Chapter 4
Four
Lachlan broke the seal with a practiced thumb and the kind of impatience reserved for men who believed ink could do the work of steel.
The note had arrived at dawn, delivered by a rider whose horse still steamed from hard miles and harder weather.
Rosebery’s crest—gaudy and self-assured—stared up at him from the wax as if it expected deference.
Lachlan gave it none. He tore through the flap, unfolded the sheet, and read by the gray light leaking between heavy curtains.
At first, he felt only satisfaction.
He had written plainly the night before—plainly and with deliberate cruelty, because cruelty was sometimes the only language certain men understood.
I have Lady Horatia Whitaker. She remains under my protection. You will not retrieve her.
Good luck having your wedding without her in attendance.
Montclaire
He had imagined the earl’s fury scorching through the paper. He had imagined threats, petitions, perhaps a clumsy attempt at diplomacy. He had even imagined a challenge—something bold enough to be entertaining.
What he did not imagine was this.
Rosebery’s reply was short. Neat. Almost—Lachlan read it twice, then a third time—almost indifferent.
Your Grace,
I received your message and thank you for the courtesy of informing me Lady Horatia has been with you. We were concerned when she was not with her carriage. It is a relief to know she remains unharmed.
You may keep her, for the present. The wedding will proceed as planned, whether she is present or not. I shall address your treachery once my guests have departed and my household is returned to order. In the interim, I trust you will see that Lady Horatia remains safe in your care.
Rosebery.
Lachlan’s fingers tightened until the paper threatened to crumple. He forced himself to smooth it again, unwilling to give even the smallest sign of triumph to a man who had written as though Horatia were a parcel misdirected, not a living woman with a mind and a heartbeat.
The wedding will proceed… whether she is present or not.
The words sat wrong. They scraped.
He read them again, and the unease in his gut deepened into something colder. A wedding without a bride was not a wedding. Not one that could satisfy the ton’s hunger for spectacle and scandal. Not one that would stand without questions, whispers, laughter behind fans.
Unless…
Unless Rosebery had found a way around that particular inconvenience.
Unless Horatia was not the bride in truth—only the name.
Or something else entirely…
Lachlan stared down at the signature until the ink blurred slightly at the edges, not from tears—never that—but from the heat of anger rushing through him.
Rosebery had not demanded Horatia. He had not threatened Lachlan with the law.
He had not even pretended outrage. He had merely promised retribution later.
And worse—he had written, I hope Lady Horatia will be safe in your care until then, as if he were speaking of a rented horse he expected returned in decent condition.
Lachlan’s jaw flexed. He had known Rosebery was a bastard.
He had not realized the depth of it or perhaps he had realized it, and his pride had simply refused to accept that another man could be so vile as to regard a woman as disposable.
His gaze drifted to the hearth, where last night’s fire had sunk into ash. The castle was quiet at this hour—too quiet. In the stillness, his thoughts sharpened and turned treacherous.
If Rosebery did not care whether Horatia appeared… then why had he pursued her at all?
Why had he insisted upon this match?
And what, precisely, did Horatia hope to gain from this union?
Lachlan’s chest tightened, not with desire this time, but with something nearer to dread. He had taken her from the road and congratulated himself on his cleverness. He had planned seduction as though he were arranging a parlor game. He had imagined himself in command of every piece on the board.
But Rosebery’s letter suggested a different game entirely—one Lachlan did not yet understand.
He moved to the window and shoved it open an inch despite the cold.
The air bit at him, sharp with peat and damp stone.
Beyond the glass, the Highlands rolled out in muted greens and purples, heather dark as bruises under the overcast sky.
Somewhere in the distance, a hawk cried—lonely, watchful.
A fitting sound. “Damn you,” he muttered, though whether he meant Rosebery or himself was unclear.
A wedding without Horatia. A promise of vengeance afterward and a hope—a hope—that she remained safe until then. Lachlan’s grip closed on the letter again, hard enough to crease it at the center. It was not indifference. Not truly. It was calculation. That was worse.
