Rose In Scotland (8 page)

She struggled to her feet with as much grace as her full skirts and tight corset would allow. “Of course I don’t want Uncle Charles killed!” she exclaimed, horrified he could even suggest such a thing, his callousness seemed to imply that he would say yes if that was indeed what she wanted.

“Then what is it?” he pressed. “You must admit ’Tis more than passing strange. You ask me to meet with you without benefit of a chaperone, and I no sooner get here than you’re offering me a fistful of gold to accept a proposition you refuse to describe in any detail.”

Her cheeks grew pink at his blunt summation of the situation. “It isn’t like that,” she muttered, furious that he could reduce her careful plans to foolishness with a few well-spoken words.

“Then how is it?” he demanded, leaning forward in his chair to hold her gaze. “And before you say another word,” he added, even as she was opening her lips to speak, “I warn you I’ll do nothing to bring shame to the general. He’s a fine man, and I’ll not have him upset.”

“Upset him?” she exclaimed. “How can this possibly upset him when the entire thing is his idea?”

“What idea?”

Too angry to prevaricate, she said the first thing to pop into her mind. “That you marry me, you dolt!” she snapped, and then watched in satisfaction when he went slack-jawed with disbelief. His mouth opened and closed several times, the gift of speech having clearly deserted him.

“What did you say?” he managed at last, his voice sounding like a rusty hinge badly in need of oiling.

Caroline hesitated uncertainly. Pleased as she was at having knocked the arrogant Scot back a pace, she was already regretting her impetuous tongue. Things were not going at all as she had planned, and she decided ’twas time she tossed in her hand and left the table before she had lost
everything. “I believe I have said more than I should,” she said, walking over to the bellpull hanging beside the fireplace. “I shall have Campton inform Grandfather you are here, and he can answer your questions.”

But he was not about to be dissuaded. He rose to his feet and stalked over to where she was standing. “Why should the general want you to marry me?” he demanded, reaching out to lay a staying hand on her arm. “Are you with child and looking for a man, any man, to give your bastard a proper name?”

Caroline did not stop to think, but slapped him full across the face with as much strength as she could muster. He allowed the blow to land, and then grabbed her wrist and pulled her against him.

“That slap I admit I deserved,” he conceded, controlling her furious struggles with contemptuous ease. “But I’ll not have you beating me as if I were no more than a servant.”

“How dare you!” she said, furious at his charge. “I’ve never struck a servant in my life!”

To her fury, a mocking grin spread across his handsome features. “That would explain why you made such a poor job of it,” he said, laughing as she tried to free her hand. “I’ve had puffs of wind do more damage. Ah, ah—” He tightened his grip, anticipating her next move. “No more, I warn you. I’ve never in my life raised a hand to a woman, but you tempt me sorely.”

She ceased her struggles, accepting grudgingly that she would only be freed when he chose to release her. She remained rigid in his hold, her eyes fixed on a point over his shoulder. Several
seconds passed before he finally released her hand and took a cautious step backward.

“Very well,” he began, eyeing her warily. “Now I would know what you mean by speaking of marriage. Are you with child?”

Her elaborate coiffure had been disturbed by their grappling, and she brushed back a curl dangling against her cheek. “No,” she said through gritted teeth, “I am not.”

She felt his gaze go to her tightly cinched waist. “Are you certain?”

“Of course I am certain!” she retorted, feeling more angry and embarrassed than she ever had in her life. “I’ve never been with a man in my … oh!” She broke off, sending him an aggrieved scowl. “Why am I bothering to explain myself to you? It is obvious you are no gentleman!”

“On that, my lady, we are in agreement,” he responded, inclining his head mockingly. “And that is something I would caution you to remember. So,” he continued before she could speak, “if it is not a babe you are carrying, why the offer of marriage? It is the general’s idea, you say?”

Caroline gave a jerky nod, all but seething with resentment at his hard implacability. “He said it was the only way to foil Uncle Charles,” she said. “Grandfather said he could hardly force me into marriage with Sir Gervase if I were already wed to you, and as my husband, you would be my legal guardian, not him. He could only commit me with your consent.”

A look of obvious skepticism stole across his face. “Then he truly did threaten you with such a thing? You weren’t exaggerating the matter to win your grandfather’s support?”

