Undressed (Undone by Love)

UNDRESSED

Kristi Cook

Prologue

The North Road, England

March 1793

“Och, woman, is it done?”  As the coach door swung shut and the conveyance lurched off, the florid-faced man squinted at the squirming bundle the woman clutched to her bosom
.

“’Tis done, husband.”  She gently pulled down the plaid that covered the bundle, revealing a damp thatch of fine hair—auburn intermingled with gold—curling against tiny ears
. Pale aqua-colored eyes stared balefully up at the faces hovering above. The babe yawned and began to suck its fist with loud, slurping noises.

“And what of the wet nurse?”  He looked to the woman with a scowl.

“’Tis all arranged. We will collect her at the coaching inn. Now, Donald, look at the bonny lad. What do ye think of ‘im?”

The man’s eyes, deep set in his craggy, lined face, misted over
. “He’s bonnie indeed, Ceilie, just as ye said. Now they willna say that Donald Maclachlan canna sire a son, will they? Nay, I’ve a fine son, indeed.”  He reached for the child and, laying him down on the worn leather bench, began to unwrap the swaddling layers. One chubby arm appeared, then another. In a flash, a small hand reached out and grabbed a handful of the man’s beard.

“Och, ye canna do that, my lad.”  Gently, he disentangled the fingers from his beard
. “There now, my son. We’ve a long journey ahead of us. Best get some sleep now.”  He smoothed down the auburn curls across the child’s forehead while inquisitive eyes peered up at him curiously. “Iain, he shall be called,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

“Check his linen,” the woman said
. “A dry bairn is a happy one, me mam used to say.” 

The man reached down to feel the carefully folded linen, his brows drawing together in confusion as his movements became brusque
. “Devil take it, woman!”  The linen fell away, and both pairs of eyes goggled at the sight before them.

“Dear Lord!”  The woman made the sign of the cross
. “’Tis...’tis—”

“A lass,” he supplied, his round face flushed scarlet
. “The bairn’s a lass.” 

“But...but...” she sputtered
. “How can that be?”

“Ye canna ken the difference between a lad and a lass, Ceilie?”

“I...I dinna ken how this happened! The lassie was still upstairs with the nursemaid—only the lad was sent out for an airin’. I dinna ken how—”

“Ye didna check, woman?” he roared.

Her bottom lip began to tremble. “Check? Why I...Nay, I didna check. There wasna time,” she wailed. “All the preparin’ gone to naught.”  She sobbed into the folds of her cloak.

The child, still lying between them on the bench, began to whimper
. The man waved one hand at her small form in dismissal. “Take her back, then. I’ve no use for a lass.”

“Take her back
? We canna do that. We’ll be hanged for sure! Nay,” she sniffled. “Nay, we must follow our plan and make haste to the border. We havena a choice.”  Her voice rose shrilly.

For a moment, the man simply stared out the coach’s dusty window
. His eyes narrowed, his jaw muscles tensed. A vein in his temple throbbed visibly. At last, he nodded his assent. “Aye, I suppose ye are right. We canna risk it. But what in God’s name am I to do with a daughter?”

As if she understood the words, the child began to wail pitifully
. The woman gathered her into her arms and glared at her husband across the top of the babe’s head.

She reached down to stroke the child’s hair, murmuring softly as she did so
. “There now, child. Dinna cry. A lass ye are, but a bonny lass, indeed. It isna your fault. There now.”

At last the babe quieted and round, blue-green eyes—seemingly full of understanding—met hers
. The wee lass stuck her thumb into her mouth and began to suck enthusiastically, her eyes never leaving the woman’s face until she could hold them open no longer, and, at last, her tiny lashes fluttered shut.

Only then did the woman allow her own tired eyes to close, the rhythmic rumbling of the carriage soothing her jangled nerves
. ‘Twas done. She had a child, no matter that the child was a lass. She was beautiful, perfect in every way, even if English blood did flow through her veins. There wasna help for that; the child must come from far enough away that no one would come looking for her.

