Sweet Hellion (The Marriage Maker Book 26)

by Tarah Scott

  Her brow furrowed. Something about her tugged at memory. He wasn’t one to forget a face, and who could forget the beauty of the woman who stood before him? She’d lost her hat, and flaming red hair fell in a tangle of waves down her back.

  “Have we met?” he asked, before realizing how stupid he sounded.

  Her eyes bore into him. “You killed my brother.”

  While he’d killed men, he certainly hadn’t harmed his own countrymen. “Your brother is?”

  “Tory,” she whispered. “Tory Bamfield.”

  Rhys stared.

  Bloody hell.

  Emma Bamfield.

  Chapter Three

  Justice stood within her reach, but like everything else she’d touched in the past two years, she’d failed in this, too. The truth was bitter. She was a sister who couldn’t avenge her own brother, her very own twin soul.

  Emma swallowed. The great hulk of a Scotsman who stared down at her was every bit the dark Highlander she’d heard described. Who knew God made men so large? She took measure of his wide shoulders, long legs and muscled calves. Could she outrun him? A scar slashed the side of his face, lending him a dangerous air. And his hands… Tarnal. Hands that size could snap her neck as easily as a twig.

  “Sweet Mary,” he whispered, “you look so much like him.”

  Emma froze.

  Only a madman would forget that mere minutes ago, she’d pressed a gun to his back. She’d erred in judgment. She wasn’t equipped to deal with a mad beast the size of a bull. She’d have to run.

  His brown eyes softened, and he held out a hand as if steadying a skittish horse. “There’s no cause to fear me, Emma.”

  “How do you know my name?” She inched back.

  “Tory told me of you, lass.”

  Emma studied him. How different this man reacted than Lord Munro. His eyes didn’t stray to her breasts, but remained locked with hers, his strong, freshly shaven jaw relaxed, his brow creased with sorrow.

  “Tory bid me to—” He hesitated, then added in a gentle voice, “He bade me to tell you, ‘Tell the wee stinkpot I’ll watch o’er her from above.’”

  The words pierced her heart like a dagger. Wee stinkpot. Only her father and Tory called her by that name. She shuddered. There was no denying the truth of the words, even without the resounding sincerity ringing in every syllable.

  “I cannot hear this.”

  Blinded by tears, she stumbled out of the stable. She ran through the courtyard and out Blackstone Abbey’s gates. The gelding she’d tied to a nearby tree still waited there, nibbling on the scant grass.

  Emma stepped into the stirrup, then pulled the reins to the left as she dropped onto the saddle. The horse lunged forward, then broke into a gallop. They flew over the heath, the wind burning the tears that coursed down her cheeks. She didn’t care what direction the horse took. She didn’t want to think. She just wanted to run.

  She rode until the horse began to breath heavily and finally slowed. She spied a village at the bottom of a hill and wondered where she’d strayed. She directed her horse through the trees and, a short time later, arrived before a tavern with ‘The Crown and the Thistle’ painted on a sign hung above the door.

  Not until she shoved open the door did she realize she planned on drinking until she could think no more. She’d tasted a stout beer once or twice, and was accustomed to a glass or two of wine with dinner, though, of late, such luxuries had been out of reach. While she’d never had whisky, she’d witnessed its wondrous effects upon her father the night her brother left to join the Green Jackets.

  “Whisky,” Emma said when she reached the counter, and fumbled in her pocket for a coin.

  The tavern keeper raised a brow. “Are ye sure now, lassie?” He glanced toward the door, as if searching for her companion.

  Emma slammed the coin on the bar. “Now,” she replied, striving for haughty, but thinking her tone overly much so, added a milder, “Please.”

  The tavern keeper lifted a brow. “Tea’s more to your liking, eh?”

  “Surely, you have seen a woman drink?” She jabbed her finger on the bar. “And fill the glass to the brim.”

  The man snorted and folded his arms across his chest.

  “Give the lady what she wants,” a deep voice murmured behind her.

  Emma whirled. The Highlander—her brother’s murderer—had followed her.

  He bowed. “Rhys Macleod, at your service, lass.”

  “I know your name.” No doubt, he’d come to exact payment for her attempt on his life. Emma faced the bar. She needed the whisky more than ever.

