Julien’s eyes narrowed at her tone, and the heat in his blood waned as he recognized the pinched look on her face. It was one she’d worn at Maclaren whenever she spoke of her late husband. She was clearly nervous about some sort of retaliation. But from whom? She’d insisted her clansmen didn’t care for her and wouldn’t be on her heels, but she was afraid of something. Or someone. Had she lied about her husband, after all?
“Why would you cause me or Maman grief? Do you have reason to believe that trouble will follow you here? If you do, Makenna, I deserve to know what I’ve gotten into.”
She swallowed convulsively, her hands winding into the ties at her waist. “It might,” she whispered, stalling as if searching for words. “My clansmen think I was involved in Graeme’s death.”
“How?”
“They think I killed him.”
The soft admission hung between them.
“Did you?”
“Nae.” Her voice lowered to an agonized whisper, her eyes stark with something that looked too much like terror for his comfort. “Please, Lord Leclerc. Dunnae ask me more.”
He relented, his mind racing, and moved for the door. He could sense she had already said more than she’d wanted to. If she did stand accused of murder, her former clan would stop at nothing to pursue her for the crime—at least until she was proven innocent. Though he knew that trouble might surely follow, Julien could not turn her away.
“One more question, at least for tonight. Do you know who did it?”
She shook her head. “Someone who wants me to take the blame. If I dunnae get away and have the chance to find out why, I’ll never be free.”
He stared at her, caught by her choice of words. “Free of whom?”
“The Brodie, of course.”
Once more, he sensed she was holding back, but he’d pushed her enough. She sounded frightened, that much was clear. And he’d never turned away a woman in distress. He wasn’t about to start now.
“You’ll be safe here, I promise.”
The Brodies would not touch her. He and his men would see to it. Julien’s eyes swept her form, her beautiful face still flushed with emotion, and felt his body respond. He closed the door with a brutal snap.
What he couldn’t promise, however, was whether she’d be safe from him.
Chapter Four
Makenna flung the plump pillow at the wall with a groan. She hadn’t slept a bloody wink, thanks to the high-handed Frenchman and his dratted interrogation. She’d confessed far more than she’d wanted to. Not to mention the simmering fire he’d incited in her veins with his overt intimations.
To bed you shall go, indeed.
Her bed with him in it.
All night, Makenna’s body had felt hot and restless, and she’d woken more than once twisted in the damp bedsheets with a racing heart and heaving lungs. Her breasts had felt full and tight, her body coiled in anticipation. It’d been a while, but she recognized the readiness in her core for the shameless lust it was. She knew exactly what she’d been dreaming of, and those dreams belonged in a locked vault. With no key.
God, she was a clotheid.
A clotheid on the run for murder.
Though she was occupied by more important, life-or-death concerns, she could not deny Julien was attractive. But the man was a peacock. His obsession with those waistcoats of his bordered on inane. No Highlander worth his salt would dare to wear such outlandish colors. They suited him, though, she had to admit. He wore the bright hues and rich fabrics with an elegant ease, his tall frame the perfect backdrop for the fitted lines. Graeme would have bathed in horse dung before deigning to wear anything beyond a tartan, sporran, and boots. Even her brothers wore formal togs from time to time, and Makenna quite liked seeing them dressed to the nines. A smile touched her lips. In other circumstances, she wouldn’t mind seeing the fashionable Frenchman clad in naught but a kilt.
Her body burned anew. Gracious, she needed to douse herself in a bucket of ice-cold water. She had more pertinent things to worry about, and lusting after Julien, or any man for that matter, would only distract her from them. Like keeping ahead of the Brodies, and perhaps, somehow, figuring out who had framed her for Graeme’s murder.
Rising to perform her morning ablutions, which included a thorough face drenching, she dressed in the simple gown that Tildy had laid out and then fixed her hair. She wondered where her maid had disappeared to, but she didn’t fault her for it, since it was late morning by the look of the sun in the sky. Makenna had finally fallen asleep when dawn had started to creep its fingers over the windowsill. She yawned, holding a hand to her mouth, and then rolled her tight shoulders. Some outdoor exercise would be welcome, though she had no idea what the new master of Duncraigh was expecting her to do.
