Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series (2 page)

Chapter 2

After ten years, the heat of Julia’s humiliation still sluiced Yancy. A drink or two typically helped erase her gloating expression from his mind. Forgetting he’d drained the cup, he seized his tankard.

Confound it.

“You have the right of it, Yancy. No commitments to muddle things, even carefully contracted ones.” Drumming his fingers on his thigh, Harcourt clenched his jaw for a moment. “Blast and bother, but females become emotional when they don’t get their way. And spiteful too.”

“I’ll say.” Yancy directed his contempt at his empty cup.

Spiteful and cruel
.

“Their histrionics and waterworks. Godawful.” Harcourt rolled his eyes dramatically and shuddered before snatching his brandy and emptying the glass in one gulp. “I may never marry.”

Their waiter approached the table bearing a laden tray.

“Most wise, Harcourt, if you can manage to avoid the trap.”

Harcourt’s countenance darkened. “I cannot, any more than you can, my friend. But I’m damned well taking my time, I tell you.”

With a nod of thanks, Yancy accepted a crisp linen napkin from the servant.

Alas, Harcourt spoke the truth as fate had refused to spare Yancy the aggravation of matrimony.
More’s the pity
.

However, with a countess as delectable as Isobel Ferguson in his bed, he might make do.
If
she thawed her comportment toward him. He didn’t want a frigid ice-maiden between his sheets or beneath him either.

The servant placed plates overflowing with thick beefsteaks, boiled potatoes, carrots, and herb-seasoned asparagus before them.

Yancy sniffed in appreciation. His stomach answered with a rumbling growl. He hadn’t eaten since breaking his fast early this morning.

After adding a basket of hot rolls and a dish of butter, their waiter filled the duke’s coffee cup then dutifully added three lumps of sugar and a generous portion of cream. Lastly, he placed a bottle of claret in the middle of the table, along with two sparkling crystal goblets. “Shall I pour, Your Grace?”

The servant knew full well Harcourt preferred to uncork the bottle himself. Nonetheless, he respectfully made the same request every time he served the duke.

Yancy quirked his mouth into a droll smile.

The waiter’s consideration always earned him an extra guinea—precisely why the cunning chap made the gesture.

“No, just leave the corkscrew.” Harcourt took a healthy gulp of the coffee, then winced. “Confound it. You might warn a chap the brew is scalding.”

The servant’s bemused glance met Yancy’s, and Yancy winked.

“Harcourt, it is always steaming hot. That’s how you request the beverage served.” Yancy waggled his fingers at the cup. “See those misty little tendrils curling upward? That ought to have warned you. They generally indicate heat.”

“Do stubble it.” Harcourt snatched up his fork and knife. “Burned my tongue. Shan’t be able to taste my food now, and I’m ravenous.”

His expression carefully composed, the waiter’s lips twitched as he cleared away the empty tankard and brandy glass.

Yancy was of half a mind to offer the man a position. He had a feeling the young chap would liven things up amongst his entirely too-proper staff at Bronwedon Towers.

No, on second thought, the handsome servant would be too much of a temptation to Matilda.

“Will there be anything else, my lord, Your Grace?”

“Not at present.” Yancy seized his eating utensils, eagerly anticipating slicing into the juicy steak. “Is there apple tart this evening?”

As much as he enjoyed a nice slab of meat, his true weakness lay in sweets and fancy pieces. He patted his stomach. Better watch that indulgence, or he would be nigh on to guts and garbage. A flabby cove he’d find himself all too soon, though sparring in the ring three times a week kept his stomach firm.

“Yes, sir, but Cook only has one pastry left. If you will excuse me, I’ll cut you each a slice before it’s all gone.” With a quick bow, the waiter withdrew, leaving them to enjoy their food.

After opening the wine, Harcourt poured a generous splash into the glasses. The duke lifted his, gently swirling the port before he raised the wine to his nose and inhaled. He took a sip and nodded his approval. Running his finger round the rim of his goblet, he stared at the crimson liquid within.

“Yes, I do believe I shall follow your example for a bit, Yancy—restrict my dalliances to eager widows and demimondes. No innocents and positively no marriage-minded misses.” A portion of his weariness faded from his countenance, replaced by a renewed spark of interest. “Why,
Le bon ton
is swarming with delectable females impatient to share their favors with a duke.”

He winked. “And an earl.”

“Quite so.” Yancy reached for his wine.

If Harcourt suspected he contemplated marriage, his friend would taunt him unmercifully. Yancy had no intention of sharing that news until the cleric read the banns. Or mayhap he would skip the whole rigmarole and trot across the border to Scotla
nd.

