To Seduce a Highland Scoundrel

by Cameron, Collette

  He stepped nearer, his size intimidating, and she couldn’t help but glance upward. Good God, his chest was positively enormous. Well-muscled, too, she’d vow. Could she even wrap her arms around him?

  She’d like to try.

  That realization sent heat pooling to her middle.

  Laird Graeme Kennedy was twice the breadth of Manifred. She’d wager all the tartans in Scotland he had no trouble bedding a woman and neither had he a propensity for young boys as her husband had.

  The laird smelled of horse and sweat and outdoors. A muscle ticked in his jaw as he bent his neck, until his face was but inches from hers. So close she could see the rough stubble of his beard and the silver flecks in his icy blue eyes.

  “Just so ye ken, Miss Jonston, I’m no’ found of subterfuge. I’d send ye on yer way—”

  “Because I traveled under an assumed name?” Berget interrupted. He knew nothing of her situation, yet he would judge her dishonest for protecting herself? “Do you truly believe I’d journey to this…” she waved a hand in the air, “isolated location if I had nefarious intentions? Why ever would I do that?”

  Ye did forge yer recommendations, a nasty little voice reminded her.

  The coldness in his unrelenting gaze told her that taking on an assumed identity was reason enough to distrust her. What an arrogant, self-righteous, judgmental—

  Stop!

  Counting to five, she drew in a calming breath.

  She must convince him otherwise.

  He didn’t know her circumstances, and he was simply being cautious. “I’m not without integrity, Laird Kennedy, and I am trustworthy.” Neither was she a saint with a glowing halo. “When I applied for the position, I told the employment registry that I was widowed, well-educated, and that I carry noble blood in my lineage.”

  That caught his attention. “And yet ye accepted a governess’ position in this isolated location?”

  Oh, how she wanted to tell him to bugger himself.

  Instead, she tried reasoning with him. “I’m sure you’re aware that many aristocratic families have empty coffers and with dowerless daughters…”

  “I dinna care about yer lineage or that ye’ve been widowed. Neither do I care what reasons prompted ye to apply for and accept the position as governess.” He brazenly touched one of her curls, his voice silky soft yet fringed with menace. “What I do care about, Miss Jonston, above all else, is my family. And my instinct tells me ye’re no’ bein’ completely forthright. I promise ye, I shall have yer whole tale eventually, and then I’ll make a decision about whether ye stay or no’.”

  “I…” Berget swallowed, but refused to avert her gaze. To do so would make her appear guilty. She was guilty of forgery and of running away from an unwanted marriage. The former scraped away at her conscience.

  The little silver flecks in his eyes glittered, mesmerizing her as they stared at one another, the silence growing tenser and more sensually charged with each passing moment. How could she possibly be sexually attracted to him? She could scarcely abide him.

  Her disloyal body proclaimed otherwise.

  “What? Nothin’ to say now? Nae words of protest? Nae feeble excuses?” he softly taunted, his nostrils flaring as if he inhaled her scent as she had his.

  What could she say to prove herself?

  They were strangers, after all.

  A chill scuttled from her waist to her shoulders, and she barely suppressed a shudder. She wrestled her dread under control. She couldn’t succumb to his intimidation or her own guilt.

  The door swung open to reveal a stunning redhead, and she nearly wept in relief. At once, the woman smiled and pressed Berget’s gloved hand between both of her palms.

  “Berget, I’m so pleased you are here. I’ve eagerly been anticipating your arrival. I am Lady Marjorie Kennedy. You must call me Lady Marjorie and, naturally, I shall call you Berget. We don’t stand on formality here, unlike the Lowlands or England. Do we, Graeme?”

  “I’d prefer she be addressed as Miss Jonston, Marjorie,” the laird said in a tone that brooked no argument.

  Sending him an adoring glance, she sighed. “Must we?”

  Ah, so that was which way the wind blew. Good to know.

  If he noticed his sister-in-law’s worshipful demeanor, he didn’t respond in kind. That might also prove a useful snippet to store in the recesses of Berget’s mind.

  “Aye, especially as ye want the girls to learn proper comportment.” He gave Berget a look that suggested he doubted she knew which spoon or fork to use, let alone the intricacies of social strictures.

