Scotsmen Prefer Blondes (Muses of Mayfair) Read online

  The fire was roaring by the time she responded. “I never thought it was a vow I would have to make. Or one a stranger could hold me to.”

  His temper flared. “Am I still that much of a stranger?”

  “No, of course not. And you should know, Malcolm, that I do intend to honor you. If I had to make these vows, marry someone, I am glad it is you.”

  The beast within was slightly mollified, just enough that he could pause to strip out of his shirt and breeches and wrap himself in the other blanket. When he turned back to her, she wasn’t looking at him — she was staring into the fire as though she could see visions within the flames.

  “If such things matter to you, I intend to honor you, too,” he said.

  She looked up at him. Wearing his plaid, smiling that sad smile, she could have been any Scottish bride from centuries past — anticipating the day she would lose him. “You may feel differently when we reach London. It’s de rigueur for powerful men to have mistresses.”

  He sat down beside her and pulled her against his chest. The stone floor chilled him, but she was warm and alive in his arms — more alive than he could have hoped, when he was searching for the perfect hostess.

  He kissed the top of her head. “Not this powerful man, darling.”

  “Do we have to go to London?” she asked. She sounded strangled as she said it, as though she hadn’t meant to address the subject any more than he had planned to question her vows.

  “I thought you would want to return to your friends,” he said, trying to sound neutral.

  “I’ll miss them, but there aren’t so many that I can’t bear to be parted with. And Prudence...”

  She stopped herself. He squeezed her shoulder. “You cannot make things right with her unless you see her again.”

  “That’s what I am afraid of,” she said. But she dropped the subject, tried to inject lightness into her voice, even though her attempt to seem nonchalant was unsuccessful. “The Highlands are compensation enough. Everything here is absolutely lovely. I could write about this place for decades and never tire of it.”

  “Your correspondents will tire of hearing about it long before then,” he said.

  She sighed. “How can you leave, though? I understand now why you never went to London before. Surely you don’t want to go?”

  “I don’t,” he said. “But I must. I’ve made my decision.”

  She toyed with the edge of her plaid blanket, matching the pattern’s lines to the edge of his. “Politics isn’t a nice game, you know. And there are very few men in Parliament who will give a farthing for the problems of the Highlanders. They can barely be bothered to care for the working classes right under their noses, let alone crofters hundreds of miles away.”

  “I’m aware of that. But if I don’t try...”

  He trailed off. The fire popped, sending sparks up the chimney. Behind him, rain still pounded against the shutters that protected the aging, fragile glass.

  She waited for him to speak again. When he finally found the words, they didn’t feel like the right ones, but they were the best he could deliver. “I want this place to exist for our children, and our children’s children, and every generation beyond that. If that means I must spend all my time in London, creating policies that enable our clan to stay on this land, then so be it.”

  “All things come to an end,” she said softly. “Even Rome fell.”

  “This isn’t Rome,” he said, suddenly snapping. His voice rang against the bleak stone walls. “This is my home — our home. And I will save it.”

  Some part of him wanted her to apologize, to soothe him, to tell him that he could save her.

  Instead, she dropped the edge of his plaid. “I hope the ending of this story is the one you want, Malcolm. But you can’t save everyone. No one can ever save everyone.”

  He kissed her then, if only to shut her up. The kiss turned into more, as most of their kisses did, and their lovemaking warmed even the stones around them.

  But it wasn’t enough to ease the fist around his heart. He would save them all, or lose everything trying.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Hours later, Amelia held a torch aloft so Malcolm could lead the horses into their traces. The storm had long since subsided, but he insisted on waiting until her dress was dry, unwilling to risk either her health in a damp dress or her modesty in a blanket. Prudence’s note in her reticule tugged at her thoughts, and the knot in her belly hadn’t subsided. But at least Malcolm’s company could distract her, even if it wasn’t enough to make everything right again.

  As Malcolm hitched the horses, Amelia considered her latest manuscript. Her heroine, Veronique, had been captured and kept in an ancient stone manor by her evil uncle, and was quickly losing all hope of a rescue from her lost fiancé, Gaston D’Ambergris. The story sounded good on paper. But now that she had an actual image of a stone manor in her mind, there was so much she could add. Veronique needed to feel the cold cutting to her bones and the damp air sticking in her lungs. She also needed to feel the heat searing her skin when her fiancé rescued her, and the knowledge that he had scoured the earth to find her.

  Amelia couldn’t write everything she had felt at the dower house, and she certainly couldn’t have the fiancé strip Veronique to the skin — even anonymously, she wouldn’t publish such sentiments. But the feeling that someone would do anything to save her, would sacrifice himself for her comfort, was a notion Amelia had never really believed before.

  Malcolm went back into the house and returned with their blankets. He wiped down the seats of the curricle with one, then spread the other over Amelia’s seat. “Are you ready, darling?” he asked, extending an arm.

  She nodded. He lifted her into the curricle, then tucked her cloak and the edges of the blanket around her. “We are less than two miles from the castle. Unless the road has washed out, we should be home within the half hour. I hope Graves had the sense to save our suppers.”

