Those beautiful green eyes flashed with fury or pain, she didn’t know, but she steeled herself. “You are blind.”
“And ye are a fool.” She bit the inside of her lip hard. “I’m a Scot. I could never be with a man like ye. Ye’re French.”
“Then you used me, too. And for the record, I’m also English.”
Makenna flushed at his suggestive tone of how well she’d used him, and shoved that memory away, too. Yearning for what could never be had was not of use to anyone. Hardening her heart was a matter of practice. She’d done it for years before him, and she’d do it for years after him.
“Only when it suits ye, like everything else in yer life. Ye play the game, Lord Leclerc, like a dispassionate master, manipulating people when it suits ye, never truly caring about them. Even yer mother; ye ken how much it would mean to her to speak with her father, and ye hold back out of pride. Fer what? To prove that ye’re a man on yer own two feet? Sometimes, life is about living. And forgiving.” She swallowed, wincing at the gutted look on his face. “Aye, everyone needs help, my lord. Even ye in yer own prideful arrogance.” Despite her aching heart, her eyes scanned him with calculated derision. “Ye are nothing but a hypocrite with a fondness for fancy waistcoats. I suggest ye take a long hard look in the mirror, Lord Leclerc, beyond that flashy exterior and figure out what it is ye’re truly running from.”
He flinched as if she’d slapped him, and for a moment, Makenna feared she’d gone too far. She wanted to kiss the brutal slant from those lips, clear the pain from those eyes…pain she’d put there. But it was for the best. He had to let her go, or at least, despise her enough not to come after her. She needed him to shut her out for his own good.
Julien turned away, his body rigid, tension emanating from those broad shoulders. When he finally faced her, Makenna nearly stumbled from the defeated look in his eyes, but his next words took all the breath from her.
“You’re right. I’ve been both blind and a fool.”
Stunned, she blinked. “W-what?”
“You are right. About me. About all of it.” He smiled then, taking her by utter surprise. Was the man cracked in the head? “But I’m not going to let you push me away, either. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do, even while slicing me wide open to do it.” He pressed a hand to his chest, his smile faltering slightly. “And without a claymore, no less, that takes skill.”
Makenna’s cheeks went hot. She’d never insulted a man like that in her life, never called his manhood, his character, into question. Graeme would have kicked her into the ground for daring such a thing. But Julien wasn’t Graeme. And he dealt with things differently. He simply closed off…went to the unfeeling, stone-cold center that had made him who he was.
Until now…now when he was wide open.
“Julien,” she began, but he held up a hand.
“Enough, chérie. Nothing you can say will make me leave you to do this on your own, Makenna. Nothing. I’m not a coward, nor am I without honor. So stop. As for my waistcoats…” He lifted a brow with his customary smirk, and the familiar, endearing, infuriating sight nearly made her roll her eyes and grin in return. “You and I will argue to the ends of Scotland after this is over as to my fashion sense, but for now, you’re going to have to accept my help, flashy waistcoats and all. Or else.”
“Or else what?”
“Or else I will be forced to direct Monsieur Martin to cover every wall in your bedchamber in the most obnoxious waistcoat fabric he can find.”
Makenna pinched her lips together to keep from smiling or crying or both. “What a waste of coin, Lord Leclerc.”
A solemn gaze met hers. “It is my coin to give.”
He meant help, Makenna knew. No one besides her family had protected her in years, and when she’d needed them the most, she had been the one to close herself off. And for good reason. With a husband like Graeme, she’d always had to depend on her own two feet and her own wits. Her brother Ronan would not hesitate to rush in, claymore first, and declare war.
And Julien would do the same. Even if he wanted to stand at her side, his presence would do nothing but aggravate Colin, which would put Tildy and Malcolm at risk.
“What can ye do, Julien?” she asked wearily. “He’ll kill ye, or use ye to hurt me.”
“He won’t kill me.”
Her eyes stung. “Nae, he’ll have Gregor stab ye in the back and toss yer body over a cliff into the sea. Colin is no’ an honorable man, ye ken. He murdered his own cousin with a dagger to the heart, while the man was still abed. What makes ye think he willnae do the same to ye?”
