Chapter Twelve

For the very first time in his life, Cam was speechless. This man, who had beaten his wife, then most likely pushed her down a flight of stairs to her death, wanted to offer for Bridget? He truly didn’t know whether to laugh at the man’s arrogance or ask him to step outside so he could pound him into the dirt.

Pretending ignorance about what Bridget had told him, he said, “Do you even know Lady Bridget? I have been with her the last few weeks, and your name has not come up.”

At least not in a way that makes me want to consider allowing you to continue to live, let alone marry my ward.

Davenport waved his hand. “Yes. Yes. We are old friends.” He winked at Cam, threatening the last bit of control he had.

“Care to elaborate, Davenport?”

The nitwit did not pick up on Cam’s obvious distaste. “My dear departed wife and Lady Bridget were schoolmates. The chit spent a lot of time at our house. I must say, she is quite easy on the eyes, if you know what I mean.”

Even if Cam had not known the story behind Lady Davenport and her death, he would dislike this man. He didn’t care for what he was suggesting, and his arrogance at assuming a marriage prize such as Bridget would be his for the taking was supercilious to the extreme. Deciding to have some fun with the man to indulge his dislike and desire to ruin him, Cam sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Tell me about this you know what I mean, because I am not quite sure to what you are referring.”

“Nothing untoward, you see, but it was obvious the chit had a fancy for me.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. I discouraged her, of course, considering I was happily married, but no doubt she would be pleased with my offer.” He straightened in his chair and hurried on. “Naturally, it is best if we keep this between us gentlemen. You know, get your permission, draw up the marriage contracts, and then I’ll propose to Bridget.”

“Lady Bridget.”

“Yes. Yes. It’s just that I know the girl so well and all…” He grinned again, reminding Cam of the devil himself. The only thing missing were horns and a pitchfork.

Blood pounded throughout Cam’s body. This cretin, this blackguard, knew precisely why he wanted the marriage contracts drawn up before he spoke to Bridget. There was no doubt in Cam’s mind that Bridget had made her dislike of the man obvious while he was married to Lady Davenport.

After the contracts were drawn up, it was legally binding, and Bridget would be hard-pressed to get out of it. At that moment, Cam decided to destroy the man. Crush him and leave him broken and ruined. ’Twas a much better solution than violence. And he would enjoy every minute of it. Excitement more than anger had his blood pounding.

Let the game begin.

It would seem odd if he agreed immediately, and he wanted to keep Davenport close by—keep your enemies close per Niccolò Machiavelli’s The Prince—so he had to pretend to take his offer seriously.

“What do you have to offer my ward?”

Davenport’s demeanor changed from jolly to serious. The man could tread the boards on Drury Lane if he so chose. “Since my late wife—God rest her soul—did not produce an heir, Bridget, er, that is, Lady Bridget, would be mother of the next Earl of Davenport.”

The man’s conceit was remarkable. “What else?”

“While I am not as wealthy as some, I do have sufficient funds to provide for my next countess.”

Cam nodded. “And?”

Davenport looked a bit taken aback. It appeared he had not been questioned so thoroughly when he’d married Minerva. Unfortunate for the girl.

“Naturally, while I don’t profess to love the gel, I have a fondness for her, and who knows where that will end?”

Cam almost spit out his drink, knowing precisely where “fondness” for his deceased wife had ended.

“You have given me something to think about, Davenport. Let me mull this over for a couple of weeks, and I’ll get back to you.”

Davenport’s eyes lit up at the idea of having Bridget. Sourness rose from Cam’s stomach into his throat. “One last thing. Until we settle this matter, it is best for you to avoid Lady Bridget. Keep it between us men, eh?”

“Yes. Yes. My thoughts exactly.” His enthusiasm for secrecy was sickening.

He didn’t want Bridget setting back his newly constructed plan by shoving Davenport into a river.

Shortly after Davenport’s startling request, Banfield rose and suggested they join the ladies. Cam made a beeline for Bridget, who was conversing with Lady Esther, Miss Lockhart—Cam shuddered—and Lady Forsythe, another widow well-known for constantly looking for someone to warm her bed.

