A Scandalous Scot Read Free Page A

pressed down on his head, ruffling his hair. A voice called him laddie, an appellation he hadn’t heard since his boyhood.
    He knew why this homecoming was more difficult than any other. This was the first time he’d been home since his father’s death, and he did so in disgrace.
    His father had imbued in him three things: an intense love of his country, a sense of his own purpose, and the desire to live an honorable life.
    How many times had he been told people would be watching him because he’d be the Earl of Denbleigh? People would be matching their behavior to his. He’d be an example to those who depended on the MacCraigs. All Scotland, and perhaps the world, would see him as the embodiment of what they’d become: no longer the Murderous MacCraigs, but honorable men.
    Morgan was the fulcrum on which his family’s reputation balanced.
    Yet he’d willingly destroyed everything with a few strokes of a pen.
    What would his father have said? He might have remarked: You could do nothing less, son. But he doubted it. His imagination furnished his father standing before him, his voice a deep baritone, the frown on his face leaving no doubt of his feelings.
    In the hundreds of years since the first MacCraig planted his sword in the ground and claimed this land, no one has shamed the family to the degree you’ve managed .
    The 8th Earl of Denbleigh, however, was dead. In his place was Morgan, 9th earl and disgrace of the family.
    “Good God, Morgan. Is that Ballindair?”
    He turned his head to see Andrew’s gaze intent on the approach to his home.
    The castle stood in the middle of four hundred fifty acres of woodland and farmland and was constructed of beige stone that, in certain light, appeared white. Built in an H configuration, Ballindair had a large rectangular main structure flanked by two smaller wings, each ending in a large tower whose tops looked like upside down funnels, painted black.
    Two laigh biggins —low buildings—sat behind the castle and contained workrooms and stables. In addition to formal gardens, a walled terrace led down to the River Tullie, before it descended past Strath Dalross and the MacCraig Forest to join the River Spey.
    Once he arrived, the flag of the MacCraigs would fly on the right front tower—the Laird’s Tower—to indicate he was in residence. A conceit his father had picked up from the Queen.
    “You told me about the castle, of course,” Andrew was saying, “but I’d no idea the thing was so bloody huge. And damn impressive.”
    “It’s home,” he said, hoping to cut off his friend’s rhapsodic comments.
    Along the approach to Ballindair, he could envision a line of his ancestors, all MacCraig lairds, feet braced apart and planted in the earth, cudgels at the ready, facing him in censure.
    Damn it all.
    “It’s magnificent,” Andrew was saying. “When was it built?”
    “Fourteenth century, thereabouts.”
    The first stones had been laid in the Year of Our Lord, thirteen hundred twenty-six. As the only surviving child of the earl, he’d been required to memorize every fact about Ballindair.
    Andrew sent him a sideways look. “It isn’t easy for you, is it?”
    “Coming home?” He forced a smile to his face. “It’s just a place.”
    Not just a place. Ballindair was the scene of his family’s honor, where their history began, and the citadel of their pride. Coming home was the single most difficult experience of his life to date, and given everything he’d endured in the last two years, that was an admission.
    But one he’d never make to another living soul.

Chapter 2
RULES FOR STAFF: When being addressed, do not look away, but keep your attention on the person speaking.
    J ean blinked until her eyes cleared, staring at the slatted back of the bureau. The French Nun hadn’t come. Instead, she’d fallen asleep propped against the wall in the earl’s bedchamber.
    Oh, dear God. No. Dear God, no.
    She slid on her shoes, tied them, then stood, walking