“He’d order violence against me, as I am now, perhaps,” Julien said, reaching for her. “But not to a powerful English marquess.”
His jaw went rigid, a muscle beating furiously in his cheek, though it wasn’t anger that caused it. The look in his eyes was a mix of frustration and determination. Makenna recognized hints of the emotion he usually saved for Lady Haverille. Tender affection and a fiercely protective impulse, now directed at her.
“What are ye saying?”
“I’ll accept my grandfather’s offering. I’ll become the next Marquess of Riverley. And you can become the Marchioness of Riverley, if you wish it. You’ll be untouchable. Powerful. Backed by English courts and English law.” His hands rose to cup her cheeks. “You have my protection, Makenna. My body, my title, my name…they’re all yours.”
…
Julien glanced at the woman sitting opposite him in the carriage, her face wreathed in grave lines. It had taken almost all night to convince her to accept his help. After they had returned to the keep, Max had been instrumental in applying his infamous ruthless brand of pressure as well. He’d preyed on her guilt and insisted that Julien and Lady Haverille would be in danger anyway, should she return to the Brodie, because Malcolm and Tildy had been taken from there.
“If I go to him, everyone will be safe,” Makenna had argued.
Max had stared her down. “Do you really believe that? That he would leave what he perceives to be a threat a half-day’s ride away? Don’t be naive, Lady Makenna. I took you for a smarter woman than that.”
“Then tell me, Lord Cranston or Captain Dubois or whomever you are at the moment, what do you propose I do?”
“Depend on the people who care about you.” He’d nodded at Julien. “Use him. Let him help you. Tell your family—they deserve to know the hell you’ve endured and what that clan has put you through. Lean on someone. You cannot shoulder this burden alone.”
“And what if they get hurt in the process?”
Max had set his jaw. “That is their choice to make. We support the people we love. That’s what family is for. Just as I am now, willing to put myself on the front lines for brotherhood.” He’d laughed, ruining the moment. “But of course, if you do wish to marry another instead, I have many friends who would not say no.”
Julien had growled low in his throat, but Lady Haverille had laughed and patted Max’s cheek. “But alas, mon chou, she does not think of anyone else in that way.”
Julien hadn’t been sure that she thought of him that way, either. Makenna’s glower could have incinerated the skin off a man. She’d felt trapped, he knew, and it was a feeling she loathed more than anything. But Makenna had needed help, and she also needed to know that accepting help was not a bad thing.
It had taken longer for any of them—him, Max, and his mother—to convince her that marriage was a solution. She’d only ever viewed the institution as a torture and a cage. And Julien, for his part, had run from it for years. No one had been more surprised than he’d been when he’d offered to make Makenna his marchioness. After making himself a marquess. Two things he’d sworn never to do. But it was for Makenna’s safety, he’d told himself. Her protection. Another layer between her and the bastard who coveted her for himself and wanted to back her into a corner.
Maman, of course, had been thrilled.
He glanced over to the older
woman sleeping to his left. She’d borne his revelations with quiet glee. One, that he would reconcile with Lord Riverley. Two, that he’d accept the title. And three, that he’d marry Makenna.
Julien suppressed a quiet sigh. They’d begun the journey to Newcastle the next day. Max had insisted they take his ship, which had been prepared and ready to sail Makenna and her charges to France, to the nearest port on the English border, which was close to Gretna Green, and then they’d take a coach from there to Bramble Park. Max would head back north toward Maclaren, whereupon, he would fill them in on what was happening.
“Are ye nervous?” a soft voice asked.
His eyes lifted to meet Makenna’s, noting the bruised shadows under hers, and the pallor of her complexion. Her fierce beauty seemed muted somehow, as if it had been beaten into submission.
“About what?”
“Seeing yer grandfather again.”