  Should she tell him how utterly boorish he was being?

  Somehow, she didn’t think he’d give a ragman’s scorn. His behavior this morning at the inn certainly confirmed that. He was an absolute hypocrite for finding her wanting when he’d been a…pig.

  “Excellent point,” Lady Kennedy conceded, succeeding in returning Berget’s wayward musings to the present.

  Berget curtsied. “Lady Kennedy. Thank you for this opportunity. I trust I shall not disappoint.”

  “Lady Marjorie,” her ladyship gently corrected. “Je prévois tellement de faire connaissance.”

  “C’est un privilège d’être ici.” It was a privilege to be here, and Berget looked forward to becoming acquainted with Lady Marjorie, too.

  The laird’s forehead crumpled as if he were annoyed they’d spoken in French. Good. She’d be sure to do so at every opportunity, if only to be an irritating sliver in his finger.

  The lovely Englishwoman ushered her inside the tastefully decorated room. ’Twas such a contrast to the rest of the keep, Berget couldn’t help but gape. So different was this chamber, it seemed as if she’d stepped into a different world; this one rich and cultured and the other untamed and primal.

  Which was its laird?

  Need she even ask?

  She cut him a covert glance to find him peering at her, his features unreadable.

  At Berget’s expression, Lady Marjorie laughed and swept a hand before her. “This room, a ballroom, and a few others were added to Killeaggian four decades ago. I redecorated them when I first came to live here as a bride almost nine years ago.” Her countenance grew melancholy, sorrow filling her kind, dark brown eyes. “Sion helped select the furnishings.”

  She’d loved her husband. Very much if she yet grieved him.

  Compassion washed over Berget, and not a little guilt that she’d spared Manifred no such emotion. To be fair, he hadn’t spared her any consideration either.

  Even now, the shame of his unnatural preferences made hot bile rise in her throat. When she’d told her parents and begged to be permitted to move back home, they’d refused her request, claiming every marriage had trials to overcome.

  Trials?

  God above, he’d been a debaucher of young boys. And her parents dismissed it as casually as if he’d used the wrong spoon for his pudding.

  Resentment yet simmered toward them that they condoned the match, for surely, they must’ve suspected his perversity. They’d also refused her request to live with them after Manifred’s death until the scandal.

  Within a month of Berget becoming a widow, an appalling journal had been stolen that listed the names of the patrons who frequented a certain despicable residence in Edinburgh. Somehow, the journal made its way into King George’s presence.

  Perhaps in an effort to counter his unpopularity, the king saw fit to imprison or hang several of the guilty parties and, in multiple cases, seized their properties and funds. Manifred’s name had been amongst those exposed for his blasphemous sins.

  Fear of the king’s wrath prompted Lord and Lady Stewart to vow they’d no knowledge of Manifred’s deviant behavior and to welcome their poor, misused daughter back into the family’s bosom.

  Graeme Kennedy had followed her and Lady Marjorie inside, but rather than plant his large form on one of the sofas or chairs, he rested his shoulder against the fireplace mantel and regarded Berget.


  Not unkindly, but with a definite air of suspicion.

  Belatedly, she realized she’d never curtsied to him.

  Had he taken it as an insult?

  Or proof that she lacked the essentials to educate his nieces in social etiquette? Mayhap that’s why he’d looked askance at her. He did outrank her but, in fairness, she’d been winded and unsteady on her feet in the courtyard.

  She’d certainly started off on the wrong foot with him. And while her ladyship might’ve retained Berget, as laird, he held the power and the purse and would dismiss her in a blink. Not a doubt lingered that he meant what he said about his family, and the way he studied her made it abundantly clear he didn’t trust her.

  Where had the mocking, mirthful man of this morning gone to? Or the kind, considerate Scot who’d assisted her in the courtyard? The man lurking beside the fireplace was frightening in his intensity. Part of her admired his strength and his desire to protect his family, even as another part wished she hadn’t used a contrived name.

  And risk being followed?

  Nae.

  Warrington wouldn’t give up easily. Neither would her parents.

  She knew that absolute truth in her innermost being.

