The Romantic (41 page)

“You are not making me feel better.” Ewan poured more wine. “I should have started with whisky. It would have done the job quicker. You must stay. I promise no women are coming. This entire matter has left me cold for such pleasures.”

“You are indeed distraught enough to need my company if that is the case. I never thought I would hear such words from you.”

Hell, yes, he was distraught. In shock, and barely controlling his temper. He did not want to be the earl and this business with Cameron was only one example of why. Everywhere he turned now people would probably be using boring words like “duty” and “responsibility” and “obligations.”

“You probably should attend on that responsibility soon,” Dante said, gesturing to the letter about Cameron, which had joined the other on the floor. “The duty will
only get more onerous if you put it off. With winter coming, a journey to the Highlands should be made at once. After you fulfill your obligations at court, of course.”

Ewan wanted to punch Duclairc in the nose.

It was all too much.

“That should be it down there,” Ewan said to Michael, his manservant.

“Lord be praised.”

Ewan and Michael sat on their horses at the top of the hill and gazed into the glen where the home of Angus Cameron sat. Highland vistas like this—with the treeless rolling hills and valley, with a sky so blue it blinded your eyes and air so crisp and clean it hurt your chest— inspired poetry.

The mutterings moving through Ewan’s mind were not pretty verses, however.

After a hellish journey, most of it on horseback through icy rain and bitter fog and more than enough mud to fill this glen, here he finally was.

I hope that you are enjoying this, Uncle Duncan.

“Do not praise Providence yet, Michael. I do not expect the conclusion of this journey to improve our lot. Angus Cameron probably has six burly, red-haired sons who wear tartan kilts and hurl tree trunks for fun. No doubt the evening meal will be haggis.”

“You do not have very kind words for your countrymen, sir.”

“I may be a Scot, but I am not fond of Highlanders. Highlanders assume they are purer Scots than anyone else. They imply with their cocky grins and insinuations that a Scot from the south is more English than Scot, in
blood as well as loyalty. There are many Scots who never reconciled to the Grand Union into Great Britain, and lots of them live in godforsaken glens like this, on the edge of the world, being whipped by brutal weather that any sane person would flee.”

He led Michael down into the valley, anticipating little welcome when he intruded. He had not written or contacted Cameron because that would give the man a chance to rebuff him. The last thing Ewan wanted was a recalcitrant victim prolonging the “making right” that needed doing.

Duty. Duty. He had been practicing that chant for two weeks now, ever since the ceremony with the king. Nothing like donning a coronet and an ermine-trimmed robe to drive the desolate message home. He was no longer Ewan McLean, man-about-town, gambler and drinker, lover extraordinaire, and host of some of London’s finest orgies.

Now he was a peer, a member of the House of Lords, paterfamilias to a passel of relatives whose names he had made it a point never to know, and laird of a branch of a Scottish clan with ancient roots.

Worse, what had recently been an unremarkable life had now become notorious. Society had long ago ceased to notice his behavior, but suddenly it was grist for the rumor mill again. He had heard that already some unimaginative wag had dubbed him the “Lord of Sin-dale.”

What a ludicrous development it had all been. The only good thing about this journey, and it was small consolation, was that it removed him from London, where several mothers of eligible daughters had sent him invitations to parties at houses that had never before received
him. He might be notorious, but now he was a notorious earl. Ladies who should know better apparently had no qualms about throwing their virginal daughters in the Lord of Sindale’s path.

“I thought you said it would be a hovel. A dark, drafty, ancient cottage.” Michael glanced back with resentment at the packhorse he had been dragging. “You made me bring good linens and soap, but it looks to be a house that will have its own.”

It did look to be such a house. Uncle Duncan had said he ruined Cameron, but this house was the nicest one they had passed in many miles. It was not some thatched, wattle-and-daub cottage huddled in a township of others like it. This house was situated on its own, of good size, built of stone, with rather attractive plantings all around it. A large stable stood to the north and a handsome carriage waited out in front.

Perhaps the family hung on to their pride through the property. Maybe they were one of those families that ate nothing but soup in order to keep up appearances.

“I say, sir, what is happening down there? Those people upstream?”

Ewan looked past the house to the congregation of dots about two hundred yards behind it. He hoped to heaven that he had not arrived on some festival day, or in the middle of a party or celebration. He really was not in the mood.

Since it appeared the household was busy by the stream, he and Michael passed the house and headed for the dots. They took on forms as they neared. A little crowd was watching something transpiring among three men.

Two of the men began walking away in opposite directions. Ewan was impressed by the determined expression
of the blond-haired one heading his way. Then he noticed the pistols.

It was a duel.

The man coming toward him was much too young to be Angus Cameron. He looked to be no more than about eighteen. Ewan examined the other figure, the one heading in the other direction.

Cameron was dressed bizarrely, like someone in a Restoration costume drama. Boots, pantaloons and a red doublet covered his body. He was tall and wiry, and his spry step implied the years had not taken much toll.

He wore a flamboyant brown hat with a broad brim and big red plume. It appeared this old man wore his ancestor’s garments and had never purchased any of his own. Definitely eccentric, as Duclairc’s father had said. Or too poor to hire a tailor. Well, it could have been worse. He could have been wearing Druid’s robes.

The pacing stopped. The red plume swished the air as Cameron turned. Ewan saw the face under the upturned right brim of the hat.

This was definitely not Angus Cameron.

It was a woman.

THE ROMANTIC

A Bantam Book / November 2004

Published by Bantam Dell

A Division of Random House, Inc.

New York, New York

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2004 by Madeline Hunter

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