My Enemy, My Earl
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
My Enemy, My Earl
A Laird to Love Book 1
Tammy Andresen
USA Today Bestselling Author
Copyright © 2017 by Tammy Andresen
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Heart of a Highlander
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Chapter 1
Lord Ewan McDougal, Earl of Dumfries, took a deep breath of Scottish air as he trotted down the rutted road toward Kirkcaldy. It was so good to be back in his home country. Even with the misting rain, the fresh smell of spring flowers lifted his spirits. With any luck, he’d never step foot on soil that wasn’t Scottish again.
He doubted he’d ever have need to traipse over Europe or Asia after the war, so there was no real danger there, but England was another matter entirely. A Scot could get sucked onto English land despite his best intentions not to. And he had no intention of ever touching that country again.
Or any of its people, for that matter.
“Do ye think we’ll be able to stop soon? I’m peckish.” Keiran McKenna grumbled next to him.
Ewan glared at his longtime companion and friend. They’d grown up together on neighboring parcels of land, had been drafted together, and had returned changed together. Keiran was like his tartan, he was rarely seen without the other man. “We just ate.”
“Aye, but it’s raining.” Keiran looked as though his point ought to have been obvious.
“So what?” Ewan gave him a look of bewilderment. “It’s Scotland. It’s always raining.”
“After years of being cold and hungry, I’ve no tolerance for either.” Keiran shrugged.
It was difficult to argue with that. There were a lot of things he had no tolerance for after years of war. Loud noises near stole his sanity. He couldn’t stand the English, for example, who’d drafted him in the first place. And his ruined land, bare after five years of neglect. That drove him mad but at least his land he could repair. That was why he needed to get to Kirkaldy. From there it was a short ride to third cousin, Hamish McDougal’s castle. “You know I’ve got a bride to meet.”
“Will she marry someone else if it takes an extra day?” Keiran wagged his eyebrows. “Besides, you know you’re devilish handsome. She’ll likely fall right into yer arms.”
Keiran wasn’t wrong. Women had long given him attention. Though Keiran was the more classically handsome man with his straight nose and piercing eyes, Ewan had always had a masculine look to which women responded. “It’s not that. You ken as well as anyone my land is in shambles. I need to marry to put it back together. Winter is comin’.”
“It’s only spring.” Keiran winked. “But I know ye be wantin’ a lovely little Scottish lass with a nice full…dowry.”
Ewan tried not growl at his friend’s crass words. Although they were at least partly true. Fiona, his perspective bride, did come with a dowry and that coin would be verra helpful in repairing his lands. Fiona was a strong Scot woman, which would also come in handy.
They’d last seen each other ten years before, when she was but a child. She’d had a penchant for practical jokes, which had near driven him mad, but surely she’d grown out of that by now.
Up ahead he spotted a carriage stopped and tilting precariously to one side. The driver was down on his knees in the muck attempting to repair the wheel. Poor sod.
Next to him stood a hooded figure with flowing skirts that had been sucked into the muck. He grimaced. The side of the road was no place for any lass to be. Especially not on a day like this.
“I’m all for helpin’ women in need but it’s rainin’ harder still. We should keep movin’.” Keiran frowned more deeply. “Ye’re not going to stop are ye?”
The question did not dignify an answer. Dismounting, he led his horse toward the stranded travelers. As a soldier, he’d learned it was less intimidating when he approached on foot. Especially considering his height and the breadth of his shoulders. He frightened on horseback.
The driver looked up with a wary eye but Ewan offered him a smile. “Is it help ye be needin’?”
“Aye, that’d be right nice.” The driver nodded.
“You can go back in the carriage if ye like, lass.” Ewan gave her what he hoped was an sympathetic smile but he heard her huff her breath almost like it annoyed her that he’d said it.
“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stay,” she answered from under the hood, annoyance lacing her lilting voice.
Never mind that he admired a woman with enough pluck to stand out in the rain to fix a wheel. Something Keiran wasn’t willing to do, apparently. Or that she stayed even when she didn’t have to.
Her accent was English.
“Dinna trouble yerself, lass.” The driver reached out to pat her like a child.
Ewan nodded his agreement. “I know an English woman like yerself doesn’t do this kind of thing normally.”
“How would you know what I can or can’t do?”
He could just see her mouth below the edge of the hood. Perfect, full pink lips turned down into a frown.
Why had he thought words like perfect and full when he should be thinking ones like conniving and wretched? Wasn’t that what all the English were? Everyone he’d met when abroad at war certainly had been. Pushing the Scots to the front of the line to die in droves.
