Scot Under the Covers Page 14

  With a chuckle he kissed her forehead and straightened. “It’s nae because I dislike ye, ye sharp-tongued lass. Ye’ve been stepping closer to a dark place where candles gutter and men wager their lives on a turn of the cards. Where a man sees a way to get someaught he’s always wanted and doesnae care whether his wishes coincide with anyone else’s or nae. Where yer daytime Sassenach rules dunnae apply.”

  “But I don’t want to be there.”

  He cocked his head a little, something that might have been disappointment crossing his gaze, but so swiftly that she couldn’t be certain she hadn’t imagined it. “Are ye certain of that? It doesnae appeal to ye that ye could be the one to decide which rules ye want to follow, and that it’s nae but yer own wits that might win or lose the night for ye? Do ye reckon that your polite rules are keeping Vale awake at might?”

  Miranda hadn’t looked at her dilemma that way before. Matthew, and Uncle John—could it be that they simply hadn’t understood the rules? That didn’t explain everything, and it seemed like something a gambler would say, but at the same time she had to acknowledge that Vale played by his own set of rules, and she’d been playing by Society’s. Rules she hadn’t made for herself. Of course that gave the captain the advantage. What did it mean, though, playing by her own rules? She still had to function within Society—or she would if she meant for her life to resume as it had previously once they’d dealt with the awful man in the naval uniform.

  “Why wouldn’t I wish to follow Society’s rules and principles?” she asked, half hoping he had an answer for that question. “This is where I live.”

  “First of all, Society’s rules say yer brother lost fifty thousand pounds, so ye’re to abide by whatever terms he and Vale settled on. It says yer parents arenae to be distressed, and there cannae be a scandal, so ye’re to marry the bastard and pretend to be happy for the rest of yer life.”

  That was a bit simplistic, but it also felt … true. She’d seen her share of unhappy marriages where the couple clearly detested each other but stayed together because of convention or because one side or the other had a benefit in doing so.

  “I can’t run away.”

  “Lass, I’m nae suggesting ye go anywhere. I’m wondering whether ye’re willing to get a wee bit muddy—dirty—to rid yerself of Robert Vale.” He shrugged, his gaze lowering to her mouth in a way that made her insides heat all over again. “What I’m suggesting is that ye might find ye like doing things yer own way.”

  She knew he wasn’t just talking about her dilemma with Vale. Miranda swallowed. “And you would be willing to show me this … dark side? To be my guide, as it were?”

  That smile touched his mouth again. “Aye. I’d be willing to be yer guide through the darkness. And ye can guide me through the light. Mayhap we’ll each of us learn something of value.”

  Oh, just thinking about this conversation was going to keep her awake for the next hundred nights. “I still don’t think that makes this an equal partnership. And I can’t pay you, but when Matthew and Eloise marry, we will be brother and sister of a sort. If—”

  “I will end this partnership if ye ever call me yer brother ever again,” he interrupted, scowling. “Ye ken I want ye. Say someaught about that before we take one more step.”

  For a Highlander barbarian gambler, Aden MacTaggert seemed to have quite a wide streak of … honor running through him. “If I asked you to stop kissing and flirting with me, you would do so?”

  He drew himself up a bit straighter, seeming to retreat from her in more than just physical distance. “Aye,” he said, his voice flat and toneless.

  “And you would continue to aid me?”

  “I gave ye my damned word, Miranda. I couldnae call myself a man if I didnae keep it.”

  “Let’s go join our families then, shall we?” She willed herself to release her grip on him and turned up the hallway.

  His hand closed on her shoulder, stopping her forward progress as effectively as a wall. “Are ye asking me, then? To stop?”

  Blowing out her breath, trying to appear more courageous than she felt, Miranda faced him. “I believe I’ve made it clear that I am proficient at saying what I mean. Oh, and if anyone asks what we were discussing, my mother is mortified that we owned a copy of Tom Jones for you to borrow, and I’ve secretly given it to you and told you never to mention that it came from the Harris household.”

  His fingers tightened momentarily on her shoulder, and then his warm mouth brushed against the nape of her neck. “Ye may just undo me, lass. I look forward to that.”