Julien considered what he was feeling. Nerves weren’t part of it. He felt calm, and he felt unmoored. Calm because his instincts had never failed him in the past, and if he were to assess what he was thinking, it would be the cool composure he always felt before taking over a business or embarking on a new investment. He’d weighed and analyzed all the elements, and this course made the most sense. However, if he were to think of the lives impacted by this decision from an emotional direction, then he started to flounder a bit, hence feeling unmoored. He did not make emotional decisions. And yet, this one was monumentally so.
It would make his mother happy.
It would help Makenna.
It would make him feel like he’d lost.
“Yes,” he said, feeling Makenna’s gaze on him.
“Why?”
“I don’t want him to feel like he’s won. Finding success on my own terms has been such a large part of who I am. I wanted him to pay for what he did to her, cutting her off without a cent. Forcing the daughter of a marquess to live in filth.” He glanced at his sleeping mother. “And now he’ll get what he’s always wanted.”
“And what do ye think that is?”
“Her forgiveness,” he said. “And mine.”
“It’s what she wants, though,” Makenna said. “Lady Haverille wants to give her father another chance.”
“Her heart is too soft. He doesn’t deserve it.”
“Doesnae he? What of Malcolm? Do ye think I should punish him because of who his father is?”
Julien’s eyes met hers. “That’s not the same. Malcolm is a child.”
“And yer grandfather was once a prideful man who made a foolish ultimatum that he’s paid for dearly with the loss of his only child and grandson.” She sucked in a breath, her eyes falling away, as if realizing the argument she was making and remembering what it would cost him. “Ye dunnae have to do this, Julien.”
“I do,” he said, his stare glued to the passing countryside. “It’s the only way.”
They would both need that title to confront Colin Brodie, and as much as Julien did not want the bloody thing, he wanted Makenna’s safety and happiness more.
They drifted into silence again, and after a while, when Julien turned his attention inward, he saw that Makenna’s eyes had shut, and instead, a perceptive green gaze was peering up at him.
“Forgiveness releases the forgiver,” his mother whispered. “Hate has no place in your heart, mon ange.”
“You weren’t asleep?” he asked, his mouth curling at her calling him her angel. She hadn’t called him that in years, not since he was a boy. And even then, he didn’t possess much of an angelic temperament.
“Non. Thank you, Julien,” she said. “I know how hard this is for you, but the marquessate is your birthright. It always was yours.”
“I never wanted it. I did not want to come running to him with my tail between my legs.”
“Then think of it as something from me.” She patted his hand. “You would not refuse a gift from me, would you? And trust me, you’re not a man who ever has his tail between his legs. Not my Julien. I’m proud of you, mon cher fils. Your Papa would be, too.”
“Do you miss him?”
“Every day,” she said softly. His heart gave a pang as his eyes drifted to Makenna. His mother’s gaze followed his, and her fingers squeezed his. “I know you are afraid, but sometimes, we have to take a chance, even when we are not assured of the outcome.”
“Were you happy, Maman?”
“I still am.”
The rest of the carriage ride passed quickly, and they arrived at Bramble Park in a little less than seven hours with a few changes of the teams. Julien felt strangely at peace with his decision, or perhaps he was too tired to feel much of anything else at all.
They were greeted at the door by a shocked and equally joyful Higgins, his grandfather’s longtime butler. His eyes widened and nearly fell out of their sockets when he saw Lady Haverille standing beside Julien.
“I’ve brought you a surprise, Higgins,” Julien said.
“Lady Eleanor?” he sputtered, his eyes blinking. “It has been an age, my lady. You…you are truly a vision.”
Julien smiled at the man’s shock. “I gave her your regards after our last meeting and she insisted on coming the next time to reply in person.”
His normally reserved mother squealed like a little girl, and pushed past her son to fling her arms around the butler, who after a beat of shock, returned the embrace with the same fervor. Julien had to admit, the display warmed his heart somewhat to see his mother so happy.
“Higgins, is that you?” she exclaimed. “Gracious, when did your hair turn white?”
“You started that process when you were a girl, my lady.”
She let out a giggle. “I most certainly did not.”
“Aye, my lady,” the man said with a twinkle in his eye. “I distinctly remember it was the day you stole your father’s coach and decided to journey to London. You were eleven, I believe.”
