Her Scottish Rogue (The Rebels, Rakes, and Rogues Series)

By Carol A. Spradling

Wren Taggart is no lady. Her life consists of kitchen duties at Newcastle Inn. Mistaken for Lady Anne, the illegitimate daughter of England's Prince Regent, she is kidnapped and forced to marry a man who cares nothing for her or for Britain. Deception and lies is the only way for her to return home. But when her heart softens toward her new husband, she fears she will lose more than the life she's known.

Scottish born, Beckett Montgomery is no lord. The bastard son of a nobleman, he despises everyone and everything British. To restore a family name and fortune he doesn't want, he must convince all of Longton nobility and England's Prince Regent that he is the honorable Sir Lacey, and the rightful heir to Longton Castle.

When a murderer targets women who bear a resemblance to Wren, Beck must choose between returning home to Scotland and protecting the woman he's come to love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carol A. Spradling
• Release date: Apr 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781511856874

Book preview

Chapter 1

Beckett Montgomery squeezed his calves together, and loosened his hold on his horse's reins. His gelding seemed to be in as little of a hurry to enter Longton Castle as he was. If it wasn't for James Lacey's summons, Beck would have stayed home in Eaglesham, Scotland.

He was a Scot, regardless of his English blood on his father's side. He was as comfortable on English soil as a fish would be on a dry dock. At least if a fish was close enough to the edge, it could flop back into the water. Beck wouldn't be able to return home until he knew the reason for the summons.

He raised his gaze to the gray stone castle looming in front of him. The arched entryway shadowed horse and rider as Beck moved past the gatehouse. He drew his coat closer around his shoulders and steered his horse into the bailey. A thin youth ran to meet him as he neared the keep.

May I attend your horse, sir?

Beck's eye twitched at the reference to his social standing. Squinting the tick away, he looked down at the boy. Wide-eyed and expectant, the lad waited for the reins to be turned over to him. James Lacey may respond to the title of sir, but it didn't sit well on Beck's shoulders. He was the illegitimate son to the lord of Longton Castle, and not part of the English gentry. He would never accept the life of a gentleman, no matter who his father was.

Is Sir Lacey in residence? Beck asked, stepping out of the saddle and handing the reins to the youth.

He is, and he's expecting you, Sir Montgomery.

Beck's shoulders tightened, and his jaw clenched. I've nae title, lad. You may call me Beck.

Yes. Sir. I'll take good care of your horse. You've no need to worry about him.

Beck's cheek twitched as the boy led his horse to the stables. Why was he here? His farm in Scotland needed to be readied for winter, and the barn would remain in shambles until he returned home. He shouldn't have come to England, but yet, he turned toward the open doorway of the stone tower and walked, one slow step after the other, toward the front door. What was he thinking?

His father had refused to send his reasons for him to visit via courier, leaving Beck with no choice but to honor his father's request for an audience. James Lacey had treated him kindly throughout his life, but never in twenty-eight years had he invited Beck to his home in Longton. He was here now. Here, at the home of the beast responsible for his existence, ready to destroy his life with one growl.

Beck raised his fist to the door knocker, a snarling fiend with an iron ring caught in its mouth. How appropriate. He grabbed hold of the cold metal and banged the iron against the door. He might as well see what the man wanted.

Stepping inside the great hall, Beck shrugged out of his greatcoat. An older man wearing a dark brown waistcoat and matching breeches approached him. His cravat was tied so tightly, he looked as though his head was about to fall from his shoulders. His stiff stride most likely balanced his head, neck, and shoulders.

Beck scowled down at his dust covered boots. He should have stopped riding before reaching the gatehouse and taken time to tidy his appearance. With any luck, a few allowances would be made, and he'd be permitted an audience with his father while blanketed in road dust.

Beck shuddered with the thought of being led inside the deep, hollow residence. He never cared for the confines of a castle and the sooner he could return home, the better he liked it.

