Page 30 of Lyon of Scotland
“Oh, she owes it. Ask her. My son is smitten, did you notice? He will not listen to reason. A Scottish girl will never do in our family, never. And you—bringing that whisky here to give our king! He should have English whisky. It should have been my father’s whisky in the king’s glass, but for the Scots.”
Resentment and prejudice had poisoned him, Dare was sure of it now. “You, a lawyer, know that drugging someone without consent or medical need is assault.”
“No one was harmed. You are hearty enough to have twice the amount. I may have given the girl too much. Slight thing. She will be fine.” He shrugged.
“Freddie, you dosed that girl?” his cousin demanded. “You said she had a habit!”
“I gave her a little. She went out like a babe in a cradle.”
Dare resisted a powerful urge to throttle him. “She could stop breathing. Or die.”
“True,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “I know something of medical matters.”
“One problem,” Dare said. “Neither I nor the girl have agreed to this.”
“You will see reason.” Dove handed him a page that lay on the desk. “Here. You will need this.”
Scanning the paper, Dare blinked. “Special license to marry? When was this prepared?”
“As soon as I met you and saw the solution, I had it drawn up. Just in case. Get before a vicar, then up to Scotland, and we can all be quit of this. And you will have yourself a pretty little bride, if you want to keep her.”
Oh aye, Dare thought, he wanted to leap up and throttle the man and then haul him into court on several charges. He folded the paper slowly, about to boil over.
He wanted a wife someday, but he had not given it much thought after the heartbreak of a few years ago. When he met Hannah Gordon in her father’s parlor, something shifted inside him, some lock and key turned in his heart and opened his capacity to hope and love again. But he had not acted on the pull he felt toward her. He should have courted her. Married her by now.
In a way, this situation was partly his doing—his innate reserve hardened to a fault, preventing happiness, his and hers now. He regretted ignoring the small voice inside him that had urged him to step beyond himself earlier.
“Well?” Dove said. “I have other things to do.”
Dare glared at him in silence. He did not want to acquiesce to these unconscionable demands. But he realized something that sent cold shivers through him.
If he did not marry her, Dove would put her in prison—or marry her off to anyone who would pay her debt and take her away from here. Or he could do worse than that.
Dare had promised Archibald Gordon to look after his daughter. He had gone far beyond that promise. A hasty marriage was needed, Frederic Dove or not.
And he could not walk out of here and leave her in Dove’s talons.
Still silent, he stood and tucked the folded license in the sporran suspended over his kilt. A knock sounded at the door and he looked up.
A bruiser of a man peered into the room. “Madam, a gentleman is at the door looking for Lord Strathburn. I do not know that name. This fellow calls himself Lockhart. Shall I send him away?”
“I am Strathburn,” Dare said. “Tell him to wait.” He turned to the others. “I am leaving and taking Miss Gordon with me.”
“Titan, ask Mr. Lockhart to wait,” the woman said. “Then go upstairs and bring the girl.”
“Madam,” Titan said, and left.
“You cannot leave without a promise,” Dove said.
Dare ignored him. “Madam, your vinaigrette, please. The lady may need it.”
She handed the vial to him. “If you are leaving with her, I require a guarantee.”
“So do I,” Dove growled.
Dare walked to the door, each step honing his decision. He turned. “I will pay the matchmaking fee,” he said. “You will have a bank draft drawn on Drummond’s, the Bank of Scotland here in London.” The president of Drummond’s was kin to him. He was inordinately pleased to see the Dove cousins blink at the shared name.
“Fine.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon nodded.
