The Scoundrel's Pleasure Read online

  The Scoundrel’s Pleasure

  The MacNeil Legacy - Book Two

  Jane Bonander

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2017 by Jane Bonander

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

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

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition February 2017

  ISBN: 978-1-68230-344-3

  Also by Jane Bonander

  The MacNeil Legacy

  The Pleasure of the Rose

  Heat of a Savage Moon

  Wild Heart

  A Taste of Honey

  Fires of Innocence

  Secrets of a Midnight Moon

  Warrior Heart

  Dancing on Snowflakes

  Forbidden Moon

  Winter Heart

  The Dragon Tamer

  To Katie Kotchman

  Prologue:

  The Seduction

  Island of Hedabarr, Scotland—1862

  Sometimes, if Isobel listened very carefully, when the island was cloaked in mist so thick it blanketed the earth like a shroud, she could hear the screams. The poor woman still wandered the land, wailing for her lost bairn and cursing her husband, who had taken a shovel to his wife and killed her when his fifteenth daughter was not born a son.

  Isobel often thought of that legend, especially on nights like this, when the entire world seemed ghostly. The annual fair, although much anticipated and gay for many, made Isobel’s imagination bloom. Probably because of all the oddities the fair brought with it: two-headed chickens, snake people, talking apes. But was there truth to the story of the ghost with fifteen daughters? Did she indeed stalk the land, perhaps in search of her rat of a husband, hoping to do him in as he had done her?

  Surely, the incident had happened; Aunt Paula had recounted it to her many times as they sat by the fireplace on bleak evenings, when business at the brothel was slow, and when the storms pelted the house with rain and wind. Isobel hated storms. The girls who worked for Paula sat there too, as fascinated as children by stories of ghosties and little people, goblins and ghouls. In general, Isobel liked the girls who worked for her aunt.

  But, Isobel wondered, whatever happened to those fifteen daughters after their mother was killed? Did the vile husband abandon them? She wondered if any of them were still alive and living on the island.

  Trying to find answers, Isobel watched her neighbors, looking perhaps for some curious behavior, like the old woman who combed the river’s edge for booty, whose constant squirming movements made it look as if she had a ferret in her drawers. Or the woman with the scrunched-in face who cleaned at the inn—she stuttered every time you tried to speak to her. For some, it was embarrassing to listen to her, but Isobel knew the woman couldn’t help it, and always waited patiently for an answer. Might she be one of the tragic daughters of a murderer? What about the old whore who still tried to give it away on the streets, or in the back of a bar, lifting her soiled, tattered gown to reveal bony knees, skinny thighs, and no underthings at all. And then there was the woman who had not come out of her house for ten years, or so people said. “She be afraid of crowds,” one of Paula’s girls had told her. These were things that ignited Isobel’s imagination as much, if not more, than the comings and goings of the brothel or the flurry of the annual fair.

  Isobel knew what went on in the brothel; she’d lived there most of her fifteen years, except for the times she went off to school on the mainland. The thought of what went on behind those closed doors made her face feel flushed. Many of the girls were not much older than she was. Once she had been walking past one of the rooms they used and heard the bed springs squeaking. Mona, one of Aunt Paula’s girls, was urging some fellow on.

  “C’mon, luv, that’s it, that’s it! Oh, ye be so good!”

  Isobel had raced down the stairs, her face and neck so hot she thought she might burn the collar of her blouse.

  These were thoughts she couldn’t shake as she wandered down the paths at the annual fair. The mist had lifted, perhaps shooed away by the wood and peat smoke. Or the noise of the merrymakers, making everything seem normal again. All of her friends had left for the tented freak shows: the goat woman and the fattest man in the world and all the rest of the oddities.

  She wasn’t interested in any of that. In fact, she was ready to leave. There would be Delilah’s clootie dumpling to eat, but only if she got home before everyone else devoured it.

  Just as she started to walk away, she saw them—one fair and one dark, the dark one like the duke at Castle Sheiling. She stopped and stared. How the lassies on the island had buzzed about the two of them when they first arrived! Since Isobel was at school, she thought little about them until she laid eyes on them. Very, very bonnie, they were.

  They were too busy to notice her, of that she was certain. She ducked behind a tent flap to stare without risking them glancing her way. Both of them tall and handsome. The fair one’s hair was nearly white and curled close to his scalp and his eyes were so blue they seemed to glitter like sapphires in the lamplight. He had a fine looking, pleasant face; he would be easy to talk to.

  The other one…She inhaled a sigh, releasing it slowly. How dangerous he seemed! Reckless, even. He made her body tingle. Aye, she had seen that one before, once when he came to the brothel and Isobel hid behind the door; Aunt Paula had turned him away. He didn’t seem upset by her refusal; in fact, Isobel remembered that he had told her aunt in a flirtatious way that he would be back. Indeed, Isobel realized he could have any lassie on the island; he need not go to a brothel to get one.

  And one other time she had seen him down at the docks when she returned from school. He had glanced her way, but had not settled his gaze upon her. That was fine with Isobel; she didn’t like to be noticed.

