Chapter 3
John had a dilemma.
A very serious dilemma.
The meeting hadn’t gone at all as he had planned which in and of itself was quite strange. When he made plans, they came to fruition. It was the product of long years of patience and analysis. Perhaps, it had been his great mistake in assuming Meredith would be thrilled by the Duke of Huntsdown’s offer. . . Even if it had come from him.
Perhaps, it’s because he assumed she’d still be that silly chit. . .
John strode over the rough hills leading back towards his estate. There was an ever growing feeling of unease deep inside him.
Scotland.
The North.
It was tempting to shudder at all the fresh air. Yet, he wasn’t so jaded that he could be unmoved by the wild Highland vision unfurling before him.
He’d spent almost his entire life in London. Living above cesspools. Coal dust, poverty, and muck had been his constant companions. Whores, pickpockets, beggars and street gangs had filled every square inch of space. Yet, he still recalled the beauty of his mother. Like a single candle flame dancing luminously in the darkness.
She’d been the angel of his life.
The only thing that had made hell bearable,
He often wondered what had made her life bearable.
It had taken years for him to realize that it had been he. Once, he’d assumed that she had to have loathed his presence, for his birth had dramatically changed her life.
But no. His mother had loved him. Loved him so fiercely, purely, kindly, that he knew he’d never be so loved again.
When that love had suddenly exited his life, the gaping hole left behind had festered into the cruelest and loneliest of wounds.
Cholera had stolen her from him and he’d never truly recovered. He didn’t think he ever would.
The day she’d gasped out her last breath on a ratty mattress in a tiny, dark room deep in the East End, he’d felt all his boyish hopes disappear. As her hand had grown lifeless around his little one, his heart had gone hard. . . Even as he wept.
He glanced to the slate grey sky which didn’t diminish the beautiful purple-stained land. Here, in this rugged yet beautiful landscape, it didn’t seem that pain or sorrow could exist. The soul, if one did have a soul, surely had to soar here. Unimpeded by the mud that inevitably clung to man’s boots, dragging him down, one’s soul could fly here. Surely, sorrow could not live in such a place.
But it did. He knew that it did dwell in the hallowed place.
For Meredith was full of sorrow. He’d seen it in the lines around her eyes and the way her mouth, once so quick to smile, had scowled.
It was in her eyes, too. Beautiful eyes that had lost their mirthful joy.
He’d done that.
God, what a monster he was.
His mother would be ashamed.
But he couldn’t go back.
Only forward.
Drawing in a long breath of the peat-tinged air, he ate up the ground with long strides.
His dilemma.
He hadn’t forgotten that.
How could he?
He caught sight of the castle, his castle. It loomed across a bridge that crossed into the sea loch. He embraced the insane yet very real truth that he was in complete lust with Meredith Trent.
It had been, in short, a mind boggling surprise.
When he’d first met her months ago now, she’d been a silly piece. Someone he’d barely noticed. . . Except as a pawn in his very long game of revenge.
He’d thought little of her since. And when he did, it was only to feel regret whisper into his mind for the way he’d allowed his need for revenge to nearly ruin her.
Now?
By God.
Now? Meredith Trent had stood on the precipice of that Highland hill, icy locks flying in the wind, gown battering her legs, and cloak rustling like fierce angel’s wings. When she had pinned him with a look that should have killed, he’d been utterly transfixed.
Meredith Trent was silly no longer.
She was a creature of beauty and anger and wildness.
And he wanted her. More than he could ever recall wanting a woman.
It was harrowing.
Bloody fecking hell. It was damned inconvenient and completely impossible. He didn’t bed women like Meredith Trent.
He crossed the stone bridge and stormed into his own ragged keep.
James had neglected to mention that a great deal of the estate was in disrepair.
“Milord?” Duncan Macleish called as John headed up the sharp, stone stairs.
The older man followed, his footsteps faithful as a loyal, old hound. The tradition of servitude had to be a long-running one in his family.
