A Rake Like No Other (Regency Rendezvous Book 12) Read online

  Table of Contents

  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

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  Regency Rendezvous

  A Scarsdale Publishing Perfection Imprint

  Copyright 2017 by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  www.welfonder.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior permission of the Author/Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  Cover Design R. Jackson Designs

  Images: Period Images

  www.scarsdalepublishing.com

  SP

  Love is the greatest magic…

  When Highland laird Lucian MacRae of Lyongate Hall leaves his home in northern Scotland to tend business in London, he never expects to meet the one woman who cannot just steal his heart, but might also help him break a centuries-old family curse.

  Lady Melissa Tandy is not popular with English gentry – as a half-Scottish lass and a rebellious miss, at that – her wild ways and daring set her apart. Now someone is also trying to kill her. So when a dashing Highland lord insists on rescuing her, she has little reason not to run away with him to the Highlands, and every reason to fall in love.

  Dedication

  For everyone who has ever rescued an animal. God bless you.

  A Personal Note to Readers…

  Please note this is a work of fiction and not meant to reflect cold, hard reality. The following pages contain elements of fantasy such as myth and legend, curses, magic, ghosts, etc. A suspension of belief is therefore required. As this is a romance novel, there is also explicit sex. As a romance novel written by me, it does not contain the F-word or other profanity. It does include men in kilts, a mysterious old woman who wears red plaid shoelaces, and a few places in England and Scotland that are near and dear to my heart. Some of those places are written as enchanted, locations where unusual things can happen. That’s because I perceive them so. Above all, this story is filled with love for Scotland, England, the past, and animals, too. The real world won’t be found in this book’s pages, only a reflection of how I wish the world could be. I hope you’ll enjoy spending time there.

  Wishing you Highland magic,

  Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  (aka Allie Mackay)

  “Many men have ancient longings, a bold man lives them.” ~ Angus Lucian Duncan Forbes MacRae, the Black Lyon and Laird of Lyongate Hall

  The Curse of Lyongate Hall

  In a land steeped in legend and lore, few souls would doubt the existence of curses. How could they when stones were known to weep, banshees mourned the dead, green and even pink ladies floated along castle corridors, phantom pipers strolled ancient battlefields, and almost every river and loch was said to have its own scaly serpent swimming deep below the wind-rippled surface? The evil eye was also known and dreaded, as were many other dangers believed to lurk everywhere.

  Indeed, many would say Scotland was famous for suchlike.

  Some even boast the fact.

  Those whose actually touched by these things, well, they often found little joy in the tales.

  They knew the truth.

  The MacRaes of Lyongate Hall in northern Scotland were such folk, their clan’s fortune decided not by the goodness of their souls or even their hard work and ambition, but by the whim of a centuries-old curse the family referred to as ‘the situation.’

  They did so because the matter wasn’t exactly harmful, however much they wished to rid themselves of its influence. But after so many centuries, they knew that doing so was impossible.

  That, too, was so typically Scottish.

  To stoically endure what they couldn’t change or end…

  It began back in the mists of time when the first MacRae laird chose to build his stronghold on a rugged cliff overlooking the North Sea. The undertaking cost him years and much coin, and by the time he finished, he was so depleted that he could not decide what to call his new home.

  Weary and frustrated, he settled on Amdone, finding the name appropriate if not grand.

  But if the name didn’t impress, the castle did. Claiming the highest point of a long line of sheer, towering cliffs, Amdone stood like a proud sentinel guarding both the restless sea and the darkly brooding moors. Huge, forested mountains also loomed near and it was there that the situation started.

  Leastways, the lion that one day appeared at the castle gate was thought to have come from the surrounding woods. And with the poor beast’s arrival, the clan was faced with a terrible decision for all knew lions didn’t generally roam the Scottish countryside.

  They were, however, sometimes kept at royal castles and palaces, caged and displayed to entertain the court.

  A practice that didn’t sit well with the first MacRae laird of Amdone.

  As a lover of dogs, cats, horses, and just about every other creature he knew, the MacRae took one look at the scraggly, half-starved and nettle-ridden lion and knew he would not return the beast. To do so would damn the lion to the life he’d surely struggled so valiantly to escape.

  His decision made, the MacRae used his last coin to purchase passage for the lion on a foreign ship sailing to the distant lands from whence the kingly creature hailed. A great sum also bought the crew’s silence. Several trusted MacRae guardsmen went along to make certain all went well. These men eventually returned to Amdone with the joyous news that the lion – now known as Conley – once again dwelled in the place he belonged, and was hale, happy, and clearly grateful.

  The MacRae was most pleased.

  Especially when, a short time after the homecoming of his men, it was noticed that an outcropping of rock at the Amdone gate had mysteriously taken on the proud face of a lion.

