotted—perhaps convince herself as well. Then she would marry
him, this soulless, faceless man. They would be blissfully happy.

And Ewan McCloud could go to the devil.