Wild Conquest. Hannah Howell

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      A sharp pang ripped through Pleasance. She could feel the blood drain from her cheeks and tried to calm herself before anyone noticed. Her sister’s preference should not have come as such a shock to her, yet it had. She did not want to believe that her sister could be so cruel. The Scotsman, as her family insisted on calling him, was wooing her.

      “The Scotsman?” bellowed Thomas. “That backwoods trash? He is not good enough for you. ’Tis bad enough that he is not of reputable English stock, but he is a common trapper besides.”

      “You let him court Pleasance,” argued Letitia, carefully arranging her thick blond curls to drape artfully over her right shoulder.

      “Pleasance is nearly a spinster. She cannot be as selective.”

      “How kind,” Pleasance muttered, hiding her sarcasm by quickly taking a sip of tea.

      “Well, you told me that I can be as selective as I want.” Letitia’s usually sweet voice had a distinctive edge. “And I have selected the Scotsman.” She turned to fix her steady gaze on Pleasance, her usually soft blue eyes hard and cold. “After all, if my dear sister finds the Scotsman entertaining, he cannot be so very bad a choice, can he?”

      “You might call this man you claim to want so badly by his name,” Pleasance said, praying that for once Letitia’s demand would not be granted.

      “Such a heathen name. I find it difficult to train my tongue to it.”

      “If you listened to the man say it, Letitia, you 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.

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