Читать книгу To Tempt A Scotsman - Victoria Dahl - Страница 6

Yorkshire, June 1844

Lady Alexandra Huntington squinted at the invoice in front of her and breathed out the vilest curse she knew. Unladylike, of course, but then she was sitting at a man’s desk, in a man’s office, wearing men’s riding breeches, and doing a man’s job. Her language was likely the least shocking thing about her at the moment.

“Bi…Bin…” she tried again, glaring at the tangle of scratches that were supposed to be words. “Oh, for God’s sake.” The miller’s writing had always been doubtful, but the man’s penmanship had recently taken a turn for the worse. She knew the bill of sale must have something to do with grain, probably oats crushed for the stables, and still she could make neither heads nor tails of it.

It couldn’t be helped then. She would have to search out the stable master and compare his recent orders with the few letters she could make out on the invoice. And though the man was polite enough—she was the sister of the duke, after all—he clearly wished she would give up this game of managing her brother’s estate.

Alex stood and snatched up the paper. The click of her boots was absorbed by a thick rug as she stepped into the hall, so even though she hurried, the faint echo of an unfamiliar voice still reached her ears.

“You must be mistaken,” a man said, as she moved toward the front rooms. The words bounced off the marble walls of Somerhart’s entry. “His Grace assured me his sister would be home.”

Alex blinked, shocked to hear herself spoken of. Her brother had sent someone from London to see her? It seemed unlikely, however…She slowed her pace and paused in the shadow of the side hall to peer toward the front door.

The man stood only a few feet inside the door, tall and dark and glowering at Prescott. That alone was interesting. No one glowered at her brother’s butler. Prescott controlled access to a young and powerful duke.

Alexandra felt her prickling interest grow stronger. She edged a little farther into the room.

“If you’d care to leave a card, sir—”

“I do not have a card.” The man’s eyes flicked toward her, pinned her for a bare moment. He could not suspect who she was in her current attire, with her black hair pulled into a tight knot and the jacket hiding her curves. Still, Alexandra straightened at the brush of that silver gaze, even as it moved back to Prescott. The butler stood silent, not the least affected by the man’s coolness. Ten seconds passed. Then twenty.

With a stiff shrug, the stranger finally gave in to the impossibility of intimidating Prescott. “Please tell her I need to speak with her. I’m at the Red Rose.”

She watched as he turned, felt the soft tug of her impetuous nature. Who in the world was he? He should have been cowed by the butler’s utter indifference, but he looked self-assured to the very fiber of his being even as he was turned away.

His brown hair needed trimming and he appeared to have forgotten his cravat as well as his calling card, but the perfect cut of his brown coat spoke of wealth. And a Scot’s burr softened his deep voice—and sped her pulse.

Surely her brother would never speak of her to someone he didn’t trust. “Prescott.”

Ever unflappable, Prescott simply stepped aside. “My lady. A Mr. Collin Blackburn to see you.”

“Thank you, Prescott.”

Collin Blackburn froze at the sound of her voice. She watched him turn and step back inside, watched his eyes slide past her to search the corners of the huge entry for a more likely figure, but when he realized who she was, only the barest lift of russet brows betrayed his shock. “Lady Alexandra.”

She let him stare a moment, let him take in the oddness of her attire. No gentleman had ever seen her in riding breeches before, none other than her brother. She was dressed inappropriately, indecently even, but it mattered not in the least. She was a fallen woman. She’d earned the freedom to do as she pleased, so she let him look his fill and took the chance to study him as well.

He stood as tall as her brother but wider. Wide shoulders, broad chest. Definitely no padding in that coat. His body wasn’t bulky though. He was, in a word, solid.

His face looked purely masculine. Not handsome exactly, but stark and compelling. The slightly crooked nose spoke of an old fight, but his high cheekbones and wide mouth turned the mind to more pleasurable pursuits. She glanced back to the clear gray eyes that studied her so intently and saw his pupils tighten when he met her gaze.

