CHAPTER TWELVE

 

 

“Well, ye’ve done it this time, son.” Angus MacPherson cuffed Alexander’s neck as he’d done since he and his brothers were wee lads. “Damned shame. She’d have made a bonnie bride.”

Alexander scowled at the door leading from the dining room to the kitchen. It still reverberated from her slam. “All I said was that she could leave after the bairn is born, so long as she leaves it with me.”

“Aye. Probably sounded better in yer head, eh?”

“I wasnae serious, Da.” He raked a hand through his hair and drank his tea. Sabella made the best damned tea he’d ever tasted. Her bacon was also excellent. “I need more time with her. If I can persuade her to stay for short while, I can use the momentum to carry us into a long while. Then gravity takes over.”

Angus patted his shoulder and took a bite of his eggs. “Let Nora talk to her. She’s been practicing puttin’ up with my nonsense of late. Ladies like to commiserate over how daft their men are. Gives ’em a wee sense of accomplishment to boast about how they’ve managed not to kill us.”

Nora was Eleanora Baird, a dressmaker from Inverness with whom Angus had been carrying on a torrid courtship over the past year. Angus hadn’t yet convinced Nora to marry him, which meant he had little to offer in terms of bride wooing strategies. But Alexander had hoped inviting them to breakfast might apply pressure to Sabella.

It had, but things hadn’t gone as well as he’d planned.

“Mayhap ye shouldnae have said aught about takin’ her virginity,” said Da.

“How else were ye meant to find out?”

“And mayhap ye could inform the lass that ye want to marry her whether there’s a bairn or no.”

Alexander shook his head. “Because that’s worked so well for you.”

Angus glowered and downed his tea. “Could use some whisky.”

Munching his crisp, salty bacon, Alexander brooded on what had gone wrong. He’d applied pressure in the right places, he thought. Sabella was from a genteel background. She wouldn’t want to be seen as having broken society’s rules. Therefore, he’d brought in two people whose good opinion she might value, Angus and Nora. He’d added pressure by revealing the reason Sabella must marry him. Then he’d offered a vent, as one must do in a piping system, by telling her a wee fib. There was no way in holy hell he’d let her birth their bairn then leave. But she liked having her goals defined by a schedule, and he thought it would help her justify the commitment.

It hadn’t. She’d dumped his eggs in his lap and stormed off to the kitchen.

“Look, son,” said Da as he pushed his plate away. “I ken how it pains ye not to have her.”

Alexander gritted his teeth and nodded. It did pain him. Angus knew better than anyone. Better than Campbell or Broderick, even. Alexander was the brother most like their da. A bit quieter with his bluster, perhaps, and his temper burned cold instead of hot. But they were similarly calculating, similarly ruthless, similarly made.

Angus cuffed his nape again and gave him a shake. “She’s yers. Of course ye wanted to claim her as soon as ye recognized her. But if we go about turnin’ lasses into wives the first day we clap eyes on ’em, everyone’ll think we’re as mad as Mrs. MacBean.”

Alexander grunted his agreement. “Like ye did with Lillias, eh?” Angus had offered marriage to Annie’s mother within an hour of meeting her. As a widow with a wee daughter to feed, she’d agreed to wed the giant with four sons who “needed civilizin’.”

Angus nodded. “MacPherson males ken sooner than the lasses do. It’s how we’re built.”

“Except Rannoch.”

“Aye.” A father’s sigh. “Except Rannoch. It’ll hit him harder for the delay. No help for that. Lad’s goin’ to suffer. But our problem isnae blindness. It’s seein’ too clearly and too soon. Ye cannae just take a lass and keep her under yer roof, son, even if she belongs to ye. She has to be won.”

“Fine. But how?” He gestured to the eggy mess on the carpet after her fit of pique.

“She liked ye well enough to let ye bed her once. That’s encouragin’.”

He shrugged.

“Ye could try askin’ her what she wants.”

“She wants to gut me like a trout.”

