Forgetting the Scot (Highlanders of Balforss) Read online

  “Devil take her!”

  A footman, the one who looked like a giant rabbit with the overbite and no chin, entered the dining room. “Sir?”

  “Find Mudd and Pismire!”

  “Right away, sir.” The rabbit left the room but not as fast as he should.

  Langley grabbed a letter opener from his desk and hurled it at the rabbit’s back. His aim was off and its tip sank into the doorjamb. “Now!”

  The bloody rabbit ran.

  Someone was going to pay dearly for fucking up his life. Someone was going to suffer the consequences of a botched murder. Someone was going to hang, and it wasn’t going to be him.

  …

  It had been well over a month since Virginia had sent word of her rescue to her aunt Mina and still no response. Neither had she received an answer from Richards, Begley & Sorenson, Esquires.

  She found Flora at work in her candle-making shed. “Does it always take this long?”

  Flora released six beeswax candles from her new tin mold and smiled approvingly at them. “What, dear?”

  “The mail, does it always take this long?”

  “Oh, aye. This far north, the post coaches are few and far between.”

  “I see.” Virginia left the shed, considering the other obstacles between here and London. Rain may have washed away bridges, or axles may have broken. Her letter may have been lost. Who knew? It wouldn’t bother her so much, but for the fact that every day she lingered here, more children would die of neglect. Mrs. Pennyweather was counting on her. She should return to London as soon as possible and sue Langley for the money he’d taken.

  That’s what she should do. What she wanted to do was something altogether different.

  On her way to the house, she caught sight of a tall, broad-shouldered man standing at the paddock fence and smiled. They hadn’t been alone together since that kiss behind the stable, the one that had set her on fire, but over the last ten days, Magnus had invented reasons to stop by Balforss House. At least, she liked to imagine he’d invented them so that he could say hello, send her a smile, or ask after her health. Once, he’d come by to lend her his book of Lord Byron’s poetry. She’d convinced herself that only men in love gave women poetry.

  It was probably not a good idea, but she ignored her better judgment and crossed the yard to the paddock fence. A sleek black colt was trotting wild circles around the other horses.

  “He looks like he’s full of the devil.”

  Magnus turned a surprised look her way, then flashed a gleaming white row of teeth. “Oh, aye.” His beard had filled in completely now, but for the gap where his scar was visible, a one-inch pink line.

  “Does he have a name?”

  “Jocko.”

  “That suits him.” Though her straw hat shielded her from the sunlight, her skin felt hot everywhere. She chalked her condition up to the warm day and not with the way Magnus was looking at her. Needing to divert his attention, she pointed to another horse in the paddock. “I haven’t seen that one before. Is it new?”

  “That’s Sable. She belongs to Joe Simpson. He’s brought her here to breed with Finbar.”

  “Your horse?”

  “Aye. We’ll see if they take a liking to each other.”

  Just then, the huge warhorse tromped out from behind the stable. Finbar’s chestnut coat gleamed in the sunlight. His massive shoulder muscles rippled, his flanks shivered, and the feathering around his hooves danced with each step. He seemed to hold his head higher today. Ears forward. Strutting. He was making a bold show for the filly. Sable allowed him to investigate her underside for a moment, and then pranced away. Finbar followed.

  “Is this how your horse farm will work?”

  “I’ll be breeding my own horses. I have it in mind to cross Scottish garron ponies with a breed I saw when I was fighting in Spain. Percherons.”

  “You were in the army?”

  “Oh, aye. His Majesty’s Royal Highland Regiment 42nd Foot,” he said with undisguised pride.

  How had it never occurred to her that this man had been a soldier? “What are they like? The Percherons, I mean.”

  “They’re a powerful warhorse. Fifteen to nineteen hands. Some are black, some dapple, but most of them that I saw were pure white. Beautiful horse flesh.”

  “How will you come by them?”

  “I plan to buy two from a breeder in London.” Without looking her way, he added, “When I take you home.”

