And yet, the Devil of the Highlands had been bested by a willowy lass, his widowed cook, and his own beribboned miniature hellion.
Scowling, Jamie poured whisky in a glass, settled into a well-worn wingchair in his library, and studied the oil painting displayed over the mantel of the fireplace, a portrait his mum had hidden away many years before—an image of the pirate captain who’d been his mother’s beloved great-grandfather. Seamus MacDougall had made his name on the high seas a century before Jamie had taken his first breath. A descendent of Shaw MacDougall, the pirate who’d been dubbed the Savage of the Sea, Seamus had been an intimidating sea captain and a fearsome enemy of any who dared oppose him. When James’s mum had been a wee girl sitting at his knee, drinking in his tales of adventure and mayhem, Seamus had been an old man. Of course, the elderly pirate had left out the bloodshed and softened the violence of those wild times, she later told James. Though she’d often asked how he’d come to have a hook where his left hand had once been, her grandfather had spared her the ugly details, focusing on his days of glory. Seamus MacDougall’s heroism in the war against Napoleon had garnered him a title that had meant little to the Scot. He’d walked away from the pirate’s life, retiring to this castle on the eastern coast of the Highlands and living out his life in peace.
Just as Jamie had done seven years earlier.
Damned shame fate had no intention of leaving him in peace.
He downed a hearty draught of the warm amber liquid. He’d left the pirate’s life behind, and all for a woman—a beauty, as pure of heart as she was lovely. Staring at the crystal tumbler, he cursed himself for a maudlin fool. He’d seen enough death to grow hardened to it.
Until it took away the woman he’d loved.
He hadn’t deserved Siobhan. After the things he’d done in his life, the sins he’d committed, he didn’t merit the love of a good woman.
And in the end, he’d destroyed her.
“Damnation,” he muttered. With another curse under his breath, he hurled the vessel at the fireplace. Glass shattered against the stone.
Blast it, he was weak.
“Thinkin’ too much again, eh?” his brother asked as he strode across the uncarpeted planks.
Jamie shot his brother a glare. “Bugger off.”
“What’s turned yer mood so foul?”
“I shouldna have given that lass my word.” Jamie stretched out his legs and laced his fingers behind his head. “Allowin’ her ten days under my roof was a mistake.”
“Ye were right to give her a chance. Those wee lasses need a woman to guide them,” Rory said, his tone measured and thoughtful.
“A woman to guide them? What precisely is Mrs. Taylor if not a woman?”
Rory frowned. “Mrs. Taylor doesna have a way with bairns. She was no different when I was a lad.”
“I dinna understand it.” Jamie rubbed his temples. “What could be so blasted hard about keeping two wee lasses from wreaking havoc?”
Rory chuckled. “Those wee lasses are spirited souls. They’re yers, through and through.”
“Aye, ye’ll get no argument from me on that.” Jamie turned to his younger brother. “But that doesna change a damn thing. I’ll travel to the city at first light and have a word with the director of the agency. How difficult can it be to find a woman in her maturity in need of a position?”
“Ye haven’t been able to keep a governess of that description, and ye know it. In the last three years, this house has seen a blasted parade of old biddies who canna keep up with those girls.”
“There’s something about the lass who showed up at our door—Miss Fraser—that doesn’t fit.”
Rory pulled the letter Jamie had discarded out of his trouser pocket. “If the woman who wrote this is tellin’ the truth, the lass sounds like a candidate for sainthood.”
“Damned shame it sounds like she’s describing another woman. Miss Leana Fraser canna be more than five and twenty. And yet, the letter claimed she’s spent the last twelve years caring for some earl’s bairns.”
Rory shrugged. “The director made a simple mistake. Miss Fraser is willin’ to come to this Godforsaken place and watch over yer girls. I’d say that’s all that counts.”
Jamie shot his brother a glare. “And I’d say ye’re a dolt pulled in by a bonny face. Has it not occurred to ye to question why a woman like her would find her way here? There’s somethin’ she’s not telling us—somethin’ I dinna trust.”
