To Woo a Highland Warrior Page 3

  My God. What was she to do?

  The position of governess for Laird Graeme Kennedy’s nieces was available. Emeline had been inclined to accept the offer of the position. However, Aunt Jeneva, in her typical formidable manner, had forbade it.

  Nonetheless, at four and twenty, Emeline had reached the end of her patience and tolerance with her aunt’s demands and restrictions. She’d told her friend Berget Jonston that after returning to Edinburgh, she intended to have a very candid conversation with Aunt Jeneva and then she would strike out on her own.

  Fate had deemed that wasn’t necessary now. No, not fate. A pair of despicable bounders.

  Nonetheless, she wasn’t exactly destitute. Besides the governess post, there was Aunt Jeneva’s modestly successful and very exclusive modiste shop in Edinburgh.

  Truth to tell though, Emeline wasn’t altogether as keen on sewing for a living as her aunt had been. The craft had been a way to earn a living and never a great passion. Employment as a governess didn’t exactly thrill her either but, at least, she’d have been out from beneath her aunt’s reproachful eye.

  That troublesomeness no longer existed. For the first time in her life, she was free to do what she wanted. That freedom had come at a tremendous cost, however.

  Emeline could sell the modiste business, she supposed. She assumed she’d inherit the shop, albeit, Aunt Jeneva hadn’t discussed anything of that nature with her.

  To think she’d never see her aunt’s lace-capped head bent over her current commissioned garment, steadily stitching away, brought another wave of grief. A ragged sob escaped her, and she slapped a palm over her mouth, swiftly spinning away from Liam.

  “Och, lass, come here.”

  Resignation, reluctance, and compassion tinged his roughed voice. He came up behind her and gently turned her toward him, engulfing her in the warm circle of his arms. Smoothing the fly-away hair from her face with one huge hand, he lightly caressed between her shoulder blades with the other. “I ken ye’ve had a terrible shock. And I ken ye need time to accept what has happened. I’ll nae abandon ye. Never fear.”

  More unexpected kindness from this gruff man who didn’t owe her anything.

  She didn’t even pretend she didn’t desire his comforting embrace. She snuggled deeper into the broad breadth of Liam’s firm chest, welcoming this stranger’s soothing touch, desperately needing what he so gallantly offered. His crisp chest hair tickled her nose, and she inhaled his manly scent. He smelled of horse and rain and something slightly spicy. Manly.

  He smelled of temptation.

  And even in her distress, something undefinable burgeoned deep within her.

  If she hadn’t been overcome with sorrow, she might’ve taken the time to appreciate the wonderfulness. As it was, however, she wept brokenheartedly for the aunt who’d sacrificed her life to protect her.

  Up until today, Emeline had always felt an imposition thrust upon her mother’s spinster sister and had doubted Aunt Jeneva cared for her. What an unbearable way to discover just how much she’d been loved, after all.

  After several long moments of Liam murmuring soothing things in Gaelic into her hair while platonically skimming his palms over her shoulders and spine, she snuffled indelicately and stepped away.

  Chagrined and self-conscious, she murmured, “Thank ye. Ye’ve been most kind, and I ken that I have inconvenienced ye greatly. I owe ye my life, and I am truly grateful to ye.”

  Sniffing again, she dabbed at her damp face with the scratchy blanket.

  As if uncomfortable with her appreciation, he inclined his head minutely and clasped his nape with a hand. “I washed yer gown and cloak as best I could, but they’re still stained.” He looked pointedly at her chest covered by the plain blanket.

  Mouth turned down, she lowered her gaze to her bosoms. She hadn’t even noticed if her chemise bore evidence of her aunt’s blood. Nausea swirled in her belly at the thought. “Thank ye.”

  What other man would’ve been so considerate? So chivalrous?

  He lifted a flask from beside the bucket and removed the cap. After taking a healthy swig, he offered, “Whisky?”

  “Nae, thank ye.” On her empty stomach, she feared she’d become ill. She’d never sampled anything stronger than port before, and that only rarely.

  He replaced the flask on the table then rested his hip against the edge. Arms folded, emphasizing his bulging pectoral muscles—how does a man acquire muscles that big?—and seemingly totally at ease in his undressed state, he canted his head slightly. Expression solemn, his eyes the same shade as the petulant sky during the tempest, he regarded her.