She shifted in her seat, sighing deeply
. Moments later, in the peaceful gloaming between wakefulness and sleep, she felt her husband’s movement beside her and opened her eyes just wide enough to see him awkwardly pat the sleeping babe’s head.

“Sleep now, wee tinker,” he whispered
. “All will be well in the end.” 

The woman closed her eyes once more, a smile slowly spreading across her face
. Perhaps it would.  

Chapter
1

Lochaber, Scotland

May 1819

“Bloody bastards!”  Brenna Maclachlan pushed her chair back from the table and stood on unsteady legs
. “Burning them out of their homes—women and children. Forcing them to leave with naught but the clothes on their backs. How can they treat their own people so vilely, so cruelly?”  She glared at the page lying before her on the roughly hewn trestle table. The Clearances had begun long before Brenna had been born, but never had the removal of tenants been accomplished with such violence, with such lack of humanity, as was now happening in Sutherland. She shook her head fiercely, barely able to believe the words she’d read. “Can it possibly be true?”

“Aye, I have no doubt it is true.”  James Moray, the Maclachlan land steward for nearly two decades, frowned and reached for his hat
. “Isna the first I’ve heard of such atrocities. More sheep mean more money to fatten their purses, and Stafford cares for naught else.” 

Brenna reached a hand up to her temple
. “But those families have worked that land for generations. Who is he to turn them out now? When will it end? When there are naught left but sheep in Sutherland?”

“He claims to be improving the lands, the bloody sot.”

“Improving? Bah.”  Brenna waved one hand in dismissal. “’Tis butchery, nothing more. Fueled by greed. To think that a Scot would do this to another Scot.”

“Stafford is no Scot, and the countess spends most of her time in England
. She has little or no regard for her subjects. She’s a Gordon, ye know. Not even a Sutherland.”

“And what of our own crofters, Mr. Moray
? Have they heard this latest news from the north? Do they fear a similar fate here at Glenbroch?”

“Of course not, milady
. Your own crofters know ye to be a generous and just landlord, as your father was before ye. They know they remain safe so long as a Maclachlan is at Glenbroch. But the same canna be said of our neighbors on Lord Hampton’s estate.”  He moved to the window and turned his gaze east. “An absentee landlord with no interest in his property, save collecting his dwindling rents....”  He trailed off, shaking his head. “‘Tis likely he will soon decide in favor of sheep. Indeed, some of Hampton’s crofters have already chosen to emigrate, but many cannot. Only a matter of time, your father said, just before he fell ill and—”

“Stop.”  Brenna held out one hand, her fingers visibly trembling
. “I canna listen to more.”  She closed her eyes and inhaled sharply, the pain of losing her parents still too fresh to bear. Hot tears burned behind her eyelids, but she would not let them fall. Not today.

Hera jumped into Brenna’s lap, and she reached down to stroke the cat’s silky fur
. In response, the animal began to purr loudly, her intense green gaze locked on her mistress’s.

“Oh, Hera, ‘tis awful, is it not?” Brenna murmured, comforted as always by the animal’s soothing presence
.

With a meow, the cat stood, arched her back, and then rubbed the side of her face against Brenna’s chin
.

“My Lady Maclachlan?”

Hera leapt from her lap as Brenna looked up in surprise to find the housekeeper standing in the doorway, her stout body filling the small space. As always, it took her a moment to realize that the servant was addressing her and not her mother. “Aye, Mrs. Campbell?” she managed at last.

“If ye’ll pardon me, there are strangers at the door, mum, inquiring after ye.”  The housekeeper wrung her hands
. “I dinna ken what to tell them.”

“Strangers?”  Brenna’s eyes narrowed
.

“Another English lord and lady, mistress
. And a man of the law with them.”

“Is that so?”  Coming to offer her a bonny price for her land, no doubt—land that was not for sale
. She’d had two such visits in the past fortnight alone, and she’d had just about enough of it. With a swish of her woolen skirts, Brenna strode out of the dining room and headed for the front door. “I’ll see to this straightaway.”