“Ye’re still seein’ enemies behind every door, lies behind every word? When the bluidy hell will it stop?”
Rory’s question slammed into him like a fist. He steeled himself against the sudden surge of an all-too-familiar pain. “It will never stop.”
“Damn it Jamie, ye did yer best to protect Siobhan. Now, ye need to see to it yer children are raised to be ladies, like their mum.”
Jamie raked a hand through his hair. “Miss Fraser, if that is her name, is hiding something. I feel it in my bones.”
“Ye think he sent her? Blast it, man, the bastard is rottin’ in his grave.”
“I wouldna doubt Lachland’s kin would seek vengeance.”
Rory slowly shook his head. “That was a long time ago. Ye canna let this consume ye.”
Jamie let out a sigh. “Even if ye’re right—and I’m not sayin’ ye are—have ye lost sight of another problem? The last thing I need is a comely lass under my roof.” He shot his brother a glare. “I saw the way ye looked at her.”
“The way I looked at her?” Rory laughed under his breath. “Brother, that’s rich. Ye know I’ve had my eye on a fetching lass in the village, the shopkeeper’s daughter. I’ve only room for one woman at a time in my heart.”
“It’s not your heart I’m worrying about. How long before ye try to lure her into yer bed?”
“Ye’ve no worries with me. Why, Miss Fraser is pretty enough. There’s no denying it. But she needs more meat on her bones, if ye take my meaning.”
Pretty enough? God above, did his brother have eyes in his head? Miss Leana Fraser was damned near perfect. With her long coppery-brown hair and those big brown eyes, she was a beauty wrapped in a prim dress, a simple gown a vicar’s wife might’ve worn that hugged her slender curves in all the right ways. He’d wager his hands could span her waist, and her supple female body had been made to tempt a man—to tempt him well past distraction.
By hellfire, he’d been specific in his qualifications for a governess. The woman he’d trust to guide his daughters must be well-educated. She must possess an ability to read and write Latin, perform essential mathematical calculations, and provide musical instruction suited to young ladies of quality. And, above all, said governess should possess a face and figure more reminiscent of his grandmother than of a siren. Instead, the agency had sent a lovely lass who could draw a man in with the tiniest flicker of her smile.
If Miss Fraser had any notion of how damned beautiful she was, she didn’t betray it. But she was bold. She’d stood her ground, insisting she would prove her mettle with his bairns. Wielding her most powerful weapon, she’d charmed Bridget with her warmth. His youngest daughter had seemed enchanted by the newcomer. Isla had reacted with her typical scowl, but that was not surprising. She hadn’t been the same since she’d lost her ma.
Nothing had been the same.
Not a bluidy, damned thing.
Coming to his feet, he met his brother eye to eye. “Given ye’ve established yer claim to sainthood, what about the rest of them? How long do ye think it will be before they’re chasin’ after her skirts? The bastards will be at each other’s throats.”
“Ye’ll keep them on the straight and narrow. God above, ye kept an entire crew of pirates in line.”
Damnation, he couldn’t argue with that. He’d sailed with some of the roughest souls in Scotland and never dealt with rebellion. Perhaps his brother was right. His crew wouldn’t dare to cross him if he made it clear the lass was off limits.
But who the hell would
keep her off limits to him?
“I’ll have the housekeeper prepare the lass’s room. Ye gave her ten days,” Rory went on. “’Tis only fair that ye keep yer word.”
Jamie cocked a brow. Fair? Or foolish? “Never let it be said I’m not a man of my word.”
“Aye.” Rory said. “I’ll see to it the lass is settled in.”
Without another word, Jamie poured whisky into another glass and took a drink. Rory was determined to bring Miss Fraser under their roof. Another time, another place, Jamie might’ve welcomed her influence on his girls.
But now, he cursed himself for a fool. Something about Miss Fraser didn’t fit. His instincts had never failed him. All his life, he’d never denied his gut—until he’d met Siobhan.
And now, he’d gone against his instincts again.
Nothing good would come of this.