“Aye. What I meant was, ask her what she wants in exchange for weddin’ ye. That’s how I persuaded yer mam to wed me after I broke Ewan Wylie’s jaw. She was also in a guttin’ mood.”

Alexander quirked a smile. Ewan Wylie had been a rival for Mam’s affections, and Angus had nearly killed the man twice. “What did ye promise her?”

“That I wouldnae kill him. Said he’d be important someday. Yer mam had her visions, ye ken. I also promised that each of our bairns would have land. And that she wouldnae have to tend the laundry.”

Come to think of it, he didn’t recall Muriel MacPherson ever washing laundry. Angus had always hired a laundress. Perhaps Alexander could offer a similar arrangement to Sabella.

“What have ye offered Nora?” asked Alexander.

Angus’s glower deepened. “I bought her a shop here in Glenscannadoo, but she’s reluctant. Says she doesnae want to split her attention away from her shop in Inverness.”

“Understandable.”

“Nae, it bluidy isnae!” he growled. “Stubborn woman willnae listen. She willnae wed me. She says she likes her life and doesnae wish to upend everythin’ she’s worked for. Truth is she doesnae wish to be beholden to me because she fears I’ll use the new shop to force her hand.”

“Which ye would.”

“Of course I would! I’m nae daft.”

Alexander nodded. “Female nonsense drives a man straight to the whisky bottle.”

“Aye.” Angus shoved his plate away. “Speakin’ of which, I’m thirsty.”

“Sorry, Da. I’ve none here.”

Da peered at him like he’d suddenly sprouted a pig’s nose. “No whisky. In your house. None, Alexander?”

“There’s cider. It’s the weaker stuff, though.”

Wiping a big, gnarled hand down his face, Angus muttered, “Weak cider. Bluidy hell. ’Tis worse than I thought.”

Alexander poured himself more tea.

Da leaned forward and braced his elbows on the table. “Listen to me, son. Ye must wed the lass.”

“That’s what I’ve been sayin’.”

“Offer her whatever she wants. Anythin’. Give her a horse.”

“I dinnae ken if she wants one.”

“Doesnae matter. A lass needs a horse. Or a donkey if she prefers. I noticed she’s wearin’ naught but yer shirt and plaid. Offer her gowns.”

Part of him hated that idea. If she had gowns, she’d stop wearing his shirts next to her skin. She’d stop wrapping herself in his plaid and pottering about like a Highland wife.

“I ken what ye’re thinkin’,” said Da. “She’ll stop wearin’ yer plaid, and that twists yer ballocks. Dinnae fash. Once she’s past the guttin’-ye-like-a-trout phase, she might surprise ye.”

 

 

Sabella’s cleaver sailed through the tenderloin with heaving force and buried itself in the carving board. She yanked it free and took another swing. “He thinks I’ll wed him?” Thunk. “Think again, ye blackhearted, oversized clodpate.” Thunk.

“A smaller blade might work better for that cut, dear.” Eleanora Baird was a lovely, elegant woman with white-threaded blonde hair, a gentle mien, gracious manners, and a soft Lowland inflection that reminded Sabella of her former home. “The cow is dead and won’t ken the difference. But yer meat will be tough if ye don’t trim off that whitish skin on the top, there. Also, ye can portion twelve steaks rather than four if ye’re a bit more precise.”

Sabella paused to wipe her forehead with her wrist. Breath heaving, she laid the cleaver down and nodded. “My thanks. I’m not very good at cookery.”

“Oh, I think ye’re doin’ well,” said Nora with a bright smile. “Ye’ve been here, what? A fortnight?”

“A wee bit longer, but aye.”

“Yer eggs and bacon are as good as any I’ve had. And yer tea is superb.” Nora raised her cup and took a savoring sip.

Some of Sabella’s tension eased into a small smile. “You’re too kind.” She selected a smaller, thinner knife and started removing the whitish layer from the tenderloin. She’d never bothered before, which might explain why her meat kept coming out tough.

