“We’ll see him belowdecks and make sure he doesn’t sneak off.” The captain motioned to his men to fetch Roger.
“Thank you,” he murmured, although he doubted it was necessary. Roger wouldn’t attempt to leave the ship. He was nothing more than a bully. Spineless and desperate to feel in control, he wouldn’t dare return where Logan’s threat could become a reality. He’d stay on the ship and sail wherever she took him. He’d never return. Cleo and her family were free.
He turned and departed the ship, his boots thudding heavily on the ramp, his mind already moving ahead to when he might next see Cleo.
“This is rich!” Fiona crowed. “My brother, the darling of every lass within a league’s ride from McKinney, the very one likely to be found beneath a milkmaid’s skirts rather than about his chores, needs advice on wooing a lady?”
“Are you finished, Fiona?” Logan asked, already regretting asking Fiona for her input in winning over Cleo.
She waved a hand at him amid her riotous giggles.
“Fiona, dear, be kind,” Alexander chided. “Can’t you see he’s fond of this one?”
She gasped for breath. “Of course, of course. Forgive me, Logan.” She wiped tears of merriment from her eyes. “I’ll be serious. Especially as this one seems to have captured your fancy.”
He recalled the efforts he had taken to see that Cleo was happy . . . that her family was safe from her stepfather. Yes. She had more than captured his fancy. “I’d appreciate that.”
She nodded, adopting a more somber expression. “Yes, well . . . let me ask you, have you kissed her yet? Back home, every lass claimed your lips to be nectar of the gods.”
Tossing his napkin upon the table, he stood to leave the room.
“No, no, stop! Sit yourself back down.” She waved an imperious finger at his chair, again reminding him of their departed mother. “It’s a legitimate question.”
At her arched eyebrow, he admitted, “Aye, I’ve kissed her and she appeared to like it well enough, but she’s still determined to marry the old man.”
“Hmm.” Fiona tapped her lips. “If you can’t seduce her body, you’d best turn to her mind.”
He blinked. “Her mind?”
Fiona threw her toast in his direction. She always was a horrible aim. “Yes, you oaf. It’s that thing between your ears. Most women happen to possess one, too.”
“Oh, then just yours was left out at birth?” he returned.
Fiona continued blithely as if she hadn’t heard the barb. “Discover her interests, her hobbies, her favorite books . . . engage her on a different level.” Fiona’s gaze locked with his, all seriousness. “Persuade her. Convince her that she can’t have anyone else but you. Make the notion of any other man intolerable because no one but you will do. Make her believe no other man will care about her as you do.”
Leaning back in his chair, he brought his cup of steaming coffee to his lips, inhaling the chicory aroma and considering his sister’s words. He arched a brow at Alexander, silently inviting him to chime in.
“She’s right.” He smiled fondly at Fiona, plucking her hand off the table and kissing the back of it. “That’s the way it is between us.”
“Spare me,” Logan muttered, although the sight did twist something inside his gut. He was happy that his sister had found such contentment in her marriage, and he possibly wondered if he could find a measure of the same for himself.
And yet he was certain that Cleopatra Hadley was not a woman easily persuaded into anything. Especially now that he understood that fear for her family drove her. She’d settled on Thrumgoodie . . . believed him to be her salvation. It would not be easy to sway her from that notion . . . and he was not inclined to inform that he’d put her stepfather on a ship for South Africa. He didn’t want her coming to him out of gratitude. He wanted her to want him.
A groom arrived with a tray bearing several envelopes upon it. He set the tray down beside Fiona. With a smile, she took the envelopes and began perusing them, as she was accustomed to do during breakfast. In the years since she’d married, his sister seemed to have grown into herself. She actually appeared to enjoy her life here. Living in Town with all its diversions suited her.
“Ah, appears to be an invitation for you, Logan.” She tossed a letter in his direction. “You’re not a total pariah after all.”
Alexander chuckled and Fiona flashed him an approving smile.
