by Tarah Scott
She placed a hand over her racing heart. “You gave me a fright.”
He flashed a sheepish smile. “You cannot blame a man for following such wonderful smells. By God, lass, if the bread tastes as good as it smells, I will follow you anywhere.”
Heat crept up her cheeks. “I am a fair cook.”
“Then we will get along well. I will wash up for supper.”
Emma nodded, unable to speak. He turned and she couldn’t tear her eyes from the sway of his kilt against his muscled calves. He turned and disappeared down the hallway. She released the breath she hadn’t realized she held. What was this spell he seemed to cast over her? She’d met handsome men before. The vicar was quite handsome. Her stomach turned with the memory. The vicar’s beauty would always be marred by his dark soul. She shook off the thought and continued the preparation of the meal.
Minutes later, bootfalls approached and Rhys entered the kitchen.
“Wine?”
She glanced over her shoulder. He nodded at the bottle on the table.
“A wee bit,” she said.
Emma hurried to set the table, then placed the newspaper she’d purchased on the table beside Rhys’s plate. He’d worked hard. He would enjoy reading the paper. The title “Man Forgets His Name” caught her eye. Intrigued, she squinted at the tiny lettering and scanned the article.
“What has caught your attention?”
She glanced up to see Rhys peering down at her from an arm’s length away. The evening shadows played over his face, emphasizing his scar. Most often, scars marred the beauty of those who bore them, but with Rhys, the purple line only served to strengthen the dangerous mystery about the man. She knew so little about him. Only what she’d heard in the market that day when she’d learned he lived at Blackstone Abbey, plus the lies Lord Munro had told.
“Miss Bamfield?” he prompted.
“Just a strange story.” She smoothed the newspaper. “A man has forgotten his name.”
Rhys stepped forward. Suddenly aware of his nearness, she hurried to the stove and lifted the lid on the stew. Steam rose in a cloud. A shadow fell across the stove in the instant before he stepped up beside her and drew in a deep breath.
“I have never smelled anything better.”
Emma smiled up at him. “I hope you like it.”
“I will.”
He turned away and, from the corner of her eye, she watched him lower himself into the chair at the table. He picked up the paper.
“Perhaps, ‘tis better that way,” he murmured.
Emma started to ask what he meant, then understood. “You will clear your name.” She recalled what Lord Munro had said about his father disinheriting him. “Who is your father?”
His head snapped up. “Why do you ask?”
Tension knotted in her shoulders, again. “I… Lord Munro said your father had disinherited you.”
“Munro is a fool.”
That didn’t answer her question, but she nodded. “Why hasn’t he been arrested for his crimes?”
“No witnesses.”
“Other than you?” she murmured.
“Aye. But the truth has a way of being found out.”
The truth about her and the vicar had come to light all too quickly. She removed the pudding from the pan of water, then eased it from its baking pan onto a plate.
When she set the plate on the table, Rhys paused in filling her glass with wine and looked at her in surprise. “Currant pudding?”
Emma nodded.
He looked at the pudding again like a child at Christmas. “I havenae had currant pudding since I was a child.”
Emma laughed. He was like a child on Christmas.
He filled his wine cup while she served the stew and rolls, then he dug into his food with the same gusto her brother used to demonstrate. Emma found she had to eat slowly in order to swallow past the lump in her throat.
He was biting into his third roll when he looked up and frowned. He swallowed the mouthful and said, “What is amiss, lass?”
Emma shook her head. “Nothing.”
“I’m a man, but even I can see something is wrong.”
She couldn’t help a small smile. “Nothing is wrong, sir, I just—”
“Sir?” he cut in. “When did I become ‘sir’?”
Emma shrugged. “Since I decided I don’t want to kill you, I realized I must address you with respect.”
He lifted a brow. “Indeed?”
She nodded.
“What if I prefer that you call me Rhys?”
Emma sighed. She did like the way his name felt on her tongue.
“Rhys.”
