Laird of Longing by Tammy Andresen

Chapter Three

Sophie satin the only chair available in the room. It had been either that or the bed, and the latter frightened her half to death.

What exactly did the burly Scot intend to do with her? And what was she going to say to him in the meantime? Did she tell him her whole situation? Half? None? Lie completely?

There was no precedent in her life for this sort of thing.

Her wet hair hung down her back and while the clothes were much rougher than her own, it felt wonderful to be clean. She’d washed some of her more intimate garments, then hung them to dry. He was going to see them, of course, there was nothing to be done about that.

The door creaked open, and she tensed, not having developed any sort of plan.

She’d thought any fate was better than being forced to wed the very rogue who’d attacked her, but she realized now that there were worse things to suffer.

She looked at the man who’d entered. The large Scot with the perpetual frown stared at her as he crossed the room, and she wrapped her arms about herself. Would he hurt her? What did he expect from her?

“My lord,” she said, rising and giving a curtsy in her sailor’s pants. It was ridiculous, but if he truly was a lord then reminding him of social rules seemed prudent.

“Sophie,” he replied. His frown deepening. He stood a few feet away, his gaze travelling up and down the overlarge shirt and the baggy pants. “Better,” he said. “What can I give ye that ye can use to tuck away yer hair?”

Tuck it away? That was a most excellent sign. “Even a piece of cloth will be enough to braid it and hide it in my shirt.”

He gave a stiff nod. “Why don’t we start with actual names. Mine is Laird Ewan McLaren.”

Her mouth opened and then shut. Sophie rarely lacked for words, but she still hadn’t decided how to proceed. “It’s nice to meet you, Laird McLaren.”

His brows lifted. “And ye are?”

She let out a bit of a sigh. She was a terrible liar and so it seemed the best course to just tell the truth. “Lady Sophie Everclear.”

“And yer father is?”

Double drat. “The Earl of Templeton.”

His eyes closed. “Fer feck’s sake.”

Sophie winced. Perhaps she should have lied. She clasped her hands as she silently watched him. Slowly his dark eyes opened again, his composure seemingly back in place.

“And ye ran away because?” he asked.

She looked to the floor, unable to hold his dark gaze. “A man, a suitor I’d tried to throw off, attacked me at a party, making certain we were caught embracing.” It all sounded so simple when she said it like that.

“Did he…?” Laird McLaren’s voice faltered, trailing off. “What did he do during the attack?”

Her face flamed with heat. “He pushed me against a wall. He…” She couldn’t say it, especially not to a stranger. She hadn’t even been able to repeat it to her mother.

She didn’t hear him move, didn’t know he was near until his hand slid under her elbow. She jumped in fear and surprise, but his touch remained gentle as he guided her back into the chair. “I can’t,” she whispered, her throat closing as tears burned at the corners of her eyes.

“Answer me just one question and I’ll ken enough. Did he lift yer skirts?”

She blinked, her gaze moving to his. His face was an impassive mask, betraying no emotion that helped calm her nerves. “No.”

He let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping. “Good.” Then he did something completely unexpected. He sat down on the floor, looking up at her. A breath she didn’t even know she was holding whooshed from her lungs. “What happened after ye were caught?”

“My father demanded Mr. Hughes wed me, as honor dictated, and Hughes readily agreed.” Her mouth pressed firm again. “I’ve no doubt it was his plan all along.”

McLaren nodded. “Ye are beautiful.”

She shook her head, bitterness clogging her throat. If only Hughes had just admired her beauty. “I believe it was my dowry that was of interest.”

McLaren’s eyes widened in understanding as his brows lifted. “I see.”

“Please understand,” she whispered, leaning closer. “I couldn’t marry a man willing to force his way with me. He’d already proved himself calculating, callous, cold, and violent. I just…I ran.” She scooted forward, wetting her lips. “I had to leave.”

He winced then. “Lady Sophie,” he said shaking his head as he rose up off the floor. “I understand yer position but—”

She rose too, a different fear from earlier tightening her muscles. “Please don’t say but.”

“But there is little I can do fer ye,” he finished. “Ye can’t stay here. I can’t just drop ye at a port.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I have to bring—”

Her stomach pitched wildly. He was going to return her to her father. She should not have revealed her identity, should not have told him the truth. “No,” she gasped. “Please. Anything but that.”

She stepped close to him until their chests were almost touching. Titling her chin she looked up into his eyes. “There must be something I could do for you. Please don’t send me back.”

His face grew hard again, like it had been down in the galley, as his gaze bore into hers. “There is nothing I want from ye.”

She blinked then. She could not be sent back to her father, back to Maxwell Hughes. “Where are we travelling now?” she asked, desperately trying to clutch at any thread that might keep her from being returned to London.

“Edinburgh.”

“Perfect,” she gushed, her gaze casting over his shoulder. She was a terrible liar but her very life depended on it today. “I’ve an aunt in Edinburgh. Once we arrive there, I’ll find her, and you never have to see me again.”

* * *

Her eyes dartedto every corner of the room, avoiding his.

He straightened up, knowing full well she was lying. Badly.

His plan was to take her to his cousin-in-law, the Duke of Devonhall. The man had a knack for matching unfortunate debutantes with appropriate husbands. Lady Sophie most certainly was an unfortunate debutante and in desperate need of an appropriate husband.