  She quelled the child-like urge to shuffle from one foot to the other.

  “The storm finally ceased about two hours ago,” he said. “But there are many downed trees and mudslides. And I’m sure other waterways are flooded as well. When the roads are unencumbered, my home is less than a quarter day’s journey from here.”

  She scrunched her nose as she adjusted the blanket around her shoulders and shifted her feet, suppressing a shiver. She’d grown cold once more.

  Had he mentioned where his home was? Had Berget?

  “However, with Deri obliged to carry us both, and the likelihood we’ll encounter hazardous roadways, I’ve nae doubt it will take us considerably longer.” He cut a short, almost impatient glance out the window. “I dinna think we can safely leave here for at least a day, perhaps more. The ground is saturated and unstable.”

  Emeline made an inarticulate sound and touched her fingers to her throat as disappointment crested up her chest. She’d hoped—believed—they’d leave first thing in the morn.

  “I ken that’s no’ what ye want to hear, but there’s nae help for it, Miss LeClaire.” Eyes hooded, he observed her guardedly, as if he expected her to dissolve into hysterics. An enigmatic expression flashed across his face then was gone. “I always error on the side of prudence and safety.”

  And that’s why he tore across the road, a gun pointed directly at him, to protect a woman he dinna ken? And why he plowed full-on into the other crazed driver wieldin’ a knife?

  Summoning her own prudence, she held her tongue and wandered to the fireplace to stare into the dying blaze. God help her.

  Shutting her eyes, Emeline strove for equanimity.

  She was alone in some sort of a hunting lodge. In the middle of the woods. Somewhere in the Scottish Highlands. With a striking, rather intimidating stranger.

  It wasn’t that she feared Liam MacKay. She didn’t. Opening her eyes, she accepted that truth. If he’d meant her harm, he’d had plenty of opportunity already.

  Still, she couldn’t deny their forced situation unnerved her. Not a soul knew where she was. Not that anyone would care, other than her friends, Berget Jonston—soon to be Berget Kennedy—and Arieen Wallace.

  A few flames valiantly flickered in the fireplace, greedily consuming the single charred log remaining. Did she dare ask to add another to the fire?

  No, he might think her a demanding female, and she’d already been trial enough for him. Besides, she was accustomed to cool chambers. Their apartments in Edinburgh only had coal stoves in the modiste shop’s main room and the upstairs kitchen.

  Naturally, Emeline’s reputation already teetered on the fringe of ruin. But that didn’t bother her as much as it might have another. A woman in her position—illegitimate and without a dowry—didn’t have to fret about marriage offers. Or the lack thereof.

  In fact, until recently when Aunt Jeneva had suggested Emeline might consider a union with a distant cousin, marriage had never been mentioned.

  She’d assumed her spinster aunt expected her to follow in her footsteps and remain unwed. That wasn’t what she wanted but, if nothing else, Emeline faced facts straight on. A husband and children weren’t things she’d likely ever have.

  She’d ceased mourning for what would never be years ago.

  Yes, she claimed a disgraced French count as her maternal grandfather, bu
t she wasn’t respectable according to Society’s strictures. Neither was she of the lower orders. What she was—and would always be—was a woman suspended between two worlds and fitting into neither. Unwanted by both. An outcast.

  He shifted impatiently, and she realized, absorbed in her ruminations, she hadn’t responded. “I’m sure ye ken best, Baron.” In this, she’d have to trust him. Odd that she did, but did she have any choice?

  A rough noise echoed in the back of his throat as he swept his hand in a dismissive gesture, his mouth skewing into a slightly mocking smile. “Call me Liam.”

  Nae. That would be highly improper.

  He twisted to look out the window again, his demeanor pensive as he scraped a hand through his glossy, ink-black hair. What did he seek or expect to see in the impenetrable blackness?

  Mentally shrugging, she directed her focus to the struggling fire once more. The flames calmed and relaxed her, and she blinked sleepily.

