A Scandalous Scot Read Free

demand your attention. Summon it. Pull your eyes to the mountain’s summit, make you gasp at the sight of the lochs.”
    “Spoken like a true Scotsman, for all you’ve been an expatriate for the last five years.”
    Andrew’s comment might have been correct, but he didn’t have to like it. Morgan turned away, his attention on the view.
    His heartbeat quickened at the sight of the hills in front of him. An Englishman would call them mountains, but a Scot knew they were only nubs, nothing like Ben Nevis or Ben Macdui and the rest of the Grampians.
    “You didn’t answer,” Andrew said. “What are you going to do with yourself now?”
    “That’s the question, isn’t it?”
    For most of his adult life, he’d done his duty to the family at the distilleries bearing his name. He’d acted in every capacity, working his way up through the ranks until he understood everything about making whiskey. Not for him the indolent occupations of his friends.
    Five years ago that had changed. He’d become the 9th Earl of Denbleigh, with all the duties attendant to the position. At first he was woefully inept at the job, but he’d learned quickly.
    Now, scandal hung onto his coattails with tenacious fingers.
    He couldn’t go back to politics. He was unwelcome both in London and Edinburgh. He couldn’t even go back to work at the distilleries. He’d handpicked and approved every single one of his managers. Dismissing one simply because he was bored and needed purpose hardly seemed proper.
    What the hell was he going to do with the rest of his life?
    “Then tell me why Ballindair, at least,” Andrew said.
    “It’s far enough away that they won’t gossip about me. If they do, I don’t have to hear it.”
    Andrew’s mouth quirked in a half smile.
    “Gossip has always followed you, Morgan. You’re cryptic, which only makes people curious. The more curious people are, the more they speculate among themselves.”
    “I’ve never found it necessary to concern myself with the actions of my fellow man,” he said.
    Andrew’s smile broadened. “That’s because you’re also an independent bastard. You really don’t care about other people.”
    Since the Countess of Denbleigh had screamed that same accusation at him numerous times, Morgan turned and studied the Scottish morning.
    Instead of the broom and rocks, he saw the face of his wife. A beauty, a magnificent porcelain goddess come to life, and as cold as a statue. Except, of course, to any man but him. He pushed away thoughts of Lillian. She didn’t deserve any of his attention, especially now.
    The noise of the carriage wheels on the macadam road was a constant, comforting sound. The whistling cry of a curlew made him smile, reminding him of days he’d spent walking through the moor.
    Ahead lay the MacCraig Bog. As a boy, he’d been fascinated by tales of his ancestors, the Murderous MacCraigs, who lured their enemies into the bog and watched, gleefully, as they were trapped. His family wasn’t a hardy group but they’d been bloodthirsty.
    They were no longer thought of as the Murderous MacCraigs, but as a family who worked to protect and defend Scotland and on whom great honor had been bestowed.
    His father had been a representative peer and Keeper of the Great Seal of Scotland on three occasions. Thomas MacCraig had been invested as a Fellow in the Royal Society, praised for his mathematical genius, and sought after for his cogent advice.
    A damn hard individual to emulate.
    Even as a father he had been perfect. Thomas made time for him, took him fishing and boating on the Spey. They’d climbed the hills around Ballindair, and at the peak sat and viewed the scene before them. Sometimes they’d eaten their lunch as the carpet of broom colored their world yellow.
    His breath caught as he remembered the smell of peat, the melody of burred voices and rolling laughter. He recalled the cold, the bite of it against his skin and his teeth as he grinned. A large warm hand