Taming the Scot by Eliza Knight

2

Right now, Miss Bronwen Holmes felt as if she was in the race for her life.

Maybe she was.

Strike that—she certainly was.

The only thing saving her from being snatched off the Edinburgh streets already was the slightly overcast sky and the busy hour of that day that kept the crowds packed in around her. This, of course, also delayed her much-needed escape from the men who wanted to do the seizing.

Bronwen lifted the hem of her skirt away from her scuffed boots to maneuver faster through the masses of the wind outside Tanner’s Close, her tenement neighborhood. She dodged a woman pushing a cart full of onions, nearly upending the woman behind her with a basket of half-rotted apples and earning a curse from yet another wielding a barrow of oysters.

“So sorry!” she called after them as they shook their fists.

She whirled to face forward, her attackers only a few dozen paces behind her. Two hounds fighting over a bone tugged their way in front of her, and she hurtled herself over them, the way she’d jumped puddles as a lass. Unfortunately, she wasn’t as agile and smacked right into a lad hawking newspapers.

Papers scattered, floating into the air like the dust from a beaten rug. People shouted, and Bronwen landed with an “Oof” on her arse, right between the two growling hounds. She glanced left and right, smacking and slobbering jaws ready to clamp onto her flesh.

The lad yanked her to her feet, away from the danger, with a sweaty palm to her own. With a hasty, “Thank ye,” Bronwen scuttled on her way.

Not the exact way she wanted to start her morning, to be sure. She rounded the corner and into the second alleyway she came across. Hiding behind a pile of rubbish, she bent over, hands on her knees and taking in several deep breaths, praying the men searching for her hadn’t seen her duck into the alley.

How was she going to go home now?

Five minutes before the fiasco on the street, she’d been coming back from the market with bread and a well-past-ripe apple for her breakfast when she’d recognized the two burly, mean-looking men pounding on the door that had once belonged to her parents. Both her mother and father were gone now, leaving her heavily in debt.

Bronwen was certain they were the henchmen to the gambling hell come to collect. There was no other reason that men the likes of those should be pounding down her door—and not for the first time.

She’d been caught late at night by the same brutes before—they were easy to recognize with their tightly shaved beards sporting a letter T shaved into the side, a wicked scar across the throat of one, and a scrollwork tattoo around the right eye of the other. She didn’t doubt they’d been sent by Prince—owner of The Trojan gambling hell—who’d dispatched the others. When caught unawares before, they’d threatened to return if she didn’t pay back what her parents owed. And when she couldn’t, they’d threatened a lot more than a heavy fist the next time they saw her.

A fate worse than death was what they’d promised.

After her first encounter with them had given her a bloodied lip and a chipped tooth, she didn’t know what they had in mind for the future, but her imagination had run wild, keeping her up most nights. Before bed, she’d pile furniture in front of the door so they couldn’t break in while she was sleeping, and she’d taken to keeping a paring knife in her boot, which had also subsequently scratched up her ankle.

Bronwen had never been in a position before that she had to protect herself from such threats. And now, the amount she owed on her parents’ behalf might as well have been a ransom for her own life. For indeed, that was what Prince wanted—her soul.

Since her parents had died, she’d been working odd jobs, but it had been hard to find steady employment and nothing that was going to pay down what was owed. Nothing that was going to keep her from that devil’s clutches.

When she’d been a lass, her parents had been almost respectable. Or least that was always the impression she’d had of them. They had owned a small shop that sold things people didn’t want anymore to those who did. But what Bronwen had slowly discovered as she’d aged was that the shop wasn’t their only business. Nay, the Holmes had a not-so-lucrative gambling hell addiction, which is how they ended up so heavily in debt. Borrowing and borrowing until she suspected they had met their end, leaving her with the fall out of their mistakes.

Bronwen was never going to be able to pay back their debt, no matter how many odd jobs she took, or if she became of all the absurd things, a bloody lady’s maid. As much as she hoped and as hard as she worked, she was never going to be able to pay those men. A fact which Prince had made clear through his men on their last visit.

They were going to abduct her and force her into whatever fate they had in mind before murdering her in some grisly fashion, she was sure. Her future was so dire and bleak at this exact moment that perhaps it would be in her best interest if she found the nearest puddle and drowned herself in it.

Bronwen sank to the grimy cobbles, leaning her head against the gritty brick edifice of whatever building this was, and tucked her knees close. A crinkle of paper beneath her shoe caught her attention, and she snatched it off, ready to chuck it when the bold words caught her attention.

Lady Edinburgh.

If there was one thing she could be grateful for, it was that her parents had deemed it necessary for her to learn to read and write and do maths. Even if their intentions were so she could keep up their books for the shop, and the log of what they owed Prince, it was a skill few women in her position boasted.