  Rhys stepped to her side. “If you will take a seat at a table, I will bring your whisky, Miss Bamfield.”

  Emma hazarded a glance his way. The thin light filtering through the tavern’s windows caught on the scar running from just under his temple straight down to his jaw. It was a horrific wound.

  “The table,” he repeated.

  He cocked his head to the table in the corner, half hidden by a supporting post and a stack of barrels.

  At least it afforded some semblance of privacy. Still…he’d obviously followed her to exact justice. Perhaps, he’d already informed the constable. Would they toss her in prison? With no living relatives, how would she be fed?

  “Very well,” she murmured, and walked toward the table.

  A moment later, Rhys arrived. After setting two glasses of whisky on the table, he dropped into the chair opposite her. Emma reached for her whisky and drank a large gulp. The amber liquid seared her throat. She gagged and a violent coughing fit followed. It tasted horrid, as if she’d just drunk a bottle of perfume. She stared at the half full glass, half tempted to pour the obnoxious liquid onto the floor, but the memory of Tory’s fate spurred her on.

  She drained the glass to the last drop, thumped the empty glass back onto the table, and lifted her gaze to Rhys. A single cough made it past her resolve to ignore the burn.

  He lounged in his chair, studying her quietly, his drink untouched. Emma drew a long breath and waited. Voices murmured in the background. The tavern door opened and closed, each time bringing a shaft of light into the dim interior. Emma twisted her fingers. How long did whisky take to work its magic? Perhaps, she hadn’t imbibed enough. She reached for the Scotsman’s glass. He didn’t stop her, but merely watched as she downed the whiskey.

  She’d scarcely finished when a comforting warmth began to spread through her. Blessed be, she’d succeeded…almost. Still, she could think. For one night, at least, she needed to escape even that.

  “More,” she whispered.

  At first, the man across the table didn’t move. His sharp, dark eyes probed hers silently. Then, he rose and she watched him return to the bar. Why he indulged her was a mystery, but she didn’t much care. Not now. But then, perhaps he had nefarious motives? Alarm rippled over her. She knew, first hand, just how men took advantage of women.

  “Tarnal,” she swore, patting her pockets.

  Where was her gun? Tory’s gun? Realization dawned. She’d left her brother’s gun, his last gift, at Blackstone Abbey. She closed her eyes. She’d lost so much already, she couldn’t lose that last piece of her brother, as well. Emma lurched to her feet. The room spun. She gasped and reached for the table to steady herself, but her fingers closed on warm, hard muscle instead. Rhys had returned, looming large before her.

  “Have a care, lass.” His deep, booming voice made her wince.

  He placed a fresh glass of whiskey on the table, then gently guided her back to her seat.

  “The gun,” Emma blurted. “Tory’s gun.”

  Somewhere deep inside, a wee voice informed that of all people to walk God’s green Earth, she really shouldn’t mention the gun to that particular man. She shrugged the warning aside.

  “Tory’s gun. It’s all I have left of him. I must return to the abbey.”

  “Nae.” He shifted and withdrew something from his belt.

  The next moment, the gun lay o
n the table between them. Emma’s relief lasted seconds. Ah…the gun…the same one she’d pressed against his back. She swallowed hard.

  “It is yours.” He pushed the weapon closer.

  Emma closed her fingers around the familiar hilt. “Perhaps, I will attack you again,” she barely breathed the words.

  Their eyes locked.

  “Why, lass?”

  Emma stared and gripped the gun tighter. You killed my brother. She couldn’t say the words. To say them was to admit the end, to admit she was alone. Completely.

  “When Tory returns, he will settle this matter.” Again, she attempted to rise. Her legs felt like jelly. She collapsed back onto the chair. “I just want to forget,” she blurted.

  There was so much she didn’t want to remember: her father’s death, her foolish nights with the vicar, her brother… No. She’d never forget Tory, but she did want to forget the pain. Wordlessly, Rhys slid the whiskey across the table. This glass slid down much easier. A strange, soothing sense of numbness stole over her. She closed her eyes, clutching her brother’s gun in a death grip.