With a grunt, Logan tore open the letter and scanned the elegantly worded missive.
“Well?” Fiona prompted.
“I’ve been invited to a house party.”
“My, my, you have made friends. I’ve underestimated you, Logan.”
“Mr. Hamilton requests the honor of my company . . .”
“And will you be going?”
“I think if a certain lady is in attendance . . . and I fully expect she will be . . . then I most certainly will be there.” Immediately he envisioned himself slipping into Cleo’s bedchamber in the dead of night and waking her with a heated kiss.
“Heaven help her,” Alexander murmured, shaking his head side to side. “If you’re anything like your sister, the chit doesn’t stand a chance.”
“Anything like me?” Fiona blinked. “Who do you think I learned it from?”
Logan gazed at the invitation in his hand, their voices fading to the background.
He didn’t care for Hamilton. Even if he hadn’t been so quick to malign Cleo that first evening at the opera, there was simply something in his eyes that Logan distrusted. And yet if she was there, he’d tolerate the fellow. It was a small thing for him to bear in order to win her. And what better venue than a house party to convince her she should choose him over old Thrumgoodie? Certainly he’d be able to steal her away for a private word. On multiple occasions. A slow smile curved his lips. Perhaps more than words would be exchanged.
What on earth am I doing here?
It was a question Cleo had asked herself again and again, too many times to recall at this point.
She’d been shocked initially to even garner an invitation to Hamilton’s estate . . . until she reminded herself that Hamilton strove to secure his grand-uncle’s blessing. And having her in attendance went far in pleasing Lord Thrumgoodie.
She might have felt more comfortable if Jack had accompanied her, but business kept him in Town. So she’d come alone, traveling with Libba and the earl. After Roger’s visit, she knew every day that she dallied her brothers and sisters suffered.
The carriage ride had been nothing short of a trial. She’d endured Libba waxing on and on about McKinney. Although he still hadn’t called upon her—apparently she hadn’t seen him at Lady Fordham’s ball—he had accepted the invitation to Hamilton’s house party. A fact that had filled Cleo with delight and dread. Confusing to be sure.
She had no desire to marry the man . . . as he’d outrageously offered. He was the complete antithesis of what she desired in a husband. His virility was overwhelming to her senses. If she married him she’d end up as broken as her mother. Not a year would pass before her belly swelled with child. An image of the babies she’d carried so solemnly to that lonely churchyard flashed through her mind. A shudder racked her. She couldn’t endure that. And the babies would be hers, so the misery would only be amplified. She couldn’t even fathom it.
One thing for certain, she refused to live it. No matter that for those few minutes in the garden and the library, she’d found herself at ease with him. Even comfortable and relaxed. Such peace could never last.
She glanced out at the horizon. Dusk approached, tingeing the sky a faint purple orange, and she began to hope that McKinney had changed his mind and decided not to attend.
“Can I get you anything, my lord?” she inquired from where she sat beside Thrumgoodie in a reclining chair.
His hands shook lightly where they w
ere folded in his lap over his blanketed legs. He seemed very different from the man she’d met almost a year ago. His energy was waning, and she suspected Libba had spoken the truth when she said her grandfather’s health was on the decline.
The wind blew softly, lifting the ends of her shawl. She pulled the soft pashmina closer around her and stared out at the figures dotting the lawn. The loud thwack of Libba’s mallet carried across the air. She crowed with delight, waving her arms in the air like she’d won some grand prize.
Thrumgoodie clapped his gnarled hands. His rheumy gaze swung to Cleo. “Looks to be a rousing game, indeed! Certain you don’t want to play, my dear? I won’t mind if you leave me for a bit. Not so long as you return soon.” He winked one rheumy eye.
She shook her head. “I’m quite content to sit here with you.” Safe from Hamilton’s probing gaze. There was a cunning behind his gaze that she didn’t trust. Her unease around him was only pronounced by being here beneath his very roof. She’d entered the enemy camp.
