Seductive Surrender (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 6) Read online

  “Three months? Is that time enough, Mr. Ferguson?”

  Odin’s toes. Probably not. Dare he risk longer?

  Hunching a shoulder, Dugall canted his head. “Mayhap six at the most. I’ve applied for a coveted position, and if selected, must depart at once.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Gwendolyn almost grinned in relief, but it wouldn’t do for him to think her too eager.

  To know she had someone knowledgeable she could pose questions to, someone who had her and her family’s interest at heart, eased her apprehension enormously.

  She couldn’t appear too eager or giddy. Or desperate.

  Why she should trust this Dugall Ferguson, she hadn’t the slightest notion. That he hadn’t reacted unpleasantly upon awakening, stuffed in the back of a cart like a bag of cracked corn, wasn’t reason enough alone to put her reliance in him.

  But what choice had she?

  Trundle up to Suttford and have the door slammed in their faces? Or worse, be chased off the property?

  They were the outsiders. What was that term? Sassenachs? But that referred to the English, didn’t it? That was one thing she shared with the Scots. No love for the English.

  Honestly, she couldn’t blame Suttford House’s current residents for being a bit miffed or put upon.

  Nonetheless, the law was on Gwendolyn’s side.

  Naturally, she possessed the documentation, proving Jeremiah’s birthright, and for certain those at Suttford must be aware of the validity of his claim.

  Still, the rag-mannered Scots she’d encountered so far possessed more forwardness and gall than an entire township of soft-spoken, deferential Southerners.

  She rather admired the Highlanders’ outspokenness and directness. No hidden meanings behind carefully chosen words.

  No, bless your heart, when what the person really meant was your gown is so gawd-awful ugly, naked barn rats wouldn’t make a nest of it if the temperature dipped below zero.

  Not a timid woman by any means, Gwendolyn didn’t know if she possessed the wherewithal to be outright demanding and rude if forced to advocate for Jeremiah at Suttford. She’d been raised to behave the opposite. Politeness at all cost.

  However, an intimidating, large man such as Dugall Ferguson . . .?

  Why, his size alone would have nearly every southern gentleman she knew shaking in his carefully polished boots and sweating into his fastidiously ironed and knotted neckcloth and monogrammed handkerchief.

  He knew best how to interact with his countrymen.

  His mannerisms would take a bit of getting used to, nonetheless. He’d already sworn in front of her. Something no man of her acquaintance in South Carolina would ever have done.

  “That’s not all, Miss McClintock.”

  She arched an incredulous brow and smothered the vulgarity tapping at her teeth. “Good heavenly days? There’s more?”

  Of course there was. Too much to hope anything about this adventure would be bump-free and easy-going.

  “Aye, I’m afraid so.” Mr. Ferguson rubbed his nape, picking his words with care. “Hollingsworth’s a . . . He’s no’ a respectable sort when it comes to the lasses. I’d like to request a chamber near yers so I can dissuade any impropriety on his part.”

  Curdled cream.

  That worry on top of everything else? What next?

  And she’d intended to put Mr. Ferguson on the opposite side of the house. Where she’d be less inclined to run into him constantly. And ogle his magnificent maleness. Covertly, of course.

  A southern lady would never be so indelicate as to openly admire a gentleman’s form.

  However, beneath her lashes, behind a fan, or gloved hand, stealing covert glimpses might be permitted as long as no one was privy to her ogling. Except me.

  Gwendolyn didn’t practice self-deception.

  Dugall Ferguson stirred her in a way no man ever had. Not even her first two betrothed, whom she’d truly adored. Maybe it was her age. Knowing she edged toward the end of her child-bearing years, and she’d never lain with a man, had her fabricating fanciful imaginings.

  She was certain the man gazing at her expectantly could teach her a thing or two about bed sport. Even if he was four years her junior—four and a half years, she reminded herself sternly.

  A man with his dashing, and slightly untamed looks, no doubt had lots of experience in that arena. He was probably the epitome of masculine prowess in the bedchamber.

