Scot Under the Covers Read online

  At the same time, her swift dismissal of every flirtatious word he spoke was less amusing. Because despite his own logic and the knowledge that at least a bevy, and perhaps even two bevies, of eligible females lay ready to throw themselves at him, not a one had caught his interest. With one exception.

  “Millie, please shut the door,” she said, and her maid hurried over to comply. Then Miranda folded her hands together on the tabletop. “My brother in the past has gotten a bit … tangled into wagering. His skill does not match his confidence. We thought—my family thought—he’d learned his lesson several years ago and had stopped these nefarious pursuits. We were wrong.”

  That was interesting. If this was about a man of four-and-twenty stepping into gaming halls over the disapproval of his family, she might as well have stayed home, though. He made a full pocket on the confidence of well-born dim lads twice a week, here in London. It didn’t hurt that everyone who dwelled south of Hadrian’s Wall thought him an ill-educated, brogue-spewing simpleton who couldn’t count to ten. That was their mistake. He attempted not to make any of those himself.

  “Nothing to say?” she prompted.

  Aden shrugged. “He’s a man with blunt and nae enough chores to keep himself occupied. I’d be surprised if he didnae spend some evenings at the tables.”

  “Men,” she muttered beneath her breath, but he heard her reply quite clearly.

  “If that’s all there is to the tale, Miss Harris, ye risked kissing me for nae good reason.” He’d made the wager on a whim, more or less, to see if the lass who claimed to detest him would turn tail. She hadn’t, which meant either that her troubles were worse than he’d assumed, or that the idea of a kiss wasn’t quite as off-putting as she’d let on. The contrary, challenge-loving part of him hoped it was the latter.

  “He lost four hundred pounds and Father made him sell his hunter, Winterbourne, as punishment. Matthew adored that horse. He’d trained him from a colt.”

  “I ken ye have sympathy for yer brother, but actions have consequences, lass. I reckon yer da did the right thing.”

  She sent him a sharp look. “Yes, I’m aware of actions and consequences. I thought Matthew was, as well. For three years he’s stayed away from the tables. And then six weeks ago, I learned just last night, he made the acquaintance of a Captain Robert Vale, newly retired from His Majesty’s Navy.”

  A shiver went down her shoulders, almost imperceptible, but enough for him to see. Aden sat forward a little. She’d reached the important part, then. This was where her distress came from. And she was a clever, bonny lass who’d already turned his head more than he cared to let her know. Miranda had come to see him out of pure desperation. She wouldn’t have bothered, otherwise.

  “Do you know him?” she asked into the silence.

  “The name doesnae sound familiar.”

  “But he’s a keen gambler, evidently, and you’ve been in Town for nearly the same amount of time.”

  “Do ye reckon every soul who wagers belongs to the same secret club or someaught?”

  Her delicate brow furrowed. “How the devil should I know? All I do know is that he began as the cousin of a dear friend of Matthew’s, and six weeks later—as my brother informed me last night—he holds notes worth nearly fifty thousand pounds.”

  Aden blinked. He’d known lads who played deep, well above their means, but even by those standards this was bloody extraordinary. “Are ye certain of that amount, lass? He didnae say five thousand pounds or five hun—”

  “Of course I’m certain, Mr. MacTaggert.”

  Aye, she would be. He’d known her for but two days, but nothing he’d seen led him to believe that Miranda Harris was the least bit foolish. “Fifty thousand, then. But if ye ken the debt, why do ye need more advice from me? If yer brother cannae pay, find someaught else this Vale will take as compensation. I reckon he’s aware he’ll nae see the entirety of the money. Most gamblers would be.”

  “Captain Vale did find something he is willing to accept as compensation.” Her folded knuckles showed white, she had her hands knitted together so hard. “Me.”

  His jaw clenched. Something hot and angry scratched down his spine. A dozen bits of conversation from last night and this morning fell into place, pieces of a puzzle now made whole. This, he hadn’t anticipated. And he didn’t like it. At all. He didn’t like that some stranger had built a trap against her brother and then demanded her in ransom.