  An omen if ever there was one.

  Sure enough, from that day onward, the clan’s fortune improved. Year by year, their wealth and standing increased, as did their blessings.

  The MacRae laird – his name was Renton, should anyone ask – knew Conley the lion was responsible. In thanks, and with a nod to the stone lion face, he changed the castle name, making it Lyongate Hall.

  If legend is to be believed, Renton MacRae lived a long and fruitful life, passing peaceably in his sleep at a ripe old age much marveled at by many.

  But men will be men, and the vast wealth he’d amassed eventually came to instill a sense of ease in the hearts of his descendants.

  Not all, to be sure.

  But every century or so, a not so stouthearted laird or heir came along, falling prey to a variety of vices and bringing ill upon the clan.

  And so the family’s wealth ebbed and flowed like the swift North Sea tides. Now a
nd then, drink or gambling cost lives. Over time, even Lyongate Hall’s high stone walls began to suffer.

  Whenever that happened, before the castle found itself empty and abandoned, the shadow of a large cat would be seen at the gate, lurking about the stone lion face.

  Then the situation would improve. But only if the current MacRaes recognized the warning and acted to avert disaster.

  And so the curse was recalled when, many centuries after Renton’s day, another MacRae laird abused his privilege, bringing Lyongate Hall to near ruin.

  The heir left to sort matters wasn’t happy. But he was a good Highlander and he loved his home fiercely. So much, in fact, that he would do anything to save it. Uprooting mountains, if need be. Or, worse, venturing into the sulfurous flames of hell itself – a place most people called London.

  He had no intention of staying there long. Worse things than family curses were known to visit Highlanders who ventured south into the land of Scotland’s old enemies.

  But he would tend to family business.

  He’d do his duty.

  His name was Angus Lucian Duncan Forbes MacRae.

  Chapter One

  The curse returns

  Lyongate Hall

  Northern Scotland, early autumn 1822

  Lucian MacRae stood before his bedchamber window, his entire world crashing around him as he stared out at the night-blackened vastness of the North Sea and the equally dark heavens. He could have stayed there forever, and would gladly do so, but that wasn’t possible. Not now, or ever.

  Nor was he alone…

  “Tell me again, Budge. I would hear it all, every grim word,” he said, speaking to the house steward behind him. The man who’d interrupted his sleep with such horrid news.

  His father’s shocking end, then the damning discovery that his uncle, long thought to have been living a happy life in ever-hot and sunny Jamaica, was also dead.

  Buried in Lyongate’s stableyard, a dirk between his ribs.

  Lucian pulled a hand down over his chin, breathed deep of the night’s cold, briny air. “You are certain there’s no mistake?”

  “Aye, sir. ‘Tis just as I told ye.” Budge’s voice, known to Lucian since childhood, echoed in the large room.

  How odd that, to Lucian’s ears, the old man sounded as if he spoke from a place more distant than the moon.

  “I still cannae believe it.”

  “Aye, they’re both dead enough,” Budge confirmed. “Your father breathing his last in his carriage, still down in the gorge, as it was when found. Men are bringing him home now. They’ll haul up the carriage in the morning, by daylight. I’ve had others ride off for the sheriff, and your doctor.”

  Budge hesitated, noisily clearing his throat. “Your uncle…”

  “He’s been recovered?” Lucian’s gut tightened, bile rising in his throat. “Where is he now?”

  “The men laid him out in the stable. Some of the women are seeing to him, then…”

  He’ll be brought into Lyongate’s chapel, properly mourned and put to rest.

  The unspoken truth hung between them as Lucian stood like stone before the window to the sea. Behind him, the sound of Budge shuffling his feet seemed louder than the pounding of the waves on the rocks below.

  “The lassies will need a while,” Budge said. “He wasn’t in a good way. They’re facing grim work. Nae task for…”

  Lucian kept his gaze on the sea. He wasn’t surprised when the aged steward couldn’t finish.

  He also knew why Budge hovered on the threshold rather than coming into his bedchamber.

  The room was no longer just Lucian’s. Thanks to one villainous act and the crash of a carriage, his bedchamber was now the privy sleeping quarters of the new Black Lyon and Laird of Lyongate Hall, and as such…

  Tainted.

  Perhaps not so vile as the more lordly, top-most tower chamber where his father slept, or had. But he’d be damned if he would ever set foot there again. Nor would anyone else beneath his roof. That would be his first edict as the new Black Lyon.

  If his mood worsened over the coming days, he might even order the room burned.

  At the least, he should have it emptied and scrubbed. Or perhaps he’d simply lock the door, leaving the detritus of a twisted heart to the ravages of dust, grime, and time.

  In truth, he didn’t know what to do.

  He did know he was appalled.

  His head throbbed just thinking of his poor uncle’s end. Did he even know? Was he dirked in his sleep?

