Forgetting the Scot

By Jennifer Trethewey

Virginia Whitebridge is trapped in a loveless, abusive marriage. The law says her husband can have whatever he wants from her—so he's taken her inheritance. And he tried to kill her. After a close escape, Virginia feels protected for the first time in forever, thanks to the Scottish Highlands and the Highlander Magnus Sinclair. But she must go back to England, regardless of the danger, to reclaim what's hers. Even if it means leaving her heart in Scotland.

It's just Magnus's luck that he's fallen for a woman he can't have. Virginia is rich and titled... and English. To keep her safe, he must follow her to the one place he loathes—England. Where the bowing, preening London Society has a secret language of manners unknown to him. Where he is too large, too uncivilized, too everything.

Despite omens that death awaits him there, Magnus vows to help Virginia go to London and restore her fortune. Get in. Get out. Or die trying.

Each book in The Highlanders of Balforss series is STANDALONE:
* Tying the Scot
* Betting the Scot
* Forgetting the Scot
* Saving the Scot

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Oct 22, 2018
• ISBN: 9781640636750

Book preview

Table of Contents

Dedication

Prologue

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

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Discover more Amara titles…

The Butterfly Bride

Sweet Home Highlander

On Highland Time

A Potion for Passion

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 by Jennifer Trethewey. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

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ISBN 978-1-64063-675-0

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition October 2018

Dear Reader,

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This book is dedicated to the women and men who struggle to become mothers and fathers through conception, adoption, and fostering. I wish you all happy endings.

Prologue

Early March 1817, London

Lady Langley pinned a fugitive lock of hair back into place and sighed. The reflection of a bespectacled, married woman of two and twenty years stared back at her. Plain old Virginia. Bollocks. Nothing about her outward appearance had changed. She expected to see a woman of confidence, purpose—a woman who could overcome adversity with a commanding word or an arch of her eyebrow. She felt like a different person. Why did she still look the same?

Damn and bollocks.

She peered out the window to gauge the weather—a sunny day, lovely for this early in March. A man standing across the street caught her attention. He dipped his head and turned up his collar. Was that one of her husband’s men? It couldn’t be. Langley’s men had returned to Bromley Hall with him two days ago.

The hallway timepiece chimed eleven. Already behind schedule. She called to the butler Garfield on her way out the door, If Aunt Mina asks, I’m to St. Albans Street and on to Piccadilly, if time allows.

Your aunt will disapprove, Your Ladyship.

I don’t care what my aunt thinks, she said and trundled down the front steps to meet the coachman.

Richards, Begley & Sorenson. You know the way, Sam.

Yes, m’lady.

The man she’d spotted earlier took off down the street at a pace. He was definitely her husband’s man, Thadius Mudd, a horrid fellow with two prominent front teeth and tiny eyes. His expression always put her in mind of a giant, hairless mole. Bollocks. Had Langley left him behind to spy on her?

Sam held out a hand for her to step inside the carriage. Once settled into the back of the barouche, she put the odious Mr. Mudd out of her thoughts. The day was too brilliant not to enjoy. With the canopy down, the sun bathed her face with warmth. She was about to commit the most outrageous act of defiance in all her twenty-two years. She was about to rob her husband.

It wasn’t truly robbery. The money was hers. George Whitebridge might have been a cold, unfeeling father, but he had made allowances for her—a trust of 10,000 pounds set aside for her own use. A sum Langley couldn’t touch. Drat. Could she call it defiance, if her husband never found out she’d used the money? Would her triumph be lessened if he was ignorant of her actions?

And what would Langley say when she announced she wasn’t returning to Bromley Hall with him after the Season? With his death, her father’s property and assets fell to her. The St. James house was hers by rights. She intended to live there with Aunt Mina for as long as she liked. Her only problem was consent. Marital law had her at her husband’s mercy. Whatever she’d inherited from her father would, of course, be considered her husband’s property. Everything except her trust. That money was hers to do with as she liked.

