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  For Karen Hawkins, Stephanie Laurens, Victoria Alexander, Linda Needham, and Susan Andersen—

  I’m honored and humbled to be your friend, if a little worried about your standards. You guys are the best!!

  Prologue

  Inverness, Scotland, 1806

  Becca would be in the morning room, most likely, because she didn’t like fights. Callum MacCreath slammed the drawing room door in his brother’s face and stomped down the straight-angled stairs to go find the one sane guest—and the one female—in MacCreath House tonight. Let the quartet of devils upstairs make their bargains and plan how to spend their riches. He wanted no part of it. None. Not when it involved choosing blunt over damned common sense.

  Just the idea that his older brother Ian, Earl Geiry, would let himself be pulled into a scheme with someone as greedy and self-serving as the Duke of Dunncraigh surprised him. Horrified him, rather. Of course he felt like he’d been shot between the eyes, because he hadn’t had the faintest idea about any of it. Aye, he could see some of the twenty-six-year-old’s reasoning—the MacCreaths had intermarried with clan Maxwell for centuries, and Dunncraigh was the Maxwell, the clan’s chief. Power sought power. Whether the MacCreaths should be standing so close to the duke was another question entirely. He knew the answer, drunk or sober. But Ian’s sobriety hadn’t kept him from being entangled in this disaster-in-the-making.

  As for Callum, he had begun to wish several minutes ago that he hadn’t come home tonight by way of the local tavern. Or that he hadn’t come home at all.

  But Rebecca Sanderson had been here all evening, apparently pulled into the middle of this nonsense without an ally in sight. That, he regretted. And if they’d pushed her into something she didn’t want, he would see to it that it didn’t happen. Period. Growling that pledge to himself, he stopped outside the closed morning room door. “Becca?” he called, trying to keep his voice level. He thudded his knuckles against the old, well-polished oak door. “Are ye hiding?”

  “I do not hide,” came from inside the room, in her cultured English accent. “You were all being loud and ridiculous, and so I left.”

  Callum didn’t think he had been ridiculous, but that was neither here nor there. “I’m coming in, lass.”

  He pushed down on the door handle and stepped into the room. Rebecca Sanderson, the very English daughter of the very English George Sanderson who was still upstairs in the quartet of would-be business titans, stood close by the fireplace, her arms crossed over the deep blue silk gown that dripped with beads from the waist to the floor, her eyes of the same sapphire narrowed beneath a very artful tangle of blond hair as she looked up to gaze at him.

  “I’m sorry I missed dinner,” he said, shutting the door behind him again and turning the lock. He and Becca had known each other for ten years, since she’d been eight and he, ten, but tonight she looked far more … adult than he could previously recall. It unsettled him. The whole damned evening unsettled him, and the amount of whisky he’d consumed did nothing to help with that.

  “I’m sorry you missed it, too,” she said. “And I’m sorry you went out drinking, and I’m sorry you decided to stumble into the middle of this and accuse everyone of conspiring behind your back.” She lifted her chin a little. “We—your brother—attempted to include you on several occasions, but you couldn’t be bothered.”

  So now she was speaking on Ian’s behalf. He wanted to grab hold of her bare shoulders, and clenched his hands to keep from doing so. “I’m fairly certain nae a one of ye mentioned that ye and my dull-as-dirt brother were contemplating getting married,” he ground out, the words sticking in his throat. “I would have recalled that.”

  “Ian—Lord Geiry—was supposed to tell you a week ago. Evidently”—and she sent a pointed look at his rumpled black jacket and trousers—“you haven’t been home in that long.”

  He looked down at his attire. Aye, Jamie Campbell had tossed up his accounts on the Hessian boots, and he might have spilled a bit of this or that on his sleeves, but the Seven Fathoms hardly had the strictest of dress codes. “I’ve been about,” he hedged. “And why am I the villain here? I’m nae the one who’s tried to drag ye into buying a marriage with a dowry of ships.”

  “No one’s dragging me into anything,” she said stiffly. “I would hope you know me better than that.”

