Highland Heat

by Jennifer Haymore

  If she planned to live with Duncan.

  But the thought of living without him was unthinkable. Impossible.

  She bent down and kissed his forehead. “You saved me.”

  “I’m a killer.”

  “You’re a protector,” she corrected. “A guardian.” Of herself and of Great Britain as a whole. “You’re…a hero.”

  He laughed with a small puff of air. “No one’s ever called me that…” His voice seemed to grow weaker with every word.

  “I can’t imagine why,” she told him. “Because it’s the truth. Can I love you? Of course I can. I’ll always love you, Duncan.” She squeezed his hand.

  His eyelids began to flutter again. He gave a low groan. “I’m trying…”

  “I know. Just…sleep for now. Sleep, but don’t leave me. I’ll be right here. Right at your side…”

  Someone was approaching. Still holding Duncan’s hand, she grabbed his dirk with the other and held it pointed at the stall door.

  Her father appeared. Behind him stood a group of men, their faces and clothing smeared with the black smudges of coal.

  Grace lowered the dirk.

  The earl looked from her face to where her hand was linked with Duncan’s. “I’ve brought help,” he said.

  —

  It turned out the bullet had gone straight through Forester and embedded itself in Duncan’s flesh just below his lungs. After the doctor pulled the bullet out, he’d said that if it had gone an inch in any other direction, Duncan would certainly be dead.

  Grace thanked God every day that he had survived the terrible wound.

  Duncan was ill for two long weeks, and the doctor forbade him to leave his bed while he healed, though he struggled against that edict incessantly.

  He was bored and irritable, and Grace adored him. She stayed at his side, sleeping in a cot by his bed until, on day three, a surly Duncan ordered her to sleep with him. When she climbed into the bed, Duncan turned to his good side to face her and told her to take off her nightgown and lie beside him naked.

  She shed her gown, knowing that the major no longer cared about his order that they sleep in separate bedchambers until they were married. No one cared about that anymore. They all just wanted Duncan to mend.

  Duncan touched each of the bruises left on her by the Newsmiths’ henchmen, kissing the ones he could reach, telling her that he’d die before allowing anyone to hurt her ever again.

  All Grace could think was that bruises were nothing compared to what could have happened to her. To what had almost happened to him. “Don’t be sorry,” she told him. “They didn’t hurt me, not really. You came just in time. You saved me. We’re both going to be all right, and that’s all that matters.”

  During the days, the Highland Knights moved in and out of the room, checking on them, giving updates on the fate of the Newsmiths. On day six, the Knights entered the room and stood around Duncan’s bed.

  “We’ve arrested that bastard Faulkner.” Fraser grinned sheepishly at Grace. “Sorry, milady.”

  “Oh, don’t be sorry. He is a bastard,” Grace said.

  “And sixteen of his henchmen and associates,” Ross added, his expression triumphant beneath his mop of red hair. “All of them on charges of treason.”

  Duncan closed his eyes. “Good.”

  “They’re being taken to London to await their trials,” Stirling said.

  “Will they be found guilty?” Grace asked.

  “Aye. I canna see how it’d go any other way. There are letters and plans and witness accounts in abundance. I’d say there’s enough evidence to convict the lot of them twice over.”

  Grace nodded in relief.

  Stirling sat on the edge of Duncan’s bed. “How are you doing, lad?”

  Duncan slid a glance at Grace. She gave him an evil grin and he narrowed his eyes at her, but there was a playful quirk to his lips.

  The doctor had said at least another week, and she wasn’t going to let Duncan cheat. There were multiple bad things that could happen if he strained himself or broke his stitches. She wouldn’t be taking any risks with his health.

  Duncan turned his scowl on Stirling. “They’re making me stay abed for no reason at all.”

  “Besides the hole in his stomach,” Grace said dryly.

  “Och, well, a hole in the gut is nothin’ to trifle with. Listen to your”—McLeod glanced at Grace, one eyebrow raised—“future wife.”

