The Lady and the Laird. Nicola Cornick
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tightly. Tension seeped through every muscle in his body. It was impossible to allow Wilfred Cardross to triumph. Yet how to prevent it...
Mr. Kirkward cleared his throat. “My lord, if I might mention...” He sounded timid. Robert wondered if the lawyer genuinely was afraid of him. Surely his reputation was not that bad.
“Of course, Mr. Kirkward,” he said.
“There is one other family line we have not previously explored,” Kirkward said. He searched through the sheaf of papers in his case with agitated fingers, and Robert saw he was holding a family tree. “We discovered it a number of weeks ago, but as you were already betrothed to Miss Brodrie it seemed irrelevant....” He placed the parchment on the table and smoothed it with his hand. “There is a slight problem, my lord, but perhaps, as you are—forgive me—desperate...”
Robert felt a prickle of irritation. He preferred directness to all this circumlocution.
“Spit it out, Kirkward,” he advised.
“You would be obliged to be brother-in-law to the man who stole your bride,” Kirkward murmured. “A sacrifice, but a small one perhaps, given that half of the Methven estates is at stake—”
Robert cut him off with a chopping motion. “Kirkward,” he said, “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Mr. Kirkward flapped the genealogical list in his hand. “We had been interpreting the terms of the royal decree very strictly by looking for direct descendants of the Cardross earldom in the male line,” he said. “However, when we looked in the female line we found another line of descent.”
Robert thrust the hair back from his forehead in a quick, impatient gesture. “Would that meet the terms of the original treaty?” he asked swiftly.
Mr. Kirkward sighed with the air of a man at the end of his tether. “All the legal advice I have taken suggests it would meet the terms, my lord.”
Robert felt a flash of hope. Then he remembered the lawyer’s previous words. “When you said I would be obliged to be brother-in-law to the man who stole my bride...”
“Mr. Kirkward is referring to Lachlan MacMorlan,” Lady Methven said. She was squinting upside down at the family tree, head on one side. “The Duke of Forres’s daughters are kin to Cardross.”
Robert looked up sharply. “I know the Forres are kinsmen,” he said, “but I thought it was too distant a connection.”
Mr. Kirkward was shaking his head. “Straight down the line from the youngest daughter of the first Earl of Cardross.” His eyes darted from Robert’s face to Lady Methven to Jack. “There is, however, an impediment.”
“Naturally,” Robert said ironically. “When was it ever easy?”
“You may not wed any lady over the age of thirty or a widow,” Jack murmured, quoting from the original royal treaty. “No lady under the age of seventeen, no foreigners, especially no lady with English blood—”
“I need no reminders,” Robert said dryly. He could not quite believe that when he and Jack had first heard the ridiculously tight terms of the royal treaty they had actually laughed at it.
“Lady Christina MacMorlan is one and thirty,” Lady Methven said. “And Lady Mairi is a widow, so they are both ineligible.”
That left only Lady Lucy.
Lady Lucy MacMorlan was his only chance.
Lady Lucy who wrote erotic love letters like a wanton and kissed like an innocent. Lady Lucy who had ruined his betrothal, lied to him, caused scandal after scandal, was deceitful and manipulative and had done it all for the money.
Lady Lucy whom he wanted with a fierce lust that was quite inexplicable.
Jack shifted in his chair. “And suddenly it’s your birthday, Rob,” he said dryly.
There was an abrupt silence in the room. Everyone looked at Robert.
“Whatever can you mean, Jack?” Lady Methven said.
“Only that Rob likes Lady Lucy MacMorlan rather a lot,” Jack said, his grin broadening.
“Thank you, Jack,” Robert said dryly. “A helpful intervention, as always.” He stood up. “You mistake. I do not like Lady Lucy at all and I do not trust her an inch.”
Lady Methven looked scandalized. “Robert! She is a sweet girl.”
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