No good could come of it, though.
He’d nothing to offer, and simply because she’d been forced to accept his generosity last night and again this morning, didn’t mean her feelings toward him had changed an iota.
In Paris, he had behaved abominably, and she hadn’t forgiven him yet. Mightn’t ever. Nevertheless, he could make amends.
Her hands full of dirty dishes, Mrs. Kerrigan spoke to her in passing, and a kind smile lit Mademoiselle Ferguson’s face as she answered.
Whatever she murmured caused the innkeeper to beam.
Most ill-fated that Mademoiselle Ferguson sought respite in the same theater alcove he had arranged to meet a female smuggling contact. And more unfortunate, Jean-Louis de Carnot had seen him slip into the niche.
Sloppy on Jacques’s part, that.
Or perchance, Gabrielle de Ludres, his informant for three years, had indeed betrayed him. The aging courtesan retired shortly thereafter, leaving France for good, word had it.
Fortuitous? Possibly.
Carnot’s presence? Entirely too convenient.
The blackguard’s lands marched parallel to Jacques’s, and Carnot had coveted le Manoir des Jardins’s château and superior acreage for years.
Too damned coincidental that while Jacques had been away on a mission, the house had been ransacked, and his sister, her husband, and their four-year-old son died in the mêlée, along with several servants. More than one survivor claimed they recognized Carnot’s hirelings dressed as British soldiers during the attack.
As an agent, Jacques could scarcely complain about the English raiding his ancestral home. France and England were at war, after all. In any event, that auspicious night in Paris, he’d no choice but to provide Carnot an eyeful and act the womanizing rakehell, a role Jacques had carefully cultivated. Too many of his contacts’ lives still depended upon their identities, as well as their loyalties, remaining hidden.
Entranced from the moment his lips had grazed Seonaid’s, he momentarily lost himself in the passionate kiss. Whether paralyzed by shock or outrage, she’d not protested at first. He’d like to think she’d enjoyed the stolen kiss as much as he.
“Good morrow, Monsieur.” Her pleasant greeting, in her unusual, soothing voice quashed his reverie.
Wearing a black and emerald gown, enhancing her dewy skin and vibrant eyes, Mademoiselle Ferguson appeared much refreshed from her night’s rest. Offering a sympathetic smile to a mother holding a squirming toddler, she slipped onto a chair.
Spirals of steam whirled upward from the wooden oat porridge bowls Kerrigan set upon the marred tabletop. Thick slices of dark bread, cheese, milk, and tea followed. A ruckus clamored from beyond the kitchen, and casting a frenzied glance behind him, he heaved a hefty sigh. “Can I get ye anythin’ else?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” Spreading her serviette in her lap she tilted her head graciously.
Taking his seat, Jacques slipped the overworked man a coin. “As am I, merci.”
“Thank ye, sir.” With a small, upward pull of his mouth, Kerrigan hurried to the kitchen.
Hopefully, his wife didn’t await him with her broom again.
“Miss Seonaid,” Una said, “if’n ye dinnae mind, I be makin’ myself useful in the kitchen.” Turning her somewhat intimidating regard on Jacques, she canted her head. “Ye can see me from here if’n ye need me, and I be sure his monsieurshipness wouldn’t mind my absence.”
Checking a grin, Jacques flicked his fingers. “Monsieur will do.”
Though partially hidden from the entry, their table was visible from the kitchen. Likely, given the crowd, Una felt it safe to leave her ward’s side.
Seonaid’s attention flitted between Una and Jacques, her fine sable brows drawn together and her nose crinkling the endearing way it did when she was puzzled. “All right, Una. The proprietors are rather harried, and I don’t doubt they’d be grateful. Thank you for offering.”
“Aye.” With a brusque tilt of her gray-threaded orangey head, Una strode to the kitchen.
His conscience twinging, Jacques scooted an extra chair to the wiggling girl’s table. “Here. This might help with l’enfant.”
Smiling her appreciation, the mother slid her daughter onto the chair. The curly-haired toddler promptly stood and, grinning, stomped her feet in a childish jig, her mop of ginger ringlets pirouetting with each clumsy step.
