No wife to distract him. No children to burden him.
And women, he used as his needs required, and allowed himself to be used in return. Marriage was never part of the discussion, only pleasure by mutual consent. A vision of a flame-haired woman with gleaming eyes the color of sapphires filled his mind. She was the one who had gotten away. Although one could argue he’d never really had her in the first place. She’d belonged to another. Julien pushed the image of her from his head. Makenna Maclaren was a part of his past, too.
He squinted anew, a practiced eye taking in the property. It wasn’t unlivable. He’d had a staff of local servants looking after the place since it’d come into his possession nearly two years ago, and clearly, they had all survived. So had some several hundred head of sheep, cattle, horses, and other four-legged creatures that roamed the verdant hills.
“My lord,” the harried voice of his head solicitor called.
“In here, Mr. Jobson.”
The man had been with him a little over eleven years and always looked like he was on the verge of apoplexy. But he had an uncanny knack for organization, and kept all of Julien’s other solicitors operating in military order. With as many properties, business, and investments that Julien managed across the globe, the man was a godsend.
“I’ve brought the figures for the latest shipments from the east, and Mr. Bonny sends the reports for the American trade as well.”
“Thank you.” Julien sighed with relief. Ledgers were a welcome distraction. His brain was at its calmest when he was knee-deep in numbers. And Lord knew he needed a wagon of calm at the moment. “What of the sale of the Venice estate?”
He’d acquired a lovely château for a steal that the previous owner, an Italian count whose spending far exceeded his income, couldn’t upkeep, and Julien was now selling it to an English viscount for a handsome profit. Julien was ruthless but fair. He’d made an offer given the circumstances, which had been accepted, and then he’d gone on to sell the property at several times more than market value. The Italian count had been peeved to discover the final sale price, crowing to anyone who would listen that Julien had cheated him, but he’d been disavowed of that nonsense fairly quickly when Julien’s men paid him a visit. Julien wasn’t above using Maxim’s kind of street tactics to get his point across.
“Nearly complete, my lord.”
“Excellent.” He poured a glass of whisky. “Would you like a glass? It’s quite smooth on the palate.”
“No, thank you, my lord,” Mr. Jobson said. “I will be returning with the ship to oversee the final details of the transaction, and catch up with your English solicitor.” He handed him a second sheaf of papers. “Here’s the documentation regarding Duncraigh Castle as well as all the operating information of its businesses. Land, tenants, animals, crops, and the like. Apart from its appearance, all seems to be in working order, my lord. It might take some time to get it profitable, but the foundation is there.”
“Thank you.”
After his solicitor took his leave, Julien sat back in his chair and stared thoughtfully at the golden liquid in the glass.
Dieu, land, tenants, animals…he was truly a bloody farmer.
He might as well turn in his custom-tailored waistcoats and his membership to White’s. Two years ago, he’d had no use for an old castle in some remote part of Scotland, but he had allowed the Duke of Craig to use the castle as collateral in a game of vingt-et-un. God, was he going soft? He’d felt sorry for the duke, that much was true. Julien smiled. Maybe he’d simply been outmaneuvered by the wily old goat looking to get rid of an unentailed piece of property he hadn’t wanted.
Diamond in the rough, he reminded himself.
Julien sipped the whisky, savoring the spicy burn over his tongue. He’d only developed a taste for it in the last year, when Aisla had dragged him here in search of a divorce, only to reconcile with her highlander of a husband. Her brother, Ronan, distilled some of the finest whisky Julien had ever tasted. Not to mention that a certain devastating redhead had been the one to introduce him to it, or the fact that whenever he drank it, he thought of her.
Makenna.
Fiery, smoky, and full-bodied.
He scowled, tossed back the contents of the glass, and opened Jobson’s neat pile of documents pertaining to Duncraigh Castle. The land itself was rich and fertile, and the numbers all seemed to add up. He hadn’t many tenants, but of those remaining, there weren’t many complaints about work and wages. But by God, he never imagined he’d own so many sheep. And cattle. Horses, too. Though he had more familiarity with those. First things first, he had to interview the staff and hire a competent steward.
