Page 1 of Two Nights with the Duke (Cherish and the Duke #3)

Arbroth Inn

Arbroth, Scotland

August 1817

“L ass, ye have to the count of three to tell me who ye are, how in blazes ye got into my bed, and who gave ye permission to sleep in my shirt?” demanded the big, angry Scot who had just roused Lady Jocelyn MacRaine in the middle of the night with a light shake of her shoulders.

Jocelyn’s heart pounded as she struggled awake and stared into this stranger’s piercing green eyes. She noted the huge scar across his cheek that was illuminated by the candle he held above her head. But the scar did not make him look twisted or ugly. Quite the opposite—it added character to his nicely formed features.

Not that she was studying the man or considered him handsome.

“What are you doing here?” Jocelyn shot back, trying to appear resolute and not show her fear that she had been caught dead to rights by this man. She suspected he was foxed because she caught the scent of whiskey on his breath.

But he seemed to be sobering fast as he glowered at her. “Me, lass? Ye dare to question my right to be here?”

Not really, since it was obviously his room, and a lovely one it was, too—the inn’s most expensive, and filled with many convenient luxuries.

Having been caught, Jocelyn had no choice but to brazen it out. She returned his glower with one of her own. “Yes, I dare! I distinctly heard one of the maids state that you would not be returning tonight. Did you or did you not mislead her?”

“Of all the outrageous gall,” he said, his voice a deep growl. “And ye think this gives ye the right to stake a claim to the room I paid for? Then ye have the gall to order a bath and a meal, and then take over my bed? I suppose ye charged everything to my account.”

Jocelyn nodded. “Yes, well…the innkeeper’s son was on duty and might have assumed I was your wife.”

“My wife!” He sighed and shook his head. “The bloody idjit .”

“It wasn’t his fault. He trusted me…as you should, too. I shall pay you back in full, sir. Upon my honor, I shall.” She cleared her tightening throat. “But I haven’t the funds with me at the moment.”

He gave a curt, bitter laugh. “How convenient for ye.”

“It’s the truth,” she retorted, indignant that he did not believe her. Never mind that he had absolutely no reason to trust her, a stranger in his bed. “I was exhausted and bedraggled. I needed a place to hide. I will pay you back every last groat, I promise. And I haven’t touched a single thing of yours other than this shirt. Um…and your comb, since I had to brush out my hair after washing it.”

He set the candle on the night table beside the bed. “Lass, why did ye need to hide?” he asked with surprising gentleness, taking a seat at the foot of the bed and making no attempt to approach her.

“It is a long story.” Running away from a wedding, especially one’s own, was a tiring business. After three days on the run, she’d found herself in desperate need of a meal, a bath, and a good night’s sleep, not necessarily in that order. But she did not dare spend more than one night in any place for fear that her family and her reprehensible cad of a jilted bridegroom, the Earl of Ballantry, would find her and force her to the altar.

Luck had finally come her way when she overheard one of the maids at this elegant Arbroth Inn mutter something about a man called MacRae—she hadn’t caught all of his name at the time, but noted it later when peeking at the inn’s register. “Och, he will no’ be returning to his room tonight for certain,” the maid had said to another as they chatted while walking off duty.

“Lass? I will no’ harm ye,” he said now, regaining her attention. “But I need to know the entire truth.”

She nodded. “I ran away from my wedding because I could not bring myself to marry the Earl of Ballantry.”

“Ballantry? That rat?”

“Oh, you know him?”

He raised the candle again to study her face. “Aye, I can see how ye’re pretty enough to attract that knave.”

She shook her head. “He was never interested in me.”

“Ah, yer wealth, then.”

She pinched her lips, afraid she had just made a monumental blunder in being honest with him. Would this rogue now claim to have compromised her and attempt to marry her, too?

He must have sensed her thoughts, for he sighed. “Lass, do ye know who I am?”

She nodded. “Malcolm MacRae. That’s the name you wrote in the inn’s register.”

“Aye, because I dinna want to make a bloody announcement about my true identity. The innkeeper knows, of course. I’ve stopped here many a time.”

“And claimed the inn’s best room. I thank you for that,” she said, daring a small smile.

He chuckled. “What’s yer name, lass?”

“If I tell you, will you promise not to give me away?”

“No, I canno’ promise ye that. However, if it’s Ballantry that’s asking, I will consider no’ telling him anything.”

“You cannot tell my parents either.”

He remained silent a long moment before finally responding. “Sorry, lass. But I am no’ negotiating with ye on this. Either ye tell me yer name or I turn ye over to the local magistrate this very night. Well, whatever is left of it. And I’ll take my shirt back, if ye please.”

“No! You mustn’t.” She let out a deflated breath. “My name is Jocelyn MacRaine. Lady Jocelyn MacRaine. Isn’t it a coincidence that our surnames are so similar?”

“No, lass. Almost everyone in Scotland is a MacSomething. Do not attempt to weave connections between us when there are none.”

“I was merely attempting to be cordial,” she said with a purse of her lips and a chiding frown. “There, I’ve told you everything. Runaway bride. No funds. Not ever going to marry that toad of an intended bridegroom.”

“What did he do?”

“Other than seduce my maids, my odious cousins, and even the vicar’s wife within days of our supposed wedding ceremony? The vicar’s wife was that very morning.”

“Ah, he was a busy fellow, wasn’t he? Sounds like Ballantry.”