  Alarm sang through Virginia’s body rattling her senses, leaving her unable to form complete thoughts. “What? When? What do you mean—”

  “Look at that!” Magnus shouted. “She’s ready for him. See how she holds her tail?”

  Sable pranced in place, her tail shooting straight up. By the look of Finbar’s parts, he was ready, as well. More than ready. “Magnus, what did you mean—”

  “Em, you may not want to watch this, Viscountess.”

  She looked in the direction of the frolicking equines. “Is he going to…?” And then he did.

  Magnus put a hand in front of her face, shielding her from the most amazing demonstration of horse prowess she’d ever almost seen. He shouted, “That’s it Finbar! Get in there. Get in there, boy.”

  “Honestly, Mr. Magnus. I’m sure the horses can do without your encouragement.” She knocked away his hand and blurted, “I mean, how would you like it?”

  Magnus stared at her for an instant before he flashed another smile, this one colored by a wicked glint in his eyes. “I wouldnae mind at all if the encouragement came from my partner.”

  An image flickered through her mind. She and Magnus, naked and sweating. He, mounting her with a huge member. She, breathlessly chanting, “That’s it, boy. Get in there.” Her jaw fell open, and Magnus used a finger under her chin to push it closed. Of all the cheek…

  “Sorry.” His smile belied his insincerity. “That was—”

  “Impudent, brazen, ill-mannered—”

  “Cocky.” He tilted his head and smiled like a rogue.

  She should be furious with him. Slap him. At the very least, she should walk away. He was behaving badly. Yet, the last five minutes—the filly’s tail, Magnus’s comment, and Finbar’s impossibly long—it all left her shockingly aroused.

  “You bring out the worst in me, lass. You ken I think about you all the time.” He leaned down and whispered in her ear a searing, “I think about you every night before I fall asleep.”

  Dear Lord. He’d just implied that he pleasured himself to thoughts of her. If he didn’t stop, she was going to lose consciousness. His eyes dropped to her chest, and her nipples tightened to painful knots. Damn and bollocks. Were they poking through her corset? His smile faded, and he slowly lifted his gaze to her lips, eyelids half closed. He was going to kiss her. Again.

  “Wait.” She stepped back, out of kissing range. “You still haven’t answered my question. What did you mean by, ‘when I take you home’?”

  Magnus darted a quick look at the paddock. Finbar had finished, thank God, and was staggering away from Sable.

  The teasing had left Magnus’s handsome countenance. “When the Tigress’s new crew is ready, we’ll sail to London. Though it pains me more deeply than you can ever imagine, I’ll see you safely home. I’ll see your title and your fortune restored, even if I have to break your undeserving husband’s neck.”

  …

  A week later, the Offices of Richards, Begley & Sorenson, Esquires of No. 47 St. Albans, London

  Albert Begley settled into his morning ritual of sorting through his correspondence. Court documents in one pile, contracts in another, and legal inquiries in yet another. Occasionally, his oft incompetent clerk would allow an invoice to slip through, as he had done today.

  “Snowdon!”

  From outside his office, Begley heard the crash of a chair, a muffled curse, and, “Yes, Mr. Begley! Coming, Mr. Begley!”

  The office door swung open and a harried Snowdon stood in the frame, panting and
wide-eyed. “Sir?”

  Begley held up the invoice. “Is this a contract, Snowdon?”

  “Eh, no, sir.” Snowdon plucked at his gartered sleeve, one of his many ticks.

  “Is this a court document?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Is this an inquiry?”

  “No, sir.” He scratched his nose, another tick.

  “Well, if it isn’t one of those, what is it doing on my desk?”

  “Sorry, sir. It got mixed up with this.” A parchment trembled in Snowdon’s outstretched hand.

  He took the soiled and battered document from his clerk. It looked as though it had been through the wars—crushed, stepped on, and presumably dropped in a puddle, as the ink was blurred to the point of illegibility in spots. “What’s this?”

  “It’s a letter, sir.”

  He closed his eyes and ground out an impatient, “I can see that.”

  “Well, it’s curious, you see. It’s a letter from Lady Langley.”

  “Lady Langley died some months back.”