“Thank you for seeing me.”

“Prescott, would you have tea brought to the office, please? Mr. Blackburn?” Gesturing back toward the hall, she spun on her heel to lead the way. Her long red coat opened as she turned, and she felt the hem brush against the buff riding breeches that hugged the curve of her thigh and hip. There was no mistaking the widening of his eyes, even at the corner of her vision. He’d had quite the view.

Gritting her teeth against the thrill that chased through her, Alexandra buttoned the coat and hurried toward the door of her cramped office. The morning room would be more appropriate, she supposed, but not dressed like this. Her men’s clothes would be a startling sight against a backdrop of flowered upholstery.

Alexandra stepped into the office and waved Blackburn toward a pair of chairs by the window. He waited until she took the chair opposite his, then sat and crossed a booted ankle over his knee.

“What did you wish to discuss with me, Mr. Blackburn?”

He let a heartbeat pass, then another. He watched her and frowned. A lock of hair fell over his brow when he finally inclined his head. “I’m here to ask a few questions.”

“Questions?”

“About Damien St. Claire.”

The name tightened the muscles of her jaw in a painful bunch. Blood rushed to her ears, roared like crashing waves. She couldn’t move for a long moment, couldn’t make her throat work. A deep breath forced it open. “I think that you should leave,” she said very carefully, very evenly.

Blackburn shook his head, began to protest, but she stood and stabbed a finger at the door. “No. It’s obvious my brother did not send you here. Leave. You can find your way out.” She pushed past him to the desk and dropped into the seat behind it, hands frantically shuffling papers. A rush of hurt surged in her chest. Why would she think he’d be different from any other man?

Standing with slow purpose, he stepped toward her and leaned to rest his fists on the desktop. His jaw looked as hard as hers felt. “Lady Alexandra, I need to know what happened between you and St. Claire—and John Tibbenham.”

“Really? How does it involve you?” Making an obvious show of widening her eyes, she looked up at him with mock dismay. “Oh, I’m sorry. You must have been one of my lovers. I find it so hard to recall them all.”

His eyes narrowed as if her words had been a slap, then a sneer twisted his mouth as he leaned close. “Believe me, my lady. If I’d been one of your lovers, you’d remember it.”

“Truly?” Alexandra let her gaze drift down to rest on the front of his trousers.

His fists tightened to rock on her desk. “Dinna think—” he began, but she cut him off again.

“You are not the first man to come here on the scent of easy prey. A ruined woman who just happens to be an heiress? Is that what you were thinking? Not very original, Mr. Blackburn. Please get out of my home.”

“John Tibbenham was my brother.”

Alexandra stared at him for a moment, rage trapped like ice in her chest, cracking against her ribs. When his words sunk past the roar of blood in her ears, she flinched and looked down, back to her rumpled papers, away from the hate in his eyes. The heat that had rushed to her cheeks drained away.

John’s brother. He had mentioned a half brother once, as they’d trotted through a long country dance. Not the night he’d died. Perhaps the night before.

“I’m so sorry,” she breathed and braved a glance at him.

“I didn’t realize.”

He only stared at her until she couldn’t hold his gaze any longer, until she flinched in shame. Her fingers smoothed the corner of a letter over and over again. “I am so sorry about your brother,” she said more loudly and clasped her hands tight together to cease their movement.

“I’m looking for St. Claire. I would see him brought to justice.”

“I don’t know where he is.”

“The man murdered my brother.”

Alexandra took a deep breath and tried to gather her courage. She was not a cringing woman. It was just this one thing, this one night, that shamed her. Straightening her spine, she forced herself to look him in the eye. “His death was terrible. The duel was ridiculous. Still, your brother was the one who issued the challenge. I have no idea what happened afterward, but John challenged St. Claire.”

“Regardless of your opinion, St. Claire is a criminal. Killing a man in a duel is still killing.”

“I can’t help you. I don’t know where he is. It’s been…It’s been more than a year.”

