“What have I missed?” she asked. Julien saw her then, and stood quickly with a short bow of greeting.
“Maman told a naughty joke that does not bear repeating.”
“Oh! You scoundrel, I certainly did not.” But Lady Haverille was still laughing, the color in her cheeks like the peach roses in the gardens.
Makenna sat and was content to listen to the two of them banter. Julien had uprooted his life in Paris to come to the wilds of Scotland with one goal in mind: make his mother well again. All of this, she knew by now, had been for Lady Haverille. And here she sat, laughing and flushed with good health. Her son had done everything in his power to make it so. He’d even had a pianoforte shipped in from France so that Lady Haverille could run through her scales and play the handful of pieces she’d learned as a girl. Before her marriage. Before her life of hardship had begun.
Makenna could only imagine what kind of poverty Julien and Lady Haverille had endured, and the depth of pride she felt for her son, who had lifted them both from that nightmare. She didn’t know the extent of his current holdings—the only ledgers and accounts she had been inspecting were associated with Duncraigh, not his other properties or businesses—but she suspected he was obscenely wealthy. He seemed to have a finger in any and everything that could be turned for profit.
“Do you have an opinion on my son’s new venture, Makenna?” Lady Haverille asked. “With these horses he’s gone and purchased.”
“It’s a good one,” Makenna said. “The land is perfect for it. The horses are of excellent quality. And I’m certain Lord Leclerc kens what he’s doing. He rarely gets anything wrong when it comes to business.” Julien’s surprised stare swung to hers as if he hadn’t expected the compliment, warming her from head to toe. His obvious pleasure at her words made her feel light.
Lady Haverille smiled fondly at her son. “That he does. Now tell me exactly what you plan to do, chéri.”
Makenna let her gaze rest on Julien as he explained to his mother his plans to breed the new horses and specific, potential investors in both London and France. He knew many people—not friends or peers, but buyers—and had no doubt that they would part with a hefty amount of money for what he had to offer them. Julien’s confidence was so potent, it was almost like a drug. Again, Makenna had the desperate desire to stay and see what this place could become under his expert care. It would flourish, she knew. Everything he touched did.
Including her.
Despite being included in the conversation, she felt absurd as he held his mother’s attention and gaze during dinner for long stretches of time, and she longed for the moment when he would shift his eyes back toward her. Feel the intense press of that warm green gaze and bask in it. Savor it. Remember it for always. Gracious, it wasn’t natural to want someone’s eyes on her so fiercely. It left Makenna feeling both warm and a little shaky. He wasn’t being flirtatious with her in the least, and yet, instead of being glad of it, she was oddly…bereft.
Perhaps it had to do with her decision to leave. It was so final.
After dinner cordials were served, but Makenna rose from her chair, before she did something foolish to draw his gaze. “If ye’ll excuse me, I should check on one of the new lambs before turning in.”
It was an excuse, and a flimsy one at that, but Julien stood as she bid Lady Haverille a good night and retreated from the dining room. Lord in heaven, why couldn’t she make up her mind about what it was she wanted? Either she enjoyed his attentions or she didn’t. It shouldn’t have been more complicated than that.
And yet, as she checked on the new lamb in one of the barns to make sure it was no longer being ignored by its mother, Makenna couldn’t untangle the twist in her chest whenever Julien crossed her mind. And he seemed to do so every few moments. Reluctant to return to the keep, she lingered in the barn and even checked on Wiley in the stables before heading back a long while later. Neither visit, however, had cleared the jumble in her brain.
