To Woo a Highland Warrior Page 6

  She lifted a chatelain with keys from the copper-colored silk lining the purse. “I worried the keys to my home and the shop had been lost in the flood. I didna ken how I would open either. Thank ye for thinkin’ to grab this and my aunt’s earbobs, too. She wore them every day. They were a gift from her father.”

  She gave him a fragile, watery smile.

  Without conscious thought, Liam brushed the moisture from beneath her eye with his thumb pad and framed her jaw between his fingers with the other. “It pains me to see ye so sad.”

  Her mouth parted on a silent, sharp inhalation, and his attention dropped to her lips. God and all the divine powers, how he wanted to kiss those soft, pink lips.

  “Liam?” she whispered breathlessly. Achingly. Invitingly.

  Nae. NAE!

  Wrenching his hand away as if scorched, he spun on his heel and seized the hares before stomping from the cottage. If he wasn’t halfway to numpty before, spending several more days alone with Emeline would drive him to the brink.

  Already, his whole body hummed, responding to her, and he’d revealed more about the deaths of his bairns to her than anyone. As if compelled by a force far more powerful than him, he speared a glance to the window, half-expecting to see her on the other side.

  Instead, only the sun’s golden hues reflected on the dusty panes.

  “Emeline,” he muttered ferociously beneath his breath. “I canna let ye past my guards. I canna.”

  I willna.

  *

  An hour later, Liam reentered the cottage and gave an appreciative sniff. At his entrance, Emeline smiled a trifle tentatively and hopeful, as well. It seemed he’d put their encounter behind him and had returned to the coolly polite stranger she’d first met.

  With some effort, she’d corralled her overwrought emotions and made every effort to appear as composed as him. When he’d brushed his thumb across her face, an overpowering desire to throw her arms around him and snuggle into the comfort of his lean, honed chest had burrowed through her.

  Only by biting the inside of her cheek and admonishing herself to behave like a gentle-bred young woman Aunt Jeneva would be proud of, did she manage to subdue the wanton urge.

  What was it about this Highland warrior that had her responding so irrationally? So uncharacteristically impulsively?

  His tramping from the cottage, looking as if she’d propositioned him, stung her pride more than a kernel. She eyed the two misshapen loaves of golden-crusted bread. They might not be pretty or perfect, but she was proud of her efforts. Beside them, she’d placed a plate, a knife, and a jar of jam.

  “There isna any butter, but I found preserves if ye’d like a slice,” she offered, by way of a truce.

  A boyish grin wreathed his handsome face and, again, she pondered the transformation of his features. When happy, he was simply breathtaking. Perhaps it was because she’d had so little interaction with men—specifically, a particularly muscular Highland baron—or that they’d been thrust together, but an indescribable magnetism drew her to him.

  After placing the rabbit meat atop a plate he took from the shelf, he cut a thick slice of warm bread. He slathered it with preserves and took a healthy bite. Appreciation shone in his eyes. “How did ye learn to make bread over an open fire?”

  “Aunt Jeneva wasna always a successful modiste. For years, we lived in a verra humble apartment, and I learned to cook in the fireplace there.”

  He sank into the chair and hooked an ankle over his knee, the most relaxed she’d seen him. As if he sat in a fine drawing room in Edinburgh rather than this bucolic cottage, he said, “So, Miss Emeline LeClair of Edinburgh. Tell me about yerself.”

  Surprised, she puzzled her eyebrows as she claimed a chair, too. Rarely did anyone ask about her. In fact, she couldn’t recall the last time. She was invisible. Unimportant. Unremarkable.

  She lifted a shoulder. “There’s no’ much to tell. My life has been one of restriction and restraint.” Such is the case when one is poor, unwanted, and a disgrace. “I assure ye, there’s nothin’ excitin’ or entertainin’ about any of it.”

  “Humor me just the same, lass.” A distinct twinkle sparked in those dove-gray eyes.

  Eyes a woman could lose herself in. She quite liked this charming aspect of Liam Mackay.

  “Start with how old ye are,” he encouraged with a ghost of a smile.