More noise filtered through the open doorway from downstairs, including more crashing, the musical sound of a female greeting, and then shouting. The last two weeks had been nothing but noise and chaos, and he had had enough. Hell, he’d give anything to be in a gaming hell in Paris or even in a brothel. Shoving to his feet, he descended the staircase, about to put a stop to it once and for all, but he came to a brutal, breathless halt at the sight of the woman standing in the castle’s entryway: tall, statuesque, uncommonly beautiful.
A vision come to life from his memory.
Julien hadn’t seen Makenna in a year, but his heart hammered against his rib cage in visceral response at the sight of her. Everything—the noise, the servants, the walls—fell away. He drank in the woman who stood at the door, his own body recalling in painful detail how well she’d felt dancing in his arms during Aisla’s wedding some twelve months ago. That utterly chaste memory hadn’t faded, as much as he’d wished it to, and had evolved into something far more indecent in his dreams.
Her red hair was braided tightly against her scalp, her blue gaze dimmed and tired. He took in other details in quick succession, like the dark shadows under her eyes, the smudges of dirt on her skin, and her filthy, wrinkled clothing. He frowned. Her appearance was a far cry from the woman he’d met at Maclaren. She looked like she’d been tumbled in a hayloft.
Or thrown from a hayloft.
Julien recalled her mentioning the violent tendencies of her husband, Laird Brodie, and felt his hands clench at his sides. If he had done this to her, he’d hunt the man down and beat him to a boneless pulp. His gaze slipped to the tiny mouse of a woman hiding behind her skirts at her side, and his frown deepened. She looked young and terrified.
He found his voice. “Lady Makenna? Are you unwell?”
A sob shook her shoulders while she fought for composure, and then lost it completely. Those huge blue eyes filled with tears and she flung herself at his chest. His arms closed around her, gathering her close. It didn’t escape his notice how good she still felt in his embrace. Stiff-backed with caution, Julien stepped away. She was a married woman, and as such, off limits no matter his desire to sweep her off her feet and ferry her to his lair.
And she was crying. The Makenna he remembered did not cry.
“Why are you here?” he asked gently.
“Ye told me about this castle, and it was the only safe place I kenned to come.” Her brogue was as low and rich as he remembered, like honeyed smoke winding along his senses. Even husky with tears, it jolted him. “I didnae ken ye would be here. I’m sorry for the imposition.”
“It’s no imposition,” he said. “Are you alone? Where’s your husband?”
Her eyes clouded. “My husband is dead.”
Chapter Two
The look on Julien’s face was unreadable, though somewhat telling as his customary smirk was absent. A muscle jerked in his cheek, those peridot eyes of his scouring hers. Makenna waited, knowing the question would come.
“How?” he asked.
She’d thought of what she might have said to the caretakers who she’d hoped would be in residence, but every plausible excuse now flew from her mind in face of the master of Duncraigh Castle himself. In her defense, she hadn’t planned on blurting out that the Brodie laird was dead, but she was caught in the snare of
her own making.
Now that she’d had a few moments to recover from the surprise of seeing Julien, reason and logic steadied her. Admitting that she was on the run from her own clan because she’d been accused of murder would not be the best way to secure his assistance or a roof over their heads. Julien Leclerc owed her nothing, and she could not afford to trust anyone, not even him.
“He died abed.” She paused, swallowing in a rush to clarify her words. “I was no’ in it.”
She did not elaborate further, though his eyes darkened with curiosity. He would know why she hadn’t been, of course. She had confessed to him in a moment of weakness at Maclaren that her marriage was one in name only and she had not been in her husband’s bed for the better part of half a decade. Julien had taken her by surprise in the Maclaren conservatory right after she’d received a summons from Graeme that commanded her return home, and she’d been in a bitter froth, furious tears pouring from her eyes at the man who sought to erase every happy thing from her life. Including a visit to see her ailing father. Being back at Maclaren had restored her, allowing her to rediscover pieces of herself that she’d long lost, and the thought of returning to her life with Graeme had been a dismal one.
