Wild (Regency Scandal 2) Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Newsletter and Social Media Links

  About the Author

  Other books by Carole Mortimer

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2021 Carole Mortimer

  Cover Design Copyright © Glass Slipper WebDesign

  Editor: Linda Ingmanson

  Formatter: Glass Slipper WebDesign

  ISBN: 978-1-910597-94-1

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  All Rights Reserved.

  Dedication

  My very good friend, Jo.

  Chapter One

  The Scottish Highlands,

  May 1816

  * * *

  Andrew had forgotten—had he ever known?—the beauty of the Scottish Highlands in late spring. The rolling hills and mountains were shrouded in mist, with the occasional patch of snow still, the deep valleys flower-strewn.

  Of course he had known. Once upon a time, he and his father had taken hunting and fishing trips here together. At least once a year. Before all the trouble began.

  Trouble?

  Stop lying to yourself, Andrew, he cautioned.

  That so-called trouble had started ten years ago when Andrew was seven and twenty. It had consisted initially of the gossip regarding his mother’s numerous and well-known affairs, before she finally ran off with the family butler. This was followed by his father taking to drink and openly having liaisons with the less savory actresses. To add to that misery, five years later, Andrew’s eighteen-year-old sister had eloped to Scotland with a man she had known for only a week.

  Between the three of them, Andrew’s family had dragged the name Belgrade and the Essex ducal title into the gutter, making them all, Andrew included, fodder for every gossipmonger in London, kind or unkind. Andrew had spent the last ten years behaving within the strict rules of Society in the hope that by doing so, he had returned a modicum of respect to his family name.

  He knew he was not a weak man, but he was a controlled and determined one. Nothing and no one would, or could, tempt him into breaking that control.

  The only reason he had now left London in the middle of the Season was because he had been informed of his sister’s death in a boating accident, and her husband alongside her.

  The letters he had received from a Catriona McGregor informing him of the death of her brother and sister-in-law had also brought news of the existence of a nephew Andrew had no previous knowledge of. Malcolm was now almost five years old, Andrew was informed. Leading him to wonder if Elena had known Hugh McGregor for longer than a week, and if it was the anticipation of the wedding vows that was the reason for her hasty marriage.

  Brother and sister had not kept in touch after Elena’s elopement, so it was a complete surprise for Andrew to learn not only of the boy’s existence, but that Andrew had been left as guardian to Elena’s son.

  In line with his strict adherence to all that was correct, Andrew had immediately set about the duty of traveling into Scotland with the intention of bringing the boy back to London to live with him there. His secretary was already looking into employing a governess with that outcome in mind.

  “Stand and deliver!”

  Andrew was so taken by surprise at the shouted instruction, he immediately pulled back on the reins to bring his horse to a halt before quickly glancing around him.

  There were few trees in the Highlands, but several rocky crags on either side of the narrow track he had been following provided a perfect hiding place for highwaymen to ambush unwary travelers. His assailants weren’t visible, in any case.

  “We said that last week, ye wee ninny,” another voice hissed. “We agreed this time you were going to say ‘stop and raise your hands in the air.’”

  “But I like ‘stand and deliver’ best,” the first voice, sounding much younger than the other, complained.

  “Verra well, but next time, ye shall try ‘stop and raise your hands in the air.’”

  “If I must,” the younger voice grumbled.

  Both voices had that attractive Scottish lilt of the Highlands rather than the harsher burr of the Lowlands.

  Still, it was the strangest thing to be accosted by robbers and then for Andrew to have to sit upon his horse and listen as the two then bickered over how they wished to proceed. Shouldn’t that have been decided before the robbery took place?

  The fact Andrew had been stopped by highwaymen at all when, for the most part, they had been eliminated from the English roads was at odds with what he’d come to expect. Admittedly, there were not so many decent roads in the Highlands as there now were in England, and the ones here were, for the main part, only tracks still, distinguishable from the heather only by the worn and rutted roads made by the passing of previous horses or carriages. Because of this, any traveling here was necessarily done at a slow pace.

  Andrew’s own carriage was even now rocking along one of the uneven roads while he had decided to finish the last day of his journey riding across the hills and glens on horseback. It meant he would arrive in advance of his carriage and valet, but the scenery and being able to breathe in the fresh air, rather than be confined in his stuffy carriage with his complaining and travel-sick valet, had more than made up for that inconvenience. Not that he did not sympathize with his valet, but it had still been a long week incarcerated in the carriage with him from London.

  Only for Andrew to now be waylaid by robbers within sight of a large manor house with stables and barns, set close to where a loch sparkled like dark sapphires beside it. He’d hoped to stop and possibly enjoy refreshments there while asking for directions to the McGregor family home. Having been on horseback for over six hours already today, he didn’t appreciate this delay.

  “Oh Lord, that man isna Dougal!” the second voice hissed.

