To Seduce a Highland Scoundrel

by Cameron, Collette

  Once he’d dried his face, he scrubbed a hand over his jaw. No, he wouldn’t take the time to shave. He rose, swiftly toweled off, and dressed.

  This very minute, Berget was with his nieces, and though he didn’t believe she would harm them, she was correct to think he didn’t trust her. She was concealing something. Her lavender-colored eyes gave her away.

  Graeme had an instinct for such things, and since he’d met her in the inn’s parlor this morning, that same intuition had been on high alert. Mrs. Berget Jonston wasn’t what she seemed, or who she said she was. He’d wager all the whisky in Scotland she had a secret she didn’t want known. Or she was hiding from someone.

  The what and who made all the difference whether she stayed or he dismissed her and bundled her aboard the next coach to Edinburgh.

  However, she’d promised to explain everything, and he wouldn’t permit her to seek her bed until he had the truth from her. He doubted she’d be completely forthright, but he’d have whatever her version of the truth might be.

  At first light, Camden would leave for Edinburgh and do what he did best. If there was a secret to be uncovered or a mystery to be solved, he was the person to unravel the details.

  Graeme hadn’t a doubt when his brother returned, he’d know every aspect of Berget Jonston’s life down to her favorite color and foods she disliked. And, most importantly, why she’d fled to the Highlands.

  Actually, he planned on knowing that particular detail before Camden returned. Harboring her might portend a threat, and he wanted to know exactly what to expect.

  In the meanwhile, he’d assure that she was supervised at all times. When she wasn’t actively instructing the girls, she could help Marjorie prepare for the upcoming gathering. He’d keep Berget Jonston so busy with one task or another, she’d have no time for anything untoward.

  As he fastened his belt around his waist, he pondered again; what had possessed a young, beautiful and obviously gentle-bred widow to accept a position as a governess in the Highlands?

  He made a scoffing sound deep in his throat.

  If she was truly a widow. Surely she’d had other marriage offers.

  He wouldn’t lie to himself and deny he hadn’t found her damned bewitching. In the courtyard, as he held her against his chest and she’d struggled to breathe, her light fragrance had teased his nostrils.

  Lemon and sunshine and her own warm, womanly scent.

  When he’d bent near to fondle her silky russet curl, though she didn’t flinch away, distinct leeriness shadowed her unusual amethyst eyes. There was a desperation about her, too, and that was what concerned him more than anything.

  He knew full well what desperation could drive a person to do. He’d seen his fellow Scots during the Jacobite rising resort to measures he’d never have believed them capable of.

  Even so, the English brutality had been far worse.

  Less than an hour after his nieces had left the drawing room, Graeme strode to Cora and Elena’s bedchamber. Every night that he was home, he tucked them in, something he’d promised Sion he’d do.

  After a few minutes of his nieces riding around on his back as he pretended to be a horse or a lion or whatever animal they’d decided he was for the evening, or a bout of tickling until they shrieked for him to stop, the girls said their prayers and scrambled into bed, giggling and begging to stay up for a bit longer.

  Usually, Marjorie was present as well. After they’d kissed her daughters, he’d draw the bed curtains, except for a crack to allow the firelight in to alleviate any fears of the dark. Then he and Marjorie would bid each other a polite goodnight and go their separate ways for the evening.

  Tipping his face toward the ceiling, he stifled a groan. Beef wit.

  He’d invited her to play chess tonight. Mayhap she’d forgotten.

  Of late, she’d been more and more reluctant to part company after the girls were abed, and he’d contemplated finding excuses to keep from bidding the lasses goodnight. But his infernal honor wouldn’t permit it.

  He’d made a vow to Sion, and he was a man of his word.

  Graeme’s carrying out his promises to his brother had only fueled Marjorie’s infatuation by forcing him into a parental role. Not that he minded, for he adored the girls. But the time had come to distance himself a mite.

  He entered their bedchamber and glanced around.

  Except for the hearty fire’s hissing and crackling, silence greeted him. Stepping further into the room, he frowned. Of Rona, the girls’ nursemaid, there was no sign, and neither was Marjorie with her daughters.

