Chapter Three
He hated sailors. Especially the drunken ones.
Iain lifted his head, pulling back his teeth at the same time and grimacing on the cheap gin odor that filled his nostrils, dimming any enjoyment. It was the same with every sailor they brought him. Sotted. With cheap gin. Or cheaper whiskey. Nothing a Scot would allow past their lips. And here Iain was, destined to consume it.
The man at his feet shook slightly and groaned. His eyelashes quivered.
“We need leave, Your Grace.”
“Aye. Now.”
The warnings were unnecessary but always given. By these Honor Guardsmen, and their fathers, and their fathers before them. Exactly as it had been for decades. With exactly the same effect: none. Iain wouldn’t leave until his prey woke. He didn’t care. He’d made the promise after the first time he’d tasted blood and felt the effect it had on his senses—acutely. And then he’d had to suffer what happened. He’d never take a human life again. Not for anything as mundane as sustenance.
“Now!”
The word was hissed and Iain moved, leaping from a crouch at the back of the alley into a second-floor window opening with little effort and less sound. It was the six guardsmen shadowing him that made noise, moving in differing directions down uncountable alleys, while the seaman sputtered and then shouted. And then stumbled to his feet to yell some more.
Iain had needed this last one. Not for sustenance . . . more for endurance. For what he got to do this very evening with the woman fated as his mate, destined, birthed into this world just for him. Forever. She was his. He’d known it twenty-one years ago and he knew it now. With every moment that passed. He little cared that she’d been born into a Sassenach family with only a hint of Scot roots and even less claim of honor. She was his mate and he knew it. The moment she’d existed he’d felt it. Every leaf in his orchard and every animal in his stables had reacted. Or Iain’s senses had been reborn again, with even more height and breadth and scope.
Three hundred lonely years he’d waited and now she was here, within reach. As succulent as a ripe peach, as deep as a windswept moor, and as beautiful as every moonrise he’d watched. More so. This Tira was all woman, every bit of her. Finely built. Curved in all the proper places. Tall. And she was his. Or soon would be. Fully. Iain wiped his hands on his kilt band, wondering at the damp feel of his palms.
The man in the alley stumbled, growling and cursing and then staggering into a wall. Iain watched it unfold exactly as the last one they’d brought, not a half hour earlier. Both men would wake with a headache and a sore neck, and bruises they couldn’t explain from a fight they couldn’t remember. Suffering a hangover from a drunk they couldn’t recall. And then they’d brush themselves off, enter the nearest tavern, and start all over again.
Hell. He hated seagoing men.
Tira wasn’t allowed in to see Lord Coombs until late, after pretending a headache and watching Ophelia and Aunt Adelaide leave for the recital. The day was already interminable. What with Ophelia fussing which dress was eye-catching in the event the mysterious Duke McAvee attended, Tira’s emotions rarely felt so stretched. Taut. Elevated.
Excited.
She was on her third visit to her father’s chamber before his manservant, Timms, allowed her in, for a few moments only, if she spoke softly and didn’t upset the earl.
“Father?”
He looked to have shrunk more since yestermorn when she’d visited. Legs, long useless and withered, made little impression in the coverlet, while his face had never looked so drawn and pale. And old.
“Father?”
“You’ve come about MacAvee.”
“Y-yes.”
“Come. Sit.”
“What does he want, Father?”
“He didn’t say?”
“He told me to hear it from your lips.”
Her father took a heavy breath that didn’t make much change in his covering, and then made a rattling deep in his chest as he exhaled.
“Of course. And it should.”
This wasn’t good. The earl’s reply meant the visit in the dress salon hadn’t been dreamed. And it hadn’t been imagined. And that meant it was impossible.
“I met MacAvee almost twenty-one years ago. No. That’s wrong. I met his father, the late duke.”
“Twenty-one years?”
Her father nodded. “He arrived at Coombs Castle with a retinue of servants and outriders to make a man’s jaw drop. All of it in exchange for what I had.”
“And that was . . . ?”
“You.”
“Me?” Tira launched into the room outside the reach of the candles. It hid the instant reaction and her inability to curb it.
“As wife for his son and heir.”
“You went behind Mother’s back?”
Her father coughed hard enough to bring Timms to his side, a glass of brandy in one hand and a cloth to catch blood specks in the other. Tira watched them from her position at a bureau, resting her head on the wood for the support and to mute the sounds of labored breathing. Then the liquor started to work, granting her father time to talk and the strength to do so.
The earl was always this way before the brandy worked, and just before he’d get morose and depressed over the carriage accident that took his wife’s life and made him an invalid. It hadn’t been his fault, but that didn’t change it. His wife was still dead and he was still half a man . . . or less.
She’d be asked to leave before the next stage. But that was counterproductive to why she’d forced this meeting. Tira straightened her back, bringing her head level with the furniture piece, and waited.
“Your mother . . . was in full agreement. Her signature is on the document.”
“There’s a document? In this day and age?”
“His Grace insisted upon it.”
“But why, Father? Why?”
She didn’t feel anger, resentment, or resignation. And it definitely wasn’t repulsion. It wasn’t even shock. It was something worse and with much more power, something akin to excitement.
“I don’t understand the issue. MacAvee chieftains are well known for power, and presence, and vast holdings . . . and other things that women whisper of.”
“I don’t care what he owns and what his titles are.”
“What of the man? You care little for that, as well?”