Sir Montgomery. How good to see you. Sir Lacey will meet you in the solar.

Beck breathed deeply and resigned himself to the use of the title. Instead of correcting the servant, he quietly followed behind the man. Beck's footsteps brushed against the marble steps as they climbed to the second floor. The servant didn't bother with the balustrade, but moved with an ease that belied his gray hair and wrinkled face. He stopped outside a wooden door and motioned for Beck to enter.

The solid door was large, scarred with black, scorch marks, but closed with a solid thud behind him. If the door was any indication, the castle had been burned at some point. Beck couldn't remember his father ever mentioning an attack on the keep. Had it happened while he visited him in Eaglesham? Had James Lacey left his home and tenants unprotected in an effort to spend time with his son?

Beckett, son, how good to see you, a familiar voice called to him from the far end of the room.

Da, Beck responded, using the Scottish term of endearment.

His heart softened as he looked at his sire. Beck may feel uncomfortable in this strange place, but the man who walked toward him regarded him with the same love and adoration as he always did. Catching him in his arms, he held him close. They stood cheek-to-cheek, one man as tall as the other. His father may not have claimed him as a legal heir, but he'd never disowned him as his offspring.

Longton Castle was his father's home, and Beck had never stepped one foot on the premises before now. He didn't even share his father's name, let alone, his roof. In all fairness, James Lacey had tried to claim him as his own at birth. Being the stubborn Scot she was, Beck's mother had refused his offer. Beck could hardly blame her. His father had refused to marry Moira Montgomery, even though he'd not been promised to another woman at the time.

James had loved Moira, he made no secret of that, but he wouldn't take legal responsibility for her or Beck, even though he'd financially provided for them. They'd lived a moderate, yet comfortable life. He'd seen that Beck was educated.

James Lacey had visited Eaglesham each year, even after he married Imogene Sitter and produced a legitimate heir. His son, Baron, had been born four years after Beck. Like everything else concerning James Lacey, Beck had never met his half-brother. Apparently, there had been no need for the boys to meet.

I hope you had a safe journey, his father said, motioning him to a chair.

Verra safe.

Beck had taken the normal precautions, especially as he neared England. Highwaymen were known to attack travelers for sport. Beck didn't have the time or inclination to entertain anyone. He had crops to tend at home and a roof in need of repair. If he could return to Eaglesham within the month, he could prepare his home before the first snow.

It's good to see you, Da. You're looking well.

As are you.

The older man's blue eyes twinkled as he took in the six-foot-three-inch frame of his lowland offspring. After a long moment, a shadow of sadness fell across the older man's face. Beck could only guess he was seeing Moira's image reflected in his son's features. Beck had been told several times that he favored his mother. But his eyes, sky blue in color, matched the man who'd given them to him. His father turned his head to the side and blinked several times.

It's no a sin to miss her, Beck said softly.

The older man's head nodded. Thank God for that. He turned his attention back to Beck. His eyes were rimmed red and pooled with tears. I loved her dearly. Hopefully, God will forgive me that one indulgence, as well as all the others.

Beck shifted in his chair. He knew his parents loved each other, but he never liked hearing about their feelings for one another. As far as he was concerned, his father had wronged his mother by not marrying her. Why should it matter that she was Scottish? He loved her enough to produce a child. For that, he was grateful, but it didn't change the bitterness Beck held toward his English family.

Baron and Imogene didn't have people talk about them as though they were gutter snipes. As a youth, Beck had come home with more black eyes and torn clothes than any boy in his village. He'd not have his mother's name sullied. At least his father had been discreet when visiting their home. He'd built their cottage a mile away from the community, and always arrived through back roads. The only indication that he'd been in Scotland for a visit was Moira's unwavering smile.

Beck stared distantly at the man sitting across from him. Moira Montgomery had died ten years ago, and James Lacey had been by her side when she drew her last breath. He'd made the funeral arrangements, transferred the home and property to Beck's name, and left as quietly as he'd arrived. Even in his mother's death, he cared for both of them.

