Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series (4 page)

She adjusted the bag dangling from her arm. “Please, Ewan, I am—”

He laid a finger on her lips. “Yancy’s not the man—”

Turning her head aside, she fought the urge to cover her ears.

A dog barked, followed by frantic clucking and children’s giggles. A smile tempted.

The bairns are trying to catch the hens again.

“What I mean to say is, do not harbor a
tendre
for him.” Ewan gave her a boyish smile and tweaked her nose. “I would hate to have to call out one of my dearest friends for breaking your heart.”

Deliberately quashing the pain that lanced her at his words, Isobel dredged up the last remnants of her dignity and raised her chin a notch. “I assure you, Lord Ramsbury is not now, nor is he ever going to be, the object of my affections.”

She swung away from her brother, intent on gaining her chamber and calming her bruised pride. A tall shadow angled across the stable entrance.

Lord Ramsbury stomped past.

Chapter 5

Yancy pushed away from the rough wall he’d leaned against until his ardor cooled enough to allow him a degree of decency. Stalking about with a stiff-as-a-fire-poker bulge in his britches was sure to cause a snicker or two.

Clan members milled throughout the courtyard talking in small groups or going about the various tasks required to keep a castle the size of Craiglocky running efficiently. Laughing children and barking dogs played together. Chickens clucked in alarm and scattered before him as he stalked across the bailey.

Isobel’s words echoed in his ears over the clanging of metal in the blacksmithy lean-to twenty yards away.

Lord Ramsbury is not now, nor is he ever going to be, the object of my affections.

Succinct. Direct. Final?

God’s toenails.

At Craiglocky merely hours and his quest to gain her favor extinguished like a spent candle with scant hope of rekindling the nub’s flame.

He’d been marble hard the moment he landed between her soft thighs. The wool of her worn gown, molded gently to her body, revealed her womanly lushness. Only by remaining rigidly still had he been able to keep from embarrassing himself in his buckskins.

Then to have had Sethwick come upon them.

Yancy blew out a long breath. Damned awkward, that.

Did he stay sprawled upon the delectable form of Isobel in full view of God and all, or stand and expose the hard bump in his trousers for the world to see?

The instant Sethwick detected Yancy’s arousal, warning fire sparked in his friend’s eyes.

Not that Yancy blamed him. If he had sisters as lovely as the Ferguson misses, he would hire an army to ward off the fawning bucks, irredeemable rakes, and lecherous rogues dangling about.

He knew full well which category Sethwick would place him in. Twisting his lips in derision, Yancy marched up the gatehouse risers, the click of his boot heels bouncing off the weathered stones.

He well-deserved Sethwick’s opinion of him.

Yancy hadn’t been a monk by any stretch of the imagination, though he had been careful not to father any by-blows. Nevertheless, he’d been openly contemptuous about the unpleasant institution of marriage.

Neither had he hinted to Sethwick that his sentiments had recently shifted regarding the parson’s mousetrap, albeit compelled out of a sense of duty and not a shift in Yancy’s personal philosophy.

At least that was what he kept telling himself these past months, whenever he contemplated matrimony and Isobel’s exquisite face came to mind each time.

Pulling on his ear, he stifled a sigh.

Regrettably, the duties of an unwelcome earldom thrust upon him four years ago required him to marry. Other than a distant cousin somewhere in the wilds of America—if Dawson still lived— Yancy, alone, remained to carry on the Ramsbury title.

How it had come to pass that he, the sixth in line to the earldom, should have inherited, was stroke after stroke of implausibly bad luck for his predecessors.

The
ton
had heartily congratulated him on his good fortune, but how did one count oneself fortuitous when six men had died in order for him to inherit the title?

Rather morbid and nothing to celebrate.

Nonetheless, he could no longer shirk his responsibilities to the earldom. This trip to Scotland was his last in the capacity of War Office Secretary.

He’d tendered his resignation to The Prince Regent, despite His Royal Highness’s belligerent protests and proclamations that England would be inundated with spies and vulnerable to her enemies if Yancy
deserted his post
.

Plus, much to Yancy’s consternation—or perhaps astonishment was more apt—he rather wanted to experience fatherhood. He blamed Sethwick and Warrick and their endearing offspring for that absurdity. No doubt Clarendon’s would be equally precious when the babe arrived. Wasn’t Adaira due soon?