Relief flooded his expression and Emma realized he was pleased. When had she last made a man happy? Had she ever made Joseph happy? Fear twisted through her belly. People like Mrs. Babcock would never let her forget her mistake. Would Mrs. Worsley truly discharge her? Should she ask Rhys to leave? Could she ask Rhys to leave? The thought brought a stab of sadness that startled her. She’d known the man less than three days. How could she possibly be so attached to him? Was she just lonely? Rhys took another bite of his roll and his eyes lit with delight. He was so easy to please. He spooned more stew into his mouth and Emma couldn’t help a laugh.
“Your manners are atrocious, sir,” she emphasized the ‘sir.’.
He nodded. “Aye, you will have to forgive me. I seldom sup with my comrades at Blackstone Abbey.” His eyes twinkled. “They are newly married and prefer time alone with their wives.”
She dropped her gaze. Lord, what was wrong with her?
“Forgive me, lass,” he said. “I did not mean to be improper.”
Emma took a bite of her stew. “No need to fear. You weren’t improper. How did you come to know your friends at Blackstone Abbey?”
“We fought at Almeida, then met at the infirmary in Edinburgh.”
“They were there when Lord Munro deserted you? Are they not witnesses?”
He shook his head. The battle was large. We were not all in the same place. If they had been there…” He shrugged. “What of you, Emma? What have you done with yourself since Tory left? He was certain your father would see ye safely wed.”
Emma drew a deep breath against the need to cry. “Papa died less than a year after Tory left.”
He halted in lifting the glass of wine to his lips. “Lass, I am a fool. I should have known.”
He looked at her with such compassion that her heart squeezed.
Was it so wrong that she wanted him to stay? She’d been wrong about Joseph, more wrong than she could have thought possible. Surely, she wasn’t wrong about Rhys Macleod.
She recalled Mrs. Babcock saying, “He will cast you aside just as Vicar Ramsay did.”
He wouldn’t, would he?
He might not mean to, but he would. He had a real life to return to. Perhaps Mrs. Babcock was right in her advice that she sell the shop. She could take what little money she got and go somewhere new. Start her own new life. But where? Even if she did that, could she lie to another man about her innocence?
A knock on the front door pulled her from her thoughts.
She started to rise, but Rhys shook his head. “Stay, lass. I will see who it is.”
Emma remained seated, but her heart raced. It wasn’t terribly late, but she never had visitors after dark.
The murmur of men’s voices drifted back to her. Could it be Lord Munro? Nae, the conversation wouldn’t be quiet. She heard another voice. Was that a woman? Emma rose and crept down the hallway. The door came into sight and she stopped short. Mrs. Babcock, a basket in hand, and her husband stood just inside the doorway.
Mrs. Babcock’s eyes locked onto Emma. “Emma, my dear,” she crooned. “How nice to see you.”
Emma approached them, then halted. “Mrs. Babcock,” she replied in a light tone she was far from feeling. “Mister Babcock.”
Mister Babcock gave a slight bow. “A pleasure to see you, Miss Bamfield.”
Emma looked ba
ck to Mrs. Babcock. “I didn’t expect you.”
“I know, dear. Please forgive the intrusion, but after our disagreement today, I hated to leave you so upset.”
Emma felt Rhys’s gaze on her, but said to Mrs. Babcock, “You are mistaken, Mrs. Babcock, I was not upset.”
“Is she not brave?” the older woman said, her voice all admiration. “Well, we just stopped by to give you this.” She thrust the basket toward Emma.
If not for Rhys, she would have told her to keep her gifts, but Emma couldn’t fuel Rhys’s curiosity, so she took the basket and looked inside to find freshly baked shortbread.
Emma looked up at her and smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Babcock.”
Before Emma could stop her, the older woman pulled her into a hug and whispered into her ear, “If you are in any need, tell me now and my husband and I will take you away from here.”
Emma pulled back. “Thank you. Captain Macleod and I will enjoy the shortbread.”
Frustration flicked in her eyes, but Mrs. Babcock smiled and said, “That’s just fine. Well, we will be off. I hope to see you in the market again tomorrow, Emma.”
