Scotsmen Prefer Blondes (6 page)

He wanted to touch her, to prove her wrong. But he couldn’t do it here. “We both know what could have happened last night. Why would I give that up to marry a woman who barely speaks to me?”

She closed her eyes. Without the sharpness of her gaze, she suddenly looked vulnerable. “If you won’t marry Prudence, find another. There are dozens of women in London who are better for you. I cannot entertain your suit.”

“Do you not want to upset Miss Etchingham by marrying me? She and I were never engaged, and I don’t even believe she likes me. There would be no scandal there.”

When she opened her eyes again, she didn’t look at him. Instead, she turned her gaze out over the countryside, across the estate he had vowed to save. “You know nothing about me, my lord. I’ve caused no scandals, but I’m not a witless porcelain doll. I have dreams of my own. Find a sweet girl who will be content to let you think for her. Your career will be better for it.”

Her certainty shook him. But he couldn’t agree that easily. “Meet me tonight,” he said, knowing it was foolish to say the words even as they slipped through his lips. “Let’s discuss this where we can have a proper conversation, not in the middle of a road. Earls should propose marriage indoors, at the very least.”

That brought a glimmer of a smile to her face. “How very proper of you, my lord.”

He had never felt less proper in his life. “Tonight?”

She didn’t falter under the sudden command in his voice. She coolly stared him down, then looked up the road to where Salford and Prudence were disappearing around a bend.

When she turned back to him, there was mischief in her eyes. “The library, at a quarter to eleven. I trust that after our interview, this nonsense about a union between us will end.”

She cantered away from him, up the final rise toward the fort where Salford and Prudence awaited them. He gave her a few moments’ start before following her. She seemed so sure that they were ill suited — and perhaps they were. Ferguson surely had a reason for recommending Miss Etchingham over her.

Ferguson’s disapproval made no sense. Amelia wasn’t just more entertaining — she was the daughter of an earl, with a dowry large enough to compensate for any number of indiscretions. If he were marrying solely for status, Amelia was a better choice than Miss Etchingham, even without considering how her laughter heated his blood.

But Amelia’s reference to her dreams gave him pause. The ton didn’t appreciate women who thought of anything beyond the next social event. If her dreams were something that could harm his reputation by association, it could bode ill for his attempts to win allies.

A footman had taken his note to Ferguson that morning, as planned. It was a two-hour ride from Malcolm’s castle to his friend’s estate, but he could expect an answer by evening.

It couldn’t be bad — but if it were, what would he do? His scowl was gone by the time they caught up to Salford and Prudence, but his conscience still vacillated. He needed to marry for the MacCabes, not for himself.

But for the first time, he wondered if the clan was worth the sacrifice.

*    *    *

The ruined fort was everything Amelia would ever want as a setting for something as cold and calculating as the proposed marriage between Malcolm and Prudence. She saw how she would write it: the innocent damsel sold into marriage to save her family, and the dastardly nobleman who intended to use her for his own gain.

In the crumbling courtyard, open to the sky, with all but the most tenacious bits of cobblestone consumed by grass and weeds, Amelia could almost believe that story.

She preferred the story to the sordid reality. If this were a book, Amelia had been cast as the evil seductress who might lure away her friend’s sole chance at a match. Amelia didn’t intend to stay in that role, even if it was hard to remember her goals when Malcolm’s every word felt like a caress.

But Prudence wasn’t doing herself any favors if she planned to marry Malcolm.

“Is the chicken to your liking, Miss Etchingham?” Malcolm asked.

There was an array of food laid out in front of them, nearly enough to feed the garrison once stationed there. Two footmen had brought the feast up ahead of them and spread the dishes out on a cloth, replete with china plates and cushions for the ladies’ comfort. If this was Lord Carnach’s style of courtship, it was lovely.

“Yes, the chicken is perfection, my lord.”

Prudence’s voice could hardly be heard, even in the shelter of the courtyard.

Amelia may have doubted Malcolm’s intentions, but she had to commend him for pressing on. “Tell me, Miss Etchingham,” he said, his voice soothing, “what is it that fascinates you about fortifications? Or must I call Salford out for boring you earlier?”

