Secrets to Seducing a Scot

TWENTY-THREE

Scottish weather was nothing if not mercurial. As evening approached, the Highlands had tired of the beautiful cloudless skies. Gray clouds gathered from the east, blotting out the light of the setting sun. In no time, a storm exploded over Copperleaf Manor, blackening the prospect from the windows.

The prospect over the dinner table had been just as stormy. While Archer regaled them with stories of the most scandalous murders, political events, and on-dits, Malcolm ate his dinner in stony silence. Even a chuckle at Archer’s witty comments would earn Serena a thunderous look from Malcolm. She was happiest when her father took the lead in the conversation, relating the growing civil unrest in Scotland since they’d arrived. In true journalistic fashion, Archer asked many questions, and Serena was wise enough to keep her mouth closed.

Sitting in her bedchamber that evening, Serena considered the man who slept just beyond the flowered wallpaper. Thunder rattled the windowpanes, and still she believed there was far more turbulence inside her room than outside the house.

Malcolm had been dutiful in following her at all times, but she wished more than anything for distance between them. They had had only one exchange since their argument that morning, and it occurred shortly after the gentlemen retired to the library for port and cigars. He cornered her in the hall before she joined Rachel and Zoe in the sitting room.

“Just tell me one thing,” he had said. “Was Archer Weston one of yer lovers?”

A shamed blush zoomed up her face. It was clear now that he knew her to be a sullied woman.

She swallowed hard before she answered. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “There has been only one.”

“And was it he?”

The truth somehow made her feel like a reprobate. “No. It was not Archer.”

“Good. Because if it had been, I would have—” His jaw tightened and his fist curled, but he didn’t finish that sentence.

The rest of the evening dragged by, and she was glad when everyone decided to retire. Now, sitting in her room, her cocoa growing cold in the pot, she wished Malcolm would come through the secret door and give her a chance to explain, or at least to claim her for his own. But as the clock on the mantel struck midnight, Serena began to believe that the wild Scot was just too untamable for her. Perhaps it was best, after all, to embrace Archer Weston as a possible suitor instead.

There was no reason for her to feel downcast. She liked Archer, and they were ideally suited to each other. Even her father thought so. But somehow, the idea of a lifetime without Malcolm filled her with utter desolation. Still, perhaps it was better for her to return to her familiar life in London, and Malcolm to remain where he belonged—in the Highlands.

Her father should be told. In light of their earlier conversation, she would have to inform him that she had changed her mind about choosing Malcolm. She sighed. Better sooner than later. If Archer decided to talk to her father over breakfast to ask permission to court her, she didn’t want her father to give Archer the impression that she was not open to his suit. As she put on her dressing gown and slippers, she thought about how she would tell her father that she would choose Archer. But somehow, the words didn’t seem to come.

She walked down the long hall toward Earlington’s bedchamber, and knocked on the door. There was no answer.

Poor man. The hour was late, and he had been tired. He was probably fast asleep. She shook her head, and decided she’d better wait until the morning to talk to him.

But as she started back toward her room, a powerful sense of foreboding slammed against her. Silence from a sickly man portends all sorts of disaster. She had to make sure he was all right.

She returned to the door and knocked a little louder. “Father? Are you awake?”

Nothing.

She tried the doorknob, and it turned. But the door wouldn’t open.

“Father?” Her voice grew alarmed as she shoved against it with all her might. Something on the floor inside the room kept the door from opening.

One more push opened the door enough for her to get through. She sidled through the jammed doorway, and nearly tripped over the body on the floor.

“Oh, no!” she cried as she knelt down beside the form. “Dear God, please don’t take him yet!”

But it was not her father’s body after all. It was his mattress.

“Father!” she cried while looking around the room, trying her best to see in the utter darkness. She groped her way to the night table, upon which stood a candle. With trembling fingers, she searched for the tinderbox and lit the candle.

A soft glow radiated from the single wick, but it was enough to see by. There had been a scuffle. The doors to his wardrobe were open, his writing desk was overturned, and the ewer and basin lay in pieces on the floor. The window was wide open, and rain fell inward onto the carpet. But her father was gone.

Serena screamed.

Within seconds Malcolm came to the door. He rammed his shoulder against the obstructed door, overturning the mattress.

He took her in his arms and looked her up and down. “Are ye hurt?”

Tears were streaming from her eyes. “My father … he’s gone!”

Malcolm’s eyes tore around the room. He flew to the open window and shoved his head through the pelting rain. “There’s a ladder wedged up below the window.”

Serena crumbled in a heap to the floor, sobs racking her body.

Malcolm raced to her side. He righted the desk chair and placed Serena upon it. “Look at me, Serena. Look at me!” He gazed intently into her watery eyes. “We will find him. I swear it.”