  Lucian prayed to the heavens that was so. He also wished he could spare his already beleaguered people the terrible days before them, a nightmare period sure to be filled with endless questions, intrusive probings, whispers and gossip, and – of course – seeing his father laid to rest, whatever his sins.

  Stepping closer to the window, he stared out at the wind-tossed waves, feeling colder, more numb, than ever in his life. He also hoped that his new title and Lyongate Hall, along with his black hair and blue eyes, and his fierce love of the land, would prove all that he’d inherited from the man he thought he’d known so well, the father he’d admired so much.

  The man he’d loved and trusted, believing in his honor for the entirety of his days.

  Now…

  He shuddered, disbelief washing over him, horror coiling inside him. How he wished he could wake up again, this time discovering not Budge knocking on his door, but that he’d only had a dreadful dream.

  Sadly, he knew better.

  ~*~

  Lucian stood straighter, searched deep for the strength that ran in the blood of all MacRaes. Much as he’d prefer to shrug off the family curse, he couldn’t.

  It was real, he knew.

  He’d just always hoped it would fade away. Now it appeared to have returned.

  Was this the payment for the transgressions of his ancestors? Punishment for his father’s villainy?

  Both?

  All these questions burdened him, so he flattened his hands on the broad stone ledge of the tall, arch-topped window and again inhaled deeply, grateful for the night’s cold. The brisk air helped chase the last dredges of sleep from his mind and the gods knew he needed a clear head to think… to plan… to wrest some sense of normalcy back into a world gone so bad, so dark and utterly mad.

  “What of the woman? The one who came here some years ago, all agitated?” He turned at last to face the steward, dread already chilling his marrow. “What was her name?”

  “Eh?” Budge angled his head, a crease appearing in his brow. “A fashed lassie?”

  “Aye. She showed up not long after Uncle Alastair left us.” Lucian frowned, trying to recall what the Aberdonian actress had called herself. “Scarlett? Serena? Something with an ‘S.’”

  For a long moment, the room went silent, even the wind and the sea quieting.

  Budge’s brows drew together, the furrow on his forehead deepening. “I be thinking. It’ll come back to me.”

  “She claimed my uncle was her lover and that he’d been murdered,” Lucian reminded him.

  “Oh, aye.” Budge nodded.

  “As proof, she cited the cessation of his visits, the breaking of a promise to take her to London, to start a new life there.”

  Budge pulled a breath in through his teeth. “That was the way of it, true enough.”

  “So it was.” Lucian remembered…

  His father had seen the woman shunted off Lyongate lands, telling her that his brother, the then-laird, had fled Scotland. He’d absconded to the Caribbean, choosing to live there, in the lush heat of tropical climes, rather than remain in the rugged wilds of the northern Highlands, watching Lyongate crumble around his ears. He’d had enough of freezing every winter, and walking around wet through the rain-drenched, mist-hung summers.

  The sad truth was, Uncle Alastair hadn’t known much joy as laird.

  His father, Lucian’s grandfather, had loved Lyongate as much as any MacRae laird, but he’d also had a weakness
for women and whisky. So much so that he’d slid into a spiral of vices, including visits to gaming houses. His years as the Black Lyon of Lyongate plunged the estate into towering debt.

  Uncle Alastair, upon assuming lairdship, spent his days bent double trying to repay his father’s loans. So no one wondered when he disappeared, leaving only a letter behind, saying he saw a new life as his only escape.

  He truly had despised Scotland’s cold, wet climate. The mist and rocks and long, dark winter nights. He yearned for sun and warmth, and above all, no cares.

  Now…

  Lucian clenched his fists, frowned at the wind racing past the windows. Obviously, Uncle Alastair never made it to Jamaica.

  Had the actress made it back to Aberdeen?

  Lucian feared she hadn’t, the dreadful suspicion icing his innards.

  “Budge…” Dear gods, was that ragged sound his voice? “If you cannae recall the actress’s name, what do you remember of her?”

  “She was flame-haired and high tempered.” Budge lifted a hand to scratch his bristly cheek. “That I know. She almost knocked me down when I opened the door. She stormed into the hall yelling like a banshee.”

  “Aye.” Lucian nodded, remembering.

  “Sally. That’s what she called herself.” Budge took a few steps into the room. When he halted, he bobbed his head. “That be her name. I have it now. She sang at the Shipman’s Dove, down by the Aberdeen docks.”

  “Aye.” Lucian agreed, her face coming back to him. No longer the youngest, she’d had a few lines at her eyes and her full, round breasts were beginning to sag. But she’d still been beautiful. She’d had an air about her, the cheery, laughing-eyed charm of women who entertained in taverns and two-bit theaters.

  But she hadn’t smiled when she’d come to Lyongate.