Not sure what possessed her, she flipped through the stupid articles. People, whining about this and that. The editors, trying to glorify the arrival of society to Edinburgh. If she had her way, Bronwen would tell them all to leave off and she’d do it in a not so polite way.

She crumpled the paper and tossed it into a pile of rubbish. With a breath she could barely manage from all the despair she felt, she pushed herself to her feet. Desperate times called for desperate measures. She’d not seen her cousins Emilia and Anastasia in a while, and perhaps it was high time she went down to the docks and visited them. Begged them for a night of sleep where she might feel safe, and then she’d get out of their hair. Maybe she’d even ask them for a bath and a change of clothes.

The cousins had never been close. Their mothers were sisters, but Aunt Sarah had not thought it appropriate for her two girls to associate with Bronwen, especially after she’d heard about the gambling debt. So, Bronwen had watched Emilia and Anastasia grow up from afar. Not too long ago, she’d heard something about the two of them working for Andrewson Shipping Company, one of the biggest shipping companies in Scotland—owned by a duchess. As much as Bronwen was nervous at the prospect of approaching her cousins, what other choice did she have?

“Lord, I hope they’re no’ as snotty as the pearls coming in from London,” she muttered.

“What?” The pile of rubbish at her feet moved, and a man missing most of his teeth sat up and sneered at her. “Get out of ‘ere. This is my spot.”

“Pardon me, sir. I did no’ mean to disturb ye. I’m going,” she said softly, tossing him the bread she’d procured that morning.

His attitude changed as he grasped onto it, then looked at her suspiciously. “I can no’ pay for it.”

“Your silence is all the payment I require.”

“Done.” He nodded and bit into the bread.

Bronwen peered both ways out of the alley, studying the faces in the crowd. She’d been hiding long enough that she didn’t think the men would still be in the area, but still, it didn’t hurt to be cautious. The way seemed clear, so she ambled down the road, keeping her head down in case the arseholes spotted her.

It took her nearly the whole day to reach the Leith docks, as she had to double back a few times and hide out in several different alleyways and taverns. Eventually, the sign for Andrewson Shipping hanging outside the office was large and shiny, as if it had been washed that morning.

Bronwen tossed the core of her apple to a small seagull, who’d been standing on the outside of a circle of other larger birds refusing to share, and marched up to the door. She lifted her hand to knock but hesitated, staring down at her filthy clothes and the tip of her boot, which was starting to wear so thin her toe would be poking out soon. What was she thinking, coming here? Bronwen lowered her hand. Before she could walk away, the door swung wide open.

“I saw ye coming through the window,” a woman with hair the color of straw said as she pushed her spectacles up her nose. “We’ve go’ no work today, but I think tomorrow we’ll need extra hands.”

There’d been no judgment in her words or her gaze. Only a willingness to offer employment.

Bronwen forced herself to speak around her thick tongue. “But—”

“Do no’ worry on account of your sex. We always work with women here.”

“I was no’…” Bronwen swallowed. “Emilia?” she took a wild stab.

“Aye…have we met?” Emilia narrowed her eyes, looking Bronwen up and down, but there was no recognition in her gaze.

Bronwen had no idea what she looked like, but she guessed it wasn’t anything good. It’d been ages since she’d had water to wash in her little flat, and whatever water she did have, she used to make thin soup or tea to keep herself from starving to death.

“It’s Bronwen.” The words felt numb falling off her tongue.

Emilia paled, her mouth forming a little O. “Cousin Bronwen?”

Bronwen couldn’t help it. She burst into tears.

“Oh, no, my poor dear.” Emilia reached for her, tugging her into the office and closing the door. “Ye look as if ye’ve been through a time of it.”

Bronwen swiped away her tears with the sleeve of her frock. The office was cozy and neat and smelled of flowers and freshly baked scones. They were alone, thank goodness. She didn’t need anyone else to witness her momentary breakdown. Bronwen sighed in relief despite her ridiculous waterworks. By now, she really ought to be better at hiding her feelings. She’d been doing so for as long as she could remember. Why the sudden loss of control?

“I’m sorry for the tears,” she said, her voice cracking as she valiantly put a lid on her emotions.

“Come, I’ll pour ye some tea and ye can tell me what’s happened.” Emilia beckoned for her to have a seat on what looked like the most comfortable leather chair Bronwen had ever seen.

If she sprawled on it the way she wanted to, she’d cover it in her filth. So, instead, Bronwen made sure she sat on the very edge, praying what little bit she did sit on, she didn’t get dirty.

Emilia returned and settled on a chair opposite her, crossing her legs, clad in trousers, and folding her hands onto her knee. A woman in trousers wasn’t something Bronwen saw very often, if ever. How interesting.

Emilia looked across at Bronwen, concern knitting her brows. “While the water boils, why do ye no’ tell me what’s happened? Where are your mama and da?”