Scandalous.

Unless his bride happened to be Scottish.

Harcourt took a bite of potato, chewing thoughtfully.

“As for the Highlanders, Sethwick wouldn’t have asked for your help if matters hadn’t grown more urgent. As you know, he generally prefers to keep the English out of Scottish affairs.” Harcourt pierced a carrot. “I shall accompany you. After all, it’s my cousin who’s at the center of this feuding. Lydia didn’t intend to remain at Craiglocky this long.”

“Damn ye, unhand me! He cheated
me,
not the other way around.”

A commotion near the cardroom entrance drew the diners’ attention. Amidst black oaths and dire threats, two burly footmen forcefully escorted a flushed and struggling Sir Gwaine in the exit’s direction.

Yancy canted his head toward the Scotsman twenty feet away. Keeping his voice low, he murmured, “I do believe MacHardy’s set a new record for being ousted. He couldn’t have been in there more than ten minutes. Cheating again, do you suppose?”

Harcourt shifted in his chair. He raised his quizzing glass and inspected the baron toe to top. “Wish I had wagered on that. Always did prefer a sure thing. Once a cheat, always a cheat, I say.”

The Scot jerked his head in their direction, his beefy jowls swinging below a scruffy auburn beard.

MacHardy’s face grew redder yet, until his cheeks glowed puce. He narrowed his slate eyes to slits, sending Harcourt a venom-filled glower. Sir Gwaine’s mouth worked silently, a drop of spittle on his unkempt beard.

Good God, was he having an apoplexy?

Tearing off a sizable chunk of his roll, Yancy buttered it, and through half-closed eyes, observed the Scot. “He heard you, Harcourt.”

His arm draped lazily across the top of his chair, Harcourt’s attention remained on the fuming Scotsman being herded to the door.

“Indeed. I meant him to.” A challenge resonated in Harcourt’s clipped words. “He has caused Lydia and her father no small amount of grief.”

Teeth clenched, the baron strained against his captors’ tight grips. “Bloody Sassenach.”

“I say.”

“Hold your tongue, short-arse.”

“What insolence.”

Harcourt spoke over the protests ringing round the room. “Wasn’t your mother a ‘bloody Sassenach,’ MacHardy?” Scorn dripped from his voice. “
Tsk, tsk
. Such irreverence for your poor, deceased parent.”

Eyes bulging, the Scot lunged, but the oversized footmen brought him up short.

“Ye be tellin’ that cousin of yers, sequesterin’ his daughter at Craiglocky be gettin’ more Scots involved in our private disagreement.” He wrenched ineffectually at the hands restraining him. “Lydia Farnsworth should have accepted me offer of marriage, the pernickety slattern.”

More murmurs of outrage, much louder this time, echoed throughout the dining room.

“Hound’s teeth!” Harcourt went rigid and tossed his napkin on the table. “I’ll make him eat those words. After I knock what teeth he has remaining down his fat throat.”

Holy hell.

Yancy sprang to his feet.

“Don’t. The sot’s foxed.” He laid a staying hand on Harcourt’s shoulder. “Be sensible. MacHardy’s baiting you.”

Angling his back to the struggling Scot, Yancy added, “Call him out, and although he’s not a crack shot, he’ll choose pistols. In the last six months alone, he damn near killed two men. Claimed weapon malfunction caused the guns’ early discharges.”

“Not likely, the sneaky bilge rat.” Harcourt gripped the chair’s arms, vengeance simmering in his eyes.

“True, but no one’s proved otherwise.” Yancy jutted his chin toward the Scot. “Ignore the bugger. He’s already lost face tonight. Besides, didn’t you give your mother your word you wouldn’t engage in duels?”

His expression bland, Harcourt stared at Yancy for an extended moment then gave a dismissive shrug. “I did, and you are right, of course.”

Yancy relaxed a fraction. Thank God, Harcourt had listened to reason.

The duke retrieved his napkin and addressed his food once more, pointedly disregarding Sir Gwaine. “So, are we to ride or take a coach to Craiglocky?”

His stomach coiled into a tight knot, dousing further enjoyment of his meal, Yancy returned to his chair. However, his attention remained riveted on MacHardy.

The Scot’s reputation for depravity was well-earned. No female should be subjected to the fiend’s degeneracy, most especially not a gently-bred woman like Lydia Farnsworth.

The brawny footmen dragged the cursing man the remaining few feet to the entrance then unceremoniously shoved him out the door.

The latch shot home with a firm
click
, cutting off his string of obscene epithets. A moment later, the entrance reverberated with a tremendous thump, followed by a muted howl of pain.