  No, she’d done what she must for self-preservation. Perhaps someday, she’d be able to reveal the entire truth to the laird and to Lady Marjorie. When they’d come to know and trust her and wouldn’t be appalled. When she’d proved herself and didn’t fear immediate dismissal.

  Berget cut Laird Kennedy a side-eyed glance.

  His gaze probing and intrusive, he’d folded his arms and crossed his ankles.

  Fighting the overwhelming urge to swallow, she dropped her attention to her clasped hands. She would not be ashamed before him, but she must be polite and deferential. The latter proved the more challenging for a woman born to high station. Nevertheless, she was prepared to do precisely that. The requirement came with the position.

  A commotion echoed outside the door before it swung open. Two adorable little redheaded girls in matching white nightgowns, pink bare toes peeking from beneath the hems, and clutching their Uncle Camden’s hands timidly ventured inside. Blue eyes round—their uncles’ eyes—they turned uncertain glances on Berget.

  A doll cradled to her chest, a hint of mischief twinkled in the younger girl’s eyes, while serene intelligence shone in her sister’s.

  Berget adored them on sight.

  She sank into a low curtsy that would’ve impressed the king himself. She intended to show these people she could act the perfect lady and hopefully win their favor. “Miss Cora. Miss Elena. Sir.”

  “Sir? Did ye hear that Graeme? I’m a sir.” Chest puffed out in an exaggerated fashion, Camden gloated. “I’ve been tellin’ ye I deserve more respect.” Chuckling, he winked naughtily at her as he ushered his nieces further into the room.

  Despite her effort to appear unaffected and professional, her lips quivered. Camden was a charming rogue. So had his brother been this morning. Graeme had also been an ill-mannered barbarian, belching and chomping his food, and he now acted the arrogant, affronted oaf.

  “Before yer head swells with inflated self-importance, consider the source, Cam,” Graeme drawled.

  Berget flinched as if struck, his arrow striking home as he’d intended.

  What, precisely, did the mean by that slur? Using a false name wasn’t such a horrid deceit that she deserved to be so ill-treated. Something more went on here, she’d vow.

  Camden exchanged a glance with his brother and shied a sable brow upward questioningly.

  The merest crimping of Lady Marjorie’s coffee-brown eyes indicated she’d noticed the slight directed toward Berget as well. “Graeme…” she chided softly.

  But when he, too, slanted a brow up in umbrage, she didn’t finish.

  The younger girl, Cora? played with a tight curl by her ear. “She’s no’ auld and ugly,” she whispered loudly to her sister.

  “I told ye she wasna when I saw her through our chamber window,” the older girl, Elena? said sagely.

  Cora adjusted her doll under her arm, leaned forward, and squinted. “I think she has all of her teeth, too, and…” She sniffed deeply. “She disna smell foul. And she has pretty eyes. They’re the color of heather.” Head angled, she demanded, “Do ye fart and belch or pick yer teeth?”

  Nae, but yer uncle does.

  Chapter Seven

  Before Berget could respond Camden laughed, and Lady Marjorie’s face crumpled into a mortified grimace.

  Berget mulishly refused to so much as dart a brief glance in the laird’s direction.

  Suddenly, panic filled Cora’s face, and she shrank against Camden. “But why is she dressed like a crone? Mama, is she a ban druidh?”

  Her sister’s face paled, too, and she edged nearer her uncle.

  “Cora,” her mother admonished, gently. “You’re being disrespectful to Miss Jonston. Do you think so little of your mama as to believe I’d hire a witch to instruct my darling girls?”

  Berget summoned her most comforting smile and held her skirts out. “They are hideous, aren’t they? I wore this so I wouldn’t soil my other gowns while I traveled. Black hides the dirt much better.” She thought, perhaps, the laird snorted or grunted, but she refused to look his way. “If you’d like, and with your mother’s permission, I can tell you a fairytale tonight. That way we can become better acquainted.”

  It seems she might have to wait longer to fill her hollow stomach, but if the delay earned a degree of trust from her charges, it would be worth it.

  The girls looked uncertainly at their mother and uncles in turn.

  Straightening, Laird Kennedy gave the girls a warm smile. “I’ll be there, too, lasses.”