She smiled to herself. Virginia had a plan. One that would enrage Langley, but she no longer feared her husband. After the last…episode, the doctor had told her not to hope. Conception is very unlikely, he’d said. He’d looked askance at her bruises. The doctor knew why she’d lost the child, yet he didn’t speak of it. No one spoke of what was unspeakable—that a man could push his wife down a flight of stairs in a pique of anger. She may have been powerless to save her own child, but she had found a way to save hundreds of others in need of a mother.

Outside the office of Richards, Begley & Sorenson, Esquire, Virginia handed her coachman sixpence. Get yourself something to eat. This should take at least an hour.

Sam flashed her a smile and tipped his hat. She paused on the doorstep to remove her spectacles and wipe away the dust. Satisfied, she slipped them on and the world came into focus again. A jolt of recognition sang through her when she caught sight of another one of her husband’s men on the pavement opposite—a revolting fellow known as Crusty because of a terrible skin condition, one she suspected was what she’d heard referred to as the French Pox.

Damn and double bollocks.

By the end of the day, Langley would know she was up to something, and he’d press her until he found out. Well, too bloody late. She set her chin and marched into the office of Richards, Begley & Sorenson, Esquires. There was no stopping her now.

Ten minutes later, Virginia stood before Mr. Begley, trembling with rage. What do you mean, it’s all gone?

Begley tilted his head at a conciliatory angle, as if he was talking to a child. She wanted to slap him. As I just explained, Your Ladyship, your husband emptied that account more than a month ago. Shortly after the funeral, His Lordship discovered that your late father’s business affairs had deteriorated drastically. So much so, he could no longer count on the, em, annual dowry payments your father had promised him. He sold your father’s business and took the trust money to make up for that loss.

And you just handed over all my money without my permission?

Alarm seeped into Mr. Begley’s expression. He said you had directed him to—

I did no such thing!

As he is your husband; I didn’t question it. I do beg your forgiveness.

She began to shake uncontrollably. This is unforgivable. I’ve—I’ve already promised Mrs. Pennyweather. We’re building a home for foundling children. We have a plan. I’m the chief benefactor. We can’t save the children without that money.

Please, sit down and collect yourself, Your Ladyship.

I’m perfectly collected, sir, I assure you. Her body betrayed her words. She was anything but collected. More like shattered into a thousand pieces. Her mouth flooded with sour saliva. She was going to vomit if she didn’t leave this place immediately. She fumbled blindly with the door, hot tears blurring her vision.

Snowdon, Mr. Begley’s clerk, placed her cloak on her shoulders with a mumbled apology. Mr. Begley was only trying to help, Your Ladyship. Lord Langley would have been ruined.

Outside, she rested a hand against the building and took deep breaths. Gone. Everything was gone. Her money. Her future. All her plans dashed to bits. Oh, God, the children. Damn Mr. Begley for a fool, and double damn her husband for robbing her. He’d done this weeks ago and never told her.

M’lady! M’lady! Pardon me, m’lady. A dirty-faced boy in a ragged coat and filthy trousers trotted toward her out of breath and out of sorts. My little brother’s been ’urt. Please, will you ’elp me, m’lady?

She straightened and, for once, was grateful for her corseting. It was the only thing keeping her upright. Where’s your mother, dear?

We got no mum, miss. The boy warbled his plea again. Please, m’lady?

No mother. The skin, bones, and rags standing in front of her couldn’t be older than ten years and was left to care for his little brother. She glanced up and down the street. No sign of the barouche. It might be a half hour before Sam returned. A tiny voice inside her head whispered for her to be cautious. But another look at the boy’s tear-streaked face, and her heart was close to breaking.

Please, m’lady. His chin wobbled and her caution dissolved. It was broad daylight. What could possibly happen on busy St. Albans Street in the middle of the afternoon? If she helped him, if she could save his little brother, at least one good thing would come of this awful day.

Of course, dear. Where is your brother?

Quick. Follow me.

The boy shot around the building. By the time she reached the corner, he’d run halfway down the alley. Wait. You’re going too fast, she called. The boy motioned for her to hurry then sidestepped into a dark alcove. Virginia slowed. Something wasn’t right. Surely, if the boy needed her to follow, he would have held her hand or taken more care not to lose her. She heard footsteps approaching from behind, but before she could turn, something blunt and heavy struck her on the back of her neck. Her vision dimmed, and stars danced around the corners of the darkening alleyway as she crumpled to her knees.