Thank you for coming to see me. I would have come to Scotland, but I'm afraid I'm unable to travel anymore, Sir Lacey said, handing Beck a cup of tea.

Are you ill? Beck asked, his concern genuine.

My health isn't the reason I sent for you.

The curtain blew softly at a nearby window, and James glanced to the world outside.

I should have done better by you. I'm sure you know that. If I had, maybe things, maybe Baron would have turned out differently.

Beck arched his eyebrows at the mention of his half-brother's name. He sat the teacup and saucer on the table. Is there trouble with your home or son? Beck asked.

James Lacey cleared his throat and then sipped his tea. I have no right asking for your help, but I have no alternatives. I was wrong to deny you your birthright. But, I'm willing to set things right by you now.

Beck tilted his head and leaned back in the chair. He tried to determine the cause of his father's conundrum. Whenever he'd seen him in Eaglesham, he'd always been so certain, so positive about every decision. Now, his face grew pained and his hands shook. Did he regret his decision to request a meeting?

You do na have anything to set right. You loved my mother. That was enough.

The older man scoffed. You're so much like her, self-sacrificing, even to your detriment. He turned to face him; his eyes hauntingly solemn.

I must set things right while I'm still able. If I don't, we will all suffer.

You mean Baron? Baron will suffer?

His father dropped his chin to his chest. If there was any other way, I would have taken it. I know I ask much of you.

Beck inwardly shook his head. He'd longed to hear his father apologize for making him a bastard and his mother a . . . It had been hard to not hear the descriptive comments about their station in life from neighbors. He could remember each slur and intonation in which it had been used. Now, the man responsible was asking for his help to save his legitimate son from some self-inflicted disaster. Regardless of his feelings, Beck knew he would help him. He would do anything his father asked. But he would not do it for him, he would do it for his mother, for Moira.

What can I do? Beck asked.

James Lacey looked over at him. The reason for his acquiescence must be evident on his face. His father's shoulders softened as though his burden had fallen to the floor, and his chest lifted with lighter, easier breaths. Damn him for caring so deeply for the woman they both loved. Sir Lacey closed his eyes, and an appreciative smile spread across his lips.

I don't deserve a son like you, but I am thankful.

Beck refused to argue the point with him.

When his father looked over at him, his eyes were exact and filled with intent.

Longton Castle is falling into ruin, he said matter-of-factly.

Beck blinked stupidly at him, unsure what he meant by the comment. Instead of asking him to explain, he glanced around the room. Most castle owners hung tapestries on the walls to harness the heat inside the rooms. The solar was sparsely furnished, and lacked many amenities. Beck had thought the simplistic decorations were due to the death of Imogene, and the home's lack of female attention. That had been the case of his home in Eaglesham after his mother's death.

He thought back to his arrival. He'd only seen two servants, the stableboy and the manservant in the great hall. An estate of this size should boast a minimum of one hundred servants. What had happened here?

Baron, Sir Lacey continued. His drinking and gambling lifestyle is not ideal for maintaining the reputation and need of the castle.

Did his father really believe English servants would follow the direction of a Scot? I'm willing to help you, Da, but I do na ken anything about managing a castle.

Sir Lacey folded his hands over his chest and drew in his breath. That may be true, but you know people, and you have no love for the English. For what I have in mind, you'll need both of those attributes.

The older man raised his chin, seeming to analyze Beck's reaction.

Contemplating what his father had in mind, Beck pursed his lips and ran his hand over his cheeks. His week's growth of beard scratched his fingers. Have I been disrespectful in my manner? he asked, addressing the bold accusation.

No, but I know my son. You don't have to be disrespectful for me to see how uncomfortable you are on foreign soil. If it had not been out of respect for me, or your mother, I doubt you'd have left Scotland. Am I right?