Emma nodded, and Rhys held the door until they’d left, then closed and locked it. They retuned to the kitchen and Emma put the short bread on the counter, then took her seat at the table.
“You and Mrs. Babcock met one another in the market today.”
Emma nodded and spooned stew into her mouth.
“And you were upset.”
“She’s a shameless gossip. I refused to listen and left her standing in the street.”
“Gossip, eh?” He sipped his wine. “Gossip about me.”
It wasn’t a question. Her cheeks flushed. “I was…warned about your character.”
He nodded slowly.
“Mrs. Babcock is cruel and spiteful,” she said.
“Are they not your friends?” he asked as he picked up another roll and tore it apart.
She snorted. “Friends do not abandon one another.”
“Nae,” he replied.
Emma finished her wine and refilled their glasses. “I find life is far more pleasant if I ignore most people.”
He laughed. “Aye, that is true.”
She liked his deep, masculine, genuine laugh. Her gaze caught on his mouth. What would it be like to kiss those lips? Emma realized she was staring and yanked her gaze up to his eyes. Amusement danced there. She picked up her wine and drank half its contents in two swallows.
His brows rose. “Remember what happened the last time you abused liquor.”
“Oh, this is a different matter, altogether,” she said.
“Indeed?”
She nodded. “I am very accustomed to wine.”
Sips of wine, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. Tomorrow, she would scrub floors at the infirmary in preparation for the charity event celebrating the opening of the new ward. She was glad for the extra coin, even though her hands would suffer from the lye soap. But that was tomorrow.
“Tell me about Tory,” she said.
He tensed.
Emma straightened. “Oh, no, please, do not become angry.”
“I am not angry,” he whispered.
“Is it so difficult for you to tell me what he was like as a soldier?”
“Aye, it is difficult,” he said, but his face relaxed. “He was a brave man.”
“Of course, he was,” she said. “I once saw him fight ten men and win.”
His brows shot up. “Ten?”
“Perhaps fewer, but I was ten years old and it seemed like ten.”
He laughed. “He was a fierce warrior and a crack shot.” A faraway look filled his eyes. “I could well believe he could beat ten men. He killed many more before leaving this world.” He cleared his throat. “Forgive me.”
Emma shook her head. “It is I who should be begging your forgiveness. I should never have tried to kill you.”
He chuckled. “You are not the first to try and probably will not be the last.”
“Don’t say that,” she said. “If anyone tries to hurt you, I will kill them.”
His mouth twitched in amusement.
She lifted her chin. “You do not believe me.”
“I do, indeed, believe you, and I pity the man who you decide to kill.”
Like him?
Chapter Seven
Rhys knew it would be wise to return to the shop and work off the lust raging through his body, but if he rose, the lass wouldn’t be able to miss his hardened cock poking his kilt. The woman was too damned beautiful. What in God’s name was he going to do with her? He knew exactly what he wanted to do with her. Given the way she was looking at him, she entertained the same thoughts. Well, she was a woman, so perhaps not exactly the same thoughts.
He finished his wine and refilled their glasses.
She drank half her glass, then said, “I received three letters from him. He told me of a friend called ange vengeur.”
Rhys started.
Her face lit. “I know it was you.”
“Lass—”
She shook her head. “Did you kill the man who murdered Tory, ange vengeur?”
Murdered? Were they not all guilty of murder? He recalled carrying Tory from the raging battle, then lowering him the ground and kneeling beside him. After Tory went limp, Rhys had charged back into the battle, sword cutting down everyone in his path. Had he avenged his friend’s death? Could a man every truly avenge death?
Emma waited, expression hopeful. Like so many, she viewed the men they warred with as a real enemy, men who weren’t like them. Men who were somehow more at fault for the war then they were.
“Aye,” he replied.
Perhaps it wasn’t a lie. Perhaps he had done all a man could do to balance the scales. He thought of Munro. Nae. As long as that man walked free, the scales would remain unbalanced.
