Secrets to Seducing a Scot (3 page)

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Authors: Michelle Marcos

BOOK: Secrets to Seducing a Scot
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“Scotland?” Serena repeated incredulously. “But there’s nothing in Scotland except sheep and cows.”
Earlington suppressed a chuckle as he poured the tea. “Serena … Scotland is an important part of Great Britain, and has very much to do with what makes Britain so great in the first place.”
She screwed up her shoulders. “I still don’t understand why you must be sent there.”
Earlington spoke with the even tones and measured words that were his hallmark. “War with France has depleted Britain’s treasury. In order to keep the country running, Parliament has had to impose yet another tax upon the people. But the Scots have complained, declaring that the additional tax is putting too great a strain on an already overburdened populace. Parliament heard their grievances, but has remained unmoved. Now there is widespread unrest in Scotland. The Prince Regent has asked me to relieve Anglo-Scottish tensions by keeping the rumblings from turning into outright rebellion.”
“But why must
you
go?” she asked, taking the cup of honeyed China tea. “What about your health? You shouldn’t even be traveling such a great distance, let alone embarking on such a delicate and worrisome assignment. Why can’t they send someone else?”
“Serena, you know better than that. When your Prince asks you to go, you must obey. Quite frankly, I’m honored that he asked me. It shows that the Privy Council still has faith in my abilities.”
Serena read the regret in his face. She reached out and covered his hand with her own.
“
I
have faith in you, Father. And if the sheep and cows are in revolt, I know that you will help them see reason.”
Earlington chuckled as he brought the steaming cup to his lips. “My dear child, I do hope you’ll behave yourself once you settle in.”
Settle in.
Serena set down her teacup, a worried look marring her forehead. “I’ve been wondering about that, Father. While you’re busy talking sense to the Scots, what exactly will I be doing?”
He shrugged. “Whatever you please. Scotland is a beautiful country filled with many lovely landscapes.”
“And after I’ve toured the surrounding countryside, what then?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, here in London, I have my friends and my set. I shall miss them terribly.”
“You are the most charming and delightful creature on God’s good earth, with an innate flair for popularity. I’m certain that in no time you will make all new friends.”
“Yes, but that will take some time. What shall I do in the interim?”
“You’ll have your column to keep you occupied. You can still write it from up there.”
She rose from the upholstered settee. “And write about whom? There is no Society in the Highlands, no social set as there is here in London. Who would want
to read about Scotland? It’s nothing in the middle of nowhere.”
Earlington sighed. “The people are largely simple folk, it’s true, but they have a wit and a warmth all their own. I’m certain you’ll like them once you get to know them. And not all the people are farmers and herders. There are many families who are well off, who live in homes very much like ours. We will be meeting many of them as well.”
Serena swung her gaze out of the window into the garden. The thought of trading the sparkle of London for the provincial Highlands depressed her. If she left London for any length of time, it might be the end of her column altogether. In no time, she could go from being among the “who’s who” to being the object of “who’s she?”
“I don’t want to go, Father. But I don’t want to stay here without you, either.” She chuckled at herself. “I want it both ways, don’t I?”
“Oh, poppet,” he said, standing beside her. “I would love to give you what makes you happy. But I can’t. Not this time.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “This will be a dull diplomatic mission. You really needn’t come. You can stay in London for the rest of the Season. I’ll write to—”
The thought of him being so ill and so far away strengthened her resolve. “No, I won’t hear of it. My place is with you. We go together.”
Her father kissed her on the forehead. “It should only be for a fortnight. A month at the very most. We leave in the morning.” Her father strode out of the morning room.
It wouldn’t be so bad, she told herself. For four weeks, she could live without the balls and parties,
and the accolades that came from writing a popular Society column. For a single month, she could do without the visits and surreptitious kisses from her gentlemen friends. It would be almost effortless to trade violins for bagpipes, and roses for thistles.
Wouldn’t it?
The Thorn & Thistle was bursting that evening. Each of the twelve or so tables in the pub was spilling over with men, and those for whom there was no seat packed themselves in front of the bar. The air was thick with the smells of roasting meat and unwashed bodies. Though the din of their combined voices was deafening, they were all speaking of the very same thing.
Malcolm Slayter had just left his capture at the Inverness courthouse and had collected his reward. He was bruised, exhausted, and thirsty, and he desperately wanted to wash McInnes’s blood off his hands. A meal and a bed at the Thorn & Thistle would be just the thing to restore his depleted vigor. He tossed a coin to the stable lad with strict instructions to give his gray, Old Man, as much hay and oats as he could eat, and then opened the door to the pub.
There was hardly any room to walk around, dense as it was with men. Malcolm shouldered his way to the bar. At six and a half feet tall, no one impeded him. Still, the room got progressively quieter as he ordered a pint of ale and some stew and bread. By the time he made it to an empty bench in the back, the pub had silenced altogether.
A man wearing a Cameron tartan walked up to
Malcolm. “What’re ye doing here? We’ll have no
slaighteurs
here.”
Malcolm hung his head, fighting to control his temper. He had forgotten to put on his gloves, which hid the scar that betrayed his dishonor. “I’m here for a meal and a bed, friend. I’ve no quarrel with ye.”
“I’m not yer friend. And ye’ll get no hospitality from any of us.”
A Dundas man spoke next. “Leave him be, Charlie. The cause can use all the men it can get.”
Charlie waved a hand at Malcolm. “Bah! Ye’ll no’ get help from the likes of him. He’s a villainous
slaighteur.
Him and his kind are naught but rogues and knaves. They’re traitorous all, to a man. Look at him! Why do ye think he wears a black kilt? ’Tis because he’ll claim no clan … and no clan will claim him.”
“Let the man speak his own mind.” Dundas was a huge Clydesdale of a man, with shoulders heavy with muscle and a head of copper-tinged hair. “My name’s Will. Ye’ve come opportunely. This here’s a meeting to come to an accord about the tax. We’re going to take a stand against the English. Are ye with us?”