“My lady, are you up for a stroll around the room?” He ignored the interest in Miss Lockhart’s and Lady Forsythe’s eyes. Bloody hell, he hated these house parties. He wouldn’t be surprised to find Lady Forsythe either lying in his bed when he returned to his room or tapping on his door after everyone was asleep.

Bridget stood and took his arm. Cam nodded to the three women and whisked Bridget away.

“You look like the cat who stole the cream. The only thing missing is your white mustache.” Bridget’s plump, kissable lips curved into a slight smile. Almost distracting him.

“Ah, I have news to convey.”

“Oh?” Curiosity twinkled in her eyes. “Do tell.”

“Lord Davenport has offered for your hand.”

Bridget sucked in a breath, came to a complete halt, and stared at him. “I don’t believe it.” Good grief, the poor girl looked as though she were about to swoon. Or march over to where Davenport stood and slam his bollocks with such force he ended up with them in his stomach.

He winced the image. “’Tis true, sweeting. He approached me after the ladies left and asked to be considered as a candidate for your hand.”

“That no-good… I can think of words, but I don’t want to shock you.”

Cam threw back his head and laughed. “You won’t shock me, I assure you, but in the event someone overhears you, perhaps you can keep them to yourself. But I am quite sure of the few choice words running around your head right now.”

“Did you punch him in the face? Break his jaw? Flatten him out? I didn’t hear any ruckus or the sound of furniture breaking.”

“Tsk, tsk, my dear Lady Bridget, such violence from a young lady.” When he noticed she was growing more and more agitated, he revealed his plan. “No. I did not do what needed to be done and beat the man right there. However, while he nattered on about what a prize he was, I came up with a plan to ruin him.”

Now Bridget smiled. “Pray tell.”

“I did not refuse his offer out of hand. I decided an easy way to have access to his finances—and therefore a way to destroy him—would be to pretend I considered his offer seriously.”

Bridget shook her head. “I understand what you’re trying to do, but I must admit I feel dirty just knowing that he thinks there would be a chance to marry me.” She shuddered and moved closer to Cam, as if needing his protection from her own thoughts.

“I have no right to call him out to avenge Lady Davenport’s death, therefore the best way to ruin the man is to wreak havoc with his finances. We will also start some rumors that will bring his honor into question.”

Bridget grinned. “I like it.”

He squeezed her hand where it rested on his arm. “I thought you would. You are a bloodthirsty little chit under that gentle lady veneer. Must be the Scottish in you.”

She dipped her head. “’Tis a gift, my lord.”

…

Bridget slowed her steps as she descended the staircase from her bedchamber to the front door. Although still a bit sore from her toss the day before, she was determined to go hunting with the men. However, should she encounter any of the ladies, she would have to find a potted plant to hide behind. The whispers and gossip about her attire would keep them busy for the rest of the house party. And probably until the start of the next Season. But she had no qualms about what the men thought. If they found her less than desirable, then so be it.

Once free of the house, she headed to the stables, where several men had already gathered. As she strode up to the group, Cam turned in her direction after Lord Banfield said something to him.

Cam’s brows rose, and he broke from the crowd and strode directly to her, taking her by the elbow and moving back to the house. “What the devil are you doing, Bridget?”

She attempted to pull her arm free, but he held tight. “I am going shooting.”

“In breeches?” The horror in his voice almost made her laugh.

She tugged again, to no avail. “Yes. I can neither ride sidesaddle nor shoot with skirts wrapped around my legs.”

“Which is precisely why hunting is not a ladies’ sport.” The words barely made it past his tightened jaw.

“It is this lady’s sport.”

He continued to drag her, despite her pulling back with her full weight. Good heavens, the man was strong. She was no dainty lady, having inherited her Scottish forefathers’ strong frame and bulk, but he moved her as if she weighed no more than a mere child.