  “She would’ve been my wife already were it no’ for those damned Newsmiths,” Duncan grumbled.

  “Patience, lad,” said the major, breaking into one of his impossibly rare smiles. “I’ll be wagerin’ ’twill be happenin’ soon enough.”

  Grace wasn’t so sure about that. Her father was still here. He’d told her he was giving her time to heal, and to help Duncan. She was certain the earl intended to bring her home with him. But she hadn’t brought that up while Duncan had been recovering—she’d been too focused on the present, on making sure his wound healed and that he would get better.

  The men spent the rest of the afternoon talking easily with Grace and Duncan, and Grace relaxed with them. She had always understood why Duncan was reluctant to betray the Knights in any way—but seeing their close connection at times like this drove the truth of it home. These men were brothers. They would work together and live together and protect one another until their deaths.

  And none of them would have it any other way.

  Chapter 28

  The day that the doctor finally allowed Duncan to leave his room was a warm summer day that smelled richly of new vegetation. The pleasant sound of insects droned in the air, and fat, white clouds hung in a jewel-blue sky.

  Grace and Duncan were taking a long, slow walk, skirting the edge of the property bordering the forest and having an animated conversation about the benefits of kilts over trousers.

  “Easy access.” Grace had laughed. “That’s certainly a benefit.”

  “Aye, I’ll agree with that one,” Duncan said. “Pantaloons and trousers and breeches all have those plackets that make it uncomfortable when a man needs to take a piss. Wear a kilt, and ye can have instant relief.”

  “I was not talking about pissing,” Grace said haughtily.

  He cocked an eyebrow at her. “What were you talking about, then?”

  She straightened her spine. “I meant, easy access for a lover. Or perhaps a wife.”

  A gleam of heat grew in his eyes. “Aye,” he said huskily, “there’s that too.”

  “And that overwhelms just about every negative I can conjure for kilt-wearing,” Grace said with a shrug, as if that were the end of the conversation.

  “Well, to be fair,” Duncan said after a moment of reflection, “sometimes it’s cold.”

  “I assume it’s the same temperature whether you’re wearing trousers or a kilt, though you may have a bit more coverage with trousers.”

  “Aye, that’s true. But…there can be a wee bit of a problem when there’s a draft.”

  “Oh,” Grace said, wide-eyed.

  Duncan nodded sagely. “Ye see, when there’s a cold draft, a man’s ballocks can shrivel up like currants and try to crawl into his body.”

  Her brows rose. “Currants?” That seemed rather impossibly small.

  “Aye, and—”

  That was when they heard the sound of a throat clearing. Grace and Duncan looked at each other, then grinned and turned around.

  The Earl of Norsey stood not five feet behind them. Grace straightened as heat bloomed in her cheeks. Still, even though she was embarrassed being caught by her father discussing currants and ballocks, she wasn’t and never would be ashamed of standing beside Duncan with her arm wound through his.

  Her father approached them cautiously, as if he was afraid one of them might turn into a rhinoceros and attack.

  “Good afternoon, milord,” Duncan said. “Would ye like to join us?”

  Duncan had never seemed to dislike her father, per se, but when
he’d heard that Mr. Dunn had been found stabbed through the heart outside the stables, he’d gained a great deal of respect for the lengths the earl had gone to protect Grace.

  “He did it for you,” Duncan had told her. “Because he needed to keep you safe.”

  Grace didn’t disagree. Although her father hadn’t spent any time with Duncan, she’d ventured out of Duncan’s room on occasion to see him, usually ensconced in the parlor, with Claire fretting over him. Between Grace, Duncan, and her father, the earl had seemed the most shaken from the encounter with the Newsmiths. Which made sense to her. He’d never feared for his life before. He’d never had to kill a man before. Grace knew he was thankful they’d all come out alive, but she didn’t think it was an encounter he’d be forgetting anytime soon.

  Her father finally reached them. They turned, and the earl fell into step beside Duncan as they walked in silence for a moment. Then he asked, “How are you feeling, boy?”

