Prologue
Isle of Mull, Scotland, 1799
The young man in the corner of the smoky taproom drank alone. It was not just that he was solitary: a nearly palpable wall separated him from the islanders. It had been over fifty years since Bonnie Prince Charlie had led the clans to destruction on Culloden Moor, but Scots have long memories. Though their hospitality was legendary, none felt compelled to seek out a man who was obviously rich and English, particularly not a man whose cool gray-eyed glance conveyed no welcome.
Being alone bothered the Honorable Gervase Brandelin not at all; he preferred it. He swallowed the last of his raw Scotch whiskey, feeling it burn even though it followed numerous earlier drafts. There was nothing subtle about either the spirit or the effect it produced, but after a month in the Highlands and Islands he’d begun to develop a taste for it.
The tavern was replete with the signature scents of farmers and fishermen and the acrid, eye-stinging bite of burning peat. Glancing across the low-ceilinged taproom, Gervase caught the eye of the barmaid and signaled for another whiskey. He was drinking too much, but after a day of riding through Mull’s relentless rain he was in the mood for warmth and comfort. This inn was an unexpected find, its English owners having created an un-Scottish air of conviviality.
The barmaid sauntered over to him. She could have left a bottle at the beginning of the evening, but then she wouldn’t have had an excuse to parade her wares. Every time she poured a new drink, her bodice was pulled lower and the swing of her hips was more deliberate. “Will yer lordship be wanting something more?” she asked, her tone suggesting a wealth of possibilities.
Gervase responded with a half smile, enjoying the warmth spreading through his loins. Their courtship, if it could be termed such, had been progressing for the last two hours. Gervase’s man, Bonner, would have mentioned that the master was heir to Viscount St. Aubyn. The remark ensured the maximum in deference and service for both man and master. It would also add a few crowns to the price of bed and board, but both were still cheap by London standards.
“What more do you have to offer?” he asked lazily, brushing his dark hair back, grateful that it had finally dried. He had begun to wonder if anything in the Hebrides was ever dry.
Taking her time, she leaned across him as she poured more of the dark amber whiskey into his glass. Her full breast brushed his cheek and shoulder, and he could smell the musky, not overclean scent of her body. Gervase preferred a more refined kind of doxy, but he hadn’t had a woman in weeks and this one was clearly available and willing. The girl was roundly attractive and he ran an appreciative hand down the curve of her hip.
Confident of her allure, she smiled provocatively. “We have anything you might want.”
His gaze fell to her low-cut bodice, where half-exposed breasts were ripe for the plucking. “Anything?”
“Anything.” The barmaid clearly had experience and enthusiasm for this sort of private business, which should make for a rewarding night.
Under the clatter of tankards and conversation, Gervase asked softly, “Do you know which room I’m in?”
“Aye.”
“What time will you be through here?”
“Another hour, my lord. Will it be worth my while to visit you then?” Her tone managed to imply that while tall, dark, and handsome fellows like him were exactly to her taste, she was a poor working lass who needed to be practical.
Expecting this, Gervase had a gold coin ready to flip to the girl. She caught and hid it expertly before anyone else in the taproom could have noticed. “Will that suffice as a . . . token of my esteem?”
Her smile revealed strong, irregular teeth. “Well enough, as a beginning.”
The price of the barmaid was inflated even more than the whiskey and the room, but since he was in a mood to buy, he raised his glass with a half smile. “Until later, then.”
Her hips moved in lazy circles as she strolled away. Gervase enjoyed the show, wondering if she could duplicate that motion in bed, then tossed back half the whiskey. This would be the last one, he decided, or he would be in no condition to avail himself of his purchase later.
* * *
The barmaid poured ale behind the bar, a satisfied expression on her face. Betsy MacLean, a cousin and the inn’s kitchen maid, recognized the look. “Made an arrangement with the Sassenach lord, Maggie?”
Maggie MacLean smiled with satisfaction. “Aye, I’ll be visiting him later. Handsome devil, isn’t he? And generous.”
Betsy looked across the room at the Englishman. He was a good-looking lad, no denying, lean with broad shoulders and a spare, muscular frame that looked incapable of fully relaxing. His lordship was in his early twenties, dressed with a simple, expensive elegance seldom seen in this remote corner of Britain. Though his features were regular, to her they were set too sternly to be considered handsome. His face gave nothing away, and in this crowd of drinkers he looked cool and distant.
“I dunno, Maggie, I seen him earlier close up and those gray eyes of his gave me a cold grue. You can have ’im. I like that man of his better.”
“Have you been busy in that direction, Betsy?” Maggie asked, her eyes still fixed on her conquest.
“Aye. We’re meeting later. He may not pay as much, but at least when he looks at me I feel warm, not cold.”
Maggie snorted. “His handsome lordship’s just a man, isn’t he? I know what he wants, and he’ll have to please me to get it.”
“Suit yourself.” Betsy shrugged and returned to the kitchen.
* * *