Bronwen stared at her cousin in open shock. “They are dead. Ye did no’ know?”

The first thing Bronwen had done when her parents were killed was write to her aunt of their sudden passing. She’d tried visiting the house but had been turned away by a servant. It was one of the reasons she’d come to the dock instead of trying their flat in Lady Stair’s Close.

“Did it just happen?” Emilia shook her head, pursing her lips. She reached forward and squeezed Bronwen’s hand. “I’m so sorry. Ye must have had quite a shock.”

Bronwen shook her head. “It’s been a year.” A long, wearisome, terrifying year.

“A year?” Emilia jerked back in her chair, and shook her head. “I’ll be right back.”

Her cousin bolted from her spot to a room in the back of the office, which must have been a kitchen where the kettle boiled, and Bronwen had to settle herself down to keep from leaping up and hiding. She was safe here. The ruffians hadn’t followed her—she’d made certain of that.

When Emilia returned, it was with a tray that held a teapot, two cups and saucers, milk and sugar, and a plate of biscuits that had Bronwen’s mouthwatering.

“Ye looked hungry,” Emilia said as she set out the tea service.

Bronwen wasn’t hungry; she was starving. The half-rotted apple was the first thing she’d eaten in the last twenty-four hours, and she’d been looking forward to the stale bread she was going to eat this morning but figured the homeless man could use it more—his silence was worth the price.

Her dirt-streaked fingers were a stark contrast to the porcelain teacup, but she didn’t have the patience to pity herself. Best she acknowledged she was a dirty mess and then enjoyed the tea filled with cream and sugar. She took a long, slow sip, ignoring the sting of the heat and allowing the flavor of the tea to burst on her tongue. My God, it had been ages since she’d had a decent cup of tea, and even then, it was nothing compared to this one.

“Biscuit?” Emilia held out the plate, and Bronwen reached for one, wishing she had the plate to herself.

If she thought the tea was heaven, the biscuit was even more so, melting in her mouth. She gave a soft groan that she stifled with another sip of tea.

“How did they die?” Emilia asked.

Bronwen blinked up at her cousin, grateful for the momentary respite she’d had away from reality, even if it had only been for a moment. So quickly, they were to the part of her life’s story that she didn’t want to share.

Everyone in Tanner’s Close knew what had happened, and no one asked questions. Until this moment, she’d not realized this would be the first time she uttered the words. “They were murdered.”

Emilia’s face paled. “Murdered?”

“Aye. Gambling debts.” Bronwen had to set down her tea, for her hands had started to shake so badly that she was sloshing liquid over the side.

When she’d discovered her parents’ bodies, she thought for certain that would be the end of retaliation from their enemies. Never had she imagined Prince would send men after her. But they had, extorting all the precious items she could find in her flat and all the products left in her parents’ shop. Once more, she was led to believe that would be the end. But alas, she’d been mistaken.

The lives of her parents had knocked the interest off of the debt, but all the possessions left to Bronwen in the world had barely touched a quarter of what they owed. When she accused the thieves of lying, they’d pulled out a lengthy ledger of accounts and had shown her how many times her parents had drawn money from the seedy lender, never to return a dime.

And then Prince had changed the stakes. Bronwen herself was worth far more than what she could provide—and he intended to use her cruelly to that advantage.

Emilia looked horrified. “Did my…mother know?”

Bronwen shrugged and snatched another biscuit, needing to do something with her hands before she peeled every nail down to the bed. “I’m no’ entirely certain. I wrote her a letter, but I never heard a word back.” She didn’t mention being turned away from the house. Bronwen wasn’t here to push Emilia from Aunt Sarah—she was here for help, and mentioning it wouldn’t do that.

Emilia frowned. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

“I do no’ hold it against ye. But—” Bronwen wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “I need your help.”

Emilia looked skeptical, but she nodded slowly. “What can I do?”

“I need a place to sleep for the night. Maybe a change of clothes.” She observed that her cousin was dressed quite well, even if she wore men’s trousers.

Emilia nodded as if her request was nothing major. “What is your plan after tonight?”

Bronwen sipped the last dregs of her tea, only to find it refilled a moment later. “I’m no’ certain. But I’ll be leaving Edinburgh. The men who killed my parents will no’ stop until they find me. I’ve been able to keep them at bay until now, but they’ve made it clear my time is near.”

Emilia’s eyes lit up in a way they should not have, given Bronwen’s current situation and the conversation they were having. “I think I know where ye can go.”

A chill swept through Bronwen. “If ye say the workhouse, I’ll take my leave now.”

Emilia snorted. “As if I’d send anyone there.” She stood and rifled through a stack on her desk, pulling out what was very distinctly a copy of Lady Edinburgh, the very edition she’d found on her shoe an hour before.