Knowing he’d seen through her performance was disconcerting, but matters were too serious for Caroline to care. “Did you know my uncle, sir, you would not ask such a question,” she said, her lips thinning in a grim smile. “There is nothing he would not do to get his hands on my fortune.”

He still looked far from convinced. “Your fortune?” he repeated, tilting his head to one side as he studied her. “You’re so rich, then?”

Caroline wasn’t certain how to answer his question. Although the size of her fortune had been a matter of much speculation since the day of her coming out, she couldn’t remember anyone ever asking her straight out the depth of her pockets. Perversely, she decided she preferred his blunt demand to the mendacity displayed by most of her suitors. She tilted up her head to meet his gaze. “I am,” she said, watching his face to see how her admission struck him. “Does that matter?”

He gave an indifferent shrug. “To me, no, though I cannot help but wonder why you should still be pressing for marriage with a stranger. If you are as wealthy as you claim, I would think there would be more than enough men eager to wed you. So I ask you once more, my lady, why me?”

Knowing it was useless to prevaricate any longer, Caroline surrendered to the inevitable. “Because of the Scottish divorce laws,” she said quietly. “Grandfather says if we wed and remain married for one year and then divorce, I can gain legal control over my money and my person. Uncle Charles would never be able to threaten me again.”

If hearing she wished to wed him had shocked him, it was obvious her plans to divorce him left him reeling. He stared at her as if she were indeed the madwoman her uncle threatened to name her. “Divorce!” he exclaimed, his hands tightening about her upper arms. “You cannot mean it!”

Caroline pulled herself free. “Of course I mean it!” she returned crossly. “I have no desire to be wed—not to you nor to any other troublesome man—but because of British law I have no other choice in the matter. If I am to be free of Uncle Charles and his vile threats, I must marry. What is so difficult to comprehend about that?”

“Aye, the marriage part I ken well enough,” he said, his expression darkening. “ ’Tis the divorce part I am finding a wee bit hard to swallow. A divorce would cause a devil of a scandal, and I’ll not be dragging my name and my clan through such muck.”

“But that is precisely the point!” Caroline exclaimed, recalling her grandfather’s careful explanations. “Scottish law provides for the dissolution of a marriage for a variety of reasons, with no scandal attached to either party. And even if there were to be some talk, it seems to me
I
am the one who would likely suffer the brunt of it. If I am willing to take such a risk, can you not at least consider the matter?”

He remained visibly skeptical. “And you are willing to live with society’s censure?” he asked, folding his arms across his broad chest. “Even knowing it could well make you an outcast, and ruin forever your chances for a proper marriage?”

Caroline had already considered and accepted the dangers of her grandfather’s shocking proposal. “As I never desired to marry in the first place, I do not see that I have any chances left to ruin,” she said, her chin lifting with quiet resolve. “I want only my freedom, and there is nothing I won’t do to achieve it. All I ask is that you listen to Grandfather’s proposal before deciding whether or not to agree. Will you do that?”

At first she didn’t think he would reply, and then he dipped his head. “Aye, my lady,” he said, his expression betraying nothing of his feelings, “I will listen.”

“Y
ou’re mad,” Hugh said with quiet conviction, his gaze never leaving his former commander’s face. “Mad as a loon to even suggest such a thing, and I’m madder still to be sitting here listening to you. It will never work.”

“Nonsense, dear boy; you must know I never act without knowing precisely what I am about,” General Burroughs responded, his brows lifting with icy displeasure at what he obviously considered a rebuke. “The plan is flawless. You marry my granddaughter, remain wedded to her for one year, and at the end of that year you divorce her. What could be simpler? It is swift, decisive, and completely unexpected. The battle would be won before the enemy was even aware it had been joined.”

“Aye,” Hugh agreed, still stunned to realize the general was in complete earnest. “But ’Tis rather like using a brace of cannon to bring down a quail. Surely we need not employ such drastic measures to achieve our objectives. The earl is your son; he cannot be the villain Lady Caroline would have him.”