The office door opened and a maid poked her capped head inside, nodding toward the tea tray she held. The interruption should have been a relief, but Alexandra could not bear to extend this visit even a moment longer than necessary. She waved the tea away, and the thud of the closing door drummed against the silence of the room.

“You are telling me that this man was your…special friend, that he fought a duel over you—a duel that left him a fugitive—and he has never once contacted you?”

Was there any blood at all left in her veins? Her heart fluttered desperately. “Yes.”

“St. Claire arranged for my brother to walk in on the two of you.”

“What?”

“He wanted to be caught in an indecent position with you.”

She blinked several times, felt the twist of her heart regaining its strength, and shook her head. “That’s absurd.”

“My brother was in the middle of a game of faro when he told his friends he had to meet St. Claire. William Bunting said John went straight to that study. He did not just happen upon you.”

“But…That cannot be true.”

“St. Claire used you.”

Alexandra clutched the edge of her desk and surged unsteadily to her feet.

“He told my brother to meet him because he wanted to be caught with a hand up your skirts. It’s the truth. John’s father looked into this quite thoroughly, I assure you. You needn’t protect St. Claire. He is a man without scruples.”

Oh God, that was far too easy to believe. She’d been so young when she’d met him, only seventeen, and so thrilled to be running with a fast crowd. A true gentleman would never have accommodated her, but that had been the point, hadn’t it? To dance on the edge of respectability?

“I did not wish to involve you in this. Your brother and John’s father were both quite clear that I leave you out of it. But I’ve been after him for nine months and all my leads have run out.”

Alexandra shook her head. She could not do this. How could he throw these foul ideas at her, then expect her help? “I’m sorry.”

She looked past him, past the dark wood walls of the office, and focused on the brightness of the sun in the window. A full minute passed before his rough sigh filled the room.

“I’ll be at the Red Rose tonight. I’d appreciate a note if you’re willing to help.”

Tipping her head in a nod, Alex lowered herself to her chair.

His hand pushed the door open before he turned back to her, an expression like hate on his face. “My brother was only twenty. He was twenty when Damien St. Claire shot him through the head.”

A memory of John laughing brought tears to her eyes. She closed them. “I am sorry, Mr. Blackburn. He was a kind young man. A good man.” The door clicked softly closed before she’d spoken the last word.

Thor flew over the hard-packed dirt, black hooves pounding out his eagerness to run the two miles to the inn. Collin needed the run as well. She knew something, was hiding something. Idiot girl. She’d probably believed whatever sweet-nothings St. Claire had whispered to her as he tossed up her skirts.

Still, young as she was, she was no innocent. She’d played two men against each other just for the sport of it, and her game had ruined her and killed John. And just because she was a tiny thing with great blue eyes didn’t mean she wasn’t a whore as well.

His brother had been madly in love with her even as she took another man to her bed. There was no telling who else had been there. She’d even admitted it herself, for God’s sake. And after one quick view of the shape of those thighs, Collin knew she must’ve attracted men in droves. John had never stood a chance.

Collin cracked a bitter smile at the thought. If he’d met the girl at twenty, he’d have been panting after her, too. Her black hair and bright eyes were a potent combination. And the contrast of her delicate size and compact curves, the innocence of that heart-shaped face and the boldness of her clothing…lovely. Not lovely enough to die for though. Apparently his brother hadn’t realized that, damn him for a fool. And damn their father too, for extracting this promise from Collin. Who the hell could deny an old man his dying wish?

He was meant to be in Scotland, on his farm, overseeing the work on his new home, getting the horses ready for fair. Instead he gallivanted about England and France, gathering information and chasing after criminals like a runner…And now he had to convince a spoiled English lightskirt to help him.

She was the cause of this, she and her lover. So, saint or sinner, Alexandra Huntington would help, whether she willed it or no.

The edges of the letters dug into the damp skin of Alexandra’s palm. Forehead pressed to the glass of her bedroom window, she crumpled the papers, willed them to disappear, to never have existed, but the strokes and spikes of Damien’s arrogant handwriting failed to fade.