  “I really haven’t minded,” she said as he joined her on the seat. “Rain and hunger aside, I thought the dower house was lovely.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather have a nice townhouse with wooden floors? Perhaps some wallpaper? Or the gaslights that I hear are the next advancement in London?”

  She laughed. “Give me a castle any day, my lord. Townhouses may be comfortable, but they have none of the magic of your library.”

  He drove them down the lane toward the main road. “Perhaps I should have married Miss Etchingham after all. I had no idea you were so intrigued by history.”

  The reminder of Prudence, and the note she’d sent, sucked the humor out of Amelia’s voice. “I don’t care for history the way she does. The stories, though — much of the time I would rather live in a fairy tale than the horrid realities of London.”

  “Well, there are stories aplenty in the Highlands, although few of them are fairy tales.” He turned onto the road. The horses slogged through the muddy rivulets running down toward the valley in front of them. The village lay between them and the castle, glowing orange.

  But the glow was strange — the sun had set three hours earlier, and the moon was just a sliver in the sky. “What is that?” she asked.

  Malcolm had already urged the horses into a canter, as fast as they could manage on the slick and treacherous road. “Fire,” he said.

  His voice was grim, intent on the village, not their previous conversation. Fire was always a risk, but she had seen many burned out crofts and dwellings when she and her family had traveled through the Highlands to reach Malcolm’s home — more than she had ever seen between London and her family’s estate in Lancashire.

  “Is lightning particularly problematic here?” she asked.

  “No more than anywhere, I should think. Why?”

  “We passed many scorched ruins while driving here. Is it something about the thatched roofing?”

  He pulled back on the reins, navigating the horses around a fallen branch in the road. After he flicked th
e whip above their heads to urge them on, he spoke in a voice she’d never heard from him before. “That wasn’t lightning. That was improvement.”

  “Improvement? But there were no modern houses to replace them.”

  The words crackled between them like a storm about to break. “I wouldn’t call it improvement either. But most landlords are clearing their tenants to make room for sheep. It is easier to keep the tenants off the land if there are no houses for them to return to.”

  “You can’t be serious,” she said, looking at his profile. There was little to see in the darkness, but his spine was a stiff line of rage. “I thought the clans were families?”

  “That was true decades ago. And a few of us still hold to the old ideals. But if you’re a distant landlord, living in London, and needing funds to fuel your gambling or drinking...”

  He flicked the whip again. In the crack of sound, Amelia heard his judgment.

  They covered the mile to the village much more quickly than was advisable on the sodden road. She wrapped the blanket around herself, but the wind cut through the wool. If someone’s home or livelihood in the village wasn’t being destroyed in front of them, it might have almost been funny. Malcolm had tried so hard to warm her up, to keep her safe, only to freeze her and risk dismemberment on the way home.

  She didn’t make the jest, though. When she glanced at him, she knew he focused solely on what lay ahead of them, not on the relatively new burden at his side. He’d cared for his clan long before he’d had a wife — and she understood the pull of old desires over the unexpected bond they found themselves in.

  Her thoughts wandered, away from Malcolm and toward the stories whispering through the glens. There were tragedies lurking in the trees, stalking her in the mist. The modern MacCabes, who had been so exuberant at her wedding, seemed relatively happy. But over the centuries, the Highlanders had drunk to the very dregs of a cold, bitter cup. Tonight’s fire was yet another stain on the fabric.

  She hadn’t lied when she told Malcolm that she could write about the Highlands for decades. She didn’t know the individuals affected by tonight’s fire, but she was already creating a story around them — perhaps a blacksmith with a beautiful daughter, whose forge was destroyed by arson so a nefarious stranger could force the father to sell the girl?

  By the time they reached the village, she had constructed an entire plot in her head. They pulled to a halt near the burning cottage, separated from the flames by a brigade of men with buckets and shovels.

  Half the village was watching the spectacle, but there wasn’t a nefarious stranger in sight. As usual, the reality was almost disappointing in comparison to the story she had told herself.

  One of the twins broke away from the crowd as Malcolm leapt from the curricle. “It’s a complete loss,” Duncan said, dusting soot off his hands before clapping Malcolm on the back.

  “And Sean and his family?” Malcolm asked, signaling for one of the children from the throng of bystanders.

  “All safe. And they rescued their cow, even though it was the cow that caused the ordeal. A lightning strike frightened her and she knocked a lamp over. The fuel spread and reached her feed trough before Sean could put it out.”

  Malcolm handed the reins to the boy, along with a coin for minding them. Amelia threw off her blanket and slid down from the curricle. “How did the fire spread from the barn to the cottage?” she asked.

  Duncan stared at her as Malcolm answered. “Most of the crofters keep their livestock with them in their cottages. A cow is too valuable to leave out, but none can afford a barn if they only have one animal to house.”

  The heat from the burning cottage prickled against her blush. “It must be different on Alex’s estate.”

  Malcolm opened his mouth to say something, but a shout from someone near the cottage cut him off. “Stay here,” he ordered, turning on his heel to cut through the crowd.