It was tempting to ignore him. But despite what many might think, John wasn’t rude. He blew out a breath and turned. He said nothing but merely waited.
Having servants, servants of his own, was something he would never grow accustomed to.
The old man came to a sudden halt. Macleish’s shaggy brows drew together in the perfect picture of a crusty fellow who looked more like a ghilly who’d go stalking the hills. He gestured towards the study, then tentatively said, “Ye have a visitor.”
John gave a tight shake of his head before starting back towards the stairs. “There is a great deal to be done and I have no desire—”
“It’s the Duke of Clyde,” Macleish called out.
John winced, once again, forced to stop.
A duke. Another bloody duke. Was the world peopled by them? One would have thought no but, given his lot, it seemed he couldn’t get away from them.
John frowned. “And?”
“He wishes to welcome ye to the area. Yer estate abuts his.”
John nodded.
His thoughts were a riot of stormy eyes and taut skin, of wicked desire and the need to plan out his next action. Meeting a duke was the last thing he wished. . . Or was it?
“Thank you Macleish,” he finally said and tossed his long coat to the butler.
Macleish nodded and stood aside.
John took the stairs quickly into the east wing of the castle and shoved open the heavy oak panel.
A fire crackled at the far end of the room. The warmth didn’t reach John. The place was an icy tomb. An ancient icy tomb. The walls, covered in unicorn tapestries, were glorious but barely kept out the damp. Glass panes let in the light through narrow slots that had been designed for war, not for viewing the Highlands.
As beautiful as the medieval room was, he could only imagine it’s frigid temperature in a brutal Highland winter.
The Duke of Clyde stood gazing into the fire. His massive back was bent ever so slightly as he leaned against the mantel.
“Your Grace?” John said evenly. Deference really wasn’t his line, after all.
The duke turned ever so slightly. His dark hair shone like a raven’s wing in the firelight.
A scar ran down the length of his face. It was jagged and unmissable on the man’s strong, once handsome, face.
Even for John who had seen an array of damage to men’s bodies. He quickly fought a grimace.
A wicked smile curved the duke’s hard mouth. “Ah. The new Earl of Mooreland.”
He inclined his head. “Yes, Your Grace.”
The duke pushed away from the fire. “An Englishman of no account is now a Scottish earl. Another one. For yer predecessor was a negligent Englishman with no appreciation of this place or its history. What am I to make of that?”
The deep rumble of a voice, tinged with the burr of the Highlands, thundered through the room.
John met the duke’s eyes, unflinching. He couldn’t argue. What else could be said? He knew nothing of his predecessor except that he had done little to upkeep the estate or care for the tenants. As the duke said, he was, indeed, an Englishman. By a duke’s standards, he was definitely of no account.
There really was only one thing to do.
John crossed to the well-stocked silver brandy tray and poured out two generous snifters of deeply hued liquor without pause.
He turned slightly and held one out to the duke.
Steely eyes stared back at him then at the drink.
For a moment, John was certain the duke was going to deny the olive branch.
At last, the duke held out his shockingly rough hand and took the snifter in his grasp.
“I shouldna be surprised.” The duke made a derisive sound. “Those bastards in Westminster love to demoralize the Highlanders.”
“They have to keep them down, Your Grace.” John raised his glass in acknowledgement of Scottish bravery. “They’re afraid of you lot. Even after sixty years, they still feel the presence of Highlanders near the gates of London.”
The duke eyed him carefully. “Ye have a good grasp of the situation.”
“Likely because I’m of no account,” John said, making light of the earlier insult. “I don’t give a rat’s arse about the men in Westminster. Commons or Lords. It makes no difference. They hate the common man.”
“I’m no’ a common man,” the duke rumbled.
“No.” John took a long drink before venturing forth what he saw in the Scot. “Nor do you seem to be a powdery ponce, crushing people under your jeweled heel. Of course, I could be mistaken.”
The duke nodded grudgingly. “Ye’re no’.”