She had wept over these letters once. Cried over the first one when he asked her to come to France and marry him. And the second, when he’d set aside his pride and begged for money to survive in exile. She had sent a generous amount, thinking it the least she could do for him.

She had sent money once more, after one last request, though she’d hesitated that time, thinking of John. And after Blackburn’s hard words, Damien’s stories of hardship seemed blatantly crafted to inspire guilt. Her guilt.

She tried to imagine her brother writing a letter to a woman, begging help. Or her cousin George Tate, or even Collin Blackburn. Impossible. She could not picture one of those men pouring out the details of their troubles and laying them at a lady’s feet. Still, even if Damien wasn’t as good a man as he should be, that didn’t mean he was a murderer. Only weak and scared.

Hands shaking, Alexandra dropped the letters to the floor and stripped off the boy’s clothes she wore for estate work. Her gray riding habit already lay on the bed, dull against the ice blue coverlet. The wool was too heavy for summer, too dark, but she couldn’t present herself to this man, this man who must hate her, in some frippery of yellow and green silk.

She would see Blackburn. She would give him what he asked for, not because of what he’d said, not out of guilt, but because she knew something. Something she had tried to push aside ever since the morning of John’s death.

Damien had hated John Tibbenham.

She’d thought nothing of it before that terrible night. Men were prickly about their competition. She’d assumed it was only jealousy, though she’d told Damien many times that John was only a friend.

But when John had opened that door and seen them, when he’d looked at her with stark pain in his eyes and challenged Damien to a duel, there had been a moment—just a beat of her heart—when she’d looked into Damien’s face and seen satisfaction. It had disturbed her, that look of pleasure, but she’d dismissed it in the aftermath. John, after all, had been the one to issue the challenge. And both men had refused to back down.

She’d told herself that they had all contributed to the tragedy. But now…to think everything had been planned. Planned by Damien.

Just come in here for a moment, my sweet. I’ll die if I don’t touch you tonight. The excitement of flirting with danger. The thrill of Damien’s hands on her, pushing her skirts to her hips. And then…John and his anguished gaze.

Alexandra clenched her eyes shut and pushed the memory away. She had no doubt she’d relive that night over and over before she slept, but she didn’t have time to think about it now.

She would do this thing, turn her lover over to Collin Blackburn, because if what he said were true—and it was painfully easy to believe—then she had been ruined, and her family humiliated, and sweet John Tibbenham had been killed, purposefully.

And if it weren’t true?

Alexandra pressed her fingers hard into her temples, remembered that look on Damien’s face, remembered how quickly, how easily he’d accepted the challenge. Oh, it all made sense now, though Damien’s motive escaped her. It certainly hadn’t been love.

She grabbed the letters from the floor and stuffed them back into the dresser, under the ruffled petticoats that she rarely bothered wearing anymore, then called her maid to help her finish dressing. Once dressed, she rushed from the room, desperate to get the meeting over with, but not desperate enough to simply send a note ’round. She had been called many things in her life, but never a coward.

Word had already been sent for Brinn to be saddled, and the groom stood waiting at the front steps. Alexandra mounted and let Brinn lead the way, mind blanking as it always did when the bay mare moved smoothly into a run. The world narrowed to the path ahead and the feel of wind and force and muscle.

She could forget, for a moment, that she traveled to meet a man whose eyes flashed with honesty and scorn. Life was just the horse beneath her and the ground ahead. A quarter hour flew by in seconds, and the yard of the inn loomed suddenly, too soon.

Alexandra dismounted, throwing the reins to the stable boy before she could change her mind. Her footsteps faltered at the sight of the red door.

“Please walk the horse,” she murmured. “This will only take a moment.”