  In a breathless, terrifyingly giddy sort of way, so did she.

  * * *

  Something over the past hour had tilted sideways. Perhaps Miranda’s kiss, when she’d stomped up and put her mouth on his just to make a point to her brother, had addled his brain. Because she hadn’t said she liked him, and she hadn’t said that she didn’t, and yet if he’d been a man who sang a tune, he would have been singing. Aden kept up his light banter with Mrs. Harris while the conundrum of the woman’s daughter continued slowly to drive him mad.

  He did feel like he’d been unleashed to a degree. Miranda understood that appealing to Vale’s honor, or relying on hope that the captain would act counter to his own self-interest, was as useful as a cat herding sheep. Her sense of propriety had all but assured Vale of a victory. She couldn’t do anything with the confines of polite Society to stop him.

  Now, though, she’d realized that they might well have to resort to doing something—several somethings—that Society would consider underhanded. And in theory, at least, she seemed willing to step out of her rosy, comfortable, proper life and help do what needed to be done. Whatever that happened to be.

  That meant he needed a plan now other than simply being visible to Vale and perhaps sparking a few questions. He needed to be a threat. A large one. Luckily, he came by that fairly naturally. When the conversation in the room dropped for a moment, he sat forward. “Mr. Harris, Coll says ye offered to sponsor him at Boodle’s. I wonder if ye might do that for me, since Coll willnae ever be civilized enough to walk through the doors of a gentlemen’s club.”

  “I’ve nae reason to dispute that,” Coll stated.

  Aden had asked a favor of Harris, a marquis’s grandson, in a way no true Sassenach gentleman would do, but being presumed to be a Scottish clod with no sense of propriety had served him well on several occasions now. Sometimes being precisely what other people expected was the most useful thing a lad could do. If Miranda wished to instruct him on proper etiquette later, well, he had no objection to that.

  Albert Harris took a drink of brandy and smiled. “I would be honored. I’m meeting some friends there for luncheon tomorrow, in fact. You’re welcome to join us.”

  And that was how a blackguard used other people’s good manners to get what he wanted. Except that in this instance he was working toward being heroic, for the sake of a sharp-tongued damsel in distress who had just more or less intimated that he was welcome to continue paying her attentions. Ones that at the very least included kissing.

  Aden nodded. “Thank ye. What time shall I come by?”

  “Ah. I’ll come by Oswell House with my coach at one o’clock, shall I? And … dress is proper daytime attire.”

  “He means ye cannae wear a kilt,” Coll supplied with a chuckle, clearly amused by such blatant Englishness.

  “I ken what he means,” Aden said aloud. “And I ken how to dress like a Sassenach.”

  “I wish I could go see that,” his sister, Eloise, commented, grinning. “A MacTaggert at Boodle’s. Good heavens, White’s could be next.”

  Aden didn’t care which club it was, except that the stories he’d heard put Captain Vale at Boodle’s. Once he had a way to gain entry there, he could attack from two points—personal, and business. Because for Vale gambling would be a business.

  Previously he’d disliked the man on general principle; ruining Matthew Harris in order to dig his claws into Miranda H
arris and take what he wanted of her life like a flea on a dog was just despicable. Now, though, with desire for the lass running hot and thick through him, he didn’t want any other man panting after her for any bloody reason. Aye, he wanted her for himself, and damn any man who got in his way.

  Knowing that she’d shied away from him because of her uncle actually reassured him a little. The family had been bitten twice, and there he came, looking like another dog. Except that the MacTaggerts didn’t breed dogs. They bred wolves.

  “I nearly forgot to ask you, Francesca,” Mrs. Harris said as Miranda walked over to sit beside her mother—and directly across from Aden—“are you attending the Darlington ball tomorrow night?”

  That was the party where Vale had already demanded two dances with Miranda. Aden had no idea whether his mother would be attending, or if any of her sons had been included in the invitation. He needed a way into that ball.

  He looked at Miranda as she laughed at something Amelia-Rose—Amy—said, a comment about the delight in suddenly becoming part of a large family. His family, which had grown larger by three lasses in the past six weeks. Seventeen years ago, he’d lost a mother and a bairn of a sister, and now he had them again, along with a wife for Niall. He adored Eloise, all lace and giggles and an immediate understanding of how to wind her brothers about her wee finger, but Francesca he still didn’t trust. If he allowed himself to be hurt by her again, it would be his own fault.

