Seductive Surrender (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 6) Page 10

  No doubt Dugall meant the smile he turned on her to be heartening, but it transformed his face into pure masculine, highly distracting beauty. “Dinna fash yerself about it, though. I ken how to handle the likes of him.”

  Dugall’s assurance made her happier than she had any right to be. Yet a tiny, intrusive voice whispered, “Don’t come to depend on him. Keep your distance. He’ll only disappoint, and you know he must eventually leave.”

  Well, naturally he must.

  Straightening her spine, Gwendolyn notched her chin upward and told her pessimistic conscience to hush. More aptly, she quashed it beneath her booted heel, and then swept it into the dust bin and ordered it to stay there.

  “I was betrothed the first time at seventeen to Tucker Lymon. The quintessence of a southern gentleman, he was one of the soldiers shot with William. They were the greatest of friends, and I’d known Tucker most of my life.”

  “Ye loved him?” Dugall, tall and relaxed in the saddle, seemed to be genuinely interested.

  “I did. Very much. A young, starry-eyed girl’s first love.” She’d mourned Tucker deeply, and as young girls are wont to do, didn’t believe she’d ever find love again.

  “I was nearly twenty when I accepted the second proposal. Paul Haggens captained the Sea Vixen. Dashing and daring, he made me laugh and forget my grief for Tucker. Pirates attacked and sank his ship. Only a handful of men managed to escape in a dory. The rest were never heard from again and presumed dead.”

  She stretched her spine to dissipate the heaviness the old memories raised. Dugall needn’t know all the ugly details. Needn’t know the heartrending grief she suffered after Tucker, and then Paul’s death had made her leery and guarded. Afraid to love again. Two blows of that magnitude did rather knock a person to their knees and left them reeling.

  To keep suitors at bay, she’d worn black for three years after Paul’s death, determined she’d never risk that kind of suffering again.

  And she hadn’t.

  Prudence and sensible logic had governed her next choice.

  And so she’d chosen a man whom she could respect; one she admired and had formed a comfortable friendship with, but still permitted her to protect her heart from further devastation.

  “By the time I was five-and-twenty, I’d taken on much of the operation of Thistle Glen and had become friends with a business associate of Papa’s.”

  His gaze indecipherable, Dugall held up three big fingers. “Betrothed number three?”

  She nodded, giving a small closed-mouth smile at the antics of a red squirrel scampering up a trunk. From a branch overhanging the road, it swished its bushy tail and scolded them soundly.

  “Yes. Benjamin Hampton also raised Thoroughbreds and was from a distinguished South Carolina family. Everyone proclaimed it a brilliant match between two prominent families.”

  “But it wisna?” Dugall angled his head, politely curious but not probing.

  How had he perceived that? Had she given herself away in tone or manner?

  “No. On the eve of our wedding, he eloped with my sister. There was a horrific carriage accident. They both died.” As had the driver and the team.

  Had Marilyn even breathed a hint she’d given her heart to Benjamin and he returned her sentiment, Gwendolyn would’ve called off the wedding. But having her affianced jilt her and sneak away with her sister in the dead of night had rendered a wound that had yet to heal completely.

  Add the humiliation of enduring pity-filled glances and quickly shushed whispers whenever she entered a room or ventured into society—

  A wonder Gwendolyn hadn’t become a recluse.

  “Although misplaced, and illogical, guilt plagues me. For if they hadn’t eloped, I believe their lives would’ve been spared.” Lips meshed, she tapped the fingertips of her free hand on her thigh. “I keep thinking there must’ve been signs. Hints that I missed.”

  “Och, Gwenny, I be verra sorry, but ye have to ken yer in nae way at fault.” Such compassion laced Dugall’s words, it made the hurt a trifle more bearable and her less inclined to scold him for overstepping the bounds by addressing her as Gwenny again.

  With Marilyn’s and Benjamin’s betrayal, what remnant of vulnerability Gwendolyn had yet possessed had promptly and everlastingly been banished to the farthest reaches of her heart. And there it would remain until they became a fusty and mummified memory.

