Page 34 of The Scot Beds His Wife
She gave Samantha a look that said she already knew it was.
Samantha decided she’d had all the niceties she could handle. “Lady Ravencroft—”
“Mena, please.”
“Are you aware your husband’s younger brother, the Earl of Thorne, is trying to steal my land from me?”
“Thorne?” The marchioness gasped, blinking rapidly. “That doesn’t sound like him at all.”
To Mena’s credit, she listened very intently to Samantha’s account of her plight, her winged auburn brows shifting lower and lower as a troubled expression overtook her pleasant one.
“I was aware he’d filed paperwork to claim the abandoned Erradale land,” she conceded once Samantha had finished. “But now that its rightful owner is returned, it doesn’t seem like he would persist in his pursuit of ownership. Especially not to the extent of harassment.”
“He said I could take his deal or forfeit it to the Laird, from whom he’d buy it for cents on the dollar.”
The marchioness frowned. “Forgive me, but I’m not familiar with that expression.”
“Um… pennies instead of pounds,” Samantha converted.
“I see. Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t he offer you a great deal of money for it?”
“A fair bit.” More like a staggering amount.
“And you don’t want to stay here for the long term, nor do you want to sell it to him? May I ask why?”
Once again, Samantha shifted, not wanting to cede diplomatic ground on enemy territory. Despite herself, she liked the statuesque Mena Mackenize. She wasn’t the anticipated old, stodgy matron, but someone not a great deal older than herself. Though the lady was fine and far more worldly, she had an approachable kindness that opened up a sort of void in Samantha that she hadn’t known was there.
Finishing her port with the queasy feeling that it would be her last for a good, long time, she decided to tell the truth. “No offense meant, Lady Ravencroft—Mena—but I promised my father that no son of Hamish Mackenzie would ever own Erradale…”
Regret lined Mena’s otherwise smooth ivory skin as she offered her a sad smile. “There’s none taken, my dear. I do not begrudge you the sentiment, and neither will my husband. He’s well acquainted with his father’s crimes against his own people.”
Stunned, Samantha groped for something else to say. She hadn’t exactly expected such a delicate and understanding reply. In fact, she’d gripped her pelisse in anticipation of being tossed out by the tall East Indian listening intently from the corner.
“I’ll discuss it with Lord Ravencroft, and he with Lord Northwalk and Lord Thorne before the Magistrate’s Bench convenes. We shall see what can be done for you and your family’s honor.”
“That’s mighty kind of you…” Samantha offered her halting gratitude. Unsure of what to do next, she stood abruptly, which seemed to oblige the marchioness to do the same.
“My previous offer is still extended, of course.” Mena took Samantha’s rough hand with gloves as soft as goose down. “I’ll personally deliver you an army of amateur cattlemen to gather your herd should you need it.”
“I’d—be obliged.” Samantha gave the lady something like a bow or a curtsy, but ultimately less graceful, and turned to follow the footman out when she paused, remembering something.
“May I ask you something else, Lady Ravencroft?”
“Of course.” The question seemed to please her.
“Do you know the meaning of the Gaelic insult ‘bonny’? Lord Thorne insists on using it to address me, and I’d like to find a comparable offense.”
It was Mena’s turn to be astonished, as it took her a full minute to recover her wits. “Well, Miss Ross, ‘bonny’ is certainly a Scottish word, but it is more endearment than insult.”
“You sure?”
“I’m quite positive,” she insisted with a secret smile. “You see, ‘bonny’ is the Gaelic word for beauty.”
***
Gavin had always been an excellent hunter. A consummate predator. From the Sahara Desert to the Black Forest to the most exclusivesalonsand royal boudoirs in the empire and beyond, he’d been known to stalk his prey withunsurpassed mastery. The trick, he’d learned, was to know your quarry. To get close enough to expose their weaknesses, and to strike with perfect, lethal efficiency.
Sometimes that meant making oneself unassuming… donning the sheep’s clothing and waltzing among the bleating herd like one of their own. Other times, it meant becoming the lion, parting the tall grasses with wide shoulders and a broad chest, prowling the landscape secure in the knowledge of his dominance over all territory in his scope. There were moments that absolute stealth was required. He’d make no sound. He’d leave no footprint. Naught but shadows and vapor. There, and yet intangible.