  He did. And it comforted him a little. Perhaps it had all been talk and speculation, and nothing was settled. Nothing had been agreed to, and she remained no one’s pawn. “Then I dunnae need to remind ye that ye’ve agreed with me fer years that the Duke of Dunncraigh cannae be trusted any farther than he can be thrown. Or that ye laughed when I said that if Ian had one more dinner with Dunncraigh, the duke would think him a pimple on his backside.”

  “It doesn’t matter what we said before. You shouldn’t jest about either of them, Callum. It’s not seemly.”

  Callum edged closer to her, his jaw brushing the coiled blond hair at the top of her head as he leaned in. “What say we go down to the tavern, Becca, and leave the dusty brigade to rattle papers and pound their chests all on their own? I reckon they’ll nae miss us.”

  Her cheeks darkened a shade. “You know I cannot,” she commented, the proper English tones still sounding out of place this far north in the Highlands. “Ladies do not spend their evenings in taverns, especially in the company of young men with questionable reputations. And especially not under the circumstances.”

  “I dunnae care about the damned circumstances.”

  He spoke more fiercely than he meant to, and she backed away half a step. “They are what they are,” she countered. “Profanity won’t alter anything.”

  “I thought ye liked going down to the Seven Fathoms. If ye … Ye ken Ian will nae take ye down there. He’s likely got cobwebs growing on him.” And she most certainly did not, which was one of thousands of reasons Rebecca Sanderson and Ian MacCreath shouldn’t even be talking about marriage. Now she and he—that made much more sense, now that it occurred to him. If he hadn’t spent most of the past week—or year, really—at the Seven Fathoms, it might have occurred to him much earlier.

  Blue eyes met his, then glanced away. “You shouldn’t say such things,” she insisted. “Your brother has a great deal of responsibility on his shoulders, and he carries it well for a man of only six-and-twenty.”

  “And he’ll carry it just the same way when he’s six-and-sixty,” Callum said dismissively. “Ye’re nae but eighteen, and I’m nae but twenty, and I say we should spend the evening dancing reels in the Seven Fathoms, where the patrons at least have beating hearts and nae dust and rust settling in their bones. If the old men upstairs want to make poor business deals together, let ’em.”

  “Lord Geiry—Ian—isn’t dull, Callum. Or old. And you shouldn’t say such things about your own brother,” she repeated, her voice sharp despite its low volume.

  “Why the devil should
I nae?” he returned, frowning. “We’ve both been saying the very same thing about him since yer da’ moved ye up into the Highlands. The only thing Ian’s ever done with us was go swimming in the loch, I reckon because that’s the only thing he could ever beat me at.”

  “Callum, d—”

  “Ye do recall on that first day we met when I dared ye to climb that oak tree, and Ian said ye’d break yer neck?” He flicked a finger along her throat, realizing with an odd … thud in his gut that he liked touching her. And not in the same way he’d boosted her into a saddle or helped haul her atop a stone wall to find bird’s eggs. Why had he been spending so much time at the tavern, anyway? It had been weeks, or perhaps even months, since he’d last gone fishing—or dancing, or riding—with her. “Yer neck’s nae broken.”

  She grimaced as she looked up at him. “I did scrape my knee. You shouldn’t have dared me, and I certainly shouldn’t have accepted. Your brother was correct. That doesn’t make him dull. He’s been trying very hard to ensure your family’s safety and well-being into the future. You, on the other hand, smell of whisky and cheap perfume.”

  He ignored the last bit. That first part sounded far too … ordinary for the Becca he knew. “Ye’ve been in on these talks, then, have ye?” he asked. “Ye knew Ian wanted into the shipping company with yer da’, and ye knew they meant to lease the docks from Dunncraigh, and ye nae said a word about it to me.”

  “You haven’t been about, Callum,” she retorted. “If you hadn’t spent so much time half drowned in whisky and lightskirts you might have noticed. You’re drunk now. Don’t try to deny it.”