Virginia clung to consciousness as best she could, aware only that she had lost her spectacles. She felt the ground around her, searching for them. Rough hands tore off her bonnet and jerked her head back. Still dazed from the initial blow, she was unable to protest when someone shoved a wad of ghastly tasting cloth in her mouth. Next, they removed her good woolen cloak. My best coat, she thought dully.

You tie her hands. I’ll get her feet.

The voice was familiar. If she could see him, she could identify who’d struck her. But no. She’d lost her spectacles.

Wha’ about my frupence? The boy’s voice. Someone had paid him to lure her into the alley. He must be starving to do such a thing. Given a chance, she would have cared for him, seen that Mrs. Pennyweather took him in—he and his brother.

Take this and fly. If you tell anyone, I’ll find you and cut your throat.

She tried to shout, Don’t hurt him, but the gag prevented anything but muffled grunts. She heard the boy dash off, splashing through a puddle and knocking over a barrel on the way.

You should have done him in. If he prattles, we’re as good as dead.

Keep quiet and help me roll her up in this carpet.

Daylight faded altogether. Damn and bollocks. Thrupence. Her life was worth thrupence.

It took days to fully understand her predicament, to piece together the incomprehensible events that had led to her situation, but once the ache in the back of her head eased and her nausea abated, it had become clear to her that she’d been abducted. Two men had stolen her from the streets of London in broad daylight and sold her to an Irishman named Captain O’Malley.

O’Malley was keeping her here, on board his ship, below deck in a wooden pen meant for animals. Dark and dank and freezing cold, she had only a blanket and a bucket for her comfort. Twice a day, someone would slide food through the horizontal wooden slats that were the walls of her cell. A glutinous gray porridge in the morning, and a broth with a few grizzled bits of beef for supper.

At least she thought it was beef. She didn’t have her spectacles. Which wouldn’t be so awful as she’d rather not dwell on her shabby surroundings. Not being able to see clearly beyond two feet in front of her face only became frightening at night when she’d hear the rustling sounds of what she believed were rats. Needless to say, she slept in fits and starts.

She held out hope that she would be ransomed by Langley or by Aunt Mina but wasn’t certain either of them valued her enough to part with a large sum of money in exchange for her life. And on reflection, the two who had abducted her were probably Langley’s men. Langley had likely ordered them to kidnap her, as she’d never known Mudd or Crusty to have an original thought of their own.

Virginia made herself hoarse calling out for help or rescue—for anyone to please take her back home. No one answered. Even the person who delivered her food refused to talk to her. At the end of the third day, Captain O’Malley visited her cell.

There’s my darlin’ girl. Are ye comfortable?

The hair on her arms prickled at his mocking tone. I wish to be taken home immediately.

I’m afraid that’s not possible, pet.

She asked in her most imperious voice, Do you know who I am?

"Yer a most honored guest aboard the Tigress."

She mustered what courage she had left and asked, Why are you keeping me in this…this cell?

It’s for your own safety, pet. It’s not to keep you in. It’s to keep my crew out. Wouldn’t want them despoiling my prize. A virgin like yourself will fetch a good price in Jamaica or Tortola. He moved toward the door to the cell and paused. Y’are a virgin now, aren’t cha?

Virginia hesitated. She would have told him her husband would ransom her for a better price than he could get in the Indies, but suspicion and fear quarreled inside her head. Why was it so important that she be a virgin? Some primal instinct crawling inside her gut made her tell a lie.

Yes.

That’s grand. Because if you weren’t, I’d have to let my crew have a turn at you and you wouldn’t like that. Not at all.

The ship didn’t sail immediately for the West Indies. Neither did they make port. She suspected the crew conducted their business at night, smuggling stolen goods from shore onto the ship. From the tiny portal near the top of the ship’s wall, she guessed they were headed north along the coast of England. Nearly four weeks later, her guess was confirmed.

