Sweet Hellion (The Marriage Maker Book 26)

by Tarah Scott

  Emma flung herself across her bed and buried her face in the down-filled pillow and cried.

  When Emma’s eyes fluttered open, she turned her head toward the window. Gray clouds hung in the sky, but sweet, fresh air wafted in. It might rain and Tory would—

  The thought cut off. Tory wasn’t here. Tory was dead.

  The shop’s front door slammed. She bolted upright. Hadn’t she locked the door?

  Rhys.

  Emma jumped to her feet and hurried to the window. She drew the curtains aside and peered down into the street. The horse grazing at the tying post wasn’t Rhys’s. This animal was a fine beast, its saddle well made. Whoever its owner was, he would find no wheels to purchase or mend here…not anymore. She went out the door and started down the stairs, but paused halfway down at hearing the murmur of men’s voices.

  “I will no longer bear the blame for your cowardice,” Rhys’s deep voice filtered to her.

  Emma tiptoed down three more steps and peered into the shop below. Rhys stood, his back to her, as he faced a man dressed in a navy coat and a blue silk cravat. The man shifted, and she caught her breath.

  Lord Munro.

  “Mere words,” the viscount said. “No one will listen to a deserter.”

  “The truth has an odd way of being found,” Rhys murmured.

  Lord Munro smirked. “Have you not been disinherited by your own father?”

  Disinherited by his father? Who was his father?

  Rhys remained silent.

  “Your reputation is in shreds,” Lord Munro’s voice took on a gloating edge as he clasped his hands behind his back.

  “The blood of my men is on your hands, Munro.”

  Emma held her breath. Lord Munro was responsible?

  The viscount’s mouth thinned. “You should have died with them.”

  Rhys folded his arms across his chest. “You will wish I had died with them. Until then, sleep well—if you can. Go and do not return.”

  Lord Munro hesitated, then whirled, yanked open the door and strode out.

  She’d disliked him immediately. She should have known. Emma sank down onto the stairs. Good God. She’d nearly killed the wrong man. She closed her eyes and drew in a shaky breath. When she lifted her lashes again, she found Rhys at the bottom step, peering up at her.

  “Captain Macleod,” she breathed.

  “Rhys,” he corrected. “I am captain no longer.”

  “You should be.” She gripped the banister and pulled herself to her feet. “You have been slandered.” She dropped her voice into a whisper, “I believed him. I thought…I thought—oh God, forgive me. I—”

  “Hush, lass,” he cut in. “There is naught to forgive.” He turned away.

  Emma hurried down the remaining stairs. “But I tried to kill you.”

  “You thought you had cause.” He strode across the shop to a pile of stokes on the workbench next to a broken carriage wheel.

  Emma blinked. Where had the wheel come from? Why had he brought stokes from the shed?

  “What are you doing?”

  He reached for a mallet hanging on the wall. “I am mending a wheel.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the wheel needs mending,” he answered mildly as he inspected the mallet.

  Emma stared.

  After a minute, his dark eyes met hers. “I have no coin to give you, lass, but I can offer the sweat from my back. There are plenty of wheels that need a mending.”

  “You’re mad,” she whispered, even as a thread of hope bloomed in her heart. To have someone to help her…if only for a little while…even though, now, there truly wasn’t a reason to hold onto the shop. The thought brought a weight crashing down upon her shoulders. Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe.

  “Tory’s not coming home, is he?”

  She began to cry great, heaving sobs that wracked her body. Strong arms encircled her. Emma tried to push away, but he pulled her tight against his chest. She wept until her sides and chest ached, releasing a deep well of pain she'd carried since the day her father had died.

  “I do not cry,” she swore through sobs.

  When she quieted, he drew back and brushed her tears away with the back of his hand. His gentleness released a fresh onslaught of tears. She buried her face in his chest and dug her fingers into his plaid, anchoring him there so he couldn’t leave. It had been so long since she’d felt comfort, the touch of another human.

