A Lord for the Lass

by Amalie Howard

  “I can do better than that,” Julien’s mother said. “I have sketches of them somewhere in the library. Come along. We’ll take them to the gardens.”

  She sent Julien a furtive glance before leading Malcolm from the room. “Lady Makenna is waiting for you in your study,” she said.

  It was all but an order for him to go to her. He braced himself and stood, feeling heavy, as if he’d leeched some of Malcolm’s dolefulness.

  Makenna was indeed in the study, seated at her slim desk placed perpendicular to his. He’d liked the arrangement. Maybe a little too much. It might have been one of the reasons for the dusty stack of accounts on his desk. He enjoyed watching her read and tally numbers, figure out solutions to problems she was presented with. He’d never met anyone with a more adept mind, and her creative ways of tackling problems had impressed him. Improved his own techniques, even. She was occupied now with more papers, a pinched frown creasing her forehead. When she saw him in the doorway, the flash of surprise smoothed each line, and assured him that she had not, in fact, been waiting for him, as his mother had said.

  Meddling woman, he thought fondly.

  “Whatever you still have left on your endless list of things to do, I assure you they will be completed,” he said, stopping short of approaching her desk.

  She lowered one sheaf of parchment. “Will ye hire a new steward?”

  “I think it’s clear I need one,” he replied. “I’ve no intention of letting Duncraigh fall to pieces.”

  Unlike everything else inside of him at the moment. Words, feelings, his unquenchable desires. Just looking at her, being in the same room…all he could picture was her coming apart in his arms. The impulse to go to her now, draw her to him, and tell her every base thing he wanted to do in wicked detail was nearly irresistible. He turned away from her and walked toward a window so she might not see the fruits of his thoughts.

  “Aye,” she said, sounding wistful a moment, but then added, “At least yer new steward will have a tidy archive of ledgers to work with. I envy him that, considering the ones I had to work with were in such shambles.”

  He smirked at her goading remark. “Who says I will hire a man? You’ve proved a lady steward is just as, if not more, competent.”

  He’d thought she would grin at his compliment, but instead, like his mother’s earlier expression, there was heartache in her eyes. She turned them back to the papers before her. “Whoever ye hire will do just fine, I’m sure.”

  “They will not be you,” he said, the words spilling out before he could weigh them. “Makenna—”

  She shook her head and stood abruptly. “Dunnae. This has been torture enough, Julien. Please.”

  He bit off and swallowed whatever else he’d been about to say. He wasn’t even fully conscious what it was. But it would have been spoken from his irrational heart, not his logical mind.

  “Very well,” he said, though he wasn’t ready to part from her company just yet.

  He was desperate to soak her in; anxious not to let her out of his sight for a minute more than was necessary. But time was the one thing he could not control. Time and the path she had chosen.

  “The ship should be in the harbor by now,” he said after another protracted silence. “If you’ll set aside whatever you’re doing here, we could ride down to meet the captain and crew. I’ll arrange for your trunks to be transported as well.”

  Makenna consented with a reluctant nod, and within minutes their mounts were saddled and they were riding toward the sea. It seemed wrong for the weather to be so fair on a day that hung with low barometric pressure inside of him. The blue sky, thin clouds, bright sunshine that painted streaks of Makenna’s hair a burnished red-gold. Those things should have all made Julien content because the journey would be a pleasant one. But as the harbor came into view and he spotted the tall masts of the North Star, the ship that would whisk Makenna from her homeland, he curled his fingers even more tightly around the reins, tension balling up along his shoulders.

  “Is that Lord Cranston?” Makenna asked at the sight of the tall, burly earl striding along the main deck of the ship, barking orders.

  “It is. He’s agreed to take you to Le Havre.”

  He was the only person Julien had trusted with Makenna’s welfare. Maxim had not needed much convincing when Julien had gone to him with the request, either, though Julien had warned that if any of his crew were in any way untoward with Makenna, they would have hell to pay.

  “If she is a widow and unattached…” Maxim had tried to reason with an easy shrug of his bulky shoulder, though Julien had gotten the distinct sense that the man had been baiting him from the start.

