The Laird of Blackloch (Highland Rogue #2)

Chapter 8

Tay House, Edinburgh

February 16, 1757

“ F or heaven’s sake, Malcolm, how do you know these silly little letters are genuine ransom demands?” asked Damaris, tossing both pieces of parchment onto the gilt-edged table beside her.

She was lounging on a rose-patterned chaise longue in her morning room with her white terrier, Bonnie, on her lap. The remains of her breakfast, congealing on another nearby table, made Malcolm’s stomach turn in an uneasy somersault. He really shouldn’t have had so much claret last night, but drinking himself into a stupor seemed to be the only way he could get any sleep.

Oblivious to his foul mood or the impending crisis, Damaris continued on with irritating blitheness. “Sarah’s probably run off with some other man she likes better than you. She always struck me as the flighty type. Good riddance to her, I say. I’ll be glad to see the back of her miserable aunt too.”

Malcolm snatched the papers up and Damaris winced as her terrier growled. “Of course these are bloody real, Damaris.”

The second letter had arrived before dawn this morning, pushed beneath the door just like the first. This time, a torn piece of heavily embroidered apricot-pink satin, edged with gold lace, had been enfolded within. “Even you agree that this”—he waved the scrap in Damaris’s face—“belongs to Sarah.” Although he generally didn’t pay much attention to women’s attire, Malcolm knew the distinctive fabric came from the gown Sarah had worn to the Saint Valentine’s ball at Kenmuir House.

Damaris sighed and tickled Bonnie’s ears. “Even if the demand is genuine, I don’t see that railing about it will help.” She popped a sugared sweetmeat into her mouth before feeding one to the terrier. “I’m well aware that you would have considerable difficulty paying any sort of sizable ransom. I say let this Janus—whoever he is—have her. If we go to London straightaway, I’m sure you’ll find another wealthy, gullible lass who’d be willing to trade her fortune for a title. How long could it possibly take?”

Malcolm grabbed Damaris by the chin, forcing her to look at him. “Now listen here, my very pretty but very dim-witted sister. I’ve just sold off all but one of our carriages. The horses are gone too, and I’ve precious little coin to hire any. Not only that, but I can’t afford to rent a townhouse once we arrive.”

Fear flickered in Damaris’s golden-brown eyes. “Wh-What? You must be joking,” she breathed.

“Well, I’m not,” he snapped. “We can’t afford to go to London, and the only one who’s going to be whoring herself at the moment is you. Why don’t you go and visit Lord Arbelour and let him screw you in exchange for some jewelry which we can then sell off? You told me he was quite taken with you at the Kenmuir’s ball.”

“Yes, he was.” Damaris jerked her chin away and pouted. “Do we really have so little money?”

“Yes, dear sister. I’m afraid so.”

“And how much is this ransom again?”

“Ten thousand pounds. I’m to pay it by the first of March, which only gives me two bloody weeks to find the money.”

The color drained from Damaris’s cheeks as she swallowed audibly. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh. ” The ransom date was only a week prior to the day he was supposed to marry Sarah at Taymoor Castle. It made Malcolm wonder again who Janus actually was. The timing seemed rather pointed, the message clear—pay the ransom or you won’t have the chance to wed your wealthy fiancée .

“Do you think...” Damaris drew a shaky breath. “Do you think you could go to the bank and arrange another loan? If the bank manager knows you are due to wed Sarah in less than a month, perhaps?—”

“Don’t you think I haven’t already thought of that?” Malcolm growled. “The bank won’t let me in the damn door let alone lend me another penny.”

“Perhaps if Judith knew?—”

“Christ, no. If Judith found out that I can’t pay the ransom, she’d be off to Newcastle to tattle to that pompous ass Swindon that I’m all but financially ruined. Between the two of them, they’d probably bloody pay the demand, and Sarah would be sure to call off the engagement as soon as she found out I hadn’t been the one to save her.”

“But if Sarah loves you, as you believe she does, surely she wouldn’t care that you are not as wealthy as she thought,” rejoined his sister.

Malcolm paced the threadbare Aubusson rug. Until recently, perhaps Sarah would have overlooked such a thing—but he was certain she’d caught him fucking the blond chit. She wouldn’t willingly marry him if she believed he was faithless as well as penniless.

Unlike Damaris, she wouldn’t do anything to get what she wanted.

But what if Sarah had no other choice but to marry him?

Malcolm stopped by the window and studied the fog-shrouded view of Calton Hill through the grimy panes. This Janus, whoever he was, might just dip his wick whilst he had Sarah in his possession. God knows, he’d wanted to. She was pretty enough. If she were ruined—perhaps even with child—she’d have to marry him, Malcolm, to save herself from disgrace.

Malcolm’s lip curled. Yes, he rather fancied playing the part of Sarah’s knight in shining armor. Of course, he also couldn’t afford to be fussy. He could stomach another man’s leavings—even pretend Sarah’s by-blow was his—for a chance to acquire the Lambert family fortune.

But first things first. He had to pay the ransom.

“What shall we tell Judith?” asked Damaris. “She’s been talking about going to the Town Guard to enlist their aid, to see if they can find her niece. I’ve told her you’ve sent out men to search for Sarah. But if the old tabby makes a fuss, and then others find out what’s really happened...and that we have no money...”

“Yes, keeping Judith quiet is a priority,” agreed Malcolm. “She mustn’t suspect, even for a moment, that Sarah has been kidnapped. The one thing we cannot afford, if we can afford anything at all, is a scandal.” He turned away from the window to eye Damaris. Aside from fucking men well, his sister had other talents. “Do you think you can forge Sarah’s handwriting? Could you fool her aunt?”

Damaris cast him an arch smile. “You know I can. Just tell me what to write and I will do it.”

“Good.”

Damaris plucked at the lace edging of her pink silk peignoir. Her brow was furrowed in thought. “So who do you think Janus is? This whole scheme seems very...personal.”

“I wish I knew.” Malcolm’s hands curled into fists as he contemplated what he’d do to the dog who was doing this to him. Making his life even more of a hell than it already was. “But if I ever discover his identity, make no mistake, he’ll regret the day he ever fucking dared to cross me.”