Pleasured (33 page)

Don’t miss the third book in the delightful

Secrets of the Loch series

by
New York Times
bestselling author

Candace Camp

Enraptured

Coming Summer 2016 from Pocket Books!

T
he coach lurched through another rut, and Violet grabbed the leather strap above her head, hanging on grimly as the vehicle bounced and swayed. She was beginning to think this journey through Scotland would never end. She tucked her hands back inside her fur muff, deciding that sliding about on the seat was preferable to frozen fingers, at least for the moment.

Thank heavens for the muff, a remnant of her life in her father’s house. After all these years, it was a mite bedraggled, but it still kept her hands toasty. Her practical flannel petticoats and woolen carriage dress were warm enough as well, at least inside the chaise. She wished she could say the same for her ice-cold feet. She wriggled her toes inside her half boots and thought regretfully of the wrapped heated brick their butler had tucked under her feet in the past. It was not that she was unused to difficult weather or rough travel; she had accompanied Lionel to other sites throughout Britain, subjecting herself to cold, heat, and rain. But none of those occasions had been in winter . . . or in the Highlands of Scotland.

Still, she was sure that she had been right to come early instead of waiting for spring as Uncle Lionel would have done if he were still alive. Her situation was entirely different now. Violet swallowed hard at the thought of her mentor and blinked away the tears that threatened. She would
not
cry. Lionel himself would have pointed out that it was ineffective and unnecessary. Her tears would not bring him back, and she must not arrive at her future patron’s home looking woebegone and red-eyed. She had to be firm and strong, professional, if she hoped to convince the earl that she was the person most fit to take her uncle’s place.

It was vital that she seize this opportunity before other antiquarians heard of it. Before the Earl of Mardoun learned of her uncle’s death and offered the ruins to someone else he deemed more worthy—in short, to a man.

Violet suppressed a sigh. It was no use thinking of the inequities of life. She was accustomed to the ways of the world. She had long since learned that she must struggle for everything she accomplished. Only Lionel had accepted her abilities.

At a muffled shout, the carriage halted abruptly, sending Violet sliding from her seat and onto the floor of the post chaise. She sat up, a trifle stunned, hearing more voices and then a loud crack. Was that the sound of a gun? Violet jumped to her feet, and flung open the door.

“What in the—” She stopped, her mouth dropping open at the sight before her.

It was dark, for evening fell early here in November, and the scene was illuminated by only the lantern in the postboy’s trembling hand. The lad was huddled on the lead horse, bundled up so against the cold that only his reddened
nose and wide, frightened eyes were visible above his woolen scarf. Two men stood across the narrow roadway, facing the post chaise, four others to the side of the road. They were attired in similar bulky clothing, hats pulled low on their heads and thick woolen scarves wrapped around their necks and lower faces, making it almost impossible to discern their features in the poor light. It was easy enough to see, however, that one of them held a musket trained on the postboy and two more carried pistols.

Anger surged in Violet, sparked by the cumulative aggravations of the trip. “What do you think you’re doing? Stand aside and let us pass.”

“Och! A little Sassenach,” one of the men cried in a gleeful tone, his words muffled by his scarf.

Between his thick accent and the cloth covering his mouth, Violet could make little sense of what he had said, but she had understood the word
little
well enough, and it added fuel to the fire of her anger. As if because a woman was petite, she was the same as a child! It was another attitude she had had to endure all her life.

“Get out of my way.” Violet’s eyes flashed. “I do not think the Earl of Mardoun will be pleased with you detaining one of his guests.”
Guest
, of course, was stretching the truth a bit since Mardoun had no idea she was coming, but the principle was the same.

“Oooh, the Earl of Mardoun, is it? Now I’m shaking in my boots.” He laughed, and the men around him joined in. “Throw doon your jewels, lassie, and your purse, too. And then we’ll let you gae on your way . . . if you ask nicely.”

“I haven’t any jewels.” Her chin jutted stubbornly. She had precious little money in her reticule either after paying
the expenses of this journey. If she gave it up, she would be utterly penniless.

“What’s those bobs in your ears, then!” He gestured at her with his pistol.