  “Pray they do not lay one finger upon her, Max.” He’d practically growled the command. His friend had laughed and nodded.

  “I understand. She belongs to someone else, or so my little bird tells me.”

  Maman. Yes, she would have seen the tension between them the last two days. Julien had not replied to Maxim. He had no claim on Makenna, no matter what had happened between them.

  The grateful expression forming as she kept her eyes on Maxim had Julien wishing he’d made that claim clear. Or hired a different crew. Preferably men who were old, haggard, and missing a number of teeth. And had peglegs.

  “Malcolm will be so happy.” She sighed. “He wanted Lord Maxim to come along.” She turned to Julien, her smile ebbing. “And ye as well.”

  He knew it was true. Malcolm had asked him a number of times to go with them. Each time it had been a piercing disappointment when Julien had cited his reasons for staying in Scotland. His mother’s health, the running of the estate. And quite honestly, he wanted to keep eyes and ears peeled for Colin Brodie. If the man learned where Makenna had gone, Julien wanted to know so he could take action. He’d send word somehow, tell her to keep moving.

  Hell, it sounded like an awful way to live. The world would still be her prison, so long as Colin sought her out. However, if the man were to take a wife, move on…it could be possible for Makenna to return. Someday. And he intended Duncraigh Castle to be here. Waiting for her. Julien blinked in surprise at the thought, but it was true. It’d been hers the day she’d walked in and taken on the impossible job of steward.

  “Tildy might not like it,” he said, trying to ignore the sudden thickness in his chest. “She thought Maxim was a scoundrel, if I recall.”

  “I think she’ll be preoccupied with her own circumstances,” Makenna replied, another quiet smile forming.

  She spoke of Tildy’s new arrangement with the groom, Douglas. The young man had been smitten with Makenna’s maid from the start, and he’d decided that he’d rather pull up roots and go along with them.

  “Besides, Lord Leclerc,” Makenna continued, her slight smile brightening. “Ye wouldnae put our safety into the hands of a scoundrel.”

  He met her blue gaze, as clear and summery as the sky above them. Julien couldn’t sit still another moment. They hadn’t made it to the harbor yet, but he had to get out of his saddle. Had to move. He leaped to the rutted dirt and rock road that led down to the wharfs.

  “Julien?” Makenna dismounted as well.

  He couldn’t hold back any longer. Julien took her by the arms and pulled her to him, her body against his like cool water laving parched skin. He breathed her in, his fingers raking up the nape of her neck, into her hair. He didn’t care who was watching, whose tongues would wag. He cared about nothing but the woman in his arms. This time, she didn’t ask him to stop.

  “There has to be a way, Makenna,” he said, his lips in her sweetly scented hair. “I can come to Paris. I’ll go with you anywhere.”

  She stiffened but didn’t pull away. “And leave yer mother? Nae. Besides, ye ken that willnae fix things. So long as Colin is sending men out in search of me—”

  “And if he stops? If gives up? What then?”

  She lifted her chin to stare at him. “If that comes to pass…I dunnae, I suppose I’ll consider it then.
But Julien, I need to take care of myself for once. No’ just me, but Malcolm, too. And ye need to take care of Lady Haverille. Ye told me once that if I brought trouble to yer doorstep, ye wouldnae hesitate to cast me out. That yer mother’s safety comes first. And ye ken that’s true.”

  She was right, he had said that. His mother had vastly improved, and if he took her back to Paris, she might regress. But surely, there was a countryside village in France somewhere where she could get the same fresh air, the same rest, and where Makenna could hide. But Makenna was already shaking her head, as if she could hear the hasty plans in his mind. No. He needed to stay. He needed to be certain Colin Brodie had ceased his mad quest to find Makenna before he could even think about a future with her. And he wanted one. At the very least, he wanted more bloody time.

  Makenna cupped his cheek, her lips trembling as they had yesterday morning when she’d kissed him once and left his bed. “I’ll never forget what ye’ve done for us. For me. I didnae ken I could feel this way for a man. Trust anyone the way I”—she swallowed hard—“trust ye.”

