Cowboys and Highlanders (59 page)

“Aye, Marcus. We will see you later?”

The duke clasped his arm. “You will,” he said, and looked at her. "Shall we?"

Phoebe nodded and she and Lord Stoneleigh fell into step alongside him.

“Would you mind beginning with your name?" the duke asked.

“Phoebe Wallington.”

She startled when his head snapped in her direction. “Wallington?" he repeated.

"Yes, my uncle is Charles Wallington, Viscount Albery. Do you know him?”

He shook his head. "Nay. I knew a Wallington, a man in Inverness. I'm pleased you're not related to him."

Her heart suddenly pounded. "May I ask why, Your Grace?"

"The man was a cold-blooded killer." Before she could digest his answer, he said, “Why is Viscount Albery's niece visiting Brahan Seer?” She dropped her gaze, and he added, “Is it so bad that you fear telling me, Miss Wallington?”

“Your Grace, I ask that you leave the matter between me and your son.”

He looked at Lord Stoneleigh as they started up the hill. “Have you anything to say, Regan?”

“As the lady, says, Your Grace, this is between her and Lord Ashlund.”

“I can always ask Winnie.”

Phoebe inhaled sharply.

“You don't strike me as the sort of young woman who traipses about the country with men.”

“I assure you, I am not.”

“Good. So, when we arrive at Brahan Seer, I expect you both to go directly to my library. I will ask Winnie to join us.”

“Your Grace,” Phoebe said, “I beg you, leave the matter.”

“He's my son. I cannot.”

Phoebe steadied her breathing. “No need to ask Winnie to join us. She knows very little of the matter.”

“A heartening thought,” he replied as they crested the hill.

Chapter Seven

Four days travel had tired Kiernan. He entered Brahan Seer’s great hall desiring nothing more than a good meal and several scotches. He made his way through the crowd gathered for the evening meal. The last three men who stood between him and the table stepped aside and Kiernan halted upon seeing his father seated at the head of the table. He noticed Heddy sitting on his father’s left and frowned.

“Evening, Kiernan,” the duke said.

“Father,” he replied, and started forward.

His father raised a brow just as a hand clasped Kiernan's shoulder from behind.

“Well, now,” came the voice of Regan Langley.

Kiernan faced his friend. An odd light played in Regan’s eyes and Kiernan looked back at his father. “What's wrong?”

The duke only stared at him.

“Damnation, Father, what is it? Is something amiss with the twins—Elise?”

"Nay. She and the children are well."

"Heddy,” Kiernan turned to her, “I expected you and Regan to be gone. Are you ill? For God’s sake, someone tell me what's wrong.”

“What's wrong is that you are addressing the lady by the wrong name,” his father said.

Kiernan’s frown deepened. “What?”

“Her name—Phoebe Wallington.”

Kiernan yanked his attention back to her. The low drone of voices in the hall, the clatter of pans in the kitchen, all faded into the background of a silence that hung between the four of them.

“Good God,” he whispered.

“Not quite my reaction,” his father said. “But considering the lady's presence, it will do.”

“Father,” Kiernan began, but halted at the warning look on his face and turned again to Phoebe. “Heddy—”

“Phoebe,” the duke cut in sharply.

Kiernan nodded. “Phoebe—Miss Wallington, I had no idea.”

“Nay?” his father demanded. “Miss Wallington informed me she revealed her identity the night you abducted her. You are saying it's not true?”

“It's true.”

“Then do not compound your wrongs by lying.”

“I'm sorry.”

“‘Tis not me you should apologize to.” His father cocked his head in Phoebe’s direction.

Kiernan turned to her. “Miss Wallington, I am sorry.”

"That's all?” the duke demanded.

"I will, of course, make it right. I'll have an announcement immediately sent—"

"No," she interrupted. “As I told your father, things aren't as bad as they appear."

“What?” Kiernan stared.

“Lord Stoneleigh assures me my uncle hasn't acknowledged my disappearance. I have already sent word that I am well and visiting friends in the north.”

“The devil you say?” Kiernan looked at Regan, who gave a nod of confirmation, then turned back to Phoebe. “You said he would move heaven and hell for you.”

Her lips tightened. “Sir, I would not look a gift horse in the mouth. I'm offering you a way out.”