  Hands on his hips, he scowled.

  Berget Jonston wasn’t attending her charges either. She’d wasted no time deserting her post, and he was even less impressed than he’d been earlier.

  To be fair, he’d taken longer with Camden than he’d anticipated, but she knew he was to join them. She ought to have waited.

  Scraping a hand through his still damp, shoulder-length hair, displeasure turned his mouth down as he methodically examined the cozy chamber. A three-pronged candelabra glowed on a nightstand beside the canopied bed the girls shared. The curtains had been drawn across the foot, but the sides remained open.

  Shite. Anger thrummed through him.

  How could Miss Jonston have been so careless as to leave tapers burning and also the bed curtains undrawn? By dawn, the chamber would be freezing.

  Had the woman no common sense?

  Another mark against her. Mayhap he wouldn’t wait for Camden’s return to send the pretty, but useless, piece of baggage on her way.

  Stifling another curse, lest he wake his sleeping nieces, he strode across the chamber. What met his infuriated gaze stopped him in his tracks.

  A lass cradled on either side, Berget Jonston lay fast asleep. In repose, her wariness and reserve absent, she looked even more stunning and innocent. Not at all like a villainess or conniving wench.

  Her eyelids flickered. Did she dream?

  Chapter Eight

  Unabashedly, Graeme looked his fill, noting the hollows beneath her delicate cheekbones, her slightly parted bowed mouth, and the fine arc of her winged brows. No one could mistake her for anything but what she was: a noblewoman.

  What was her story? The real story?

  He itched to know. Och, he itched for more than that.

  He didn’t know whether to be alarmed or delighted that Cora and Elena had accepted her so quickly. That said much of her character, for although the lasses weren’t particularly shy, neither did they take to strangers readily.

  Come to think of it, the deerhounds hadn’t so much as barked at her in the courtyard. By nature, the dogs were gentle creatures, but they’d been trained to be guardians as well as hunters.

  Hands on his hips, he tilted his head.

  Where the devil were Marjorie and Rona?

  Graeme bent and gently shook Berget’s shoulder. She murmured something unintelligible but didn’t awaken. A wave of compassion swept over him. Likely, she was utterly exhausted. Nevertheless, she couldn’t remain here, and he would have his promised conversation with her.

  “Miss Jonston.” He nudged her harder, and the arcs of her thick eyelashes fluttered, gradually lifting.

  “Hmm?” Yet in a sleep-induced fog, she stared at him blankly. She blinked, a tiny smile quirking her mouth, before she became fully awake. Her eyes flew wide, and her mouth dropped open in shocked embarrassment.

  A low chuckle escaped him.

  She sent him a quelling look before schooling her features into passivity. “Can you move Cora, please, so I might rise?”

  With a brusque nod, he swept his slumbering niece into his arms, enabling Berget to slip off the bed. He didn’t miss her stiff movements or the slight wince as she righted her appearance.

  From her journey or her fall?

  She’d insisted she wasn’t hurt, but from her measured movements, he’d forfeit all the haggis in Scotland her backside bore bruises.

  He slid Cora ben
eath the bedcovers then drew the curtains.

  Taking a cue from him, Berget pulled the curtains nearest the fireplace closed.

  “Leave a crack for light,” Graeme whispered.

  She cast him a swift look then darted her gaze to the fire before nodding.

  She was astute. He’d give her credit for that if naught much else.

  He blew out the tapers in the candelabra and jutting his chin toward the door, indicated she should precede him.

  Once in the corridor, she stoically turned to face him. She had pluck.

  He admired courage in anyone.

  Even in the muted light, he detected her rosy cheeks.

  To her credit, she met his gaze directly. “I beg your pardon. After the story, the girls asked me to stay until they fell asleep. I must’ve dozed off. I assure you, it won’t happen again.”

  His earlier anger had evaporated. He still couldn’t explain the lasses’ reaction to her. Or the dogs’ either.

  “I ken ye’re tired, but I would have a word with ye, Miss Jonston.”