  Chapter Five

  The wee lass felt so frail in his arms. For a time, he simply held her as he’d held the widows of his men after he had told them their men had died. Wars were fought on the battlefield as well as on the hearths of homes. Finally, Emma lifted her head, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen.

  “Perhaps you should rest.” He nodded toward the stairs.

  She shook her head and stepped out of his arms. “I have mending that is long overdue. Already, I will be up half the night.”

  His gaze dropped to her hands, far too roughened for his liking. She was fit for the parlor and entertaining in a drawing room, not laboring long after dark. After dark she should be in his bed—

  He started from his thoughts. Bloody hell, he’d promised Tory he would ensure his sister’s safety, not bed her. Rhys turned and returned to the wheel he’d been working on. He’d promised to have it mended on the morrow.

  “I will stay until matters are settled,” he said.

  “Matters?” she said, but before he could reply, she added, “I cannot ask you to leave your home. Your friends will worry about you.”

  He shook his head. “I sent them a message from the tavern. They know I am in Inverness.” Rhys realized how his earlier words might be misconstrued, and added, “I will work in the shop, but will find lodgings nearby. I didnae mean to be presumptuous.”

  “Nonsense.” Emma pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose as she nodded down the narrow hall opposite the stairs. “Father kept a room for apprentices there. You are welcome to stay.”

  Rhys hesitated. “Your reputation…”

  Emma snorted. “I am a fallen woman. Besides, you will be in the shop and I will stay above.”

  He didn’t like the arrangement, yet neither did he care for Munro sniffing around the place. The lass was exceptionally beautiful. No doubt, the man intended to take advantage of her situation.

  “For a bit, then,” he agreed. Only until he was certain Munro wouldn’t return.

  “That’s settled, then,” she said. “I will make some porridge. I have nothing else, at the moment.” Without waiting for his response, she disappeared down the hall.

  She had only porridge? Rhys expelled a breath. This would be the last day she would eat just porridge.

  When Rhys woke the next morning, the first thing he noticed was how rested he felt. Had he slept so well in months…or even years? He’d worked long into the night, finishing the wheel as Emma sewed silently in the corner, taking care to share the candlelight. The lass lived so frugally. She’d clearly struggled to hold onto the shop. That she’d held onto it for Tory tugged at his heart.

  He rose and washed in a bucket of water Emma had drawn from the well, then returned to the shop. He set the finished wheel outside, then began organizing the shop. After a time, he realized that the continued silence from the floor above meant Emma had left already. Rhys rolled up his sleeves. She needed a husband. How he might procure one for her stumped him, but he would find her one, nonetheless. Meanwhile, he could mend wheels.

  The day passed quickly, and before the evening church bells rang, he’d sharpened the tools, collected his fee for the mended wheel, and procured work for the next three days. He’d just returned from introducing himself to the blacksmith when he spied Lord Munro’s horse, tied outside the shop’s front door. Bloody hell. Rhys strode inside and followed the voices that emanated from the kitchen.

  He arrived as Emma said, “Only a dishonorable man would make such an offer. You, sir, are no gentleman.” Her blue eyes fla
shed as she faced Lord Munro, who stood with his back to the door. A table arrayed with bowls, cups and baking goods separated them.

  “Come, now. You’re well versed in the ways of men.” Lord Munro lunged toward her.

  Rhys leapt after him, but before he could intervene, Emma snatched a wooden bowl from the table and swung it at the man’s head. At the resounding smack, Lord Munro staggered back, swearing, and crashed into Rhys.

  Munro spun. “Macleod, what are you doing here?”

  “I am here to defend the lady’s honor.” Rhys glanced at Emma. “But I see she has the situation in hand.”

  Munro’s head snapped in Emma’s direction. “So, you have taken up with him. You’re the whore I knew you were, lifting your ski—”

  “Silence!” Rhys grabbed him by the back of the collar and dragged him down the hallway toward the door.

  Munro twisted in an effort to free himself. Rhys grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back. Emma raced ahead and yanked the door open. Rhys shoved him out the door and into the street. The man sprawled onto the cobblestones. He scrambled to his feet.

