To Enchant a Highland Earl Read online

  To Enchant a Highland Earl

  Heart of a Scot Book Five

  COLLETTE CAMERON®

  Sweet-to-Spicy Timeless Romance®

  © Copyright 2020 by Collette Cameron

  Text by Collette Cameron

  Cover by Wicked Smart Designs

  Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.

  P.O. Box 7968

  La Verne CA 91750

  [email protected]

  Produced in the United States of America

  First Edition February 2020

  Kindle Edition

  Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.

  All Rights Reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notes:

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook, once purchased, may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not purchased for you and given as a gift for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. If this book was purchased on an unauthorized platform, then it is a pirated and/or unauthorized copy and violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Do not purchase or accept pirated copies. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work. For subsidiary rights, contact Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.

  ARE YOU SIGNED UP FOR DRAGONBLADE’S BLOG?

  You’ll get the latest news and information on exclusive giveaways, exclusive excerpts, coming releases, sales, free books, cover reveals and more.

  Check out our complete list of authors, too!

  No spam, no junk. That’s a promise!

  Sign Up Here

  *

  Dearest Reader;

  Thank you for your support of a small press. At Dragonblade Publishing, we strive to bring you the highest quality Historical Romance from the some of the best authors in the business. Without your support, there is no ‘us’, so we sincerely hope you adore these stories and find some new favorite authors along the way.

  Happy Reading!

  CEO, Dragonblade Publishing

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Collette Cameron

  Heart of a Scot Series

  To Love a Highland Laird

  To Redeem a Highland Rogue

  To Seduce a Highland Scoundrel

  To Woo a Highland Warrior

  To Enchant a Highland Earl

  To Defy a Highland Duke

  To Marry a Highland Marauder

  To Bargain with a Highland Buccaneer

  *** Please visit Dragonblade’s website for a full list of books and authors. Sign up for Dragonblade’s blog for sneak peeks, interviews, and more: ***

  www.dragonbladepublishing.com

  Amazon

  Dedication

  For every heroine reading this story and

  dreaming of her own kilt-clad Highlander.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Publisher’s Note

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Collette Cameron

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Scottish Highlands

  Mid-January 1721

  Clenching the wadded letter tightly in his fist, Broden pivoted on his heels and tramped the reverse path across the smooth flagstone floor. His boot heels rapped dully off the book-laden shelves and the dark paneled walls of the masculine chamber acting as his library, private sitting room, and study.

  His heartbeat whooshed in his ears, a peculiarly muffled tempo, like someone striking a drum covered by a thick pile of blankets.

  The fire in the hearth sizzled as occasional droplets of rain survived the treacherous descent down the chimney only to splutter to a quick death. Outside, a deluge poured from the contemptuous pewter-gray clouds as the biting winter wind assailed everything in its path with unrelenting resolve to pummel and saturate.

  He supposed he ought to be grateful it wasn’t snowing.

  A particularly powerful gust buffeted the sturdy rectangular stone house, causing the windowpanes to rattle and the unremarkable man sitting at Broden’s desk to cast a wary glance out the rain-splattered glass.

  No doubt, Mr. Philibius Oswald, Solicitor, worried about his return journey to Eddleshaugh.

  As well, he should.

  If the weather remained this dismal—a savvy chap would wager on it—Oswald would be obliged to take a room at one of Eddleshaugh’s inns. After he and the sorry nag he’d arrived upon had slogged the almost two miles to the township. At this juncture, the much-traveled tracks to Edinburgh and then London, would be impassable if the torrent kept up. Given the ashen sky, that seemed certain.

  After all, this was January in the Highlands. One could expect rain and snow. Snow and rain. Then more of the same.

  Every bit as certain as the intractable weather’s continuation was another simple fact: Broden wouldn’t extend his hospitality and offer the attorney a bed for the night. Or two or three if the tempest lingered. Not after learning why Oswald had stupidly—Sassenach idiot—braved the storm and called unannounced.

  An entirely different sort of storm brewed within the cozy study, though no less fierce or ruthless in its fury. As Broden struggled to accept the life-altering news he’d just received—Goddammit to hell—anger and disbelief vied for supremacy in every pore. Pores humming and pulsating and expanding in a silent, but raucous chorus of strain and vexation.

  And the news… A groan of despair almost escaped past his meshed lips. News he’d never conceived nor expected to hear; not in a hundred—no, a thousand—lifetimes.

  God’s hairy ballocks, he swore irreverently to himself.

  Surely, it was a gargantuan mistake. An enormous, colossal error. A careless clerical blunder or a misprint on some long-ago faded, forgotten, and fusty kirk registry. Someone, somewhere had to have made a mistake.

  He could not be—most assuredly did not want to be—the next Earl of Montforth. Plowing his free hand through his hair, he dislodged the ribbon that kept it tied in a queue at his nape. Earl or not, he wasn’t donning a ridiculous curling wig or powdering his hair for anyone.