  Miranda’s dusky hair, bound up at the back, flowed free at the ends in a symphony of riotous curls that swayed and bounced as she turned her head. Long lashes framed dark-brown eyes that hid most traces of the dilemma facing her, far more than he would have expected from a proper English lass. But then he seemed to have been favored with more insight into her character than even her dearest friends. And he liked what he’d been permitted to see, liked that she trusted him even if it had been because she considered him more villain than hero.

  Aye, he had a mind to marry her. What he wanted to do with her in the meantime damned well didn’t seem heroic. Just because she hadn’t caught him gazing at the curve of her hips and the swell of generous breasts beneath the low-cut neckline she favored in her pretty gowns didn’t mean he hadn’t been looking, hadn’t been imagining his hands stroking her in all the places that fancy green silk didn’t dare hug too closely.

  But he was the elusive MacTaggert. No one knew where, exactly, he might be at any given time. He left a lass satisfied, but not certain whether he ever meant to come calling again. His brothers could guess at, but were frequently wrong about, who or what had his interest at any given time. Anything else made him feel like an insect on the end of a collector’s pin—exposed, categorized, and finished.

  Whatever he’d decided in his own mind, if he stood up with Miranda in public, if he pushed himself into an argument with Vale over her, there wouldn’t be any slipping away. He would be declaring to his entire damned meddling family that he’d set himself after her, that she was the one. If she disagreed with that, which seemed likely despite her eagerness to kiss him in the shadows, everyone would know he’d made a play for her and failed. Miranda was the one with the established reputation in Society, after all, which was why Vale required her hand in marriage.

  Arms wrapped around his shoulders from behind, and Eloise leaned around the back of his chair to kiss him on the cheek. “Stop staring at Miranda,” she whispered at the same time. “I thought you two might suit, but it turns out she has a beau.”

  “Dunnae wager any money on the captain,” he muttered back, hiding his deep breath.

  “Are you serious? Or are you jesting with me again?” his sister demanded sotto voce.

  “The answer to one of yer questions is aye. Ye figure out which one.”

  “Aden.”

  “Go away, ye wee elf.”

  Aden turned his gaze to a potted plant. Bloody Saint Andrew. He’d been worrying over how trapped into his decision or whim or flight of fancy he might be if he danced with Miranda over another man’s objections. Apparently, he couldn’t even refrain from staring at her, and lustfully enough that his younger sister, lovestruck and planning her own nuptials, had noticed it.

  What the devil was he doing? Miranda had asked him for a damned favor, for a bit of insight into a blackguard. It had taken a single sentence from her to make him understand that she was not a lass to be trifled with. She was a lady, and he couldn’t bed her without ruining her. If he stepped onto that ballroom floor tomorrow, it would be with the idea of forever. He knew that, but after the Darlington ball, everyone else would know, as well. Miranda would know for certain. No more teasing about his motivations.

  Generally, the faintest whiff of forever sent him fleeing into the night, as it had with Alice Hardy and her postcoital cloying. He glared at the potted plant, willing the familiar loathing, the imagined years ahead when he would be consumed with regret, boredom, and dissatisfaction, but the palm fronds remained unmoved. His heart remained … not hopeful, because the devil knew he wasn’t the sort of lad who relied on hope, or luck—but interested. Excited. Engaged. Things with which he wasn’t entirely comfortable. After all, he’d stopped putting faith in the idea that a lass could be trusted with his heart after his mother had fled Aldriss Park when he’d been ten years old.

  He risked another glance at Miranda, to find her already looking at him. With a slight smile she turned to reply to something Amy was saying. That movement shook him free from his thoughts a little. After all, he could torture himself into deciding whether he felt trapped by this or not, but ultimately none of that would matter unless she came to the same conclusion. And that, as they said in wagering circles, was not a sure bet.

  * * *

  “Is the gaming that much better at Boodle’s?” Coll asked, kicking his great black Fresian, Nuckelavee, into a full gallop. “Worth a herd of nose-in-the-air Sassenach blowing cigar smoke at ye, I mean?”