As Nora sat sipping, she carried on discussing the best fabrics for a “fine evening dress” one could wear for a wedding. “I’ve an exquisite silk crepe in precisely the green of yer eyes. A bit of lace would make it perfect.”

“I can’t marry him. He’s insufferable.”

Nora nodded. “I ken. Alexander is very much like his father—uncivilized.”

“Barbaric and rude.”

“Bellowing and unreasonable.”

“He accused me of being another man’s mistress. Me!” Sabella sliced beneath the skin then ripped the tough membrane free with a furious yank. “He implied I would sell myself for gowns and jewels.” Slice. Yank. “Not cheap ones, mind. Only the finest for this harlot!”

“’Tis a wonder ye haven’t killed him in his sleep, dear.”

“Oh, it was tempting, believe me.”

Nora hummed her agreement and sipped her tea.

“He presumed my rampant harlotry based on a single drunken interlude with a Frenchman. I should never have told him.”

“Frenchman?”

“I don’t even know if Henri is a duc now. He might still be a comte. He might already have a wife. Yet, Alexander will not stop griping about me traveling to Paris and marrying a duke.”

“Do ye intend to travel to Paris?”

Sabella set down her knife and calmed her breathing. “I did.”

Nora’s voice softened. “Did ye intend to wed a duke?”

“What else was I meant to do?” She gestured to the roughly hacked tenderloin. “Earn my way with my butchery skills? I come from a noble bloodline, Mrs. Baird. My worth lies in that inheritance and the value it brings to my husband.” These words were etched in her bones after so many years of repetition. The first time Kenneth said them to her, she’d sat shivering beneath his coat, trying to understand why a bloodline mattered to two starving orphans. She’d been seven at the time, and a fourteen-year-old Kenneth had nearly lost his fingers to frostbite so she could stay warm.

“Please, call me Nora,” the older woman corrected gently. “And ye’re more than a bloodline, lass. Yer worth is inherent, not inherited.”

Sabella shook her head, her throat tight. “Alexander seems to think my worth lies in selling my womanly favors to the highest bidder. He assumed I’d already done so.”

Nora smiled. “He kens better now, aye?”

Cheeks heating at the reference to his mortifying announcement about taking her virginity, Sabella busied herself with placing the meat scraps into a pot for making broth later. “Rude, uncivilized beast.”

“I’m afraid I can’t fashion a silk gown before tomorrow,” said the kindly dressmaker, “but I can work with yer plaid and petticoats to make something lovely for yer wedding.”

Sabella blinked. “Wedding? Perhaps I haven’t been clear. I’m not marrying that oversized oaf.”

Nora glanced pointedly at Sabella’s abdomen. “A bairn might have something to say about that.”

“It’s only happened once.”

“If he’s anything like his father, then it won’t be once for long.” She took a wry sip of tea.

Sabella raised her chin. “Perhaps you should be forced to wed Angus, then.”

An amused, maternal smile. “I’m a grandmother, dear.” She didn’t look like a grandmother. Eleanora Baird had two grown daughters, so she must be above forty, but her face was free of telltale creases, making her appear closer to thirty. “My days of birthing bairns are over.”

“Nothing is certain,” Sabella said. “I shall go to live at Rowan House.”

“And Alexander will find ye there.”

Why did her belly swoop at the thought? “He infuriates me. I can resist him.”

“That’s what we all say.”

“I shall wait and see. I don’t have to marry him yet.”

The older woman set down her teacup with a dainty clink. “Alexander invited me and his father to breakfast a day after you refused his offer of marriage.”

Sabella frowned. “Aye.”

“He then declared ye ruined and demanded marriage again.”

A deeper frown. “Aye. He’s maddening.”

“He’s desperate. If ye wed him now, you can set the conditions for the marriage. If ye wait until ye’re certain there’s a necessity, the advantage goes to him.”

“You’re saying I should surrender early in exchange for better terms.”

“I’m saying ye should claim the victory he’s handing ye and settle yer new territory more to yer liking.”