  He was not a mincing fop.

  “There’s nae one else to inherit?” he demanded of the solicitor, aware but beyond caring that the man simply performed his duties.

  Dinna kill the messenger and all that twaddin’ shite.

  The silent reminder to himself did nothing to lessen his ire. His helplessness. The acerbic frustration. The unequivocal feeling of being trapped. Ensnared. Imprisoned.

  He jabbed a finger toward the man of law, idly noting the dirt packed beneath his nails. Earls didn’t have dirty fingernails. Or hands. Neither did they muck out stalls, move rocks from grazing and farm the land, or chop their own firewood.

  “Ye’re absolutely—without a single doubt—positive ye havena made a mistake?” he asked.

  Oswald vacilla
ted for a long blink, his Adam’s apple rapidly cresting and sinking like a miniature boat caught upon the tidal surges of a massive, violent storm. And his tiny ship was about to flounder.

  “There is another distant English cousin,” the fusty attorney reluctantly confessed. His eyebrows—wiry copperish things with minds of their own and with an unfortunate proclivity to wriggle about on his forehead—huddled together over the pronounced bridge of his beaked nose.

  “Aye? And?” Broden encouraged, grasping at even the weakest straw. Anything to keep him from plummeting into the loony world of the aristocracy.

  “In truth, he’s already contacted me in anticipation—” Oswald faltered, realizing he’d disclosed confidential information, and his nervous gaze bounced about the room, landing everywhere but on Broden.

  So, the other chap thought to inherit.

  Interesting.

  Convenient?

  Could such a blessed thing be arranged?

  Suddenly finding the well-thumbed documents before him of acute interest, Mr. Philibius Oswald cleared his throat. “But you, my lord, are indisputably the next in line. I informed him as much, unequivocally. You needn’t fear he’ll supersede you.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “I beg your pardon?” From the solicitors gaping jaw and buggy eyes, Broden might have asked him when he’d last swived.

  “Was he upset?” He was in no temper to dance around the point or use flowery phrases.

  “Naturally, he was—ah—somewhat nonplussed.” Oswald chose his words with obvious care. “But, I believe, he understands the rules governing ennoblement, the letters patent, and the specifics of the remainder are beyond our control. Which is to say, he cannot inherit as long as you are alive.”

  Och, well, there went that idea all to piss.

  Broden didn’t miss the pinched expression tightening Oswald’s thin face as he admitted that fact. The Englishman assuredly would’ve preferred his countryman inherit the title, rather than an uncouth, lowborn Scot of questionable comportment and an even more questionable liking for the English.

  “His name?” he asked, tempering his impatience.

  But only just.

  “Mr. Edwin Archibald Wiggins McGregor.”

  Pompous. Traditional. Unimaginative. A worthy Sassenach name except for the family surname, that was. McGregor, after all, was a derivative of the Gaelic MacGriogair. Scots through and through, no matter how much Oswald would prefer it otherwise.

  “He attended Oxford,” Oswald added with the merest haughty sniff.

  La de dah.

  “He’s well-traveled and already acquainted with several members of the peerage,” the attorney droned on as if listing Edwin’s stellar attributes ought to impress Broden.

  Or did Oswald prattle on to jab a particular point home?

  To demonstrate how much more Edwin was qualified for the title?

  As Broden didn’t give a hog’s teat about Edwin Archibald Wiggins McGregor, not even to pity the man his unfortunate third name, Oswald’s intentions missed their mark.

  “Ye dinna say?” Each word dripping with sarcasm, he schooled his features into a false expression of suitable admiration. “He sounds like a paragon of society.”

  Och, I’ve been to England and France, and I count a half dozen Scots lairds as my friends. I dinna suppose the skinny turd cares about that, though.

  “Mr. Archibald McGregor is an investor.” If Oswald lifted his nose any higher in self-importance, he might well drown when he left the house.

  If that meant Broden might be free of the mammoth burden just dumped upon him, he could be persuaded to look the other way and permit the man to suffer the consequence of his arrogance.

  That thought brought him reluctantly ’round to the matter at hand once more.

  He was an earl. And, by Odin’s toes, he very much didn’t want to be.

  Mouth cinched into a grim, unyielding line, he leveled the solicitor a steely stare.

  “Pray tell me, Mr. Oswald, why I am just now learnin’ of my change in circumstances via this?” Broden jerked his hand up, uncurling his fingers around the mashed missive with its dangling black ribbon and seal-imprinted crimson wax. “My predecessor died over a year ago.”

  Oswald, a gangly fellow, all lanky arms and legs and spindly fingers flicked a disinterested look at the balled paper before bringing his keen, hazel gaze up to scrutinize Broden’s features. He examined him for an extended moment, taking in his soiled and mended work clothing, scuffed boots, unkempt and unbound hair, and beard-stubbled face as if searching for something.

  For what?