“Higgins, please. Those are secrets.”
Julien snorted, and his mother turned a dark shade of red. Even Makenna let out a laugh from behind him. “Please, do share. It seems Maman was a bit of a hellion in her day.”
“That she was.” The old butler wiped away a tear. “It is a pleasure to have you home, Lady Eleanor.”
Julien pulled Makenna forward. “Higgins, may I introduce Lady Makenna Maclaren. My betrothed.”
The man’s eyes widened even more, to the point that Julien feared he’d give him apoplexy. Then again, the last time he’d visited Bramble Park, he’d been in the company of another Scottish lass, Aisla Maclaren, who’d also been his betrothed. It was no wonder that Higgins wore such a look of confusion. Nonetheless, he covered his momentary bafflement with remarkable aplomb and bowed.
“Welcome to Bramble Park, my lady.”
“Lady Aisla is well and married to her Scotsman,” Julien said by way of explanation, though he did not have to. “I apologize for our unannounced arrival; however, we are here on a matter of some urgency. Is Lord Riverley…still alive?”
Julien waited with baited breath for the answer. The man could be already dead for all he knew. Julien felt his mother clutch his arm and then relax as the butler nodded.
“He is.” Higgins ushered them into the salon, divesting them of cloaks and gloves, and ordering the hovering maids to get their guests refreshments.
“How is my father, Higgins?” his mother asked.
“Lord Riverley’s health has declined steadily since his grandson was here last, my lady. But he has held on.” His smile was teary. “And now we know why. Dr. Woods is with him. He has been for the last month. His lordship is on his last breaths.”
When the three of them—Makenna, too, at Julien’s insistence—were shown into his grandfather’s room, Julien realized that Higgins had not been exaggerating. The man was a frail husk of a person, barely skin and bones. He looked like a tiny gray corpse in the big bed, and his pale green eyes, so like his daughter’s and so like Julien’s, were rheu
my and world-weary. They darted between them, settling on his daughter before filling with tears. Gently, she lowered herself to his bedside, her own tears overflowing, as she took his bony palms in hers.
“Father,” she wept.
His voice was a croak. “Ellie.”
The nickname was eclipsed by a storm of coughing. The doctor stepped forward with a cloth that had a sickly sweet smell to it. Julien could not help noticing that it was flecked with blood and spittle when the doctor moved away. It made him think of Arabel and how quickly she’d deteriorated. It was a wonder the old man had lasted so long.
“Do not overtax yourself, my lord.” Dr. Woods’s compassionate eyes moved to Julien. “It won’t be long now.”
Julien approached the bed on leaden feet when his mother reached her hand out for him. “I’ll be your heir,” he said, ignoring the sympathetic twinge of his heart.
“For…give,” the marquess wheezed.
Forgiveness? Julien’s heart felt like stone. The marquess wanted something that he couldn’t give. He’d already broken his oath to never take on the title. To never let the old man win, and yet here he was, doing what he swore he’d never do. His gaze slid to Makenna, standing where she was near the door. He’d come here for her. This had all been for her, but he didn’t know if he could let go of the bitterness or the resolve that had driven him to become the man he was. A man who had, against all odds, beaten being hungry, poor, and pitiable. A man who vowed he’d never take a penny, or anything at all, from this man.
“Forgive…grand…son.” The croaks were near inaudible, and they made Julien feel something unexpected. A twinge of pity filled his chest. The marquess was spending his final breaths begging Julien for forgiveness. Lord Riverley wouldn’t be, not if he were still the stubborn and cold man he’d been all those years ago, which meant he had to have changed somewhere along the way.
Julien’s mother was openly weeping. Makenna, too. His own eyes stung as he glanced helplessly over his shoulder. He didn’t know why but he needed her by his side. Julien did not have to say a word, and she was there, her hand gripping his and offering him her strength. He took it with almost desperate gratitude. He had to do this, not just for Makenna, or for his mother or grandfather, but for himself. Makenna had shown him that courage took many forms. Forgiveness was one of them.
A Lord for the Lass Page 24
