Forgetting the Scot

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover more Amara titles… The Butterfly Bride

  Sweet Home Highlander

  On Highland Time

  A Potion for Passion

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Jennifer Trethewey. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

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  Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Erin Molta

  Cover design by EDH Graphics

  Cover photography from PeriodImages, Depositphotos, and 123rf.com

  ISBN 978-1-64063-675-0

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition October 2018

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.

  xoxo

  Liz Pelletier, Publisher

  This book is dedicated to the women and men who struggle to become mothers and fathers through conception, adoption, and fostering. I wish you all happy endings.

  Prologue

  Early March 1817, London

  Lady Langley pinned a fugitive lock of hair back into place and sighed. The reflection of a bespectacled, married woman of two and twenty years stared back at her. Plain old Virginia. Bollocks. Nothing about her outward appearance had changed. She expected to see a woman of confidence, purpose—a woman who could overcome adversity with a commanding word or an arch of her eyebrow. She felt like a different person. Why did she still look the same?

  “Damn and bollocks.”

  She peered out the window to gauge the weather—a sunny day, lovely for this early in March. A man standing across the street caught her attention. He dipped his head and turned up his collar. Was that one of her husband’s men? It couldn’t be. Langley’s men had returned to Bromley Hall with him two days ago.

  The hallway timepiece chimed eleven. Already behind schedule. She called to the butler Garfield on her way out the door, “If Aunt Mina asks, I’m to St. Albans Street and on to Piccadilly, if time allows.”

  “Your aunt will disapprove, Your Ladyship.”

  “I don’t care what my aunt thinks,” she said and trundled down the front steps to meet the coachman.

  “Richards, Begley & Sorenson. You know the way, Sam.”

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  The man she’d spotted earlier took off down the street at a pace. He was definitely her husband’s man, Thadius Mudd, a horrid fellow with two prominent front teeth and tiny eyes. His expression always put her in mind of a giant, hairless mole. Bollocks. Had Langley left him behind to spy on her?

  Sam held out a hand for her to step inside the carriage. Once settled into the back of the barouche, she put the odious Mr. Mudd out of her thoughts. The day was too brilliant not to enjoy. With the canopy down, the sun bathed her face with warmth. She was about to commit the most outrageous act of defiance in all her twenty-two years. She was about to rob her husband.

  It wasn’t truly robbery. The money was hers. George Whitebridge might have been a cold, unfeeling father, but he had made allowances for her—a trust of 10,000 pounds set aside for her own use. A sum Langley couldn’t touch. Drat. Could she call it defiance, if her husband never found out she’d used the money? Would her triumph be lessened if he was ignorant of her actions?

  And what would Langley say when she announced she wasn’t returning to Bromley Hall with him after the Season? With his death, her father’s property and assets fell to her. The St. James house was hers by rights. She intended to live there with Aunt Mina for as long as she liked. Her only problem was consent. Marital law had her at her husband’s mercy. Whatever she’d inherited from her father would, of course, be considered her husband’s property. Everything except her trust. That money was hers to do with as she liked.

  She smiled to herself. Virginia had a plan. One that would enrage Langley, but she no longer feared her husband. After the last…episode, the doctor had told her not to hope. “Conception is very unlikely,” he’d said. He’d looked askance at her bruises. The doctor knew why she’d lost the child, yet he didn’t speak of it. No one spoke of what was unspeakable—that a man could push his wife down a flight of stairs in a pique of anger. She may have been powerless to save her own child, but she had found a way to save hundreds of others in need of a mother.

  Outside the office of Richards, Begley & Sorenson, Esquire, Virginia handed her coachman sixpence. “Get yourself something to eat. This should take at least an hour.”

  Sam flashed her a smile and tipped his hat. She paused on the doorstep to remove her spectacles and wipe away the dust. Satisfied, she slipped them on and the world came into focus again. A jolt of recognition sang through her when she caught sight of another one of her husband’s men on the pavement opposite—a revolting fellow known as Crusty because of a terrible skin condition, one she suspected was what she’d heard referred to as the French Pox.

  Damn and double bollocks.

  By the end of the day, Langley would know she was up to something, and he’d press her until he found out. Well, too bloody late. She set her chin and marched into the office of Richards, Begley & Sorenson, Esquires. There was no stopping her now.

  Ten minutes later, Virginia stood before Mr. Begley, trembling with rage. “What do you mean, it’s all gone?”

  Begley tilted his head at a conciliatory angle, as if he was talking to a child. She wanted to slap him. “As I just explained, Your Ladyship, your husband emptied that account more than a month ago. Shortly after the funeral, His Lordship discovered that your late father’s business affairs had deteriorated drastically. So much so, he could no longer count on the, em, annual dowry payments your father had promised him. He sold your father’s business and took the trust money to make up for that loss.”