  “This is my final warning,” Rhys said. “Never return.”

  Fury burned in Munro’s eyes. He stared for two heartbeats, then yanked his horse’s reins free of the post, mounted, and clattered away without a backwards glance.

  Rhys closed the door, then faced Emma. Her face had gone ashen.

  “No need to fear, lass. Even he isn’t fool enough to return,” Rhys said, but he wasn’t so sure he spoke the truth.

  Emma swallowed, her slender throat working. “He is right, you know.”

  “I doubt the man has been right about anything a day in his life.”

  “I am a fallen woman,” she whispered.

  Rhys cocked a brow. Somehow, he found such a claim hard to believe, especially from a lass who gagged on whisky.

  She kept her gaze downcast. “You aren’t obligated to help me. I…erred. With the vicar. I thought we were to be wed.” She gave a mirthless laugh. “As it happened, he was wed already. Now…well, I am ruined.”

  The vicar? A surge of primal protectiveness took him by surprise. In his gentlest of tones, he said, “Nae, you’re hardly ruined, lass, and there is no need for your confession.”

  “No man wants a woman like me.”

  Rhys snorted. “Simply because you fell prey to one man’s sweet words?”

  “I must sell the shop, take a room at Mrs. Babcock’s boarding house, and—”

  “Nae,” he interrupted. “You must find a husband.” How could she not? Not only was she bonny, she had a warrior’s spirit locked in that tiny, voluptuous body. His blood stirred. “I assure you, there are men aplenty who would cherish you,” his voice came out unexpectedly hoarse.

  Emma shifted her gaze to the bowl she held in her hand and lifted her brow, as if just realizing she held it. “I should have struck him harder. I wanted to. How I wanted to… So, why couldn’t I?”

  “Perhaps, because you’re not a murderer,” he said.

  Her blue eyes locked with his.

  “If you were, I wouldn’t be walking about.” He flashed a teasing smile.

  Color tinged her cheeks. “I apologize—”

  He shook his head. “I expect nothing less from Tory’s sister.”

  Surprise shone in her eyes and her expression softened. God, she was beautiful. His cock twitched in agreement. He slid his gaze over her body. Christ, was he openly gawking at Tory’s sister?

  He quickly turned away. “I have wheels to mend.”

  God help him, he would not let himself think of Tory’s wee sister with lust.

  He would care for her as a brother…nothing more.

  Chapter Six

  Emma perused the market stalls, her basket tucked under her arm. Salted fish, butter, eggs, and plum brandy. If she could find some currants and suet at a fair price, she would make a pudding. Worry niggled. Her meager funds wouldn’t last long if she overspent, not to mention, the infirmary didn’t need her to scrub floors the next two days. Still, they had sent a fair bit of mending.

  She caught sight of clusters of beautiful currants two stalls down and started toward the stall, but slowed when she noticed the woman in the stall to the right staring. Emma ran a hand over her hair but found her chignon tightly in place at the base of her neck. Was something wrong with her clothes? The woman whispered something to a younger woman to her right.

  Emma reached the vegetable stall and stopped in front of the currants. Despite the fast beat of her pulse, her mouth watered at sight of the succulent fruit. It had been so very long since she’d had pudding. Surely, it wouldn’t hurt to indulge just this once. After all, Rhys deserved more than bread and thin stew after all his hard work.

  After a fair bit of haggling, she purchased the currants, as well as suet, then turned and sauntered along the rest of the stalls. Mrs. Muir, who sold eggs, cheese and butter at a stall just down the way locked eyes with her, then abruptly turned away. Confusion gave way to a sense of déjà vu and Emma recalled another day much like today when she’d passed three acquaintances on the street who had looked at her and immediately begun whispering. She’d quickly realized that they had learned of her indiscretion with the vicar. But she hadn’t been indiscreet, so what—

  “Emma? Emma, lass?”

  Emma stopped, turned to face Mrs. Babcock and smiled. “Good day, Mrs. Babcock.”