Indeed, there were strangers at the door
. A stocky man wearing a monocle stood on the front steps, rocking back on his heels as he checked his watch. Behind him stood a man and woman, likely in their mid- to late-forties, with their heads bent together, whispering in hushed tones. All three pairs of eyes turned on Brenna as she appeared in the doorway, her fists planted firmly on her hips.

She tipped her chin in the air and boldly met their questioning gazes
. “I am the Lady Maclachlan. What business have ye here?”

The man with the monocle turned to look at the pair behind him
. The woman nodded, and he turned back to face Brenna once more. “Is it true, my lady, that you were born on October ninth, in the year of our Lord seventeen hundred and ninety-two?”

The odd question sent Brenna’s heart racing
. What was the meaning of this? She fought to steady her voice before answering him. “’Tis true, but I must insist on your name, sir, before I continue with this unwanted address. I dinna like to speak with those who know my name but do not provide me equal knowledge.” 

The man bowed sharply
. “If you’ll forgive me, my lady. Mr. Jonathan Wembley, of Bow Street. I am in the employ of Lord and Lady Danville and am at their service.”  He turned and bowed obsequiously to the couple behind him.

Quite formal, isn’t he
?
Brenna wished he’d quit his scraping and get on with it.

At last returning his attention to Brenna, he cleared his throat and removed a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket
. Squinting through the monocle, he peered at the page and cleared his throat once more.

“And is it true,” he continued in a booming voice, “that you were born in England, on the aforementioned date?”

“I was, indeed, but I canna see what difference it makes to your lordship there. My parents traveled to Lancashire before my mama realized she was with child, and they were forced to remain there until after my birth.”

“Four months, I believe?”

Brenna arched one brow. “Four months? I dinna understand your question, sir.”

“I believe you were four months of age when you arrived at Castle Glenbroch?”

“Aye,” she muttered. She’d heard the oft-repeated story of her untimely conception and subsequent birth in Lancashire many times over but never heeded the details. Besides, what should it matter to this stranger? Her annoyance grew a measure. She had work to do, and she’d had quite enough of this already. “I suggest ye quit speaking in riddles, Mr. Wembley, and state your business at once.”

The plump woman broke free of her husband’s grasp and dashed forward, reaching for the runner’s sleeve
. “The birthmark,” she insisted with a breathless wheeze. “Ask her about the birthmark.”

Mr. Wembley nodded solemnly and squinted at the paper in his hands once more
. “You must pardon the indelicate question, my lady, but is it possible that you have a birthmark on the inside of your right...ahem, upper limb, in the shape of a...” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Lady Danville, it says here in the shape of a fleur-de-lis. That simply cannot be.”

All breath left Brenna’s body in a rush, one hand involuntarily moving toward her right thigh
. “However did ye know—”

“It
is
her!” the woman exclaimed with a sob, tears coursing down her cheeks. “I knew it, the moment I saw her hair.”  She reached up and untied her bonnet, tossing it to the ground by her feet. She hastily pulled the pins from her hair till it spilled across her shoulders.

Brenna could only gape at the woman’s uncovered head glinting in the sunlight
. Deep auburn tresses generously intermingled with gold fell in soft waves about the woman’s shoulders. Hair the exact same color and texture as her own.

“After all these years of searching,” the woman continued, sobbing into her handkerchief
. “At last, Mr. Wembley. At last you’ve found our daughter.”

“Daugh...daughter
? Are ye daft?”  Brenna’s gaze swung from the smiling Mr. Wembley to the couple beside him. “Is the woman daft?” she repeated, her voice rising.

Over the woman’s head, the man—Lord Danville, Mr. Wembley had called him—looked up and met her gaze, his eyes the same blue-green as hers
. “I can barely believe it,” he said, a smile spreading across his face. “I never thought I’d live to see the day. Our daughter. Margaret.” 

Margaret
?
They must be mad, all of them
, Brenna thought. The ground beneath her began to tilt, her vision narrowing. She suddenly became aware of a deafening roar in her ears, and then, with a small gasp of surprise, she slipped to the ground in a swoon.     