  Oh, he was drunk. Definitely. He could call it his armor to defend against his brother’s nonsense, but it was becoming clear that he’d missed some fairly significant happenings. His heart abruptly twisted. Had he been too slow, too dismissive of what he perceived as nonsense? Had he waited too long? “It’s true, isnae?” he prompted, bile rising in his throat with the words he didn’t want to speak. “Ye’ve done it. They didnae try to force ye, because ye agreed to marry him. Ian, fer God’s sake.” He swallowed, willing the words away and not succeeding. “Why?”

  Her shoulders lifted a little. “The silly things I did back when we were children embarrass me now. You embarrass me now. I was eight years old when I climbed that tree. I am not eight any longer.” She eyed him. “And you’re not ten.” Rebecca took a breath. “You’re not respectable, either, and you don’t want to be. Your brother is. And I’ve known him forever, and he and my father have similar business interests. It makes sense.”

  “Aye, Ian’s respectable,” he agreed, still trying to grasp all of the nonsense that had come flying at him tonight. He half expected Ian to be foolish about this new opportunity; his brother practically lived in Dunncraigh’s pocket these days. Clan politics, business, all fascinated Lord Geiry—and thanks to Becca’s father a fleet of ships and a new, thriving business came with her, or would eventually.

  But Rebecca climbed trees and liked to learn the lyrics of bawdy tavern songs. Ian would bore her to death inside a month. Everyone could see that. Everyone could see that he would have been a much better choice for Becca. At the least he wouldn’t tangle her into business with the clan Maxwell chief.

  But she’d known about the dock and the fleet even though he hadn’t had a whiff of the goings-on, and she’d agreed to all of it. He stirred that around in his head for a bit. That was why she hadn’t wanted him to make fun of Ian earlier. Because she’d agreed to be his wife. She wanted to be Lady Geiry.

  Well, he hadn’t agreed to any of it. He wasn’t some cotter cowering in fear and hoping his lord and master hadn’t decided to replace him with sheep. And the first one to say he was too young to understand was going to get punched in the head. Becca was two years younger than he was, for Lucifer’s sake. And until—unless—she and damned Ian had a son, he remained the bloody Geiry heir.

  The idea of Ian and Becca having children together made him abruptly want to be ill all over again, which sensation made him wish he’d stayed at the Seven Fathoms tonight. By tomorrow, though, all of this might well be beyond repair. “When did he ask ye?” he forced out. “Or romantic that he is, did Ian send ye a note saying how mutually beneficial a union between ye and him could be, especially with Dunncraigh taking an interest?”

  “Callum, don’t be like that.”

  “Be like what?” he countered, moving between her and the door when she glanced in that direction. She didn’t get to flee until he’d had his say, until he’d made sense of all this. “Be annoyed that the lot of ye decided on our entire lives and didnae bother to mention it to me?”

  “Perhaps if you possessed the ability to hold your tongue and listen without insulting everyone with whom you disagree, your brother might have made the effort to include you in the decision,” she retorted, her words clipped and blue eyes narrowed.

  That snapped his mouth shut. “But they did include ye,” he countered, stalking closer again. “Ye truly had nae an objection to any of this?”

  “Your brother is a kind, honorable man. To what would I object?”

  He poked a finger into her shoulder. “‘Kind and honorable,’” he repeated, sneering the words. “He’s to be yer husband, Becca. Cannae ye say he’s passionate? That he adores ye, and ye, him? All ye can say is that he doesnae kick dogs?”

  “That is not—”

  “Do ye reckon he’ll take ye dancing? Or go with ye to look for shells by the seashore? Or teach ye how to drink whisky? Ye should be marrying me, not that musty old stuffed shirt.” As he spoke, he realized that while she hadn’t considered who would be her perfect match, he’d figured it all out.

  He and Becca got on well, and she was a damned sight better at conversation than Una down at the tavern. He couldn’t speak to her other parts, but if they were akin to what he could see, he would be more than satisfied. And she had given him a look, from time to time, that made him think she wouldn’t object if he kissed her. Now he wished he hadn’t resisted the temptation.

  “Ye ken ye dunnae want him,” he pursued, cupping her cheeks in his hands. “Marry me, Becca.”

  She blinked. “Marry you?”