He reached for her hand. “You’re such a darling to keep an old man company as you do.”
She patted the back of his hand. “No hardship, my lord.”
“Sometimes I feel selfish keeping a young dove such as you to myself.” He looked wistful for a moment. “I’m no young buck anymore.” He motioned to the lawn. “You should be frolicking out there instead, with others your age.”
“But I want to be here.” She inhaled through her nose, adding on a gust of breath: “With you.”
Did he hear the hesitation in her voice?
He stared at her for a long moment and she felt as though he were deciding something, assessing her and then weighing something inside of himself.
She held her breath, sensing this moment was important . . . that her future and whether it rested with him was being decided. At least on his part.
His hold on her hand tightened, surprisingly strong for one so aged. “Cleopatra,” he began, stopping to cough and work his throat clear.
She nodded, a tightness closing around her throat. This was it.
He would ask for her hand now.
Her flesh grew tight and itchy. She blinked suddenly aching eyes. “Yes?”
Abruptly his gaze shifted, lifting to settle on something over her shoulder. “Ah, McKinney, my good man!” he exclaimed. “Was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it!”
Blast the man! Must he ruin everything? Without even a word he managed to thwart her. His mere presence did the trick.
She shot a fulminating glare over her shoulder at him. His eyes locked on her, the gray glittering with amusement, and she knew he knew. Not that his presence displeased her, although she was certain he knew that to be true. No. He knew that he had interrupted something important. He winked at her.
Infernal man! She fumed, not even aware of the words passing between the two men, entirely too irate that he had chosen this moment to arrive. And beneath her annoyance, was another emotion that equally disturbed her. Relief.
What was wrong with her? She was finally close to getting what she wanted.
She rose abruptly. “Pardon me. I’ll fetch us something to read from the library.”
“Ah, my dear, you’re such a solicitous creature.” He looked up at her. “Always thinking of others. Always concerned with my comfort.”
“A paragon,” McKinney murmured.
Her fists curled deeper into the fabric of her skirts. Those eyes continued to glitter at her. Emotion surged within her and she inhaled a calming breath, reminding herself that there was no reason McKinney should affect her whatsoever. He meant nothing to her. Truly.
She inched another step away. “A book sounds lovely, does it not?”
“Brilliant, my dear.” Thrumgoodie looked at McKinney again. “She has a lovely reading voice. You shall see. Sit. Stay.”
Like he was a lapdog to be commanded.
“I’m sure Lord McKinney would be far more interested in joining the game than listening to me read.” She motioned to the lawn where the others played.
McKinney looked out at the others then back to her. “I think I’d enjoy relaxing here with the both of you.”
“Lord McKinney!” Libba’s loud squeal carried over the air. Cleo sighed inwardly as she watched Libba lope across the lawn like a great anxious puppy, holding her skirts up in two hands to keep from tripping. “You made it!”
McKinney executed a sharp bow. “I couldn’t miss what promised to be a titillating event—especially with your lovely self in attendance.”
Empty flattery. How well he delivered it. Cleo looked away so no one would notice her rolling eyes. Silken-tongued devil. Just days ago he’d kissed her. Proposed to her. This moment only served to remind her to believe in nothing he said.
Apparently he’d arrived to press his suit on Libba. Her rejection must have woken him to the fact that he stood a better chance on landing Libba. He’d get nowhere with Cleo and well he knew it. If he needed an heiress—and quickly—Libba was the one to win.
It stung a little, she had to admit. That he could so quickly give up on her after vowing to want her, after those moments they shared in the library when he held and comforted her. He’d almost convinced her he cared for her. Further evidence that he wasn’t to be trusted.
“You must join us for croquet,” Libba gushed, clapping her hands merrily.
McKinney splayed a hand to his chest. “I confess to weariness from my journey. Perhaps tomorrow.”