Back in the castle, all was silent as she made her way up the stairwell. Malcolm would have taken his dinner in the kitchens with Tildy and the other servants, before going to bed, first scrubbing whatever dirt he’d accumulated under his nails and on his face. His room, a guest chamber, had slowly been filled with items Julien had purloined from elsewhere, including a game of spillikins carved of wood and ivory, a giant rocking horse that reached to Makenna’s hips, several horn books, and an entire regiment of carved French soldiers and horses. Makenna had caught Julien more than once playing a round of spillikins with Malcolm, each of them attempting to pick up one of the spilled sticks with a hook without disturbing any of the other sticks. Malcolm had said that it was his lordship’s favorite game. Makenna could see why it would appeal to Julien—it was a game of patience, skill, and strategy—things in which he excelled.
Malcolm was not in his room, however. Makenna stifled the instant spark of worry. The boy was safe at Duncraigh. No doubt he was off torturing one of the maids and refusing to go to bed. She wandered the halls, inquiring a passing scullery maid as to whether she’d seen the boy.
The young girl bobbed a quick curtsy. “He’s with her ladyship, milady.”
“It’s just Makenna,” she corrected, but the girl had already scurried away.
Making her way to Lady Haverille’s quarters, Makenna supposed the lady was right. She was the daughter of a duke, and that would never change, regardless of her circumstances. Nobility could not be struck away, no matter how hard one tried to escape one’s past. It was something she knew that Julien had tried diligently to do. He’d turned his back on what was his birthright, refusing to have anything to do with his grandfather’s illustrious title. Like her, that didn’t change the fact that he was the grandson of a marquess. And the man’s heir presumptive.
The sound of tinkling laughter reached her ears as Makenna peered around the open door of Lady Haverille’s sitting room. The sight that greeted her nearly made tears come to her eyes. Lady Haverille sat on the floor in front of the fireplace, her skirts arranged around her with the young Malcolm tucked into her side. They held a book together and Malcolm was reading! His boyish voice framed the words with stilted care, but it was the look of utter pride and adoration on the older woman’s face that hit Makenna right in the heart.
Retreating in silence, she stood outside and listened to the soft voices along the occasional break of laughter over a particularly tricky word. Even though he’d lost his mother, coming to Duncraigh had been the best thing for the boy. Malcolm was surrounded by love and laughter, just the way Arabel would have wanted. Makenna’s chest ached. Was she doing the right thing by taking him away from all of it? Would he hate her for it? Would he understand that he would not be safe if his father found him and dragged him back to Brodie? No. Leaving was for the best.
After a few more minutes, Makenna left them to their reading and wandered the halls of the castle. She wasn’t tired. Her body felt strangely on edge, as if she were standing on the brink of a cliff and about to tumble off. Fear and danger did odd things to people’s brains. Perhaps she could work on some needlepoint, which she had abandoned with how busy she had been. When she’d been at Brodie and consigned to her rooms, she had become an expert in complex embroidery. She hadn’t touched her hoops since she’d been at Duncraigh however, not that she’d had much time for leisure between riding the grounds looking for danger and performing her duties as temporary steward.
With a determined huff, she made her way back to her chambers, which were also vacant. Tildy must have been off with her young man. Makenna did not begrudge the maid her small freedom. She had no need of her at the moment, other than to divert her from her own boredom. Locating her long-discarded embroidery hoop, she stared at the pattern and sighed. It’d been a complicated landscape needlepoint project that she had started in the weeks before Graeme had been murdered. Makenna had found it among her belongings that Tildy had hurriedly packed the night they’d escaped Brodie. It had been scooped
up with some clothing that had been discarded on her bed, but Makenna was glad for it nonetheless.
She grudgingly set to work, making careful stitches and attempting to find the peace her usual intensive focus and careful application had always brought. Hours later, her mind wasn’t into it, as was evident the seventh time she pricked herself.
“Ballocks!” she swore, sucking on her throbbing finger, thankful that no one was around to hear the foul oath. Tildy would have chided her to no end. The maid had yet to return from her rendezvous, which made Makenna curiously envious.