Malcolm ran his right hand down his tired eyes. “I’ve come for a meal and a bed. If I can’t get them here, I’ll be back on my way.”
“There. D’ye see?” exclaimed Charlie, loud enough for all to hear. “Weak as water! Go on with ye. Piss off.”
Will looked Malcolm up and down, his intelligent eyes sizing him up. He pointed down at Malcolm’s crimson-stained left hand.
“How bad are ye hurt?”
Malcolm looked down at the dried, rust-colored layer coating his fist. “It’s no’ my blood. It’s someone else’s.”
A smile lifted the corners of Will’s blue eyes. “Not
so weak as ye think, Charlie. At least we know who came out the winner in that fight.”
A tide of laughter swept through the pub.
“Who lost his blood to ye?” asked Will.
Malcolm inhaled sharply. “Jock McInnes.”
Will’s auburn eyebrows flew up. Even Charlie’s mouth fell open.
“Ye killed Jock McInnes?” asked Will.
“No. More’s the pity,” Malcolm answered. “But he’ll be dead enough once he answers for his crimes.”
A rotund man sitting at the bar slammed his schooner onto the table, the contents sloshing out onto the wooden surface. “Jock McInnes was a hero to the cause!”
A thundercloud darkened Malcolm’s features. “Tell that to the mother of the bairn he killed.”
The man’s bushy beard bristled. “Freedom from the English carries a price.”
“Oh? How many of yer own children are ye willing t’exchange for it?”
The man vacillated, his jaw tensed. “I wouldna turn over my own countrymen, that’s for certain.”
Malcolm’s eyes stormed over. “Patriotism and justice are seldom compatible.”
It was a sad truth that had changed the course of Malcolm’s entire life. It was impossible for him to achieve one without forfeiting the other. Even now, at just past thirty-three years of age, he had probably amassed more enemies than most other men. He didn’t have just the English to deal with—the Scottish, too, were against him. He belonged to an outcast kinship, a bastard clan with no lands, no heritage, no honor. All his life he had struggled to reclaim what was taken from him. And now he was being asked to help the very countrymen who denied him justice. Wearily, he lifted his satchel and stood.
“Carry on with yer meeting. I’ll trouble ye no longer.”
Will dropped a heavy hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. Instinctively, Malcolm’s hand flew to his concealed dagger.
“Friend,” began Will astutely, “I’ll wager ye’ve been ill treated by yer own kind. But ye’ll get no bother from me. Let me buy ye a drop of whiskey. And if ye don’t mind turning the blood on yer hands from that of the Scots to that of the English, ye may just find the justice ye are seeking for yerself.”
“Scotland? What the hell is there to do in Scotland?”
In the editor’s office of the
Town Crier,
Archer Weston leaned against the four-foot stack of newspapers that formed his seat back. It was his trophy, that stack, and his goal was that when it got as tall as he was, he would start his own paper.
Serena chuckled at Archer’s response, which echoed her own words to her father. “I told you I had unfortunate tidings.”
Archer bolted out of his chair, his lean frame shaking loose his compact energy. “Unfortunate I expected. Not catastrophic.”
She sighed. “Don’t be so hysterical. Mine is just one column.”
“Just one column?” Archer cocked his blond eyebrow. “Allow me to illustrate.” He turned and pointed to a spot on his stack about a foot from the top. “This is where you started writing for this paper. And this,” he said, about an inch from that point, “is where we finally started to turn a serious profit. Your column is the reason that women—and not just men—buy the paper. The ‘Rage Page’ has launched for us an entirely new readership—ladies of the upper classes. And more importantly, it’s the reason a whole new segment of businesses have
started advertising in our paper. We are finally starting to emerge as a threat to the other major London papers. Two months ago, the
Times
launched a column similar to yours. But it had no cleverness, no sparkle, and it was so disparaged by the readers that they discontinued it. The public loves your writing. You can’t stop now.”
She was a kaleidoscope of emotions. From one moment to the next, she felt flattered, proud, needed, wanted, and disloyal. It seemed as if she was abandoning not only Archer but also the many readers who followed her work. She looked into his pleading eyes.
“What can I do?”
Archer folded his arms in front of his chest. His navy-colored tailcoat set off the windswept blond locks that were just a shade darker than her own. “You must stay in London! You can’t make observations on what happens in Society from the remote hinterland of Scotland.”
Serena worried her lip. “Maybe Scotland’s social set is more interesting than London’s. Maybe I can expose a new set of stories to the readers.”
Archer tossed his hands in the air. “London readers don’t want to hear about who is seen at the caber tossing. They don’t know Lady MacWhatsit. And they don’t care what she’s up to. They want to hear about people they know, people they admire or admonish. They enjoy guessing who you’ll be talking about next. You are their eyes and ears among Society’s elite. If you’re gone for too long, you’ll lose touch with all those people. You can’t leave London. You mustn’t.”
She covered her face with her gloved hands. “I can’t let my father go alone. He needs me, Archer. He’s not well, and I know he hides the truth from me. If he goes
to Scotland by himself and anything happens to him …” She dared not even finish the thought.
Archer went to her side and took her by the arms. “I’m sorry, Serena. Come here.” He enfolded her in his arms. “I shouldn’t make you feel accountable for our paper’s profits. Of course you must go with your father. You’d only worry yourself sick if you let him go on his own. In fact, help him. The faster he brings order to that savage country, the sooner you’ll come back, and the less the readers will miss you.”
Serena gazed into Archer’s caramel-colored eyes. Handsome and energetic, Archer was to Serena an exceptional man. At almost thirty, Archer was well aware of his power to change the world, one word at a time. His boldness and rapier-sharp intelligence excited her, and their conversations sometimes lasted hours. Of all the men she knew, only Archer made her toes curl. Maybe it was not her column or London that she’d miss the most. Maybe it was this embrace, and the gentle kiss he now placed upon her lips.
“Bugger the readers.
I’ll
miss you.”
She smiled into his cravat, her heart thrumming with excitement. “You’ve been absolutely horrid to me today. I won’t miss you at all.”
“Then I’ll leave you with this to remember me by.” He took her lips in a solid kiss that made her giddy with delight.
“If my father saw you kiss me like that, he’d have your head on a stack of your own newspapers.”
“I’ll cherish that thought,” he said with a wink.
 