  Knowing how difficult it was for her to say, the words were a gift. Julien held still, afraid to move, afraid that he’d break down and plead like a beggar. But then she was rising onto her toes, her mouth approaching in a bold display of affection—one that would smack of ruination given all the eyes and ears about—when he heard the fast cadence of hooves behind them. A piercing whistle cut through the air and when Julien turned, ripping his cheek from Makenna’s palm, he first recognized the approaching mare. It was the swift black Arabian, the recent addition to his stables. He recognized the head groom next, his white beard and hair as wild as the horse prancing restlessly underneath him.

  “Milord!” Alban shouted, and the closer he came, an alarm triggered in Julien’s mind and spread to every nerve in his body. The groom’s hands and shirt were covered in blood.

  “Good God, Alban,” he said, reaching for the reins as the horse slowed reluctantly. “What in hell happened to you?”

  The old groom heaved for air. “Forget me, milord. There’s been an attack. Tildy and the lad.”

  Makenna took a strangled breath and gripped Julien’s arm, her eyes landing on the blood staining Alban’s shirt and hands. “Are they hurt? Where are they?”

  “Gone. They’ve been taken, milady. We found Douglas in the gardens,” the groom said, raising one hand. “This is his blood. He was stabbed.”

  She gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. “He’s no’…”

  “Aye. Dead, milady.”

  “And Lady Haverille?” Julien asked urgently, remembering that his mother had been the one to take the boy to the garden. She must have found Tildy on the way. His heart climbed into his throat. “Is my mother hurt?”

  “Nae, milord. The cook said she forgot her parasol and then sent the boy out to the garden with the maid.” Alban seemed to remember something as Makenna sagged against Julien, his breathing beginning to slow as the situation took shape. “We found this with…with Douglas’s body.”

  Julien took the small scroll of paper. The poor groom’s blood streaked it, but the ink was still legible. Julien held Makenna against him as they read it together:

  They will live if you come. -C.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Oh God, it’s Colin,” Makenna said, her lip trembling and a terrifying coldness creeping like thick vines around her heart. “He has them.” She turned to the groom, fists clenching at her sides. “Which way did they go?”

  “Their tracks lead to the northwest, milady,” he said.

  Her chest caved at the sudden pressure. A part of her had been hoping it’d been bandits or anyone else, but in her heart, she knew. Gregor had said it himself, that he’d planned to pay the French lord a visit. He must have recognized Malcolm and Tildy, and seized the chance to gain the upper hand by taking them. How had Brodie men marched onto private lands, past a patrolling guard, and snatched up a woman and a child in plain view of everyone?

  “And nae one did anything to stop them?”

  The groom pressed his hands together. “Only Douglas, milady.”

  Makenna felt a spurt of guilt at the man’s senseless death, and then more anger. The young groom would have been no match for Gregor, if it had been him. The man was ruthless at the best of times. And Tildy would have been distraught if they’d killed her lover in front of her. Her only thought would have been to protect Malcolm. Oh, Tildy.

  “How long ago did it happen?”

  “No’ long, milady. Less than an hour.”

  She looked wildly toward her horse with every intention of climbing on and chasing after them. Colin’s men could not have gone far in that stretch, not if they were carrying a boy and a maid with them. They still had time. A hand on her elbow stopped her.

  “What are you doing?”

  She turned in a fury to see Julien there, and then shook her head. “What do you mean what am I doing? We can catch up to them if we leave now.”

  “How?”

  Makenna shot him a look as if he were daft. “With the horses.”

  “You have no weapons, not to mention no armed guards, and you’re planning on chasing a group of Brodie soldiers—seasoned, too, if they are anything like the ones in that tavern the day I followed you to Brodie lands. You would succeed in doing nothing but getting yourself caught in the same snare that entrapped Tildy and Malcolm.”

  “I am a Maclaren.”