Julien had caught her at her worst. She bit her lip, recalling the conversation.
“Ever heard the saying there’s no weeping over shed milk?” the ever-smirking Lord Leclerc had drawled from the open doorway. That supercilious twist of his lips had made her see red, rage boiling through her tears. Her eyes had narrowed on him.
“Ever heard of minding yer own business?”
“Surely, whatever it is, it cannot be worth so many tears.”
Furious, she hadn’t chosen her reply with care. “My owner demands my return.”
“Then say no,” he replied without batting an eyelash.
“Said like a man who has never had the misfortune to be considered a piece of property,” she snapped back, heedless in her anger. “My husband demands it, though he only does it to control me. If he could, he’d have me on bended knee every hour of every day for the rest of my life.”
Julien’s knowing gaze had swept her from head to toe, faint contempt lurking in his eyes. It had made her spine straighten and a whisper of self-disgust curl through her. The Frenchman’s next words had made it worse. “Somehow, I cannot fathom you—such a fierce Scottish battle-ax—being forced to do anything against your wishes.” He arched a golden eyebrow, his aggravating smirk deepening. “Or bending a knee to anyone.”
Despite the spark that had shot through her at his suggestive tone, she ignored the last part of what he’d said, but his initial words had cut deeply. Mostly because she’d thought the same true of herself once. That she was fierce. Undaunted. Fearless. But instead, somehow the opposite had become true. Beaten and defeated, she was weeping over a letter from an overbearing man who dictated her every move. Like so many other women, she’d allowed herself to become a victim of time and circumstance. And how she’d hated it. How she’d hated herself.
“Even an ax can bend with the…right force,” she’d whispered, fighting back tears. “We are estranged. I am nothing but his chattel, to do with however he pleases.”
Makenna had seen something like horror and then anger come to life in Julien’s eyes, but had fled his presence before she confessed anything more that she’d later regret.
Julien’s words had made something rise within her, however. A spark of lost pride. Of outrage. She was a Maclaren! Not some helpless nobody. When she’d finally returned home to her husband, she hadn’t cowered and been silent. No, instead, she’d demanded that he treat her as the lady of his clan and cease his philandering, if he intended to see a cent of the remaining portion of her dowry, which would be settled upon him at her father’s discretion when she turned thirty in three years. It had felt more than good to stand up to the man who had belittled and bullied her—Makenna had felt exhilaratingly powerful again…right up until he’d hit her so hard that she’d been unconscious for two days. The price for her rebellion had continued to be severe—broken bones that had taken months to repair and unending solitude in the keep. And no one had lifted a finger in her defense.
She thought of the woman who had helped her, and her claim that Makenna had supporters at Brodie. Perhaps they hadn’t known, or had been afraid for their own lives.
Makenna had battled the futility of her position for months, dreaming of the day that she would plunge a claymore through Graeme’s chest and free herself of his tortures. She was more than capable in the use of a sword, after all, having trained with her brothers from the age of five. Of course, they’d remained dreams. To raise a hand against her laird would have been a death sentence. She’d mentioned it to Tildy once in a fit of pain and tears, but the maid had only nodded, shadowed emotion in her eyes.
Now, standing here in Julien’s foyer, Makenna felt those same feelings of confusion and inadequacy rise up in her chest. Not because of Graeme, but because she did not recognize herself around this man. Julien Leclerc made her feel nervous and uncomfortable in her own skin, as if he saw right through her walls to the woman hiding within.
Finding courage, Makenna hoisted her chin. “I need a place to stay for a few days. I cannae go back home. Since the laird’s death, I’m no’ welcome there.”
“Why?” Julien asked.
“Because I am no’ a Brodie, and I fear staying there would endanger me further.”
“How did he die?”