  “What shall we do?” The younger one sounded fearful.

  Andrew waited for the answer.

  And continued to wait rather than take the opportunity to ride off, just in case they were armed.

  After five minutes of that silence, he decided to swing his leg over the pommel of the saddle and slide down onto his booted feet, before striding over to the rocky crag where he was sure his assailants had been hiding.

  The only evidence anyone had been there were several footprints visible in the muddy ground. There seemed to be a constant mist of moisture in the air here in the Highlands that often became a deluge and kept the ground in a constant state of dampness. Scotland was known for its constantly changing weather, the majority of it consisting of rain in one form or another.

  From what Andrew could see there was one set of small footprints in the muddy ground and another slightly larger one. Both sets of footprints were far too small to belong to fully grown men.

  Andrew’s eyes narrowed as he glanced down the hill, just in time to see two small figures dressed in the local breeks and warm jackets, before they disappeared amongst the outbuildings.

  Which led him to wonder if it was possible he had been accosted, with the intent to rob, by two young boys.

  * * *

  “On my goodness, Malcolm, can you believe we just waylaid a perfect stranger rather than Dougal McGregor?” Cat choked as soon as the two of them had taken refuge in one of the barns.

  The sheep were kept there during the harsher winter months and before and after lambing. But the worst of the snow had now melted, and the lambs were weaned and set loose with their mothers onto the grassland and heather. The barn had been cleaned since their departure, but nevertheless, there was still a lingering odor of their damp wool and other less pleasant smells.

  “We really did!” Malcolm acknowledged gleefully.

  The two of them instantly fell into each other’s arms, both giggling wildly.

  Anyone seeing the two of them, dressed similarly in thick work shirts and heavy breeks, and with their red hair hidden beneath their Tam o’ Shanters, would mistake them for local children and not the young laird and his aunt, now the lady of the McGregor clan.

  Every week, without fail, they dressed this way in order to waylay Dougal McGregor, the factor of the McGregor estate, on his way back from collecting farm supplies and the mail during his weekly visit to Inverness twenty miles away. And every week, also without fail, Dougal would pretend to be terrified of his assailants as he handed over whatever items he had brought back with him.

  The large man astride the huge black stallion hadn’t given the impression he would ever be terrified of anything, least of all two small assailants.

  He had looked physically perfect, though, Cat allowed. Tall, dark, and very handsome. Perhaps a trifle too austere in his countenance, but his shoulders had been very wide, his waist trim, and his legs long and muscular about the tall stallion he rode. His riding clothes, beneath the long jacket he wore to keep the worst of the rain off himself, were expensively tailored, the
high hat upon his head looking to be made from fashionable beaver skin. All signs that the man was not only a gentleman, but a wealthy one.

  Posing the question, who could he be so far up into the Highlands?

  The nearest house was that of the Munro family ten miles away, and Cat knew it wasn’t any of them or even a relative of theirs either. The only visitors they usually had here were the odd peddler selling saucepans and such, or the knife grinder come to sharpen the household knives. Gypsies camped nearby to help with the sheep shearing, but as the shearing began later in Scotland, the traveling people would not arrive until the beginning of June.

  There’d been some trouble of late with animals attacking and killing some of the newly released lambs, possibly a pack of wild dogs from the city in search of food. Douglas and his men had gone hunting for them after each attack, but so far hadn’t managed to find their lair.

  “I’m thirsty.”

  “And hungry too, no doubt.” Cat removed Malcolm’s hat to run her fingers affectionately through his auburn curls, lighter in color than her own, but just as curly.

  “We waited hours for Dougal to arrive home, and then it wasna even him,” Malcolm complained.

  Cat chuckled. “I believe it was but ten minutes. But no doubt that seemed overlong to a hungry young man,” she allowed, placing her arm about his slender shoulders as they walked toward the barn door through which they had hurried just a few minutes earlier to avoid being seen by the man on the hillside.

  The door was suddenly pushed open, and one of the maids from the house hurried inside. She looked flustered. “Miss Catriona. I mean, my lady.” She bobbed a late and clumsy curtsey. “There’s a gentleman at the house requesting refreshment.”

  It shook Cat every time someone addressed her as my lady. That title had belonged to her sister-in-law, Elena, but now that she and Hugh were gone, the people working on the estate seemed to think that as Malcolm, their new laird, was only four years old, that Cat must now be treated with the deference of his lady.

  As far as Cat was aware, there was only one gentleman close enough to have made his way to the house before they did. “Then I trust that Mrs. Munro has made him comfortable.” Hugh had never bothered with such things as a formal butler, considering his wife and housekeeper more than capable of handling household matters. Cat had now taken over that role.

  The young girl bobbed another curtsey. “Mrs. Munro ’as taken ’is hat and coat and put him in the parlor, my lady, and sent me to find you while Mrs. Murray makes the tea.”