He was tempted to climb on his horse and keep riding. Keiran would be happy, anyway. Because he was not here to help the English. “An English miss fixing a wheel?”
He heard her hiss of breath. “Why not?”
Because the English are arrogant and entitled while still managing to be useless, because…
He knew he must be glaring at that remark and so, instead of answering, he turned away and looked at the wheel. The driver had a few broken spokes.
“I don’t dare drive on a road this rutted with the wheel compromised and I always keep some extras. But I can’t quite get them in. Lady Clarissa was attempting to help me, which was greatly appreciated, but we’re not strong enoug
h, the two of us. Your arms might just do the trick.” The driver gave him a wink.
“Brawny men are good for something, I suppose,” she mumbled in her haughty English accent that managed to make his strength and size sound like a detriment. His frown deepened. Worse than the insult, she was a lady. An unmarried one at that. He’d have to be careful not to give his own title or risk being hunted.
English ladies were always after unmarried titles. I didn’t seem to matter whether the man was honorable, rich, or kind, as long as he was titled.
He wasn’t just given to making false claims. It had actually been his experience. The ladies of London hadn’t paid him a lick of attention, well not that kind of attention, until he’d been awarded a title for his service. Then he’d been relentlessly pursued by young misses and their mamas. It had been an eye-opening experience that had made his ache for his own country even greater.
“What is wrong with brawny men? Ye seem to be needin’ one right about now.” He knew it didn’t matter what she thought, but something about this woman was getting under his skin. He knelt down and the spokes popped easily into place. From this vantage point, he could see more of her face. Creamy skin and a pert little nose peeked out from under the hood.
“They are often dim-witted and miraculously full of themselves,” she huffed.
He stood, now covered in a fair bit of mud himself. He was used to women blushing and smiling at him. Complimenting his strength, not insulting it. He brushed his dark, overlong hair behind his ears and looked at the English lass. “And English misses often think they ken everythin’ about everythin’. You don’t ken a thing about me.”
Part of him wanted to tell her he was an Earl as well as a decorated war hero. She should be falling at his feet not frowning at him. But he gave himself a mental shake. He didn’t care what this woman thought of him.
She, in turn, stared fixedly at him. Though the hood covered them, he could feel her eyes on him and it made his insides tighten in the strangest way. Near nervous or excited. When was the last time a woman had affected him so?
“I know your type, can’t even take the time to shave your face or lace your shirt,” she bit back, her hand coming to her hip. It parted the opening of her cape and revealed part of her rather luscious bosom. He sucked in his breath.
He should get on his horse and go. But, if he were honest, she was damn interesting. Like a sharp-tongued beautiful fairy or a...he stopped his train of thought. What the bloody hell was he thinking?
The door popped open and a pretty, petite blond stuck her head out. She was a curvy woman who would make some man happy, but her face still held the innocence of a lass, not acquainted with the world. In a single look, he liked her immensely. She gave him a sweet smile then turned to the lady. “Did they fix it, Clarissa?”
Slowly, delicate hands rose to the rim of the hood. Brushing back the folds, her deep, glossy, dark brown tresses tumbled in a lose coif down her back.
Large grey-blue eyes looked at him with a vulnerability that near made him ache in places he’d thought long dead. Her expression was in stark contrast to her hissing words. As were her pink cheeks and plump sweet lips, which seem to tremble slightly as though she were nervous or afraid. Likely she was only cold, but some part of him wanted to shield her from whatever made them shake.
“They did.” Her voice was like honey, smooth and sweet unlike when she’d spoken to him.
His eyes locked with hers. That was how the English trapped a Scot. Pretty and seemingly harmless, a man didn’t even see them stealing his future ‘til it was too late.
Clarissa assessed the Scottish brute in front of her. She didn’t like him. Not even a little. It didn’t matter that he had brawny muscles and piercing green eyes. Or that he stopped to help stranded travelers.
First, there was the fact that he’d insulted her English roots. She wouldn’t even bother to tell him she was half Scot. Then there was the careless way his shirt was untied at the top, his overlong dark hair, his casual stance with one hand slung low on his hip to accentuate how much smaller they were than his broad chest. His red tartan exposed his knees in an altogether indecent way. His face had a rugged set, with his Roman nose and prominent cheekbones. Men that handsome were always up to no good. Past experience had taught her this and it was a lesson she wouldn’t soon forget.
His strong jaw flexed as he gave her an assessing look. His interest was written all over his face. As if she’d needed more proof that he was a rake. She’d learn to spot the type anywhere, and now that she knew them, she vowed to stay far, far away.