Lady Charlotte of Black Port Lodge, an estate just north of Leeds, was shoved unceremoniously into the cell. Like Virginia, she was outraged and confused. Although she wouldn’t wish her fate on anyone, Virginia was secretly happy to have a companion. They clung to each other, shared the execrable food and stale beer, and speculated on their fate. Charlotte, defiant and indomitable Charlotte, never allowed herself to be overcome by their circumstances. Virginia drew strength from her friend in bondage. Enough strength to stay alive. Enough strength to stay hopeful.

Thirteen days later, Mary arrived. Mary Tucker boarded the Tigress in Edinburgh willingly thinking she was to marry Captain O’Malley, a union her brother had arranged. The captain lingered in the cell long enough to enjoy Mary’s horror when she realized she’d been duped. Mary’s horror quickly turned to rage. She leaped at the captain’s face like a cat with her claws out. If Charlotte was English, Mary was every bit a Scot. She fought him like a lioness, nearly clawing his eyes out before he was able to escape from the cell.

Most distressing was the addition of their fourth cellmate, a girl, a child really. Morag Sinkler was snatched from the streets of Wick on her way to buy sweets after her church lessons. They did what they could to comfort Morag who wept for her mother and father day and night and could not eat no matter how hard they tried to coax food into her. It was then Virginia wondered if death might be a more merciful fate than what awaited them in the West Indies.

Seventy days had passed since Virginia had been taken. She kept track of them. Seventy days and they had not yet left Great Britain. How much longer could they endure this rat-infested dungeon? How long could they survive when given barely enough food to live? And what would happen to them if they did make it to Jamaica or Tortola? Hope was beginning to slip away when their salvation arrived in the form of a lovely woman named Caya Pendarvis.

Chapter One

The North Sea off the coast of Scotland

The crack and sizzle of gunfire spurred Magnus up the rope netting. The battle had begun without him. He hurled himself over the railing of the Tigress right behind his stepfather and uncle. His three cousins were already fully engaged with the ship’s crew. Darkness and the haze of gun smoke made it difficult to see, but there were more pirates on board than the Sinclairs had originally estimated.

Magnus spotted an axe-wielding man about to cleave wee Peter’s head in two. He drew his pistol and fired, only winging the pirate but slowing him long enough for the small groom to slip safely down the hatch to search for the woman they’d come to rescue. He tossed aside his spent firearm and drew his sword. The damn floor kept heaving beneath him, probably the reason he’d missed killing the axe man at such close range. He lurched forward and swung. Again, his aim was off the mark. Instead of cutting the man down cleanly, he’d only opened his belly.

Damn this bloody boat.

The man dropped his axe and fell to the deck, attempting to gather and contain his innards. One down, but if he was to even the odds between the Sinclairs and the pirates, he needed to kill or disable another two.

"Mag-nus!"

He whirled around. A giant had his cousin Ian pinned against the mast. Ian struggled to keep the man’s black sawtooth blade from slicing open his neck. Magnus drew his dirk and sank the long spike under the giant’s arm, straight through the cavity of his chest. Quick, bloodless, and lethal. He withdrew his blade and watched the pirate drop. Ian nodded sharply before collecting his sword from the deck and trotting toward the fo’c’sle.

Magnus blinked away the sting of smoke and sheathed his dirk. He scanned the aft deck: a sea of flashing sabers, swinging limbs, shouts of rage, and cries of pain. This is what hell must look like.

Who’s bloody next? he roared.

He sensed the attacker’s presence before he turned—a disturbance in the atmosphere, a vibration under foot. He sidestepped the blade, thrust, and ran the man through so cleanly his sword arm encountered no resistance. Ghostly thin, stooped and toothless, the old man remained skewered on his sword until he kicked him off. He shouldn’t let the varlet’s age bother him. It was kill or be killed today. But, Jesus, the fellow was so ancient, it was hardly fair.

A flash of petticoat materialized beside him, the wearer squinting and waving her arms in front of her. She lost her footing, and he caught her with his free arm, saving her from falling in a heap on top of the dead man at his feet. They had boarded this heaving mass of piracy to rescue his cousin Declan’s stolen bride. But this one wasn’t…

Oh, help! The slender female writhed in his arm and pounded a fist against his chest with the force of a kitten, an oddly arousing feeling, considering the circumstances.