  “Happy to be out o’ that room.”

  “I can imagine,” the earl said, and Grace glanced at him in shock. Was that a hint of sympathy she’d heard in her father’s voice?

  “Just a few more days of healing,” Grace said, “and he’ll be about his business as if it had never happened.”

  The word it hung in the air for a few seconds. Then the earl said, “I’ll be departing for Norsey House tomorrow.”

  Both Duncan and Grace stared at him. Grace’s heart started pattering. Would he command her to come with him? She’d refuse. He couldn’t make her…

  Oh, but she truly didn’t want to have this argument right now, not on Duncan’s first day out of bed in two weeks.

  The earl gave Duncan a hard look. “I’ll be leaving my daughter with you, Mackenzie.”

  The air whooshed out of Grace’s lungs, and she nearly stumbled but somehow managed to keep her steps slow but even. Duncan nodded, keeping his eyes locked to her father’s.

  Her father took a deep breath. “I was wrong. You are a good match for Grace.”

  A small noise burst from Grace’s throat before she could stop it. She couldn’t define how she felt, what that noise was born of. Surprise, gratefulness, hope…

  Her father ignored it, keeping his focus on Duncan. “I watched you in that stable. I saw in your face how deeply you care for her. I saw in your actions how far you’re willing to go to protect her.”

  “I will go to whatever lengths necessary to protect Grace, milord.”

  The earl nodded. “I cannot imagine anyone who could care for her or protect her better than you will.”

  “Nor can I,” Grace whispered.

  “And you make her happy,” the earl said gruffly. “What more could I ask for my elder daughter but for her to be happy and safe?”

  Grace gave him a wavering smile. He caught her eye, then blinked and looked away, straightening to his full height—almost as tall as Duncan. “I give my permission for the two of you to wed.”

  “Oh, Papa—”

  “Please do it as soon as possible,” he interrupted. “Anyone who sees the two of you together will know right away the depth of affection you hold for each other. The rumors about your match will be bad enough—I’d prefer to avoid the more salacious gossip.”

  Duncan nodded. “Understood, sir.” He glanced at Grace. “We will depart for Scotland tomorrow, if Grace doesn’t object.”

  “I don’t,” Grace whispered.

  This was really happening. The day after tomorrow, she and Duncan would be husband and wife. And her father wouldn’t reject the match, wouldn’t reject her. She’d still have her family intact.

  This was happiness. It unfurled and bloomed inside her like a flowering vine, warm, colorful, sweet, and so beautiful she nearly burst with it.

  “I would also like to…invite you and your new wife to my house party this month,” the earl said.

  Grace’s mouth dropped open. It was one thing for her father to accept her marrying Duncan. It was something else altogether for him to invite her and Duncan to openly associate with his friends and peers.

  Duncan looked at Grace, an equal surprise reflected in his own expression.

  “Sir Robert and Claire will be attending, of course,” the earl said quickly. “I have already asked them. I do think it would be…fine to have my family with me at home this summer.”

  His family. He didn’t mean just Grace and Claire. He meant the major too. And Duncan. Tears pressed behind Grace’s lids. “We’d love to attend, Papa,” she managed.

  “We’d be honored,” Duncan added.

  The earl tilted his head in acknowledgment, and they walked in silence, turning a corner so they intersected the drive that led to the front of the house. Without looking directly at either of them, her father turned away. “Well, then. I shall return to the house. I have much to do to prepare for my departure tomorrow.”

  Without saying another word, he pivoted and strode down the drive. Grace and Duncan stopped walking to watch him go. Moments later, he opened the front door and disappeared inside.

  Grace and Duncan turned to each other. He gazed down at her, and she could feel the warmth he felt for her spread over her skin.

  “No more secrecy,” he murmured.

  “None,” she agreed.

  “We’ll be married soon.”

  She nodded. “I can’t wait.”

  “Neither can I.”

  He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her, a long, soft, warm kiss. A kiss that a man might bestow upon a wife he truly loved. And she kissed him right back—in a way a wife might kiss a husband she adored.