  “You are a woman,” he said, and seeing her furious scowl, squeezed her arm gently. “And as much as I know what you’re capable of, going after them in a rage will serve no purpose other than playing right into their hands. Think, Makenna. Use that clever brain of yours to see the sense of what I’m saying. They won’t come to harm, not if Colin intends to barter them.”

  Drowning in fear, any cleverness in her brain was on hiatus. “Ye cannae stop me.”

  “I don’t want to have to.”

  His tone brooked no argument, and she knew he spoke from a place of reason, but Makenna wanted to rail. She wanted to hit something. Scream and cry at the fact that they’d been so close to escaping the man’s clutches. Instead, she fixed the man who held her back with a glacial stare.

  “Let go of me, Julien.”

  His grip tightened marginally, not painfully. “Not if you’ll do anything rash.”

  “I am no’ yers to command,” she hissed, rage and a feeling of utter powerlessness making her see red.

  “I am the lord of this estate.”

  “Then what do ye suggest I do, my lord?” she snarled. “Leave them to their fate? I cannae. It’s my fault. I stayed too long…if only we’d left sooner…and the more time we waste standing here now, the farther away they go. He left a note, Julien. He intends me to follow.”

  “It’s a trap, Makenna.”

  “Of course it’s a trap.” She yanked her arm away, but made no move to mount the horse grazing nearby. Her voice broke. “He wants me.”

  “There has to be something else he wants in exchange. Every man has a price.”

  Makenna shook her head. “Some men want the impossible.” A sob caught in her throat as she strode to the cliff’s edge and stared blindly out to the ocean. “I’ll gladly trade myself for them.”

  As if he knew the immediate danger of her racing off like a possessed madwoman had passed, Julien turned to the groom, who had stood there in silence, waiting to see what she would do. “Fetch the Earl of Cranston—he’s onboard the North Star in the harbor—and gather all the men who were on patrol in the castle. I want to know everything that happened and how those men managed to get in undetected. The lady and I will be there shortly.”

  “Aye, milord.”

  Makenna could feel him watching her, but she kept her gaze firmly on the horizon. She was holding her sanity together by a thread. Every instinct inside of her wanted to jump on that horse and chase after the men who’d taken her family, keening a battle cry. Julien was right, of course. Reacting in
haste would be foolish. And if Colin did intend to use Tildy and Malcolm for barter, they would not be harmed. Not unless she didn’t go, and if she did, Makenna knew he would use them as pawns to control her forever. She sighed, a tear slipping down her cheeks.

  All the helplessness from the past handful of years came back in full force. The tastes of freedom and affection—she spared a glance to the somber man to her right and felt it like a blow to her stomach—that she had savored was gone. Her old prison beckoned. Makenna wrapped her arms about herself. She had asked him for something to remember and he had given it to her. At least, her time with him would sustain her. The thought of lying with Colin made a surge of bile rise in her throat.

  She had no choice. She’d sleep with the devil if she had to.

  Strong arms curved around her, gathering her close, and instead of twisting away, Makenna let herself lean against the man who had been nothing she’d ever expected; a smirking jester with a spine of pure steel. A man who had built an empire from nothing.

  A Frenchman with the heart of a Highlander.

  Makenna felt envy for the woman he’d eventually marry when he went back to France. And he would. She’d make sure of it.

  Savoring the feel of him one last time, she stepped out of his embrace and walked a few steps away. She could see Alban down at the docks speaking to Captain Dubois, the Earl of Cranston and relaying Julien’s message. The man’s gaze tracked up to where they stood, and she saw Julien raise his hand. With a pained breath, she realized she’d need to convince Maxim to keep Julien out of harm’s way, once she traded herself to the Brodie. He’d come after her, and she couldn’t have that. But first, she had to set the seeds. Awful seeds. Lies.

  “I dunnae need ye to save me, my lord.”

  “Everyone needs help.”

  Makenna killed everything wonderful he’d ever made her feel and met his stare head on. “From ye? A French roué with a trail of women in his wake, who only cares about the coin in his coffers? I used ye for the safety ye could provide. And ye used me for my body, dunnae deny it.”