  Aden kept Loki to a trot; Eloise said galloping was perfectly acceptable as long as they stayed on Rotten Row in Hyde Park, especially this early in the day, but he was more in a thinking mood than a galloping-into-hell mood. Or it could be that if he set off at a run, he and Loki wouldn’t stop until they reached Scotland. Him, aiming to do heroic deeds to help, and to impress, an English lass.

  Coll dragged the stallion back around to circle his brother. “I asked ye why ye’re suddenly so keen to be a Sassenach, bràthair,” he intoned.

  “Ye asked about the gaming, then went flying off like a great bat before I could answer ye,” Aden retorted. “But aye, I hear it’s better at Boodle’s. Less chance of me taking a knife through the gut when I leave the establishment, too.”

  “That makes sense. And I reckon I need to show better than I have been. I’ll go with ye to luncheon.”

  Bloody Saint Andrew. “Nae, ye willnae.”

  Coll hefted one slash of an eyebrow. “And why is that? What are ye up to?”

  “I’m nae up to anything,” Aden lied. “Ye’ll nae like having to dress for it, or having to make polite conversation, or nae being able to have a drink. And ye ken that already, so I reckon ye’ve an idea toward making trouble.”

  The viscount pulled up his horse, blocking Loki. “I dunnae like being here. I dunnae like that I have to find a wife here. And aye, I was damned rude to Niall’s lass when I didnae have to be, and now I reckon I’m cursed for it. If ye want to fit in here, I’ll nae stop ye. I dunnae understand the attraction, but ye’re my brother and I want for ye whatever it is that makes ye happy.”

  “Ye’re nae cursed.”

  Coll snorted. “Ye soak in gossip like a cat in a patch of sunlight, Aden. Are ye trying to tell me ye’ve nae heard that Niall went behind my back and rescued Amelia-Rose out from beneath my heartless, ham-fisted clutches? I’m nae about to argue otherwise; the devil knows I owe the lass a good turn. But I’ve become the bogeyman of London, a great lumbering ox with naught between my ears but violence and haggis. And I still need to f
ind a damned wife.”

  Aden started to retort, but thought better of it. Aside from the fact that it might earn him a fist to the jaw, Coll had begun the trip from Scotland angry, and in the seven weeks since then, that hadn’t changed much. “Ye’ve nae precisely been subtle about looking for a lass with nae a brain in her head. That makes every English lady ye do approach reckon ye’re insulting her before ye’ve ever said a word.”

  “Aye.” With a slight shift of his knees, Coll sent Nuckelavee sidestepping to fall in beside Loki. “The Highlands isnae a subtle place. Nae for me. Everyone in shouting distance of home knows I’m Laird Glendarril, set to be Laird Aldriss when Da turns up his toes. Any lad who wants to prove himself comes at me with fists clenched, and every lass worth marrying has her cap set at me.”

  Aden had never really thought about it that way, but it made sense. They all liked a good brawl, but Coll had a black eye or bruised knuckles almost weekly. Not even the oldest MacTaggert brother could cause all that trouble on his own. No, it came looking for him, and he met it head-on. “Shouldnae that make it easy for ye to find a lass here? Amy’s ma sent her after ye, sight unseen.”

  “The ones coming after me now are shrivel-hearted and sharp-tongued, pretending to be empty-headed, thinking me empty-headed, and waiting for the first chance to put on my ring and then dance circles around me.” He gave an exaggerated shudder.

  “Nae to start a fight, but when we came here, we all meant to find lasses we could leave behind in London while we trotted back to the Highlands,” Aden ventured. “What does it matter if ye like her or nae, or if she’s some title-seeking shrew?”

  Coll shrugged. “It shouldnae matter. But Niall seems so bloody happy. And that lass adores him.” He took a breath. “I want to do right, I suppose—by me, by her, and by Aldriss Park. I’ll be chieftain one day, and we’ve plenty of cotters and farmers and fishermen and peat cutters relying on me being a good one. A competent, well-bred lass with a good heart by my side doesnae sound so bad, I reckon.”