A well-dressed, aristocratic scarecrow, he nearly corrected. But he did not. “I see. Then let me do all I can to convince you of my sincerity. I love and admire and esteem your niece, and I should be the happiest of men were you to honor me with her hand, but I will tell you, too, that I mean to have her to wife, whether you give your blessing or not. We are both of age. And this is Scotland. And”—he threw one last piece of fuel on the fire—“we are handfasted, and so engaged.”

They were not yet impressed. “Have you the backing of your family?”

This question, he had not expected, but he was equal to the moment. “I belong to an ancient and honorable family, Miss Murray, but my own name and my own character are all I can offer your niece. I hope that they are enough to secure your approval.”

“She’s a bastard.” The smaller of the two ladies thrust the accusation at him like a sword.

But he had weapons of his own—righteous anger and steadfast love. “Elspeth may be illegitimate, but bastardy is not a part of her character.” He worked to keep the steel from his voice. “And I will not have that word spoken in reference to her again. Do I make myself clear?”

In silence the sisters Murray looked at each other in silent communication before they turned to him.

“We could not give her to you if you felt otherwise, Mr. Cathcart.”

Relief slid slowly into his veins like a cool bath, calming him, and firming his resolve. “Then all that remains is for me to plight my troth to Elspeth. Where is she?”

Another long speaking look passed between the women before the older of the two spoke. “We’re afraid she’s gone, Mr. Cathcart. We are ashamed to say we drove her out, and can only hope that she is gone to her Aunt Ivers in Edinburgh.”

Well. Hamish withstood the blow with all the sanguinity he could muster. “Then I think, my dear aunts, that we had best get you two packed for Edinburgh.”

Chapter 23

Elspeth was tired and footsore by the time she made St. Andrew Square, for she had walked a long way past the next village before she had found a farmer’s dray heading for Edinburgh’s Grass Market. But her spirits were revived when Aunt Augusta opened the door herself.

“My darling girl!” She enveloped her in a tight, heartfelt embrace. “Oh, it is so lovely to have you back. We have so much to do. I am so very, very excited and pleased—” She took another look at Elspeth’s face. “But what is wrong? Where is Mr. Cathcart?”

“Gone to the devil for all I know—he did not deign to come. I left him with his betrothed.” Elspeth curbed her bitterness and firmed her resolve. “As for me, I’ve come to Edinburgh to be a wastrel, just like my father. Blood will out, the Aunts said, so here I am.”

Instead of gasping in shock as she might have expected, Lady Augusta broke into a smile so wide and bright, Elspeth might have put out her chilled hands to the warmth. “Bless them for being so stupidly missish.” Aunt Augusta clasped her hand to lead her upward to the drawing room. “Their loss is my gain. And your father was a wastrel only because he wasted his gifts—squandered on women of no character and wine of little distinction in the terrible grief of the loss of your mother. And you, my darling brave girl, will never do that.”

“I thank you for your enthusiastic and unwavering confidence, Aunt Augusta, but the unhappy truth of the matter is that I find myself in an awful pickle.”

“And by awful pickle,” that kind lady asked gently, “do you mean falling in love with Mr. Cathcart?”

It was a long moment before Elspeth trusted herself to speak clearly. “I suppose I do. More or less.” It was all so complicated and sad. She had thought she loved him, most fervently. But now she was angry as well as sad. “But before I can allow myself to love Mr. Hamish Cathcart, the man needs to be taught a lesson.”

“Oh, yes.” Lady Augusta clasped her hands together, as if in prayer. “How entirely delightful. I offer you my full and wickedly experienced assistance on the instant, for we must act quickly, at once!” She drew Elspeth to her in a fierce embrace. “Oh, I knew I should grow to love you, now more than ever before.” She clapped her hands together, immediately calling for the butler. “Reeves, call all the staff immediately. As my dearest Admiral Ivers would have said, pipe all hands to battle stations!”

Battle stations turned out to be a great deal more comfortable that Elspeth might have thought—she was bathed and coiffed and fed and dressed in a gown of cerulean blue silk that shimmered and whispered encouragement when she walked.

“Perfection,” Aunt Augusta decreed as her dresser put the finishing touches on Elspeth’s ensemble. “Pure, absolute perfection. Nothing more—her head bare and honest. Yes,”—she stood back to peruse Elspeth once more—“You’ll do perfectly.”

“Do for what, Aunt Augusta?”

“The occasion,” she answered, as if that explained anything. “Battle armor, as it were, though I should think it safe so say you have already won the war.”

“What war?”

Aunt Augusta favored her with that mischievous smile that carved dimples deep into her cheeks. “All in good time, my darling. And it is time”—she picked up her own silk skirts and proceeded to the door—“for us to go.”

“To where, pray, madam?

“To church.” She swept down the steps and into the waiting carriage.

“But it is a Thursday morning,” Elspeth objected. “Is there some holy day that I did not know existed?”

“There is indeed,” Aunt Augusta said with mischievous tartness. “Now get yourself into the carriage, and say not another word.”

They had not far to go, only around the corner onto George Street, headed for the high-clocked steeple of St. Andrew’s kirk.

He was waiting beneath the tall columned portico, her Mr. Hamish Cathcart, looking as tall and mischievous and Scots as ever she might have imagined.

Aunt Augusta took her elbow and urged her on.

Hamish just smiled.

He was dressed in the old style, in the distinct blue, red and green plaid of the Clan Cathcart tartan, with a sword hung at his side. He was breathtaking and impressive. And confusing.