  “Shall I see you home, Miss Bamfield?” Rhys’ deep voice soothed like velvet.

  Home. Why go home? The silence of an empty house awaited her, along with a host of memories. Emma snorted a bitter laugh that came out as a gurgle followed by a hiccup. Suddenly, she was aware of the table’s rough surface flat against her cheek. God, her head felt heavy.

  “Surely, your father is worried?” he asked. “Or your husband?”

  Emma blinked. Father? If only he could fret over her absence…if only he were alive.

  “He’s dead,” she answered dully. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and whispered, “Too many memories.”

  Then, blessed darkness consumed her.

  ***

  Rhys eyed the beauty passed out on the table before him. Tory’s sister seemed so very far from settled and safely wed in a happy marriage as her brother had thought. Clearly, tragedy had befallen the lass. Had her husband died? The pain he’d seen in her eyes was so very much like his own. When had she last eaten a decent meal? She was far too thin and pale. Her hands, so delicate and slender, were roughened from hard work.

  He ran a hand over his face. He’d allowed Tory’s belief that his sister was safe give him an excuse not to face her. A quick glance at the window revealed darkness had fallen. He could cradle her in his arms and take her back to Blackstone Abbey. Nae. Too dangerous to travel at night.

  “Do you have rooms?” he asked the tavern keeper at the bar.

  The man crooked a lip of disapproval but cocked his brow at the key hanging on the wall. “Just the one. But one’s enough, I daresay.”

  Rhys silently placed a coin on the bar and took the key. The man wasn’t worth a response, and with Inverness a good distance away, Emma’s reputation risked little harm. He had no choice but to stay with her. Perhaps, it was just as well. In the morning, she might very well bolt before he could explain his intention to offer his help.

  Emma didn’t stir as he lifted her in his arms. She weighed scarcely more than a child. She didn’t wake as he carried her to the room and laid her gently on the bed.

  For the space of a minute, he stood over her, studying her face in the dim light spilling into the room from the open door. Even in sleep, she frowned.

  “Nae,” Emma moaned, eyes closed. “Nae. Tory. Nae.”

  Rhys pulled the blanket from beneath her, then pulled it up over her shoulders. After lighting a candle, he closed the door, then placed her gun on the rickety table beside the oil lamp and started a fire in the hearth. On the bed, Emma tossed. He shouldn’t have let her drink so much; yet, how could he deny her the chance to numb her pain? Suddenly, she sat up, looking decidedly green. He snagged the washbasin and reached her side in three, long strides.

  “Nae.” She lurched from the bed.

  He caught her as her knees buckled. Her breasts pressed soft against his chest.

  “Unhand me, scoundrel,” she slurred the words.

  “There you have it.” He guided her back to the bed. “You cannot order a scoundrel to go against his nature. Sit.” He dropped the basin into her lap. “You will need this.”

  He no sooner said the words than she doubled over and began to retch. He waited by the fire until the gagging and groans receded, then retrieved the basin and tossed its contents out the window. When he returned to the bed, she lay in a crumpled heap, cold sweat on her brow.

  “Forgive me, Tory,” he murmured, and drew the coverlet over her shoulders.

  He’d erred, but he would set matters right.

  Chapter Four

  The soft, gray morning light had begun to filter into the room when Rhys opened his eyes. He rolled free of his blanket and sat up on the floor. Emma lay as he’d left her, but the easy rise and fall of her chest signaled the nausea from the night before had passed. She was so tiny. He could almost span his hands around her waist. His eyes caught on the swell of her breasts and his cock stirred. He rose.

  Her eyes opened. Confusion passed over her face, followed quickly by a scowl. “What are you doing here?” she asked. She sat up, her red hair tumbling over her shoulders.

  “Your brother was my friend,” he answered as he adjusted his plaid. “I will honor him by—”

  “It is your fault that he’s gone,” she interrupted. Her chin trembled. “If you hadn’t deserted him, he would be alive.”

  Rhys ignored the tightening in his chest and said in a calm voice, “So, you have heard the rumors.”

  “Rumors?” she scoffed. “You deny that you are a coward? I wager you ran to the first tavern you could find and drank yourself into a stupor.”

  She wasn’t that wrong, but he said, “You were the one drinking last night. Not me.”