  Aside from being wrong, it was unfair to her. Her conversation was quick and sharp, alternately striking blows and showing gratitude—the dance of a clever mind. That was her problem now, he realized. She saw a trap, knew it to be a trap, hadn’t even stepped into it herself, but now she couldn’t find a way out of it.

  There were other things, as well, that she hadn’t mentioned directly but that he could surmise—why this captain had pushed the debt so far, why she hadn’t learned anything about Matthew’s wagering until the trap had been sprung. “Ye reckon this Captain Vale has been after ye from the beginning,” he stated.

  She nodded. “After my meeting with him this morning I have come to believe that, yes. I don’t know why; evidently, he saw me on the street six weeks ago when Matthew pointed me out to him. He wants instant respectability. The purchase of a respectable house in Mayfair and the acquisition of a respectable wife who might otherwise not have accepted his suit. His entrée into popularity and high Society, through me.”

  “Did he tell ye all that, or did ye surmise it?”

  “He told me. In well-considered detail. The only thing I don’t know is why he settled on me.” She stood up, for once abrupt and graceless, pacing to the billiards table and back again. “I offered him introductions to Society’s bastions, to my father’s clubs and friends, assistance in purchasing a house—anything I could conjure. He would not be swayed.”

  As she spoke, an additional thing occurred to Aden. He and Coll were still required to wed before Eloise married Matthew, or their mother would cut off all funds to Aldriss Park. With what he’d just learned, a few carefully placed words would end his sister’s engagement faster than a cat could climb out of a water bucket. He and Coll could return to the Highlands, perhaps find lasses who hadn’t been raised in hothouses like delicate flowers. He’d taken their mother’s measure, now—she wanted to be a part of their lives. At the time she’d left the Highlands, requiring that they take Sassenach brides had seemed the surest way to do that.

  Now, though, they and Francesca Oswell-MacTaggert had had some time to become reacquainted. The countess wanted them to like her; to love her the way they had when they’d been wee bairns. He imagined it wouldn’t take much persuasion to convince her to allow them to marry whomever they wanted, as long as they gave their word to visit London once or twice a year.

  So Miranda Harris had been trapped, and that trap could ensure his freedom. Except for one thing. In the back of his thoughts, teasing at him since their first conversation and growing in volume since their verbal and literal waltz last night, crept the feeling that he’d found his lass. If she genuinely disliked him he’d turn elsewhere, but beneath the sparring between them, perhaps even because of it, he felt … something. A slow, brewing lightning storm that made the hair lift on his arms and had him anticipating things he couldn’t yet put a name to.

  Miranda seated herself in front of him again. “I won your wager. I expect something helpful from you.”

  Her deep-brown eyes weren’t nearly as calm as her tone. Given that her dislike of wagering had likely tripled since yesterday, the fact that she’d sought him out spoke of several things, including just how worried she must be. Aden restacked the cards and shuffled them idly. “I’m guessing yer parents dunnae know any of what’s afoot?”

  “No. They would disown Matthew. And the debt would remain.” She lowered her head briefly. “Captain Vale insists it look like a love match. He plans to take me to luncheon tomorrow, at precisely one o’clock. He’s very precise; that must come from his
naval background.”

  Mayhap it did. He wasn’t as willing to make convenient assumptions himself, though. Aden blew out his breath. She’d asked for advice rather than a rescue, and he admired that. Given what she’d told him, however, providing either one of those seemed a very distant hope. “He’s told ye why he wants ye. My advice to ye, lass, is to either pay yer brother’s debt, or see to it ye’re nae longer what this Vale requires.”

  She stared at him, her eyes widening a little. Saint Andrew, she had long lashes and expressive eyes. Did she know that? Was she in some way using her wiles to sway him? That would make him an idiot, considering that she’d already announced that she didn’t care for him. Unless she did, and that was part of the lure.

  All the Sassenach lasses he’d encountered during his time in London baffled him. They giggled at his accent, thought his kilt quaint or barbaric or scandalous depending on the setting, and claimed to find him attractive—and marriageable—despite his being a Highlander. Despite. Being a Highlander wasn’t a flaw to be overlooked or excused. It was him, his blood and his heart.

