Tying the Scot (Highlanders of Balforss)
Table of Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Discover more Amara titles… Highland Redemption
The Lady and Mr. Jones
The Maiden’s Defender
Lady Evelyn’s Highland Protector
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Jennifer Trethewey. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
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Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Erin Molta
Cover design by Erin-Dameron Hill
Cover art from Romance Novel Center and DepositPhotos
ISBN 978-1-64063-346-9
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition November 2017
This book is dedicated to my son Nick, the bravest person I know.
Prologue
Spring 1805, Maidstone Hall, Kent, England
Alex Sinclair’s ears flamed. Not because of the heat of the day or the fight he’d just had with an older boy. His ears went hot because a pretty girl favored him with a smile. A smile worth a dunk in the pond. A smile worth a split lip. A smile worth the beating he would get for brawling with her brother.
Alex waded out of the duck pond, boots and kilt soaked to the waist. He made a courtly bow to the girl, then handed her the treasure he’d rescued, the yellow ball her brother had tossed into the pond.
“It’s a bonnie wee thing,” he said.
The girl tilted her head. “What’s your name, boy?”
“Alexander Sinclair, son of Laird John Sinclair of Balforss.” He wanted to touch her shiny dark curls, but he knew better than to try.
“My name is Lucy. It’s my birthday today. I’m nine years old.”
“My da is a friend of Lord Chatham.”
“Lord Chatham is my papa. That makes us friends, too.” A dimple formed on her smooth cheek.
In that moment, though only eleven years old, he understood what it was to be a man, to attempt the impossible, to risk everything, even death, for a lass’s smile.
“Alex!”
He flinched. The tone in his father’s voice held the promise of a tawsing he would not forget.
William Harris, Duke of Chatham, strode shoulder to shoulder with Alex’s father, their tall bodies blocking the sun and casting long shadows on the garden path. The duke’s son George trailed behind, holding his bloody nose with one hand and pointing with the other.
“There he is, Father. There’s the red-haired devil who attacked me.”
Alex probably shouldn’t have hit the boy so hard, even though the numpty had deserved it. He faced his accuser and, to his surprise, Lucy moved to his side—his shield arm—like a fellow warrior. He stood tall, steady. Ready to take his punishment like a man.
His father snaked a long arm out, grabbed him by the collar, and cuffed him.
A satisfied “ha-ha” burst from George’s blood-streaked mouth. The duke cut him off with a slap to the back of his head.
“Go back to the house. Now.” The duke’s tone was low and deadly. The kind of voice only a dafty would ignore.
“But Papa—” George protested.
One hard look from the duke and George ran for the house.
Alex’s father gave him another shake before releasing his collar. “Come along, ye wee gomeril. It’s the back of my sword you’ll get for brawling with His Grace’s son.”
“No. You mustn’t punish him.” Lucy grabbed the duke’s coat and tugged. “Please, Papa. Don’t let him punish Alex. He rescued my ball when George threw it into the pond. He’s my protector, you see.”
Alex hid his smile. Like a knight in a heroic tale, he had won the devotion of a beautiful lass, a prize worth every blow to his backside.
“Is this true, Alex?” the duke asked.
He made himself as tall as he could without standing on his toes. “It’s true, Your Grace. I fished Miss Lucy’s ball from the pond. But George wouldnae stop vexing the lass. I lost my temper and smacked him. For that, I am truly sorry, sir.” He felt his cheeks color. The “sorry” part was a lie.
The tall Englishman and Alex’s father suppressed laughter at what seemed a private joke. He deflated a little. Were they laughing at him?
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, John,” the duke said, dabbing at his eyes.
“Aye. His mother is an honest woman,” his father chuckled. “He’s mine. I’ve nae doubt.” He inclined his head toward Lucy. “I’m glad my son could be of service to you.”
The dark-haired lass plucked at her blue skirt and bobbed a curtsy.
“Come with me.” The duke led Alex by the shoulder toward the house. Would His Grace be giving him the tawsing?
The four of them assembled in the study, a room much like his father’s library, but twice as big. The duke removed his ceremonial sword from its place above the mantel and unsheathed the long blade. The mood in the room instantly turned somber.
“Alexander Sinclair, kneel before me.”
Back ramrod straight and shoulders squared, he stepped closer to the duke. The thought crossed his mind that he was about to be executed. He struggled to remain stoic, determined to face death like a man, if need be. Alex did as His Grace commanded, kneeled and bowed his head. Perhaps he should say a last good-bye to his father.
“Alexander Sinclair, son of John Sinclair of Balforss, in recognition of your chivalry, I, William Harris, Duke of Chatham, confer upon you the title of Champion and Protector to my daughter Lucy FitzHarris.” The duke tapped his right then left shoulder with the tip of the sword.
Alex’s cheeks and ears flared.
The duke nodded for him to stand, and he did. He should say something. Something noble. Words worthy of a man.