You’re not Caya, he said. Bloody hell. Had they raided the wrong ship?

She stopped resisting and panted, I’m Virginia Whitebridge. Caya is still below. Are you here to save us?

Us? How many women had the pirates stolen? And were they all as bonnie as the one he held? For a reckless moment, he considered kissing her. Instead, he gave her a gentle squeeze meant to reassure. And for that second, no longer than a breath, the nightmare aboard the ship faded into silence, and time slowed to a near stop. Her body relaxed and sank into his, molding to him. Breast to chest, hip to belly, thigh to thigh. Warm and soft and—

Who are you? she asked.

Magnus Sinclair. He was about to tell the woman that he was indeed on a rescue mission when he caught sight of a blade, and the world flashed back into motion. Unbelievable. The bloody old bag of bones he’d just run through was on his feet again.

He tossed his lovely burden behind him to shield her from attack, but not quick enough to save himself. The ancient tar’s blade nicked the right side of his jaw. Christ, the old gray was hard to kill. This time, he made certain the man stayed down. The pirate’s head hit the deck with a thud and rolled away before the body collapsed.

He returned his attention to—did she say her name was Virginia? But another two women, neither of whom were Declan’s beloved Caya, were helping her to her feet. He glanced in the direction from which they came and saw Peter at the hatch helping yet a fourth woman, also not Caya, up onto the deck. She grinned at him and yelled above the din, Get us off this bloody bucket, ye bastard!

…

The Scots who’d rescued them said very little when they’d taken them to shore. They were, no doubt, shocked by their bedraggled appearance as much as they were to find not one but five female captives. Virginia and the other women were silent, as well. Happy at the sudden change in their fortune, yet unsure of what was to come, stunned by the sunlight and fresh air. The men transported them by a cart to a place called Balforss, a large graceful stone house occupied by Laird and Lady Sinclair. During her few hours held captive aboard the Tigress, Caya Pendarvis had spoken fondly of the Sinclair family and their Balforss estate, a place Caya thought never to see again. But here they were. All of them. Safe. It’s a miracle.

A bevy of servants hustled them upstairs to guest chambers and immediately went about finding food and clothing for them and drawing much-needed baths. As if in a dream, Virginia lowered herself into a steaming tub. She hugged her knees, wanting to enjoy her soak in the warm sudsy bathwater, yet not daring to believe she was really free, that they were all free, all five of Captain O’Malley’s captives: well-bred unmarried women he had planned to sell to rich plantation owners in the West Indies for purposes she never wanted to imagine. Light laughter came from down the hall—Mary and Charlotte’s voices. So, it was true. She wasn’t dreaming. They had been rescued.

She remembered that terrifying moment after she emerged from the hold onto the ship’s deck. The stinging gun smoke in her eyes, the shouts and curses, the smell of blood and feces. And then…him. The big man who had swept her into his arms, held her to his solid, heaving chest. Close enough that, even without her spectacles, she could see his face, his sleek dark hair, his handsome bearded jaw, and those eyes. At first, she’d thought he was another pirate and that he would kill her. But then he’d rumbled his name, Magnus Sinclair.

Magnus. Yes. It suited him, the name meaning great. He was a big, big man, and he had caught her in his arms as if she weighed nothing. Her clumsy, gawkishly tall body had felt feather-light dangling in his embrace. For a heartbeat, as she’d gazed into his beautiful dark-brown eyes, she’d thought he’d kiss her. Then he’d tossed her aside, not to harm her, not through carelessness, but to protect her, to save her from harm. She’d never been saved before. And though the two men in her life—her father and her husband—had provided for her, neither had ever protected her. Quite the opposite. The two had a habit of inflicting, rather than preventing, damage to her person. But the Sinclair men had saved her—saved all of the women and brought them here to Balforss for safe-keeping until they could be returned to their families, reunions in which all would rejoice. All except Virginia.

