Tempting the Laird

by Julia London

  “A thief, madam,” Aubin said.

  She glanced curiously at the Frenchman. He shrugged nonchalantly, handed her the two quivers and the bow, then removed himself to a bench, where he sat and slipped his hat over his eyes, as if he meant to nap.

  “What are you doing?” Catriona asked.

  “I am not to help,” he said. “By order of the duke.”

  Oh, was that the way of it, then? Catriona turned about with a small harrumph. The duke didn’t believe she could teach Eula to draw a bow. Wouldn’t he be surprised, then?

  “How do you know how to shoot a bow and arrow?” Eula asked curiously as she watched Catriona tighten the tautness of the bowstring.

  “When I was a child, my father would organize archery contests between me and my brothers and sister. I was the youngest of them all, but I often took the trophy. My father said I was naturally inclined.”

  “A trophy! May I see it?” Eula asked.

  Catriona laughed. “It wasna really a trophy, lass. It was an old earthen jug my father had christened a trophy, for it had no other use, really. And it is no more—one day, my brother Rabbie accidentally shot the jug and shattered it.” She laughed. “My father vowed he’d make a better trophy, but he never came round to it.”

  “I’ve never had a trophy,” Eula said. “No’ before I came to Blackthorn Hall or since I came here.”

  “Oh?” Catriona said. “Have you been at Blackthorn Hall verra long, then?”

  “A long time,” Eula said with a roll of her eyes. “My cousin said that days seem like weeks here. Can I shoot the arrow now?”

  Catriona was momentarily taken aback by the comment. She debated asking Eula more, but the lass was studying her bow, was eager to begin. “Here now, see how I hold the bow high like this? That way, when I pull my arm back, even with my mouth, I may sight my target without bending my head.”

  Catriona showed Eula how to set the notched end of her arrow against the bowstring, how to hold the limb of the bow, how to draw the arrow back and take aim.

  Eula was a good student, studying intently each thing Catriona showed her. Her first few arrows were quite short of the target, scarcely leaving the bow. But then Catriona stepped behind her, helped pull the lass’s arm back so that she knew just how far to draw it, and demonstrated the featherlight release her father had taught her that sent the arrow sailing.

  At last, with Catriona’s help, Eula hit her target and squealed with delight. “Again!” she said breathlessly.

  Catriona gave her an arrow and helped her set it against the bowstring, then removed her hand and allowed Eula to fire. That one just missed the target. “Aye, then, now that you know how to draw the arrow, you need work on your aim.”

  They made their way down the three targets, Catriona helping her, and allowing her a little more freedom each time. When they came to the last target, they gathered the spent arrows, put them in the quiver and walked back to their marks before the target. “Would you like to attempt it all on your own, then?” Catriona asked.

  “Aye, please,” Eula said. She removed an arrow from the quiver. It took her a few minutes to properly set the arrow against the bowstring, as it kept slipping.

  “Steady,” Catriona said to her.

  The lass was tiring, was losing patience with the game. “You’re standing too close,” she complained.

  Catriona moved several feet away.

  Eula tried again. This time, she managed to set it against the bowstring and hoist the bow up. She pulled her arm back, but it was difficult for her—the bowstring was taut and the strength required to hold it steady was more than she could manage on her own. Eula turned toward Catriona and opened her mouth as if to say something, but her gaze moved past Catriona, and she shouted triumphantly, “Look what I’ve learned! Watch me!”

  Catriona never turned to see who had come, for Eula’s arm wobbled, and she inadvertently launched the arrow in Catriona’s direction. She had scarcely registered what had happened when she was knocked to the ground as the arrow whizzed by her ear.

  A moment of stunned silence passed. Catriona’s heart was pounding so hard at the prospect of what could very well have been a shot between the eyes that it took her a moment or two to realize that something very heavy was draped across her.

  It was another moment before she realized that an arm was clamped around her waist, and a hard chest was pressed against her back.

  “I’m sorry!” Eula cried. “I didna mean it!”