  “And you just handed over all my money without my permission?”

  Alarm seeped into Mr. Begley’s expression. “He said you had directed him to—”

  “I did no such thing!”

  “As he is your husband; I didn’t question it. I do beg your forgiveness.”

  She began to shake uncontrollably. “This is unforgivable. I’ve—I’ve already promised Mrs. Pennyweather. We’re building a home for foundling children. We have a plan. I’m the chief benefactor. We can’t save the children without that money.”

  “Please, sit down and collect yourself, Your Ladyship.”

  “I’m perfectly collected, sir, I assure you.” Her body betrayed her words. She was any
thing but collected. More like shattered into a thousand pieces. Her mouth flooded with sour saliva. She was going to vomit if she didn’t leave this place immediately. She fumbled blindly with the door, hot tears blurring her vision.

  Snowdon, Mr. Begley’s clerk, placed her cloak on her shoulders with a mumbled apology. “Mr. Begley was only trying to help, Your Ladyship. Lord Langley would have been ruined.”

  Outside, she rested a hand against the building and took deep breaths. Gone. Everything was gone. Her money. Her future. All her plans dashed to bits. Oh, God, the children. Damn Mr. Begley for a fool, and double damn her husband for robbing her. He’d done this weeks ago and never told her.

  “M’lady! M’lady! Pardon me, m’lady.” A dirty-faced boy in a ragged coat and filthy trousers trotted toward her out of breath and out of sorts. “My little brother’s been ’urt. Please, will you ’elp me, m’lady?”

  She straightened and, for once, was grateful for her corseting. It was the only thing keeping her upright. “Where’s your mother, dear?”

  “We got no mum, miss.” The boy warbled his plea again. “Please, m’lady?”

  No mother. The skin, bones, and rags standing in front of her couldn’t be older than ten years and was left to care for his little brother. She glanced up and down the street. No sign of the barouche. It might be a half hour before Sam returned. A tiny voice inside her head whispered for her to be cautious. But another look at the boy’s tear-streaked face, and her heart was close to breaking.

  “Please, m’lady.” His chin wobbled and her caution dissolved. It was broad daylight. What could possibly happen on busy St. Albans Street in the middle of the afternoon? If she helped him, if she could save his little brother, at least one good thing would come of this awful day.

  “Of course, dear. Where is your brother?”

  “Quick. Follow me.”

  The boy shot around the building. By the time she reached the corner, he’d run halfway down the alley. “Wait. You’re going too fast,” she called. The boy motioned for her to hurry then sidestepped into a dark alcove. Virginia slowed. Something wasn’t right. Surely, if the boy needed her to follow, he would have held her hand or taken more care not to lose her. She heard footsteps approaching from behind, but before she could turn, something blunt and heavy struck her on the back of her neck. Her vision dimmed, and stars danced around the corners of the darkening alleyway as she crumpled to her knees.

  Virginia clung to consciousness as best she could, aware only that she had lost her spectacles. She felt the ground around her, searching for them. Rough hands tore off her bonnet and jerked her head back. Still dazed from the initial blow, she was unable to protest when someone shoved a wad of ghastly tasting cloth in her mouth. Next, they removed her good woolen cloak. My best coat, she thought dully.

  “You tie her hands. I’ll get her feet.”

  The voice was familiar. If she could see him, she could identify who’d struck her. But no. She’d lost her spectacles.

  “Wha’ about my frupence?” The boy’s voice. Someone had paid him to lure her into the alley. He must be starving to do such a thing. Given a chance, she would have cared for him, seen that Mrs. Pennyweather took him in—he and his brother.

  “Take this and fly. If you tell anyone, I’ll find you and cut your throat.”

  She tried to shout, “Don’t hurt him,” but the gag prevented anything but muffled grunts. She heard the boy dash off, splashing through a puddle and knocking over a barrel on the way.

  “You should have done him in. If he prattles, we’re as good as dead.”

  “Keep quiet and help me roll her up in this carpet.”

  Daylight faded altogether. Damn and bollocks. Thrupence. Her life was worth thrupence.

  It took days to fully understand her predicament, to piece together the incomprehensible events that had led to her situation, but once the ache in the back of her head eased and her nausea abated, it had become clear to her that she’d been abducted. Two men had stolen her from the streets of London in broad daylight and sold her to an Irishman named Captain O’Malley.

  O’Malley was keeping her here, on board his ship, below deck in a wooden pen meant for animals. Dark and dank and freezing cold, she had only a blanket and a bucket for her comfort. Twice a day, someone would slide food through the horizontal wooden slats that were the walls of her cell. A glutinous gray porridge in the morning, and a broth with a few grizzled bits of beef for supper.