Chapter Three
After MacArron marched away, Mrs. Taylor showed Leana into the drawing room while a chamber was prepared for her stay.
“I’ll let the housekeeper know you’re waiting in here. Fair warning, Mrs. Davidson is not a very pleasant sort. She’s prickly, if you know what I mean,” Mrs. Taylor said matter-of-factly.
“I will do my best to avoid upsetting her.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible.” Mrs. Taylor offered a thin smile. “The only reason she’s here is to keep a roof over her head. Her husband served as the captain’s navigator for years. When he took ill, they came here until he passed on to his reward. Tilly’s son and his wife are in Edinburgh, but they say there’s no room in their home for their dear old mother. So the captain keeps her on here. She appointed herself the housekeeper, and she runs a tight ship. Do your best to keep the captain’s girls out of mischief, and you’ll have a friend in her.”
“The captain’s daughters—what are their ages?”
Mrs. Taylor’s brow furrowed. “The little one, Bridget, is just turned four, and Isla is nearing her tenth birthday. They’re sweet bairns, really. ’Tis not their fault they’ve had no one reining them in. Captain MacArron adores those girls. Truly, he does. But he will not discipline them. Especially the little one. I suppose it’s hard for him, seeing their mother every time he looks at their little faces.”
“Might I ask how long they’ve been without her?”
The arch of Mrs. Taylor’s brows sagged into a frown. “I would’ve thought they’d have told you at the agency. It’s goin’ on three years now since it happened. Little Bridget was just a wee babe. The poor child never even knew her mum. A tragedy, I tell you. Of course, they might’ve kept the full truth from you—they wouldn’t want to frighten you.”
“Frighten me?”
Mrs. Taylor leaned closer, lowering her voice to not quite a whisper. “Mrs. MacArron did not die a natural death. You see, she toppled from a high window. The captain had been at sea. He returned that night, but it was too late.”
A shiver snaked along Leana’s spine. She curled her fingers into a fist to keep them from quivering. “I did not know.”
Mrs. Taylor’s frown deepened. “I fear I’ve said too much. Please, do not tell a soul what I’ve told you.”
Questions danced on the tip of Leana’s tongue, but the caution in Mrs. Taylor’s expression urged against uttering them. There’d be time later to learn more about his wife’s death.
“I won’t mention it. Not to anyone.”
“Especially not to the captain.” Mrs. Taylor turned to the door. “I’ll go and find the housekeeper. There’s a fine room used by the previous governesses. She keeps it at the ready, so it won’t require more than a bit of freshening.”
“Might I ask how many governesses have attended the children?”
A hint of a smile played on the matron’s lips. “You’ll be the third since Hogmanay.”
“The third?”
Mrs. Taylor nodded. “One of them didn’t last a week. The crow-faced woman found no humor in Bridget’s antics. She didn’t take to bairns like I do.”
If the cook realized the irony in her statement given her own reaction to the child’s adventures with baking flour, her expression did not betray it.
Oh, dear. “I do not anticipate any difficulties with the girls.” Leana said, shoring up her confidence.
“You’ll do well, dear. I feel it in my bones.” With that, Mrs. Taylor bustled from the room, leaving Leana to her own devices.
While she awaited the cook’s return, Leana scanned the walls of the elegantly wall-papered room. Taking in the large, gilded-framed portraits on the walls, she studied each image. Dignified men in their plaids and beautiful women in their elegant dresses stared down at her, each attired with the tartans of their clans, their expressions as intimidating as the flesh-and-blood man who’d reluctantly agreed to let her stay. Pausing before a portrait of a fair-haired man who bore a striking resemblance to James MacArron, she took in his carved features and piercing eyes. No look of welcome could be found in the forbidding gaze the portraitist had captured centuries earlier. A family trait, no doubt.
Her fingers tightened around the leather handle on her satchel. If the men wondered at her lack of a proper trunk and a wardrobe, they hadn’t expressed the question. Truth be told, she was fortunate to have the contents of that meager bag. She’d fled the house with only the clothes on her back while Gilford lay unconscious in his study. Thankfully, a sympathetic housemaid had gathered as many of Leana’s garments as she could sneak away without drawing suspicion and enlisted a hack to transport the flowery carpetbag to the home of Leana’s elderly uncle. Her wardrobe was sparse, but it would have to do until she could find a way to purchase more clothing.