She would stay here, close enough while out of the way of her former clansmen, until she knew that Colin had given up on whatever he intended to do with her. If he gave up. To do so might look weak on his part, and as the new laird, he would want to bring Graeme’s accused murderer to justice. She didn’t doubt Brodie clansmen would be eager to find her and drag her before Colin. She had no way to prove her innocence, or find out who had actually killed her husband. Not from here, at Duncraigh. But it was the safest place for the time being, and she counted herself lucky that Julien had not tossed her out after hearing her confession the night before. And if there was anyone who could keep her safe, Makenna knew it was him. She would just have to deal with her foolish and inconvenient desire where he was concerned, or find a way to avoid him completely.
Makenna descended the staircase to the dining room, which was empty, so she made her way to the kitchens where a large man was swearing roundly in French over a simmering pot of something that smelled much too delicious. To her horror, her stomach growled loudly. The enormous man turned, a pair of piercing black eyes widening. He did not apologize or attempt introductions, but frowned fiercely.
“Who are you?” he bellowed.
She almost said Lady Makenna, but then bit her lip. She was a working woman now.
“Makenna,” she said with a smile. “Is that coq-au-vin I smell?”
“I am André.” The cook’s bushy eyebrows speared to his hairline. “You are familiar with French cooking?”
“No’ so much, but what I ate last night for dinner was divine. That leg of lamb was marvelously prepared.”
“Gigot d’agneau au beurre,” he said.
“The butter sauce was splendid.”
The smile that overtook his face was like watching the skies clear after a storm, transforming the dour ogre into a more approachable human. Makenna smiled to herself. She’d had more than enough practice cajoling Graeme. Men loved to be lauded and complimented on their accomplishments. Toward the latter half of their marriage, Graeme had become suspicious of her efforts to commend him, but placating him had become second nature. Not that she had any reason to lie now, to this man. André’s food was the best thing she’d ever tasted.
“Then you must try this.” He hastened to ladle a small bowl for her, and tore off a hunk of crusty bread. “The wine is not right, and it needs some more simmering, but it is passable, non?”
Makenna nearly swooned with pleasure at the first bite. The tangy flavors exploded on her tongue. The wine could have been from the bottom of the barrel and she would not have cared. Her mother’s cook at Maclaren growing up had been half English, half French, and the taste of the familiar dish made her yearn for home. She licked the sauce from her fingers with a vulgar sound, but André didn’t seem to mind.
Nor did the man standing in the doorway, his eyes fastened to her mouth and the fingers stuck between her lips.
“Enjoying yourself?” Julien asked.
André instantly made himself scarce, deserting her, the giant coward. Lowering her hand, Makenna licked the reminder of the sauce off her lip, dragging in a shallow breath as Julien’s hot eyes tracked the movement. “André is a wonder.”
“So my mother cla
ims.” Julien scowled at the storage room into which the man had wedged himself. “His sauces are much too rich, I say. No wonder all the French suffer from rampant gout.”
“You have the palate of a goat,” a muffled voice said.
Makenna gasped and swallowed her mirth at Julien’s affronted look.
“You are fired,” Julien growled.
“Lady Haverille hired me, Lord Fancycoats.”
Biting back a gasp of laughter, her gaze darted to Julien, surprised to find that his current waistcoat of choice was a rich brown with intricate bronze embroidery. Sedate for him. He’d forgone a cravat, his throat bare, and that snagged her attention like cloth caught on a nail. Pale green eyes met hers, a smile hovering on those firm, full lips, and Makenna tore her eyes away as if caught staring at something wicked. There was something indecent about that masculine golden-hued column…or maybe the only wicked things were her thoughts.
“Were ye waiting on me, my lord?” she asked, gulping past the sudden, inexplicable knot in her throat.
“So formal, Lady Makenna.”
“It’s just Makenna now, remember. I work for ye.”