  The two ladies who ran the McGregor household were addressed as Mrs. out of courtesy for their position, but only one of them was actually widowed.

  The housekeeper, Esme Munro, had come to work for Elena and Hugh after her husband, Fergus, was killed fighting against Napoleon’s army.

  As Cat had no wish for the gentleman to see her dressed in this way, she was already plotting a route inside her head where she might enter the house without coming anywhere near the parlor where their guest waited for his refreshment. “Please tell Mrs. Munro I shall join my guest shortly.”

  “Yes, miss.” The girl gave another flustered half curtsey before hurrying away to pass the message to the housekeeper.

  Malcolm looked up at her with trusting eyes as blue as the sky. “Who do you suppose it is?”

  Cat was starting to feel a heaviness in her chest that warned of an impending doom.

  Chapter Two

  Andrew had to say he was pleasantly surprised by the inside of this manor house perched beside the loch. It wasn’t as richly furnished as his own homes were in London and on his country estates, but the parlor in which he was to be served tea was very pleasant nonetheless.

  The warm wooden flooring had occasional rugs on it; the couch and chairs looked well-worn but comfortable. The paintings upon the walls were not ones he would have chosen for himself, but they fit with their surroundings in that they depicted the local flora and fauna.

  Except for the painting above the unlit fireplace.

  That one was of a lady wearing a deep blue gown and seated on what looked to be the same couch as was in this room. Her hair was the deepest auburn Andrew had ever seen and gathered in loose curls and secured at her nape with a pretty blue ribbon. Her eyes were that same deep blue as her gown and filled with a happiness that literally glowed from within those depths. The off-the-shoulder gown revealed her shoulders and the tops of her breasts as being that milk-white color so common to redheads.

  Andrew’s gaze returned to her face and the mischief gleaming in those dark blue eyes. Mischief and a love of life so tangible, it could not be contained.

  She was, without a doubt, the most stunningly beautiful woman Andrew had ever seen.

  “That is Margaret.”

  Andrew turned at what sounded like a vaguely familiar and attractive voice. Only for every thought to leave his head, his heart to cease beating, his breath to arrest in his lungs, and his mouth to become so dry, it felt as if his tongue were stuck to the roof of his mouth as he stared at a young woman so like the one in the painting, she might have sat for the artist. Only the dated style of the gown worn by Margaret said otherwise.

  “My mother.” The young lady confirmed his thoughts.

  As was usual when he was unsure of anything, Andrew grasped and then raised his eyeglass to peer down his nose at the young woman.

  Now that his heart had begun to beat again and the breath to once again leave and then refill his lungs, he could see this was indeed a different young woman than the one in the portrait.

  This young lady was far younger, possibly twenty, or a year or so either way. Her dark auburn curls were secured at her crown, in keeping with the fashion of today. Likewise, she wore a high-waisted gown of pale blue. Her features were also more finely drawn, with faint shadows visible beneath those deep blue eyes against her milky-white skin, as if she had recently suffered great sadness. The expression in her beautiful blue eyes was wary rather than glowing.

  He lowered the eyeglass before giving a brief bow. “Forgive me for not having immediately introduced myself. I am Andrew Belgrade, the Duke of Essex.”

  * * *

  Exactly who Cat had begun to suspect he might be!

  Elena had told them of her only brother, fourteen years her senior. How kind he had been to her when she was a child, and how much he had changed after the scandals involving their parents, followed by the death of his father under less than acceptable circumstances. Their mother, Elena had said, was believed to be on the Continent somewhere, living with the man who had been the family butler.

  Elena claimed her brother had been different following those events, having become cold and distant and so very prim and proper. Elena had chafed against the rules her brother had put in place and expected her to follow, in private as well as in public.

  Her brother was not a hypocrite, Elena had defended, in that he had also rigidly followed those strict dictates of decorum and behavior.

  Upon hearing this, Cat had promptly dismissed even the existence of the stiff and unyielding Andrew Belgrade. But when Elena and Hugh had died so suddenly two months ago, she’d had no choice but to immediately write to the haughty duke to inform him of his sister’s passing.

  Learning the contents of her brother’s will some days later had required Cat write Essex another letter.

  When she had received no reply to either missive, Cat had assumed—foolishly, as it now turned out—that the cold and arrogant duke had no interest in the fate of his young nephew.

  Because here Andrew Belgrade was, and appearing twice as formidable as Elena had described him as being. He also wielded that eyeglass as a shield between himself and others.

  Cat was predisposed to dislike the man who had been so unyielding in his dealings with the warm and lovely Elena that she had rebelled against those strictures, so much so that within a week of meeting Hugh, the two of them had eloped to Gretna Green. Not that Cat was complaining as to that outcome. She had loved Elena dearly, the two women having become as close as real sisters within days of meeting each other.