“So there you have it. I thought marriage to him might provide an escape from the pressures of my family, but all I was about to do was exchange one unhappy situation for another. So I came to my senses and escaped. Are you satisfied? And you are not getting your shirt back until my gown and undergarments are returned to me properly freshened and cleaned. I’ll have them back in the morning. So you are stuck with me until then.”

“Lass, you seem to have matters backward. This is my room. My bed. My shirt,” he pointed out again. “I give the orders here, no’ you.”

She tipped her chin up. “Are you a gentleman?”

“Aye, by rank. But no, if ye are referring to my manners.”

“Oh.” She tugged the covers more securely about her body. “Well, you had better behave like a gentleman around me. Not that I am all that tempting, or so my family finds it necessary to tell me. I am a twenty-seven-year-old spinster with a sour disposition. Certainly too old and too much trouble to interest the lascivious likes of you.”

He laughed. “Jocelyn MacRaine, ye say? MacRaine? As in the Earl of Granby’s daughter? I heard ye were a bit of a harpy.”

Her eyes widened. “Who said so?”

“Well, ye just admitted it yerself. So why are ye in a dander over who else might have said the same thing?”

“It is entirely different. It hurts to know others outside my family also think the worst of me. Why would any of them bother to talk about me behind my back? I am well beyond my prime and mean nothing to any of them.”

“Och, Jocelyn. Ye’re a fat coin purse, just as I am. Otherwise, no one would care if either of us lay sprawled in a gutter gasping for our last breath. But wealth and title? Everyone wants to grab a piece of us. Who cares what others think? It’s nice to meet ye, lass,” he said, casting her a dangerously appealing smile. “If ye want the truth, ye hardly look a day over twenty-six and a half.”

His teasing caught her by surprise, and she laughed in spite of wanting to be angry with him. Not that she had a right to be angry, since she was the usurper here. “You mentioned you were a gentleman. Am I to assume you are titled? Who are you?”

“I am Camborne.”

“Who?”

He chuckled. “As in the Duke of Camborne.”

She regarded him blankly. Where had she heard that name before? Associated with something…gold…silver. She inhaled sharply. “Are you one of the notorious Silver Dukes?”

“Aye, that I am.”

“Thank goodness.” She let out the breath she had been holding and relaxed against the fine, downy pillows piled against the headboard of the large bed. Everyone knew Silver Dukes were men who did not marry. They were known to cavort. Seduce. And no woman resisted their advances because these Silver Dukes were gorgeous.

She studied this man beside her. Yes, he was quite handsome. Exquisitely good looking, actually. About forty years of age, or perhaps a few years older if the dusting of gray upon his chestnut-brown hair was any indication. Goodness, he was quite nicely formed. And he had a manly face, the sort one might trust because of the squareness of his jaw and the sharpness of his gaze. Oddly, the scar on his cheek enhanced his appeal.

This was a man who knew what he wanted, and then took decisive action without ever doubting his decisions.

As a Silver Duke, he was also never going to marry. Which meant he was not going to scheme to get her to the altar and gain control of her wealth.

“Now that we have been introduced, what are we to do about this situation, Jocelyn?”

She liked the rugged timbre of his voice and his Scottish burr. Having been raised in England and schooled in England, she had never acquired much of a Scottish accent or manners, even though she could claim Robert the Bruce as one of her blood ancestors, or so her father had often boasted. “What do you suggest we do, Camborne?”

“I’m not of a mind to think clearly at the moment,” he said, raking a hand through the glorious waves of his hair that seemed to have a tinge of red amid the brown by candlelight. “Let me sleep on it and we’ll come up with a plan in the morning. How does that sound to ye?”

“Fine, so long as you intend to sleep on the floor and not in this bed beside me.”

He arched an eyebrow and cast her a rakish smile. “There ye go thinking ye are in a position to make demands, lass. Well, ye are not. I dinna have the makings of a pallet. There’s only one coverlet and it is on the bed. If I take it, ye’ll be cold. If ye keep it, then I’ll be cold.”

He began to remove his clothes, starting with his jacket and his neckcloth.

No, no, no. They had gotten off to such a good start, and now he was ruining it. “Camborne, you cannot undress!”

“I can and I will. However, I will keep my trousers on for the sake of yer modesty. Although I’ve been told I have a very fine arse.”

“Ugh! Is that supposed to make me shiver with delight?” Was he serious? Were all dukes this deluded about their looks?

“No, lass. If I wanted to send thrills and tingles through ye, then rest assured ye’d be thrilling and tingling right now.”

“Ha! Doubtful.”

He yawned. “I’m too tired to prove it to ye tonight. Move over, lass. Ye canno’ take up all of the bed.”

“But it is my bed!”

“Wrong again, Jocelyn. It is my bed, and I am letting ye stay in it out of the goodness of my heart. I promise not to touch ye, if that’s what ye’re afraid of. I have no interest in good girls.”

“I’m hardly a girl. And how do you know I am good?”

“People would no’ be calling ye a harpy if ye were liberal with yer favors,” he said, having the audacity to settle on the bed beside her. “So that’s an end to it. Ye’re a good girl and I will no’ touch ye. Nor do I have any desire to do so at the moment. I hope this does not disappoint ye.”

“Disappoint me?” She wanted to shove him out of her bed, but it really wasn’t hers, although she had planted herself in it and was not about to leave its comforting warmth. Besides, he was too big and muscled to push around. Not to mention he had the manners of a jungle cat and felt no remorse in claiming half the bed as his territory. “Oh, is that what you think? That I am some repressed, never-been-kissed, pathetic spinster yearning for a torrid night of passion with you?”

“Aren’t ye? Shall I kiss ye and find out?”