Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,6
Fergus MacAllister. The hulking man stood with his hands planted at his lanky waist and a grimace lowering his white brows.
Though Drake had reached his thirtieth year, that stern gaze could still stir a flicker of guilt in him. “I’ve nothing to hide,” he stated. “The girl won’t be hurt.”
“Not hurt?” Fergus shook his head in disgust. “When ye sent me to spy on the lady, ye dinna say ye intended to milk her puir brother of all his money. Nor to use her as yer whore.”
“I’m not intending to make her my mistress.”
Fergus snorted. “Ye canna expect me to believe that.”
Annoyed, Drake walked to the desk and seated himself in the leather chair. He looked down at the ledger, ran his finger down a column, and just as swiftly totaled the figures in his head. Affecting a detached tone, he said, “Then believe this—I mean to marry her.”
The older man’s jaw dropped. “Of all the dastardly schemes…” he sputtered. “Ye’re set on revenge. Ye intend to steal her away from Lord Hailstock.”
“That’s none of your concern.”
“Hah. Is the lass to have a say in the matter?”
“No.”
Fergus stomped to the desk and shook his gnarled finger in Drake’s face. “Yer mither raised ye to treat folks fairly, to be a braw man. And this is how ye repay her. By maneuvering that sweet angel to yer own wicked purpose.”
“As my wife, that sweet angel will want for naught.”
“Naught but love. Naught but respect and honor.” The branch of candles cast shadows on Fergus’s familiar, craggy face with the black eyepatch. “Ye’ll have yer vengeance at last. But how will ye live with yerself, I wonder?”
Drake refused to lower his gaze. He remembered the flash of horror in her eyes when he’d taunted her with the prospect of sending her brother to prison. But he wouldn’t let himself feel sorry for her. After years of poverty, she would adjust quickly to being mistress of a rich household. In time, she would probably thank him.
“I’ll live as I’ve always done,” he said. “However I choose.” In a dismissive move, he picked up the quill pen and dipped it into the silver inkpot. “Go now. You’ve duties to attend to. Check the invoice from the wine merchant and see that he didn’t cheat us.”
Fergus straightened himself. “Gettin’ toplofty on me, are ye? Actin’ like the laird of the castle.”
“I havena forgotten my roots,” Drake said, deliberately resorting to the rough burr of his youth. “Now go awa’ wi’ ye’, Fergus MacAllister. I’ll hear no more of yer bletherin’.”
Fergus glared for another long moment, his meaty fists clenching and unclenching. Then, muttering Gaelic curses beneath his breath, he stalked out into the antechamber. The door slammed shut, and a current of air set the candle flames dancing and sputtering.
Drake jabbed the quill back into its holder. Thrusting his head into his hands, he rubbed his brow. He despised himself for speaking so sharply to Fergus, for treating him with the disdain the nobility reserved for lesser beings. But Drake would brook no interference to his plan, not now, when he was so close to success.
He would give Lady Alicia Pemberton a day to reflect on his offer. Then he would return her call. And if she still refused his offer, he had in his possession the means to persuade her.
Wealth will never make you a gentleman.
Her aristocratic coldness still infuriated him. On the brink of ruin, she had stood there like a queen addressing a gutter rat. Until today, he had viewed her only as a pawn, his means of revenge. But now he looked forward to their nuptials for another reason. He wanted to shatter that cool reserve.
He wanted to show the proud Lady Alicia that she was no better than he.
* * *
“Gerald! Why are you up so early?”
Alicia paused in the doorway of the basement kitchen. Her brother sat at the long wooden trestle table, his scrawny shoulders hunched as he wolfed down a meat pasty. At the hearth, Mrs. Molesworth sliced onions into the stewpot. The stout battleax of a woman wore a mobcap over her iron-gray hair, and she gave a crisp nod to Alicia.
Seeing his sister, Gerald launched into a fit of coughing. Alicia hastened to his side and pressed a mug of tea into his hands. That deep hacking always made her tense and worried, though she strove not to reveal it to him.
He took a long gulp. “Thanks,” he said in a raspy voice.