  “Of course.” Berget practically swayed on her feet from exhaustion, but he’d already discerned she was a prideful woman despite her humble circumstances. He’d vow she’d topple over before admitting how sore and spent she was.

  Another, more insidious, thought intruded.

  Or…was she so desperate for this position, she was afraid to refuse him?

  Had she been offered food? A bath?

  She had better have been. The Kennedys were known far and wide for their hospitality.

  Taking her elbow, he guided her the few steps to her room. “Where’s Marjorie?”

  “She said she had a special meal prepared for your homecoming and wanted to see to the final details.”

  And she’d left her daughters in a stranger’s care. That alarmed him and also alerted him that he couldn’t wait until the gathering in August to speak to his sister-in-law.

  “And Rona?”

  “Lady Marjorie sent her to the kitchen to ask for a tray for me.” They’d arrived at her bedchamber door. She gazed at him solemnly. “The food is likely within.”

  Rona had probably already sought her bed in the servant’s chamber attached to his nieces’ room. Those vixens awoke before the sun did and ran the girl ragged. No doubt the nursemaid was thrilled a governess had been hired.

  He opened Berget’s door and stood aside for her to enter.

  After hesitating, she lowered her head and swept inside.

  No bath awaited her, but a food tray sat atop the table near the window. He’d order her a bath after they spoke and make certain the oversight didn’t happen again.

  Graeme followed her into the room, taking care to leave the door wide open. While many lairds dallied with their servants, he wasn’t among them. He felt it an abuse of power, for no lass valuing her position would dare say no to her laird’s demands.

  He’d had more than a few lovers over the years, willing widows and the like. But never once had he tupped a servant in his household. And he always took care not to father any bairns.

  The candle’s glow cast soft shadows on Berget’s face. She truly did have lovely skin. Alabaster smooth and creamy. He curled his fingers against the impulse to trail them over the pearly expanse.

  She looked longingly at the food, but with fortitude he couldn’t help but admire, turned her attention to him. “You wished to speak with me?”

  “When did ye last eat?”

  Her brows shied high on her forehead, and she swallowed. “’Tis of no import.”

  He stepped nearer, and her violet eyes grew wide and slightly alarmed, but she didn’t retreat.

  “I asked ye a question and, as laird, I expect an answer, lass.”

  A spark of indignation flared in her eyes, but she tamed it just as quickly.

  “This morning, at the inn.”

  Christ. No wonder she looked about to collapse.

  “Sit. Eat.”

  He pointed to the chair, and she obeyed at once.

  Not out of respect for him, he suspected, but due to her growling stomach’s demands. And quite possibly, fear she’d lose her position. He didn’t like how that made him feel. No female had ever had reason to be afraid of him before.

  A gasp of delight escaped her when she lifted the cloth covering the food. Cold meats and cheeses, bread, fruit, oatcakes, Scotch pies, and shortbread met her perusal. A bottle of wine also stood nearby. “I cannot possibly eat all of this.”

  “I’ll join ye.” Graeme patted his torso as he pulled out the other chair and sat. “I’m famished, too. We can talk while we eat if ye dinna object.”

  As if she would.

  “But what about your dinner with—”

  “I said I’d be joinin’ ye, Miss Jonston.” He’d deal with Marjorie later. This might be just the thing to send a strong message to his sister-in-law. Cocking a warning brow, he leaned forward, elbows on the table.

  Berget’s reluctance had been almost indecipherable. She dropped her gaze deferentially. “As you wish, Laird Kennedy.”

  He checked a grin. Her way of letting him know she didn’t want to comply but would, because he was the laird. Normally, that would satisfy him. He expected obedience—was accustomed to it.

  “There’s only one glass for the wine,” she said, lifting the hand-etched goblet an inch.

  He winked, and filled the glass. “I dinna mind drinkin’ from the bottle.”

  A slow arc curved her mouth, and Graeme nearly spilled the wine with the exquisite transformation her smile induced.