  “You-I— That proves nothing.”

  “Blame for the tragedy that got your brother—and many other valiant men—killed lies at the feet of another man,” he said.

  “I have it on good account the fault is yours,” she spat. “You abandoned your men on the field, my brother among them.”

  Rhys crossed to the bed and pointed at the scar on his cheek. “This stands testament that I was there.” He stopped short of saying her brother died in his arms while guns exploded around them.

  Her eyes blazed, but she said nothing more.

  “I will wait in the tavern to escort you home.” He started toward the door.

  “I have no need for an escort,” she said. “I am hardly a lady.”

  He paused, hand on the knob, and looked over his shoulder at her. “I beg to differ. You are Tory’s sister.”

  “I am a seamstress and a washerwoman,” she said fiercely. “Not to mention, a fallen woman.”

  He cocked a brow.

  She shrugged, but the tightness around her mouth belied the nonchalance she sought to portray. “Really, there is no need to watch over me,” her voice broke and she turned her head aside.

  Rhys hesitated, then left her to her grief.

  ***

  Emma urged the gelding over the Waterloo Bridge and down the streets of Inverness toward the sheep market. The Highlander had followed her every step of the way. She frowned. The man bothered her. Not because he’d followed, but because his voice and words held the ring of truth and, unlike Lord Munro, he’d treated her with respect. He’d exhibited no leering, suggestive looks, nor ogling. Instead, Rhys offered what appeared to be genuine concern for her welfare. So much so, she couldn’t shake him from her trail. She’d tried. Damn it all, she’d tried, but her hired gelding was no match for his mount.

  Growing more unsettled by the moment, she trotted beneath the pines that bordered the bank of the River Ness, past the limestone walls of her place of employment, the Royal Northern Infirmary. She still had a basket of linens to mend. She’d have to burn a candle to complete all the repairs before morning.

  Emma heaved a sigh and tossed a quick glance over her shoulder. Rhys still followed. She locked her
eyes ahead. Had Lord Munro deliberately misled her? In truth, he seemed more the coward than did the determined man who rode behind her. And ‘stinkpot’? Tory never would have shared her pet nickname with a man he didn’t trust.

  She turned her horse’s head down Ballifeary Lane and trotted past Mrs. Babcock’s boarding house, the smithy, then stopped before the livery from which she’d hired the gelding. The return of the horse took only a few minutes, the monstrous Scotsman waiting at a polite distance all the while. Then, ignoring her escort, she hurried home through the small alleyway that led to the back of her family’s shop. The clop and snort of a horse behind warned that Rhys followed her to her very door.

  Emma whirled. “This is home.” She squinted up at him. “You may go.”

  Rhys eyed her, his face impassive. He leaned an arm against the pummel and slowly surveyed the shop, the woodshed and the stable. Emma inwardly winced. He couldn’t miss the weeds that had sprung up in the yard and the missing shingles on the shop roof. She’d let the place fall into disrepair. Her father and Tory would have been displeased at how much the place had deteriorated.

  “You may go,” she said.

  His eyes returned to hers. “I promised Tory to see you safe.”

  He should have seen Tory safe.

  “I will not dishonor him, lass.” He cast another glance around. “I cannot leave you like this.”

  His gentleness summoned tears. Emma turned away. “It is easy to leave.” She stepped up to the fence and walked her fingers across the stones. “See? So simple. Like this. Walk away.” Everyone else had. She turned toward the door.

  “I will not leave a lady stranded and defenseless,” Rhys said quietly.

  Emma’s throat closed and tears stung her eyes. She raced into the shop and up the narrow stairs to her room. At the door, she stopped, heart pounding. Sight of her mother’s French mirrored armoire by the window loosed the tears. How many nights had her mother sat in the wicker rocking chair next to the bed singing Emma to sleep? Aside from the two years she’d spent at Lady Peddington’s School for Young Ladies, she’d slept in this room her entire life.

  Now, the cherished memories choked like a noose around her neck. There was no reason to hold onto the shop. The small savings her father had left her were almost gone. With her wages from the infirmary, she could afford only the smallest of rooms in Mrs. Babcock’s boarding house.