  When he pulled back, he looked up at the sky. “It’s getting late.”

  She cocked a brow at him. It was two o’clock in the afternoon.

  He huffed out a laugh. “Ye ken all my protests about being in bed this past fortnight?”

  “Oh, I definitely do ken. I’d never imagined you were such a complainer,” she teased.

  “Well, I think I ought to go back to bed.”

  Her eyes widened. “What? Are you all right? Is it your ankle again? Has your wound op—?”

  He pressed a kiss to her lips, cutting her off midword. He touched his tongue to hers then pulled away, laughing, his blue eyes twinkling in that lighthearted way of his.

  “Nay, my ankle’s healed and the wound is fine, love. I need to go back to bed, but I need to take you with me. Right now. I dinna think I can wait much longer before I have you. It’s been far too long.”

  “I don’t think I can wait much longer until I have you too.”

  He took her hand and turned toward the house. “It’s settled, then.” He tugged her along, looking over his shoulder at her, his expression so full of heat she felt it like the blast of a flame over her skin. “I’m going to keep you there all night, Grace. I hope you’re ready.”

  “I am,” she said confidently. She was more than ready.

  Duncan hadn’t exaggerated. He took her to bed and kept her there until morning. They made love, they talked, they shared dinner in bed, passing bits of food back and forth. It was like a wedding night two nights before the marriage.

  By ten o’clock the next morning, they were in a carriage on the way to Gretna Green. They headed to their future and the rest of their lives, both of them glowing with the knowledge that they belonged to each other. And they always would.

  Epilogue

  Camden McLeod gripped his ale in two hands and swallowed deeply. There was nothing like the deep, smooth malty flavor of a good Scottish ale. He’d loved it as a lad of fourteen, the last time he had visited his homeland. He’d thought about it often since, and had wondered if his memories of it had perhaps been exaggerated, but no. It was just as delicious as he remembered.

  He glanced over the room—a habit born not only in the army, but in his childhood home, where danger always lurked. The tavern was crowded with men wearing kilts and hardy, pink-cheeked women. The place fairly burst with exuberance—such a different environment from the a
loof, placid English drawing rooms he’d seen far too much of in his life.

  Across the room, Mackenzie and Grace sat at a table together. They were kissing again, not at all concerned that the entire room was witness to their displays of affection. Their audience was kind, however. Moments ago, an old Scot had raised a glass to the newlyweds, and everyone in the tavern had joined the toast, and there was much cheering and applause when Mackenzie and Grace had locked lips after taking sips from their drinks.

  The two of them couldn’t keep their hands off each other—which was a good thing, Cam supposed, since they were now irrevocably shackled for the rest of their lives.

  Cam would never be shackled to a woman. He was already shackled to his damned family name, and that was more than enough. He needed to keep some semblance of freedom in his life.

  No woman would want to be bound to him anyhow. He was far too bitter and cynical to develop any kind of loving spousal relationship like the one Mackenzie and Grace would share.

  He’d probably end up being as good a husband as his father was, and he wouldn’t subject any woman to that misery.

  He took another deep swallow of his ale. It was a strong brew, and he was well on his way to getting drunk, but he felt like it tonight.

  By all rights, he shouldn’t feel this way. His life wasn’t so bad. He liked being part of the Highland Knights, liked the men who had joined the cause with him.

  But something felt…wrong. He felt empty inside, as if he were a hollow shell that would be easy to crack.

  He knew what would fix this feeling—at least temporarily. Good ale and a good woman.

  One woman who might be acceptable was just now approaching Mackenzie. She was one of the barmaids—dark-haired and freckled, with generous curves in all the anatomically correct places, and not too young or untried. She walked with a confident stride that told Cam she knew exactly what she was suggesting with the sway of her hips and the generous cleavage revealed by her bodice.

  She held out a folded piece of paper to Mackenzie. He studied the note for a moment, then rose, holding his hand out for Grace, who clasped it and rose along with him.