“Good then.” John forced a smile. He long ago learned to smile and nod when needed. “We understand each other.”
A wry laugh rasped past the duke’s lips. “Och, I think no’ Mooreland.”
John winced.
“No’ used to the title?” The duke swallowed half the brandy in one go then frowned.
John shook his head. “I don’t know if I’ll ever become accustomed to it, Your Grace.”
“Ye didna want it, did ye?” the duke asked, mystified.
“I did not, but refusing my brother is. . .”
This time, the duke didn’t attempt to hide his amusement. “Refusing a duke is next to impossible.”
“Exactly.” John drank again, tempted to finish the glass in one swallow, yet just refraining.
“I’m glad ye understand that.” The duke made a magnanimous gesture with his hand. “It will make what I’m about to say painless.”
“Painless?” John echoed, dread creeping into his innards. Such a statement could never be made without painful words actually ensuing.
The duke slammed his glass down on the nearest table, droplets of brandy spraying into the air. “I’m holding a ball to welcome ye to the Western lands. Ye’ll attend in a week’s time.”
John stared, stunned. In all his life, no one had ever hosted anything in his honor. “Your Grace, that’s a terrible idea. I—”
Clyde raised a hand swiftly putting a stop to any denial. “If I dinna show my public approval of ye there’s every chance ye’ll be shot going for a ride. Yer sort is hated here.”
“Surely, that would be overly bold,” John protested. But he’d seen the looks from many of the crofters as he’d made his first forays across the estate.
The duke smirked. “Oh, I’m sure it would be made to look like an accident, Mooreland.”
“I see.” And he did. He knew all about accidents of such kinds. He’d never arranged one, but he’d seen them happen. And he quite liked living.
“Fine then,” John acquiesced. “As you say. In one week. Only, I have a request.”
The duke folded his arms across his broad chest. “Go on.”
“Invite my vicar.”
The duke’s lip curled. “That parsimonious prig. If I were ye, I’d get rid of him as soon as may be.”
John paused. Parsimonious prig was he? So, what trials and tribulations had overtaken Meredith these last months. Pious zealots were the worst of the worst in his opinion. “I have my reasons for his invitation, Your Grace.”
The duke cocked his head to the side. “I take it I am to invite his household or is it just the wrinkly prune of a man?”
John leveled the duke with an unapologetic look. “The household.”
The duke was silent for a long moment. Then he slyly commented, “Miss Meredith Trent is a bonnie lass.”
“She is.” John did not show any sign that he was bothered by her mention. “And an heiress.”
“Is she, indeed?” Clyde asked, his brows rising in shock.
“Yes.”
“Then why the devil is she living up here in that damned uncomfortable cottage?” Genuine confusion seemed to roughen the duke’s voice.
John smiled. “It will all eventually be explained. But it’s a private affair.”
The scar twisted as the duke narrowed his eyes. “I dinna take to lasses being misused,” he warned.
John made no reply for he couldn’t make the staunch denial that he wished he could.
“Why do ye wish her to be there?” Clyde asked.
John arched a brow and said casually, “For my own reasons.”
“Desires ye mean,” the duke tested with all the subtlety of a wolf guarding its pack.
“No, Your Grace. Reasons,” John corrected. “Of that, I promise you.”
The duke nodded. “All right then. I hope ye prove to be a better lord than the last.” Blowing out a sigh, he added, “In one week then.”
“In one week.”
And in that week, he was going to do everything he could to spend every day in Meredith’s company whatever she thought or said.
For the more time he spent with her, the less enamored he’d be. Of that, he was certain. It was the way of all women. It always had been and always would be. For he had learned a long time ago, when one avoided temptation, one only grew hungrier for that which one avoided. So, he wouldn’t avoid Meredith Trent. Quite the opposite. He’d dog her every damnable step. And in the end, he’d have fulfilled his obligation to her and his brother. In addition, he’d have exorcised his desire. She would prove no exception. Truly.