Dare to Love a Scot Page 2

  She had been tainted by the passion of a Scotsman.

  Shaking her head, she turned away from the window. She was being ridiculous. Lachy Dennehy most likely didn’t remember her at all. Prim hadn’t remembered him from the years she’d come to Ablehill castle, after Heather had married Erick, the Duke of Ablehill.

  Now she refused to ask about him, despite finding him shirtless in the stable, bathing himself at the water pump. She’d already given too much of herself to thoughts of him, so much so that she’d destroyed her own engagement to Adam St. Augustus, Viscount Peverel, a perfect man, if ever there was one.

  Errant thoughts of Lachy still made her feverish. How ironic that she would be returning to Ablehill, where her ruination had begun. They would reach it by nightfall, and Prim would have to endure more of her mother’s incessant hovering, never mind the pitying glances of everyone living in the castle.

  She would be suffocated by their concern, but Prim didn’t need it.

  She was free now, but she didn’t know where to go from here.

  What will become of me? What will become of Peverel? Had he somehow sensed the change in me?

  Cheeks flushed, Prim recalled the time she’d asked him to kiss her, and he’d refused. But something had come between them then, altering their path, and she wasn’t quite sure who deserved the blame.

  She’d bet her left arm Lachy would kiss any woman who asked him to, without hesitation, unless said woman was particularly distasteful. Would he kiss me if I asked? No, Prim scolded herself. She’d done enough damage already. She was not going to daydream about intimacies with a Scotsman when she would inevitably be in close proximity to him. It was unthinkable. She didn’t know him, and her reputation was already in tatters. The worst thing she could do now was have an affair with a clansman of no fortune.

  Chapter 3

  Lachy surveyed the land before him with pride. The coming week would see the first of the cattle delivered. He smiled at the setting sun and turned to climb into his cart and head home. He rubbed his thigh, the muscles sore but loose after a long day of work on his feet. Having been crushed by his felled horse during battle, he was lucky to have the leg at all—along with his life. The pain reminded him of his fate daily. His stomach rumbled as he trotted down the lane in the shadows of the trees lining the road to Ablehill Castle.

  Squinting at the road ahead, Lachy suddenly saw a black shape come over the rise of the hill. A carriage? He slowed and pulled his cart to the side of the narrow road, to wait for it to pass.

  As it lumbered closer, he recognized it as a hired carriage from Aberdeen. Curious now, he hummed softly as it came into view.

  “Oh, I lost me love to the sea when she floated down the river Dee. I pray she yet return to me, my dearest lover, bonny Emily…”

  Then the carriage slowed, and Lachy nodded to the coachman in greeting. “Aye, aye.”

  The lantern hanging on the side shed its light upon the glass. The carriage rolled on by him, but not before Lachy caught a glimpse of a pale face he knew far too well from his dreams. His gut clenched. “What hath hell brought back to me, ’tis my very own, bonny Emily,” he muttered.

  Primrose Everly.

  He hadn’t seen the other occupants of the carriage, but he doubted she’d be alone. He’d just flicked the reins back toward home when yet another carriage came over the crest of the hill. This one slowed, and then the duke stepped out.

  Lachy hopped down from his cart. “Your Grace, I had no idea you’d return so soon.”

  “There was an unexpected change, unfortunately,” the duke replied. “I will be in residence for a time with my family.”

  “You’ll be pleased to know the dairy is ready for operation.”

  The duke grinned. “I never doubted you, major. We can speak more tomorrow.”

  “Aye, Your Grace.”

  The carriage rolled on, and Lachy put his back to the castle. The air was colder now, and the hairs on his neck chilled and stiffened as he climbed into his cart and drove far away from the temptation that was Primrose Everly.

  Nary a day had passed without visions of her bonny face filling his head since their chance meeting in the stable. A grand impression he’d left her with—half naked, bathing himself at a water pump, like a proper savage. He would never forget her face as she’d devoured his bare chest with her gaze, how her lush pink lips had parted with surprise, her aquamarine eyes wide, absorbing what he would bet was her first glimpse of a man’s body.

