Chapter 2
Miss Meredith Trent was done with being silly. Well, silly wasn’t truly the word she’d have used. Foolish was a far more suitable choice. Yes. Bloody, damned foolish was what she had been for the vast majority of her not terribly long life.
In any case, that was what she repeated to herself every night as she lay her head down on her chilly, perfectly pressed, white linen pillow in her small, sparse cell of a room in her uncle’s attic.
Oh, she’d never quite be as perfect and good as her uncle wished. A picture of saintliness was something she’d never attain. No matter how plain her dress, her hair, or her speech. No matter how she worked her hands until they were raw or how much alms she distributed.
Her mind would always riot with questions, with beauty, with hope, with the memory of passion. But never again would she be so foolish as to think the world was anything but a place of trickery. Dross masking as gold and all that.
Once. . . Oh, once, she’d had such glorious dreams of living a merry life. For much like the name which everyone used when referring to her, she’d always been well, merry.
A few days at a wedding party had changed that forever. Not the Merry part. It was her name and also, she couldn’t change her nature.
But she could repress and hide it.
She’d had to.
The way she had to work over it these last months had been wearing and quite disheartening. But she supposed she did, indeed, deserve to feel disheartened. Or ashamed. Sleep had been difficult to achieve.
Only pleading had managed to keep her reputation from the claws of society.
She was ruined. There was no questioning it. Simply, it hadn’t gotten out.
Thanks almost entirely to the Duke of Huntsdown, only a few people knew what had truly happened.
That arrogant, beautiful, powerful man was both her curse and her savior.
There was no denying that she had thrown away her virtue. And in so doing, she’d ruined her cousin Emmaline’s life. And then her own. Still. . . She burned with anger for the man who had been so quick to believe Emmaline could be false.
Merry strode over the Highlands, lifting her feet and plain wool gown above the waving heather. The wicked, playful wind which had caused her to laugh with sheer delight as a girl, tousled her hair now, like a naughty sprite.
The cold, despite the late spring, penetrated her plaid shawl.
She welcomed that piercing feeling. It helped to keep her from growing too deep in her thoughts.
Once, she’d dreamed her days would be full of carriage rides, fetes, and friends. Her days now were filled with long walks. She’d become an excellent walker, truth be told.
It was the only way of escaping her parsimonious uncle and his ever kneeling, praying ways.
There was nothing wrong with praying, of course.
But he did make such show of it. . . And he’d banished joy from their lives.
Flowers were banned from the house. Music, too. And she could have sworn that her uncle drank so much vinegar that it had permanently arranged his lips in a puckered frown.
She tilted her head towards the sun. She deserved her lot. Truly. Self-sorrow was not allowed. Not for someone like her. For it had been her mistake and no one else’s that had led her to this place.
It could have been much worse.
She could have been with child months ago and forced into a home for unwed mothers.
As it was, she’d escaped total ruin and would now spend the rest of her days making amends.
Becoming less silly. Less foolish.
She welcomed that. Yet, the austerity of it all did press on her heart for she missed her cousins and happiness. Happiness was a distant thing of the past and all she could likely hope for in her future was a sort of accepting contentment.
Cresting the rugged hill, she drew in a deep breath, savoring the scent of earth and salt-tinged air. The sea and sun, and wild landscape were really all she had now. And she loved them dearly.
“I did hear you like to walk the hills.”
Merry yelped and whipped around.
And there, by God, was the devil himself.
It was the worst of things that the devil was as glorious as a god but evil. Evil beyond compare.
John Forthryte stood atop a boulder, his black cloak flying in the wind, much like demon wings. His blond hair, flickered over his beautiful, hard face and his eyes. . . His eyes cut like diamonds as he stared.
The breadth of his shoulders barely seemed to fit his perfectly tailored clothing and his breeches hugged long, hard legs.
In short, he was the picture of perfection.
He was anything but. He was dangerous. He was hell.
“We have nothing to say to each other,” she gritted, forcing her voice to carry on the wild air hurdling in from the sea.
He held perfectly still. The only thing about him moving was his beautiful cloak cracking in the wild breeze.
“Go away,” she snapped.
A slow smile pulled his lips. “Ah, Miss Merry, if only I could. But you are standing on my land.”
She scowled. “Impossible.”
“Why?” he queried.
She eyed him up and down, her body burning with dislike. “This is the Earl of Mooreland’s land and there is no earl.”
“There is,” he countered.
“There isn’t!”
He threw back his head and laughed, a bemused, jaded sound. “There is and you see him before you.”
She gaped, taking in his words. Then she spat out, “Liar.”
“Yes,” he acknowledged. “But not in this. Having a duke for a brother has its uses.”
“I thought you hated him,” she bit out, unable to truly believe that this conversation was happening let alone that he was the new Earl of Mooreland.
John Forthryte, Earl of Mooreland, shrugged as if he hadn’t acted the villain in his pursuit of revenge. “I did.”
She shook herself. She wasn’t about to engage in a discussion with him. “If this is, indeed, your land, my lord, I shall get off it post haste.”
“You live on it,” he pointed out. “How do you propose to do that?”