With one last deep breath, she stepped up onto the threshold and through the doorway. The great room seemed dim after the sun, but even in shadow it was hard to miss Collin Blackburn. He sat relaxed, perusing a stack of papers, pint of ale in hand. He was very still, she realized. He did not bounce his knee or tap the table as he read. No, he held his long body quiet, as if his movements were valuable to him, a resource not to be wasted. She could not keep still for a moment when she worked the ledgers. A meaningful difference between them, perhaps.

A curl of hair escaped over the edge of his collar, the softness such a contrast to his hard face. There was something about him, something in his eyes that spoke of nobility and honor. Something unyielding.

“Lady Alexandra!” the proprietor’s voice boomed across the room. “Welcome, welcome. Will you have dinner this evening?”

Blackburn’s eyes jerked from his papers to lock with hers. “No, Mr. Sims,” she answered without looking away from the man she’d come to see. “I have business to attend.”

Blackburn stood to pull back a chair when she walked toward him. “Lady Alexandra.”

Ignoring the proffered seat, she handed him the note. He opened it, looked back to her, his expression unreadable.

“The last direction is from two months ago,” she explained past stiff lips.

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry about everything.” She started to turn, but he placed his hand on her arm—not a grip…a touch.

“This was a shock to you. I’m sorry I lost my temper.”

“You have every right to be angry.”

“Still. I was harsh.”

“I understand what you must think of me. How could you not?” She gave him what she hoped was a light smile.

“I appreciate that you did not involve me until you had to. I wish you luck.” She turned again, needing to leave, to flee the sharpness of his eyes but, again, she was stopped by his voice.

His words were low, soft, and not the least bit kind. “What am I supposed to think of you?”

Jaw set, Alexandra pivoted, anger giving her the will to meet his gaze. It hurt to be around people who knew nothing of her but the lowest moment of her life. Hurt even more to be near a man who seemed so solid and unpretentious and who must hold her in such contempt. What did he want her to say? What did anyone want her to say?

“I did not come here to explain myself to you. You asked for something and I’ve given it to you. That’s the end of it.”

“Will you contact me if he writes you again?”

“Why would he write again?”

“You sent him money.”

Blood rose to her face, giving her away. “Should I tell you I did, so you can truly hate me?”

His eyes flashed something hot, then traveled about the room, measuring each face before he took her arm and guided her toward the door. “People are watching.”

She let him lead her only because it meant she’d be that much closer to leaving. As soon as they stepped out the door, as soon as her foot touched the dirt yard, she edged away, putting distance between them. “Thank you for escorting me out. Have a good journey.” The stable boy nodded at her gesture and led Brinn toward the mounting steps, but before Alexandra could follow him, Blackburn’s soft words touched her ear.

“You are not what I thought you would be, Lady Alexandra.”

She glanced back at him, taking in the angled planes of his face and the flint of his gray eyes. He was a hard man, she thought, but fair. He’d apologized. Still, he did not like her or, at the very least, did not want to. He was just like the rest of them in that way.

She gave him her back and spoke into the soft breeze. “You do not know the first thing about me, Mr. Blackburn.”

She ignored the painful pounding of her heart and stepped to her horse. The mare’s ears pricked for a bare moment as Alexandra mounted, whispering of speed before she’d even secured her seat. Brinn wheeled about, forcing the boy back a step, snorting wildly over the sound of Blackburn’s curse.

Alexandra did not look back; she simply rode, flying toward home. The journey seemed to take an hour this time, the ride no longer a haven from thought. The moment Brinn’s hooves clattered against the stone drive of Somerhart, Alexandra tossed the reins to a groom and slid from the saddle, then ran inside and up the stairs to the sanctuary of her bedchamber.

“Bastard,” she huffed and threw her riding crop across the room in a high arc. She would not cry, she told herself again, sniffing against tears and dragging a sleeve across her eyes.

The man was a stranger. It did not matter what he thought of her. He was not the first person to look at her as if she were a pile of rubbish, and he would not be the last.

It was all so ridiculous. Her brother ran around as if he were Bacchus incarnate and all anyone could think was what a fine, strong, eligible man he was. But she gets caught in one tiny indiscretion and what results? Death, destruction, mayhem.