  When he entered the quiet village, the only proof of life came from the tavern yard, where noisy patrons filtered in and out. It was the only building that still saw a modicum of use. The shops along the main street had shuttered one by one as his people turned to the larger town of Aberdeen for goods and work.

  Lachy pushed open the tavern door. The stench hit him like a wall, filling his nostrils with dirt, sweat, and stale beer. He shouldered his way through the mass of bodies, finally reaching the bar. Squeezing between two lads, he ordered his usual meat pie and beer. He turned around to find an open table, and there his uncle stood, arms folded, glaring at him.

  “Uncle, you look well,” Lachy said tentatively.

  The other man sneered. “I didna see you leave the ’ouse this morning.”

  “You wouldna seen an elephant march through your room, let alone me leave the ’ouse, you gin-soaked fart. If you don’t recall, I don’t even live there anymore.”

  Then Lachy brushed past his uncle and searched the room for a table to eat his meal.

  Everywhere he looked, patrons slumped over grimy, damp tables. It was enough to turn one’s stomach. He’d slept in dirt cleaner than this pub during the war.

  He turned back to the bar, and Polly handed over his plate and mug. He pushed his way back to the entrance, spilling half his ale by the time he’d made it to the cool fresh air outside. He sat on a stump by the door and set the pewter plate on his knee to eat.

  The evening air soothed his temper, but the sour taste in his mouth was due to his uncle’s scathing comments, which was why he’d accepted the duke’s offer to stay in a tenant cottage closer to the dairy. His uncle hadn’t forgiven him for joining the military, and he sought to remind him of it every damn morning.

  Lachy knew his uncle wouldn’t be deterred for long, however.

  The tavern door swung open then, a waft of rancid air with it, but it wasn’t his Uncle Bruce who paused at his side, but Shamus Duncan, the oldest living clansman in the village.

  He squatted beside Lachy, his bones creaking. The three strands of hair on his glaring white head floated back into place like feathers. Absurdly enough, Shamus sill had a magnificent mustache; it looked like inverted bull horns running from his nostrils to his chin.

  He smiled at Lachy, all gum except for one tooth.

  Lachy couldn’t remember how old the man was. To Lachy, he’d always been old. In fact, he looked exactly the same as Lachy remembered from his boyhood.

  “Shamus.”

  “Good to see you, boy. We been waitin' for you.”

  “Did Uncle Bruce send you out here to ply the guilt?”

  “Do you feel guilty? Even a wee bit?”

  Lachy took a swig of his ale, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Why should I? I had nothing to do with the castle being taken. It was more than fifty years ago.”

  “Eight and fifty, to be exact.”

  “Don’t you see how ridiculous that is? It was never mine, it was never me father’s—let it go, you old coot.”

  Shamus thumped Lachy’s knee with his feeble fist. “The castle belongs to Clan Dennehy, and you are the laird, whether you like it or not. You want to save the village, return it to its former glory and prosperity? This is how you do it—by claiming what is rightfully ours, and restoring the pride of the clan. To many of our people have left this land from rents too high to pay.”

  Lachy finished his ale and stood. “If the clan had any pride, the lot of you wouldn’t be jobless drunks.
You would pay your rents, and buy the new machinery to survive these changes to farming. You would have kept working the land, and kept the shops full with wool, along with other goods. But you refused to work with the old duke, and the earl before him, and the clan lost its tenet farms. You lost your way, and I’m telling you, the dairy is how we get it back. It’ll mean more jobs for people to fill, without expensive machinery, and more money to spend right here in our own village. Don’t you want your kin to move back?”

  Shamus pushed to stand. “Aye, Lachy. We all do. It’s why you must come and speak to the lads. We’ve gathered in the old smithy.”

  Lachy turned away and took his plate inside the tavern. It was mostly empty now.

  “They went that way.”

  Polly, the tavern owner’s daughter, nodded toward the door behind the bar.