***

London

June 1819

Colin Rosemoor winced as his boots tapped the cobbles in an angry staccato
. He reached one hand up to his throbbing brow, clutching his walking stick more firmly with the other. His stomach lurched uncomfortably.
Damn Mandeville and his brandy
. Though in all honesty, he’d needed the drink—most desperately—after last night’s debacle. A fiery rage surged through his veins, propelling him forward, back to the scene of his ruin.

He had no idea how that blasted card had found its way into his coat pocket, but he most certainly had nothing to do with it
. That anyone should think him a cheat was laughable—he lost far too much blunt at the tables. But it had seemed he’d finally found his winning streak. In a rare turn of events, he’d won several hundred pounds and the deed to some profitable land in Scotland from the Marquess of Hampton.

And then, after Colin’s second big win of the night had significantly lightened the Duke of Glastonbury’s purse, that bloody bastard Sinclair had called him a cheat and forced him to turn out his pockets
. And there, tucked neatly away, had been a four of hearts. No doubt put there by Sinclair, but how could he prove it?

Glastonbury had called him several choice names and then had him tossed out on his ear
. Colin winced at the memory. Mandeville had happened upon him in the street and dragged him away before he’d had the chance to reenter White’s and call out Sinclair. Of course, once they’d reached Mandeville’s study and Colin had recounted the evening’s unfortunate events, Mandeville, a sworn enemy of Sinclair’s, had vowed to set things straight at White’s on Colin’s behalf. But dammit, he couldn’t let him do that. No, it would seem cowardly and weak, having the Marquess of Mandeville fight his battles for him. He would take care of this disagreeable business himself, by God, or die trying.

Colin hurried his step, turning down St. James’s Street
. Glastonbury enjoyed his port at his club each afternoon at precisely two o’clock, without fail. He fished out his watch and checked the time. A quarter past two. He snapped shut the watch, stuffing it back into his pocket as he narrowed his eyes against the glittering afternoon sun. He would speak with the duke, assure him that the hand in question had been won fairly and honorably. And then he would find Sinclair and deal with
him
, once and for all.

It was obvious enough that Sinclair had set him up—he was Colin’s chief rival for the hand of the fair Miss Honoria Lyttle-Brown, and by all indications Miss Lyttle-Brown was soon to accept Colin’s suit
. She’d indicated as much not three days past, even allowed Colin a forbidden yet chaste kiss in a darkly shadowed lane at Vauxhall Gardens.

He stormed up the steps of number 37 and threw open the doors with vengeful determination, doffing his hat and handing it to the footman along with his walking stick
. The footman accepted the items without meeting Colin’s gaze, his eyes darting about nervously instead.

The porter behind him cleared his throat loudly
. “Pardon me, Mr. Rosemoor, but I must ask that you wait here. Tillson”— he motioned toward the footman— “summon Mr. Montgomery at once.”  The club’s manager. The footman scurried off.

“Is something amiss?” Colin drawled, struggling to rein in his ire and maintain a calm demeanor
.

“I’m afraid so, Mr. Rosemoor
. I was told to summon Mr. Montgomery at once if you chose to—”

“Mr. Rosemoor,” Montgomery called out, striding purposefully down the stairs with two burly attendants following close at his heels
. “I’m afraid I will have to ask you to leave these premises at once.”

A coldness settled in the pit of Colin’s stomach
. “I’m sure I don’t understand, Montgomery,” Colin said, hedging.

“Oh, I think you do, Mr. Rosemoor
. We don’t take kindly to cheats here at White’s.”  The reed-thin man gestured for Colin’s hat and walking stick, and the footman hurried to hand them over. “We are a
gentleman’s
club, you see. Effective immediately, your membership is revoked. I’ll have to ask that you remove yourself at once.” 

The two attendants moved forward menacingly, and Colin involuntarily took a step back
. “Why, my father won’t stand for this,” he sputtered. “He’ll have a word—”