Yancy would wager his precious apple tart MacHardy had punched the stout, three-inch thick door. Likely, he’d broken a knuckle or two for his efforts.

“Good riddance.” Yancy returned his focus to Harcourt. “You are going to leave all this”—he waved his hand in a circle—“for the wilds of Scotland?”

Harcourt sighed and flung his napkin aside.

“I have grown bored with all of this.” He flicked his fingers in imitation of Yancy’s gesture. “Besides, I am concerned about Lydia. She has almost been a sister to me.”

His mouth swooped into a wicked grin. “And I cannot wait to see Isobel’s reaction when she discovers you will be underfoot at Craiglocky for days, maybe weeks.”

A memory of gorgeous marine eyes framed by thick dark lashes gazing at him with adoration flashed to Yancy’s mind.

He needed something damned stronger than ale or wine to eradicate
her
memory. A mug or three of Scotch whisky—the fiery stuff Sethwick favored that plowed a path of fury to one’s gut and oblivion to one’s mind—ought to get the job done.

Who was he kidding?

He doubted he’d ever consume enough spirits to banish Isobel from his memory. What the devil had he done to cause her to spurn him?

By God, he would oust the truth this visit.

Yes, he would give Isobel Ferguson one last chance to come round. Hopefully, she’d realize what an opportunity he offered. If not, he would direct his attentions to the dozens of eager misses all too willing to warm his bed, if not his heart.

The notion perturbed him. He hadn’t an iota of interest in anyone else. Isobel had captured his heart years ago. He’d simply have to redouble his efforts to win her over.

Yancy viciously stabbed his steak.

No naked-arsed Scot was going to win
his
lass’s favor.

Chapter 3

Craiglocky Keep, Scotland

13 September 1818

Isobel bounded from her bed, sucking in a sharp breath as cool air hit her. Shivering, she dashed across her chamber, the stone floor between the hand-braided rag rugs biting cold beneath her bare feet. She threw open the heavy plum-colored velvet draperies and grinned.

Finally.

The vivid blue sky, an occasional puffy cloud in the distance, promised a day of sunshine and mild temperatures.

She nearly danced a jig. Instead, she bounced to warm her icy toes as frigid tendrils crept up her calves. The mornings had turned quite cold, and her maid had yet to come and light the fire.

A rather violent storm blew through three days ago, dumping an avalanche of rain upon the area. Several times a day, Isobel peered out a window, impatient for an opportunity to examine the face of the rock outcrop once the torrent ceased.

The cool, dark jade of the early morning forest paralleling the loch caught her attention.

The color of his eyes.

A tiny twinge of melancholy twisted her heart, dampening her bright mood.

For years, she’d girlishly mooned over her brother’s good friend, Lord Ramsbury, admiring his dark hair, a shade somewhere between sable and whisky, and the way his tresses curled atop his ears. Many a time, she had sketched his almost straight nose and firm, Cupid’s bow lips.

They often tilted into a teasing smile, revealing a row of white teeth—one, the tiniest bit turned—which added a charming, boyish element to his already too-appealing features. But his eyes, intellect gleaming in their depths, were what captivated her.

Framed by midnight lashes—no doubt the envy of many a lady—they were the darkest green she had ever beheld. Except for a narrow ring around the iris. That band gleamed smoky-gray, almost ebony.

Also funny and considerate and kind, he—

No.

She slapped her palm against the stone sill.

Isobel Ferguson, do not waste a single moment fantasizing about Yancy . . . Lord Ramsbury.

She’d never been anything more to him than the immature, younger sister of his long-time chum. Not to mention, Ramsbury was a deceptive blackguard.

Yes, but a deliciously handsome and rakish one.

Bah!

Rubbing her stinging palm against her stomach, Isobel whirled from the encasement. She rushed to her wardrobe where she rapidly donned her oldest gown, a soft Kersey wool.

At one time a rich Highland heather, repeated launderings had faded the cloth to a pale iron shade. Since she rode astride, a riding habit simply would not do. Neither could she mount and dismount a sidesaddle without assistance.

After slipping her feet into comfortable, though worn and scuffed half-boots, she collected a simple gray-brown cloak. A coarse cloth bag followed, along with a wide-brimmed straw hat and thick leather gloves. She dropped a pair of sharpened pencils, her sketchpad, a dagger, and a leather pouch of tools into the bag.

What else might she need?

A scented kerchief.

She always ended up with dirt smudges on her face.

By the time Maura, her nurse-turned-maid, arrived to wake her, Isobel stood ready to depart for a long-anticipated morning of archeological investigating.