“Offering me a way out? Madam, honor dictates there is no way out.”

“My freedom for your honor?”

“I would think it would be your honor, as well." He shook his head in frustration. "I'm sorry. Get whatever notion you have of avoiding a scandal out of your head. You have no choice.”

Her eyes blazed and she faced his father. “Your Grace, I remain firm in my resolution. I will not marry your son. This is Scotland, and women here have the right to refuse any offer, no matter how fantastic it may be.”

“But you aren't Scottish,” he replied.

“We are in Scotland, therefore, Scottish law prevails.”

“But your uncle is English, and he will demand you marry.”

“Think of the life you sentence me to,” she begged. “You force me into a marriage that neither of us wants.”

Doubt flickered in his father’s eyes and Kiernan burst out, “Heddy, bloody hell!”

The din of the room quieted.

“Kiernan,” the duke admonished in a low voice.

Kiernan gave the men nearest him a glare that sent them about their business, then he stepped closer to Phoebe. He placed a hand on the back of her chair and said in a low voice, “Forgive me, Phoebe, but you mistake my surprise for reluctance.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don't act as though you are a willing groom.”

He scowled. “You know I want you.”

She gasped. Regan cleared his throat, and his father sighed.

“Don't pretend you have no idea what I'm talking about,” Kiernan muttered.

“Miss Wallington,” his father cut in, “you said my son didn't force his attentions on you.”

“Of course, I didn’t,” Kiernan retorted. But he'd come damned close, truth be told.

“You said he was a perfect gentleman.”

“I knew, er, thought she was Regan’s.” He looked at Regan and shrugged. “That didn’t stop me from—”

“
Sir
.” Phoebe shot to her feet and shoved at her chair with the back of her leg, but it didn’t slide and she nearly fell back into the seat. Kiernan and his father reached for her. She slapped at them, then her eyes widened on the duke.

“Your Grace,” she whispered, then added under her breath, “By heavens.”

"Phoebe,” Kiernan said, then, “love.”

“Oh no, you don’t.” This time she managed to shove the chair aside. “I am not some schoolgirl who will swoon with your charm.” She started to turn, but whipped back around and poked her finger in Kiernan’s chest, causing him to jerk back with every jab of her forefinger. “I am not your
love
. I wasn’t your love before, and I—ohhh—” her blazing eyes turned on his father “—and I am not your—your—anything.” She stalked to the far side of the room and disappeared up the narrow staircase.

“Interesting,” his father remarked.

“Interesting?” Kiernan scowled. “Has everyone gone mad?”

The duke regarded him. “You are a fine one to talk. Abducting a woman?”

Kiernan sat in Phoebe’s chair. “I had no idea who she was.”

His father’s mouth twisted down reprovingly.

“Yes, yes,” Kiernan said impatiently, “she told me her name, but did she tell you the circumstances?”

“I believe she explained things quite thoroughly,” Regan said.

“Did she explain she was in Heddy’s coach?”

Regan and his father nodded.

“Did she tell you she was flirting with Lord Beasley?”

His father reached for the mug of ale sitting before him. “I would be careful about mentioning that, lad.”

Kiernan stared at him.

“A future wife doesn't care for being reminded of past flirtations.”

*****

Phoebe took a sip of her morning tea just as the Duke of Ashlund stepped from the staircase into the great hall. She took another slow sip in the seconds before he reached her side, then set the cup aside and rose from her seat.

“Your Grace.” She dipped into an elegant curtsy.

He grasped her hand, lifting her to her feet. “Lass, you needn't be so formal, you will soon call me father.” He smiled. “You may begin now, if you wish.”

"You're too kind," she said, then, “Might we speak privately?”

“Of course.” He looked toward the kitchen. “Marinda,” he called to a girl passing by the door, “have tea sent up to my library.”

Phoebe followed him up the stairs and down the long hallway to his library. He opened the door and motioned her in. She entered and seated herself in the chair opposite his desk as he stepped behind his desk and lowered himself into his chair.

Phoebe took a deep breath.  "Your Grace, there is something about me you must know. When I was seventeen, I eloped with a man to Gretna Green."

"Seventeen is young to marry," he said.

"My uncle thought so, too, and came after us. I will be blunt. He did not arrive in time."

"In time?"