  “I was four and twenty on my birthday in October.” She fiddled with the cuff of her gown, slightly uncomfortable confiding in him. She was on the shelf by any standard. A confirmed spinster through the misfortune of her birth.

  Overlooked. Disregarded. Ignored. One did learn to exist as a shadow.

  “What else?” He gave her an encouraging nod, flexing his eyes the merest bit indicting that she should go on.

  She couldn’t help but respond to his genial demeanor. Whatever had sent him hightailing away earlier like a pack of rabid wolves nipped his bum must’ve passed. This amiable scamp was impossible to resist. Still, revealing she was a bastard humiliated her.

  Most people judged her harshly when that unfortunate fact became known. As if she’d had anything to do with the circumstances of her birth. People were, in her opinion, rather horrid, most of the time.

  Always judging by a vacillating set of dubious standards they compiled and altered as they saw fit.

  When she remained silent, he tilted his mouth into a wickedly suggestive smile and waggled his eyebrows. “Emeline,” he coaxed, in his sexy rumble.

  She swallowed hard and looked away. Lord above. How disconcertingly was the ease in which she could topple into that seductive curve and enticing timbre.

  Never before had a man inflamed such a maelstrom of emotion within her. Just the proximity of his virile presence sent her into a dither. With some effort, she dragged her focus away from his too enticing presence and gathered her errant thoughts.

  “My mother died in childbirth, and Aunt Jeneva raised me,” she said. “She’s the only family I’ve ever kent. Although, as I told ye, I have distant cousins in France.”

  He’d tamed his hair into a queue, and she decided she rather liked the few silver hairs glinting throughout. They made him look dignified and slightly mysterious.

  She traced a grove on the tale with her forefinger. “Accordin’ to my aunt, my grandfather was a disgraced French comte. I’ve nae way of kentin’ if that’s the truth or no’. I doubt she’d fabricate the story, however. She was a very religious woman, and I’ve never kent her to lie.”

  “And yer father?” He helped himself to another slice of bread.

  A man of his size, likely ate much more than she’d prepared for breakfast. She’d have to remember that. “I’m illegitimate.”

  The heat of a furious blush tinged her cheekbones, and she dropped her regard to her lap for a fraction. When she dared meet his eyes, the expected censure and judgement wasn’t there.

  Instead, his head slanted, curiosity and an intense assessment shone in his pewter eyes. No doubt, he tried to absorb what she’d told him. As an unassuming spinster and illegitimate granddaughter of a French comte, what possible reason could there be for anyone to want her dead?

  “Would ye like to go for a walk, Emeline? The day is quite lovely.”

  At the abrupt change of subject, she cast Liam a disconcerted look before dashing a glance to the vibrant blue sky beyond the window’s soiled glass. “Aye. I am feelin’ the need to stretch my legs and take some air.”

  As he efficiently banked the fire, she collected her cloak and draped it across her shoulders.

  “There’s quite a picturesque view of a glen a short distance away.” He held the door open and waited for her to pass through. His body’s heat and unique scent beckoned to her as she slipped by. “I also spotted blackberry bushes. If ye’re inclined, later we can pick a bowl to eat with supper.”

  Why, he almost sounded like a beau, trying to impress her. Of course, he wasn’t, and she be an utter idiot to read more into his fri
endly gestures than he’d intended.

  Allowing her first truly unfettered grin in his presence, she nodded. She did try not to appear too eager. And failed miserably. “I adore blackberries, though eatin’ them was a rarity in Edinburgh.”

  She preceded him from the cottage, too aware of Liam directly behind her. Never before had a man’s company so discomfited her. As she had since yesterday, Emeline admonished herself to remember that the strain of their meeting and everything that had occurred since had stirred her senses into acuteness.

  Because, quite naturally, having looked death straight in the eye and miraculously walking away had discomposed her. A great deal. The close call had left her rattled and off kilter. Surely that must be the reason. For, in truth, she had no idea what to do if something else went on here.

  He was a hardened warrior. A wounded man. And gloriously unlike any male she’d encountered previously.

  While he’d been outside attending to the hares, she’d decided to treat him as she would any casual acquaintance.

  Polite. Distant. Reserved.