A look of infinite pain flashed across the older
man’s face before he spoke. “He is my son,” he said quietly, “though it would give me much pleasure were I able to deny the wretch. And he is every inch the villain Caroline has named him. There is no doubt in my mind he wouldn’t hesitate to carry through with the threats he has made against her. Indeed, I fear he will do so whether she does as he commands or not.”

Hugh stiffened at the general’s grim observation. “What do you mean?” he demanded, growing worried despite his determination to remain disinterested.

General Burroughs remained silent for several seconds before responding. “A husband has complete control over the fortune and person of his wife,” he began in the careful tones Hugh remembered from their days on the battlefield. “And if Caroline were to bow to Charles’s demands and marry this Sir Gervase creature, there is nothing on this earth to prevent him from having her locked away. And did he choose to do so, there is precious little I could do to stop him.”

Hugh hid his astonishment. “But you are a duke,” he protested, sickened at the thought of the proud and beautiful Lady Caroline locked away in the filth of an asylum. “Surely were you to set up a howl, they would have to release her.”

“And so they would, to be sure,” the general agreed, “but by then who knows what damage might have already been done? The child could already have been driven to madness by her confinement, or worse still, have perished altogether. Oh, I daresay afterward I could kick up
a devil of a scandal, make all sorts of accusations, but short of a trial, that would be the end of it.”

Hugh’s hands closed into fists as he silently accepted what he was hearing. The general was a man who weighed every possibility with calculating care, and if he said a situation was hopeless, it was hopeless indeed. Still …

“Could you not make yourself her ladyship’s guardian?” he asked after a moment, wishing he knew more of such matters. “That should keep her safe from your son.”

“Yes, but it would be a temporary safety only,” the older man replied, suddenly looking alarmingly frail. “I’m not in the best of health, you know. That is why I am come to Bath.”

Hugh sat forward, genuinely alarmed. “Are you ill, sir?”

There was another silence before the general spoke. “I am as well as any man who has reached his seventh decade and who has led the sort of life I have,” he said, his blue eyes meeting Hugh’s with unwavering courage. “I may live another decade, I may die tomorrow. No one can be certain.”

Hugh glanced away, unable to answer for the painful lump lodged in his throat. He’d seen death in all its harrowing forms too many times to count, and he’d thought himself inured to grief. But the thought of the wily old general closing his eyes in death left him reeling.

A tired smile touched the general’s lips. “Not that I am complaining, mind,” he said with a laugh. “Had you not been there to put a bullet through that rebel, I should have died five years
ago. Rather ironic when you think about it, don’t you agree?”

Hugh shook his head, failing to see any humor in the situation. He was closer to the general than he ever thought he could be to an Englishman, and it grieved him sorely that this time there was nothing he could do to save the older man from death. And it shamed him more to realize his next concern was for himself. If the general should die, who would help him recover his lands?

“Now you can see why I am so desirous that you wed my granddaughter,” General Burroughs continued, ignoring Hugh’s silence. “Caroline’s only protection is a husband, even a temporary one. Someone smart enough and ruthless enough to protect her from Charles when I am gone.”

Because his granddaughter’s plight seemed uppermost on the general’s mind, Hugh reluctantly made himself think of it as well. “Aye,” he said, accepting at last that the outlandish scheme was indeed the chit’s only hopes of salvation. “But what I cannot understand is why you should want that someone to be me. I understand about the divorce laws, but a man need not be a Scot to make use of them. Why should you be so determined I marry your granddaughter? It makes no sense.”

As usual, the general tumbled to his meaning at once. “Because I am English, and a duke, do you mean?” he asked, then chuckled when Hugh gave a terse nod. “Sergeant MacColme, do you know how I came by my title?”

Hugh’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Inherited it from your father, I would suppose.”

“From my uncle,” the general corrected. “A thoroughly reprehensible man whose vices and villainy make Charles look like a dashed choirboy. He died of the pox, but before the disease took him it left him withered and unable to produce heirs. He died without issue, and the title passed to Richard, my elder brother. Richard was a good enough fellow in his way, but he was wild and reckless in the extreme. He died drunk, attempting to walk blindfolded across a section of the roof, and the title fell to me. So you see,” he added, a smile of amusement curving his mouth, “that is how I came to bear the noble title of duke. A case of the pox and a drunken wager.”