Beck didn't answer. He glared above steepled fingers at his father. You're no wrong.

Good. His father scooted to the edge of the cushion. If you help me restore the reputation of Longton Castle, I will make you my legal heir. You will inherit my property, my holdings, my name.

I have a name, Beck unintentionally snapped. It's the same as my mother's. I do na want your name, he said, his tone softening.

His father studied him for a long moment. No, I suppose you wouldn't. But consider this, with my name, you will be accepted at court. Doors will be opened to you that will bring this family's holdings to great wealth. I'm offering you a chance to do more than settle the score for a few black eyes while growing up. I'm offering you a chance for a new life, a respectful life. You can live here and in Scotland. It won't matter. No one will look at you with scorn ever again. Will you help me?

Beck glared at him. He hated the idea of cleaning up a mess he hadn't created. He hated even more, to aid anything or anyone English. The Scottish Highlanders had been slaughtered seventy years ago at Culloden, and the repercussion of their actions still reverberated through the entire country. But this was his father, the man who had seen to his every need. The man needed him. How could he deny him?

You ken I'd help you or you'd never have sent for me, Beck answered through clenched teeth, angry at himself for even considering his request.

James Lacey stood to his feet and walked toward the door. He waited for Beck to join him. I was fairly certain of your answer. Let me show you to your room. We'll develop a plan before you leave.

Newcastle, England

August, 1816

Chapter 2

Wren Taggart bounced down the backstairs of the Newcastle Inn. Now that breakfast had been served and the dishes cleared, preparations were underway for the evening meal. The inn's guests were fortunate that Alice Wells was the Inn's cook. She, along with her daughter Maisie and Wren could make any meal taste like a feast. Wren never volunteered to prepare the main course. She was more interested in gathering greens, herbs, and fruit. Her contributions were always a nice accompaniment to the fish and sausage meals Alice prepared.

Wren wrinkled her nose as she entered the kitchen, and Alice turned sharply in the direction of the offensive smell.

What are you doing? Alice demanded, staring down at her daughter. Maisie held a knife in one hand and a bucket of pig intestines in the other. You know better than to bring innards inside before they're cleaned. Take that outside, and make sure you stay downwind. We don't need the guests smelling organs when I have a lovely tart in the oven.

Wren glanced to the hearth. An empty pot of cooked apples sat to the side of the fire. She'd hurried to clean the dining area, hoping Alice would wait to make the dessert. Over the last two weeks, the woman had taught Wren the art of creating a flaky piecrust, and a fruit dish would have been the perfect practice she needed. Not only was the tart now baking, it looked as though Alice and Maisie were at odds.

I needed a bucket for water. You want clean casings, don't you? Maisie asked. She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead.

Wren kept to the side of the room. She'd seen more than one of these mother/daughter talks, and it was best to not get involved. Since the tart was already made, she'd busy herself with a bowl of snap beans until it was safe to speak.

Alice slapped an empty bucket on the counter and then placed her hands on her wide hips. Yes, I want them clean, and I want a daughter with a civil tongue. Keep that in mind while you do your chores, or do you need a reminder?

Maisie drew her brows together and scowled over at her mother. I didn't want the last reminder.

Wren pulled back into a corner of the kitchen. She'd witnessed Maisie's last reprimand. Although Alice's tone could be harsh, the two women always ended their disagreements with an affectionate gesture. Wren glanced down to her hands, her eyes filling with tears.

She couldn't remember a time when her mother had raised her voice to her, even when she needed it. Opposed to loud screams and a firm swat across her backside, Mary preferred a gentle hand with her daughter. Although Alice and Wren's mother approached parenthood from different angles, there was no denying, they loved their children.

Across the room, Alice's tone and stance softened as Wren knew it would. She extended her hand to Maisie's cheek, and then leaned forward and placed a light kiss on her forehead. Wren carefully tucked her mother's memory behind her heart for safekeeping and hurriedly wiped her eyes with her apron. There was no need for all three members of the kitchen help to melt into a sentimental mess.