Phoebe's cheeks warmed. "You must know what I mean."

"I assume your reputation was tarnished?" he asked.

She gave a nod. "With good reason. So you see, your son can't possibly marry a woman like me."

"A woman like you?" There was no mistaking the amusement in his voice, but before she could reply, he added, "No need to worry, Miss Wallington, no one will dare impugn your reputation once you and Kiernan are married."

"Your Grace, a marquess simply does not marry a tarnished woman."

He laughed. "I think a marquess marries anyone he chooses."

"I am certain your son won't be so blasé about the situation."

"Miss Wallington, as Kiernan said last night, you have no choice."

"But society—"

"Society will likely make the Marquess and Marchioness of Ashlund their darlings," he said.

"You—you can't be serious," she breathed.

"Society thrives on just such a story as yours," he replied.

Panic swept through her. Did he really consider himself that far above society's reach? Was there nothing that would sway him, nothing he cared about? She understood all too well society's barbs. She enjoyed parties and received many invitations, but no man of rank would think of offering for her and—she abruptly recalled the Duke's reaction yesterday when he thought she was related to the Wallington he knew. By heavens, the answer was right in front of her. Why hadn't she thought of it before? The duke might think his position put him above society's rules, but even a man of his rank couldn't flout society's view on a woman whose father was wanted for high treason.

Phoebe's stomach twisted as she said, “Your Grace, there is something much more serious than a green girl's mistakes."

His brows rose in polite inquiry.

"When I was a child, my father involved himself with the wrong sorts of men: dissidents, malcontents, murderers. In a word: traitors.” She suddenly realized the irony of the fact that the lie that had enslaved her all her life was about to buy her freedom. “These traitors, along with my father, planned to assassinate a group of nobleman. All but my father were hanged. He escaped and hasn't been heard from since. Your Grace, he is wanted for high treason.”

“High treason,” the duke repeated. “That is serious business."

Hope surged through her. "Indeed it is."

"A very interesting tale,” he said.

“Tale? It's the truth. The incident is known as the Cato Street Conspiracy.”

His forehead wrinkled thoughtfully. “I seem to recall…the Spenceans, correct?”

“Why, yes. I'm surprised you know of it.”

He smiled, the light in his eyes indulgent. “My generation does read the papers.”

Phoebe flushed. “Forgive me. Of course, I-I didn't mean to imply otherwise—oh, surely you see, your son can't marry me?”

“Why not?” said Kiernan MacGregor from the doorway.

Phoebe cursed and, an instant later, when he stood at her side, she demanded, “What are you doing here?”

He lifted a brow just as his father had a moment ago and she experienced an urge to box his ears.

“I live here, my dear.”

He took her hand in his. She tried to yank free of his grasp, but his hold tightened and he bent over her hand, brushing his lips across her knuckles.

Kiernan’s gaze captured hers. “Good morning, Phoebe,” he murmured.

His thumb brushed the spot he had kissed, then he released her. She snatched her hand back so quickly, her elbow banged the cushioned back of the chair.

“Are you all right?” He glanced meaningfully at her elbow.

“Fine, no thanks to you,” she muttered.

“Your future wife was just telling me of her father's involvement with Arthur Thistlewood,” the duke said. "You wouldn't remember, you were a boy then, but Thistlewood was found guilty of high treason and hanged in May of 1820."

A tremor rocked Phoebe's stomach. The duke remembered the incident even to the details of Thistlewood's execution?

"What did your father have to do with him?" Kiernan asked.

"He was accused of taking part in Thistlewood's plan to assassinate the Cabinet," she answered.

"I see. So you know a bit more about assassinations than I first thought."

She didn't miss the flicker of surprise on the duke's face, but had no time to consider it when she noticed—what, recognition?—in Kiernan's eyes.

"Why didn't you say something?" he asked.

"If you recall, my lord, you thought I was Heddy."

He cleared his throat in an obvious attempt to keep from laughing. "Indeed. Was your father also hanged?"

"Good God, no," Phoebe blurted before catching herself.

"What happened to him?"

"He was never caught."

"You told me your father died when you were seven."

She gave him a deprecating look. He would have the memory of an elephant. "What should I have said, my lord?"

"Was he guilty of the accusations?" Kiernan asked.

"I-I beg your pardon?"