  She inhaled a cleansing breath, made more so by the crisp autumn heather and pine scented air.

  Only one more betrothal to explain.

  “I agreed to Lance Eggleston’s proposal a mere six months ago. His estate neighbored ours, and he’d asked me to marry him at least half a dozen times—the first when I was but seven and he eight.”

  Complete with a handful of bird feathers and wilted wildflowers.

  Eyes twinkling, Dugall cocked a raven brow. “Why did ye finally agree?”

  “I didn’t want to be a burden to my family.” Scrunching her nose, she gave a small grimace. “And as we rubbed on fairly well together, I accepted, at last.”

  Pessimism deepened the fine lines fanning Dugall’s eyes.

  “Admirable, but are ye sure ye’d have been a burden?”

  Eyeing the vehicle rumbling along before them, she lowered her voice. “I didn’t want to end up a lonely old maid like Aunt Barbara.” Gwendolyn lifted her shoulder an inch. “And I wanted children.”

  Of her own. Which she’d never have now.

  And as much as she adored Julia and Jeremiah—was the only mother figure Julia had ever known—Gwendolyn wouldn’t ever experience carrying a child in her womb. Feel it kick or hiccup or turn in her belly. She’d never suckle her baby at her breast or sing the infant to sleep.

  And her spirit mourned that loss as keenly and profoundly as the many other losses she’d suffered these past years.

  Such weren’t the desires of all women, but since she’d been a little girl playing with her cherished dolls, she’d wanted to be a mother. Always assumed she would be one day.

  Relinquishing the desire to marry for love had been brutal enough. But when she’d finally acknowledged she’d never cradle her child in her arms—

  Enough.

  She’d plowed that furrow clean down to the bedrock. Past time to put that mule to rest.

  “Then yer other brother died?” Two creases furrowed Dugall’s brow.

  Her history did rather read like a tragedy.

  “From an injury he received in a duel. My poor father was so distraught, he succumbed to a heart attack a mere fortnight later.”

  “So ye decided to call off yer betrothal?” He cut her a short, intense glance before perusing the road.

  “No.” She gave her head one short shake and adjusted her grip on the reins. “I told you. I didn’t end any of them.”

  When the butler presented the neatly folded and sealed letter from Lance on a silver salver, she’d been curious, but not concerned. In three short lines, he’d ended their betrothal, though he didn’t have the ballocks to tell her the real reason.

  Poltroon.

  He’d lied like a rug and claimed they weren’t suited after all. The real truth soon became known, and it had jerked a knot in her tail, for certain.

  “A beautiful French woman had recently moved to Raleigh and set her sights on him. Lance tossed me over. I sold him Thistle Glen, though. For a good price, too. He’d coveted the plantation for years, and since Jeremiah’s future is in Scotland, there wasn’t any reason to retain the estate.”

  A thoughtful expression warmed the corners of Dugall’s face and eyes. “And now fate’s brought ye across the ocean to God’s country.”

  She wasn’t so certain about the God’s country bit, but Gwendolyn could’ve hugged him for not spouting some trite platitu
de that was intended to make her feel better but only added salt to an already nasty wound.

  Dugall had heard and accepted the truth, and rather than toss the same dice again, he’d diverted their discussion to the present.

  Either that, or he’d been so put off, he changed the subject to avoid further discussion.

  She had been the one who’d insisted on spilling the fat into the fire. So it should be no surprise when the flames sizzled and exploded around her, and she received a stinging burn or two.

  Julia thrust her head over the barouche’s side. “How much further, Auntie Gwenny? I gotta make water.”

  The driver, Clacher, glanced over his shoulder at the barouche’s occupants. Not for the first time during the short journey either.

  “Hush, chil’,” Kandie gently chided, and shook her white-kerchiefed head.

  “Well, I do, Kandie,” Julia whined. “I’m fuller than a tick on a fat hog’s arse.”

  Pinching her eyes closed, Gwendolyn crimped her mouth. When would the children learn not to blurt everything that passed through their heads?

  “Craiglocky is just around the next bend, but if her need is urgent, we can stop here. It’s safe.” Amusement crinkled the sides of Dugall’s mouth as he regarded the equipage trundling before them. “Yer niece is a spirited lass, isnae she?”

  “She’ll be fine for a bit longer. And yes, she most certainly is spirited.” A kind description. Most days, Julia was wilder than a March hare or a June bug in June. “So is Jeremiah, and honestly, there are days when I’m unsure I’ll be able to do right by them.” She sighed, then offered a rueful about-the-edges smile. “But what choice have any of us?”

  “Ye’ve a generous heart, Gwenny, and ye love them. Dinna underestimate the power of either.” Making a clicking sound in the back of his throat, he steered Bran away from Marigold. “Nae, lad. Mind yer business.”

  Yes, the mare most definitely was going into heat. That ought to make for an interesting ride home.

  Dugall scratched his uninjured eyebrow and leveled her a penetrating look of acute consideration.

  “What?” Did she have a smudge on her nose? Was there a bit of parsley stuck in her teeth from luncheon? “Why are you looking at me like that? Like you want to say something, but aren’t sure you should?”

  “Before we arrive at Craiglocky, lass, ye should ken that relationships between the McTavishes and McClintocks are somewhat strained.”

  “Strained? How so?” Why hadn’t he told her this earlier? She’d never have agreed to go to Craiglocky. And what did strained mean? They’d had a falling out of some sort? A quarrel? Over what?

  “Years ago, old McClintock wanted to marry my mither and conspired to abduct her.”

  Chapter 12

  Dugall checked the laughter burbling in his chest.

  Gwendolyn’s flabbergasted countenance and sagging jaw might’ve earned a chuckle another time, but given her feisty nature, she might well turn her ill-humor on him.

  Truth to tell, he deserved it.

  He’d manipulated her, pure and simple. Had he told her of the feud, she’d never have agreed to go to Craiglocky. Likely, wouldn’t have accepted his offer of help either.

  However, for reasons he couldn’t quite put his finger on, he was determined she should do both. His family wasn’t the type to condemn someone because of a familial connection they had no control over.

  One couldn’t choose one’s relations.

  “And you’re just now mentioning this bit of crucial information?” Green sparks shooting from her eyes and vexation flattening the line of her mouth, she drew the mare to a halt.

  Jeremiah raised his head, his puzzled gaze shifting between his aunt and Dugall as Dugall reined Bran to a stop as well.

  The barouche occupants needn’t hear the squabble.

  “It’s nae as bad as all that. Over time, the dispute has mellowed, and for the most part, the two families simply avoid one another.” Dugall bent his mouth into his most charming grin. The one that generally caused the lasses to send him sultry smiles and even sultrier invitation-laden glances.

  All the lasses except one with hair as fiery as her temper.

  Gwendolyn narrowed her eyes into bottle-green slits, and shook a finger at him. “That trick won’t work on me, Dugall Ferguson. I’m not a gullible miss who can be won over by a seductive smile and a smoldering turquoise gaze.”

  Och. She thought his smile seductive and his eyes smoldering? Masculine pride hammered a raucous, triumphant thrum through his veins, and he grinned wider yet.

  From the horrified rounding of Gwendolyn’s incredibly expressive eyes, and the riddy flush mounting her high cheekbones, she’d realized her stern putdown had turned into a compliment. More discomfited than he’d seen her, she flapped her hand at him as if to erase her carelessly uttered words.

  “Don’t get full of yourself.” Her melodious retort was more amused reproof than cutting reposit. “You know full well what I meant.”

  “I do, indeed.” He did chuckle then at the fuming glare she speared him, and the distinctly unladylike oath she muttered beneath her breath.

  Didna ken ladies ever said that.

  “There’s Craiglocky.” He pointed to the medieval stone castle grandly standing at attention on the horizon.

  As he’d intended, he’d distracted Gwendolyn from her scold.

  She swung her attention in the direction he pointed. “It looks very old.”