He could not sit with this. He could not pace and brood like a poet nursing a bruise to his pride. He needed Horatia’s eyes on him, her sharp tongue, her stubborn spine. He needed to hear what she knew—what she feared—what she had not yet said.
Most of all, he needed to see her with his own eyes, safe and whole, because Rosebery’s casual words had planted an image in his mind that he would not entertain: Horatia being used as a piece in another man’s scheme, cast aside the moment she ceased to be useful.
Lachlan folded the letter, once, twice, and slid it into his coat as if he might later require it as proof—proof of what, he did not yet know. He rang for a servant, then changed his mind and stalked into the corridor without waiting for one.
The castle’s stone swallowed the sound of his boots. The draughts found him immediately, teasing at his sleeves, but he barely felt them. His mind was a tangle of possibilities, each more unsettling than the last.
He turned toward the wing where Horatia’s chamber lay—the one he had chosen too strategically, too arrogantly, imagining convenience as though it were the only thing that mattered. Now, convenience meant something else. Now, that connecting door was not an advantage. It was a responsibility.
As he neared her corridor, he slowed—not from hesitation, but from instinct.
A man did not rush into a room where a woman might still be dressing.
Even a man who had written to her betrothed that he was keeping her.
He did not take advantage of that connecting door.
Instead he would use the door she’d expect he would knock upon.
He stopped outside her door, drew a breath, and forced the fury in his blood into something controlled.
Then he lifted his hand and knocked—once, firm and certain.
“Horatia,” he called, pitching his voice so it would carry without being indecent. “It’s me.”
A pause followed. Lachlan listened harder than he liked, as if his life depended upon the sounds on the other side—footsteps, a voice, the rustle of fabric, anything that proved she was there.
Because Rosebery’s indifference had made one thing painfully clear… Whatever game was being played, Horatia was at the center of it. And Lachlan was done being the only one in the room who understood neither the rules nor the stakes.
She opened the door and met his gaze. A soft smile played on her lips. “Hello, Lachlan.”
He returned her smile. How could he not? It was infectious and she was irresistible. “Do ye care tae go fer a stroll in the gardens with me?”
“What a lovely idea,” she said. “Let me don my cloak. It is still too chilly for me here in the highlands.”
She went over and fetched her cloak and slid it over her shoulders and then joined him in the hall. They walked through the corridor in companionable silence. Neither of them speaking until they were outside and the fresh air rolled over them. “Have you heard from Rosebery?” she asked.
He shook his head. Lachlan could not share that letter with her.
It would only make her unhappy. “I have not. Perhaps he is busy with the wedding.” He added that last bit to see what she would say.
Would she be displeased he did not come and retrieve her?
Would it matter to her if he continued to plan their wedding without the bride present?
She sighed. “That is very likely. He can be a bit self-absorbed. I suppose I should just accept my fate then.”
“And what is that?” he asked. What did she think would be her fate and why did she have to accept it. “You doona wish tae be there fer the wedding?”
“If I could have skipped this trip entirely, I would have.” She wrinkled her nose. “I had no wish to travel to Scotland at all. But father insisted.” She blew out a breath. “And what a disaster it has all been too.”
“Ye wish tae go home?” Why had she agreed to wed the earl if she didn’t truly wish to. Was it all because her father had demanded it? Why was so as equally disinterested in the whole affair as much as Rosebery? Something wasn’t adding up.
“I wish to never have left home.” She smiled. “But we can’t change what has already happened. So I am resigned.” There was that word again… he was starting to truly hate that word.
“You shouldna’ be so resigned tae this fate,” he said brusquely. “Ye should want more.”
“Well, of course, I want more,” she told him. “But sometimes you just have to accept what you are given. That’s life.”
Lachlan wanted to shake her. Why was she so accepting. He hated it. Hated it with a passion he didn’t understand. He desired her. Desperately so. “I want tae kiss ye.” He didn’t know why he blurted that out and he would have taken it back if he could. But it was far too late for such an action.
Her lips twitched. “Then what’s stopping you?”
That he hadn’t expected. Perhaps this seduction he had planned could happen…and soon. “I doona want ye tae feel obliged.”
“To kiss you?” She lifted a brow. “Perhaps I want you to kiss me.”