  Now the two laddies were arguing about what to do next, the fair one anxious to see the performance of Wallace, Hero of Scotland, the dark one suggesting a peep show.

  “Aw, come on, Gavin, for just once in your boring life give in to your seedy side; you might enjoy it. I hear they have fat girls, ladies with beards, all kinds of great stuff. Even a man with a snout like a pig. And maybe even some naked ladies,” he coaxed as he took a swig from a flask. His voice was decidedly harsh compared to the burr of the Scots. She had learned that these were Americans. Americans! Brothers of the duke of the castle, she was told. She had seen the younger sister once; the girl was a beauty, small, delicate, and almost wraithlike, with hair as black as satin, flowing down her back in gentle waves.

  The fair one, Gavin, gave his brother a disgusted look. “Why would I want to see bearded ladies? Or a pig man? You do what you want, Duncan, I’m going to see the performance. And you’d better have that flask back in Fletcher’s den before he finds it missing.”

  “What Fletcher doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Duncan answered, then swore, bringing his hand to his mouth, digging at something.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Damn nettles,” Duncan spat. “They’re everywhere on this island.”

  “You’re not even supposed to be here. You’re supposed to be mucking out the stables. Why do you constantly challenge Fletcher?”

  “Stable mucking is Evan’s j
ob. I have better things to do with my time,” Duncan said.

  Gavin shrugged. “It’s your life.” With that, he wandered off toward another tent, leaving his brother alone.

  Duncan took another swig and turned to leave as well, but his gaze somehow found the very spot where Isobel stood. Well, rot! How likely was that? Her pulse beat hard, high in her throat, and she held her breath. She stood still as a statue; she didn’t blink, she didn’t breathe, hoping he wouldn’t notice her there.

  “Are you spying on me?”

  Why she jumped she didna’ know. Probably because she was embarrassed at being caught. “Nae,” she replied. Her fingers went immediately to the scar at her neck, the one left over from the fire so many years before that had killed her parents. She found herself touching it whenever she was nervous.

  He strolled toward her, his head bent to one side. As he approached, he said, “I’ve seen you before somewhere, haven’t I?”

  She shook her head. “Nae.” At least she was grateful for learning English, although often times it was hard to understand him anyway.

  He smiled, showing beautiful white teeth and a dimple in one cheek that could hold a lassie’s heart. Lord a’mighty, he was a handsome lad. She thought perhaps she could look at him for the rest of her life and never get bored. Just think of having someone so bonnie to touch each and every day. She snuffled softly. What did she know about boys or men? Only that Aunt Paula had warned her to stay clear of them. Not that she ever had reason to; she wasn’t exactly the type to draw stares.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  Isobel blinked and lowered her gaze. “Isobel.”

  “Do they call you Izzy?”

  There was a smile in his voice and she could smell the whisky on his breath; it wasn’t unpleasant. He placed his fingers under her chin and lifted her face toward his. “If you were my girl, I’d call you Izzy.” His eyes were dark, his lashes long. His cheekbones were sharp but the dimple in his cheek softened him. She stepped away from him and pulled her shawl up to cover her scar. His hand came over hers. “What are you afraid of?” He moved her hand away and ran his fingers over the bumpy skin beneath her ear.

  She shivered at his touch and pushed his hand away, trying to cover the blemish once again. He frowned, displeased with what he saw. Now he would turn away, disgusted.

  Instead he said, “Talk to me, pretty girl. Tell me who hurt you.”

  His soft-spoken voice puzzled her. Why was he being nice? There were many young girls on the island, plenty far bonnier than she. “It…it was a fire, a long time ago. I was but a wee lassie at the time,” she managed.

  She found Duncan studying her. “And you think that because you have a scar on your neck, you aren’t pretty enough; is that why you hide in dark corners and keep trying to cover it up?”

  She lowered her head briefly before looking up at him. “I’m not pretty; don’t say that I am.”

  Again he studied her. “Do you know how I knew you were standing in the shadows?”

  She shook her head and tried not to stare at him.

  “The torchlight from the tent glinted off your hair. It looked like fire.”

  “My hair is not red,” she exclaimed more quickly than she meant to. “It…’tis bad luck to have red hair.”

  He cocked his head again. “Why?”

  “’Tis, that’s all.” She couldn’t tell him that because of the color of her hair, some called her a changeling or a witch. Or that she had fairy blood, which was not a good thing, nae, it was not. And how many times had she been teased by the bullies at school, telling her horrid stories about how her parents really died because of Isobel’s red hair?

  He broke into her reflections, sounding amused rather than cynical. “And if it’s not red, what color would you call it?”

  Whenever Isobel whined about her hair, Aunt Paula always reminded her that the long, thick, curly mane was not red, that it was the color of the spice used in broonie, a gingerbread cake. “Ginger,” she answered. “It’s called ginger.”

  He chuckled. “Ginger, red, cinnamon—what’s the difference?”

  She was beginning to think he was simply a great big oaf. “There is a great difference.” Her voice was strong now, for this was something she needed to defend.