“Do let the man sit down and partake of some refreshment before you sink your clutches into him, Libba.” Her grandfather shooed her away with a waving motion of his hand.
She pouted. “Very well. I shall let you relax, but later you shall be mine.” She wagged a finger playfully at him.
Cleo felt like retching.
McKinney inclined his head in seeming agreement. It was really too much. She couldn’t stomach it. Would she have to endure such tripe all week long? Oh, the misery.
Intent on escape now more than ever, she took a step toward the house. “I’ll be but a moment, my lord.”
“Of course, my dear. Take your time. Choose something you like, as well.”
Nodding, she could not stop her gaze from sliding to McKinney. His eyes were inscrutable as he watched her move away. She prayed he would not be here when she returned. She found it unlikely he wanted to listen to her read to the earl. Perhaps if she took her time, he’d be gone when she returned.
As she slipped inside and made her way into the library that was precisely her hope.
Chapter Twelve
Watching her leave, Logan was quite certain she would take Thrumgoodie’s advice to heart and dawdle in choosing a book . . . if for no other reason than to avoid him.
“She’s a fine one.” Thrumgoodie’s voice almost startled him from his musings. He glanced swiftly to the old man to see his gaze trained on where Miss Hadley had disappeared.
“Nothing silly about her. Not like so many of these women.” He waved his bent and crooked fingers toward the lawn where Libba and two other ladies played their game with the gentleman. “She’s lived a different sort of life before this. You can see it in her eyes. It makes all the difference.”
Logan would agree with that. She wasn’t vacuous or spoiled or vain. She loved others more than herself. She was willing to sacrifice herself for her family. Need for her tightened inside him.
Life in the Highlands wasn’t like life in Town. There weren’t the teas and vast entertainments. No operas and balls and shopping jaunts to Bond Street. But he did not suspect she would miss any of that. Heat unfurled in his gut. They could find other ways to divert themselves. He could see her at his side, helping him rebuild his castle, helping him tend to the crofter’s needs and assisting him in the care of his siblings.
He could especially see her in his bed in the l
ong, cold nights of winter—the fire from his fireplace gilding her skin as he sank himself between her thighs.
He blinked, swallowed, disturbed to find himself uncomfortably hard. Damn the lass. She did this to him and she wasn’t even within sight. At any rate, it was all a fantasy until he persuaded her to marry him.
“Too bad I happened upon her so late in life. If I were a younger man, I could be a real husband to her . . . instead of this . . . shell.” He punched a gnarled fist upon his blanket-covered thigh.
Logan blinked, startled at the old man’s bluntness, and not a little dismayed. It sounded as though Thrumgoodie had made up his mind and intended to marry Miss Hadley. He sounded so certain, in fact, that Logan wondered if they weren’t already betrothed. When he’d arrived, he’d felt as though he were interrupting an intimate moment between the two of them and felt only satisfaction in shattering their closeness. It never occurred to him that Thrumgoodie could have already proposed.
“I suppose I’ll get about the matter of proposing,” he continued. “Haven’t got too much time left. Not that I can get down on a knee these days, but I’ll manage. She accepts me as I am. A rare trait in a female, to be so accepting. And she’s exceedingly solicitous of my needs. More than anyone else . . . even the servants.”
Logan heaved a sigh of relief. He wasn’t too late then. But he best not dally. Thrumgoodie spoke as though a proposal was imminent.
Followed on the heels of this relief, he felt a surge of anger. Did she really wish to marry a man who regarded her as little more than a servant?
Thrumgoodie broke into his musings: “Have you ever been married?”
“No.”
“Well, think hard before you settle on someone . . . it’s not a decision to enter into lightly. Choose the female best capable of serving your needs.”
Logan grimaced. He made a wife sound like a slave to her husband. His mother had been a true partner to his father. She’d ruled their family like a general before and after his death. When his father left for the Crimea, his mother had been the one to put food on the table and oversee the crofter’s grievances. She was so much more than his father’s servant.