After depositing a tray atop the oval table situated beside an arched window, Maura planted her hands on her ample hips and scowled at Isobel’s attire. “Ye be dressed like a wench from the village.
Again
.”

She fairly hissed the last word.

Isobel chuckled and sank onto a straight-backed chair before the table. “It doesn’t make sense to dress in finery, since I shall be clambering over rocks and scraping away bits of dirt and clay. No one except my family will see me in any event.”

She lifted the cover from the food.

Ham, oatmeal, and bannocks with fresh butter and raspberry jam awaited her. “You know guests are not expected until this weekend.”

Her sister, Adaira, the Countess of Clarendon, and her husband would arrive Friday or Saturday to celebrate their sister-in-law Yvette’s birthday. Several other family members were also expected, including Yvette’s cousins, Lord and Lady Warrick and Isobel’s cousins, Lord and Lady Bretheridge.

Pouring a cup of tea, Isobel inhaled the heady scent. She added two lumps of sugar and a dash of milk before stirring the contents.

She adored the smell of hot tea. The scent reminded her of her childhood. Every morning, Mother had gathered the children around her for a cuddle and enjoyed a cup with them.

Lifting the hand-painted teacup to her lips, Isobel eyed the disgruntled maid stomping about the bedchamber casting her astringent glances every now and again.

“Suppose this means ye be plannin’ on wallowin’ about in the muck too.” Maura did exaggerate so.

Isobel pointedly focused her attention on the ceiling to keep from rolling her eyes.

“I do not wallow, as you know full well.” She wiggled her free hand at the maid. “My hands and nails shan’t even get dirty.”

“Ladies do not collect rocks and
dead
things turned to rocks.” Maura harrumphed and trundled her way to the rumpled bed. She shuddered dramatically. “It be unnatural, I tell ye. Creatures turned to stone. They be cursed. The same as Lot’s wife in the Good Book.”

“She was turned into a pillar of salt, not stone.” Isobel suppressed a chuckle and spread jam over a roll.

“
Humph
. Stone. Salt. It makes no matter to me.”

Maura patted the purple and white coverlet into place then adjusted a couple of pillows to her satisfaction. “A curse is a curse—like those Callanish sinners turned to stone for their heathen activities on the Sabbath.”

“Maura, that’s Superstitious drivel. The Callanish Circle was used to track lunar activity.”

Clearly baffled, Maura pursed her lips and squinted at Isobel. “Loony activity?”

“
Lunar
. The path of the moon.” Isobel smiled, pointing with a forefinger and drawing an arc in the air.

“The
sinner’s-to-stone
business is nonsense. Simply a silly legend spread by the early Kirk of Scotland to discourage rites they didn’t approve of.”

Maura sniffed doubtfully before her focus shifted to the remaining food. “Ye goin’ to eat any more?”

Isobel dutifully swallowed a few additional mouthfuls of oatmeal and ham. “Happy now?”

“Hmph.” Maura’s grunt resounded with disapproval as she scooped Isobel’s nightgown from the back of a chair.

Isobel drank the last of her tea. Dabbing her mouth, she rose. Keen to be on her way, she swept her cloak over her shoulders.

“At least take a hound and a knife with ye. And
dinna
stray too far.” The servant made her way to the wardrobe. She opened the doors, and after shaking the plain, white gown, hung it on a hook inside. “Yesterday, while herding sheep by the tors, Fergus saw Highland travellers and other Scots he didn’t recognize.”

“I’ll take Tira with me.” Isobel collected her other things.

Maura faced Isobel. “Keep yer eyes sharp. I be tellin’ the laird yer off pokin’ about in those outcrops once more.”

“Please do, and let Mother know, too, will you?” Isobel slid the bag’s handles over a wrist. “Tell her I shall be back in plenty of time for luncheon. Is Sorcha making Scotch stovies?”

“
Aye
and strawberry tarts,” the servant grumbled.

Isobel gave Maura a quick hug. “Not to worry, I have my dagger.”

More for scraping away dirt than any need for protection, but Maura needn’t know that.

The maid’s sputtering recriminations about the propriety of hugging staff, and unaccompanied females trotting off to scratch about in the mud, followed Isobel as she left her chamber and headed for the stables.

Three hours later, she stretched her arms overhead to ease the dull throb in her back from crouching so long. Habit had her skimming the dirt. She froze, staring intently at the ground.

“Ah, I knew it.”

Tiny frissons of excitement pricking her nerves, she scooped a coppery brown shard into her gloved hand. Turning the chip over, she brushed away the moist dirt clinging to the piece.