  “Aye, all right, you may let go, Aubin,” Catriona said, her voice shaking, and struggled to free herself. She was unsteady, and her shoulder hurt, and Aubin did not let go but pulled her up so that she was sitting on her rump in the grass, feeling a wee bit dizzy and bewildered.

  That was when Catriona realized that the person who had saved her from certain death-by-arrow was not Mr. Aubin at all—it was Montrose.

  He was not shaking. He was crouched beside her, staring intently into her eyes for a very long moment. Something was humming, Catriona realized. What was it, a bee? No. No, it was inside her, that humming. In her breast. Near her heart.

  Montrose abruptly leapt to his feet and dusted off his knees, then offered Catriona his hand, pulling her up with such vigor that she bounced on her toes and landed so close to him that she could plainly see the folds of his neckcloth, and the lighter flecks of brown in his black eyes.

  “Are you all right?” he asked quietly as his gaze raked over her, presumably looking for an arrow protruding from her body somewhere.

  Was she? She glanced down at herself, at her trews, her blue-and-white gown tied with ribbons across her stomacher. All still there, all limbs accounted for. “I think so,” she said a little breathlessly. She noticed leaves on her sleeve and moved to brush them off, but he was still holding her hand, his fingers wrapped securely around hers. He seemed to realize it at the same moment and let go.

  She brushed the leaves from her sleeve and noticed a rivulet of blood down her forearm.

  “You’ve been hurt,” he said.

  “’Tis nothing,” she said. “A scrape, that’s all.” She gave him a sheepish look. “Thank you. You verra well may have saved my life.”

  He shook his head. “I owe you an apology for knocking you to the ground, for her aim was far, far off the mark.”

  Her aim had seemed deadly true to Catriona, but everything had happened so fast.

  “I suppose we should both be thankful for your expert instruction,” he said, and a single, dark brow arched. She realized that he was attempting humor, and she couldn’t help but smile at his effort.

  “I didna mean it!” Eula sobbed, suddenly appearing, her bow discarded. She fell into the duke, burying her face in his coat. “It was an accident!” she wailed, although her voice was muffled by the wool of the duke’s coat.

  “Aye, lass, of course you didna mean it,” Catriona soothed her, but Eula only wailed louder.

  “There now,” the duke said, caressing her back. “’Twas an accident, that it was. No harm has come to anything but Miss Mackenzie’s Highland pride, so dry your tears.” He glanced at Catriona and the tiniest hint of a smile shadowed his face. “Perhaps we should see after Miss Mackenzie’s scrape and take tea, aye?” he suggested.

  Catriona had in mind something a bit more potent to soothe her badly shaken nerves but said, “Aye, thank you.”

  They started back to the house while Aubin, who had been God only knew where in the moment Catriona saw her life flash before her, was left to pick up the quivers, the bows and the arrows. They walked along, Eula still sniffling, but Montrose had his arm around her thin shoulders, was holding her tightly to his side.

  Some would have been angry with the lass for nearly shooting a guest, but the duke understood Eula’s distress. This man had saved Catriona’s life and was comforting a lass who had made a grave mistake.
That was not the heart of a murderer. It was impossible—she was certain of it.

  The intrigue she’d viewed him with in this last fortnight was beginning to feel like billowing esteem.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  HAMLIN WAS MORTIFIED by what had happened, even more by the cut on Miss Mackenzie’s arm. The trail of blood was a stark, ugly red next to her fair skin. He instructed Stuart to fetch a basin with soap and water and bandages to tend to Miss Mackenzie’s arm the moment they entered the salon.

  “I donna need a bandage,” she protested, but Hamlin would not hear it. He was grateful that at least he’d been close enough to save her. He’d lied to both Eula and Miss Mackenzie—the arrow had narrowly missed her, and inwardly, he was still shaking. He should never have let them go on their own. He’d been stubbornly determined to keep his distance from the feelings that were prospering in his blood and tissue, but in the end, having watched them from behind a window, he’d not been able to keep away. Thank the saints for that.

  As they waited for the soap and bandage, Miss Mackenzie would not sit still and wandered about the room, holding Hamlin’s handkerchief to her arm. She paused beneath Glenna’s portrait and looked up at it.