Her breath seized. “Does it matter? He’s dead.”
“No,” he growled, the abrupt sound taking her aback. “I have no reason to regret the end of such a brute.” She faltered—of course he would remember. “But you are here, not so much the grieving widow, instead of at Maclaren with your family, and I want the truth. Why have you come to Duncraigh Castle?”
“I’ve told ye the truth,” she said, clasping her hands together to keep them from trembling. “The laird is dead. His clan has never accepted me. I thought I might be welcome to stay here, at least until I can make other arrangements.”
They stared at each other in silence, hers breathless, his measured. She’d purposely ignored his comment about her choice to come here, instead of Maclaren, and Makenna’s heart sank with every second that ticked by. He would not have missed the omission, and he had no reason to help her. There were no ties between them, not even friendship, if she were being honest. She’d met him at Maclaren. They had conversed, gone for mostly agreeable rides on the estate together, and they had danced at her brother’s wedding. At the best of times, she’d found him rude, arrogant, and vexing. Though admittedly, she’d been flattered by his attention despite knowing full well that the man was a rake. He’d also made her laugh. And that, she hadn’t done in years.
Makenna blinked, wondering if she had been free of Graeme, whether she would have taken the Frenchman up on his many advances. But unlike her cheating spouse, she’d refused to break the vows she had made before God. Perhaps she should not have been so sanctimonious. Julien made no secret of his interest in her, and she suspected that any man who left women pining on multiple continents, according to her sister-in-law Aisla, would have to be a rather spectacular lover. Her eyes flicked over his broad physique. He probably still was.
Gracious, her thoughts were ungovernable!
Here she was running for her life and her stupid brain was focusing on indecent fantasies instead of convincing him to help. She was an amadan. Makenna blushed and licked her lips, seeing his gaze flick there, his pupils flaring as if her thoughts had become transparent. A burst of awareness flared through her. Julien Leclerc was a man, and one who had been attracted to her before. She hesitated, considering her options. Perhaps her brain wasn’t so stupid, after all. Did that attraction remain? Could she convince him to help somehow? Use her womanly wiles?
She recoiled at the thought of becoming like one of the many women who had thrown themselves at Graeme to gain his favor, and then squared her sh
oulders. She and Tildy needed a place to stay. They had been on the run for hours and soon Colin’s men would be out scouring the woods and roads radiating from Brodie lands. Her lungs grew heavy at the thought of being found, and desperation made her palms cold with sweat. She would do what she must. Seduction was the only remaining tool in her arsenal. But before she could muster up the fortitude to shove a sultry smile to her lips, a lilting voice cut through the tension from somewhere behind him, followed by soft tapping footsteps.
“Jules, chéri, what on earth is keeping you so long?”
Oh, God, has he married?
Makenna blinked her surprise at the undeniably feminine and cultured voice. But then Julien turned, allowing Makenna to see the slight, older woman coming toward them. Her surprise melted to relief, though she did not dwell on that too deeply. The resemblance between them was clear enough. His mother, Makenna presumed, had the same blond hair, but hers was threaded through with gray, and her eyes were the same pale green as her son’s. She exuded gentleness and poise, though Makenna could clearly see that she wasn’t quite well. The effects of lingering illness remained in the ashen color and papery texture of her skin, and in the dull sheen of her eyes.
“Oh,” she said. “We have a visitor.”
“Maman, may I present Lady Makenna Brod—” Julien faltered and cleared his throat, turning with a warm smile to the diminutive woman. “Maclaren.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Maclaren?”
“Oui, Aisla’s sister-in-law.” His eyes returned to her. “Lady Makenna, this is my mother, Lady Haverille.”
Makenna spared a glance at her wrinkled, dirty clothing, but there was nothing to be done for it. She was filthy, and nothing but a bath and a clean dress could change that fact. She curtsied. “Lady Haverille, it is a pleasure. Please forgive my appearance. We have been traveling in haste for some hours.”
A Lord for the Lass Page 2