“You have my solemn oath I shall protect and serve Miss Lucy with my life, Your Grace.”
The duke dropped his formality and slapped him on the shoulder. “Thank you, Alex. I accept your oath.”
Lucy peered from behind a blue-and-gold striped chair, her yellow ball cradled in one arm. He crossed the room to repeat his oath to her, but the lass skittered to her father and hid her face inside his coat. She had been bold before he gave his oath. What made her shy of him now?
He turned to his father, unable to stop himself from grinning like a fool. His father flashed him a brief smile then lifted the dreaded
eyebrow. “Dinnae think you’ll escape the tawsing you’re due for brawling.”
Chapter One
Spring 1814, Maidstone Hall, Kent, England
Lucy FitzHarris tested her bowstring once again. What was it her instructor, Stevens, had said? Relax your mind and body. The only thing that should be tight is your bowstring. She selected an arrow and inspected the fletching. Satisfied, she whispered to herself, “Nock…draw…loose.”
A short ffftss sound and then a soft thunk.
“Bulls-eye.”
Lucy smiled down at her tiny white-and-brown spaniel whose tail was waggling. “Come along, Hercules.”
She walked across the practice field toward the straw bale target, with Hercules bounding along at her side. Five of her six arrows had struck center. Lucy had proven herself a far better archer than her brother or his friends, yet they had never allowed her on a hunt. “Hunting is for men,” George had said. “The sport is too rough for girls.”
“One day, Hercules. One day we will take down a stag with a single shot. That will wipe the sneer off George’s face once and for all.”
Hercules broke into wild barking at an approaching threat—Lucy’s maid, Nounou Phillipa, puffing and grunting up the hill, her wide frame swaying from side to side. Merde. She must have run all the way from the house to the shooting range. She had her skirt hitched up to her knees with one hand, and the other hand waving madly.
“Viens. Viens.”
Lucy met her half way. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
“Votre père veut vous parler.” Phillipa bent over to catch her breath.
“What does Papa want to talk to me about?”
“Oh mon Dieu.” Even Phillipa’s wheezing sounded French.
“Tell me. Is it Langley?” Lucy gave her shoulder a quick shake. “Has George brought Lord Langley home to Maidstone with him?”
“Je ne sais pas.” Phillipa gasped and fanned herself with a free hand.
Lucy started for the house, calling over her shoulder, “Hurry. I can’t receive him in my morning gown. Hurry, I say.”
Triumph swept Lucy along the gravel path through the gardens toward the house. She had been waiting for this day for many months. Viscount Langley was the son of the Earl of Bromley, and he had finally come to ask for her hand.
A schoolmate of her brother’s, the handsome and charming Langley had visited Maidstone many times. Although he had never professed his love, she was certain of his affections. He had kissed her in the garden. Everyone knew a gentleman never kissed a lady unless he intended to marry her. No doubt, he’d been waiting for her to turn eighteen. Now that she had, they would be married, and she would be a viscountess.
“Remember to act surprised when you see him, Hercules. We don’t want Langley to think we’re too eager.” She lifted her skirts and took the back staircase two at a time. She paused at the top to call down. “Phillipa, where are you?” No answer. She let out a growly huff. “I have to do everything myself.”
Lucy pawed through her gowns hanging in the wardrobe. A look of casual perfection would be most appropriate. She held the blue satin to her body, consulting Hercules. “Too fussy?” Rejecting the blue, she tried the green velvet. “Too formal?” The tiny spaniel cocked his head, confirming her assessment. Lucy swiped past two more. “Definitely not the pink or the burgundy. Far too frivolous.” She needed something sophisticated. A gown that conveyed effortless grace.
At last, Phillipa appeared at the bedroom door, red-faced and winded.
“Where have you been? I have nothing to wear.” Lucy pointed to the offensive wardrobe, her voice teetering between a whine and a wail.
“Le jaune est parfait.”
“Of course.” Lucy wanted to collapse with relief. “The yellow muslin. Merci, ma chère. But hurry. Vite. Vite.”
After a flurry of fluttering shifts and stays followed by fastening, brushing, pinning, and draping, Phillipa held up the glass for inspection.
“Voilà.”
Lucy touched the small cameo tied around her neck. It had belonged to her mother, Genevieve, a French noblewoman whose family had been displaced during that awful business in France. She had died of fever soon after Lucy’s birth. It would have been nice to have her here today, the biggest day of her life. Langley had come to propose. In a matter of minutes, she would be engaged to the future Earl of Bromley. Her life would never be the same.
“Suis-je prête?” Lucy asked.
“Oui. You are beautiful,” Phillipa said in her halting English. “You look so like your mother.” She was the only person who ever spoke of Lucy’s mother. The only person to keep Genevieve alive in George and Lucy’s memories. “Je t’aime, ma petite.”
“I love you too,” Lucy said.
