To Catch a Highlander (2 page)

"I've met handsome men before," Sophia said confidently.

Red didn't look convinced. "Aye, but there's something different about this one. And he's a proud man; his whole family is soaked with it." Red pursed his lips. "I'd say he has a bit of a temper, too."

"How do you know?"

"The earl of Waring made some very unflattering comments about one of MacLean's brothers during the game, and I saw the anger in his eyes."

"Did he say anything?"

"No, for there was a sudden flash of lightning, and a gust of wind blew the shutters wide open, and we were all scrambling about, trying to close the window and gather the cards." Red chuckled a bit. "The earl tried to blame that on MacLean. Seems there's a rumor the MacLean family is cursed and that when they lose their temper, storms gather."

Sophia smiled faintly. "Do you know anything else about MacLean?"

Red's eyes narrowed. "He seemed a mite taken with his position. He travels in a coach and eight, and a prettier string of horses you'd be hard pressed to find."

That was promising. A vain man could be led. "Do you think he'll come here?"

"He said he wished to give the house to his nephew or such and would come see it beforehand."

She nodded. "Good. Do you remember anything else?"

Red made a face. "He dresses like a Frenchman, all lace cuffs and whatnot."

Sophia curled her lip. "A dandy."

"Yes… and no. There's more to him than his trappings. He's quick, and blasted good at covering his emotions, which is how he bested me. You'll need to be ready to meet this man, lassie," Red warned. "You've not played cards in a while, and he's uncommon intelligent."

"Then we will practice every day until he arrives."

"It will be a week, at least. The races won't be over until then." Red regarded Sophia. "You'll need a new gown or two, as well."

She looked down at her morning gown of pink muslin. "Why?"

"A man will wager more if he thinks you don't need his blunt."

"Very well. I will order some new gowns from the seamstress in the village. She just made a trousseau for the baron's daughter. I'll also need some paste jewels—he'll never be close enough to know the difference. Perhaps I'll win back both the jewels and the deed."

"It's worth a try." Red looked around the room, a twisted smile on his lips. "The house may be a problem. You've done too good a job with her; she's beautiful. I doubt MacLean will wish to part with her once he sees her."

Sophia frowned. "True. Once he sees it, he'll never want to wager it. I wish—" An idea popped into her head, one so dazzlingly brilliant that it froze her mind for a full moment.

"Sophie?" Red's voice broke through her thoughts.

"Do you think it will be an
entire
week before MacLean arrives to view"—she couldn't get the word
his
past through her lips—"the house?"

"At least. Maybe longer if he stays after the races for the revelries."

Then it could work! She would need help, but with enough willing and able hands, she could—

"Sophie?" A crease rested deep on Red's brow. "I don't like that look. What are you thinking?"

She stood and rubbed her hands together. "I know exactly how to make MacLean wish to be rid of our house. We'll just undo all of the work."

"What?"

She waved a hand, too busy thinking to explain more. "Leave it to me. I will see to it all."

"Whatever 'tis you're planning, have a care. If MacLean decides you are out to trick him, he'll not rest 'til he's gained blood for blood."

"I'll be cautious," she replied absently, her mind whirling with plans.

"No, you won't. You've too much of your mother in you. Once she set her mind to a path, she wouldn't be turned, come hell nor high water."

Sophia grinned. "Determination is a good thing."

"That depends on the cost, lass."

Sensing his worry, Sophia changed the subject by asking Red about the specific plays in the game that had lost the house. Eager to absolve himself, he described the hands he'd been dealt and how he'd been fooled into wagering everything.

Sophia listened with half an ear. Once she was done with her beloved house, the foppish MacLean would
beg
someone to take it from him. No soft-skinned, lace-covered, dandified profligate would ever take this house and make it his.

Ever.

Careful how ye speak o' others, me dearies. Ye never know when yer words may come back and bite ye in the arse.

Old Woman Nora from
Loch Lomond
to her three wee granddaughters one cold evening

Despite Red's prediction, it was more than a month before Dougal MacLean arrived. He'd met a lovely young widow in
Stirling
, and the enticement of pouty lips and an overflowing bodice had persuaded Dougal to linger.

Not that he'd needed much persuading. He'd been on his way to his sister's house, and it was difficult to stomach her husband. Though Fiona seemed to love the blackguard, Dougal only tolerated him because Jack Kincaid was clearly as mad about Fiona as she was about him. Which meant that Dougal was forced to "play nice," as Fiona so inelegantly expressed it.