“Surely you love these ruins too?” Prudence asked, her disbelief shocking her out of the meekness her mother drilled into her.

Malcolm shrugged. “They are my clan’s past. I must have more of a care for their future.”

“But...” Prudence started. Amelia heard the passion in her voice. In the next instant, she caught herself. “But of course, Lord Carnach. Your devotion to your duty is exemplary.”

“Come now, Prudence,” Alex said, reaching for a bit of cheese. “I know you have a stronger opinion than that.”

Only Amelia noticed the flicker of despair in her eyes. “My opinion matters naught. Perhaps Lord Carnach is right to stay so focused on the present.”

Alex opened his mouth to argue. Amelia cut him off before the afternoon devolved into academics. “I’m sure Lord Carnach won’t bite your head off if you tell him your thoughts,” she said, trying to sound encouraging.

Prudence shaded her eyes with her hand and looked up at the sky. “I think us poor females are better suited to talk of the weather, don’t you?”

Amelia snorted.

Malcolm threw himself back into the fray. “I trust you are more intelligent than that, Miss Etchingham. What do you see in these stones?”

Prudence cast her eyes around them, finally settling on Alex, as though she could look through him to the great ruined archway behind him. “The stones only tell bits of the story. I try to see what is missing — the colors they wore, the way they spoke, who they served, what they believed. Why build in the Highlands? Why defend this place above all others? That is what fascinates me, my lord — the hearts of men, not their busts carved in marble.”

“You won’t find much marble here,” Malcolm said.

His words broke the spell. For a moment, the Prudence that Amelia knew had shown herself, almost as though she had forgotten where she was. But Malcolm’s voice dragged Prudence’s eyes away from Alex and locked the real Prudence away again.

“Of course. Forgive my ramblings, Lord Carnach. I was building castles in Spain.”

“And populating them,” Alex said drily.

Prudence flushed. “What use is a castle without people to live in it?”

Her tone was almost venomous — an undercurrent Amelia didn’t understand. Malcolm smoothed over the awkwardness. “On that we are agreed, Miss Etchingham. May I offer you some of this excellent beef?”

The conversation turned away from stones, leaving Amelia to consider her options.

And really, she had none. Even if she wanted to marry, she couldn’t let Malcolm risk a future political career on her, not when her secret writing life might someday be discovered — not when some part of her wanted it to be discovered. And she wouldn’t take away what Prudence needed, even if Prudence looked more nauseated than enchanted when speaking to her prospective fiancée.

So after they had returned to the castle, Amelia laid a hand on Prudence’s arm and pulled her up to her chamber. She would question Prudence a final time, give her one last chance to abandon the thought of marriage. Then she would proceed with her scheme.

“Are you certain you want to marry Carnach?” Amelia asked.

Prudence shook her head. “It doesn’t matter, though. He’s nice enough to tolerate. I cannot afford another failed season on the marriage mart.”

“But you can barely talk to him,” Amelia protested.

“It’s the anticipation, I think. I tell myself not to be nervous, yet when I see him, I dream of what might have been...” Prudence broke off, swallowing whatever that might-have-been was.

“Why have you given up on what you want?”

“If it was only the money, perhaps I wouldn’t have,” Prudence said, sitting on Amelia’s dressing chair like it was a tumbrel taking her to the gallows. “But I don’t have your fearlessness. And I can’t keep waiting.”

“You can still write your treatises even when you’re married, I suppose,” Amelia allowed, starting to pace.

Prudence threw her a strange look that Amelia couldn’t interpret. “Of course. My treatises. Surely my nervousness about him will subside once I become more accustomed to him. And once we’re married, it matters less if I slip and he discovers that I am an utter bluestocking — he can’t divorce me for liking the Greeks.”

A bit of her grin returned. Amelia knew what she had to do.

“Speaking of the Greeks — I found something in the library you should see.”

“Shall we go now?” Prudence asked. “We’ve ages of time before dinner.”

“No. It’s better viewed in the moonlight. Tonight I’ll retire from the drawing room early. Stay there when I leave so no one thinks anything, but come to the library at eleven and I’ll show you what I found.”

Prudence laughed. “Why all the subterfuge? Don’t tell me you’ve found a treasure.”