  “Right, sir. She died this past March. What’s curious is that this letter is dated May of this year.”

  Curious, indeed. Something wasn’t right. “Go get me her file.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Begley applied his pince-nez and read.

  Dear Messrs. Richards, Begley, and Sorenson,

  It will surprise you to know that I am alive and residing in Scotland. On the seventh day of March, I was taken quite against my will only yards from your office and held captive for ten weeks. Fortunately, I was rescued by good people who have provided me with shelter and gentle company. As you can imagine, I am eager to return home. If you’ll recall, you released my trust without my authority and under my husband’s false representation. I am engaging your services for the purpose of suing my husband for the immediate return of the full amount of my trust. Considering your egregious lapse in judgment, I expect you will waive your fee.

  In addition, I am in need of money for my return. Twelve guineas should provide me with the necessary funds to purchase my passage. Make a bank note out to…

  And here, the water damage obscured the lady’s words. He could make out the letters “Bal” but the rest was lost until the unmarred last few lines. His clerk returned breathless with a document box tucked under his arm.

  Begley handed him the letter. “Can you make out that smudged part?

  Snowdon stammered out, “Make a bank note out to Laird…something at the something something Bal-something—”

  “Oh, Christ, give it here.” Begley took the tattered letter again and read out loud what was still legible.

  Something…your confidence. Do not reveal to anyone my location, especially my husband. Should the persons responsible for my abduction discover that I am alive, I fear they may try to do me more harm. I will, of course, compensate you for expenses you incur related to my travel fees.

  Your trusting client, Virginia Langley

  “Do you see what I mean, sir? That’s a curious story, if ever I heard one.” Snowdon scratched his nose.

  “Not curious, Snowdon. It’s positively ludicrous.”

  “How’s that?”

  “It’s obvious. This woman is a criminal intent on bilking our firm out of twelve guineas.”

  Snowdon set the file box on Begley’s desk. “Yes, but who else but the real Lady Langley would know about all this business?”

  Begley rubbed his brow absently with one hand and drummed his fingers on the desk with the other. “So, what you deduce from this is that, being the only person outside this firm to be apprised of…of our oversight, this letter is, indeed…authentic? I still don’t believe it.”

  “Well, sir, there’s something else.” Snowdon placed a copy of The Morning Post in front of Begley and pointed.

  Begley adjusted his pince-nez and read the title of the article. Then he re-read the title. “Good God.” He let his glasses fall and slowly got to his feet, formulating a plan as he rose. “Snowdon, have you ever been to Scotland?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I think it’s time you had.”

  Chapter Six

  On the sixty-second day of Virginia’s freedom, one month after the surprise arrival of Mr. Terrance Howard, and two weeks after his subsequent marriage to Charlotte Goulding—a double wedding ceremony they had shared with Caya and Declan Sinclair—Virginia and Lucy sat in Dr. Farquhar’s parlor sipping dreadful tea while filling Mrs. Farquhar in on the details of Lady Charlotte’s whirlwind courtship. No one loved drama more than Lucy FitzHarris Sinclair. So, when Charlotte’s beau, Mr. Terrance Howard, had arrived at Balforss mid-June with epic news, Lucy had lapped it up with a spoon and spread it around generously.

  “Apparently,” Lucy said, holding Mrs. Farquhar’s rapt attention, “Lady Charlotte had named her abductor in her letter to Howard & Howard, Esquires, and when the authorities arrested the awful man, he confessed on the spot.”

  This was Lucy’s third telling of the story today, having previously related the events to the fishmonger in Thurso market and Miss Harriet in the dry goods shop. Virginia thought she was getting quite good at telling it.

  “He confessed that Lady Charlotte’s evil stepmother had paid him fifty quid to kidnap Charlotte and deliver her to the dread Pirate O’Malley.”

  In earlier tellings, the awful man had received thirty quid, and the dread Pirate O’Malley was known only as “a pirate.”

  “My goodness,” Mrs. Farquhar said, “Did they catch her stepmother?”