“That you do.” He quirked a brow, extending an arm toward the outer kitchen doorway. “Shall we, then? Take a tour of the lands, and the plethora of four-legged beasts that roam it?”
“More commonly known as sheep, cattle, and horses.”
Chuckling, he turned, and she followed in his footsteps, breathing in the freshness of the late morning and enjoying the feel of the warm Scottish sun on her face. If she didn’t think too deeply on happenstance, she could almost imagine that she wasn’t being pursued by a twisted lunatic. The fear lingered, however, caught on the edges of what felt like safety.
“There are a lot of baby ones, too,” he said. “Foals and lambs, and a goatling or two.”
“Usually called a kid,” she corrected, lips pursed.
“Not to mention the occasional human couple,” he added slyly.
She faltered, nearly tripping over her own two feet. She must have misheard him. “I beg yer pardon?”
He grinned, and she froze, recognizing that roguish look in his eyes as he waved a nonchalant arm. “Lovers seeking a bit of privacy. Enjoying the fresh air. On all fours.” Her jaw fell open. Surely, he could not be serious. Or mean what she thought he meant. A golden eyebrow tented, that devilish smirk deepening. “I have it on good authority that it’s quite fun.”
Oh, the beast. He’d meant to shock her. And succeeded.
Her face felt like an inferno. The act that Julien was insinuating was coarse and primitive. And it made every nerve in her body tighten with acute discomfort. Coitus with Graeme had been little more than a nightmare, particularly the base act he was describing.
Cursing her pale skin, she jutted her chin. “I imagine that some would find that appealing. I, however, dunnae.”
“You must have had a poor teacher.”
That, she had, but the Frenchman was venturing beyond the bounds of civility. “Lord Leclerc, I must insist—”
Her scathing setdown was cut off by shouting in the distance. Two armed men were galloping toward them. Makenna tensed, her entire body going taut as a bowstring, terror filling her. Good God, were they Colin’s men? Her breath reduced to shortened gasps. Their tartans were dark, much like the black-and-red pattern of the Brodie, but they were too far away for her to discern the plaid. As they neared, one looked to have blood all over the front of his white shirt. Had there been a fight? Had someone been hurt?
She blinked. Tildy. Makenna had yet to lay eyes on her that morning. What if her maid had gone off on a ride, or a walk while her mistress was sleeping in…what if she had been caught? What if that was her blood? Her fear escalated into full-on panic.
“Makenna?” Julien’s voice sounded as if it were coming from down a tunnel.
“Who are they?” she heard herself ask.
“My men.”
Understanding was slow, but it filtered through her thickened blood, calming the rapid beats of her heart. “Yer men.”
Julien turned her to face him, coming between her and the men on horseback. His frown looked entirely wrong on his usually blithe face. “Yes, these men are loyal to me. I gave you my word that you would be safe.”
Makenna clamped her lips together as reason returned. The men’s tartans were brown not black and red. Relief was immediate, but not by much when she saw the narrowed look in Julien’s eyes. He had more questions, though she didn’t know if she’d be able to provide answers. And the last thing she wanted to do was speak of the cruelty she’d endured at Brodie, or what faced her with Colin if she were to be captured and brought back.
The arriving men pulled their horses to a stop and dismounted. “Milord, milord—come quick.”
Julien turned to the farmer. “What is it?”
“One of the horses is foaling, milord. We brought her to the barn, but the foal is no’ coming. They’ll both die. And the head groom went to visit his sister.”
Makenna was thankful for the distraction, and for something else to focus on other than Julien’s scrutiny.
“The foal hasnae rotated, likely,” she said, the trembling in her limbs from the earlier scare starting to ebb. Something else filled her now. Wonder, maybe, at the fact that he’d made good on his words. Somewhere, deep down, she hadn’t expected him to. She’d stopped depending on other people, but perhaps she had been right to come here. Right to trust him the night before.
“I can help,” she offered. She accepted a boost from the man up into his horse’s saddle, and stared at Julien, reaching out an impatient hand. “Coming?”