  “That’s my cousin,” Eula volunteered. “My father said I look verra much like her.”

  Hamlin had not known Eula’s mother, but the lass looked nothing like Glenna, other than perhaps the color of her hair. Eula’s was russet; Glenna’s was more of a ginger color.

  “What’s her name?” Miss Mackenzie asked.

  “Cousin Glenna,” she said, then glanced at Hamlin. “I mean, Lady Montrose,” she amended quickly. “She’s no’ here at Blackthorn Hall, you know. She’s gone away.”

  Miss Mackenzie stood very still, her gaze fixed on the portrait of Glenna. Hamlin wondered frantically if he ought to say something, to clarify. He didn’t. He hadn’t spoken of it in so long to anyone but Bain that his thoughts were jumbled between indecision about how much to say and shame that anything had to be said at all.

  “I miss her so.” Eula sighed.

  Miss Mackenzie cleared her throat then and turned away from the portrait, her gaze on anything in the room but Hamlin. He could feel the tension between them rising at the mention of his wife—he’d felt it with others many times before. What did Miss Mackenzie think of the rumors? Did she believe them? Did she ignore them? Why did she continue to call at Blackthorn Hall?

  “I miss my aunt verra much, too,” she said. “I know how you feel, Miss Guinne. But I’ve weathered the loss by keeping my companions close. Perhaps you lack a proper companion, aye?”

  Was that some sort of indictment against him? Hamlin did the best he could for Eula—God knew he’d agonized about her lack of proper playmates and had tried to rectify it. But no one wanted to bring their children to Blackthorn Hall, not where a man who might have murdered his wife would be present. He’d also searched Scotland far and wide for anyone she might call family but had not been able to find anyone who would lay claim to the girl.

  “There are no other children at Blackthorn Hall,” Eula said. “I’m the only one, I am.”

  The door opened; Stuart held it for a footman, who carried in a basin of warm water. Another came behind him with a bandage and a cloth.

  “Please sit, Miss Mackenzie,” Hamlin said, gesturing to the settee. He directed the footmen to put the things on the table.

  “Shall I call Mrs. Weaver?” Stuart asked.

  “No, thank you. Miss Eula and I can attend our guest.”

  Miss Mackenzie looked uncertain of that, however. He pointed to the settee again and added a perfunctory “Please.”

  She swept past him, her gown brushing against his legs, and sat on the very edge of the settee, her back ramrod straight, as if she was prepared to launch herself across the room if necessary.

  Hamlin went down on one knee beside her and noticed the slight part of her lips, the breath of incredulity. He peeled her fingers back from where she held his handkerchief and examined the cut just below her elbow. She must have landed on a rock or root. The wound was not deep, but enough to need bandaging. “If you would hold the fabric of your sleeve.”

  She pushed the bell sleeve up and held it in place as he dipped the cloth in the soapy water, took hold of an elbow that felt entirely too delicate for this woman and dabbed the cloth against her skin.

  She let out a hiss of breath between her teeth, then turned her attention to Eula, who was seated beside her, watching with great fascination as Hamlin carefully cleaned the cut. “Perhaps no’ a person, then,” she said, a wee bit breathlessly as he carefully dislodged grass from the cut.

  “Pardon?” Eula asked absently.

  “Perhaps your companion need no’ be a person,” Miss Mackenzie said.

  Eula slowly turned her attention from Hamlin’s cleaning of her cut to Miss Mackenzie. “No’ a person?”

  Miss Mackenzie shook her head. Her brows arched, and she smiled at Eula. “No’ a person.”

  Hamlin glanced up from his attention to her arm.

  “Do you mean a horse?” Eula asked.

  “Perhaps a wee bit smaller than a horse,” Miss Mackenzie said with a laugh.

  Eula pulled a sad face and said, “I do wish I had a friend.”

  What she wished she had was a kitten, and Hamlin knew subtle coercion when it was played out before him, particularly when one of the actors was not particularly good at it.