Hercules bounded off the bed.
“Non, mon cher. Not this time. You stay here with Phillipa.”
Lucy stepped lightly down the hall with Lady of the Lake in hand, a recently published poem popular with London Society. Evidence of her sophistication. Spotting her brother below, she arranged her composure into what she hoped looked like pleased indifference. She took a breath, and floated down the grand staircase as she had practiced many times.
The viscount was not present to witness her entrance.
“Where’s Langley?” she asked, her voice airy, careless.
George shrugged.
George lived to make Lucy’s life difficult. Or at least that’s what it seemed like to her. She tried a different tack. Sweetness. “Did he come home from school with you?”
He shook his head. She could tell he was being deliberately obtuse. Patience, she reminded herself. To show frustration would fuel her brother’s mischief. “Is he arriving later?”
“Father awaits you in the library.”
George gave her the look he often wore when he was about to spring an especially nasty trick on her, but she refused to fall prey to his nonsense today. She lifted her chin, picked up her skirts, and swooshed into the library.
“Lucy. You’re looking lovely as ever.” Her father favored her with his best smile. The one she knew he saved only for her.
He kissed her on the cheek and motioned for her to sit. She chose a place on the loveseat where her gown might be best displayed. The library was Lucy’s favorite room in the house. Small compared to what had been her mother’s parlor, yet warm and welcoming. Tall shuttered windows, comfortable leather chairs, shelves overflowing with books, papers, and oddments. A decorative reflection of the duke—stately, elegant, masculine.
“Ah, Lady of the Lake,” he said, seeing the book. “Like it?”
“Oh yes, indeed.” She loved Scott’s poetry. So romantic. So heroic. “I didn’t care for the ending. I would have preferred Lady Ellen marry King James and live happily ever after as queen.” She handed her father the small leather bound volume, and he frowned at it.
“Not every story has a happy ending, my darling.” Is he thinking of Mother? Everyone said he grieved like a madman when she died. If he loved her so much, why didn’t he marry her?
A moment later, her father’s face cleared. Setting Walter Scott aside, he moved a mahogany bergère close to Lucy and sat. Taking both her hands in his, he leaned in and said, “I have momentous news.”
Lucy tilted her head, a coquettish look she had practiced. “Really? How wonderful.”
“News I am certain will make you very happy.”
“Don’t tease me, Papa. Tell me.”
“You, my beauty, are to be married.”
Lucy inhaled her joy. “Oh, Papa. I am so, so happy. I am glad you approve.” Lucy gave her father’s hands a squeeze. “Did he write to ask you, or did he meet you in London?”
The duke rose and crossed to the spirits trolley. “I made arrangements with his father by messenger. But I assure you, your fiancé is most in favor of the union.” He poured them both a finger of brandy. Handing her a glass, he said, “Lucy, dear, you haven’t even asked me whom you are to marry. Don’t you want
to know?”
She could barely contain the giddy sensation rising in her chest. “Stop your teasing. Did he say when the wedding would be? Will we hold the ceremony here at Maidstone Hall or in London?”
“At his father’s estate, of course.”
“I see.” The disappointing news dampened her spirits. She had hoped for a London wedding. With renewed enthusiasm, she asked, “Did Langley say when he will arrive? I mean, he should ask me himself, oughtn’t he?”
“Langley?”
She rolled her eyes. Her father was such a tease. “Yes, silly. Who else?”
Her father looked blank. “Langley who?”
Lucy’s heart began to beat faster. Her casual tone faltered. “Lord Langley. The Langley I am to marry.”
“Lucy, dear, what makes you think Lord Langley asked for your hand?”
Her attention sharpened on her father. “He…he didn’t?”
“No, dear.” The duke shook his head. “You are to marry Alexander Sinclair of Balforss.”
She dropped her glass of brandy on the carpet and bolted to her feet. Blood pounded in her head, the cameo tied around her neck now strangling her. “What? Who?”
“Alexander, the son of my dear friend, Laird John Sinclair.”
“I don’t know any Alexander Sinclair. I’ve never heard his name before in my life. Papa, how could you?” Her hands curled into fists.
The duke chuckled. “Of course you know him. You met him when you were a little girl. You liked him very much as I recall. Insisted he was your protector. Don’t you remember?”
Why on earth would she remember some dirty little Scottish boy? “This is your fault!” she shouted. How could her father do this to her? Ruin her life without a care. Not a trace of remorse on his face. “It’s because you never married our mother. We’re an embarrassment to you, I suppose.”
At last, she saw a crack in her father’s impenetrable facade. “Darling, if it had been possible, I would have married your mother. I loved her very much.”
The room began to spin, and she clutched the back of the bergère to keep her balance.
He started toward her, a conciliatory gesture she staved off with a hand. “I’m doing this for you. You’re miserable here. London Society is cruel, and I can’t bear to see you hurt.”