Claiming His Defiant Miss. Bronwyn Scott
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she’d been warned against it. She was too young, he was too ‘dangerous’ in the way unsuitable men are for well-bred girls who are restless and fresh out of the schoolroom. But she had done it anyway and now she was paying. She couldn’t have him. Their harsh parting had seen to that. There could be no going back from the words and betrayal they’d flung at one other. But that didn’t stop her from measuring all others against him and no one could possibly measure up. Her father called it disobedient, outright rebellious. Her mother called it a shame.
Perhaps they were right. Maybe she was rebellious. Maybe she was a shame to the family. There was certainly argument for that. For all outward appearances, she had everything a successful debutante could want: she was pretty, her family was respectable, her father the second son of a viscount, a valued member of Parliament, and she had a dowry that more than adequately reflected all that respectability. What was not to like? She should have been an open-and-shut case, a prime piece of merchandise snatched off the marriage mart after two Seasons.
Although, to her benefit, all that parental frustration had probably been the reason her parents had let her accompany Beatrice into Scottish exile while she waited out her pregnancy: the errant daughter would be out of sight, out of mind. Perhaps her parents hoped a few months in Scotland would change her mind, show her what life was like alone and isolated from society. A spinster could expect nothing more.
May smiled to herself and gave a little skip along the dirt road. If that’s what her parents hoped for, they couldn’t be more wrong. She loved it here. Never mind the villagers didn’t know what to make of her. That could change in time. Even if it didn’t, she liked being on her own, just her and Beatrice. She liked doing for herself. She’d discovered she had a talent for cooking, for shopping for their small household, for growing things. She and Bea had the most spectacular greenhouse where they would be able to grow vegetables year-round—not enough to live on, not yet. They would still be reliant on the Farmer Sinclairs of the world for a while. But come spring... That put a stop to her skipping.
Would they still be here in the spring? She hoped so, but Beatrice’s parents might call her home after the baby was born. Her own parents certainly would want her back at some point. This had become an anxiety point for both of them over the last few weeks. The baby coming changed everything and ‘everything’ was uncertain. Beatrice feared someone would come and take the baby away. She was unwed after all, never mind that the village called her Mistress Fields and thought Mr Fields was a small merchant explorer away at sea, a fiction they had liberally borrowed and enhanced from one of Bea’s favourite romance novels. The truth was, Beatrice had been indiscreet last winter and now she was paying for it. When this was over, Beatrice didn’t want to go home any more than May did.
‘We simply won’t go.’ May had told her just last night when Bea had been up worrying again. ‘They can’t make us.’ That was only partly true. Their parents could make them. Their parents could cut off the allowance that let them keep the spacious cottage and buy food. Maybe Preston would stand up for them. Preston always did. He was the best of brothers. He was what May missed most about being away from home.
But she couldn’t rely on Preston for this. This was her decision alone to make, hers and Bea’s. They had to rely on themselves. They were already saving part of their allowances in case they were cut off. They had the greenhouse. They’d have their garden in the spring, they could make preserves, maybe enough to sell in the market or to trade. They had the clothes they’d come with and the horses too, although horses needed hay. If they economised, they could be countrywomen in truth. It was a daring plan to be sure and not without some risk. They would be giving up life as they knew it, but they would have their freedom in exchange.
Nothing changed until you did. That was the motto of the Left Behind Girls Club, of which there remained only two members now, her and Bea. Claire and Evie had both married. She’d gone to Evie’s wedding in October. Evie had been a radiant autumn bride, proud to stand beside her handsome husband, a royal prince of Kuban who’d given up his title for her and become a country gentleman in Sussex. If Dimitri Petrovich could do it, perhaps she and Bea could do it, too. They had to be the agents of their own change. They had to stand up for what they wanted, even if they had to fight for it.
The heavy weight in May’s skirt pocket reminded her of how literal that fight might be. Promise me you won’t let anyone take the baby, Beatrice had pleaded tearfully with her. If anyone came, they wouldn’t stop at an argument, something May could win. They would resort to physical force. It was a sad truth that men could simply overpower women to take what they wanted when reason failed, but guns were great equalisers; Preston had taught her that. She had one now in her skirt pocket, just in case. She’d promised Bea no one would take the baby as long as she had one good shot. A Worth’s word was golden.
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she approached their cottage. Usually the sight of their neat brick home with its steep slate roof brought her a sense of comfort. Today, she felt unease. Perhaps all this thinking about someone taking the baby had put her imagination on edge. The baby wasn’t even born yet. May tried to talk herself out of the premonition. Her mind was playing games. But it was no use. Something was wrong. There was mud tracked up the porch steps to the door, the way boots tracked mud. Boots meant men. Men meant trouble. It was market day, no one would make a special trip out. If there was business to be dealt with, she would have taken care of it in town.
May set down her basket and scanned the yard, her eye catching the anomaly. There! A horse, not one of their own; an animal too sleek to be a farmer’s. This was the kind of horse owned by someone who rode. Horses meant money and this one looked vaguely familiar. Her mouth went dry. Had Bea’s family come already? May slipped her hand into her pocket and slowly pulled out the pistol, letting calm slide over her. Just think about the next step. It was a trick Preston had taught her, something he’d learned from his work for the government.
Through the window, she could see the top of a man’s head. Someone was sitting in the front parlour’s spare chair. Good. Whoever it was couldn’t see her. Take them by surprise. Don’t give them a chance to think. The only one thinking should be you. Preston had taught her that, too. She’d know where to turn once she came through the door; she’d know where to aim her gun. She wouldn’t waste a moment learning the layout of the room and who was where.
May drew a breath and threw open the front door with her shoulder, using more force than necessary. It banged against the wall, making noise and startling the room’s occupants. She whirled towards the chair at the window, the pistol trained on the man. The light from the window might obscure the details of his face, but she could see enough to hit him. She would aim for his shoulder. ‘Get out, we don’t want you here.’ She let the ominous cock of the pistol fill the stunned silence of the room, a silence that didn’t last nearly as long as it should have.
Most people took guns seriously. Not the man in the chair. He laughed! The sound of it sent a shudder of recognition down her spine as he drawled, ‘Hello, Maylark. It’s nice to see you, too.’ With those words, the element of surprise was neatly turned on her.
May froze. Liam Casek was here? She blinked against the light from the window, against the improbability, trying to digest the reality. Liam Casek—her brother’s work partner, her one great moment of foolishness, the man against whom she measured all other men and found them lacking—was sitting in her front parlour in the middle-of-nowhere Scotland, the last person she’d ever have expected to see. In truth, he was the last person she wanted to see here. He could only bring her trouble as he’d so aptly demonstrated on earlier occasions. How would she ever explain him to Beatrice? She lowered the gun, her arm suddenly heavy from the weight, and his eyes flickered towards the motion.
‘How like you to greet gentlemen with pistols.’ It was an insult if ever there was one. The last time she’d seen him had been five years ago, a mere seventeen-year-old girl. She was far more grown up now. She should say something witty, one of her famed biting retorts, but all she could do was stare.
He was much as she remembered him: blue Irish eyes that sparkled in the face of danger—she didn’t know many men who would take a pistol aimed at them sitting down—untrimmed hair falling over his shoulders in a tangle