“What are you doing?” She panted, trying to catch a breath as he got closer to the house.

“I am returning you to spend the day with the ladies, doing all the proper things ladies do at a house party.”

When he loosened his hold, she was able to break free from his grasp. “I have never been subjected to the horrors of a house party before, but from what I learned from Minerva and your sister, all ladies do is sit around and gossip while the men do all the fun things.”

Cam stared at her, the two of them facing each other, both glaring, hands on hips, upper bodies leaning forward. “Go back into the house, Bridget, and take off those breeches and pretend you are a lady.”

“You mean an English lady. This Scottish lady wishes to hunt.” Her hand itched with the desire to slap his arrogant face. That would show him how much of a lady she was. Isn’t that what ladies did when men took advantage of them?

He ran his fingers through his hair and turned in a circle. “Dammit, Bridget, you could get shot.”

Ah, was he weakening? “The idea is to shoot the birds, my lord, or do you need instructions on how these things are done?”

He glared at her. “It is dangerous.”

“I rarely miss a target.”

He stopped and narrowed his eyes. “I assume this is a ridiculous question, but have you hunted before?”

She rolled her eyes, thinking of all the times she and Alasdair Douglas had ventured out together, hunting game for the table and birds for sport. The stable master had been her friend and teacher as much as an estate employee. He’d taught her many things besides riding astride.

“Yes. I have hunted before.” She closed her eyes and spoke as if to a slow-witted child.

“As your guardian, I am responsible for your reputation.”

Bridget raised her chin in the air. “I disagree, my lord. I am responsible for my reputation, and I fail to see how wearing sensible hunting clothes and engaging in a sport I am fond of, and quite good at, would affect my precious reputation.”

“That’s because you are Scottish.”

“And you are a Sassenach!”

Silence reigned as they glared at each other. She had no intention of giving in. She was about to pull her hair out by the roots, this house party was so very boring. She’d been banned from the billiard room the night before and would love a Scotch whisky, but all she’d been offered since her arrival had been sherry and tea.

If this was English Society, then she would rather be done with it and wait until her twenty-third birthday and fulfill her dream to help unfortunate women.

To her amazement, Cam burst out laughing. “A Sassenach?”

“Yes. A typical Sassenach. You think you know what is best for everyone in the world. You took away our culture, our dress, and even our music. You killed our men, raped and abused our women and children, and drove thousands to leave the land they loved to migrate to Canada.”

Cam shook his head, his demeanor changing to a very serious mien. “Bridget, if you are speaking of Culloden and the aftermath, that was more than seventy years ago.”

“Scots have long memories.” She was stunned to feel her eyes fill with tears. She’d been drilled on the history of England and Scotland and told stories that a young girl should not hear. A Highlander who had moved south to the Lowlands, Douglas had lost both his grandfathers and other Clan members in the Battle of Culloden. And she was correct. Scots had long memories.

His expression softened, and she hoped he had not witnessed her tears. She blinked rapidly to keep them from falling and embarrassing herself.

“We are getting way off track here.”

Maybe another tactic would work. “I really want to hunt, Cam. I am good at it, and I enjoy it. My stable master, Douglas, taught me all the safety measures. For heaven’s sake, I grew up with a shotgun in my hand.”

“Very well. But the hunting today will be driven game, so it will not be necessary for you to wear breeches, since we will be standing in a line.”

“Very well.” She repeated his words and tone. “You are quite fond of compromise, my lord. If I agree to change into a riding habit—don’t raise your brows because I said I didn’t have one—then you will allow me to participate in the shoot?”

He studied her for a minute while she held her breath. As much as she hated the idea, she would not be permitted to shoot if Cam said no. The fact that men held such control over a woman’s life was precisely why she would never contemplate marriage. At least not to a man who considered her a possession to be moved about like a chess piece, rather than a partner.

“All right. You may join the hunt. I will wait here for you.”

“I will be quick, I promise.” She hurried off to change out of her very comfortable breeches into the ridiculous so-called riding habit that had so much skirt to cover her legs while on the saddle that she couldn’t wear it without tripping.