“You look in a foul mood. Your ugly scowl would frighten the bravest of children away. That is, if they didn’t expire on the spot, terror stopping their tiny, fragile hearts.”

Yancy’s attention jerked to Harcourt exiting the keep’s entrance, pocket watch in his hand.

“As always, Harcourt, you are a veritable fount of fustian rubbish. Where do you acquire such drivel?”

“Such ingratitude.” The duke snapped the cover closed then tucked the fob into the pocket of his silver and black striped waistcoat. “I came in search of you to tell you luncheon is about to be served.”

Casting his friend a sidelong glance, Yancy continued to the open arched door where an impeccably clad, unusually tall butler stood at attention. “Why you and not a footman? I have never known you to run a servant’s errand.”

“I hoped to catch you in a compromising situation.” Harcourt’s teasing grin and wink belied his words.

Yancy issued an inarticulate sound, somewhere between a grunt and a snort. “You are too late. Sethwick already did.”

“Truly?” The duke paused, giving Yancy a piercing look.

“Truly,” Yancy answered, compunction coloring his words. “I don’t know when I’ve been more thoroughly discomfited.”

“Do tell. We’ve only been here a few hours. May I ask with whom?” Harcourt rubbed his palms together and waggled his eyebrows, an exaggerated leer contorting his face. “This ought to be most entertaining.”

Yancy turned his back on Harcourt’s needling. Gaining the entrance, he nodded at the majordomo. “Hello, Fairchild.”

“Always a pleasure, Lord Ramsbury.” Fairchild inclined his head. His gaze searched past Yancy. “Are Miss Isobel and Lord Sethwick far behind you?”

Yancy shook his head and glanced over his shoulder. No sign of them yet. “No. I should think they’ll be along momentarily, however.”

Harcourt chuckled and snatched a piece of straw off Yancy’s coat. He dangled the golden length triumphantly. Humor cavorting in his eyes, he slapped an arm across Yancy’s shoulders and hurried him away from the entrance hall. “Come now, spill everything. Then I shall tell you what I have learned.”

Yancy waited until well out of earshot of the butler before speaking. After a thorough search of the passageway, and confident he wouldn’t be overheard, he gave Harcourt an abbreviated version.

“Miss Ferguson stumbled. I tried to prevent her from falling. Instead, we both ended up on the stable floor. Sethwick found me, bum upward, with a raging erection atop his sister.”

Harcourt’s shout of laughter rang the length of the corridor and echoed off the hall ceiling.

Yancy grimaced. A muscle twinged at the back of his neck, no doubt the result of his little tussle with Miss Ferguson, and he rubbed at the soreness. “That’s the whole of it in a nutshell.”

“Damn, I would give anything to have seen his face.” Harcourt chuckled again and pounded Yancy’s back. “And yours.”

“I am sure you would.” Yancy’s tone was as dry as burned toast as he continued down the hallway.

Isobel’s countenance remained etched in his mind.

Skin, milk pale, peachy-pink lips parted, turquoise eyes wide with confused wonder, and above all, wholly vulnerable.

He had never seen her hair partially unpinned before and had itched to spread his fingers through the silky, almond-brown tresses spilling over her shoulders.

How long was her hair?

Shoulder length? Waist? Hip? Longer?

She’d smelled amazing. Wildflowers and sun and a hint of lavender, or perhaps the musky essence had been heather. Her refreshing scent soothed and invigorated him at the same time.

His member pulsed.

Confound it.

Shutting his eyes, he conjured her image in his mind.

He started, and his eyes flew open.

Why had she been in the stables dressed like a servant? Had she been outside the keep’s walls unescorted? Didn’t Sethwick realize how dangerous that was at present?

Yancy gave a mental shrug.

Enough.

He would address the issue with Sethwick later. Harcourt hadn’t sought Yancy out solely to indulge his perverse curiosity.

“Pray tell, what is so provoking you were compelled to look for me yourself, Harcourt?”

Drawing Yancy to a stop, the duke checked both ends of the wide, stone hall. “Seems that gypsy caravan we saw north of the village Craig . . .”

“Craigcutty,” Yancy supplied.

“Yes, Craigcutty. I heard the gypsies spend a few weeks in the area each spring and fall.” One hand on his hip, Harcourt paused to watch a pretty maid hurry by, a coy smile on her lips. Harcourt’s gaze trailed her gently swaying backside until she disappeared around a corner.

Yancy cleared his throat. “The travellers?”