  “You’re suggesting I ruin my own reputation,” she said, breaking into his unexpected reverie.

  Aden shrugged. “If ye’re nae useful to him, he’d have nae reason to wed ye.” Shifting in his chair a little, he regarded her. She was bonny, and he couldn’t place the word “dull” anywhere in her vicinity. Aye, she claimed to dislike him, yet there she sat, two feet in front of him, alone but for a maid and a stray dog. “I could assist ye with that, if ye like. If ye mean to be ruined, ye may as well do it right.”

  Her fair cheeks darkened. “I need your assistance, not your … scandalous offers.” Miranda’s gaze flashed down to his mouth and up to meet his eyes again.

  He grinned, because he wasn’t going to let her know that he was disappointed. “It was only a suggestion.”

  She grimaced. “A useless one. Whatever my status, he would still hold my brother’s papers. I’d only be putting this trouble back on Matthew, and on my parents.”

  “It’s Matthew’s trouble to begin with, if ye’ll recall,” he countered. “What’s he doing to get ye out of it?”

  “He tried, I think. But he’s so deep in a hole that all he can see is the rope Captain Vale offered him.”

  Despite all this landing on her shoulders, she could still see it logically, and from her brother’s point of view as well as her own. Her clearheadedness was admirable, even though it no doubt gave her a fairly accurate view of what lay ahead for her. And yet she’d sought him out, anyway—looking for what, a miracle? That didn’t quite fit with her firm hold on reality, but he supposed even he looked better in comparison with certain doom. Thank Saint Andrew for small favors.

  “I dunnae ken what other advice or answers I can give ye, Miss Harris,” he made himself say, looking down to shuffle again. “Ye’ll nae return yer troubles to the man who caused ’em, and I dunnae have fifty thousand quid to give to ye, lass.”

  With a slow sigh she stood. “No, I don’t suppose you would have anything useful for me. No doubt you gamblers have some sort of code against interfering in each other’s schemes and traps.”

  Well, that hit a bit close to home. “I’ve nae done a thing to ye, lass. Snap at me if ye wish, but I’ve nae as much as played a single hand of whist, much less faro or vingt-et-un, with yer brother.”

  “True enough. I apologize for bothering you.” Turning her back, she walked to the door where her maid waited. With one hand on the handle, she faced him again. “If we were friends, would you have given me the same advice and sent me on my way?”

  “I could offer to kill him for ye, I reckon,” he returned, trying to sound offhand even if the idea held a great deal of appeal.

  “I try to avoid murder over gambling debts.”

  He shrugged. “And I’d ask ye what else it is that has ye hating card players, because a brother selling a horse doesnae seem enough to make a proper lass go stomping about claiming she hates a lad the moment she’s set eyes on him.”

  Her jaw jumped. “I do not stomp. And we are not friends. I don’t owe you any confidences.”

  There was something more to it, then. Well, he’d figure it out. “There’s nae secret handshake I know of that I could give ye. I wish … I wish there was, Miranda Harris.”

  Miranda looked at him for another handful of seconds, then left the room.

  Aden blew out his breath. She might not condone murder over gambling debts, but he’d seen men ruined and dead with deep play before. One had fled to America rather than face the consequences of losing his estate and his fortune. Another had joined the Sassenach army as the only way to keep himself fed. A third had rowed into the middle of a loch and shot himself in the temple. Aden hadn’t had a hand in any of it, but he’d watched, and he’d learned a good lesson about not playing beyond his own means.

  What none of those lads had done was sell a sibling to settle the debt. Then again, he didn’t recall that any of them had been given that option. As an older brother to Eloise—who happened to be engaged to a lad who’d just handed over his sister to satisfy a wager—his primary concern was whether he needed to take steps to protect his sister or not. Matthew Harris had been reckless, and after he should have learned his lesson.