Leaving the room, she slowly moved along the length of the corridor, taking in more portraits she assumed to be MacArron’s ancestors. At the end of the hall, she stopped suddenly, transfixed by the last portrait in the row.
Unlike the others, this portrait depicted a woman wearing clothing she herself might have donned, a gown in a rich shade of blue that brought out the striking color of her eyes. The young beauty smiled down at her, radiantly lovely with honey-gold hair. In a flash of understanding, she saw the resemblance between this woman and the tiny imp who’d scurried away from Mrs. Taylor. Her breath caught. Was this the girls’ mother? Was this MacArron’s wife?
“There ye are. I was afraid ye’d come to yer senses and run from here.”
Startled, she whipped around, meeting the dark-eyed gaze of Rory MacArron.
“I’ve no intention of doing any such thing.”
He pretended to shudder. “Aye, I wouldna be so sure if I were you. Let’s see what ye say after a week with those girls.”
“I cannot imagine why a grown man would allow children to get the better of him.”
“I suspect ye’re goin’ to find out.” He grinned, the humor in his eyes as appealing as his smile.
“I take it the girls have been without a mother for quite some time.”
He cocked a dark brow. “Mrs. Taylor’s been runnin’ her mouth again?”
“I would not describe it as such.”
Throwing the portrait a glance, he motioned Leana to the stairs. “After my brother lost his wife, everything changed. I’ll say no more on the matter, other than to tell ye I believe those lasses will warm to ye. Ye’ll do well with them.”
Mrs. Taylor hurried down the stairs. At her side, a lean woman with a careworn face and a mass of graying ringlets cast an appraising gaze over Leana. Judging from the woman’s expression, this had to be the prickly Mrs. Davidson.
“So you’re the new governess,” the newcomer said.
“For the time being. Leana Fraser, at your service.”
Mrs. Taylor introduced the woman, confirming Leana’s suspicion. Mrs. Davidson pursed her lips, as if considering her words carefully.
“Come along, dear,” the housekeeper said, her words more pleasant than her tone. “I’ve prepared your room.”
“I’m sure it will be lovely.”
Quickly, Leana shook her head. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Not necessary? Lass, you cannot think of carrying a heavy case yourself when there’s a strong lad around. It would be unseemly.”
She offered another shake of her head. “I did not bring a trunk, only this traveling case.”
If Leana had declared she could sprout wings and could fly to London, Mrs. Davidson’s expression might have been less incredulous. She pursed her lips tight, as if she’d just taken a bite of lemon. Her gaze returned to the bag, then shot to Rory. “Well, then, if this isn’t a first. Take the lady’s bag and show her to her room. Please.”
“My pleasure,” he said, performing an overly formal bow before taking the bag from her hand. “My back thanks ye, miss. It was startin’ to ache at the mere thought of a steamer trunk weighted down with a miss’s wardrobe.”
“There’s nothing heavy in there. Not at all,” she said.
“So much the better for me,” he said and headed up the stairs. “Settle in, lass. Ye’ve some busy days ahead of ye.”
Leana’s gaze trailed up the massive spiral staircase, watching as he made short work of the steps. With his long, powerful legs and lean build, he bounded up two at a time. She hurried behind as quickly as she could without tripping over her skirts. Taking a tumble certainly wasn’t in her plans. He waited for her at the top of the stairs, flashing a grin.
“Ye’ve no need to rush, lass. I’m not goin’ anywhere.” He gave his head a small shake. “I dinna know how ye do it.”
“Do it?” she called up the steps. “I don’t take your meaning.”
“It’s a mystery to me how you ladies are able to go about yer lives in those cumbersome skirts. At least ye’re not wearing one of those ridiculous contraptions under yer skirt.”
The Pirate's Temptation (Pirates of Britannia World Book 12) Page 3