Julien climbed up into the saddle behind her, moving quickly for a man wearing as much clothing as he was. Smoothing her skirts over her legs and trying not to think about the man mounted behind her—or the pair of hard thighs pressing into her—Makenna followed the two men now riding the other horse. Fornicating animals, indeed. She was grateful her face was forward. Small mercies.
They arrived at the barn in no time, and Makenna assessed the situation with a practiced eye. The mare was clearly in the second stages of labor, lying on her side. If the placental membrane had ruptured, the birth should have been quick after that, but it appeared that the mare was certainly in some distress.
“Is this not…normal?” Julien asked from where he had stopped a good distance from the mare. He peered at the animal with a complete lack of confidence. It was not at all like him. Then again, for all his bluster, he was a city man, and this was beyond him.
“Would ye like to take a closer look, my lord?” she asked with wicked humor.
Makenna almost laughed as all the color drained from Julien’s face, his skin taking on a green hue. He glanced helplessly at her. She had helped deliver many foals at Maclaren, though not many at Brodie. Graeme hadn’t liked her getting too close with the farmers or their wives. He’d liked keeping her segregated instead.
“I could use yer hands, though I warn ye, it willnae be pretty,” she told a wan-faced Julien. “Ready for yer first lesson, my lord?” She nodded at the men who’d accompanied them. “Will ye please leave us?” Makenna then turned to Julien. “Unlace me, please.”
A shocked stare slammed into hers. “What?”
“I cannae ruin this dress.”
“Don’t be absurd. I could buy you a hundred dresses.”
Makenna smiled patiently, enjoying his discomfort more than she should. Then again, the obscene remarks he’d made about coupling humans on all fours deserved an equally foul punishment. “I dunnae want a hundred. I like this one, and intend to keep it unsoiled. Besides, it restricts my movements, and I need use of my arms.”
She turned her back to him, and heard him let out a deep exhalation. His fingers fumbled at the ties to her gown, and a warm shiver coursed down her spine as he eased the upper part of the dress off her body. She grinned to herself and then glanced over her shoulder. He was staring at her chemise-covered shoulder
s and the whalebone corset that sat on top of it as if he’d never seen either unmentionable in his life. “First time?”
“Undressing a woman with a pregnant horse present? Yes.”
“Dunnae look,” she told him, conscious of the precarious position of her breasts beneath the transparent lawn, and dumped her hand to the elbow into a nearby bucket of pig fat.
“Don’t worry,” he said in a reedy tone. “I’m too busy trying not to cast up my accounts to notice your charms.”
She inserted her arm into the mare. Dimly aware of a choking sound behind her, she ignored Julien and focused on finding out what was wrong. Makenna felt a tail and a hoof, and as she suspected, the foal was not fully rotated. Using her fingers, she felt her way along the foal’s hip and body, while kneading the mare’s distended belly with her other hand.
“Ye’ve got to grasp the foal’s front foreleg,” she said as she gently did just that. “And then the other, and then, ye guide both down.”
“Ah…yes…I, ah, see,” he said, and she smiled at his brave attempt to sound hale and hardy, rather than ill to his stomach.
After that, it was fast. Within moments, the foal had exited its mother in a burst of fluid, and bounded up on shaky legs.
Makenna rocked back onto her heels and into a very solid chest. She tilted her chin upward to the man behind her. His eyes were on the colt, an indescribable expression on his face. One of wonder. “Congratulations, my lord, it’s a boy.”
His eyes met hers, and then tracked down to her goop-covered arm. He fought back a shudder. “That was the most disgusting yet most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I think you should head down to the stream for a wash.”
Makenna laughed, relieved that both the mare and her baby seemed to be doing well. “Come now, a big strapping man like ye cannae possibly be ill. Ye’re a farmer now.”
“I’d rather be in the seediest brothel in Paris.”
“I’ll wager this mare is much cleaner than some of those women,” she replied tartly. Julien gave a bark of laughter as she wiped her arm down with a nearby rag. He sent her a questioning look and she rolled her eyes. “I have brothers, ye ken. And before they were married, they were all as wild as could be. Now help me fasten my dress, and ye can call the men back in.”
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