  The notion disconcerted more than a little. More than it had any right to.

  Marshalling her wayward musings, she threaded her fingers through Bran’s coarse mane. “Why would you do all this for strangers? Foreigners not even from Scotland? Especially after my drivers ran you down?”

  “Honestly? My honor winna permit me to let ye and yer family walk into that lions’ den.” His rich-timbred chuckle, a low melodious sound that curled around her senses, earned him a droll smile. “Actually, a pit of vipers is more apt.”

  “Isn’t that doing it a bit brown? Surely they cannot be as awful as all that.” She hoped fervently they weren’t.

  “Aye, perhaps a mite, but make no mistake. Ye need me. Need my familiarity of our ways. Need a man capable of protecting ye and the children. I doubt ye’ll succeed without it, Gwenny lass.”

  The soft burr of his brogue pronouncing her name made her momentarily forget how inappropriate his addressing her thusly was.

  She had a feeling he was a man used to doing as he pleased. That the standard for decorous behavior amongst these Highlanders would prove to be infinitely different than the rigid constraints the gentleman she’d been surrounded by her entire life had shown.

  The notion thrilled more than it ought to.

  Gwendolyn gave a slight nod, acknowledging the logic of his words even as she silently rebelled against them. In the distance, the evening sky illumined dual craggy, round towers. In minutes they’d arrive at Suttford House.

  Her stomach flipped uncomfortably. She was as nervous as a longtail cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

  She hadn’t quite known what type of greeting to anticipate. But though she’d conjured all sorts of scenarios, a blatantly antagonistic one hadn’t topped her list of possibilities.

  “And what do you get if I accept your proposition, Mr. Ferguson? Until I examine Suttford’s ledgers, I cannot make a promise of wages.”

  What if the estate were struggling or insolvent? Mr. Christie said he would discuss the financial details with her after they’d arrived. A trifle odd, that. She was to write him at her convenience once they’d settled in.

  Mr. Ferguson considered her for a lengthy moment, his gorgeous eyes tender, yet acute.

  “Why dinna we call it an act of charitable kindness? The same sort ye showed me by not leavin’ me on the side of the road to die.” Splaying his hands across his broad chest, he grinned as if he’d hit upon the perfect solution, flawed as broken glass though his reasoning was. “In fact, I owe ye. I’m duty-bound to reciprocate for yer benevolence in savin’ my life.”

  What utter flim flam, and they both knew it. Besides, a mammoth brute like him wasn’t cocking up his toes from a knock on his impressive nog.

  “I don’t think you were ever in danger of dying, Mr. Ferguson,” she murmured, her tone smoother and dryer than chalk.

  He gave her a cocky wink. “We’ll never ken, will we?”

  Angling halfway around, he grimaced and tapped Mr. Todt on the back. “Please stop. I shall ride the rest of the way.”

  “And how do you presume I finish the journey?” She slanted her head toward the cart lumbering to a halt. “In that? I believe a more dignified entrance is required.”

  First impressions were important, and she’d not arrive at their new home jostling about in a wagon bed li
ke a cabbage. No one would take her seriously, much less respect her.

  She had an obligation to Markus and his children, and despite the responsibility having been thrust upon her, nullifying any plans she might’ve had for her future, she’d not fail in the task.

  Mr. Ferguson edged to the wagon’s foot. His face had gained a bit of color, but no one with eyes could mistake his less than stalwart health at the moment.

  “Why not ride in the coach?” he suggested, jabbing a pickle-sized thumb over his shoulder in the coach’s direction.

  He couldn’t know, of course. “The coach is packed with people and the luggage we transferred to make room for you in the wagon.”

  “That’s easily enough remedied.” Dugall released a piercing whistle, and the coach shuddered to a stop, too. “Murray, Dodd. Help Todt here move everything back into this wagon. Miss McClintock will ride in the coach the remainder of the way.”

  Aunt Barbara poked her head out the coach’s window. “Gwendolyn, Sugah? Why have we stopped? The chil’ren are asleep, and the Good Lord awillin’, I’d prefer them to remain that way until we reach our destination.”