  “I truly cannot figure you out,” she said before taking a dainty bite of cheese. “You’re quite an enigma.”

  No servant would dare be so impudent, but he was fast learning, Berget Jonston was no ordinary woman. And truthfully, he rather liked her frank speech.

  “I might say the same of ye.” A piece of bread in his hand, he motioned toward her. “Why are ye really here?”

  At once, reservation swept across her features, and she pointed her gaze to the apple slice she held. “Because I needed a position.”

  “Why? I’m nae fool. Nobility disna seek employment. Ye must have another reason, and as ye’ll be in charge of the care of my nieces, I’ll have it from ye.” He slung an ankle over his knee. “How long have ye been widowed?”

  The last wasn’t any of his damned business.

  She stiffened before slowly bringing her eyes to meet his. Her lavender gaze probed his, almost as if she sought to see into his soul. It stirred and unnerved him more than he cared to admit. It also sent his blood humming through his veins in sensual awareness.

  His attraction to her had been immediate and powerful. Even at the inn, her siren’s call had beckoned Graeme. Her allure rattled and enticed him, a juxtaposition of temptation and discomfit that threatened his self-control.

  That he could neither afford nor allow.

  “Lass? I’m waitin’.” His words rang harsher than he intended.

  Wariness crept across her features. She inhaled, her chest rising as she filled her lungs, and she set aside the piece of chicken she’d been nibbling. “My laird—”

  “Graeme,” he corrected, refusing to examine why he insisted she address him by his given name.

  Hands folded primly on the lap of her hideous gown, she said, “I was widowed two years ago, after a two-year marriage.”

  “Ye were married verra young.” He uncrossed his leg, not liking the way his gut clenched to think she’d been wed so young. It wasn’t uncommon, but he’d drive his blade through any man who looked at his nieces and his daughters if he had any before they were at least eighteen.

  A sad half-smile bent her pretty mouth. “At seventeen.”

  “Were ye happy?” He pushed the mark with the question. But he’d know as much about this woman as he could. The more she volunteered on her own, the more he believed he might trust her.

  “No. ’Twas an arranged marriage. He was much older than I.” Tension
sharpened her features, and something in her tone tangled the knot in his middle further.

  “And?” He lifted the bottle to his lips, wishing it was whisky. This woman discomposed him as no other ever had. Especially after but a few hours’ acquaintance. He told himself his acute interest was simply because she was a stranger and was to live under his roof.

  Bloody liar.

  Throwing her serviette atop the table, she leveled him a frustrated glare. “Why must you interrogate me? I swear, I’ve committed no crimes. As I’ve said before, I am qualified for the position. I need this position.”

  Fear and desperation made her voice husky.

  His determination wavered in the face of her obvious upset. But he couldn’t safeguard his clan, family, nieces, or her if he didn’t have the whole of it. Safeguard her? Aye. For all of her bravado, everything in him shouted she needed his protection, too.

  “Still, I would have yer answer, lass.”

  “I fear you’ll dismiss me,” she admitted, her voice the merest sliver of anguished sound. A single tear tracked down her right cheek.

  Recriminations buffeted Graeme, but he stifled the emotion.

  He was the laird.

  He had a duty to guard against any type of trouble, no matter if it came in the form of a beautiful, doe-eyed young woman with the most kissable mouth he’d ever laid eyes upon. History was rife with men taken in and deceived by women. Samson and Delilah immediately sprang to mind.

  “I canna promise no’ to, Berget, but I can promise I shall if ye dinna tell me the truth. All of it.”

  Eyes luminous with unshed tears, her mouth slightly parted, she wrapped her arms around her middle in a self-protective gesture. She swallowed, the graceful column of her swan-like throat working.

  “Manifred,” she spoke so softly, he had to strain to hear her.

  He bent nearer her across the table.

  She raised her gaze, wounded and leery, for a flash, then dropped it to her hands clamped together in her lap. “He was my husband. He had an unnatural preference for…boys.”

  “Christ on Sunday,” Graeme swore, gall stinging his throat at the thought of an innocent subjected to marriage with a molly and a sod.