When she put it that way, it didn’t sound nearly so intolerable. A victory over Alexander MacPherson would be deeply satisfying.

An hour after Angus and Nora departed, Sabella was washing up in the scullery when she heard swishing. Swick-shh. Swick-shh. She dried her hands and glanced out the window to find Gavin MacDonnell in the drying yard.

He was scything.

Her nape prickled. A tiny shiver chased across her skin.

Alexander had followed through on his promise. Perhaps he could be reasoned with; perhaps she could gain more concessions simply by asking.

But victory would come with a cost. She’d have to marry him.

“Enjoyin’ the view, Duchess?”

She turned to find him leaning in the doorway, black eyes flashing with volatile heat. She threw her towel at him.

He caught it against his chest then arched a brow. “I see yer temper is nae better.”

“You’re not making this easy, ye boorish lout.”

“Making what easy?”

She shoved past him and charged into the kitchen. After stabbing the fire with an iron, she started to check her broth and realized she needed a towel. She glared over her shoulder. Alexander held it out. Snatching the dangling cloth, she lifted the cover of the Dutch oven to see the liquid boiling nicely.

Straightening, she raised her chin and faced him squarely. “I want a range.”

His gaze, previously locked on her hips, flew up to meet her eyes. “Done.” No hesitation. No negotiation. Just done.

Triumph flickered in her breast. “It must be the equal of Joan MacDonnell’s.”

“Is superior acceptable, Duchess?”

She swallowed against a dry throat and nodded. “I also want a lawn in the drying yard.”

“Might take a while to clear it properly and have the grass take root. Will autumn work?”

Triumph now tingled in her nipples. “Aye. Autumn is … fine.”

“Anythin’ else?”

“A fenced garden for the kitchen. A walled garden for flowers. And more rosebushes. I want leave to acquire as many as I please.”

“Done.”

Triumph surged harder. She pressed her advantage. “I want a wash-house with an attached laundry of your design.”

He frowned. “Where?”

“Near the well. It should have a boiler if possible. Basins, taps, and drying rooms, too.”

For a long minute, he appeared to be performing complex calculations in his mind. Then he swiped a hand over his beard and nodded. “Ye’ll have it by winter.”

Triumph soared into a blaze. It danced over her skin, sank between her thighs, and thrust with all its might. “I want a bathing tub.”

“Done.”

“A new carriage dress.”

“Done.”

“New gowns generally. As many as I please.”

He bit down until his jaw flickered. “Very well. But ye must agree to wear what I ask once per week.”

She squeezed her thighs together and nearly moaned. “Agreed.”

His gaze burned over her before settling on her mouth. “Now, here are my demands. Ye’ll wed me tomorrow.”

Her breath caught. She’d thought the triumph was potent. This was more. “Fine.”

“Ye’ll sleep in my bed.”

“I’d prefer a chamber of my own.”

“Not negotiable, Duchess. My wife, my bed.”

She wasn’t certain she’d ever been this … triumphant. “Very well. Your bed will be our bed.”

He grunted. His nose flared as his eyes burned a hole in her plaid.

“I want a dressing table,” she breathed. “And a chair beside the fire.”

“Done.”

“If you ever imply that I’m a whore again, I shall make good use of my cleaver. It’s a bit messy for tenderloin, but it gets the job done. Do ye ken?”

“I ken, lass.” His throat rippled on a swallow, though with his lustful smolder, it struck her as more of an excited response than a nervous one. Her threats aroused him. How strange.

Stranger still was her response. She wanted to devour him—one part of him in particular. She licked her lips, squeezed the towel, and braced herself against the kitchen table. Her bath was going to be lengthy this evening. When she had command of herself again, she straightened. “Then we shall wed tomorrow, Mr. MacPherson.”

“Aye. Tomorrow.” He moved so smoothly that she didn’t realize he’d shifted closer until he was inches away. He lowered his head near hers and murmured a promise before he departed for his day’s work. “Tomorrow, ye’ll be mine.”