Replacing the hoop in its basket, she thought about Julien. He’d proven to be as much of a night owl as she, and after dinner, he would have attended to the rather large pile of correspondence that the hardworking Mr. Jobson had delivered earlier. The solicitor had arrived with the Horizon, along with the dozen or so horses and Lady Haverille’s pianoforte. Makenna was impressed with the small man’s efficient organization. Julien had described Jobson as a godsend, and she was inclined to agree. He knew every detail of his employer’s life, schedule, and business dealings around the world.
Perhaps she could go down to the kitchen for a glass of warm milk that might help her sleep. Or a finger of Ronan’s whisky. One was on a deserted side of the house, and the other would be located in Lord Leclerc’s study, where there was a good chance that he might be. She ignored the wild thump of her heart. He’d also likely be with Mr. Jobson. Makenna hesitated in the corridor for a fraction of a second, and then marched down to the study. The door was open. Sure enough, the light of flickering candles danced along the dark walls and the room was occupied. By one person, not two as she’d expected. Julien was so caught up in whatever he was studying that he did not notice her arrival.
He was seated behind the large desk, the golden candlelight reflecting off the top of his blond head, twirling a tumbler half full of whisky in one hand, while the other tapped against a quill. In an uncharacteristic move, his cravat had been discarded on the desk, his gaping shirt exposing a swath of bronzed chest that made Makenna’s breath quicken. His shirtsleeves had been rolled to show off forearms roped with muscle and dusted in dark golden hair.
A notch appeared on his brow as he moved his eyes down the page and wrote something with the quill on a separate piece of paper. He let out a frustrated sound and took a sip of the whisky before staring at the papers spread before him. He released the quill, splattering splotches of dark ink on the page, and raked through his hair.
“Ballocks!”
She grinned at the very same oath she’d muttered not a few minutes earlier. “Good Lord, sir, is that any way to talk to those poor ledgers? I’m sure they didnae do anything to warrant such a tongue-lashing.”
A pair of tired green eyes lifted to veer into hers, and she felt the touch of them all the way to her toes. He was tired, and his usual sardonic mask was missing. “Lady Makenna, I thought you’d long gone to bed. How is your wee lamb?”
“I couldnae sleep,” she said. “The lamb is indeed wee, and she’s fine. As is her mother.”
She approached the desk, keeping her eyes on its contents, and not on that tantalizing patch of skin that had caught her attention from the doorway. In such close quarters, she could see the thatch of dark gold hair at the apex of his shirt. She wondered idly if it would be as soft as the hair on his head, and then shook herself.
Her eyes fell to the mess he’d made with the quill and the lines of numbers he’d scratched out, and widened. The sums there were astronomical. If she weren’t an expert in keeping her feelings to herself, she would have gasped. Some of the line totals indicated hundreds of thousands of pounds. If these were his business ledgers, Makenna had been wrong before that Julien was merely wealthy. Obscene didn’t begin to cover it. He could buy Scotland several times over.
“Drink?” he asked.
“Please.”
After he’d retrieved another glass from one of the drawers on his desk and filled both, he lifted his own. “What are we toasting?”
“Sleepless nights?”
His signature smirk appeared, making her wonder what would follow. She was not disappointed. “There are more pleasurable ways to deal with such things, you know.”
Makenna fought the fire his words incited. “What has ye so frustrated?” He arched a brow, and this time she could not control the heat that singed her cheeks. “In yer work?”
“I’ve been having trouble reconciling some figures from the shipping ledgers. Been staring at the bloody things for hours.” He glanced up at her with a sudden calculating expression. “Fancy lending an objective eye?”
“Ye trust me with yer shipping business?”
“I trust you with a great many things, Makenna.”
He scooted his chair over and made room for her beside him. After a beat of hesitation, Makenna moved around to his side of the desk, conscious of his nearness, but more fascinated by the problems presented on the sheets of parchment and the distraction they offered. Much better than embroidery. “What are we looking at?”