“That was kind of you. Poor woman couldn’t eat a bite with her daughter practically turning flips in her lap. She certainly is a spirited child. Reminds me of my sister, Adaira.” Seonaid smiled and lifted the teapot. “Tea, Monsieur?”
“Please, and will you call me Jacques?” Pouring fresh milk onto his porridge, he winked. “At least when we’re alone?”
Instead of immediately denying his request, her solemn gaze probed his for a protracted moment before she suddenly smiled, that dazzling flash of joy that had him blinking like an inebriated buffoon again.
“Since I don’t foresee us being alone too terribly much, I suppose it cannot hurt. Even if it isn’t quite the thing.” Scooping a spoonful of porridge, she slid him an indirect glance. “And yes, you may call me Seonaid. Only when we cannot be overheard, however.”
Zut. She’d read his mind. Chance, surely. “Adaira? She’s the ah, adventurous sister?”
Abducted an earl, if he recalled correctly. The other sister—what was her name? Isabelle? Non, Isobel. She wasn’t a stranger to escapades either. She’d been the one captured by rogue Scots. Spirited Scotswomen, all, though the one beside him did her utmost to mask the trait.
“Yes, Addy’s been called that. And more.” Releasing a musical chuckle, merriment lit Seonaid’s eyes. “You mentioned you’re contemplating a move to Scotland?” She took a neat bite of bread, and chewing, awaited his response.
He’d never considered eating a sensual act before, but when her dainty pink tongue flicked out to catch a stray crumb from her lower lip, an assortment of creative ways the appendage might otherwise be employed flooded his mind.
His groin tightened uncomfortably.
Inhaling a lengthy, deliberate breath, he scrounged around in his mind seeking the question she’d asked.
Ah, yes, his fabricated move to Scotland.
“I but teased, ma petite. I shall be here for a mite over three months, overseeing my investment in a mining operation not too distant from Craigcutty.”
He’d wait to tell her McTavish invited him to stay at the keep for the duration of his visit. She mightn’t take the news well, and they’d entered an unspoken truce. A frosty, silent carriage ride to Craiglocky didn’t appeal. So, unless the need arose, he’d keep mute about the matter. Let McTavish or his lady deliver the news when they arrived.
Teacup at her pert mouth, she blew upon the steaming liquid.
A team of oxen couldn’t have pried Jacques’s gaze from her pursed lips.
She hadn’t a notion how enticing she was.
“Why would you invest in Scotland, Monsieur, rather than your homeland?”
Keen intelligence shone in her umber-hued eyes. No russet sparks spewed from them, as was typical when in his presence, just warm, curious regard.
A man could get used to those doe-like eyes peering at him.
He gave himself a severe mental shake. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—be that man.
Taking a dainty sip, she studied him above the cup’s rim. “Excuse my ignorance, but aren’t there profitable mines in France? I should think that would be far more convenient than journeying to Scotland’s Highlands. Especially in December.”
Fingering his fork, he lifted a shoulder. What would she say if he told her he’d invested in the Scottish quarry because he wanted to see her on occasion?
Fine, as often as I can contrive.
“Other than my estate, I’d prefer not to have further ties to France, and when I visited here last, McTavish made mention of a possible investment opportunity too fortuitous to pass up.”
More precise
ly Jacques’s last chance, other than an arranged marriage.
“Ah.”
He gave her a bland glance. What did ‘Ah’ mean?
“Please accept my condolences on your mother’s passing. Ewan mentioned the tragedy. You have my deepest sympathies. She was most gracious to me the times we met.” A slight huskiness tinged Seonaid’s voice, and moisture glistened in her eyes.
Her compassion penetrated the protective shell he’d built around his heart, and he didn’t much like the vulnerability lancing him.
“I’m sure it’s been difficult for you, Jacques.”
He wasn’t going to dredge up that horridness again. However, he rested easier with the knowledge his murdering stepfather hadn’t escaped justice.