  “Aye. We’ll go on a grand adventure, never lay our heads in the same place twice. We’ll—”

  “And why would I want that?” she countered, pushing his hands away. The fair cast of her skin lost all its color. “Aside from the fact that you never thought of marrying me until this minute, you couldn’t afford to take me any farther than Glasgow. Why would I choose a drunk … boy who has no future but what his older brother deigns to give him? Do you truly think looking for shells and fleeing from place to place ahead of creditors is a solid foundation for a marriage? And that is beside the fact that you’ve done nothing but insult the man to whom you owe every ounce of your future. You’ve also insulted me, and the duke, and everyone else here tonight who’s decided on a course different than the one you prefer. You’re a loud child, Callum, and I see nothing at all marriageable in that.”

  If he looked down at himself, he was fairly certain he’d find his skin flayed off. It felt that way, anyway. “So I’m nae a catch?” he bit back. “Because I’m nae a firstborn earl? Because I ken how to have a wee bit of fun? If all ye require is money and a title, and a husband so dull I’m near to being convinced he’s nae laid with a lass ever, then by God ye’ve chosen well. If ye feel the need for some excitement, for the touch of a real man, I reckon ye know where to find me. Choose quickly, though; after he’s had ye, I’m nae certain whether I’ll still want ye or nae.”

  “Callum!”

  Hiding his abrupt flinch, Callum turned to face his brother’s bellow—only to be knocked back onto his arse by a hard fist to his jaw. Of course the earl would have a key to the morning room. Damnation. Moving with less grace than usual, he scrambled to his feet. “Ian, ye ken—”

  “Nae another word,” the earl growled, and hit him again.

  This time Callum move
d away from his brother as he stumbled upright. He and Ian had tussled before, but not for years, and not … not like this. “Bastard,” he grumbled, tasting blood.

  His brother’s face had gone white, his jaw clenched so hard Callum could practically hear it creaking. “I’ve excused yer damned drinking and whoring and wagering and yer absences because I reckoned ye a lad who needs to dance with his demons before he sets them aside. This … This is…”

  “Unforgivable,” the Duke of Dunncraigh supplied, entering the room behind Ian. “Trying to steal another man’s wife. Yer own brother’s wife. That’s nae a man to have beneath yer roof, Geiry.”

  Ian clenched his fist, then opened his fingers again as Callum braced for another blow. “I cannae believe ye would … But there ye stand, and I heard every damned word of it.” He gestured sharply at Rebecca, his hand shaking. “She called ye a drunk boy. That’s too kind, by far.” He drew in a hard breath. “I want ye gone. Oot of my house, and oot of our lives. Ye’re nae my brother, because a brother wouldnae do what ye just tried to do to me.”

  A block of solid ice dropped onto Callum, cold and hard and suffocating. The foggy sense of nightmare broke into crystal-clear shards as his brother spoke. He felt frozen, and stunned. And empty. And he had no argument, drunk or sober, because he knew damned well he’d said all those things. “Ian,” he rasped anyway, spitting blood. They didn’t understand. Aye, he’d stepped too far, but so had Dunncraigh with all his sudden interest in docks and shipping. The duke had merely intruded more subtly, and with money in his hands. And Rebecca … It was all too sudden. Too swift. “Dunnae make—”

  “Go away, Callum. I dunnae care to know where. And dunnae come back. Ever.”

  His spine stiff, Callum managed a nod. Aye, he’d been drunk, but he couldn’t be certain he wouldn’t have said all those things anyway. “Ye’ve the right of it. Ye might have told me what ye planned, and I’d have argued against it, but I suppose ye didnae want to hear what I had to say. But ye listen now, Ian MacCreath. This is a mistake. He’s a mistake. Our own da’ called him a cannibal, eating a man alive and taking all that he has, then leaving the bones to bleach in the sun.” Callum jabbed a finger in the duke’s direction. “But ye and Rebecca have yer marriage and yer fleet of ships and yer litter of bairns, and ye keep tangling yerself in with Dunncraigh until ye realize ye’re the fly and he’s the spider. I hope I never have cause to say I told ye so, Ian. I truly do. And now the lot of ye, go to hell.”