  Lachy sighed. He didn’t want to face them, when not even one man would help him bring their people back to work the dairy. But maybe they would listen to reason if he tried one more time, now that they had gathered together. They wanted change, and he only needed to convince them of what that change could be.

  He left through the back of the tavern and crossed the dirt lot that connected to the old smithy shop. He could already hear the arguing escalating inside.

  Shamus met him at the door.

  “You move damn fast for your age. How old are you?”

  “I forgot long ago. It doesn’t really matter anymore.”

  Lachy snorted as he held the plank door open for Shamus.

  The room quieted as they entered, and Lachy could feel the glares tossed in his direction turning to disdain. A fire had been lit on the old forge, and a few lanterns hung. He inspected the brittle and warped walls of the barn. The place was little more than kindling now that Ewan, the old smithy, had died. His son had moved to Aberdeen to pick up his trade, only coming back to work for the duke.

  The duke was their only source of income. Don’t they understand that?

  His Uncle Bruce stepped forward then, thumbs in the waist of his pants, like he was the proud mayor of this lot of unwashed drunks.

  Lachy folded his arms and waited.

  “Glad you saw fit to join us. We have similar goals, and that is to return our village and clan to prosperity.”

  “You might try keeping a job first, and spending your money on more than drink.”

  “Watch your tongue, boy,” his uncle snapped.

  Shamus scowled and picked up a thick, leather-clad book from the work table. “Quit bickering, or I’ll tan both your hides.”

  All eyes followed the book. Lachy regarded it with derision. It was the source of all this misplaced clan pride.

  The Dennehy Legacy, his uncle called it.

  In Lachy’s mind, it was just a journal, the rantings of his bitter ancestors, but his uncle held it above his head and the crowd quieted, as if it contained the words of God.

  “Why am I here?” Lachy asked, his voice breaking the spell.

  “You’re here to listen, boy.”

  He moved to lean against the table. “To who, you? Go on, then.”

  “We don’t want no dairy here,” his uncle said, sneering.

  Lachy scoffed. “You don’t want jobs? Money? A thriving village?”

  “Not with the duke. We can take care of our own.”

  Lachy spit on the ground. “Is that what you call what you’ve been doing?”

  “Aye, boy. Now that the new duke is a bit more…open minded, he will hear our side.”

  Lachy chuckled. “You think he will give you the castle if you ask?”

  “Demand, is more like it.”

  Lachy pushed away from the table and addressed the room. “You’re all mad. You’ve no idea what the world is like outside this village. The clan is dead. The castle hasn’t belonged to a Dennehy in fifty-eight years. Look at yourselves. You’re dying, dirty, and alone. Your kin have left you. There was no work here, no reason to stay. Now there is. The dairy is finished, and your sons can return to work for good wages right here. We will have shops in the village again, children playing in the streets instead of starving stray dogs, a smithy, church on Sunday. That is what you want, isn’t it?”

  A mixed chorus of yeas and nays answered him.

  “Courage, lads!” his uncle bellowed.

  “How do you mean to take the castle? By force?” Lachy asked. “This isn’t the dark ages. You canna do that and not see the noose.”

  Silence answered him.

  “Will you offer to buy it?”

  Muffled grumbles.

  “Enough, Lachy,” his uncle said. “You shame them. These are simple men.”

  “Aye, and you’ve managed to rile them up and fill their heads with rubbish.”

  “’Tis not rubbish—”

  “It is,” Lachy interrupted, speaking over him. “There is no legal recourse for taking back the castle. It’s gone, Uncle. It’s gone.”

  “Will you ask?”

  Shamus’s voice stole into the silence.

  Lachy spun to face him.

  “Ask? Would you like me to ask for the moon, as well? Perhaps a mermaid, too?”

  “You’re our laird,” Shamus said. “The least you could do is ask for a price. The Earl of Cassell didn’t want the castle before long. Mayhap this duke will want to be rid of it for the same reasons at a fair price.”