  And who could blame her?

  Jeremiah and Julia were more spirited than a litter of kittens with an unattended knitting basket.

  “We’re almost to Suttford House, and I want to make a positive impression straightaway.” Gwendolyn made to swing her leg over the horse’s broad back then hesitated. She’d not present her raised bum for Mr. Ferguson’s and the drivers’ perusal. “Mr. Ferguson has recovered enough to ride, and I’ll take my seat inside the coach once more.”

  Mouth pursed and her gaze dubious, Aunt Barbara regarded him. “Are you certain, sir? Should you pass out and tumble from that huge horse, I won’t have my niece blamed because of your manly pride.”

  She clearly had wanted to say something less eloquent or complimentary.

  “Your concern is appreciated, madam, but I assure you, I am quite recovered.” He sounded every bit as lofty as the British lord who’d sailed from America with them.

  Was Mr. Ferguson well enough to sit a horse, or did male bravado and overconfidence prompt him? Stupid, that. Men did a great many imprudent, irrational, absurd things for honor and pride.

  Like fight idiotic duels they couldn’t possibly triumph in.

  Grief hammered her once more, and she crimped her mouth.

  Not. Now.

  Mr. Ferguson politely angled his head and gave Aunt Barbara a partial, yet unmistakably dismissive bow before raising his damaged hands to assist Gwendolyn.

  If she reacted the same way she had when she’d touched him earlier, she’d embarrass herself for certain. The first time, he’d been unaware of her powerful response, but now . . .

  No, not wise at all.

  “I’m perfectly capable of dismounting on my own.” If he’d find something to do with himself for a few moments.

  “I’m sure you are. However, Bran is unused to skirts, and I don’t want him to become skittish and risk you taking a tumble.” His gaze brushed her leg as it hugged the stallion’s side.

  Rags and ribbons.

  Her pulse hummed faster than bees in gardenia bushes. “I fear bearing my weight would cause your damaged hands pain.”

  A charming smile kicked his mouth up on one side despite his facial injuries. “I doubt you weigh enough to cause me any great discomfort.” He gave her a devilish wink. “I promise, lass, I can bear the burden for the few seconds it takes to assist you.”

  Why did everything he say seem so logical? She sounded like an ungrateful shrew for objecting. With a stiff nod, she laid her hands on his shoulders.

  And there went that zing, galloping from her toes to her earlobes, and everywhere in between.

  Oh my. Oh my.

  What great, bunching muscles he had. Lord have mercy, what would he look like shirtless?

  Her tummy quivered at the delicious concept.

  He chuckled as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. Probably did. Men like him had no shortage of women drooling over them.

  Biting the inside of her cheek, she stifled her automatic gasp when he circled her waist with his powerful hands and slowly—deliberately?—brushed her along the length of his front as he lowered her to the ground.

  His fingers flexed and spanned her waist for a moment longer than necessary. Had he felt the scorching current of desire sluicing her? How utterly mortifying.

  She veered him a peek beneath her lashes.

  A muscle ticked in his taut jaw, and carnal awareness deepened his hooded eyes.

  Ah, he wasn’t insusceptible either. The realization caused a sensation she’d long thought dormant to burrow dangerously deep in her middle. Deep enough it might take root.

  And that would never do.

  She’d been hurt enough for one lifetime. She’d never risk her heart again.

  Chapter 7

  Summoning a stiff smile, Gwendolyn stepped away, and with her emotions tamped back to where they belonged, she strode to the coach.

  The drivers made quick work of transferring her family’s belongings, and in a few moments, had resumed their seats. Surprisingly, with no grumbling or outward signs of objection. It seemed having a brawny man about was a deterrent to their usual surliness.

  Ten minutes later, they rounded a curve in the drive and Suttford House loomed before them. Mr. Ferguson hadn’t exaggerated when he said the place was a monstrosity. Dual towers paralleled a grand house—three, four, no, five stories tall. And those were the ones above ground.

