Waiting for a Scot Like You (Union of the Rakes #3) - Eva Leigh Page 0,1

“Why don’t you loosen your laces? We’re all going to die someday, so you might have a bit of fun. For once.”

Duncan’s spine firmed, and his hands balled into fists. He wanted nothing more than to drive his knuckles into Curtis’s smug face—but he couldn’t. That’s what got him here in the first place. A boy had accused Duncan of cheating at a footrace, and in the next moment, the boy lay on the ground, blood streaming from his nose. That same blood had smeared across Duncan’s fist, and only then had he realized he’d punched his accuser.

He had to keep himself under control. Hitting one boy was a mistake, but if he hit another, he’d veer dangerously into anarchy.

Dignitas, Honestas, Pietas.

“Stuff it,” Duncan growled instead.

When Curtis groaned in disappointment, Duncan shouldered past Rowe and Clair, then threw himself into his seat. He crossed his arms over his chest and fought the impulse to sulk. Sulking was for babbies, and he was no babby. Hell, he was fourteen years old, and in just a few more years, he’d have a commission and would be an officer in His Majesty’s Army. That was his plan, and he always adhered to his plans.

Returning to his essay, he’d known from his earliest memories of arranging his lead soldiers into orderly columns on the floor of the nursery. He’d been praised by his parents and tutors for his exceptional ability to follow instructions—never late for tea, always putting his toys away in precisely the right place, completing his schoolwork on time—which meant that he would be an outstanding soldier and an honor to his family’s august name.

Yet these boys—Rowe, Curtis, Clair—sneered at such control and discipline. They seemed to think it less a guiding principle and more of an obstacle.

“I-it’s all right, McCameron,” Holloway stammered from his seat. “No harm in doing the right thing.” He smiled shyly.

Duncan said nothing, but—was Curtis right? What if his whole life slipped by and all he could remember was toeing the line? Or, like Holloway said, was it better to follow the rules and cause no harm?

Damn it, he didn’t know, and he hated not knowing.

If only this interminable day would be over so he could leave these boys behind and get on with his orderly, regimented existence. Then everything would be fine.

Chapter 1

London, 1817

Summer in London lay heavy on the city streets, the heat stifling and the atmosphere still and thick. As Duncan walked through Mayfair, the urge to remove his hat and loosen the pleats of his neckcloth tugged on him. But nearly two decades as an officer in the Queen’s Own Cameron Highlanders had drilled into him the necessity of maintaining a neat, orderly appearance. Even now, in peacetime, he couldn’t let go of almost two decades of training and discipline.

As he made his way toward his destination, he noted laborers working on the front of a house. He envied the men their ability to shuck their jackets and roll up their sleeves.

He envied them for more than their sartorial choices, too. They had work to accomplish, a purpose that got them out of bed each day and ensured they slept well every night.

Duncan couldn’t say the same about himself. Hopefully, all that would change soon—which was why he now strode toward Rotherby’s home. Knowing that his aimlessness would soon come to an end sped his steps.

A man’s shout broke the quiet.

“Watch out!”

Something crashed above him. He caught a glimpse of a piece of scaffolding shuddering loose, which made a stack of bricks atop it tumble toward the edge. The mason managed to stop most of them from falling—but one escaped his grasp. It hurtled straight at Duncan’s head.

He dove—the movement instinctive and smooth from years of drills—and the brick fell with a bang to the ground.

When he felt reasonably certain that nothing else would tumble down, he eased to his feet to study the now-shattered piece of clay. If he hadn’t moved in time, it would have smashed right into his head, likely spattering his brains across the road.

“Here now,” a tradesman huffed, running up, “that were a close one. But you moved like that.” He snapped his fingers, then looked at Duncan wonderingly. “Not a scratch to be seen.”

“Given all the brushes with death I’ve had over the years,” Duncan said, “meeting my end on this quiet and sunlit Mayfair avenue would have been the height of irony.”

Ironic deaths were the most senseless, and if he was going to die, by God,