  Only, her deuced pulse and heart, not to mention every inch of skin, responded in such a foreign way when in his proximity, she was hard put not to stutter and fumble as if inebriated.

  For several minutes, they walked in companionable silence. Undoubtedly, he also had much on his mind. For instance, explaining the presence of a strange woman with him when he arrived home days later than anticipated.

  Spying a white-breasted, gray-green bird with a black collar perched atop a pine branch, she pointed. “What type of bird is that?”

  Liam squinted, looking to where she indicated. “’Tis a crested tit, also called a crestie.”

  “’Tis so pretty. Is that whose song I’ve been hearin’?” She put a hand to her brow to shade her eyes, and peered up at the small bird.

  “Probably,” he agreed amiably. “They’re generally quite shy but abundant in this area.”

  Closing her eyes, a fleeting smile curving her mouth, Emeline breathed deeply. “It smells wonderful here. Clean and invigoratin’. I thought the same while I was visitin’ Berget. I dinna miss the city’s stench and cloyin’ odors. Edinburgh is so verra crowded, and it smells most awful.”

  “Och, that’s true enough.” He helped her over a fallen tree. “Life in the Highlands is no’ easy, but her people are hearty and unwillin’ to exchange this life for anythin’ else.”

  His wife hadn’t been. But then again, she’d been a Sassenach. Maybe she’d never been able to adjust to her new home or the Highlander she’d wed. Some might consider Liam gruff and intimidating, but from the moment Emeline had met him, he’d been considerate, if not entirely affable.

  A few minutes later, they reached the opening he’d spoken of at the edge of the woods. The tall expanse of trees parted onto a vast, sublime expanse. Purple and pink heather yet colored the lush emerald hillsides, but the storm’s damage was evident as well. As far as she could see, branches had snapped and many trees had toppled. Where the river had previously rambled sedately on its tumbling journey to the ocean, yesterday’s torrent had ravaged the banks, leaving mud and debris in its wake.

  Her attention focused on the destruction, Emeline scrutinized the scene before her.

  Liam had exaggerated the devastation, and it was obvious why they couldn’t leave yet. She pressed her palms to her belly to quiet the ponies prancing there. They might very well be stranded longer than three days. Smothering the wave of apprehension cresting in her stomach, she asked, “Where’s yer home from here?”

  “There. Beyond that hill.” He turned slightly and extended his forefinger due west.

  She glanced at him, uncertain and hesitant. “Liam?’

  He slanted a brow questioningly.

  She wet her lower lip again, and losing her nerve, stared out over the horizon once more. “Would ye…? What I mean is…I’ve been thinkin’ while ye were outside…” Good God. She couldn’t form a simple sentence.

  Lips pursed, she blew out a frustrated breath. Squaring her shoulders, she met his gaze straight on. “I wanted to ask if ye’d consider accompanyin’ me to Edinburgh.”

  A hawkish, raven eyebrow rose another inch, his features turning as flinty and unyielding as his eyes. “Why?”

  The clipped word held more than inquiry.

  Suspicion and doubt? Distrust, for certain. And if she wasn’t mistaken—and she was fairly certain she wasn’t—accusation too.

  He was a man who didn’t trust easily. But then, his wife had given him good reason not to. Still, wasn’t it obvious why? He’d make her spell the reason out in spades?

  She planted her hands on her hip, giving into her vexation. “Well, I canna verra well go by myself, now can I? It would be too dangerous to traipse about alone, and I ken nae other man I can ask.” Oddly chagrined, a rueful smile bent her mouth as she sliced him a side-eyed look. “I truly dinna have many friends and nae male acquaintances at all.”

  A look of pity temporarily softened his countenance.

  How she loathed those solicitous glances.

  She knew what people thought. Had heard the whispers behind her back at the few functions she was invited to and permitted to attend.

  By-blow. Born on the wrong side of the blanket. Child born without benefit of clergy. Illegitimate granddaughter to a count. Bastard.

  “I’m also convinced that if there’s anythin’ that will reveal who the men were who tried to kill me or who might’ve hired them, I’ll find it amongst my aunt’s things in Edinburgh,” she offered, taking care to soften her tone while not sounding pleading.