And what was more confusing was the way Hamish offered her his hand, and wordlessly led her into the kirk, past the astonishing sight of the Aunts Murray, smiling wistfully and dabbing at their damp eyes with familiar worn lace-edged handkerchiefs.

Past the Countess of Inverness smiling contentedly. Past Aunt Augusta, who slipped into the pew with the countess, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

“Just as you are,” Aunt Augusta whispered, as Hamish swept Elspeth past on the way to the altar, where a rosy-cheeked rector peered down his glasses at her.

“We’re all assembled then?” the white-robed cleric asked. “Are we ready to begin?”

“Elspeth?” Hamish finally spoke. “Are we ready?”

“Nay.”

“Elspeth—”

“What of your Miss Lorimer and her brewery?” she demanded.

“A misunderstanding. A great, unnecessary misunderstanding that has delayed my making you my wife.”

“Nay. Not until you propose to me. Properly. On one knee before everyone and God, the way you ought to have done at the start.”

“I couldn’t have done so at the start, as I hardly knew you.”

“You know what I mean.” She held her ground. “I want a proper declaration of love from you, Hamish Cathcart. And I want it now, or we go no further.”

If anything, Hamish’s smile grew wider, spilling across his face with reckless abandon. “Then you shall have it. My darling Miss Otis,” he began, going down on the cold, slate floor on one bare knee. “I beg you to make me the happiest of men, by doing me the honor of accepting my unworthy proposal for your hand.”

It was a pretty enough start. But not enough. “Why?”

“Because without you, my life and my world would be a poorer place.”

Elspeth was about to object—this was no time for the man to talk of money—but she saw the mischievous twinkle in his eye, and knew he was teasing her. Which was a good sign, she thought. A person couldn’t tease someone who wasn’t their equal.

“Because I love you with all my heart and all my mind and all my soul, and I do not want to face another dawn of waking up without you.”

“That’s better.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Nay, it’s an aye.”

The rector cleared his throat and began, “Dearly beloved brethren, we are here gathered together in the sight of God, and in the face of His congregation to knit and join these parties together in the honorable estate of matrimony—”

Epilogue

He took her home to Cathcart Lodge, of course. There was nowhere else where she would feel so at home but in her native country. And yet the quiet lodge was still private enough that they would not have to see anyone from the village for a week if they so chose. And they did not so choose.

They chose to lie naked hour after hour in a soft, comfortable bed, with the windows wide open to the fragrant summer air. They made love through rainstorms and sun squalls, through chilly mornings and warm afternoons. They talked and ate and loved and rewrote her father’s book without ever leaving the bed.

And Elspeth had never, ever been happier. “Have I thanked you properly?”

“For what,” he asked, pulling her closer to lie atop his lovely naked chest.

“For making me write books, and marrying me, and making me so happy.”

“We make ourselves happy, my darling heart, when we are true to ourselves.” He kissed her forehead. “And it was really your Aunt Augusta who made you write books.”

“Aunt Augusta and, perhaps, the ghost of my father.”

“Pray don’t talk of fathers, my sweet, when I am intent upon ravishing his daughter.”

Elspeth felt her smile spread across her face until it became a laugh. “I think my father, of all men, would approve.”

“And I approve of his daughter, most heartily.”

“Love me, Hamish Cathcart. Give me another one of your lessons in kissing.”

He rolled her onto her back, and gave her that smile that said he would lead her into mischief. “Oh, Elspeth. Wouldn’t you prefer a lesson in a great deal more?”

She did. And she always would. It was in her blissfully tainted blood.


Acknowledgements

To my sisters of the pen, Christi Caldwell, Eva Devon, Anthea Lawson and Erica Ridley: what a pleasure it is to be included in your company.

And for Delilah Marvelle, whose generosity was the catalyst for this book.

More from Elizabeth Essex

Want to Read More from Elizabeth Essex?

Highland Brides

Mad for Love

Mad About the Marquess

Mad, Bad, and Dangerous to Marry

Mad Dogs and Englishwomen

The Haunting of Castle Keyvnor

Vexed

Dartmouth Brides

The Pursuit of Pleasure

A Sense of Sin

The Danger of Desire

Reckless Brides

Almost a Scandal

A Breath of Scandal

Scandal in the Night

The Scandal Before Christmas

After the Scandal

A Scandal to Remember


About the Author

Elizabeth Essex is the award-winning author of critically acclaimed historical romance including the Reckless Brides and her new Highland Brides series. Her books have been nominated for numerous awards, including the Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence, the Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award and Seal of Excellence Award, and RWA’s prestigious RITA Award. The Reckless Brides Series has also made Top-Ten lists from Romantic Times, The Romance Reviews and Affaire de Coeur Magazine, and Desert Isle Keeper status at All About Romance. Her fifth book, A BREATH OF SCANDAL, was awarded Best Historical in the Reader’s Crown 2013. When not rereading Jane Austen, mucking about in her garden or simply messing about with boats, Elizabeth can be always be found with her laptop, making up stories about heroes and heroines who live far more exciting lives than she. It wasn’t always so. Long before she ever set pen to paper, Elizabeth graduated from Hollins College with a BA in Classics and Art History, and then earned her MA in Nautical Archaeology from Texas A&M University. While she loved the life of an underwater archaeologist, she has found her true calling writing lush, lyrical historical romance full of passion, daring and adventure.

Elizabeth lives in Texas with her husband, the indispensable Mr. Essex, and her active and exuberant family in an old house filled to the brim with books.

Elizabeth loves to hear from readers, so please feel free to contact her at the following places: