To Seduce a Highland Scoundrel

by Cameron, Collette

  “Nae.” He hitched a shoulder. “I’ve had worse.”

  He had the scars to prove it.

  A comfortable silence settled upon them, the fire snapping in the hearth, and the sweet snuffling sounds of the puppies filling the atmosphere. After several peaceful moments, she sighed. “Well, I should bid you goodnight. ’Tis awfully late.” She scrunched her nose. “Or early, I suppose,” she quipped.

  As Berget shifted to rise, Graeme encircled her delicate wrist with his hand, and she cast him a questioning glance. No alarm, but simply inquiry, shone in her guileless gaze.

  “What was in yer letter? I ken it frightened ye, else I wouldna ask.”

  At once, her gaze sank to the floor, and her tongue darted out, moistening her lower lip. Tension radiated off her in undulating waves.

  She was afraid. Nae, terrified.

  “Ye can tell me, lass,” he said with gentle encouragement. “I promise, I strive to always be fair.”

  Her eyelids fluttered shut, dark fans against her pale cheeks. A shuddery sigh whispered past her pink lips.

  “The registry office notified me that two men have been inquiring after me.” She opened her amethyst eyes, luminous in their desolation. “I accidentally overheard you in the drawing room telling your brother to investigate me. I understand your reasons. In fact, if I were in your position, I’d likely do the same.”

  “I didna expect ye to confess all to me that first night,” he said simply. It was the truth. “We were strangers, after all. Who is the other mon?”

  She lifted a slender shoulder. “I honestly don’t know. Mayhap my father, and that tells me he’s truly desperate for the funds Warrington promised him for my hand. I wonder if he’s in some sort of trouble?”

  Graeme would wager on it.

  A bitter laugh escaped her as she toyed with the ends of her hair. “Isn’t it ironic that most women of my station must provide a dowry in order to wed? Yet somehow, my father has been able to find two men willing to pay him a substantial sum to marry me. Doesn’t that say something about the caliber of the men he promised me to?”

  Indeed, it did. And it also said much, much more about the character of her feckless father.

  Berget Jonston was a treasure. A rare and priceless jewel. A gem to be protected and cherished. Not a commodity to be sold to the highest bidder.

  Graeme canted his head. “Camden also said he suspects yer references were forged.”

  Her tongue made another brief appearance, and she gave a cautious nod, her face wreathed with uncertainty. “They are.”

  It didn’t surprise him that she admitted to the falsehood. He’d come to expect forthrightness from her and, so far, she’d been frank when questioned directly.

  Her beautiful gaze pleading for understanding, she laid a palm on his forearm. “I had no one to ask. No one to write them for me. And even if I did, that would’ve left a trail. My father, and perhaps Warrington, would’ve found me in short order. In fact, I now fear they will in any event.”

  “’Tis possible for certain,” he agreed.

  He’d not lie to her about the likelihood. She needn’t fret, however. He’d vowed to protect her, and protect her he would as long as she resided in his keep. The question was, how long would she be there?

  Her voice trembled as she struggled to maintain her composure, moisture glinting in her violet eyes. “I understand I canna remain here now. I ken ’tis a lot to ask ye, but would ye permit me a couple of days to send a letter? I have a friend, Arieen Wallace—”

  “Coburn’s wife?”

  “Aye,” she agreed. “Do ye ken him?”

  She’d slipped into a brogue again. Something, he noted, she only did when highly agitated.

  A charred log fell, sending a billow of sparks up the chimney. “I do. Why would ye write her?”

  “To ask if I might come to stay with her for a while.”

  “Nae, I canna permit it.”

  She went perfectly still before her shoulders slumped, and she tucked her chin to her chest. “I…I understand. I’ll leave in the mornin’.”

  “Nae, lass. Ye willna.” He raised her chin with a fingertip. “I dinna want ye writin’ her, because I canna ensure yer safety at Lockelieth. I told ye, I would protect ye. I can only do that here.”

  “I’m sorry, Graeme,” she whispered, dashing at the tears glistening on her wan cheeks. “I didna ken what else to do, and now I’ve become a burden to ye.”

  He uncrossed his legs, and with a sigh of resignation, wrapped an arm about her shoulders, tucking her to his side. “Aye, mayhap with yer deception, but I understand yer reasons. Thus far, ye’ve diligently performed yer duties, and I have nae complaints. Marjorie is thrilled to have ye here, and so are the lasses.”

  Without thinking, he laid his cheek atop her silky hair and skimmed his fingers up and down her arm. Embracing her was as natural as breathing. He feared he’d come to need to touch her every bit as much as his body required oxygen to live.

  She snuggled into his side like a trusting kitten desperate for the comfort he offered.

  “I would ken, lass, do ye harbor any more secrets I should ken about?” He spoke into her hair, inhaling her unique, intoxicating scent. She smelled of heather and lavender, no doubt from her bath.

  Tilting her head in the crook of his arm, a fine line appeared between Berget’s eyebrows.

  “Aye. There was a book. A secret journal of sorts. It contained the names of the patrons who frequented an…unsavory establishment in Edinburgh.”

  He could well imagine precisely what sort of establishment.

  Her eyelids drifted down for a moment before she bravely met his gaze once more. “Manifred’s name was listed, and I don’t know who all else.” She swallowed her abhorrence of the subject clearly at odds with her need to reveal what she knew. “There was a dreadful scandal when the journal somehow made its way before the king.”

  “Christ on the cross,” Graeme swore.

  King George I was not well-liked, particularly by the Scots. No doubt, the journal she spoke of revealed the names of more than one Scottish laird. The king would relish the power and control such a revolting find would afford him.

  “What happened?” He turned his attention to the tempting hollow beneath her shell-like ear. He nuzzled her there, smiling when she gasped. So soft, like warm silk.

  “The king seized the properties of some of the people recorded in the journal.” Her voice, now a husky contralto, quavered slightly. “Others were executed. Manifred had died by the time the scandal broke, but his estate and fortune—”

  “Were forfeited to good ol’ George.” He lifted his head from his sensual explorations. “That’s why ye returned to yer parents’ household.”

  “Aye.” Her raspberry-toned lips parted on a raspy chuckle. “I seem to have been born under a bad omen. Trouble follows me like my own shadow.”

  “The trouble ye speak of is no’ of yer own doin’, and I’m verra glad ye’re here.” He was, but he was daft to admit to the weakness.

  Astonishment crinkled her glorious amethyst eyes as she stared at him. Eyes he could wade into and drown and not care that he’d died in their jeweled depths.

  “Because Cora and Elena needed a governess?” She toyed with the ends of her hair.

  “Nae, leannan,” he murmured as he dipped his head lower, knowing even as he did so, he shouldn’t.

  Then his lips met hers, and when she eagerly opened her mouth, he was utterly and hopelessly lost. Like a scuttled ship, foundering in the ocean, he sank into her sensual calling. He cupped the curve of her ribs, pulling her closer still as he ravaged her sweet mouth.

  I’m glad ye’re here, because even though I didn’t ken it, I needed ye.

  Chapter Eleven

  Berget wasn’t even entirely sure how it came to be that the next morning, rather than schooling Cora and Elena in handwriting, reading, and mathematics, she sat atop a gentle mare as Graeme gave her a tour of his estate. At som
e point between the breath-stealing kisses and tantalizing caresses last night, she vaguely remembered agreeing to spend the morning with him.

  Lady Marjorie hadn’t seemed surprised when at breakfast, he’d announced that rather than Berget conducting her governess’ duties, she would accompany him on his weekly inspections and then to the village to become acquainted with the locals.

  She mightn’t know exactly how things were done in the Highlands, but Berget was fairly certain his request was beyond exceptional. As a widow, she didn’t require a chaperon, but she couldn’t prevent her troubling thoughts.

  What would others think of her gallivanting around the countryside unescorted? Surely it would arouse speculation. And, bring attention to her, which she could ill-afford.

  “That’s perfectly fine. I think it a good idea, in fact.” Lady Marjorie agreed with what Berget had no doubt was a falsely cheery smile. “The girls are to have a fitting for their new gowns in the village in any event.”

  They were?

  This was the first Berget had heard of it.

  Comprehension dawned, and she applied herself to pushing her eggs around her plate.

  Lady Marjorie was attempting to save face.

  Compassion welled within Berget, along with a good deal of guilt that his kind woman should be embarrassed or made uncomfortable. That she didn’t aim any barbed looks or comments in Berget’s direction only convinced her further that Lady Marjorie was as beautiful inside as she was out.

  A forkful of sausage halfway to his mouth, Graeme paused and quirked a skeptical brow. “Ye’re havin’ the lasses gowns made in the village?”

  Marjorie pulled her attention away from wiping a dab of strawberry preserves from Cora’s face, and gave a casual nod. “Yes. I simply don’t have time to sew new gowns with everything else I’m doing to prepare for the celebration. ’Tis but two weeks away.”

  Was there a hint of censure there?

  Berget had offered to help more than once, and Lady Marjorie had dismissed her suggestions. Or was her comment directed toward Graeme?

  Did she imply that he’d neglected his duties in some way?

  “Aye, ye do have yer hands full.” He relieved the fork of the sausage and, as he chewed, pointed that utensil in her general direction. “Do ye wish me to hire extra help from the village, or are there some items Miss Jonston might assist ye with?”

  Lady Marjorie gave him a tolerant smile as if she addressed a lad and not the laird of the keep. “We’ve plenty of servants here, and as I’ve expressed to Miss Jonston already that she was hired to be a governess, not my companion or a maid.”

  Now that definitely held a starchy edge, not that Berget blamed the gentle lady. She’d obviously discerned that there was a connection between Graeme and Berget that neither seemed able to resist. Unlike the ladies she’d known in England and even in Edinburgh, Lady Marjorie handled her disappointment with a grace and aplomb Berget could only admire.

  Nonetheless, she couldn’t dismiss the surge of discomfit when Lady Marjorie turned her pretty dark eyes on Berget. “May I assume you’ll be back this afternoon for music and French lessons?”

  It wasn’t so much as a question as an expectation. After all, Berget was here to instruct the girls, not flit about the countryside with the laird. Her teacup in hand, she peered over the rim toward Graeme, silently asking if they would be back in time.

  “I expect we’ll return by early afternoon.” His astute attention flickered between the two women and two lines creased his forehead. “But since ye’ll be in the village, too, and I plan on introducin’ Miss Jonston to several of the merchants, why dinna we plan on havin’ our midday meal together at The Stag and Hound?”

  Cora fairly bounced in her seat with excitement. “Can we, Mama?”

  “We’ve never dined there before,” Elena said by way of explanation. She, too, looked expectantly at her mother.

  A contemplative expression on her face, Marjorie swept her regard from Graeme to Berget then to each of her daughters in turn. Her mouth turned up at the corners, the joy not quite reaching her eyes. “I think ’tis a perfect opportunity for my darlings to apply some of the decorum lessons they been learning.”

  Hiding a wince, Berget sent up a silent prayer that her charges would remember at least some of what she’d been attempting to teach them this past week. Honestly, she’d barely begun their etiquette instruction.

  Now, two hours later, attired in her royal blue riding habit, she tilted her face upward, savoring the sun’s rays. Thank goodness she’d elected to keep the habit. She’d been tempted to sell the garment.

  It would’ve fetched a fair price, but how would she have instructed her pupils how to seat a horse without it? For certain not attired in one of her day gowns, her calves and ankles exposed.

  A large bird of some sort soared overhead in wide, lazy circles.

  She breathed deeply of the invigorating, pure, clean Highland air. Far more pleasant than Edinburgh’s fetid odors.

  She liked it here.

  Liked the simple, pleasant life.

  Much more than she’d anticipated, and the brawny man a few feet away had much to do with her unexpected happiness.

  Lord, his kisses last night.

  Even now, she tingled in unmentionable places at the searing memories. Manifred’s touches had gagged her, left her wanting to scrub her skin. But Graeme’s made her want to shuck her pride. Her reservations. And her clothing. Not necessarily in that order.

