The Master Of Strathburn (21 page)

Robert levelled a heavy look upon her. ‘And of course, if Jessie and her father consent.’ He arched a dark eyebrow. ‘What do you say, Jessie?’

Jessie looked away from his questioning gaze, trying to think clearly. She could scarcely believe this was happening. Hand-fasted to Robert Grant—a Jacobite and adventurer—it was madness. But deep in her heart, she knew she wasn’t completely shocked by the earl’s suggestion. A small part of her thrummed with excitement at the thought of being joined in wedded union to such a man. Although she had only known him for a few days, she could not deny her deep attraction to him. She wanted to be near him.
With him.

But how did Robert feel about her? He seemed to care a little. Even the earl had already noticed that his son seemed to show a genuine concern for her safety and wellbeing.

But was that enough of a basis to begin a marriage?

She bit her lip, fervently wishing she had more time. Things were happening too quickly, spiralling out of control. Perhaps, when Robert was free and if he chose to propose to her, she would seriously consider such an offer. And then only perhaps if she thought he might love her and she loved him in return—a condition not always necessary for marriage, but in her mind, highly desirable. Especially when the man in question was a rakehell like Robert.

So she couldn’t give her consent now. Neither of them should be forced into a marriage betrothal not of their choosing. And then there were the wishes of her father to consider. What would he want for her future?

Jessie was conscious of both men staring at her, waiting for her to respond to Robert’s question. She lifted her gaze to the earl’s and cleared her throat. ‘I agree wi’ Robert, milord. I see no need to rush into anything. And I would prefer to have my father’s blessing before I accept a proposal of marriage.’

Lord Strathburn’s gaze softened as he regarded her. ‘I understand lass, but as the Chief of Clan Grant of Strathburn, and guardian of all those within my household, I have a duty of care that I cannot ignore.’ He reached forward and took her hand. ‘I would much prefer that you were within the safe care of Robert, on your way to Edinburgh. I cannot allow you to make that long journey by yourself. Indeed, I could never forgive myself, and I very much think your father would hold me to account, if you were left unprotected. You’ve already suffered enough as it is, no thanks to Simon.’

Lord Strathburn then stood and faced his son, an obstinate set to his jaw. ‘Robert, I insist that you and Miss Munroe are hand-fasted before me right now. I will not write the request for clemency until you do.’

Even Jessie could see that Lord Strathburn would not be swayed. She suddenly had an inkling of how he must have appeared ten years ago when he had forbidden Robert to lead out the clan to war.

Robert sighed heavily and raked a hand through his hair, as if suddenly resigned to his fate, like a man about to walk the scaffold. ‘As you wish Father,’ he replied gravely. ‘We will be hand-fasted. But,’ he turned to Jessie, ‘only if you consent.’

Jessie stared at the breathtakingly handsome man before her noting with dismay the fine lines of tension around his eyes and bracketing his perfectly sculpted mouth. There was a muscle ticking in his jaw again while he waited for her reply. She realised that her response would determine whether or not Lord Strathburn would help him gain his pardon. He was essentially holding Robert to ransom. It was hardly fair.

She raised her chin. ‘I had no’ anticipated this turn of events, Robert, and I am truly sorry to have placed you in such a situation.’ She paused for a moment before she stepped over the precipice of no return. Her heart began to beat faster, an unsteady gallop within her chest. She sensed that Robert was holding his breath. ‘But as I do no’ wish to stand in the way of yer chances at obtaining clemency … I will agree to be hand-fasted to you as well.’

Robert inclined his head, the corner of his mouth lifting in a small smile. His gaze was inscrutable. She felt suddenly lightheaded as the enormity of what she had agreed to do hit her.

Lord Strathburn rubbed his hands together and smiled broadly. ‘Excellent, all will be set to rights.’ He retrieved a long, fine wool scarf of Clan Grant tartan from his dressing room. ‘For the binding of hands,’ he remarked as he beckoned both Robert and Jessie over to the fireside.

Robert assisted Jessie to her feet. The touch of his hands on her arm and at the small of her back seemed to burn through to the flesh underneath her clothes. She suddenly recalled how his hands had felt on her skin when he had helped her to undress in the hunting lodge. When they were married, it would be his right as her husband to see and touch her in any way he liked. She trembled at the thought.