  “I’ll consider it, Emeline.”

  Hope swelled.

  “But no’ until after I’ve seen to my responsibilities at home,” he said.

  And just as swiftly, that hope was dashed to shards upon the rocks of disappointment.

  He dipped her, a swift, indiscernible look before he, too, stared out over the valley. His profile chiseled angels and planes, his granite-like jaw flexed periodically. As if he fought an internal battle. “It may be a few weeks. Which, actually, could work to yer benefit if whomever hired those curs believes the assassins were successful.”

  She didn’t see how that was the case and wanted to argue that the sooner she returned to Edinburgh and searched the apartments and shop, the sooner she might find a clue.

  Did he have any idea how unnerving it was to know someone wanted her dead? Unnerving? No, downright terrifying.

  Nonetheless, the unflinching resolution in his stance and the knowledge that she’d already incommoded him significantly had her pasting a false, acquiescent smile on her face.

  “I understand, Liam. If it werena for me, ye’d be home already. I do wonder, however, how ye will explain my presence to yer family?”

  “How indeed?” His gravity dissolving, he chuckled and shook his head. “A wee waif with nae luggage or a chaperone.”

  Irritation welled behind her breastbone, and she bristled.

  This wasn’t funny. Nothing about this situation was humorous.

  “I’m hardly wee, nor am I waif. Waifs, by their very definition, are strays, without a home or friends.” Damn, he was right. She felt even worse.

  He must’ve sensed her vexation, for he took her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. His large palm completely engulfed hers. “I think the truth is best. Yer coach was swept away durin’ a flash flood, and I saved ye. Ye’re the only survivor.”

  “What happens if they question where we’ve been since the flood?” There was no easy way around that obstacle. A single day might’ve been explained away, but several days? No, that proved much more complicated.

  “Nae one needs to ken when the flood occurred. Nor does anyone need to ken how long we’ve been alone together.” Raven eyebrows crashing together, and his mouth sliding into a grim ribbon, his countenance grew fierce as he rasped, “Ye should ken, it willna make any difference if anyone does find out. I willna be playin’ the gallan
t and proposin’, Em.”

  Em?

  Proposin’?

  Why, the arrogant, conceited, puffed-up boor.

  His voice as unyielding and cold as steel, he forged onward. “Dinna mistake my aid as somethin’ more than it is or expect anythin’ else from me. Ye’re bonnie as a rose in the mornin’ sun, and yer luscious shape would make the goddess of love jealous. But by God, I never mean to be duped into marriage again. Do ye understand?”

  Acerbic contempt laced his words, and he spoke with such vehemence, she recoiled, as if struck. He had delivered a verbal blow. Fierce and below the belt, the overbearing bounder. Taking an involuntary step backward, Emeline glared as her own wrath burst into a wild, unrestrained conflagration.

  “I am no’ a simpleton. I understand perfectly, Baron. But ye should ken that I’m no’ so desperate or lackin’ in self-worth that such a despicable thought would’ve ever crossed my mind until ye mentioned it just now.” She looked him up and down, from his impossibly untamed mane to his too-big feet, permitting her upper lip to curl the merest bit as her focus came to rest on his face. “No’ all women are connivin’ vipers, and ye’ve nae right to be insultin’.”

  Astonishment, or perhaps bewilderment, flashed across the planes of his guarded features. “Em…? I…” Liam abruptly snapped his mouth shut.

  What? No barbed rejoinders now that he’d spelled his intent out in terms a deaf and dumb lackwit could understand?

  Reputation shredded or not, there’d be no marriage proposal for her. Which was just as well since no power on earth—or in heaven either, for that matter—would’ve induced her to marry a cantankerous barbarian like him.

  They were strangers thrust together by a series of unfortunate events. Nothing more. She expected nothing from him and most assuredly, he should anticipate the same from her.

  “My name is Emeline, no’ Em,” she replied, with enough starch and frost Aunt Jeneva would’ve applauded. Brow arched, she touched her chin. “Do ye really think every woman finds ye so irresistibly desirable, they’d welcome such an absurd offer if ye made it? Ye can rest easy on that account. I’d never accept. Never.”