  “You do bear a vague resemblance to the late earl.” He wiggled his twiggy fingers near his angular face. “In the angles and bone structure of your chin and jaw, though your physique is much more…ah…,” he lowered his assessing gaze to take in Broden’s shoulders and chest, “robust.”

  Meaning, his dead kin had most likely had been a milksop and a prancing, affected popinjay.

  Had he worn stays?

  Broden had heard some Englishmen padded their clothing to enhance certain anatomical features and also wore stays to diminish others.

  Broden used the occasion to take the solicitor’s measure, too.

  At odds with his fastidious behavior, gravy stains marred Oswald’s buff-toned, wrinkled waistcoat and a shock of fuzzy red-brown hair poked straight up from atop his otherwise bald pate. Almost as if someone had forgotten to shave the rest of the unfortunate man’s pointed head.

  It rather gave the man the appearance of a paintbrush.

  He peered over the round wire-rims of his spectacles. Seemingly unaffected by either Broden’s superior size or his obvious vexation, he calmly lifted the corner of another document he’d pulled from his brown leather portfolio.

  “Mr. McGregor—?” The lawyer flushed blotchy red. “I beg your pardon.”

  He noisily cleared his throat and began again.

  “My lord, the prior earl was most emphatic that in the event of his death, his heir only be notified when it became abundantly clear that the title would not pass to a progeny of his loins. As his wife was with child at the time of his lordship’s unfortunate death, prudence demanded postponing the pronouncement of the fifth Earl of Montforth until the babe’s birth, seven months later.”

  A bloody Sassenach earl.

  How in all of Christendom had such a wholly preposterous thing occurred?

  The earldom did lay just inside the British side of the borderlands, but still…

  His focus beyond the soggy landscape visible through the windows, Broden scrunched his eyes and rubbed his chin. Wasn’t there something he’d heard once about a long-ago relative scampering off with a noble decades before?

  Was that the connection?

  His mother might recall.

  He’d have to ask her after Oswald took his leave.

  As the attorney had explained, somewhere in the gnarly, extended, and complex family tree, Broden and the previous earl had shared ancestral blood.

  Where, precisely, was unclear to him.

  “I take it the bairn was a wee lass?” Working his thumb across the stiff wax seal, Broden regarded the attorney. There was something about the man that raised his hackles. Something besides him being an Englishman and a slimy solicitor, to boot.

  In short, he didn’t trust the man.

  Perhaps a visit to Oswald’s London offices was in order.

  Oswald sighed as he removed his spectacles and wiped the lenses with a less than pristine handkerchief he’d lifted from his inside coat pocket. “Seven children in nine years and the only surviving offspring are all daughters. Five, to be precise.”

  Standish had been a busy man, and mayhap not a complete peacock if he sired that many bairns. Or perhaps, he’d just been desperate to beget an heir. A sliver of pity for Standish’s wife poked Broden.

  “And quite naturally, it did take several months to locate the next male in line for the title,” Oswa
ld blathered on. “We exhausted all of our leads in England before resorting to directing our attention to Scotland.”

  As he tapped a bony finger atop the scarred and scuffed desk, the man’s contempt was fairly palpable. He seemed no keener to tell Broden of his new title than he was to learn of the bloody nuisance.

  He heartily wished he hadn’t been found.

  “The law is very clear, my lord. You…,” he glanced down at the page before him, his brow knitted. “Broden Lachlan Errol McGregor, are the fifth Earl of Montforth.”

  Oswald’s nasally, clipped tones set Broden’s teeth on edge. Not good, considering a very fine tether held his ire in check.

  The fire popped and snapped as a log fell, disintegrating into glowing, crimson-orange coals. More for a need to do something than to build the flames once more, Broden laid the letter atop the mantel beside a bronze candlestick, then knelt and added another log to the blaze. With the poker, he shoved a few coals beneath the new addition, coaxing the fire, and soon hungry flames licked up the sides.

  He set the poker in place before planting his palms on his thighs and pushing upright once more, accompanied by a hefty, resigned sigh.

  Christ and all the angels would descend from heaven before he trotted himself off to England to claim a Sassenach earldom. God’s teeth. He already could hear Liam MacKay’s and Graeme Kennedy’s mocking chortles. Logan Rutherford and Coburn Wallace would be utterly unbearable.

  “What if I refuse?”

  “Refuse? Why… Why… You cannot.” Blinking rapidly, his eyes owl-like behind his lenses, Oswald spluttered like a stubby candle’s flame about to die. “The title is yours. Yours.”

  Yes, definite scorn riddled his terse speech.

  “What you do with the honor is, of course, up to you. But there is no question of not accepting,” the solicitor insisted. “You are the Earl of Montforth until you depart this earth, my lord.”

  Just because the paperwork said he was an earl didn’t mean Broden must adjust his life one iota. He leaned a shoulder against the stone mantel—stones which had been cleared from his lands by his two times two-grandfather—and crossed his arms. “And if I choose to ignore it and continue as I have for the past three decades?”