“Merci. It has been. My entire family, including my sister, her husband, and her son, now rest together in le Manoir des Jardins’s cemetery.”
In the midst of pouring more tea, Seonaid paused, her eyes wide and mouth parted. “Your sister too? How awful. You’re entirely alone then?”
“Oui, which is another reason I must restore my estate. For my family, to preserve the home they cherished.” And because he’d vowed to Maman he would do so. Even if he had avoided the place since she married that conniving, cheating sot, Pierre Renault.
“Yet, you’re here.” She indicated the common room with a lifted finger.
Curiosity fairly screamed from Seonaid, but etiquette prevented her from probing. She twisted her mouth in that delightful way she did when thinking, and he relinquished.
“I inherited an estate in deplorable condition, and I’ve essentially wagered everything on Oakberry Quarry in hopes she’ll enable me to return le Manoir des Jardins to her former splendor.”
“And if the mine disappoints?” True concern glinted in her eyes. “What will you do?”
Draft horses couldn’t have dragged the truth from his mouth. And why he should be reticent to tell her he must marry for gain confounded more than a little.
He shrugged and made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. “I shall come up with something.”
Head slanted, she contemplated him for an extended, rather disquieting, moment.
“Why do I get the sense your acquaintance with Ewan is more than either of you admits? It’s no secret he worked as an agent for England’s War Office during the war.” She leaned forward, excitement and intensity in her gaze and lowered voice. After casting a furtive glance around, she whispered, “Perhaps you did the same?”
Merde. Too damned astute by far.
“I’m afraid my life isn’t as exciting as your brother’s.” Jacques cut a piece of cheese for her, then one for himself. “I’ll own, you have quite a creative imagination. Another benefit of your gift?”
Instantly, her comportment changed, and her open expression and friendly gaze retreated behind the impenetrable, aloof fortress she usually presented. He could see her erecting the fortified bastillion around herself. Before her eyes shuttered completely, several emotions—fear, betrayal, pain, rejection, and finally resignation—flickered in their wounded depths.
Wounded?
Mon Dieu, he’d committed a horrendous blunder, mentioning the second sight. Her family spoke openly of her visions, and she’d never responded thus. What had changed to cause such a reaction? Did she not discuss her revelations in public?
A hunch niggled. “Is that why you left London in a rush? With scarcely any luggage?”
“I prefer not to speak about that.” After sweeping a guarded peek ’round the noisy room, she notched her chin upward, her cool and dense-as-winter-fog-gaze resting upon him. “Please excuse me.”
She set her serviette beside her plate, and made to scoot her chair away.
Pressing his hand atop hers, he stilled her. “No, wait, ma petite. I beg your pardon. I’m not sure how I’ve offended you, but it wasn’t my intent. I can see you’re deeply troubled—”
To his utter horror, Seonaid’s lower lip quivered. Pulling her hand from beneath his, she dropped her gaze to her lap.
“Ma chère?”
A solitary tear glided down her ivory cheek, and she swiftly averted her face, surreptitiously wiping the corner of her eye with her bent forefinger.
He edged his chair closer, angling his back toward the other diners, shielding her. This secluded nook proved most providential. “Tell me what troubles you so, s’il vous plaît. Is it your gift?”
“I assure you, Monsieur de Devaux, it’s no gift.” Her concentration fixed outdoors, she bent her pretty mouth upward the merest bit. The soulful eyes brimming with despair she leveled upon him, pierced his heart. “I grow weary of knowing what is to come and of being an oddity that some people want to exploit and others curse.”
“That’s why you left London, non? News of your . . .” Not wanting to offend her further, Jacques scrambled for the right word. “Uniqueness became known?”
Her moist eyes rounded slightly, and she dipped her head.
“Some le bon ton members wanted me to call forth revelations and do readings, like a gypsy fortune-teller or soothsayer practicing forbidden arts.” She sniffed and swiped away another fat tear. “I’m not like that. I could never be like that.”
Jacques touched her arm. “You’ve told your family, non?”
Torment glistened in her beautiful eyes. Considerable consternation too. God, how frightening it must be for her. And how alone she must feel.