She thought of Malcolm’s silver eyes. “After a fashion. I can’t say more, though, or it will ruin the effect.”

“Very well,” Prudence said. “I know better than to argue when you have me in your coils.”

Amelia kissed her cheek. “It will all come out all right in the end, Prue. I promise you.”

It was a simple plan. Amelia would meet Malcolm, reinforce her refusal, and deliver Prudence to him instead. If Prudence didn’t anticipate meeting him, she might not be so nervous.

Surely the moonlight would do the rest. And in the dark, it would surely be easier for Amelia to walk away.

CHAPTER SEVEN

In the end, he knew his duty.

If anything, dinner with his family had confirmed it. His brothers trusted him and his mother adored him. How could he tell them that he valued a woman over their well-being?

On the face of it, Amelia was perfect for all of them. She was beautiful, well spoken, possessed impeccable manners, and seemed to like his family. And Ferguson’s reply to his earlier question, received right before the gong rang for dinner, didn’t mention any scandals.

But the hastily scrawled script was all warning.
MacCabe — Do
not
marry the harpy. - F

“Not” was underlined three times.

It was clear there was no love lost between Amelia and Ferguson. But they were two strong personalities — Malcolm could see how they might set each other on edge. Was Ferguson’s opinion based on facts?

Malcolm had torn the note up and thrown it into the fire, cursing Ferguson’s brevity. If there were legitimate grievances, Ferguson would have mentioned them. He suspected Ferguson and Amelia simply didn’t like each other. Was Ferguson’s perception of her more accurate than Malcolm’s intuition?

More accurate than the desire that kept him on edge, eager for her footsteps in the hall?

His pocket watch read 10:43pm. He snapped it shut, then turned away from the French door at the far end of the library to regard the portrait of Ian MacCabe, the first Earl of Carnach. With his dark hair, grey eyes, and warrior physique, Malcolm bore an uncanny resemblance to his distant ancestor, although Malcolm’s nose was slightly crooked from the brawl he’d gotten into with the twins the year before. Fighting after his father’s wake was unseemly, but as a last bit of entertainment before a lifetime with the title, it had been vastly satisfying.

Ian was the one who started the tradition of marrying English brides. The strategy had given the MacCabes the connections necessary to avoid some of the worst assaults of the English monarchs. Of course, Ian had kidnapped his bride — a ploy that had its merits.

He grinned. The first countess had fallen in love with Ian before the week was out, if the stories were to be believed. He had no doubt Amelia would do the same with him, if she would only drop her armor long enough to give him a chance to win her.

But if he kidnapped her, Salford would likely kill Malcolm as soon as the ceremony ended. And if she truly hid something dangerous under her pretty face, Malcolm couldn’t have her anyway. He was a peer of the realm, not a poet or a publican. Marrying for love — or lust, at least — was a pretty sentiment for the gossip rags, but it wouldn’t feed his clan or keep the Highlanders from emigrating to America.

He would channel his ancestors’ ruthlessness rather than their rebelliousness. He would rein in whatever madness possessed him when he was with Amelia and tell her that she shouldn’t have come. After his guests left, he would go to London and broaden his search. And if he never saw Amelia — and the body that would never be his — so much the better.

The door at the other end of the room slipped open. He heard it shut again with a careful whisper and a soft click. Malcolm focused on the painting of the first earl, holding his stance as her almost silent footsteps drew closer. He knew he couldn’t watch her hips sway toward him if he wanted to remember his intention to relinquish her.

Amelia stopped beside him, still silent. He looked down and saw her heeled slippers dangling from her fingers. “Did you think to sneak up on me?”

His voice was quiet, her answering laughter quieter still — but the thread of excitement woven through their voices was as clear as a battle cry shouted from a mountaintop. “The heels click too loudly on the wood floors in the passageway. You really must add more carpets, my lord. You can never host discreet house parties otherwise.”

“I’ve never had cause to.”

“Neither have I. You shall, though, when you enter the Lords. The ladies will swoon over you, and you’ll be thankful for the carpets then.”

He swung around to face her, leaving his ancestor as a silent observer to their game. “And will you swoon over me, Lady Amelia?”