She held the sliver before her face. “Would you look at this, Tira? It’s an arrowhead.”

The charcoal-colored boarhound obediently poked her boxy nose near the flint and gave the tip a cursory sniff before turning away disdainfully. The dog nuzzled Isobel’s cloak pocket then raised soulful eyes to her as if to say,
Is that all
?
You brought me all the way out here for an insignificant splinter of stone
?

Isobel chuckled and rubbed behind the dog’s ears.

Tira’s back leg thumped as she twitched in rhythm to Isobel’s scratching.

“I didn’t promise you a snack, my friend. Only a nice run, to stretch those long legs of yours.”

She stopped petting the dog, and Tira snuffled her snout against Isobel’s faded skirt.

“When we get back, I shall get you something tasty. I promise. I was in such a hurry to examine the cliffs today, I forgot your treat.”

The hound did enjoy a buttery shortbread cookie or two—or six.

Several feet beyond the other side of the rock bed, Isobel’s mare blew out a breath and swung her pale, gray head.

Isobel laughed. “No, Emira, I shan’t forget to get you a carrot.”

Rubbing the arrow head between her thumb and forefinger, she surveyed the crag. Many eons ago, a glacier had scraped and gouged its way across this scarred stretch of land. Rocks and boulders, ranging from coin-sized to mammoth stones larger than crofters’ cottages, dotted the landscape.

Tempests washed dirt away from the precipices, exposing all manner of fascinating treasures. Isobel had unearthed a few shards of crude pottery and two more arrowheads inside one of the larger cave’s openings.

The history behind the items captivated her. Primitive peoples, quite possibly her ancestors, had occupied these lands at one time.

Ages ago, the barbarous Vikings had settled farther north and on the islands west of the mainland. Both locations were a good distance from Craiglocky Keep, which eliminated the Norse as the people responsible for the relics. The items in the caves hadn’t been left behind by the gypsies venturing near Craiglocky’s lands twice yearly, either.

The objects were far too old.

Petting Tira, Isobel scanned the large boulders intermittently edging the rock and cave-embedded cliff. Her attention whipped to a peculiar series of indentations.

“I think . . .”

She rushed to the bluff. Brushing her fingers against the slightly rough ridges of a rock, her heart kicked against her ribs. “Oh, look, a trilobite.”

Her practiced gaze traveled the length of the overhang. “I would bet my sainted grandmother’s Bible there are more here.”

Isobel considered the caves’ yawning black mouths.

“Possibly, in those as well.”

Next time, she must bring a lantern to thoroughly explore them. Fingering the fossil, Isobel grinned. Imagine, at one time this area had been under water. Fossils of the strange sea creatures were quite common in Scotland, or so she’d read.

She’d discovered many fascinating facts and learned about many enchanting places from reading.

Then again, that was primarily what she did for entertainment and adventure.

Read. And read. And read.

And yearn to travel.

Somewhere.
Anywhere
.

Oh, to have a grand escapade of some sort—to see the pyramids or the Great Sphinx of Egypt. Or perhaps, something closer to home, like the Standing Stones of Callanish or the Ring of Brodgar.

Isobel gave a derisive snort and rubbed her itchy nose. The dirt smudged into her glove tickled her, and she sneezed.

Thirty miles.

The farthest Isobel had ventured from her birthplace, except for the house party at Adaira’s last December and one at the Marquis and Marquesses of Bretheridge’s a couple of years before that.

Tira barked and loped after a rabbit.

A pensive sigh escaped Isobel. “There’s a whole amazing world out there, and I am stuck at Craiglocky Keep.”

Not that she didn’t love her childhood home. Of course she did. Nonetheless, she yearned to see undulating deserts or roaring waves pounding the surf instead of the Highland’s sloping emerald hills dotted with fragrant purple heather and dolloped with creamy sheep.

“Wouldn’t life be a mite more wonderful if I saw more of the world before I marry and have children?”

At nearly twenty, several marriage offers had come her way already. Thank goodness, her parents allowed her to choose a husband. Unfortunately, the Highlands rather limited the selection of possible candidates.

Though rugged, handsome Scots abounded, so far her many admirers only complimented her on her beauty. Not her desire to discuss politics, or her knowledge of various sciences, or her ability to speak multiple languages, or even her delight in solving complicated mathematical equations.

Her capacity to see something once, whether it be a map, diagram, or the contents of a book—practically anything, truly—and recall the information in nearly perfect detail, had been a delightful game when she’d been a child.

She had a voracious appetite for knowledge and scant patience for beaus whose interest lay in ogling her bosom or staring raptly at her face with an idiotic expression upon theirs.