  She didn’t like to be left behind, but she knew there was little she could do in a fire brigade beyond getting in the way. So she remained with the rest of the observers, who were too occupied with watching the fire to notice her ruined dress and unkempt hair.

  Malcolm didn’t hang back, though. He charged into the very heart of the fight, picking up a pole when the men began pushing the smoldering thatched roof into the ruined interior. The building was mostly stone, and as soon as the roof was off, it would be less likely for a stray spark to spread to its neighbors. They were lucky it had rained earlier — while a fire started from within hadn’t been contained by the rain, the nearby cottages were safer than they might have been.

  There was an energy to Malcolm that Amelia hadn’t seen with other peers — a driving need to satisfy and protect those around him. So far, she’d only seen that energy expended in their bed, with vastly pleasant results. But it was no wonder he dreamed of saving the Highlands. It was the type of battle he would feel honor-bound to take up.

  She had wanted freedom and someone who wouldn’t notice the hours she spent writing. But despite that desire, she hoped that when Malcolm did turn his attentions to politics, he would still have time to spare for her.

  * * *

  When the roof was off, Malcolm tossed aside his pole. The cottage was completely destroyed, as Duncan had said, but at least the village was safe.

  He tramped around the side of the cottage and found Sean MacRae sitting on a stool, taking a rest after the worst of the fire had been fought. He stood when Malcolm clapped him on the back.

  “Ye needn’t’ve come, Laird,” Sean said. “Nothing to be done yet.”

  “Your wife and children are all safe?” Malcolm asked.

  Sean nodded. “Anne isn’t happy I saved the cow, though. She thinks the beast is cursed, and this proves it.”

  “You can trade me for a different cow if that will make her feel better.”

  “Can I sell it to you instead? We will be wanting shillings more than milk, I think.”

  Malcolm frowned. “You don’t want to give up your cow, Sean. I will find you a cottage for free for the next quarter, until you can get back on your feet.”

  Sean rubbed his forehead, smearing the soot that had settled on his skin. “I’ve a cousin — you remember Billy MacRae, don’t you? He went to Nova Scotia last year and says if I join him, we can start a mill together.”

  “Canada? You can’t be serious,” Malcolm said.

  “It’s not that I want to go,” Sean said hastily. “But wouldn’t it be grand to see my boys be mill owners someday instead of shepherds?”

  Malcolm tried his best to talk him out of it. He even said there was no use discussing it until morning anyway, and promised to visit again when the sun was out and Sean had calmed himself. But Malcolm knew, even though he wasn’t ready to acknowledge it, that there was nothing he could say to change Sean’s mind.

  He cursed himself for it as he walked back to where Amelia and his curricle waited. Not that he wished his father had died sooner — he wished his father had lived many more years, of course. But maybe if Malcolm had inherited sooner, started this battle earlier, men like Sean would see opportunity here instead of thinking they had to sail across an ocean and start again.

  Amelia was sitting on a stump a dozen feet away from the nearest villager, staring off into the middle distance between herself and the smoking ruins of the cottage. Even with the grime on her dress and the pensive, brooding look on her face, he wanted to see her. Maybe she could talk him out of his blue devils. Maybe in their bed, he could forget tonight’s failure.

  He froze. She hadn’t seen him yet and didn’t notice his hesitation. But why was he thinking in terms of forgetting? He should be working, not playing. These precious days after their wedding had been lovely.

  But they were just a dream of what could have been, if neither of them had responsibilities to anyone else. Malcolm did have responsibilities, though — responsibilities he’d utterly neglected in favor of spending time between her thighs.

 
Amelia came out of her daze and looked around. When her eyes met his, he realized she was looking for him. She smiled slowly, wonderfully, radiantly, and even though the village was dark, she burned as bright as a torch for him.

  Malcolm shook his head, hard. Her smile faltered just a bit. But she stood and walked toward him, extending a hand to take his arm.

  “I hear the family is all unharmed?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  She patted his forearm, an instinctual gesture of comfort. “You must be relieved.”

  He wasn’t. Their lives were saved, through no effort of his, but they would leave the Highlands. He couldn’t save them from that. But he also couldn’t keep delaying his plans, not if he wanted to save the rest of them.

  “They’ll live,” he said shortly. “Let’s return to the castle. I have work to do tonight.”

  Amelia frowned up at him. “You never work in the evenings.”

  He ignored the censure in her voice and escorted her to the curricle. He had always worked in the evenings before she came, at least in the year since his father’s death. He wouldn’t — couldn’t — regret the last two weeks. But he couldn’t keep ignoring his duties for the pleasure she offered.

  If their honeymoon was a dream, it would end tonight. And he would take up the life he was supposed to live immediately, whether either of them were ready or not.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The rest of the evening passed in silence. The storm had ended hours earlier, but Amelia felt another wave about to break.

  And it wasn’t just her worry over Prudence. Malcolm had barely said anything after the fire — not as he drove her home, not as he escorted her into the castle, not as they had a makeshift supper of warmed over food at a corner of the dining table. His answers were clipped, lacking all of the brogue he usually charmed her with. And his hand as he helped her out of her seat at the end of the meal didn’t linger on the curve of her back.

  “I trust you can find your way to your room,” he said.