  “It is, and that’s the second structure. The first Keep’s charred remains are on the far side of Loch Arkaig. Perhaps another day ye’d like to explore them? They’re quite fascinatin’, as are the legendary tales about the residents who once lived and loved there.”

  She arched a disbelieving ginger brow. “I suppose you’re going to tell me the ruins are haunted? Ghosts flitting about, moaning and the like?”

  Dugall chuckled and shook his head. “Nae. Nae spirits of long-dead McTavishes lurk amongst the sooty relics.” He winked. “At least, I’ve never seen or heard any. Others, however . . .”

  “I’ll pass then, thank you. I endure enough preternatural encounters with Kandie. Her grandmother practiced voodoo, and occasionally, the most peculiar things occur that are simply beyond human explanation.”

  She gave a little shudder. “Raises my hackles, it does.”

  Dugall considered her. “Did I mention my sister, Seonaid, had the second sight until she married?”

  Done fussing with the fit of her gloves, Gwendolyn cast him a fascinated look. “Really? How intriguing. Did she truly know things before they happened?”

  “Aye, though it wisna always for the best.”

  Her earlier pique seemed to have evaporated just as swiftly as it had come upon her.

  Gwendolyn sighted the barouche, now a good quarter mile farther on. “Oh, we should catch up before they get too far ahead. Walk on.” She clicked her tongue and urged her mount forward.

  No sooner had Marigold taken a step, than a bang reverberated through the air.

  Dugall jerked his head upward and Gwendolyn, her brows knitted, stared in the direction the sound had come from.

  Another shot rang out, this one infinitely closer.

  Releasing a terrified squeal, the mare reared onto her hind legs.

  A skilled horsewoman, Gwendolyn managed to keep her seat, though just barely. “Shh. Steady on, Marigold. There’s a good girl.”

  Someone was being damned bloody careless.

  As the frightened mare’s front hooves slammed onto the earth, the jaunty black feather adoring Gwendolyn’s hat fluttered to the ground. Almost omen-like.

  Clacher drew the barouche to a stop and looked over his shoulder at them. Alarm lined his weathered face. Four wide-eyed faces peered behind the barouche.
No doubt they’d heard the rounds’ echoes, too.

  But where had they come from?

  Face pale as alabaster, Gwendolyn sought his eyes. “Were those gunshots?”

  “Aye. A rifle.” Dugall nodded, raking his gaze over the surrounding area, seeking any sign of movement or a flash of steel to out the shooter.

  Except for pinewoods to their left, and the aspen tree stand dividing half of the yonder field, nothing interrupted the open heather-strewn meadow.

  He narrowed his eyes to slits.

  The aspen grove, then.

  More importantly, what—or who—was the target?

  The stag they’d just seen?

  Then someone was a hell of a poor aim.

  The last ball had been far too near for his comfort, making it hard to credit such inaccuracy as accidental.

  Dugall’s spinal column fairly vibrated in warning, and his nape hair stood on end as if electrified.

  Shite.

  “Gwenny, bend low over yer horse’s neck. This instant,” he ordered, slicing her a sharp, do-as-I-say-now look.

  She complied immediately, her face going impossibly whiter still.

  “Clacher,” Dugall bellowed. “To the Keep! Ye, in the carriage. Get onto the floor. Now!”

  Kandie unceremoniously hauled Jeremiah from his perch and an instant later, no one was visible inside the conveyance.

  Clacher didn’t hesitate, but cracked the whip over the team’s back and shouted them onward. They lurched forward, the horses’ hooves tearing up the ground as they raced the last half-mile to Craiglocky.

  Another rang out, and the mare squealed in pain.

  Gwendolyn’s terrified gasp seared Dugall straight to his core.

  “Oh, my God! Dugall, she’s been hit.”

  Eyes wide and luminous, Gwendolyn stared at the crimson streak marring Marigold’s rump.

  “Lass, we need to flee, and she canna carry ye.” He whipped Bran to the mare’s side. “Climb on behind me.”