They took positions facing each other, before Lord Strathburn. Jessie looked up into Robert’s face. He looked serious, grim even. It was obvious he did not want to do this. Apprehension fluttered wildly in her stomach. This was not how she imagined her betrothal would be. She forced herself to slow the pace of her breathing and tried to focus on what Lord Strathburn was now saying.

‘Robert and Jessie, I want you to join hands,’ he said smiling at them both.

At least he was happy
. Robert grasped her hands in his and then the earl carefully wrapped the tartan scarf around their wrists and hands, binding them together.

‘Now, Robert,’ the earl continued. ‘I want you to repeat the following words after me.’

Robert dutifully and solemnly repeated the simple vow of betrothal. His dark blue eyes held Jessie’s as he spoke. ‘I, Robert James Alexander Grant, the Viscount Lochrose and Master of Strathburn, promise to take you, Jessie Munroe, to be my wife.’ At the end, he squeezed her hands gently beneath the tartan and gave her a brief half-smile of encouragement.

Now it was her turn. Jessie’s mouth was as dry as the nearby hearth stone and it was difficult to draw enough breath to speak. ‘I, Jessie Elizabeth Munroe promise to take you, Robert James Alexander Grant, the Viscount Lochrose an’ Master of Strathburn, to be my husband.’ She tried to smile back at Robert but only managed a tremulous quirk to her lips.

Lord Strathburn addressed them again. ‘As the Chief of Clan Grant, I have born witness to your promises to each other, and I now declare you hand-fasted.’

Robert took a step forward and raised their tied hands to his lips. Between the folds of tartan, he placed a gentle kiss on her fingertips.

‘
Mo nighean ruadh mhaiseach
,’ he murmured in Gaelic, his wide mouth lifting into a soft smile.
My beautiful red-haired one.
‘I will protect you and care for you, from this day forward.’

But would he love her? Even more importantly, would he ever be free to love her?

With all her heart, and every fibre of her being, Jessie prayed that he would.

Simon froze in the doorway of his room, the blood rushing straight from his head to his groin in a red hot torrent of furious lust. He couldn’t believe it. After the merry dance Jessie had led him for two whole days and nights, here she was, right under his nose. His quarry. Emerging from his father’s room as bold as you please, her skirts swaying around her ripe, completely fuckable arse. He couldn’t wait to bend her over and swive her senseless.

‘Jessie!’

She turned, her full mouth a wide ‘O’ of surprise. He grinned.
Imagine what it will feel like when you force her to use her mouth on your
—
But wait…who the hell was she with?

Before Simon had time to even think on it a second longer, her companion—a tall, wide shouldered, dark-haired man—turned and fixed him with a cool, hard stare.

Shit
. Simon’s world slipped sideways. He clutched at the doorjamb and struggled to draw breath.
Fucking no. No, no, no.

Robert.
But it couldn’t be Robert. Robert was supposed to be dead.
What the devil?

Even more incredible, the whore—his very own Jezebel—was holding hands with the bastard. Despite the denial roaring through Simon, a small part of his brain knew he wasn’t seeing Robert’s ghost.

Somehow he scraped his voice together, the vitriol swirling inside him, roughening his voice. ‘Robert!’

As Simon took a shaky step toward the pair, he saw that without a shadow of a doubt that it
was
Robert—only this man was broader and harder in body than the youthful Robert of ten years ago. Then before he could draw another breath, Robert’s older version released Jessie’s hand and closed the remaining distance between them as swiftly and silently as a predatory lion.
Cocky
. Even the way he walked hadn’t changed. It made Simon want to puke.

‘Simon, I suggest you let us be on our way. No need to make a fuss.’

Robert’s smooth, confident tone immediately fuelled Simon’s ire to blazing proportions. He snorted and clipped his hated brother’s shoulder with the heel of his palm.
As if I would ever let you go. Never again.

‘Fuck you, Robert. You’ve come crawling back to lick Father’s boots, have you? Well I won’t let you. You’re nothing but a foul traitor. A disgrace. You’re not wanted here.’ He shot a look over Robert’s shoulder, straight at Jessie. ‘And where the hell have you been all this time, you bitch—’

Robert’s punch was so swift, Simon didn’t even see it coming.