“I . . . hadn’t noticed.” And she was terrible at lying about it. Timms barely caught a chuckle, while her father moved something on his upper body as if to join in.
“I’ve heard he . . . favors his sire. Even my sister, Adelaide, spoke of it.”
“She knows?”
“No. She visited me this morn. Asking that I proffer an invite to MacAvee . . . for her sake. And Ophelia.”
“Aunt Adelaide? Ophelia?” Tira wasn’t jealous. She told herself the instant flash wasn’t jealousy. It was better labeled anger.
“You need to come closer, Miss Tira. He can’t shout.”
Timms gestured her to the chair set at her father’s bedside for any visitors he might entertain. Everyone knew only Tira sat there. Tira settled onto the brocade and wound a ribbon tie from her gown about her index finger.
“According to your aunt, marriage to this MacAvee would be a pleasant thing.”
“She said that?”
“And more.”
Tira didn’t answer. Her tongue felt swollen, her throat tight, and her cheeks burned. She found the thought of her marriage to MacAvee very pleasant . . . especially the idea of intimacy and what that might mean. But that wasn’t the issue. She spoke the next to her ribbon-wrapped hand.
“You still should’ve told me, Father. Or at least warned me.”
The earl sputtered, Timms dabbed at his lip, and then both men turned toward her. “That was your mother’s duty. Along with . . . all the other things a mother tells her daughter on the . . . day of marriage.”
“The . . . day?” Tira’s eyes widened. She hadn’t expected that.
He nodded. “Your twenty-first birthday. Today.”
Tira sucked in a breath. “Even if I agree to this outlandish arrangement, I can’t possibly be expected to wed with so little time. Notice needs to be given to the papers, invitations need to be organized and sent out, and I don’t even have a gown.”
Her father snorted. The cloth in Timms’s hands caught the smattering of blood spots. He held it there as the earl shuddered through another coughing spell. It didn’t sound like his usual, however. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he was laughing. Then he calmed, gulped another swig of brandy, and looked back at her.
“You’ve little . . . choice, Tira. And little reason. He favors his sire. To the minute. In everything. And that includes . . . his impatience.”
“I can say no, Father. This is not the Dark Ages where daughters were treated as chattel and wed accordingly. I run your estates. I’m well versed in it. I don’t have to wed at all. At least give me some time.”
He sighed. “Twenty-one years is a powerful amount of time, Tira. It feels like an eternity when you’re just starting out. Some days it felt like forever.”
“Is that why you agreed?”
He rolled his head back and forth on the pillow. “I never expected my brother to pass on, and as the sixth Earl of Coxton-Combs, I’ve responsibilities. It takes gold . . . to maintain. Lots of it. I didn’t know where to turn. I had a worm-eaten estate and little more than debt. The east wing was roofless. The Norman wall collapsed. There were accounts to settle, pensions to pay out, and farmland to either work or lay fallow, letting everyone starve. And no one could overlook your grandfather’s debts of honor.”
“How much did he pay?”
“It was your hand or debtor’s prison. For the lot of us.”
“How much, Father?”
“Everything. The man set up a fund to cover everything. All we have was paid with MacAvee gold. Your clothing, the food and wines we consume, the horses we ride. All for your hand.”
“I can’t wed a man I’ve just met!”
“It shouldn’t be too great . . . a hardship. Just look about you. He’s wealthy, powerful, and according to Adelaide . . . very manly.”
“It takes more than that for me, Father.” The blush was back, and with it a flurry of shiver.
“How much more, lass?”
Tira stumbled to her feet, upsetting the chair onto its back while the earl started such a coughing fit, Timms looked overwhelmed. All of it because a man stood at the edge of the light, allowing glints to flicker on the silver of his outfit and the six men always shadowing him. Tira dropped her gaze to the floor between them.
“Your Grace.”
Little things helped with the absolute horror of reviewing what she’d just said. Etiquette. Propriety. Tira consciously followed it. Greet. Curtsy. Continue breathing. She didn’t move her eyes the entire time. It was easier.
“You dinna’ answer my question.”
“How did you get in here?”
“We were announced. You failed to hear it.”
Tira couldn’t look anywhere near him. Not until she had the embarrassment fully hidden. She’d cringe over it later. “You eavesdropped on private words.”
“He told you, then?”
“Private words,” Tira repeated.
“Had I na’ arrived as I did, I’d na’ ken you found me . . . lacking.”
There wasn’t a hole in the floor between them, regardless of how she kept looking for that very thing. He was waiting for an answer. The entire room felt like it was. Tira swallowed.
“Lack . . . ing?”
The word got split in two, the last half making little sound since he moved so quickly and silently; within a blink he was right before her, breathing whiffs of air all over her exposed neck and shoulders. She should’ve changed into a high-necked woolen dress for this visit. Worn a heavy shawl. A cloak. Or stayed in her room and hidden.
“It does na’ help if you frighten her, Iain.”
One of his men spoke, denting stillness that held only her father’s attempts to breathe and the hard pulse of her heart. The man before her pulled to his full height, sending light between their shadows on the floor. He put his hands on his hips next and inhaled, deep, heavily, and loud. “You heard her. She finds me lacking.”
It sounded worse every time he said it. And she didn’t find him lacking. It was the circumstances. She opened her mouth to somehow put that into words but got forestalled by them speaking to each other in a foreign language of some kind.