  The middle-aged woman adjusted her market basket more comfortably into the crook of her arm. “A right good day to you, Emma. Got yourself a wheelwright, now, I hear.”

  Emma tensed, but nodded politely. “Aye, Mrs. Babcock.”

  Mrs. Babcock leaned in close and dropped her voice, “I heard ‘tis Rhys Macleod working for you.” A righteous light lit the older woman’s eyes. “He is a traitor. Deserted his men on the battlefield.”

  “That is a false rumor,” Emma said between tight lips.

  Mrs. Babcock gave her a pitying look. “I know you are lonely. We all…understood about Vicar Ramsay.”

  “Indeed?” Emma said before catching herself.

  Since her indiscretion, not a single gentleman had approached her. The stares and whisperings had died, but her social life had never been the same.

  “But this man,” Mrs. Babcock was saying, “well, for you to throw yourself at a man who deserts dying men on the battlefield is like harboring the enemy. I understand, of course. You are young. But others are talking. You know how cruel people can be.”

  “Indeed, I do,” Emma replied coldly.

  The woman blinked, then her mouth thinned. “There is no need to take that tone with me. You may recall, I warned you about the vicar. If you had listened to me then, you would not be easy prey for men like this traitor.”

  “I am surprised that you believe such vicious gossip, Mrs. Babcock. To find a man guilty before hearing his side of the story…” Emma lifted a brow.

  Mrs. Babcock straightened. “You cannot deny that the two of you are living together—alone.”

  “I am a ruined woman. What difference does it make?”

  “It is time you face the truth,” the older woman said. “He will cast you aside just as Vicar Ramsay did. Sell the shop and move into my boarding house and be content working at the infirmary.”

  This was not the first time Mrs. Babcock had insisted Emma move into her boarding house. Emma had thought Mrs. Babcock was looking after her, but now, there was something about the older woman’s demeanor—

  “You need time to consider your actions.”

  Emma jarred from her thoughts. Consider her actions?

  “If you continue down this path, Mrs. Worsley will have no choice but to discharge you from the infirmary. As you can imagine, no respectable man would consider you as wife. Now, if you were living at my boarding house where I could vouch for you, that would put an end to all the gossip.”

  “Discharge me?” Emma blurted.

  “You cannot blame her, Emma. She has the in
firmary’s reputation—and her own—to consider.”

  Emma whirled and walked away.

  “Well, I never…” Mrs. Babcock began, but Emma kept walking.

  Mrs. Worsley will have no choice but to discharger her? Emma’s head whirled. Rhys had been with her but one day. How had news traveled so quickly? She’d been devastated when people had shunned her after her affair with Joseph, but she hadn’t been completely surprised. Only doxies allowed a man other than their husbands to bed them. But Rhys had been here a single day. How had Mrs. Worsley heard the news?

  Rhys. How dare people talk about him like that? From the moment they had met, he had been a paragon of chivalry, even to the point of defending her honor. She would never forget the sight of him tossing Lord Munro through her door. When the man had ended up sprawled in the street, Emma had wanted to cry. In that moment, she no longer felt alone. How long would that feeling last? How long would he stay? He’d said she needed a husband. Would he stay until she married? That would be never.

  Emma reached home and paused outside the back door. She couldn’t let Rhys know what Mrs. Babcock had said. Emma forced her shoulders to loosen, then opened the door and stepped inside. Rhys’s whistling wafted to her from the front of the shop. Her heart constricted. If only she could come home every day to find Rhys Macleod whistling while he worked. But good men wanted good women. Tears pressed against the backs of her eyes. She willed the tears away and forced her feet toward the kitchen.

  She began preparing the currant pudding and the stew planned for supper. Soon, the kitchen filled with the delicious smells of pudding, baking bread, and onions and meat with potatoes. She opened the oven door and the comforting warm air wafted over her. The rolls had risen nicely and had begun to brown.

  “What smells so good?” a male voice said behind her.

  Emma slammed the oven door and whirled. Rhys stood in the doorway, dressed in his green, belted kilt, a handsome, virile monster of a man.