  Lucy leaned forward, eyes wide. “Apparently, the wicked woman caught wind of her imminent arrest and fled the country.” Lucy sat back and fanned herself. She added with knowing satisfaction, “Probably to America because that’s where criminals go.”

  Mrs. Farquhar put a hand to her breast, barely clinging to consciousness at hearing such a tale.

  Virginia almost laughed out loud. Each time Lucy told the story her embellishments grew more and more fantastic. But, she had to admit, these past weeks had been exciting for everyone. Most of all, for Charlotte.

  Lady Charlotte and Terrence Howard had been in love for many years. But he had refused to marry her because of their difference in station. He had believed Charlotte deserved someone with a title.

  “Apparently,” Lucy continued. “After Lady Charlotte disappeared, Mr. Howard nearly lost his mind searching the countryside for his beloved. If her letter hadn’t arrived when it did, he’d have died of grief, the poor man.”

  “Och, thank the heavens,” Mrs. Farquhar said, and crossed herself.

  Elated with the news of Charlotte’s deliverance, Terrence Howard had realized that not marrying the woman he loved had been folly. He had obtained a special license from his uncle, Bishop Howard, so that the vicar in Thurso could marry them immediately, then rode straight for Balforss.

  “It was a lovely ceremony, despite the hasty arrangements. Lady Charlotte looked stunning. Everyone said so. She wore my wedding gown, you know. The peach brought out her beautiful green eyes, I think.”

  Virginia had adored Lucy from the first day she’d been rescued and brought to Balforss, starving, bedraggled, and chilled to the bone. Lucy had embraced her without hesitation, treated her like a long-lost friend, kept her in confidence, and helped her regain a foothold on life again. But at this moment, the deference and generosity of spirit Lucy showed for Charlotte threatened to overwhelm her.

  “Darling, is something wrong?”

  She sniffed and dashed away tears. “I miss her already.”

  “It’s just us now, isn’t it?” Lucy squeezed her hand. “Thank you for the perfectly delightful luncheon, Mrs. Farquhar, and give my best to the doctor.”

  They were quiet on the ride home to Balforss in the elegant carriage Lucy called her “chariot.” Mr. Munro had been kind enough to drive them, as he had business in Thurso. Lucy had told her Magnus’s real father had died when he was a boy and that Fergus Munro had married Magnus’s
mother a year later and had raised Magnus like his own. They looked nothing alike, of course, but she suspected Magnus had acquired much of his character from Fergus Munro. Both had what she thought of as a quiet soul—a stillness of mind when others seemed fragmented and distracted.

  Virginia had seen Magnus twice since that afternoon at the paddock, but they hadn’t spoken. Both times they’d been in church. Both times, he’d found a way to come near enough that their hands brushed. The thrill of that brief touch had left her trembling, but happy. So very happy. So happy, she had almost forgotten that Magnus had told her he was taking her back to England soon.

  When they arrived home, Laird John greeted them with his usual good humor. He called over his shoulder, “Flora, load the muskets. The English are at the door.”

  He suffered their kisses and they laughed when he cried for help, pretending he was being besieged. He smelled of saddle soap, tobacco, and whisky. Most likely he’d been relaxing in his study and they’d disturbed his peace, but he seemed delighted by the interruption. She thought of her father, how he’d have spoken to her sharply if she’d disturbed him, how she’d tiptoe around the house to avoid his notice, how she’d felt nothing but a sense of relief when he had died. What would her life have been like if he had loved her just a little?

  “Your father has sent me a packet of newspapers from London, Lucy.” Laird John held up a folded parchment. “He sent you this letter as well, but you’re probably too busy to read it. I’ll just put it—”

  “A letter from Papa!” She snatched it from Laird John and cracked the seal before removing her cloak or bonnet.

  “I have something for you, too. It’s old news, but you’ve made The Morning Post.” He handed Virginia a London newspaper and pointed to an article titled, “The Viscountess of Langley Found Alive in Scotland.”

  Blood pounded in her head, and the floor seemed to rise and fall as if she was on board the Tigress again. She could hear the Laird speaking but he sounded far away.