Violet’s hands flew up to her ears, knocking her bonnet back. “My grandmother’s drops! No! Absolutely not.”

The man’s jaw dropped in surprise at her defiance and so did his pistol hand, so that for an instant Violet thought she might have won the day, but then he scowled and started toward her. “Maybe you’re wanting to pay me some ither way, then.”

Violet knew that her fury and, yes, fear had carried her too far, but though her stomach clenched with dread, she reached back inside the carriage and grabbed up her umbrella, turning to face her opponent. Again the man halted in astonishment, but then one of the men let out a hoot and began to laugh.

His face darkened and he rushed forward. Violet swung with all her might and the umbrella met the side of his head with a loud crack. He let out a screech and stumbled back, one hand going to his head. The umbrella had snapped beneath the blow, and Violet had no idea what she would do now. She braced herself. Suddenly there was a shout and a large man hurtled out of the darkness into the circle of light cast by the postboy’s lantern and charged straight toward her.

Startled, Violet swept her hand back to meet his charge, but the dangling end of the umbrella only rapped him on the arm. In the next instant, she realized that the newcomer was reaching out to grab her attacker, not her. He turned his head to her in shock, growling, “Blast it! I’m trying to help you!”

Turning his back on her, he seized her attacker and jerked him up, lifting the smaller man almost off his feet. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

Violet gaped at her apparent rescuer, a behemoth of a man, almost as tall as she, even though she stood on the top step of the post chaise. His wide shoulders owed little to the heavy jacket he wore, and his broad, long-fingered hands held the other man up with ease. Unlike the brigands who had stopped her post chaise, he wore no muffler or cap, and his jacket hung open down the front. His thick tousled hair glowed golden in the light of the lantern.

He flung the other man toward the side of the road, saying disgustedly, “Is this what you’ve come to? Preying on travelers like a band of brigands! Robbing innocent women! I’m ashamed to call you Highlanders. Look at her.” He swung his hand toward Violet. “She’s just a wee lassie! Hardly bigger than a child.”

“Wee!” Violet bristled at his description of her, the anger still pumping through her. “I am not a child. You will not dismiss me as
wee
. Just because I am not . . . a . . . a
giant
does not mean that I am not capable of taking care of myself.”

He turned and stared at her in astonishment. His gaze swept down her in one swift, encompassing glance. At some other time, Violet suspected she would have found his strong features handsome, but at the moment, she saw nothing except the scorn in his eyes. His mouth quirked up on one side. “Oh, aye, I can see that you are doing quite well so far. No doubt your broken umbrella would hold off any number of men.”

“I don’t need your help.” Violet knew she was being foolishly stubborn, but her nerves were stretched to the limit
and she wanted nothing more at the moment than to hit someone.

“Do you not?” His brows, darker than his light hair, drew together sharply. “I dinna ken whether you’re blind or just foolish, but there is only one of you—one small one, I maun say, and you wouldna have won this fight.”

“I did not ask for your help.” Violet drew herself up to her full height, crossing her arms in front of her. One of the men on the side of the road chuckled, spurring her aggravation.

“Nae, you dinna,” her rescuer shot back, “and in truth I am beginning to regret offering it. Now would you cease this arguing and get back in your carriage and let me handle this?” He swung back around, effectively dismissing her, and addressed the other men again. “Begone, all of you. And cease this kind of idiocy before the lot of you wind up with your necks in a noose.” He gestured toward the men blocking the carriage’s way, and they dropped their gazes, shuffling over to the side of the road.

“That’s fine for you to say, Coll.” The man whom Violet had hit sent the newcomer a sulky look as he pressed his scarf to his bleeding cheek and ear. It gave Violet a little spurt of satisfaction to think that she had clearly inflicted some damage on the blackguard. “Now that you’re one of
them
. Sitting all snug and pretty, aren’t you? Carrying out his lordship’s orders. You used to be one of us.”

“I am not one of
them
,” Coll retorted in a goaded voice. “I’m of this glen, the same as you. Same as I’ve always been. I dinna take on this job for him. I did it for you, for all the crofters. There willna be any more families tossed out of their homes now.”