“Thank you for being his friend,” she murmured.
“What?”
Moisture glistened in her eyes. “He always said that the most a man could hope for was to die alongside a friend.”
Rhys locked gazes with her. “He was more of a friend to me than I was to him.”
She shook her head. “Nae, you are being hard on yourself.”
Rhys stood. “Your brother died saving my life.”
Silence hung heavy in the air.
Finally, she said, “What happened?”
Rhys hesitated. He wanted to retreat to the work room, throw himself into more backbreaking work and, most importantly, forget. Instead, he sat back down and began a tale he’d never shared.
“We were far outnumbered,” he began. “I didn’t believe I would live through the battle. No one did, I wager. We had been fighting what seemed hours, though it couldn’t have been even a single hour, when a man pointed a pistol at me.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “‘Tis strange the things a man notices in the fray. I was fighting for my life with my sword, yet I saw the man as clear as day.
“There was nowhere to run. Men surrounded me, our men, fighting for their lives. Nowhere for me to go, yet the shooter had a clear line of sight. Even with the battle raging, I heard the weapon blast. That’s when Tory dove in front of me. I shoved him aside, but too late. The bullet lodged in his heart.” Rhys looked at her. “I am no ange vengeur, lass. I should have died.”
Without another word, he rose and went to the small room where he slept. Rhys closed the door with a soft click and faced the room. Thin moonlight spilled in through the half open window. He crossed to the bed against the right wall and threw himself onto the mattress. He had to leave as quickly as possible. He never should have come here. But he couldn’t leave her at Munro’s mercy.
He could send her to Blackstone Abbey. The women would take care of her. Perhaps they could find her a husband. He would work the shop and send her the money. He owed her that much.
A light knock on the door caused him to jump.
“Go away, lass,” he said
The knob ji
ggled. He bolted upright when the door opened. She stepped into the room. With the scant hallway light behind her, he couldn’t read her expression.
“I am sorry,” Rhys said. “I should have told you the truth the moment we met. You were right to try and kill me. I shouldn’t be alive.”
She said not a word, but crossed the room to where he stood. When she reached for him, he staggered back a pace, but she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.
She laid her cheek against his chest and held tight. “I miss him, too.”
He tensed when he realized she was softly crying. “Emma.”
“He does not blame you,” she whispered. “Neither do I.”
Her slim arms tightened about him and Rhys found himself wrapping his arms around her. He buried his face in her hair and did something he hadn’t done since childhood: he cried.
“What happened to his body?” she asked in a whisper he almost missed.
Rhys closed his eyes against the pain in his chest. “I dinnae know, lass. I threw myself back into the battle and woke three days later in a Portuguese hospital, the battle over. In the week I was there, Munro never visited.” Anger rose anew at the memory. “I was sent back home to the Royal Infirmary in Edinburgh. That is where I met Ewan.”
He expected her to break free of his arms and tell him he was a traitor for leaving his friend—her brother—to be buried in a potters field in a foreign country. Instead, her arms tightened around him. She shifted and he looked down at her. In the faint moonlight, he fancied he could discern a glitter in her eyes. She lifted on tiptoe and he froze when she pressed her mouth against his.
She slid her hands from his back and up his chest. By the time she wrapped her arms around his neck, he was breathing heavily. Blood pounded in his ears.
“Emma—”
“I want you,” she whispered.
Rhys swung her into his arms and carried Emma back to bed, his cock so hard, the swelling bordered on pain. They’d scarcely landed on the mattress before he kissed her. She sucked his tongue into her mouth and he groaned.
Rhys covered one breast with his hand and kneaded her soft flesh. She made a mewling sound that nearly drove him over the edge. She pushed at his chest. His head spun. Had she changed her mind? Emma shoved him onto his back. His heart thundered as she made quick work of the buttons on his shirt then parted the fabric. She unbuckled his belt, and he lifted his hips as she pulled it free of his kilt then tossed it aside. Rhys sloughed off his kilt. Emma pulled her dress over her head.
