Mayhap it did. He wasn’t as willing to make convenient assumptions himself, though. Aden blew out his breath. She’d asked for advice rather than a rescue, and he admired that. Given what she’d told him, however, providing either one of those seemed a very distant hope. “He’s told ye why he wants ye. My advice to ye, lass, is toeither pay yer brother’s debt, or see to it ye’re nae longer what this Vale requires.”
She stared at him, her eyes widening a little. Saint Andrew, she had long lashes and expressive eyes. Did she know that? Was she in some way using her wiles to sway him? That would make him an idiot, considering that she’d already announced that she didn’t care for him. Unless she did, and that was part of the lure.
All the Sassenach lasses he’d encountered during his time in London baffled him. They giggled at his accent, thought his kilt quaint or barbaric or scandalous depending on the setting, and claimed to find him attractive—and marriageable—despite his being a Highlander.Despite.Being a Highlander wasn’t a flaw to be overlooked or excused. It was him, his blood and his heart.
“You’re suggesting I ruin my own reputation,” she said, breaking into his unexpected reverie.
Aden shrugged. “If ye’re nae useful to him, he’d have nae reason to wed ye.” Shifting in his chair a little, he regarded her. She was bonny, and he couldn’t place the word “dull” anywhere in her vicinity. Aye, she claimed to dislike him, yet there she sat, two feet in front of him, alone but for a maid and a stray dog. “I could assist ye with that, if ye like. If ye mean to be ruined, ye may as well do it right.”
Her fair cheeks darkened. “I need your assistance, not your… scandalous offers.” Miranda’s gaze flashed down to his mouth and up to meet his eyes again.
He grinned, because he wasn’t going to let her know that he was disappointed. “It was only a suggestion.”
She grimaced. “A useless one. Whatever my status, he would still hold my brother’s papers. I’d only be putting this trouble back on Matthew, and on my parents.”
“It’s Matthew’s trouble to begin with, if ye’ll recall,” he countered. “What’shedoing to get ye out of it?”
“He tried, I think. But he’s so deep in a hole that all he can see is the rope Captain Vale offered him.”
Despite all this landing on her shoulders, she could still see it logically, and from her brother’s point of view as well as her own. Her clearheadedness was admirable, even though it no doubt gave her a fairly accurate view of what lay ahead for her. And yet she’d sought him out, anyway—looking for what, a miracle? That didn’t quite fit with her firm hold on reality, but he supposed even he looked better in comparison with certain doom. Thank Saint Andrew for small favors.
“I dunnae ken what other advice or answers I can give ye, Miss Harris,” he made himself say, looking down to shuffle again. “Ye’ll nae return yer troubles to the man who caused ’em, and I dunnae have fifty thousand quid to give to ye, lass.”
With a slow sigh she stood. “No, I don’t suppose you would have anything useful for me. No doubt you gamblers have some sort of code against interfering in each other’s schemes and traps.”
Well, that hit a bit close to home. “I’ve nae done a thing to ye, lass. Snap at me if ye wish, but I’ve nae as much as played a single hand of whist, much less faro or vingt-et-un, with yer brother.”
“True enough. I apologize for bothering you.” Turning her back, she walked to the door where her maid waited. With one hand on the handle, she faced him again. “If we were friends, would you have given me the same advice and sent me on my way?”
“I could offer to kill him for ye, I reckon,” he returned, trying to sound offhand even if the idea held a great deal of appeal.
“I try to avoid murder over gambling debts.”
He shrugged. “And I’d ask ye what else it is that has ye hating card players, because a brother selling a horsedoesnae seem enough to make a proper lass go stomping about claiming she hates a lad the moment she’s set eyes on him.”
Her jaw jumped. “I do not stomp. And we are not friends. I don’t owe you any confidences.”
There was something more to it, then. Well, he’d figure it out. “There’s nae secret handshake I know of that I could give ye. I wish… I wish there was, Miranda Harris.”
Miranda looked at him for another handful of seconds, then left the room.
Aden blew out his breath. She might not condone murder over gambling debts, but he’d seen men ruined and dead with deep play before. One had fled to America rather than face the consequences of losing his estate and his fortune. Another had joined the Sassenach army as the only way to keep himself fed. A third had rowed into the middle of a loch and shot himself in the temple. Aden hadn’t had a hand in any of it, but he’d watched, and he’d learned a good lesson about not playing beyond his own means.
What none of those lads had done was sell a sibling to settle the debt. Then again, he didn’t recall that any of them had been given that option. As an older brother to Eloise—who happened to be engaged to a lad who’d just handed over his sister to satisfy a wager—his primary concern was whether he needed to take steps to protect his sister or not. Matthew Harris had been reckless, and after he should have learned his lesson.
Unfortunately, he’d promised his discretion. That would make him the awful man Miranda had accused him of being if and when he did pass on to his brothers or to Lady Aldriss what he’d just learned. For the moment, though, he wasn’t willing yet to be the villain in his sister’s eyes. Or in Miranda’s, truth be told. She might dislike him, but he hadn’t yet given her an actual reasonto do so. Well, until he’d told her just now that he couldn’t do anything more to help her and sent her on her way, that was.
Beneath his chair the black mop of hair known as Brògan thumped her tail, and he reached down to scratch her behind the ears. Another bold female who’d stormed her way into his protection, who had him lying about her for no damned good reason. “Ye’d nae make more trouble for me, would ye?” he asked her, and her tail thumped again.
Straightening, he reshuffled the deck and flipped over the top card, holding up the queen of clubs. Miranda Harris had piqued his interest, and then she’d thrown cold water over him just when he’d been contemplating whether the insults were genuine or her way of flirting. He’d begun to think he could end his search for an English bride, and then learned she’d been bartered away.
He didn’t want to turn his back on all of it, on her, even if that might have been by far the easiest course of action. Beyond his own attraction to her, there remained one ironclad point. Miranda Harris was being forced into a marriage against her will, because of someone else’s actions.
Well. He’d been handed an opportunity, then. A lass he fancied had asked for his help. That at least gave him a bit of time to see if this attraction was one-sided, or if she felt that damned lightning, as well. Captain Robert Vale needed to be dealt with, regardless. But if Miranda had felt that spark between them, then fifty thousand quid, the King of England, and all the Highlanders in Scotland wouldn’t stop him from winning her.
“Smythe, who was at the door?” Francesca, Lady Aldriss, asked, as she handed over her morning’s correspondence to the butler.
“Miss Harris, my lady,” he answered.