Fiona quickly changed her, smirking the entire time that she’d been forced out of her breeches. “I can hear you giggling under your breath,” Bridget said as her lady’s maid fastened the back of the habit.

“Oh, milady, I am laughing because I’ve never seen you bow to the wishes of a man before.”

Bridget stuck her nose up in the air. “I did not bow to his wishes; I merely compromised.” She gritted her teeth as the fastenings tightened. “Are you finished yet?”

“No need to badger me, milady. I am not the one who ordered you to change.”

“I was not ordered, and when we return to London I shall fire you.”

“Yes, milady.”

“No reference.”

“I would expect none.”

If Bridget had a sixpence for every time she threatened to fire Fiona, who was not only her lady’s maid but a friend as well, she need not wait for her father’s money.

Fiona patted her on the back. “There you are. All ready to show those men how shooting is done.”

Bridget scooped up the bottom of the gown and tossed it over her arm. “Yes. Wouldn’t that show Lord Arrogant a thing or two?” With a wide grin, she left Fiona and returned to the stables.

“I thought you changed your mind.” Cam stood in front of the stable, holding the reins to two horses.

“Not my mind, my lord, only my clothing.” Before she could take another step, he moved forward, grasped her around the waist, and lifted her to the horse.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, this saddle is so unsafe.” Unfamiliar with the thing, she was having a hard time balancing herself. “Cam, I tell you, I am likely to fall from this ridiculous contraption and kill myself.” She wavered on the saddle, gripping the horse’s mane to keep from sliding to the ground.

Cam studied her. “You have no idea how to ride sidesaddle, do you?”

“No. I told you that before. I have this bulky riding habit only because you told the modiste to have a ‘proper’ wardrobe made up.”

Cam ran his palm down his face. “All right. I have a solution. The other men have already left for the shooting grounds, so I’ll have your horse re-saddled and you can do your best to sit astride with your gown.”

It would not be easy to deal with all the fabric on the gown, but at least she wouldn’t have to worry about her very first house party ending in her funeral. “Excellent.”

He helped her down again, and he walked the horse to the stable, returning with another saddle.

Bridget turned from Cam, lifted the front of her skirt, bent to take hold of the back skirt, pulled it through her legs, and slipped it into the waistband, creating a very bulky, but at least practical garment.

Turning back, she smiled brightly at her cleverness, but her smile dropped when she saw the look on Cam’s face. She glanced down and noticed part of her left leg—a great part of her left leg—was showing. She quickly shifted the material to cover herself.

She raised her chin. “Are we ready?”

“Yes. Yes. We are ready.” He lifted her again, and she settled in.

He vaulted onto his horse, and they rode away from the stable to the hunting grounds.

The men were lined up in a row, guns at the ready. Beaters were busy driving the birds into the air. The smell of the woods and the sound of shotguns brought excited twinges to Bridget’s stomach.

No one seemed to pay her any attention as she slid from her saddle and quickly released the tucked-in fabric so the gown swirled around her feet.

They walked up to the line, where a footman handed Cam a shotgun. When he continued to watch the men shoot, Bridget said, “Sir, I would like a gun, please.”

The annoying man looked at Cam with raised brows.

“Yes. Please give the lady a weapon.”

The footman fumbled to ready another shotgun and handed it to her.

She was so angry she felt like shooting the man. If she did nothing else for the rest of her life besides helping women, it would be to see women treated like adults, not children.

Cam leaned in close. “Calm down, sweeting, and unruffle your feathers.”

Apparently her angst was visible on her face. Ignoring him, she took her place next to Mr. Connor-Smythe and raised her gun. The beater moved to a new area of the bushes, and within seconds, birds flew into the air.

Bridget took aim, squeezed the trigger, and brought down a nice-sized partridge. With a smug look, she turned to Cam, who grinned and gave her a slight salute. “Well done, Lady Bridget.”

She wished she didn’t feel so warmed by his praise.