Go on with you. Get to your chores. I don't need you underfoot when I have work to do, Alice said.

Yes, mum, Maisie answered.

An unspoken apology was extended and accepted between the two females. Maisie hooked the empty bucket under her arm, and then cut her gaze toward Wren. Unsure if the girl had just noticed her presence, or if she was trying to shift her attention from the tender moment she'd witnessed, Wren returned the bowl of beans to the table.

Wren, Maisie said in a sing-song voice. Want to help me clean intestines? If you do, we can finish early and go down to the stables. The new stableboy has been watching you.

Maisie, at fourteen, neither liked working in the kitchen or collecting vegetation. Her specialty leaned more toward tasting the wares and eavesdropping on the guests. She'd churned more butter while standing up to ease the pain of her mother's stiff reminder. A broad stick across her backside had meant to aid her memory, reminding her that kitchen duties would cure her nosiness. Even with successive repetitions, she'd not fully learned her lesson.

Someone's been watching me? When? Wren asked. She hoped her cheeks weren't as bright as they felt. She'd seen the new hire, and was glad to hear he'd noticed her.

I don't know exactly when, probably when you brought in the laundry. It did seem to take you longer than usual to finish your chores.

Wren lifted an eyebrow and wrapped an apron around her waist. Is that so? I wasn't aware the inn hired a new stable hand. Her lie was so weak even she didn't believe it.

If you haven't noticed him, Maisie said. Her voice grated like a rusty nail. Why do you take such care with your hair?

Because she doesn't want to look like a ragamuffin, that's why, Alice defended. She winked in Wren's direction. She's not going to settle for just any boy. Wren will wait for someone special, someone worthy to speak her name. And you could take a lesson from her, miss. Alice pointed a spoon in her daughter's direction. She anchored a large bowl in the crook of her arm, and returned to stirring the contents. Berries blended with other fruit in a colorful display.

Make a man earn the right to court you, Alice continued. He needs to know you're a treasure worth pursuing. If he thinks you're like every other girl, he'll treat you like everyone else. He needs to know how special you are, and how fortunate he is that you gaze in his direction.

Alice stopped stirring the berries. A faraway look floated across her face. It appeared as though she was far from the kitchen, speaking to someone else. Wherever she was, she seemed happy. Wren hoped to one day have that same expression on her face.

Eck, mum. No man will ever do that. I'll be working in this kitchen with you for the rest of my life if I think like that, Maisie said.

Alice glanced at her daughter's awestruck face, and swatted her towel in her direction. With a quick hop, Maisie scooted out of range and then disappeared through the door.

I love her, but she'll most likely work with me in this inn for the rest of her life regardless of who she marries, Alice said.

Wren piled a stack of plates on the table and then carried them to the cupboard. She smiled at the thought of the two women still working together and teasing each other for the next fifty years. It will take a strong man to keep up with her, Wren agreed from over her shoulder.

Alice's face softened. She wiped flour from her hands as she looked through the doorway. Aye, it will. But she can do it. She's a little ornery now, but one day, she'll be a wonder to behold.

Wren came to stand next to Alice. The older woman wrapped her arm around her waist and hugged her close. I know I'm not your mum, and you're a woman fully grown, but my advice to Maisie is good for you, too. A man should be worthy of your affection. Remember that. She paused, and shifted her shoulders. Listen to me, going on when I have work to do. Wren, if you're finished with the beans, be a dear and gather some greens for me. I'd like to add them to tonight's meal.

Yes, ma'am . . .on both thoughts. Wren tossed a coat over her arm and stopped at the door. Miss Alice. Thank you for caring about me. I'd like to think my mum would give me the same advice. She smiled and headed outside.

****

Wren untied her apron and pulled it from around her