  She’d not have believed her body could respond so very differently with the two men.

  Graeme drew Manannán to a halt near a craggy outcrop. A spectacular view of the meadows and fields below met her perusal. Killeaggian Tower loomed majestically on the far side, its stones glistening grandly in the mid-morning sunlight. To the west, nestled against a picturesque mountain backdrop, sat Killinkirk, like something from a painting.

  They headed to the quaint village now, and she was saddened that this time alone with him must end.

  “’Tis truly beautiful.” Berget swept her gaze across the landscape once more. “Except for the two years I was married and lived in England, I’ve spent my life in Scotland. But I never ventured farther north than Edinburgh. I begin to understand why Highlanders are loath to leave here, despite the harsher clime and landscape.”

  Proudly assessing the lands before him, Graeme gave a slow nod. He wore no hat, but he’d tied his hair back into a queue with a black ribbon. The reddish streaks in his hair glinted coppery with the motion. “Och. I could never leave. The Highlands are in my blood. My verra bones.”

  “I didn’t know him, of course, but I believe your brother would be proud of you.” Had Sion been as noble and confident as Graeme? “Especially, how wonderful you’ve been to his daughters and wife.”

  She fiddled with the reins and bit her lower lip in indecision.

  Was he aware of lady Marjorie’s feelings for him?

  Glancing upward through her lashes, she caught him brazenly assessing her. A sweet, pleasant warmth like heated rose oil spread from her taut stomach, past her ribs—behind which her heart thumped an irregular rhythm—over her shoulders, and to her face, setting her cheeks aflame.

  “I made him a vow on his deathbed, and I never break my oaths.” His gaze held her, mesmerizing and intense.

  She couldn’t look away. Didn’t want to break the unnamable but compelling connection between them.

  He’d promised to keep her safe, and that she could remain at Killeaggian Tower for as long as she liked. But that was before he knew she’d forged her letters of recommendation. Would Lady Marjorie be of the same mind? Berget was quite certain he hadn’t yet told his sister-in-law of her deception.

  “I’ve been testing new crops and have also introduced a new breed of beef cattle, called Galloways.” He chuckled and pulled on his ear. “I’ve even planted potatoes like our Irish friends, and I’ll tell ye, I received nae small amount of jestin’ for the decision.” He lif
ted a massive shoulder. “They’re cheap to grow and are a good staple for the tenants’ larders.”

  Head angled, Berget studied him. “You care for your tenants, too, don’t you?”

  This man had a big heart and, not for the first time, she wondered why at nine and twenty, he’d never married. Then, before she could tame her cursed tongue, the question spilled from her mouth.

  “Graeme, why haven’t you wed? You obviously adore children…”

  She faltered at the searing look he speared her, regretting her impulsiveness at once. He didn’t appear angry exactly, but rather guarded.

  “Forgive me.” She turned her attention to the reins clenched in her hands, wishing she could take back the words. “That was impertinent and ’tis none of my business.”

  Wordlessly, he turned his horse toward the village, and as she followed, her spirits sank. She’d crossed a line, though she wasn’t sure what triggered his aloof response. They rode for several minutes, only the horses’ hoof beats and an occasional bird call interrupting the stilted silence.

  Without warning, he reached out and seized the mare’s halter, bringing both horses to a stop. His expression oddly devoid of emotion, he patted Manannán’s creamy neck. “I was married.”

  Her gaze collided with his, her mouth parting in astonishment.

  “Nine years ago. Her name was Nairna.”

  Something in his tone and the flash in his azure eyes warned her. This wasn’t something he spoke of. In fact, no one at the keep had so much as breathed a word, and there could be no good reason for that. If she’d been a beloved wife, would there have been a reason to never mention her name?

  “What happened?” she dared to ask, fearing his answer and his anger, yet willing to risk both to know him better.

  Graeme glanced around, then led their horses beneath a thick copse of beech trees. A squirrel scolded from high on a branch, and a red deer bolted from the shelter, fleeing with graceful bounces.

  He dismounted and, as always, she marveled at his athleticism.