Switching her attention outdoors once more, she gave a short shake of her head. “No. Only you know.”
She’d trusted him with something so intimate? An unnamed emotion welled in him, coursing through his veins, warming his blood and heart. And made him want to take her away and keep her safe. Always.
“Where be the innkeepers?” Reverend Fletcher stomped into the common room, his head swinging back and forth like a rat seeking dinner.
At his infuriated demand, conversations paused and every head in the common room jerked in his direction.
The toddler scampered onto her mother’s lap, and whimpering, buried her curly head in her mother’s shoulder.
Children shouldn’t respond with terror when a rector entered the room. Not since the Inquisition, leastways.
Jacques tapped his fingertips atop the table, disliking Fletcher even more this morning than last night.
Discreetly drying her eyes, Seonaid exchanged a skeptical look with Jacques. “He’s a mite off his head, I think.”
“More than a little.” He thrust his chin toward the door. “His soul’s blacker than the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat.”
She chuckled again, this time her tear-clogged throat producing a low throaty purr. “Quoting Scot’s adages, are ye?”
Kerrigan hurried to the disgruntled rector. “How can I help ye, Vicar?”
“Hag-ridden I be all night.” Accusation accented each harsh word. “I dinnae sleep a wink.”
“Hag-ridden?” Jacques rubbed an eyebrow. Even a hag wouldn’t want to ride that fetid, scrawny frame. “I don’t understand.”
“It means ridden by hags or witches during sleep. Sometimes it refers to frightful dreams or even the inability to move.” Slanting Jacques a sideways look, Seonaid sipped her tea. “Apparently, he’s quite obsessed with that sort of thing.”
Raising a bony finger, Reverend Fletcher shook it, glowering ’round the room. “Somebody’s practicin’ the devil’s craft, I tell ye.”
Several patrons gasped nervously while others openly scoffed. Sobbing in earnest, the small girl let out a petrified wail.
“Jacques.” Seonaid’s alarmed tone and her hand clasping at his arm alerted him.
He whipped ’round to face her.
Chalk pale, she stared vacantly out the window, her brows drawn together into a tense vee.
Mon Dieu, a vision right now?
With the damned hell-fired rector lurking across the room and stirring everyone’s qualms?
Only one sensible thing a man could do when faced with a s
ituation like this.
Leaning forward, Jacques cupped Seonaid’s face. Framing her delicate jaw with his forefinger and thumb, he stared into the vacant pool of her eyes then, ever so lightly, brushed his lips over hers.
Chapter 6
One instant, Seonaid saw Father tumbling from the stable’s burning roof, and the next, a sweet, yet tantalizing, comfort unlike anything she’d ever known overcame her. She never wanted the peaceful serenity to end. Maybe if she kept her eyes shut, it wouldn’t.
“Seonaid.” A calloused hand brushed her cheek, and that same wonderful deep voice, his breath hot against her skin, whispered, “Open your eyes, chérie.”
“No.” She pressed her nose against his wonderful smelling face. Manly, a mite spicy, and crisp like soap. “I dreamed I was being kissed, and it was splendid.”
Ah, there again, his marvelous mouth settled atop hers, a feathery wisp, no more, but causing the most delightful sensations to awaken elsewhere.
His mustache rasped against her, both prickly and silky soft.
These types of episodes, she’d gladly welcome.
“You must, ma petite.” He kissed her nose. “Yonder pinch-faced troll watches.”
It took a moment to comprehend the soft, warm lips tenderly pressing against hers had been real, and not a dream or another type of vision.
Her eyelids flew open, and she stared into inky black eyes brimming with tenderness.
Jacques.
She’d never had a vision interrupted before. They played out from start to end. Hope and despair simultaneously ensnared her. Her second sight could be changed, or at least be manipulated.
By a kiss.
But Father . . .
“I must get home. There’s been a fire. Father’s hurt.” Tears blurred her eyes, and frustration choked her. Damnation. They couldn’t leave. Not until the snow melted from the roads.
Scandal's Splendor (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Book 4) Page 5
