Wild Conquest. Hannah Howell

might find it easier. It is ‘Tear’—as in rip—and ‘lach’—as in lack, or something wanting—then ‘O’Doone.’ Tearlach O’Duine. Simple enough, although I am sure I do not say it as correctly as he does. Tearlach is but the Gaelic word for Charles.”

      “Then why not say ‘Charles’?” snapped Letitia.

      “Because he is not an Englishman?” Pleasance replied sarcastically. Absently tucking a stray lock of hair back in place, she caught herself wishing her chestnut hair was the same much admired gold as Letitia’s, and silently cursed.

      “Do not speak so pertly to your sister,” scolded Thomas, before turning to his youngest daughter. “Letitia, the Scotsman is rough, probably unschooled, and, as I have said, he is no more than a fur trader. They are a restless, undependable breed of men.”

      “I do not care. I cannot dictate to my heart, Papa. It aches for Master O’Duine. I tried to summon up some feeling for John Martin to please you, but I cannot help myself.” Letitia’s full bottom lip trembled, and she dabbed at her eyes with her fine monogrammed linen napkin. “For Pleasance’s sake, I also tried to direct my affections elsewhere, but it was impossible. I fear I am sick with love for Master O’Duine.”

      Pleasance felt close to gagging as Letitia tugged fretfully at one of her fat blond curls and put on her most forlorn expression, tears brimming artfully in her big eyes. It was a well-used ploy and it had never failed, and Pleasance felt a deep, almost irresistible urge to scream. She could see the beginnings of acquiescence on her parents’ round faces. Letitia was the jewel in the Dunstan family crown. Whatever she wanted, she got.

      Pleasance wished her younger brother, Nathan, was here, for he had always supported her. But she was on her own. For once, she decided, she would fight for what she wanted. Tearlach O’Duine was worth the effort.

      “I fear you are too late in making your desire known, Letitia,” she said. “Master O’Duine has chosen me.”

      “Has he offered you marriage?” asked Sarah Cordell Dunstan, primly patting her mouth with a napkin as she watched Pleasance closely.

      “Well, nay, not as yet, but he courts me assiduously.”

      “But does not ask for your hand. It would appear, then, that he has not made his choice.” Sarah turned to Letitia on her left and patted her attractively plump hand. “Pleasance will step aside, dear, and you may have the Scotsman.”

      “You make him sound like some bundle of pelts being tossed back and forth,” Pleasance said.

      “Do not be so crude, Pleasance,” scolded Sarah, frowning. “The man is Letitia’s choice.”

      “How nice. Mayhaps she is not his choice.” Pleasance could see from everyone’s expressions that they found that idea absurd. “He did come courting me, with barely a glance toward Letitia.”

      “He undoubtedly felt that Letitia was far above his touch.”

      Pleasance wondered how her mother could be so casually cruel. “I simply cannot tell the man to go away and start courting my sister.”

      “What you can and will do is turn aside his attentions.”

      “But that would be unkind and a lie of sorts, for I do not really wish to do it.”

      Sarah Dunstan regarded Pleasance with cool disdain. “You would rather break your sister’s heart and defy your own parents than bruise the vanity of this Scotsman? Or is it your own vanity which persuades you to be so disobedient?”

      Her mother’s anger sent a chill down Pleasance’s spine, but she stiffened and pressed on. “But you just said that the man is too common for Letitia. She would be marrying beneath her.” Such words tasted bitter in her mouth, but Pleasance knew that her family considered such differences important.

      “Of course he is beneath her, but we must abide by our promise.”

      “And I believe that the man has some potential,” Letitia added. “Why, using a little education, I am certain I can make him more presentable.”

      “John Martin is already very presentable,” Pleasance argued.

      “I want the Scotsman.”

      “He lives in the wilderness, or did you forget that?”

      “Nay, I did not forget. I am sure I can convince him to remain here and give up that wild land he owns.”

      “But—”

      “Enough!” Sarah snapped. “You are becoming tedious, Pleasance. The matter is settled. You shall turn Master O’Duine away.”

      For a long moment Pleasance considered arguing further, but the rigid expressions on her parents’ faces told her that their minds were firmly set. Anything she said now would be treated as gross impertinence or unkindness toward Letitia. Both were considered great sins by her parents. Pleasance knew that continuing to argue would only result in them locking her in the attic for impudence, and she dreaded that. Even as part of her cursed her own weakness and scorned her deep need to please her stern mother and father, Pleasance resigned herself to losing the one man who had shown a real interest in her.

      She tried not to think that she might be giving up her only chance at marriage…and happiness.

      Pleasance sat on the hard marble bench in her mother’s tidy garden, the scent of roses heavy in the air, and watched Tearlach O’Duine approach. He wore the same courting clothes he had worn for the last two weeks. He always looked and smelled clean, but he must be low on funds or he would have had at least one other set of clothes.

      She twisted her lace handkerchief in her hands and tried to match his smile of greeting. She was perspiring and knew it was not from the heat of the late July afternoon. It had been four hours since her parents had ordered her to set Master Tearlach O’Duine aside, and she had spent every minute trying to think of a way to please both her family and herself. There did not seem to be one.

      Tall, lean, and dark, Tearlach O’Duine was a fine figure of a man. His snug black breeches and hose revealed long, smoothly muscled, and well-shaped legs. His black coat and silver-and-black waistcoat fit tightly over broad shoulders and a flat stomach. She liked the way the white lace at his cuffs and throat enhanced his sun-bronzed complexion. But when he stopped before her, lifted her hand to his lips; and brushed a kiss over her knuckles, she was torn between wanting to weep and the urge to run away. As she met his smoky gray eyes, she wondered how she could bear to reject him for herself, let alone send him into Letitia’s arms.

      “Please sit down, Master O’Duine,” she said, and indicated a place on the bench beside her.

      “Master O’Duine?” he murmured as he seated himself. “You called me Tearlach but yestereve.”

      “In a moment of ill-advised forwardness. ’Tis hardly proper of me to address you with such indecent familiarity.”

      “I had hopes that ye would be addressing me with far more familiarity soon.” He took her small hand in his and frowned when she tensed. “Mayhaps I go too quickly for ye. I have had little experience at courting a weel-bred lassie.”

      “You do it with great charm and skill. I have no complaint at all.” Pleasance inwardly grimaced, for she knew she sounded as haughty and disdainful as her mother, but it was the only way she knew how to mouth the words her family was forcing her to say.

      “Nay? Then why have ye become so cool and distant?”

      Tearlach watched her look away, then shade her blue-green eyes from his inspection with partially lowered lids, her long dark lashes a perfect shield. Every instinct he had honed as a trapper was now telling him that something was very wrong. This was not the shy yet warm Pleasance he had first been attracted to. She was nervous, tense, even secretive. There was a cool, haughty tone to her voice that irritated him. Something had changed her, and in a way that he felt could only work against him. In fact, he was getting the alarming impression that he was about