  Lachy scrubbed his hands over his face. “What price is that? How many shillings you got?”

  “You’ve got it, not us,” his uncle retorted. “I’ve seen your ledgers. You’ve got a small fortune in a bank in London.”

  Lachy stilled. An angry flush swept up his neck and face. “I see you’ve been snooping through my things. You expect me to pay for the mistakes of my elders with me own hard-earned coin?”

  His uncle scowled and shoved the journal into Lachy’s chest. “Take this. Read it. And by God, remember who you are, and do at least that much for the clan. You may not care, but these men here, they still live and breathe as clansmen. You may have forgotten where you came from, fighting on foreign soil, making investments like you were some kind of gentleman, but a Dennehy you are, and the legacy ends with your blood.”

  Lachy wanted to throw the journal on the ground, but he couldn’t. It was the beating heart of the clan, no matter how useless it was. He turned his back on his uncle’s glare and left the barn, feeling the weight of those old, bowlegged men on his shoulders.

  He would have to carry them, because there was no one else left to do it.

  Chapter 4

  When Prim reached her room, she closed the door in Violet’s face. The strained silence at breakfast this morning had been difficult enough; she didn’t need her sister to also play nursemaid.

  But a simple door would not deter Violet. Nothing would, and it was only a moment before she marched right in, annoyed and red in the face.

  “I know I’m supposed to be understanding and sympathetic, but that was uncalled for, not to mention childish.”

  “Why are you following me?” Prim asked from her vanity.

  She wanted her nightgown and her bed; that was all. No more questions, no more comforting hand squeezes. What she needed most desperately was room to breathe.

  “Mother told me to watch over you.”

  “I’m not a child. I don’t need supervision.”

  “You’ve been through the worst—”

  “Stop, please,” Prim begged. “Stop hovering, stop comforting—just stop. I don’t need any of this. I was jilted, not widowed. We didn’t even love each other. We had nothing remotely close to what you and Weirick, or Heather and Erick have. So please stop treating me as though I’ve lost something important.”

  “Prim,” Violet said softly, her voiced hushed with a tone that said I’m sorry and I pity you at the same time.

  Prim fisted her hands on the vanity, her nails biting into her palms. “I just want to be alone.”

  Violet stood there a moment more, and then her shoulders d
rooped “I must confess I was happy at first. I never really liked him, and I wanted better for you.”

  “He’s a Viscount!” Prim retorted, confused as to why she was arguing to begin with.

  All she wanted was for her life to regain some of its prior normalcy, but her family insisted on treating her with kid gloves, just as they’d done all her life. She was being forced to play a role she no longer wanted—that of little sister, the baby, the pure, innocent one. Well, there’d been nothing pure about her thoughts of late, not when they drifted to Major Dennehy.

  “Not in status, Prim. I wanted you to find true love, as I and Heather have. But you were on a different path, and you changed into someone else when you met him.”

  Prim turned her head to the side, listening to her sister’s strained voice. She had changed, and yet her family wanted her to remain the exact same, just as she was before. But she couldn’t do that anymore. She couldn’t pretend she was happy with the path she’d set out on with Peverel.

  “Mother said… Well, it doesn’t matter now, but we had accepted that your relationship with Lord Peverel was likely more friendship than romance, but if you were happy with him, then that was all that mattered.”

  Prim swallowed with difficulty. Every truthful word pierced her heart. She’d wanted what Peverel had offered in the beginning, but then it hadn’t been enough. Now she didn’t know herself any more than her sisters or Peverel did, and she had no clue about what she wanted for her future.

  “I want you to have more, Prim. I want you to have everything you wish for. We are here for you, no matter what happens. Remember that. Things always happen for a reason. Just do whatever it is you need to do to be happy. Happiness is far more important than any title.”

  “Coming from a duchess, that statement reeks of hypocrisy.”

  Violet fisted her hands on her hips. “Had Weirick wanted me to follow him as he traveled as a prize fighter, I would have. And I have no doubt Heather would give up everything she has, as long as she still had Erick.”