  “Perhaps you ought to take up reading,” Hamlin suggested, and slowly drew the wet cloth down Miss Mackenzie’s arm, wiping away the blood. It was odd, because he felt her shiver, but her skin felt warm to his touch. She had the arm of a dancer, slender and long. “Your tutor believes you would benefit from more reading, he does,” Hamlin added, and stroked the cloth up Miss Mackenzie’s arm again, just as slowly.

  She glanced at him, her gaze strangely dark.

  “He makes me read psalms,” Eula complained. “I donna like to read psalms.”

  “Aye, well, he doesna wish to see you become a heathen, lass.”

  “Perhaps Miss Guinne might like a novel,” Miss Mackenzie murmured, her gaze still locked on his. “I’ve the perfect one in mind. If my uncle can find it with his bookseller, I could come round and read it with you.”

  “Montrose says novels are frivolous,” Eula said.

  “His grace,” Hamlin muttered. He stretched Miss Mackenzie’s arm long, resting the back of her hand against his thigh as he wrapped the bandage just below her elbow. Her skin was as soft as down. The tips of his fingers were tingling. He began to imagine what else about her was as soft and warm as down.

  “I beg your pardon, but I must disagree,” Miss Mackenzie said, and looked away from him. “They illuminate the world around us in ways that we’ve no’ always seen.”

  “But I wish I had a friend,” Eula said. “Then I wouldna have to read at all.”

  “You would still have to read,” Hamlin said. He had finished bandaging Miss Mackenzie’s arm, and carefully picked up her hand from his thigh, and moved it to rest on the settee beside her.

  She glanced down at his work, then at him, her eyes moving over his face. “Thank you.”

  Hamlin came to his feet. He felt slightly unsteady.

  “I’ll ask my uncle’s help in finding the book,” she said airily, and stood, straightening her sleeve, as if her hand had never rested on his thigh, and his fingers had never attended her wound. “You’ll see, leannan, reading can be quite diverting...if his grace allows it.” She glanced over her shoulder at him, the sparkle having returned, and practically dared him to deny it.

  Hamlin gave her a look to convey he would not be challenged in this manner in his own home. “Now that we’ve wrapped Miss Mackenzie up, it is time, Eula, to wish her a good day and return to your lady’s maid, aye? You will have your music lesson in less than an hour
.”

  Eula sighed. Hamlin arched a brow at her, and she obediently turned and curtsied at Miss Mackenzie. “Thank you for coming,” she said politely.

  “Thank you for allowing me to call,” Miss Mackenzie said graciously.

  “I’m sorry I almost shot you,” Eula said softly.

  Miss Mackenzie smiled so warmly that Hamlin could feel it all the way to his toes. It seemed sorcery that she could dispel any sort of mood with that smile. “You must no’ give it another thought.”

  “Come along, Eula,” he said, and took Eula by the hand to deliver her to Stuart. At the door, she turned back and waved at Miss Mackenzie.

  Hamlin sent her off with explicit instructions she was to be delivered to Miss Burns. A footman entered to take the basin away, and then, suddenly, Miss Mackenzie was the only one remaining in the room. She was standing next to a gaming table where Hamlin had a game of chess in progress.

  He joined her there and looked down at the board. He and Bain had played a time or two, but the truth was that, like Eula, Hamlin also lacked proper companions. At present, he was engaged in a chess battle with himself. He came at night, when Eula had gone to bed, and played himself.

  How things had changed for him since Glenna. There was a time when this salon had been filled four nights of the week with guests. There was a time he’d been weary of it, had wished that a week might pass quietly. But Glenna despised quiet. She had a voracious need to surround herself with people. One would think he would be quite content with the quiet now, but that was not true. He missed society. He wished he could still issue an invitation and receive guests. But once his invitations began to be turned down, he stopped inviting.

  He studied the board as he’d last left it. “Do you know the game, then?”

  “Aye, of course. The winter nights are long at Balhaire.”

  How long were the nights at Balhaire? What things did she do in the evenings? Who did she see, who came to call? “Have you any skill at it?”

  Miss Mackenzie turned toward him, her brow arched, her eyes were shining with the heat of a challenge. “A wee bit, aye.”