The heels of her hands caught her tears. She could live with it. She would. A man had died, and she would have that sorrow on her heart for the rest of her life, but she was only nineteen and it could not be the end of her. She’d done nothing more than men did every hour of every day.

Fingers trembling, Alexandra jerked the bellpull, then tugged at her jacket, wincing when a button broke loose under her clumsy fingers and bounced across the floor.

A bath was in order. A hot bath and a glass of wine before dinner. Her brother was in London and she would dine alone, but she would take pleasure in dressing. She might be a fallen woman, a harlot who lured men to their deaths, but she was alive and able and that was something.

And tomorrow she would work until she was too sore to think, and, please God, too tired to feel.

Collin Blackburn decided to leave the woman be for a fortnight. His men in France had flushed St. Claire out of his hole three weeks ago, and the man had left all his possessions behind, including the letters from one Lady Alexandra.

St. Claire had nothing now. He would write soon, begging for money. Collin could simply swoop in to retrieve the whereabouts of that bastard and he’d never have to see the girl again.

His head still spun from their meeting the night before. From glancing up to find her standing there, pale and lovely and somehow younger in her respectable gray. No breeches to distract him from her smallness, no bright red coat to add color to her cheeks. She’d looked vulnerable, and that vulnerability had angered him.

The note had been a surprise, or the honesty of it at least. St. Claire had used all three French locations, including the one he’d fled most recently.

Why such forthrightness? Guilt. It dulled her eyes, those damned eyes that pricked his conscience with their glimpses of hurt and defiance. Well, this mess wasn’t his fault. She’d made her own bed.

Collin packed his bag and stowed his breakfast of bread and cheese for the journey. He could make it to his cousin’s home before dark if he didn’t tarry. Lucy would be happy to have him for a week or two, had, in fact, threatened to box his ears if he ever ventured near her home and didn’t visit.

So he rode out at dawn, chewing his breakfast, making a very good effort not to think of the young Alexandra Huntington. He could measure his trip now in days-till-home. As long as he made it back to Scotland within the month, he’d get to the first horse fair. Past time to choose which of his stock would go up for sale, but things were running smoothly in his absence—no mares sick, no foals lost. Of course, if the girl did provide new information on St. Claire, Collin would be away longer. A detour to France would take weeks.

Coming around a slow bend in the road, Collin glanced up to a rise in the west. Workmen labored next to a low wall, large stones strewn at their feet. There in their midst stood a slender figure, red coat ablaze in the rising sun. Alexandra Huntington. It had to be her. She gestured widely with the spade she held, appearing to shout, though the distance stole the words. Collin stopped his horse to watch.

He’d known she acted as her brother’s manager, a rare position for a nobleman much less a gently bred woman, but he’d assumed it was merely an amusement for her. A novelty, an excuse to be scandalous and wear men’s clothes. He should have known better after glimpsing that simmering will in her eyes. She looked to be more involved than most managers would be.

How vulnerable she appeared, standing among the hulking laborers, weighing half of even the smallest of them. But, to a man, they stood still as she spoke, some of them nodding at her words.

One of the group inclined his head and she turned to stare down the hill. She went still, probably shocked at finding herself watched, then took a step in his direction. Just one. Collin wondered at her expression as he raised a hand in farewell, and felt a moment’s regret that she didn’t return the gesture. She stood like a statue, stiff and proud in the pink light, her face unreadable. Then she turned back to the men with a sharp word that set them all in motion.

She’d dismissed him. Just as well. She’d be unhappy with him regardless when he returned to demand further information. No point calling a truce now.

As he urged Thor to a brisk pace, Collin felt a small curl of anticipation in his stomach at the thought of another visit, but he tamped the feeling down with cool efficiency. The woman was intriguing, dangerously so, and definitely not someone he should get to know better. Someone he should avoid at all costs, even. But she was also very likely his only chance at fulfilling this damned promise to his father.