  His gaze snared Berget’s.

  Yes, distinct suspicion crinkled his expressive eyes, the color of sky after a thunderstorm blew by.

  “I’d like to hear what sort of fanciful stories Miss Jonston recites,” he said.

  His double entendre didn’t escape her, but she fixed a polished smile on her face. She needed this position, she reminded herself again for the umpteenth time. So much easier to remember that critical fact when the infuriating, beastly Laird Graeme Kennedy wasn’t nearby being, well…beastly.

  Camden leveled his brother an inquisitive look. “She nae be a witch, lasses. She has lovely skin. Nae warts or moles, and banshees and ban druidhs dinna have eyes of the color of amethysts.”

  Unmistakable admiration resonated in his voice as well as the gaze he turned upon her.

  Dual paths of heat flamed up her cheeks, though she offered a small, grateful smile.

  That was a complication she hadn’t foreseen or needed. To cover her discomfit, she summoned what she hoped was a poised smile for the girls. “I think you’ll like one of my favorites stories from when I was a little girl: Cendrillon. ’Tis the story of a sweet serving girl and a handsome prince. They fall in love but face many challenges.”

  Another rude noise echoed from the vicinity of Laird Kennedy, but she doggedly kept her focus on her new charges. The more time she spent in his company, the less she liked the obnoxious man.

  “Graeme, can I fetch ye a drink of water for whatever ye have stuck in yer throat?” Camden mocked.

  Ah, he’d heard his brother’s grunts, too, and took them for what they were. Disapproval.

  With each passing moment, Berget liked Camden more and more.

  “I love stories,” Cora said, bouncing on her toes.

  “Perfect. I enjoyed that tale very much as a child myself,” Lady Marjorie agreed, taking her daughters’ hands. “Miss Jonston, if you’ll come with me, I’ll show you your bedchamber on the way to the nursery. ’Tis but two doors down. Oh, and Graeme, your bath is prepared for you. Shall I have a tray sent up?”

  “Nae. I’ll come to the hall after I’ve bid the wee ones goodnight.”

  Did Lady Marjorie regularly order her brother-in-law’s bath drawn? Perhaps that was a typical duty of the la
dy of this keep. For certain, Mother never ensured Father’s bathwater was prepared. But things were done differently in the Highlands.

  What other domestic duties did Lady Marjorie perform for him?

  At once, Berget squelched the uncharitable thought. ’Twas none of her business what the relationship was between her employers.

  At the threshold, Elena paused. “Uncle Graeme? Are no’ ye comin’, too?”

  Clearly, the girls were very close to their uncles, especially the laird.

  “I’ll be along soon, leannan,” he said, fondness in his tone and gaze. He exchanged a private look with his brother, which raised the hairs on Berget’s nape. “I wish to speak with Camden first and then have my bath. I promise I’ll say goodnight before I sup.”

  Nary a word had been said to her about a bath or food, both of which sounded heavenly.

  She closed the door behind her, but the latch didn’t quite catch. The door drifted open an inch. With a hasty glance to Lady Marjorie, several feet farther along the corridor, Berget leaned in to pull the panel shut.

  “Dinna let Berget Jonston’s pretty face turn yer head, Brother.”

  Berget winced at the aggression in Laird Kennedy’s warning.

  “Why, Brother, do I detect a wee smatterin’ of possessiveness in yer voice?” Sarcasm heavily weighted Camden’s response. “I saw the way ye looked at her.”

  “Dinna be an imbecile. She’s a damned governess,” Laird Kennedy snapped.

  And too far beneath his notice?

  Resentment and humiliation battled for supremacy, but she firmly quashed both.

  Camden only grunted at his brother’s fierce declaration.

  “I need ye to go to Edinburgh on the morrow, Camden. I dinna think she’s who she claims she is, and I believe she’s guardin’ a secret.”

  Oh, God.

  *

  Graeme took the fastest, though not the coldest, bath of his entire life after explaining to Camden what he needed him to do. Pouring a pitcher of tepid water over his head, he washed the lather from his hair. In his haste, soap ran into his eyes, and blinking against the burning sting, he reached out blindly for the towel atop the chair beside the tub.