But she supposed some measure of gratitude was in order. Trying to keep her disdain out of her voice, she mumbled, “Thank you for helping us, sir.” She gave a small curtsey and then started shaking out her skirt in an attempt to remove some of the mud before climbing back into the carriage. Fortunately, their exchange was nearly over.
“Ye’re welcome,” he answered in a deep rich brogue before stepping closer.
Without another word he reached for her skirt and she straightened, stiffening from shock. He wasn’t going to…he wouldn’t dare…but he did. He knelt down beside her and grabbed her skirt, and holding it out, began deftly removing the mud. “Sir,” she gasped.
“It’s Ewan. Ewan McDougal. Now turn.” His gruff words weren’t frightening. But her breathing was coming out in short gasps. The heat from his body had her own growing warmer. He started working on a new section of gown.
She stared at him unable to believe this was actually happening. As he spun her again, her foot hit a rut in the road and she bobbled, just a little. His hand shot out to her hip to steady her. An ache deep inside her throbbed at his touch. She gasped, her hands coming to his shoulders to right the now-tilting world. But that only made it worse. They were broad and muscular and for moment, she had the feeling they could shield her from the world. “Please stop,” she begged.
“It’s raining, ye ken?” He looked up at her as though she were dull in the mind.
“I am aware.” She tried to straighten her shoulders but the rain was worsening and they hunched back down without permission, curled closer to him and the warmth he exuded.
“Then turn around so that I can git the back.” He gave her skirt a little tug to turn her.
Huffing, she turned, his brisk words bringing her to her senses. Agnes stared at her openmouthed as he worked off the mud. Fortunately, no one else was here to see this, though she hardly had any reputation left to preserve, so it wouldn’t really have mattered.
Looking down, she had to admit he had done an admirable job of removing the muck. She would be warmer for it on this last leg of the journey. “Thank you,” she murmured over her shoulder. Only a rake would touch her so but at least she would be more comfortable for his efforts.
He stood and nodded. “Get yerself in that carriage now before ye catch yer death. Scotland is a lot colder than ye’re likely used to.”
How did he make that sound like an insult? Not that it mattered, it didn’t a wit. She’d likely never see him again, and good riddance. “How could you possibly know what I am used to?”
Without another word, she climbed into the carriage and snapped the door shut.
“Who was that?” Agnes bounced a little on her seat. Agnes was her cousin from her father’s side and her travelling companion on this journey along with Agnes’s mother, Mrs. Judith Faulkenberry. Her parents would have accompanied her but she hadn’t wanted them to. Closing her eyes, she pushed angry thoughts of them away. She’d be with her Scottish relatives soon, and Agnes and Aunt Judith were the best possible company.
Her father’s sister was a proper English lady from her perfectly coiffed grey hair to her never-wrinkled gown. Agnes’ enthusiasm wore her out. Though her cousin was about to turn eighteen, she flitted like a butterfly everywhere she went.
Aunt Judith had used the time while they were fixing the wheel and not bouncing about, to take a short rest. But Agnes’s enthusiasm had
roused the woman. “Do stop, dear,” she mumbled to Agnes.
Clarissa rolled her eyes, trying to exude a casualness she didn’t feel. “I don’t know, some Scot.” She didn’t want them to know that the man’s touch had sent her world tilting wildly.
“You should have seen him brushing off her skirts, Mother. And his name was Ewan,” she imitated his deep voice. “Ewan McDougal.” Then she tapped her chin. “Say, you don’t think he’s related to your mother, do you?”
“Probably. Some distant cousin. But there are likely a thousand of them.” She waved her hand, brushing the unpleasant thought away that she might have to see him again. Because she never wanted to see those broad shoulders and green eyes as long as she lived.
“He brushed your skirts?” her aunt repeated, sitting straighter in her seat.
“He was being a gentleman, Mother. Helping with the mud.” Agnes nodded.
Clarissa didn’t respond but she thought it was unlikely to have been an act of chivalry. More probably he was just exercising his rakish ways touching her like that.
She shook her skirts out around her to aid in their drying. “We’re likely never to see him again so let us not dwell on it. He did manage to fix the wheel so we’ll be out of this carriage—”
“And into a drafty old castle—” Aunt Judith huffed.
“In no time.” Clarissa finished.
“Do you think it’s haunted?” Agnes clapped looking excited. They’d spent most of their time in the country so Agnes was constantly seeking adventure.
“Why would you even ask that?” Aunt Judith sniffed. She straightened her already smooth skirt.