An unrepentant Harcourt shifted his attention back to him. “And, according to Sethwick’s cousins—”

“Gregor and Alasdair McTavish?”

“If they are the two blond giants, then yes. I cannot keep his family straight.”

Harcourt cast another swift glance around. “In any event, as I was saying, according to Sethwick’s cousins, his scouts have seen a great deal of activity between the Highland travellers and the Scots.”

“So? The black tinkers typically trade with the residents near their camps. I saw at least half a dozen Scottish Highland gypsies in the bailey when I arrived.” Yancy shrugged and another piece of straw floated to the floor. “There’s nothing unusual in that.”

Harcourt’s expressive eyes darkened, and he rested a shoulder against the wall. “Therein lays the mystery. The local Scots are indeed bartering and trading with the tinkers. So why, then, are Clauston clansmen lurking about?”

“Clauston? They’re remote Highlanders.” Yancy stared at Harcourt, and then frowned. “What are they doing this far south? The Claustons live at least five or six days’ hard ride from here.”

Harcourt gave a knowing smirk. “I’ll wager they aren’t after baubles or here to have their fortunes told or palms read.”

A trace of scorn colored his last words.

“I wouldn’t scoff if I were you, Harcourt.” Yancy leveled the duke a sharp look. “Many Scots, other than the gypsies, also claim to possess the second sight, including Sethwick’s sister, Seonaid.”

Harcourt’s expression sobered. “True enough. I met her earlier. Took one look at me and said, ‘You should consider drinking less coffee, and cold tallow candles are wonderful for treating eye injuries.’ Then she smiled sweetly and swept from the room.”

“You don’t say? How irregular.” Seonaid had never so much as hinted she discerned a thing about Yancy. Perhaps he was unreadable.

Harcourt shuddered, puzzlement crinkling his eyes. “Wholly unnerving, that. I don’t like being read like a book, and that candle business . . . quite bizarre.”

“Indeed.” Hands clasped behind him, Yancy rocked back on his heels, deep in thought.

An extended silence reigned as he contemplated the information Harcourt had imparted about the gypsies. As for Harcourt’s musings, well, who knew exactly what went on in that fair head of his? The man was an enigma.

“I expected the Blackhalls and the MacGraths to be lurking about.” Yancy pulled on his earlobe. “After all, they’re causing the disruption with your cousin’s clan, and MacHardy’s barony encompasses their lands.”

Hell, the entire bumblebroth made his head ache. He rubbed his forehead while staring at a portrait of a fierce-looking Scot on the opposite wall. “This may be more complicated than I’d anticipated.”

He’d have to extend his visit. That, he didn’t object to at all; he’d have more opportunities to court Isobel.

MacHardy, on the other hand . . .

An uncouth Scot, nothing like Sethwick and his kin, MacHardy had earned a reputation as a troublemaker and a whoremongering cheat. A foul one too. From the stench lingering about his person, his substantial flesh and clothing hadn’t encountered a droplet of water in a goodly amount of time.

The baron laid odds far too often in White’s betting book, gambling on every ludicrous wager from the knot of a lord’s cravat to the feather or ribbon colors adorning a lady’s bonnet. Once, he had placed a bet as to the number of whiskers on Lady Clutterbuck’s many chins.

There were five.

The man was a corkbrained buffoon. His tendency to dispute his losses had gained him the reputation of a hotheaded Captain Sharp. Yancy hadn’t a single doubt the baron had fired early during the duels. The Scot was a blight upon the earth.

Voices echoed from the entrance.

Glimpsing Sethwick and Isobel crossing the threshold, Yancy narrowed his eyes. Turning on his heel, he strode purposefully in their direction, his boots beating a harsh staccato upon the stone floor.

Isobel’s rough attire, and what the garments suggested about her whereabouts, troubled him. As a War Office representative, he had a duty to speedily solve the clan crisis while ensuring everyone’s safety. Particularly, the well-being of strong-minded young misses capering about the countryside.

Head bowed, she made straight for the stairs.

“Hold there, Miss Ferguson.” Yancy quickened his pace.

One foot on the bottom riser, she paused and swung her startled gaze his way. The closer he came, the larger her beautiful eyes grew. She ascended a couple of steps, sending her brother an alarmed look.

“Thank you, Fairchild,” Sethwick said. “Please have luncheon delayed fifteen minutes. Isobel must change her gown.”