  Unfortunately, he’d promised his discretion. That would make him the awful man Miranda had accused him of being if and when he did pass on to his brothers or to Lady Aldriss what he’d just learned. For the moment, though, he wasn’t willing yet to be the villain in his sister’s eyes. Or in Miranda’s, truth be told. She might dislike him, but he hadn’t yet given her an actual reason to do so. Well, until he’d told her just now that he couldn’t do anything more to help her and sent her on her way, that was.

  Beneath his chair the black mop of hair known as Brògan thumped her tail, and he reached down to scratch her behind the ears. Another bold female who’d stormed her way into his protection, who had him lying about her for no damned good reason. “Ye’d nae make more trouble for me, would ye?” he asked her, and her tail thumped again.

  Straightening, he reshuffled the deck and flipped over the top card, holding up the queen of clubs. Miranda Harris had piqued his interest, and then she’d thrown cold water over him just when he’d been contemplating whether the insults were genuine or her way of flirting. He’d begun to think he could end his search for an English bride, and then learned she’d been bartered away.

  He didn’t want to turn his back on all of it, on her, even if that might have been by far the easiest course of action. Beyond his own attraction to her, there remained one ironclad point. Miranda Harris was being forced into a marriage against her will, because of someone else’s actions.

  Well. He’d been handed an opportunity, then. A lass he fancied had asked for his help. That at least gave him a bit of time to see if this attraction was one-sided, or if she felt that damned lightning, as well. Captain Robert Vale needed to be dealt with, regardless. But if Miranda had felt that spark between them, then fifty thousand quid, the King of England, and all the Highlanders in Scotland wouldn’t stop him from winning her.

  * * *

  “Smythe, who was at the door?” Francesca, Lady Aldriss, asked, as she handed over her morning’s correspondence to the butler.

  “Miss Harris, my lady,” he answered.

  She glanced up from the evening’s dinner menu. “Miranda? I thought she’d begged off going shopping this morning. Did you tell her where Eloise and Amy went?”

  “She actually inquired after Master Aden. I directed her to the billiards room. Should I not have done so?”

  “No, that’s fine. Is she still here?”

  “She left just a moment ago.”

  Well. A young lady calling on her second, exceedingly elusive, son. Francesca handed over the menu and made her way upstairs, conjuring an excuse as she went. Aden was tricky; he smiled and spoke with a degree of amused sarcasm, but it all seemed like a mask. He frequently disappeared a
fter dark and didn’t reappear until after dawn, and she didn’t think he was in pursuit of some woman or other. She wished he had been; he and Coll still needed to fulfill their part of the agreement she’d made with their muleheaded father.

  “Am I interrupting?” Francesca asked as she strolled into the billiards room.

  Aden balled up another playing card and tossed it, watching as his dog scampered after it. “Nae. What is it? Or should I guess? Ye want to know what Miss Harris was doing here, aye?”

  So much for inventing an excuse. “I am somewhat curious, yes. Is her family well?”

  “I’ve nae idea.”

  He threw another wadded-up card for the spaniel. Brògan was a pretty thing now that he’d washed and trimmed her, but Francesca had to wonder what it was that had prompted Aden to rescue the little thing. It seemed a great deal of trouble to go to if the only goal was to antagonize poor Smythe. “Is Miranda well?”

  “Ye could likely catch her if ye want to find out. She only just left.”

  So he could match her in vague questions and responses. How would he respond to directness, then? “Miranda Harris is a lovely, accomplished young lady. Are you pursuing her?”

  Another card crumbled. “Do ye recall when I wagered dinner against Coll one night and I won, and ye told me that my brothers would always be my best allies and that if I took his dinner he’d be less likely to trust me the next time I needed him for someaught?”

  Francesca hid her frown. Good heavens. He’d been what, seven years old? And Coll, ten? “I recall. The wager was over who would catch more fish, I believe.”

  “Aye. I gave Coll back his dinner. I didnae break his trust.” Another card went flying. “Ye broke mine, though, and I reckon that I dunnae need ye for anything, and I dunnae trust ye. So ye’ll know if I’ve found a woman when I tell ye I’m marrying one.”