  “I ken ye’d prefer to return to Killeaggian Tower,” he said, a trace of regret in his burr. “But ’tis a full day’s journey on ideal roads. My home is closer, so we’ll travel there. Once we arrive, ye can pen a letter to whoever ye need to contact and let them ken what has occurred.”

  “There isna anyone.” Mouth pulled into firm line, absent of self-pity, Emeline glanced over her shoulder. “I suppose I should let Berget and Arieen ken, but I ken verra little about my aunt and mother’s French relatives.”

  She turned to face him fully and adjusted the blanket around her shoulders again, enjoying the meager fire’s heat warming her back. A distinct pre-dawn chill had invaded the cottage.

  As if sensing her need, he crossed to the hearth and knelt, placing two more logs on the fire. At once, the flames greedily licked up the sides of the additional wood.

  His back muscles bunched and flexed as he stoked the blaze, and she had the oddest desire to run her hands over the taut, suntanned flesh. He bore another six-inch scar under his right arm and two smaller jagged lines stood out starkly; one on his left shoulder and the other just above his left hip.

  This was man accustomed to physical exertion and, evidently, defending himself.

  “I’ll need to return to Edinburgh and go through my aunt’s possessions and papers. Perhaps there’s an address or a letter…or somethin’.” She pulled her eyebrows together as another thought intruded. “I suppose I’ll need to speak to a solicitor as well.”

  How much would that cost?

  Aunt Jeneva had money hidden in a leather bag beneath a floorboard in the shop. She’d believed it safer there than in their apartments above the business or a bank. “I dinna even ken if my aunt had a will or who inherits. I always assumed that I would, but I dinna ken for certain.”

  She really shouldn’t be speaking so freely to him.

  Normally, shyness had her stumbling over her words. Honestly, this was the longest conversation she’d ever had with a man, thanks to Aunt Jeneva’s hawk-like watchfulness. Emeline had secretly assumed her aunt feared she’d make the same colossal mistake her mother had.

  He gave a sympathetic nod, his shoulder-length hair swinging from the motion. Bright strands of silver glittered throughout his hair, giving him a rakish, swashbuckler air.

  Wasn’t he a bit young to be graying already?

  How old was he anyway?

  Berget hadn’t mentioned his age. Studying his face, noting the subtle creases, Emeline judged him to be early in his fourth decade.

  “Dinna fash yerself. There will be time to work out all the details later.” Fine lines framed his kind steel-gray eyes beneath straight ebony brows. He curved his molded mouth upward, and her stomach flip-flopped.

  When he smiled…

  Lord help her. It was as if the sun dropped from the heavens and lit the room. He transformed from wildly rugged to downright beautiful. It was all she could do not to gawk like a green schoolgirl.

  “Emeline?”

  She closed her eyes, savoring her name spoken in his melodic baritone. How could he make the word sound so lovely? She’d never been particularly fond of her given name, but uttered from his lips, it became quite wonderful. Even if he did overstep addressing her by her given name without her consent.

  “Do ye have any idea why those men wanted to kill ye?” he gently probed.

  Lifting her eyelids, she shook her head.

  He shrewdly observed her, and although he remained outwardly relaxed, she didn’t miss the intensity in his gaze or the edge of tension in his shoulders. She’d wager his jaw had hardened beneath that bushy beard, too.

  Remembered terror overwhelmed her for an instant, and she closed her eyes until the wave of nausea and fear passed. Opening her eyelids, she sought his reassuring gaze and lifted a shoulder. “Nae. We’re no’ wealthy nor do we possess chests of jewels and the like. I think it must’ve been a case of mistaken identity. There can be nae other reason.”

  Thank God Liam had killed the blackguards so they couldn’t carry out their despicable mission on their true target.

  “They kent yer name, lass.” He rubbed his cheek. “It wasna a mistake.”

  She snapped her gaze back to his, and her jaw went slack. In the midst of the horror and chaos, she’d forgotten that indisputable fact.

  Compassion softened his craggy features, and he touched a curl laying atop her shoulder, the gesture at odds with his warrior’s bearing. “They also said they’d been paid to do the deed. Are ye sure ye have nae enemies?”

  The tress coiled lovingly around his forefinger, the brazen thing.