The other man let out a snort of disbelief. “For how long?”

“For as long as I’ve breath in this body. Dinna try me, Will. I have no hope for you any longer; you’re on your way to the gallows as fast and straight as you can go. But I willna let you take any of these others with you. Is that clear?” Coll took a long step forward and grabbed the man’s shirt and shook him.

Violet watched with a jaundiced eye. It must be handy to be able to roar over everyone else’s voice and to shake them into submission. Authority came so easily to a man like this. He had saved her and she was grateful for that—indeed, with every passing second, the fury that had swept her along was seeping out of her and she realized what a dire situation indeed she had been in—but she had too often been shoved into the background by men who were louder, larger, and stronger than she. She was not going to faint or dissolve into tears or gaze at this man in feeble, feminine awe.

Turning, she gestured sharply to the postboy and got back into the carriage, and the vehicle rumbled away. She settled back against the seat with a sigh. What a ghastly day! Well, at least, she knew now that they must be nearing the earl’s estate. The highwaymen had obviously recognized his name.

Violet wondered who that other man was, the one who had charged in, tossing people about. The would-be highwayman had called him something—it had sounded like
call
or
cull
but that could not be his name, surely. Perhaps it was some Scots term. If she understood what the ruffian had been saying, he must be someone who worked for Mardoun. But not one of the earl’s English employees—that deep rum
bling voice had been softened by a Scottish burr. What, she wondered, was so appealing about the Scot accent? It seemed to roll through a person like warm honey—or, at least, this man’s had.

The voice had fit the man—outsized and solid, reassuring. She closed her eyes, remembering the scene again. The glint of his hair in the low light—too long and untidy to be fashionable. Nor had his clothes been those of a gentleman. They had been rougher, plainer, like a worker’s garments. Yet there was something about his speech that had set him apart from the other men.

It was not just that his accent was less thick; there was something in his words, in his turn of phrase that spoke of . . . gentility? No, that was not quite right; he had clearly called himself one of them. Education, perhaps? Violet smiled to herself. No, there was nothing of the narrow, hunched academic in his broad shoulders or massive hands.

Her thoughts lingered for a moment on those shoulders. She remembered the way he had looked her up and down. What had been in that look? Contempt, she supposed, given the way he had dismissed her. And yet . . . there had been a glint of something on his face, in his eyes. She wished she knew what color his eyes were. It had been far too dimly lit to tell. But she had seen that firm chin well enough . . . the square jaw. . . .

What a silly thing to be thinking about! Violet sat up, opening her eyes. It scarcely mattered what he looked like or who he had been. Or how rich or deep his voice was. She was curious about him, of course; she was always curious—her mother had called it her besetting sin. He did not easily fit into a category, which made him intrigu
ing. But it was absurd to be thinking about how he looked or what he said.

The post chaise soon pulled into a village, and the postboy hopped down to question an ostler at the inn. They passed through the village and continued on the road, which, Violet noted, grew even more narrow. Turning off, they started up a smaller road, but one that was smoother than the road they had just left. The path rose steadily, and the tired horses began to slow, but then at last they reached a tall pair of ornate gates, and the post chaise turned and passed through them. Relief swept through Violet. This must be the estate.

Pushing aside the corner of the curtain, she peeked out. At first she could see nothing but trees, but they emerged onto a wide lawn and she could see the enormous dark bulk of a house looming before them. She had to crane her neck to look up at the ornate towers atop it as the post chaise pulled to a stop in front of the set of massive double doors.

For a moment, Violet feared her courage might fail her. Duncally was massive. It obviously sat atop a hill, for the post chaise had climbed almost from the moment they left the main road, and the castle—there was no other word for it, with its crenellations and turrets, all of them for effect not use—sat at the very top, looking out over the countryside. The manor house in which Violet had grown up was large, but it would have been dwarfed by Duncally’s splendor. Though she had known Mardoun was a man of great wealth and consequence, for the first time it sank in on her how powerful Lionel’s patron was. It would be seriously detrimental to her career—her entire life—if she offended the man.