Serena met his gaze, and she seized the tenuous hope he offered her. She couldn’t speak, so she nodded instead.

Within minutes, the entire household was roused. Malcolm assembled the male servants and organized a search party. Mrs. Walker sat Serena down in the hall and wrapped a shawl and an encouraging arm around her.

Lord Askey scratched out a note to the local magistrate. He then penned a letter to the Prince Regent. Rachel shepherded Zoe and the infant Annabella into the nursery, and reinforced the windows and doors.

Armed with guns and lanterns, the search party headed out the door. Although the heavy rain would have obliterated any tracks and the darkness of night hindered their sight, they set out to cover the surrounding acreage as best they could. Malcolm ordered his horse saddled, strapped on his holster, and headed for the door.

Archer stopped him at the doorway, outside the curtain of rain. “Mr. Slayter! Shouldn’t I go with you?”

Malcolm turned his horse around. “Here,” he said, tossing him a second pistol from the waistband of his trews. “Use it to protect Miss Marsh. That’s yer job now. If anything happens to her …” Roiling thunder echoed behind him. “Turn the weapon on yerself.”

He dug his heels into Old Man’s flanks, and was off.



“It’s gone two in the morning, miss.” Gabby picked up Serena’s untouched glass of whiskey from the dining room table. “Go back to bed. I’ll wake ye when the men return.”

Archer put a reassuring hand on hers. “Mrs. Walker is right, Serena. Get some rest.”

Serena put her elbows on the dining room table and buried her forehead in her hands. Her hands trembled. “I’ll sleep when my father is safe and sound back in his own bed.”

“As ye wish.” Gabby went back to the window and looked out into the empty night.

A few moments later, Serena heard a stifled sob from Gabby’s direction.

“Mrs. Walker?” Serena went to stand beside her. “Are you weeping?”

The copper-haired lady wiped her face with the end of her pinafore. “I canna help it. The thoughts that go through m’head frighten me.”

Serena embraced the slender lady. “I fear for him, too. God only knows what those abductors have done to him. Just the shock alone … he has a weak heart.” Though she had already soaked two handkerchiefs, she felt tears welling up all over again.

“But he has a good heart, miss. His work canna be for naught. I firmly believe that he that’s born to be hanged will never be drowned.”

“What?” Serena looked aghast.

“It’s just a saying … yer father is a great man, and he will yet do great things. He is not fated to be done for in this way.”

Serena wanted to believe the distraught housekeeper. But she was too afraid of the present circumstances to put on a false bravado. Serena handed her the glass of whiskey.

Gabby downed it in one swallow. “’Tis good to dread the worst, as the old Scots saying goes, for the best will be all the more welcome.”

Serena nodded. “Agreed. But let’s have no more talk of hanging or drowning, shall we? Let’s consider how we shall celebrate when he is returned.”

A few moments later, they heard the front door open. Serena and Gabby flew to the hall with soaring expectations. But the look on the men’s faces told a sadder tale.

One by one, the servants lumbered in, soaked to the skin and dragging their weapons behind them. Rain puddled on the floor from their clothes, and mud smeared their tracks. Malcolm was the last to come through the door, his woolen shirt plastered to his skin, and his hair dripping down his face.

He walked up to Serena. “We can do nothing more tonight. The darkness deceives us, and the rain keeps extinguishing our lanterns. We’ll set out again at daylight.”

Her heart turned into a gaping hole. She wanted to say thank you to Malcolm for all he had done, but all she could manage was a sob. Malcolm took her into his arms and embraced her tightly.

The freezing rainwater from his clothes soaked into the front of her dress, but she didn’t care one bit. Nothing could erase the heartache she felt, but Malcolm’s soothing presence was like a sanctuary from the pain.

Archer came up behind her.

Malcolm exhaled deeply, Serena still clinging to him. “Thank ye, Mr. Weston. I’ll look after her tonight. You go and get some sleep. There will be much to do in the morning.”

Numbly, Serena let Malcolm walk her to her room. He sat her on the bed, lit a candle, took off her slippers, and lay her down on the bed. Tenderly, he stroked her hair before slipping through his secret door.

Serena lay awake on her bed for several minutes. Her whole world had been shattered, and she had no idea how to piece it back together again. But when Malcolm walked out of the room, he left a void she could not bear.

“Malcolm?” she whispered.

The secret door opened, and Malcolm was standing in her room. He had changed to dry trousers, and had shuffled off his wet shirt.

She sat up in bed, wanting to say something but completely unable to. Silently, he padded over to her bed, lay down next to her, and enfolded her in his bare arms until they both fell into a restless sleep.