Whatever Emilia was going to read from within that mess would not interest Bronwen, she was certain. She guzzled her tea and placed it a little too exuberantly back into the saucer, causing Emilia to wince at the clang.

“This may be a long shot, but going north for an interview will at least buy ye a few days out of town, and I can send ye there on a ship we have headed to Aberdeen. A short carriage ride away is Drum Castle.”

“What is at Drum Castle, and why would I go there?” Bronwen stuffed two biscuits into her pocket, which Emilia saw but said nothing about.

“This.” She shoved the society paper toward Bronwen, who was reluctant to take it.

Lord, but she couldn’t get rid of the frivolities and trivialities of the upper class. She took the paper, scanning the little square adverts in search of various people to do various tasks, none of which she was up for or skilled enough to do even if she wanted to. Until the word Drum stuck out at her.

“Right there.” Emilia tapped the square Bronwen’s gaze had landed upon.

Captain E. I. of Drum Castle seeks a governess. Must be well-versed in manners and decorum. Must possess skills in etiquette, dancing and courtly manner.

“Are ye jesting me?” Bronwen asked, her frown so fierce it nearly gave her a headache.

“Nay.”

“Have ye taken a good look at me?” Bronwen held out her hands, staring down at herself with a shake of her head. “I’m filthy, and I have no manners.”

Emilia laughed. “Ye are just as funny as I remember ye being when we were little.”

“I am quite serious.” Coming here was a bad idea. It would seem her cousin was daft. That explained the trousers. “Well, I do thank ye for the cup of tea.”

“See, ye have manners. Ye’ll be perfect. Besides, I happen to have met the captain, and while he says he is searching for all this, his sisters are mostly grown and have had a governess since they were quite young. It’ll be simple, I promise.” Emilia nodded as if the decision had already been made. “I’ve got some extra clothes at home. I’ll pack ye a valise to take with ye, so ye have more than one thing to wear.”

Bronwen did not think it would be a breeze at all; she was scared witless about it. But she’d get new gowns, a good night’s sleep and a ship’s ride out of Edinburgh. All of that was on the plus side, even if Emilia’s plan was hairbrained. Perhaps her luck was changing. She doubted the position would work out, but in the meantime, she’d not be hiding on the street.

“And Aunt Sarah? How will I get around her?”

Emilia waved off the concern. “Mother is out of town, cousin. Ye will no’ have to worry about her at all.”

With that settled, Bronwen took in a deep breath, the first time she’d done so in ages. This time tomorrow, she’d feel like a whole new lass, and she’d be headed out on a big adventure—or at the very least, going in the opposite way of danger.

When she finally made it to the end of her journey and knocked on the large iron-studded door of Drum Castle, Bronwen didn’t expect a striking Highlander with a steely blue gaze to answer. Nor did she anticipate the fluttering in her heart when said gaze raked her up and down. His blond hair was swept back, and there was a dusting of freckles over the bridge of his nose and cheeks. Goodness, but his visage looked as if he’d stepped out of one of the paintings she’d once seen when she snuck into a gallery.

However, his clothes were not as pristine as she might have expected from a lord in a castle. He looked as if he’d finished a tussle. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his cravat removed. He wore a kilt that came to his bare knees and hose that clung to the strength of his muscular calves.

She cleared her throat, trying to remind the muscles there how to work. With her valise clutched to the front of her like armor, she finally managed to blurt out, “I’m Bronwen Holmes, here for the governess position.”

“Miss Holmes, did we have an appointment?” he asked. His voice was gruff, almost as if he’d been shouting, or it was unused often. He stared down at her speculatively.

Bronwen had expected him to say that. She’d also decided on the voyage here that she would need to adopt the air of a governess. Authoritative, all-knowing, snooty. Or at least those were the impressions she had of a governess’s behavior. She had also practiced placing a connection between them in the captain’s mind that would easily establish trust—the mutual contact of Andrewson Shipping. And she realized with all these plans and thoughts that she was acting very like the criminals she’d run from. Alas, she had to protect herself somehow, didn’t she?

“I do no’ believe so, sir, nay. My cousin, Emilia, sent me. Perhaps ye know her. She works at Andrewson Shipping.” Bronwen cocked her head, offering him a smile that she hoped would ease his suspicions. Lord, but he did appear to be a grump.

Something in his hard features relaxed, though not as much as she would have liked. She had a strong urge to reach forward and rub all the frown lines from his forehead.

“Ah, aye, I do recall Emilia. And I’m familiar with the shipping company.”

“I voyaged here on the Duke’s Sails today. Quite a lovely ship. Now about the position, sir. Are ye going to invite me in, or shall we conduct the interview on the front stairs?”

And just like Emilia had promised, including the name of the shipping company had opened the door wide.

“Do come in, Miss Holmes.”