The Sinful Scot (Saints & Scoundrels) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Content and Trigger Warning

  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

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover more Amara titles… About an Earl

  My Darling Duke

  How to Capture a Duke

  Scandal in Spades

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Maddison Fitzsimmons. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  10940 S Parker Rd

  Suite 327

  Parker, CO 80134

  [email protected]

  Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Stacy Abrams

  Cover design by Bree Archer

  Cover photography by Period Images

  robertiez and Mordolff/GettyImages

  ISBN 978-1-68281-478-9

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition January 2020

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.

  xoxo

  Liz Pelletier, Publisher

  To my husband, Darren.

  You are my inspiration,

  my strongest support,

  and the love of my life.

  To my daughter, Charlotte.

  You are the greatest gift

  I have ever been blessed with,

  and I love you more than anything!

  To my mum & sister.

  Your support means the world to me,

  and I love you both so much.

  Content and Trigger Warning

  The Sinful Scot features themes, imagery, and content that may be triggering for some readers. We’ve provided a list of content warnings below:

  Discussion of domestic violence, physical abuse, rape, and death appear within the novel. Scenes depicting anxiety, panic attacks, and graphic violence/death also appear.

  Chapter One

  May 1857, Castle Kilmaine

  The reflection staring back at Constance from the floor-to-ceiling mirror was perfect. So perfect that she felt like crying.

  Her pale blond hair was perfectly coiffured in a classic twist. Her diamond necklace was perfectly placed to highlight the delicate hollow of her throat. Her sapphire-blue ball gown was perfectly molded to her curves, the color of it perfectly matching her eyes.

  And though some might wonder at her choice of long sleeves, they perfectly hid the multitude of yellow and purple bruises marring her body.

  After all, her husband did insist she maintain the appearance of a perfect duchess for the ball they were about to host. And one couldn’t be considered perfect with bruises on display.

  God, she hated that word…perfect.

  For a moment, Connie felt like slashing away at the sleeves of her gown. Tearing it from shoulder to waist. Showing everyone that her husband, Duncan Campbell, the Duke of Kilmaine, was in fact a perfect monster. A monster who enjoyed using his fists on her, instead of any words of endearment.

  Her body clenched as the memories of the afternoon assailed her—of being curled up on the floor while Duncan’s boot slammed into her back and legs, over and over. The guttural sound of pleasure in each of his grunts as he kicked her, still sending a wave of sickness through her belly. And then when he’d grabbed her by her hair and yanked her to her feet, there was the cruel delight in his eyes that he never bothered to disguise.

  No. He thrilled in showing her how much enjoyment he took in inflicting pain upon her. But, this time, he’d had the restraint to leave her face alone, for it was rather difficult to pretend everything was fine if one’s wife had a bruised cheek or a swollen eye.

  Though for a second, she’d seen the contemplation in his gaze. Weighing up whether he could simply say she’d taken ill, as he’d done on previous occasions. But the sheer number of important society members attending, and the fact that Connie was nothing if not the perfect hostess, had obviously outweighed his desire to strike her again, at least anywhere visible. So he’d laid into her stomach and arms with his fists instead.

  Just enough to hurt her but not enough to debilitate her. And then he’d dragged her to the bed.

  Hot waves of tears began to burn like acid down her face. She swiped at them with her hands and squared back her shoulders. She couldn’t give in to any weakness. She feared what she might do if she did…

  Walking over to the window, she peered through a gap in the curtains. Already a line of carriages was positioned along the drive, one after the other, waiting to deliver their lofty occupants to the castle’s entrance stairs so they could partake in another of the Duke of Kilmaine’s famous balls.

  Duncan would be inside, playing the consummate host, with a gleaming smile on his handsome face as he effortlessly charmed all the guests. Fooling them, as he’d once fooled her. Caring little that he was holding the ball on the third anniversary of his first wife’s death.

  “Your grace?”

  Connie jumped a fraction, her head swiveling toward the bedroom door. Thankfully, it was her lady’s maid, whose kind eyes were lit with concern. An expression the girl frequently wore these days.

  “Yes, Sarah?”

  “Mrs. Morgan asked me to tell you that the duke is asking after you.” The girl cringed slightly. “He’s wondering when you will be downstairs to
assist in greeting the guests.”