She glared at him, barely able to hide her fury. “I’ll find the first coach to Edinburgh.”
“Foolish.”
That word. That one word from his lips burned through her. “Foolish?” she echoed. “Foolish is staying anywhere near you.”
“Merry, I feel-”
“You don’t feel,” she cut in passionately. “You’re incapable of it.”
His icy eyes darkened. “Perhaps you are correct.”
“You know what you’ve done. You know the pain you’ve caused.” She pinned him with a mocking stare. “How dare you speak to me?”
“How dare I? I’ve been commanded.” He jumped down from the rock and stalked towards her.
She resisted the urge to take a step back. For while she knew Forthryte to be dangerous, she knew his most frightening aspect wasn’t physical. It was his mind.
What he’d done had been done out of manipulation and calculation. He’d not raised a hand against any of his victims.
He hadn’t had to. He was too clever for that. He’d used them all against each other.
“Commanded?” she echoed.
He swept an elaborate bow before lifting his cold eyes. “Yes, Miss Merry. My brother has commanded my presence before you.”
“Why would he do such a thing?” she asked, feeling suddenly adrift. “I shouldn’t be alone with the likes of you.”
His lips twitched. “The likes of me? Oh. You mean a bastard, don’t you?”
It was a low blow and not really worthy of her. For, she had needed no real help in being seduced by one of Forthryte’s friends those months ago. She wasn’t exactly a paragon.
Meredith looked away. “I’m not to be alone with any man. A lady shouldn’t.” She looked back, pinning him with a fierce gaze. “As you know.”
“You’re different now, Merry.”
There was something soft in his voice.
“Am I?” she snapped. ”My life is much altered since we last met.”
He nodded. “You’ve suffered. But. . . You’ve been lucky.”
A laugh tumbled past her lips. “Only a devil like you could say that.”
“Only the son of a whore could say that.”
The anger in her dimmed. My God. She’d known he was a bastard. His mother had been the old duke’s mistress. Everyone knew. But it astonished her to hear him say such a thing aloud. To call his mother a whore openly? It seemed impossible.
Finally, she nodded in turn. “I am lucky that there were not dire consequences to my mistake. But I do not think I was lucky. I had not lived at all. When I tried to live a little, everything was taken from me.”
“Oh, Merry. You didn’t try to live a little.” He sighed, tired by life’s vagaries apparently. “You threw yourself at life like a whirling dervish. Ladies aren’t allowed to do such things.”
“I think it best we end our conversation.” She bit down on her lip, hating that he should see her so clearly and summarize her own misfortunate so easily. “I do not like you.”
He laughed. A low rumble. “Ah. . . But, much to my surprise, I find I do like you. I like your spirit and your courage for you haven’t been cowed by the events that have befallen you. You’ve been bettered by them.”
“Go to hell, my lord.”
“I know hell in alarming detail.” His eyes narrowed. “I could lead you about it and never get lost.”
“Thank you, no.”
“Let me come to the point then.” His brows rose. “Or would you rather invite me to tea now so I may meet my vicar.”
She winced. His vicar? Her uncle. It was too horrifying for words.
“Come to the point then,” she begrudged, tightening her hold on her rough wool shawl.
“The Duke of Huntsdown is ready to make amends,” he said with little feeling. “You’re to go to London and he and his wife will find you a suitable marriage.”
She blinked. In all the hours that had passed since that horrible morning months ago when she’d realized what she’d done, she’d never contemplated the possibility that she might be saved from purgatory.
Quite the contrary, she’d expected and been perfectly accepting of the fact that she’d spend the rest of her days in atonement. Yet, here it was. A chance. A chance for a life that wasn’t porridge, and prayer, and cold, lonely nights for the rest of her life.
“Why?” she demanded, suspicious. “Why would he do that?”
“Likely because my machinations led you to where you are,” he said without apology.
She squared her shoulders, unwilling to allow herself to shun her own guilt. “You aren’t responsible for my poor decisions even if you are an utter arse.”
He laughed then, a booming sound. “I am, indeed, an arse. And I admire you for your acknowledgement of your own role. But my brother is correct. You were a pawn in a game not of your making.”
She narrowed her eyes. It made her sound as though she’d had no will in her ruin. While it was tempting to take his offering and wash herself clean of wrongdoing, she wouldn’t. “I chose to bed your friend.”
His face darkened. “He wasn’t and isn’t my friend and I should never have allowed it to happen. . . But my thirst for revenge was stronger than anything else. For that, I am sorry.”
“Thank you,” she replied, amazed that he would apologize. He had never seemed the sort of man who might. “But tell the duke I don’t wish his charity.”
He cocked his head to the side. “Still the fool then.”
“I beg your pardon?” she hissed.
“Only a fool wouldn’t take reparation,” he explained dryly.
“Well, then, that’s what I am,” she declared before she whirled and stormed away, praying he wouldn’t follow. Praying she wouldn’t be tempted back to the gilded pomp of London. She had yet to atone. Yet to make amends for her role in Emmaline’s unhappiness.
No, better to remain in Scotland, far, far away from the risk of such great madness.