  His gaze was warm; it rattled her. “I don’t see how someone as pretty as you could be bad luck.”

  Twice. Twice he’d called her pretty. Did he see something others did not? Or was she merely wishing it was so?

  Just then a gaggle of children ran by, each carrying a stick with a ribbon. They laughed and shrieked and carelessly bumped into Isobel, throwing her off balance and against Duncan. His chest was solid, like the monoliths and the sandstone cairns down at the southeast corner of the island. She tried to picture his body; it would not be the pasty bluish color of so many young Scots. It would be dark, maybe mahogany or cedar. And he surely was as strong as a tree. He took her arm to steady her. His touch was gentle. “Hey! Watch where you’re going you little savages!” He laughed when they ignored him. “Are you all right?” When she nodded, he said, “Come, walk with me.”

  Her emotions in a tangle, she started to say she couldn’t, but—

  “Come on,” he urged, his arm slung around her shoulders. “We won’t go far, I promise. In fact, we can go over there.” He pointed toward the benches that surrounded a fire. Along with the smell of peat smoke and coal in the air, one could smell toasted nuts, fish and fowl—the smells all mingled to provide a feast for the senses of those who came to the fair because their own kitchens could not provide such delicacies.

  Isobel was faintly aware of the people around her. Pipe music wheezed in the distance, the primeval wailing adding a somber note to the festivities. A fiddler played a lively reel. She herself could have been on the moon, for all she really heard was the beating of her own heart and the sound of Duncan’s voice. He sat and pulled her down next to him, close. He put his arm around her shoulders once again. She shivered but didn’t move away. “All right, tell me all about Isobel.”

  “Nae,” she answered, bravely turning to him. This was not like her. She had little experience speaking to young lads, for her school was all lassies. “You tell me about yourself; ’tis much more interesting, I think.” Again, she fell into his beautiful gaze. Again, she compared him to young Scottish men. He took another sip from his flask, stopped a moment, and then offered her some. She almost said no, because she had never had a drink of alcohol before in her life, but she changed her mind. She felt reckless. “Thank ye,” she said, hoping she sounded grown up. She bravely took the flask. Before she took a sip, she realized that her mouth would be at the very place his had been. The thought gave her a frisson of pleasure. She took a sip, slowly letting the fire warm her throat—and coughed as it went down. “Ocht.” She made a face as tears filled her eyes. “Why do people drink this swill?”

  He laughed at her reaction, but it was not unkind. “Because if you take another sip, you’ll begin to feel warmth in your belly that matches nothing else.” Again, he brought his hand to his mouth, as if it hurt.

  “I heard you tell your brother you touched a nettle,” she said.

  “Yeah, they’re everywhere, and they sting like the devil.” He shook his hand, as if that would dislodge the pain.

  “I can fix it for you.”

  He gave her a lopsided grin, one that made her giddy. “Will you kiss it and make it better?”

  In spite of herself, she had to smile. “Nae.” She stood and walked to the far side of one of the show tents, reached down, broke off a leaf, and returned to him. “Give me your hand.” He raised it toward her and she took it, feeling the hard palm of a lad accustomed to work. “This is the dock leaf. Wherever the nettle grows, the healing dock leaf grows nearby.” She spat on the leaf and rubbed it hard against his palm.

  It took only seconds and Duncan looked up at her, amazed. “The sting is gone.”

  “Aye,” she answered. “I
t’s as if nature knows to put a balm next to something as bothersome as a clump of nettles.” And what was there to offset a handsome laddie trying with ease to steal a girl’s heart?

  He took another swig from the flask, then offered it to her again.

  Why stop now? “I’ll take another sip if ye’ll tell me what it’s like living in such a fine castle.”

  He touched her chin, lifting her face once again. “I’ll tell you about the castle if you’ll let me kiss you.”

  Before she thought too much she took a swig of whisky, feeling it slide down her throat once again. Only this time it didn’t taste nearly so bad. On a whim she took another. She felt all loose and relaxed and found herself saying, “Aye, I would like that.” Because she wanted it; this was her adventure! Other girls often spoke of escapades like this, but she had never had one. Before another thought formed in her head, she found his lips on hers, pressing, gently nudging her lips open. She thought she would fall, and grabbed his shoulder so she wouldn’t. Oh, how smooth and gentle his lips were on hers! He moved to her cheek, planting sweet kisses everywhere, over her nose, her forehead, her chin. She felt the light stubble from his beard. She wanted in the worst way to reach up and touch it.

  He pulled away; she could barely catch her breath. “Oh, Izzy,” he said, his voice close to her ear, “if you don’t let me kiss you again, I just might keel over and die. But,” he added, nuzzling her hair, “not here.” She was tingling all over!

  She stood, bringing him with her. “Come, I know a spot.”

  Feeling loose and light headed, she pulled him with her into the woods, leaves and branches crunching underfoot until they could no longer hear the music clearly.

  She raced past a cluster of Scots pines and found the little cave that was hidden behind the junipers.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “’There’s a cave here, behind the brush.”