  Yes. Duncan would be inwardly seething that she hadn’t made an appearance yet. And of course, he would be harassing the housekeeper to find out where she was. But there were only so many hours she could keep up the pretense. And with each event, it was getting harder and harder to do so.

  Sometimes she longed to flee, to run far, far away. But she couldn’t. Without funds at her disposal, and her family living in London, she was alone.

  Not that her mother would help, anyway. No, she’d made that perfectly clear on the last occasion Connie had seen her, when she’d finally confessed what Duncan had been doing. She still felt a pang of despair when she recalled the fury in her mother’s eyes when Connie had broached the subject of leaving Duncan. Her mother had made it very clear that it was Connie’s fault for vexing the duke in the first place, and if she dared create a scandal by leaving him, she would never be welcome home.

  Not that it really mattered. If Connie did try to flee again, Duncan probably would kill her this time.

  Initially, when she’d fled, nearly two years ago after he first beat her, he’d caught her and punished her to the point of near death. It had taken her months to recover from her supposed fall down the stairs.

  But at least, after that, Duncan had been more careful to not get so carried away. Not because he was worried about the police. No, as his wife, she was his chattel, to do with as he pleased. The reason Duncan took a little bit more care now was that he couldn’t risk losing the monthly dowry her inheritance gave him if she died.

  A small comfort, that.

  Not that she particularly minded the thought of death. Sometimes she even craved it, especially when he’d pick up her bruised and battered body, then carry her to the bed. The hot stench of his breath as he lay on top of her and pushed himself inside her, thrusting in and out, while she was helpless to do anything but close her eyes and pretend she was anywhere else.

  Yes. On those occasions, she often welcomed death. Then there would be no more pain. No more hurt. No more fear.

  “Are you all right, your grace?” Sarah asked, venturing into the room and walking over to her.

  Connie closed her eyes tightly and tried to focus on breathing in and out. In and out. Just one breath at a time. “I shall be fine, Sarah.” She slowly walked back over to the mirror and checked her appearance once again.

  As her mother had harshly reminded her on the one and only time the woman had visited her in Scotland, it was Connie’s duty to make the best of things, as much as she might long for the sweet bliss of nothingness.

  Perhaps that’s what Duncan’s first wife had felt? Why she’d chosen to leap from the castle’s rooftop instead of enduring more of his punishments. But in doing so, the woman had left her little daughter, Amelie, alone with this monster.

  Something Connie refused to do.

  No six-year-old deserved to be under the same roof as such a man, subjected to his temper and fits of rage, even if he was her father. And since Connie’s arrival at Castle Kilmaine, she’d grown to love the girl. She would do anything to protect her from Duncan’s fists.

  Even if that meant ensuring his anger was redirected upon herself instead. At least she was strong enough to withstand the physical beatings. She had to be. How else would she survive and protect Amelie?

  Her reflection seemed to mock her. There was nothing strong about the image staring back. Her eyes looked haunted and, combined with the pale porcelain of her skin and almost ethereal looks and delicate figure, she projected an air of fragility.

  An image she’d once carefully cultivated, earning her the nickname “the divine angel” when she’d had her coming out. An image that used to disguise the strong and determined young woman she’d once been. But it was an image she feared was becoming all too real.

  An image she now loathed—but Duncan adored.

  “Please tell Mrs. Morgan to ensure the duke is informed I shall be down shortly.”

  Sarah curtsied. “Yes, your grace.”

  The girl turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

  Your grace. How Connie had always longed to be called that.

  And she’d pursued her goal relentlessly, refusing to accept anything less than a duke, believing that her life would be perfect when she became a duchess.

  And in a way, it was perfect. A real dream come true—but never the way she’d intended. And the joke was on her, for wanting a duke above anyone else.

  She glanced at her reflection and suddenly started laughing. The sound echoing across her bedchamber sounded manic and hysterical, even to her own ears. And then she collapsed onto the floor, buried among her petticoats and crinoline, sobbing as she’d never allowed herself to do before.

  Sobbing until there were no tears left.

  Chapter Two

  The sounds of the orchestra striking up a Scottish reel should have brought a smile to any self-respecting Scotsman’s face, but all it did for Alec McGuiness was give him a headache.

  The Duke of Kilmaine’s ball had only just commenced, which meant he was supposed to endure at least another four hours of dancing, music, and gossiping members of the Scottish nobility. Good Lord, he’d go mad if he had to deal with this lot of fools for that long.