  At least she thought it was beef. She didn’t have her spectacles. Which wouldn’t be so awful as she’d rather not dwell on her shabby surroundings. Not being able to see clearly beyond two feet in front of her face only became frightening at night when she’d hear the rustling sounds of what she believed were rats. Needless to say, she slept in fits and starts.

  She held out hope that she would be ransomed by Langley or by Aunt Mina but wasn’t certain either of them valued her enough to part with a large sum of money in exchange for her life. And on reflection, the two who had abducted her were probably Langley’s men. Langley had likely ordered them to kidnap her, as she’d never known Mudd or Crusty to have an original thought of their own.

  Virginia made herself hoarse calling out for help or rescue—for anyone to please take her back home. No one answered. Even the person who delivered her food refused to talk to her. At the end of the third day, Captain O’Malley visited her cell.

  “There’s my darlin’ girl. Are ye comfortable?”

  The hair on her arms prickled at his mocking tone. “I wish to be taken home immediately.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible, pet.”

  She asked in her most imperious voice, “Do you know who I am?”

  “Yer a most honored guest aboard the Tigress.”

  She mustered what courage she had left and asked, “Why are you keeping me in this…this cell?”

  “It’s for your own safety, pet. It’s not to keep you in. It’s to keep my crew out. Wouldn’t want them despoiling my prize. A virgin like yourself will fetch a good price in Jamaica or Tortola.” He moved toward the door to the cell and paused. “Y’are a virgin now, aren’t cha?”

  Virginia hesitated. She would have told him her husband would ransom her for a better price than he could get in the Indies, but suspicion and fear quarreled inside her head. Why was it so important that she be a virgin? Some primal instinct crawling inside her gut made her tell a lie.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s grand. Because if you weren’t, I’d have to let my crew have a turn at you and you wouldn’t like that. Not at all.”

  The ship didn’t sail immediately for the West Indies. Neither did they make port. She suspected the crew conducted their business at night, smuggling stolen goods from shore onto the ship. From the tiny portal near the top of the ship’s wall, she guessed they were headed north along the coast of England. Nearly four weeks later, her guess was confirmed.

  Lady Charlotte of Black Port Lodge, an estate just north of Leeds, was shoved unceremoniously into the cell. Like Virginia, she was outraged and confused. Although she wouldn’t wish her fate on anyone, Virginia was secretly happy to have a companion. They clung to each other, shared the execrable food and stale beer, and speculated on their fate. Charlotte, defiant and indomitable Charlotte, never allowed herself to be overcome by their circumstances. Virginia drew strength from her friend in bondage. Enough strength to stay alive. Enough strength to stay hopeful.

  Thirteen days later, Mary arrived. Mary Tucker boarded the Tigress in Edinburgh willingly thinking she was to marry Captain O’Malley, a union her brother had arranged. The captain lingered in the cell long enough to enjoy Mary’s horror when she realized she’d been duped. Mary’s horror quickly turned to rage. She leaped at the captain’s face like a cat with her claws out. If Charlotte was English, Mary was every bit a Scot. She fought him like a lioness, nearly clawing his eyes out before he was able to escape from the cell.

  Most distressing was the a
ddition of their fourth cellmate, a girl, a child really. Morag Sinkler was snatched from the streets of Wick on her way to buy sweets after her church lessons. They did what they could to comfort Morag who wept for her mother and father day and night and could not eat no matter how hard they tried to coax food into her. It was then Virginia wondered if death might be a more merciful fate than what awaited them in the West Indies.

  Seventy days had passed since Virginia had been taken. She kept track of them. Seventy days and they had not yet left Great Britain. How much longer could they endure this rat-infested dungeon? How long could they survive when given barely enough food to live? And what would happen to them if they did make it to Jamaica or Tortola? Hope was beginning to slip away when their salvation arrived in the form of a lovely woman named Caya Pendarvis.

  Chapter One

  The North Sea off the coast of Scotland

  The crack and sizzle of gunfire spurred Magnus up the rope netting. The battle had begun without him. He hurled himself over the railing of the Tigress right behind his stepfather and uncle. His three cousins were already fully engaged with the ship’s crew. Darkness and the haze of gun smoke made it difficult to see, but there were more pirates on board than the Sinclairs had originally estimated.

  Magnus spotted an axe-wielding man about to cleave wee Peter’s head in two. He drew his pistol and fired, only winging the pirate but slowing him long enough for the small groom to slip safely down the hatch to search for the woman they’d come to rescue. He tossed aside his spent firearm and drew his sword. The damn floor kept heaving beneath him, probably the reason he’d missed killing the axe man at such close range. He lurched forward and swung. Again, his aim was off the mark. Instead of cutting the man down cleanly, he’d only opened his belly.

  Damn this bloody boat.

  The man dropped his axe and fell to the deck, attempting to gather and contain his innards. One down, but if he was to even the odds between the Sinclairs and the pirates, he needed to kill or disable another two.