Not that he could be guaranteed that Bash would help her. And God’s honest truth, he didn’t know what he’d do with her if Bash refused, but asking the Duke to help was his best option.

She hadn’t even given him the opportunity to tell her the plan before she’d come up with that ridiculous lie. He was from Edinburgh and he knew every person with any pedigree, Scottish or English. There were no sisters or sisters-in-law to the Earl of Templeton. “An aunt?”

“Y-y-yes,” she said, nodding even as her hands twisted.

“What’s her name?”

She drew in a gasp and he tried to keep from rolling his eyes. “Mrs. McTavern.”

A snort escaped through his nose. McTavern? “And where will we find this Mrs. McTavern?”

She waved a hand, knocking him in the chest, which only caused her to drop her hands again, clutching them in front of her. “You needn’t concern yourself, my lord. If you’ll just see me to the docks…”

And now he was back to thinking her mad. “The docks of Edinburgh are some of the roughest places ye’ll ever go. Ye really expect me to just send ye off on them with a wave and a good luck?”

Her chin dropped. “I can’t have you send me back home, my lord. Truly, I’d rather be shot.”

Something inside him swelled, like a tide of anger. What sort of man abused such a lovely creature and what kind of father then tied his daughter to her abuser? “No one is shooting ye and no one is sending ye home.”

“What?” she said, her chin snapping up as her clear blue eyes met his.

He let out a sigh, sure he was going to regret this. “I’ve a cousin, a duchess.”

“Your cousin is a duchess.” A smile split her face as her eyes danced with delight.

Ewan’s breath held in his chest. Her hair curled around her face like a halo. He’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life. She could have been from a painting or sent from Heaven itself.

“She is the Duchess of Devonhall.”

Sophie gasped then, her hands covering her face. “Oh, she’s so beautiful. I met her once not long ago.”

Not as beautiful as you.“As it happens, she also kens what it means to be in a desperate situation. I think she’ll help ye.”

And then Sophie did the very thing she ought not to have done. She threw herself at him, winding her arms about his neck as her body molded to his.

While her new attire hid her feminine figure from view, it did very little to hide how her curves felt as she pressed against him. Every soft swell of her body was his to experience. She molded to him, her breasts pushing against his chest, her pelvis to his. He’d never held a woman of her height in his arms and damned if he didn’t enjoy it. But her words pulled him back from his thoughts.

“Thank you,” she gushed in his ear. “Thank you so much.”

He reached for her waist to push her away, but somehow, when he grabbed the narrowest part of her body, he found himself pulling her closer rather than doing as he ought. “Ye’re welcome,” he answered gruffly. Or he tried to be gruff. But her hair was tickling his nose, smelling of fresh soap and a hint of lilac. How was that possible? There was surely nothing lilac-scented on a ship full of men.

She leaned back then, her arms still about his neck, her chin tipped up to his. “I’ll find a way to repay you, Laird Ewan McLaren. I don’t know how but I know I will.”

“Ye don’t need to repay—”

“Oh but I do,” she said quickly, tightening her arms about his neck. “Fate brought me to this ship. I’m sure of it. And fate will show me how I need to help you.”

Help him? His hands were still at her waist, the slender curve of it filling his large palms. He should push her away. But she was achingly warm and soft… “I don’t need any help.”

She blinked then, her face cocking a bit to the side. “Everyone needs help sometimes. It’s just a matter of knowing what to give.”

He closed his eyes. He had to get away from Lady Sophie Everclear. Quickly.

Ewan had a plan for his future. He’d take that nice trip to France or Barbados after the hell of the last six months. He’d come back and run his business and then he’d marry when he had one foot close to the grave. If he were dying anyhow, it wouldn’t matter that the marriage was miserable.

But looking down into Sophie’s gaze, other ideas started dancing in his mind.

Stupid ideas about marrying her himself. Tucking her in his bed and keeping her safe from that ass of a father as he pummeled the man who’d dared to mar such perfection.

“Sophie,” he rumbled. “What is the name of yer intended?”

She jerked away from him, the open happiness in her eyes, dimming the way one might blow out a lit candle. “He’s not my intended.”

His eyebrows rose. “Fair point. Who is the man who attacked ye?”

“Mr. Maxwell Hughes,” she said, wrapping her arms about her waist.

He reached out a hand, and without thought, began rubbing her arm in light comfort. Even though inside, he wanted to hit things hard, breaking them with his fist. Because he actually knew the man who’d done this to her.

In fact, if he weren’t mistaken, Hughes had been on the list of potential thieves. Not one of the men Ewan had investigated but his partner, Dishonor, had been working to root out the people stealing from them as well and Dishonor had compiled a list of names. The names had been given to the crown and the Prince Regent had rounded up any men he could prove were involved.

But Hughes was clearly still free.

He drew in a deep breath as he looked down at Sophie.

“Why do you ask?” she whispered, worrying her lip once again. He had the urge to brush his thumb along the plump flesh. Partially to brush away her worries but also because he wished to feel the supple skin under his rougher skin. “About Mr. Hughes?”

“No reason.” This time he lied. He was far better at the act than she was. Six months of living under a false identity in order to infiltrate a criminal network made a man good at deception. He’d lied for months on end that he was a criminal, and not one of the outlaws had suspected his true identity.

So when he said no reason, what he actually meant was that if he ever found Maxwell Hughes, he’d make certain the man paid for what he’d done. In fact, Ewan just might seek out the wretch on his very next trip to London.