“Jobson seems to think I’m being fleeced. Here are the customs duties that have been levied against my cargoes in the various ports, and the value of all the goods. The numbers don’t match up, despite the appropriate deductions.” His warm voice curled about her. “Take this one, for example. I’ve gotten three different totals in the last quarter of an hour.” He shrugged. “Could be because I’m tired and can’t quite see straight.”
Makenna scanned the page in question. It was significantly harder than the last time they had done this. For one, the totals had many more zeroes. It took her a minute, but the number she came to matched the second one Julien had jotted down. “There, eleven thousand, two hundred and twenty-seven pounds.”
“Perhaps if we work together, you can act as a check and balance?”
“Certainly,” she said.
They worked in companionable silence for some time. Julien would check a column, and then she would follow, offering up her calculations. More often than not, they were matching, but occasionally, they would have to do a recheck. After a while, Makenna found herself leaning on the arm of his chair, and then, soon after that she was perched on it. She only realized her position, when his elbow grazed her hip.
“I beg yer pardon,” she said. “I hadnae realized.”
Mortified, she moved to rise and found herself halted by a very strong arm snaked around her waist. “Please, don’t.”
“This is no’ proper, Lord Leclerc,” she whispered.
“And who is here to care besides the two of us?” he countered. “I won’t report you to the patronesses of Almack’s.”
She rolled her eyes. “Almack’s is for debutantes. I am a widow.”
“You’ve made my point, my lady.”
Makenna opened her mouth and closed it. “I suppose ye’re right.”
“I love it when you concede,” he crowed with a grin that made her quite breathless. God, she knew she was in trouble with this man, and yet, Makenna could not bring herself to listen. To move away. To resist the seductive pull of him. She’d allow herself this small indulgence. After all, she’d soon be leaving.
Conscious of his every inhale, they settled back into a rhythm, and checked off a few more pages until they’d come to the last one. Julien slumped back into his chair, nearly unseating her in the process.
“You truly are impressive.” His glance was wholly appreciative, making butterflies erupt in her belly. “How fast can you calculate?”
“Faster than ye.”
“Is that so?” He grinned and lifted his glass. “Care for a contest?”
Makenna hadn’t even noticed that he’d refilled her glass while they’d been working, but she was deeply aware of the tingling in her body that said she’d consumed more than she realized. The level in the bottle had diminished considerably.
“What kind of contest?”
He jabbed at a column on a random page in another ledger. “Whoever cal
culates this column the fastest wins.”
“Wins what?”
“The honor of being the best.”
She bit back her smile. “The best what?”
“The best at all the numbers.” He shot her a look. “The King or Queen of Arithmetic.”
“That’s a lofty title.” With an encroaching feeling of sadness, Makenna realized that she would miss the easy banter they shared. Along with their common love for numbers. Queen, indeed. Makenna canted her head in challenge. “Ye’re on!”
“Ready.” He eyed her. “Steady. Go!”
In the midst of the tallying, Julien jerked the sheet away, making her lose her concentration. “Cheater!” She laughed and punched him in the arm. “Start over.”
“Fine,” he said grinning. “Honor’s rules.”
She won the first, so he challenged her to a second. Then they went best of three, each of them trying to cheat and outwit the other. By the time they got to the sixth page, they were doubled over laughing. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes at his outrageous attempts to break her focus, from pulling on her hair to throwing sheets of parchment over the numbers.
“I’m on to yer tricks,” she shrieked, turning her face toward him.
“Are you?”
Jewel-bright peridot eyes met and held hers, and for some reason, her tongue wouldn’t cooperate. His lips hovered an inch away, the scent of him teasing her nose. He was too close. Much too close. “Aye,” she whispered.
“I don’t think you are.”
Makenna was completely blindsided when his lips crashed into hers. Whether it was the whisky or her desire, she didn’t care. She let herself go to that kiss, opening her mouth and tasting him fully, her tongue cooperating exceptionally well now. By the time they broke apart, she was gasping. And she’d tumbled into his lap.
A Lord for the Lass Page 15