Serena contemplated that kiss as their town coach rumbled through the English countryside bound for an unfamiliar northern destination.
She looked across the seat at her father. He had been reading a sheaf of diplomatic papers until he quietly dozed off. He slept more and more, weak as he had become following his heart seizure, yet he was more determined to return to office. Nothing could keep her father from his duty to king and country.
Although her father was headed toward his destiny, she was moving away from hers. Not only was London her home, it was her delight, and each mile that she pulled away from it was a physical pain. It was as though an invisible thread tied her heart to that great and bustling city, and it grew tauter and tauter the farther away she drove. Until, she suspected, the cord would finally snap.
Now it became evident just how far she had traveled from the glittering London ambience. The landscape began to change as she traveled over the rugged terrain of Scotland. Gone were the vast manicured gardens and majestic mansions of England. Now she could only see the ruins of ancient castles and tiny crofts on the edges of farms. There were endless lonely miles between villages. Even the weather seemed to belong exclusively to this bleak country, as she left the summertime sunshine behind and entered a world grayed out by mist and rain.
And as they drove past a solitary croft enclosed on all four sides by a mossy stone dyke, only one thought filled her head.
How soon can I get back?
 
The woman leaned against the doorjamb of her tworoom croft. Beyond the mossy stone dyke, a quarter mile from her farm, a beautiful black carriage rumbled down the lane.
There had been a time when she had thought she, too, might be riding a carriage like that one. But that
was long before. Before she had married too young a man too old. Before the shine in her copper hair had tarnished to a dull bronze.
The good Lord had seen fit to deliver her of eight beautiful bairns, but now she wished she’d been barren. The crops hadn’t come in yet, and there wasn’t enough in the house to feed those who lived in it. The sheep had been sold off last year, and that money was long gone. And her a widow with no man in the house to look after them … It was a losing battle each day to keep body and soul together.
She lifted the lid on the cupboard she used as a larder. She counted its contents out into her apron. One leek, four potatoes, and maybe a pound of liver. She stared at the assortment in dismay. Nine people had to be fed on this.
Maybe if she had some oatmeal or flour, she could bulk up the meager offering, even make a crude haggis. But grain had become way too dear. The tax on it was beyond her ability to pay.
If only she had a bit more, her children might not cry in the night again. The old ones were used to the rumblings of their tummies, but the wee ones only knew to wail. To hear them cry was a physical pain for her, and her exhausted embraces were not enough to soothe their emptiness. She swept an alarmed glance down onto the ingredients for their supper, as if somehow wishing would make them multiply. But this was all there was. The liver, the five vegetables … and the apron.
An idea germinated in her desperate mind. She unfastened the apron from her waist. It might work. After all, the apron was made of soft cotton, loosely woven. If she tore it into strips, and ran it through the meat grinder together with the liver, it just might do. Minced
together with the leeks and potatoes, and browned on the griddle over the fire, she might be able to turn a meal for four into a meal for nine.
At least she’d be able to fill the little ones enough for tonight.
But what would she do about tomorrow?

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