After lingering two and a half months in the freezing hold of the Tigress, she had lost hope, accepted her fate, even encouraged the others to do the same. Until last night when Captain O’Malley had added Caya Pendarvis to his collection of stolen women. Miraculously, only hours after Caya’s capture, the Sinclairs of Balforss had boarded the ship to reclaim her.

Caya must be very special to the people of Balforss. No one else had attempted to rescue any of the other women. Certainly no one had tried to rescue her. Virginia huffed a bitter laugh. Had anyone even noticed her absence?

She flinched at the knock on her door and tightened her grasp on her knees. Has someone come to take me back to my cell? Has this all been a cruel joke?

A young woman’s voice called from the other side of the door. May I come in, miss?

Virginia’s filthy pink gown lay on the floor just out of reach. Damn. Trapped.

It’s all right, miss. It’s jess me, Haddie the maid. I’ve brought you some aught to wear, as they’ll be serving up dinner soon.

She relaxed fractionally. Come in. Her voice sounded childlike, and so she repeated with more force, Come in, please.

The door opened and a fuzzy image entered. At this distance and without her spectacles, Virginia couldn’t see the details of the woman’s face, only colors and shapes. The vague impression of a white apron and mop cap reassured her that the girl was indeed a maid.

Afternoon. I’ve brought you a linen to dry yerself and one of the mistress’s gowns, as she reckons yer aboot the same size.

Thank you.

As the maid approached, her facial features came into sharper focus. Yer most welcome. It’s Miss Virginia, is it no’?

Was it safe to reveal her true identity? Fear had driven her to keep her title secret, even from her fellow captives while on board the Tigress. Her survival depended on the pretense that she was unmarried. Now that she was safe, she should be able to tell everyone, and yet, uncertainty made her continue her charade.

Yes. That’s right. Virginia Whitebridge, she told the maid. Not a complete untruth. It was, after all, the name given to her at birth.

Do you need help dressing? Haddie asked.

I can manage on my own.

I’ll jess put the clean gown and such on the chair and take yer things to be laundered.

Quite honestly, you can take them away and burn them, as far as I’m concerned.

A’ course, miss.

After bustling around the room, tidying, and poking up the fire, Haddie slipped out and shut the door, leaving Virginia alone again in a space twice the size of the tiny wooden pen in which she and the others had been kept like livestock. Odd. The expanse made her uncomfortable, as though so large a room would be unsafe. Indefensible.

She rose from the bath and dried. The simple act of washing and dressing herself, a ritual she had always taken for granted, brought her to the brink of tears. She was human again. Back in her own skin. But she doubted she’d ever be herself. Not after the last ten weeks. And what, dear Lord, lies ahead for me?

The next logical step would be to return to London. But that future was as uncertain as the one on board the ship. She’d had a long time to think about her abduction. She’d seen Thadius Mudd and Crusty on the street that afternoon. Could her husband’s men have abducted her? And if they had, had they acted on their own or on her husband’s orders? Either way, returning home was a frightening prospect.

She’d also had time to worry about the fate of all the children she and Mrs. Pennyweather could have saved. The woman did what she could for the foundlings in her care with what little she had, but unless Virginia could get her trust money back from Langley, their plan for building a clean and loving home for London’s motherless children would never be realized.

She should dress and eat something. Perhaps with a full belly and a clear head, she could reason out what she should do next. Her ears pricked at the sound of a baby’s cry and she smiled. There was a child here, a baby she could hold. And suddenly this house felt warmer, safer, a more welcoming place than she’d first thought.

She hastily dressed herself. The borrowed shift, drawers, petticoat, stays, skirt, and bodice fit her as though tailor made. The mistress of Balforss, Lady Sinclair, had fine taste. Although not stylish by London standards, the gown was well made from a fine gold and red floral chintz and finished with ornate brass buttons. Virginia made use of a comb she found near the basin, drew out the tangles in her hair, and plaited it into a simple side braid.

Another rap on her door, this one excited. Virginia? Mary’s still in the bath, but Morag and I are going down for dinner. Are you ready?

I’ll be along soon, Charlotte. Go ahead without me.

She waited until their light footsteps had retreated. Thank goodness her hearing was excellent. Having lost her spectacles on