  The front door gaped open, and a line of servants stood at attention while a handsome man near her age leaned insolently against the doorjamb.

  Mr. Hollingsworth, no doubt.

  Mr. Murray opened the carriage door as Mr. Ferguson dismounted.

  Mr. Ferguson came forward and extended his hand to assist first Gwendolyn, then Aunt Barbara, from the coach. Only then did he lift his raven head, his gaze colliding with the other man’s insolent glare.

  The Scot at the top of the stairs slowly straightened, disbelief stiffening his face into a death-sucking-a-sponge expression.

  Mr. Ferguson gave a minute, terse nod. “Hollingsworth.”

  “Ferguson? What the devil are ye doin’ here?” Hard, bitter lines scoring his cheeks, Hollingsworth scraped his caustic gaze over Mr. Ferguson.

  No friend there.

  The enmity between the men thrummed tangible and thick. Something else went on here or a pig’s rump wasn’t made of pork.

  Mr. Ferguson had failed to mention he and Hollingsworth had a hostile history. At first opportunity, Mr. Ferguson would be explaining himself as well as what caused the antagonism.

  “Take a tumble from yer horse?” Mr. Hollingsworth chuckled, as if he quite liked the idea.

  “Not quite.” Mr. Ferguson turned back to the coach to assist the others while the drivers and two footmen busied themselves unloading the wagon.

  The children and Kandie exited the conveyance, and Hollingsworth’s eyes sank into shrewd slits when they lit upon Jeremiah. Not angry exactly, but more assessing.

  The child half-hid behind Kandie’s ample hips, undoubtedly sensing the animosity speared in his direction.

  Julia did the same, but not before sticking her tongue out at Mr. Hollingsworth, and then ducking behind Kandie once more.

  “It’s all right chil’ren,” Kandie soothed, her usually jovial countenance furrowed and lips pursed as she nailed him with a Y’all mess with my lil’ uns, I’ll squash you like a June bug glare.

  Envisioning her thwacking Hollingsworth with a rolled-up newssheet or rolling pin, Gwendolyn’s lips twitched despite the tension permeating the air.

  “You ain’t got no call to be afeared, dumplin’s,” Kandie
murmured gently while tucking her wards close to her side and giving Mr. Hollingsworth another of her narrowed, black-eyed juju scowls. “Some peoples jus’ bent on bein’ ugly.”

  Tread carefully, Mr. Hollingsworth. You don’t want to stir that dear Negress’s wrath.

  Kandie’s grandmother had practiced voodoo, and even though Kandie hummed or sang gospel tunes almost constantly, every now and again, when something strange or unexplained occurred, Gwendolyn wondered if the sweet servant didn’t dabble in the dark art as well.

  Giving the children one final dismissive look, Hollingsworth’s attention gravitated to Gwendolyn. He examined her from her boots to her hair, then returning his perusal to her bosom. Acute interest gleamed in his eyes as an appreciative smile pulled his mouth to the side.

  Unlike when Mr. Ferguson ran his gaze over her, this Scot’s blatant approval did nothing for her woman’s pride. In fact, she barely suppressed a shudder and balled her hands, fighting the urge to cross her arms over her chest.

  Thank goodness, Mr. Ferguson had warned her about Mr. Hollingsworth and had offered to stay on at Suttford. Just knowing he’d be near brought a measure of reassurance.

  Still, she’d sleep with a loaded pistol beneath her pillow and make certain her self-appointed protector did indeed have a chamber assigned near hers. Preferably right next door or across the corridor. At least until Hollingsworth had departed the premises.

  Audacity in every step of his gleaming boots, Hollingsworth swaggered forward, his crooked smile causing the hair to raise to attention from her shoulders to wrists in a most unpleasant way.

  If he thought her ripe for the plucking, he was slow as molasses at Christmas.

  “Well, now,” he murmured while grazing his fingertips along his jaw. “This be a most pleasant surprise, indeed. Nae one mentioned the wee ones’ verra bonny governess be accompanyin’ them.”