  As soon as he found the Duchess of Kilmaine—he still had to remind himself to call her that, having known her as Lady Connie for so long—he’d leave.

  But the lady herself had yet to appear, though he was sure it wouldn’t be long before she did. After all, Connie had always loved to make a grand entrance, and he didn’t imagine she’d changed much in the two years since she’d married her duke. In fact, she’d probably become more intolerable, now that she was a duchess.

  A shame, really, as he could still remember the sweet young lady she had been, before she’d made her society debut, and changed.

  Honestly, if Sophie hadn’t asked him to check up on her best friend, Alec would have happily declined the invitation to attend. But at least doing so gave him a respite from his own family, while allowing him to carry out Sophie’s request.

  He never understood how Sophie and Connie had stayed such good friends over the years. The two women had become as different as night and day. Where Sophie was kind and cared more about others than herself, Alec’s more recent memories of Connie were of a woman self-obsessed with her looks and dogged in her determination to marry a duke.

  Well, the lady had certainly achieved that goal.

  Snagging herself a wealthy duke, at that, if the multitude of servants, the gas-lit chandeliers, and the opulence of the gold brocade furnishings positioned around the ballroom were any indication.

  He took a sip of water from his champagne flute, earning him another dark frown from the servant who had delivered him the drink; after all, apparently every self-respecting Scotsman drank whiskey, not water. At least that’s what he’d been told daily since he’d arrived in the Highlands a fortnight ago. None of them could understand why he refused to drink alcohol, though they blamed his unusual behavior on the fact that even though he was Scottish, he was half English, too.

  But the truth was, he wouldn’t risk anyone’s life by being unable to perform his duties. Not ever again.

  “Doctor McGuiness,” a deep voice bellowed to his left.

  Alec glanced over to see the Duke of Kilmaine’s brother, Lord Fergus, striding toward him. The man reminded him of an ox, bullish in both appearance and manners, but at least he was direct, unlike the man’s brother, to whom Alec had been introduced earlier. There had been something about the duke Alec had disliked almost instantly. A cruelness and calculation in his eyes, which the man had tried to mask with charm. Alec had seen the same expression many times before in men who enjoyed abusing their power, especially upon those weaker than themselves.

  “Lord Fergus,” he acknowledged, taking the man’s
proffered hand in his own and shaking it.

  “I’m pleased to finally meet the youngest son of the Earl of Caldwell,” Fergus said, tightening his grasp markedly. “Tell me, how is Clan McGuiness?”

  “Fine,” Alec replied, matching the man’s grip with his own stronger one. Fergus winced in reply, and Alec suppressed a smile. He’d never been able to understand what it was about him that inspired such displays. Certainly, his six-foot two-inch frame was often taller and broader than others, and he kept himself fit through boxing and fencing, but compared to his own brother, Iain, who had another three inches on him, Alec was the small one in his family.

  “Good to hear. Though the duke and I were disappointed your father couldn’t come,” Fergus continued until Alec released his hand. “But considering his rumored ill health, it was to be expected.”

  “The only thing ill about my father is the headache he wakes with every morning after his previous evening’s whiskey consumption.” Alec had temporarily put aside the animosity he held toward his brother after receiving a telegraph that his father was at death’s door. However, upon his arrival in Scotland, it had soon become apparent that, though his father was frailer than when Alec had last seen him ten years ago, he certainly wasn’t anywhere close to death. Far from it.

  Clearly, the old man had used his health as a ruse in an attempt, Alec assumed, to try to have his two sons mend the rift between them. And though Iain and he had come to a temporary truce, if that’s what basically ignoring each other entailed, his father’s wish was a long way off.

  Notwithstanding that Alec was the reasonable one in the family, he still had a healthy dash of the McGuiness stubbornness coursing through his veins, which meant he didn’t forget—or forgive—easily.

  “Ah, a whiskey headache. Something I am all too familiar with,” Fergus replied. “But I noticed you are not drinking?” His eyes stared fixedly down at Alec’s glass of water, a slight cloud of confusion in their depths.

  “I’m afraid my profession requires I keep my wits about me at all times.”

  Lord Fergus pursed his lips. “Oh, indeed… Though our physician still manages to enjoy a glass or two. Or more. But I suppose you didn’t really grow up in Scotland, with the Scottish ways, did you?”