Dougal didn't like to play nice, but neither was he immune to his only sister's pleas to visit her.

Now, Dougal turned his large black gelding into the lane leading to the house. It had taken him a while to find the entry marker, hidden between two large oak trees on the long and lonely stretch of road.

The lane was narrow and overgrown, though it grew wider and more favorable as it twined down a long line of graceful trees that arched pleasantly, making a lace canvas of the blue sky.

"It's a pretty bit of land, eh, me lord?"

Dougal glanced back at
Shelton
, his groom, who followed on a large bay. "It's passable." In truth, he was a bit surprised. It was rare when a deed won over a card table held real value. All too often, the lands were gone to waste, the house (if there was one) a leaky mess, and the title encumbered to the hilt. So far, these lands had the look of being maintained, if a little rugged. That was something, anyway.

As a flock of pigeons took wing from the field and swooped toward a small, picturesque lake, the groom nodded his appreciation. "Excellent hunting, I'd say. Might want to reconsider givin' the place to yer nephew and keep it fer yerself. Maybe put a huntin box on it."

"It would be a waste; I rarely use the hunting lands I have."

The groom sighed with envy. "If'n I was ye, I'd do nothin' else but hunt."

"I've no doubt you'd do just that, for a more lazy individual I've yet to meet—other than myself, of course."

Shelton
beamed. "Thank ye, me lord! 'Tis a rare day I can consider meself an equal with ye on any grounds."

"You're welcome," Dougal returned gravely.

"Aye, ye've made bein' lazy a form o' art that few—look!" The groom pointed eagerly at the soft shoulder of the road, where a fox print appeared. "Cooee, looks fresh, too!"

Dougal eyed the thicket beyond. "Fresh or no, it would take a better man than me to get a horse over this uneven ground without breaking a leg."

Shelton
shot him a sharp look. "Ye're many things, me lord, but unskilled on a horse ain't one of 'em."

"You unman me,
Shelton
. I don't know how to react at such excessive praise."

The groom's expression turned to one of long suffering. "There ye go ag'in with the nonsense, me lord. Are ye sure ye ain't a bit Irish?"

Dougal grinned. "Not that my mother would admit to." He turned in the saddle to admire the vista. The scent of clean, damp earth and fresh grass rose to meet him, the sunlight dappling the world through the trees. Birds sang overhead, while the horses' hooves clopped pleasantly along the level path.

The land alone would make an excellent present for his new nephew, though MacFarlane had vowed the house was the jewel of the property. However, as the man had been attempting to offer the deed in lieu of a considerable sum of money, Dougal doubted that as truth.

Dougal urged his horse onward, cleared the last curve of the drive, and found himself pleasantly surprised again. The house rose before him, large and square, the mullioned windows sparkling in the late-afternoon sun. MacFarlane House—soon to be renamed Kincaid Manor—was a pleasant red-brick structure with a graceful façade brightened by a wide portico held by eight grand Ionic columns. Large windows framed a set of double white doors topped by an arch of stained glass depicting a sunburst over a set of hills very like those on which the house stood. A smaller wing extended from each side of the main structure, the brick covered with a romantic swath of deep green vines.

MacFarlane—a charlatan and professional ivory turner if Dougal had ever seen one—had said that the house was elegant. But it wasn't quite that. It was more… charming.

His nephew would enjoy this when he grew to majority. The lad would need a residence of his own, a place where he could come and be his own man without the hen cackling of his mother and the barking of his stern father.

Dougal grinned. Black Jack Kincaid had been the rakehell of all rakehells before Fiona had tamed him. It would gall the man to watch his own son follow the same path—which he would, if his uncle Dougal had anything to say about it.

Jack would hate that Dougal was gifting the lad with the house, which would make it all the sweeter. Ah, yes, there was some compensation in being an uncle, after all.

Dougal turned his horse through the neat stone and iron gates near the house. He'd take a quick look around, and if it appeared reasonably sound, he'd hire workmen to make whatever repairs were necessary.

As he turned his horse down the final bend in the long drive, the horse whickered and pranced, stopping abruptly.

"Gor!"
Shelton
said, pulling his horse to one side of the drive as he looked down. "The drive has done been torn to hell!"

Dougal frowned. Before him, the nicely smooth drive had given away to a morass of huge holes. Unlike the usual wear and tear one found in a drive from years of use and neglect, these appeared freshly dug.