Page 14 of The Scot Who Loved Her

“I’m a Scot, W, despite my very English-born mother and the English titles I’ve inherited through my mother’s father. I grew up in Scotland, and I’m as much a Scot as my father was.”

“I know it.” Wellington’s grin widened. “’Tis why I trusted you to start. You’re hale and hearty and full of loyalty. You saved my arse on the battlefield, and I’ll never forget it. Now go and save my arse and the arses of the rest of your team and this country.”

Malcolm bowed to his superior officer and exited. When he arrived downstairs, the butler waited for Malcolm with a coat over his arm. “Do you require a bath and a clean set of clothes before you leave, my lord?”

’Twas on the tip of his tongue to say no, but if he arrived at his mother’s home—hishome—looking like this, rumors would take precedence over anything else, and the servants wouldn’t let him in, thinking him a vagrant. After the death of his grandfather, Wyndridge House passed to Malcolm as the next living male heir, along with the title, but he’d not once ventured to see it—or them. Being away at war had been a plausible excuse before. Feigning injury had worked up until now.

While he wanted to make a splash in society, he only wanted to do so to cover up for the real reason he was in town.

“Good idea, John. Send the physician as well.”

John, the name given to every butler in the spy ring, bowed. “Of course, my lord. This way.”

Malcolm cleaned himself up, checking out the resewn bullet wound the physician had given him. The sutures were well placed and tight. The skin around the edges was red and puffy, but when he pressed on it, while it hurt like hell, the bullet appeared to be gone and no infection present. Dressed and fed, no sign of his wound present, Malcolm climbed into the hired hackney that had been called for him and headed to Wyndridge House.

The next few weeks were not going to be pleasant. If only they were in Scotland—he’d at least have his friends around him. He doubted they’d be making the trek to London.

Malcolm avoided taking a wife for many reasons, and now to have to play at flirting, dancing and courting would be hard. Likely more painful than the bullet to his shoulder. So much smiling would keep his head constantly pounding. All he could do was hope he soon found out whoever the blackguards were behind the smuggled cargo headed for France, what Olivia Aston’s and Viscount Helvellyn’s parts were, and the identity of whoever had brokered the deal. Once apprehended, he could move on to his next assignment and leave all this frivolity—and his mother—to the wind.

One day, he knew he would have to marry. He’d need an heir to secure the various titles he held. But that day had not yet arrived. Now he was an asset to his country, to the people. Much better suited to the occupation of spying than being lord of the manor.

The hackney pulled to a jerking halt outside a massive, white-washed stone house. Wyndridge House. Stark black shutters framed gaping windows, exposing the inside of the house to the word. Malcolm grimaced, shoving himself out of the hackney before the driver had to do it. He climbed the stairs, prepared to enter, when the front door burst open. A beautiful woman, the spitting image of his mother when he was a lad, stood before him. There was only one difference: this lass was genuinely smiling and considerably younger. She had to be his sister Caroline, whom he’d not seen since she was an infant. Both the fault of his mother and him.

“Caroline, I presume,” Malcolm said coolly, doffing his hat.

The lass’s eyes brightened. “Malcolm, is it truly you?” Her voice was smooth and soft, a refined English tongue, not the high-pitched variety he’d recalled of his mother.

While he’d been raised in Scotland, not once in the nineteen years since her birth had Caroline ventured north. Their mother wouldn’t allow it. And the few times that their father came to London to see the countess, Malcolm had refused, even if it meant not seeing his sister. He wouldn’t give the mother who’d abandoned him the satisfaction.

“You’ve come just in time.” There was worry in the young lady’s expression.

“In time for what?”

Caroline bit her lip and looked up at him shyly. “Do come in. This is your house, after all.”

Malcolm nodded, eyes narrowed, and stepped inside. The decor was extravagant and frilly. The marble floor of the entry shined, but the walls had been papered in a shiny rose-gold, and the portraits were romantic landscapes. From where he stood, he could see into the drawing room and took note of the opulent furnishings. This was very much a woman’s home. But he’d guessed as much when he was a lad and heard his father grumbling about the countess’s bills piling high in London.

The butler appeared, a man Malcolm had never met, and bowed low, taking his coat.

“Have you no luggage?” Caroline asked.

“Nay.”

A worried expression flitted over her features. A pang in Malcolm’s chest made him want to question her concern, but he forced it away. He didn’t know the lass, and if she was anything like their mother, she was a master of manipulation, and he wasn’t going to like her. “It shall follow behind me shortly.”

Caroline flashed a look of relief. “Elliot, tell my mother Lord Dunlyon has arrived.”

The butler bowed and left them both standing in the grand foyer.

“Shall I show you to your drawing room, brother?”

Brother. The only other time he’d been addressed as such was when he was with his men. They were brothers. This chit—she was nothing but a spoiled society imp. And why was she being so…friendly? So sweet?

“Aye.” What was that tightness in his throat? He yanked at his collar and followed her into an even grander room with lavender-hued silk walls, gilded furniture with lavender-and-gold embroidery. Fresh flowers overflowed from vases and made it hard to breathe.

He took a seat on an uncomfortable chaise while Caroline rang a bell, asking for tea when a servant practically materialized from a hidden door in the wall. The wound to his shoulder smarted, and he gritted his teeth, praying the stitches hadn’t broken and that he wasn’t bleeding through his shirt.

“I am glad you’ve come. I wasn’t certain that you would.” His sister took a seat opposite him, arranging her skirts prettily.

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