  “Nae. None. We’ve lived a quiet life, only attendin’ an occasional dance or assembly. The trip to Killeaggian Tower was the first time I’ve left Edinburgh in my entire life.” She brushed her fingertips across one eye. “I canna believe any of this has happened. It makes nae sense.”

  The ordeal had left her terrified and confused. Her whole world had tilted on its axis and she’d no way to right it. Didn’t even know where to begin or who she could trust except Liam MacKay.

  “We’ll get to the bottom of it,” he assured her, confident and certain. “Dinna fash yerself.”

  How could she not worry?

  He was right, nevertheless. The men had known her name, and they’d taken the place of the real drivers.

  Had they killed them, too?

  Come to think of it, should she return to Edinburgh?

  If someone was determined to dispose of her, wouldn’t they expect her to do that very thing? She’d have to rethink that decision. Perhaps Liam might have a suggestion about how best to proceed, although imposing upon him further seemed presumptuous.

  “Ye’re frettin’. I see it in yer doe eyes. No’ can be done now.” He gently turned her toward the bunk and gave her a wee shove. “Now back to bed with ye. It will be dawn in a few hours, and I plan on goin’ huntin’ first thing. If I’m nae here when ye wake, dinna worry.”

  How had he known that was precisely what she’d have done?

  He gestured to the overflowing shelves. “There’s makin’s for coffee and tea and porridge. Help yerself. Och, and the necessary is out back. There’s a brook nearby, too.”

  “This place is for huntin’, I take it?” Giving him a small upward sweep of her mouth, she shuffled to her hard, narrow bed, and he did likewise.

  “Aye. Several of my friends, includin’ Graeme Kennedy, Broden McGregor, Quinn Catherwood, and Coburn Wallace use it.” Only Graeme Kennedy and Coburn Wallace’s names were familiar to her.

  “We built it ourselves as teenagers.” He sighed as he relaxed onto the thin mattress. The cot groaned under his weight as he yawned. “Monthly, we rotate who checks the place and makes sure basic supplies are on hand. One never kens when one might have the urge to get away for a time.”

  Or save a woman from would-be-assassins and a flash flood.

  Emeline settled onto her side, drowsily staring at him. She owed this stranger much. If he hadn’t intervened—

  She closed her e
yes and gave her head a little shake to dislodge the gruesome image. “Liam?”

  “Aye?” His bed squeaked as he changed position so he, too, lay on his side. He barely fit in his bunk, however. Evidently the teenage boys who’d built the cottage hadn’t considered how much larger they’d be as grown men.

  How odd it was to be a few feet away from a man she scarcely knew, both of them abed and wearing next to nothing. Yet, she wasn’t the least afraid. There was an aura about Liam MacKay, an invisible wall, despite his gentleness and chivalry.

  “Thank ye, again,” she murmured, emotion tightening her chest. “I truly do owe ye my life, and I ken I’ve put ye to a deal of trouble. If it werena for me, ye’d be home by now.”

  To his waiting wife?

  Was that why he’d not made any improper advances? He was married and faithful to his wife, as well? If so, that raised him further in her estimation. She’d met few inherently decent men of his caliber.

  Or, perchance, he found her lacking. Most men did. That knowledge didn’t bring the sting it once did. Girlish fantasies fade, and life’s realities toughen sensible women.

  “I’m just glad I was there and able to help,” he murmured sleepily. “Now rest, lass. Ye’ve had a tremendous shock.”

  She had, but knowing he was just a few feet away brought her much relief. Else she’d not have been able to sleep a wink. Closing her eyes, she snuggled further beneath the blanket.

  “Emeline?”

  “Hmm?” It was much too great an effort to open her eyes again.

  “I think ye’d better plan on stayin’ at Eytone Hall, my familial home, until we ken ye’re out of danger.” Was it very wrong that she found his sleepy voice sexy? “And I think ye should consider usin’ a different name for a time.”

  Her eyelids popped open, and her gaze tangled with his across the room.

  “Is that really necessary?” she whispered, fully understanding the implication of his suggestion. He believed she was in grave danger.

  “Aye, and since the assassins kent yer full name, it will have to be a name they willna suspect.” He brushed a hand over his beard, eyeing her speculatively. “Do ye fancy any certain name?”