He staggered back into the window embrasure and slid down the wall. Eyes shut, struggling to suck in air, it felt as if his body was paralysed by an all-consuming combination of shear incredulity, blazing anger and thought-robbing pain. He clutched at the heavy velvet curtains so hard that he almost rent the fabric from the curtain rod. With his other shaking hand, he gingerly probed the left side of his jaw where Robert had landed his bone-shaking blow.

Before he even opened his eyes, he knew Robert and Jessie were gone.
Shit, shit, shit
. His head still swimming, he pushed himself up and collapsed onto the window seat then spat out a mouthful of blood and a piece of cracked tooth. He shook his buzzing head, attempting to clear his vision, then scanned the now vacant hallway. Try as he might to convince himself he’d only seen his brother’s ghost, the reality of his throbbing face belied that idea.

Robert had definitely returned.

His brother most certainly wasn’t dead as his mother had foolishly convinced him over the years. Simon had always suspected that his father had engineered Robert’s inexplicable escape from the wine cellar ten years ago, but he had never been able to prove anything. Not that it mattered now. No, the only thing that mattered was that Robert was indeed back, and Father had never followed through with his threat to have his eldest son declared dead, or have him disinherited through an Act of Parliament.

Which meant Simon would have to take action to protect his own interests.
Now.

Holding onto the sagging curtains, he pulled himself to his feet and swallowed back a wave of nausea.

Another confounding thought suddenly occurred to him—where had Jessie been hiding for the last two days, and how in the devil’s name had she come across Robert?

The image of them holding hands sprang into his mind’s eye again.

With a roar that shook the very glass of the window before him, Simon ripped the curtain away. Shaking with rage, he turned towards his father’s room. Robert might have risen from the dead, but he’d make damn sure he stopped his brother from staking his claim on his position and ultimately his inheritance of the earldom.

And Jessie Munroe.

‘Father!’ Storming into his father’s chambers, Simon could tell immediately that he was expected. His father stood before the fire—even though he leaned on his walking stick, there was a steely look in the old man’s eyes; his gaze was cool, disdainful. His father had always despised him. He’d never been enough and never would be.

Not like fucking Robert.

Simon sucked in a ragged breath. Somehow he managed to resist the urge to punch his father in the face, and jabbed a finger toward him instead. ‘You can’t let him come back. I won’t let you.’

Caesar gave a low growl. If Simon was holding a pistol, he’d have shot the bloody dog—Robert’s dog—on the spot.

His father didn’t even flinch. ‘Leave it be, Simon. He’s back. He will be pardoned. The new Lord Advocate is a personal friend of mine.’

Simon clenched his fists. ‘You know the law is on my side,’ he gritted out, his jaw throbbing with every sound uttered. ‘Robert’s a God damned traitor—’

His father snorted and drew himself up straighter. ‘You don’t care about the law. All you care about is not inheriting the fortune that funds your mother’s and your own dissolute lifestyle.’

True.
But the money—everything—
should
be his. Simon had to make his father see that. ‘But Robert disobeyed you.’ Oh God, he sounded like he was whining. ‘He doesn’t deserve a second chance.’

‘Once! He disobeyed me only once!’ his father roared, his face turning a dark shade of puce. He poked his walking stick at Simon’s chest and Caesar rose, growling. ‘What do you think you’ve been doing every single day for the last ten years, if not more? You don’t care about me. You don’t care about the estate or the clan. Like a spoiled child, you only care about yourself.’

Fuck this
. Simon retreated to the door. Ironic that a display of temper seemed to be the only thing he had in common with this fool old man. As he turned the handle, painful, long-buried memories of Robert, outriding him, thrashing him at fencing, outsmarting him during lessons with their tutor, filled Simon’s mind. He swallowed past the hard, bitter lump in his throat and glanced back at his father; a strange red, blurry haze of hatred and anguish blurred his vision. ‘Mother’s right. I’m never good enough am I? It’s not fair. I’ve always been second best to you. ‘

‘You take and take, Simon. You never give. It’s you who doesn’t deserve a thing. Time after time I’ve given you the opportunity to prove yourself. But you choose to squander everything. If I let you have free rein, you’d ruin us.’

‘Yet it was Robert who charged off and risked bringing ruin upon us all.’ Simon wrenched open the door. ‘I won’t let him get away this time. And there’s not a God damned thing you can do about it.’