Scandal's Splendor (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Book 4)

by Collette Cameron

  How badly hurt was he? What caused the fire?

  Straightening to peer outside, Jacques shook his dark head. Two hostlers, each leading a pair of horses, trudged through knee-high snow.

  “I suspect it will be at least two days, mayhap longer before the roads are travelable by chaise or coach.” He touched her hand. “I think it wiser if you finish the journey in my carriage.”

  He hadn’t made a request, but she’d no desire to argue the point. She far preferred Jacques’s company to Reverend Fletcher’s. His smell too.

  She nearly smiled. A day ago, she’d have believed herself off her head for entertaining a harebrained notion like welcoming Jacques’s presence. She’d have assumed she’d gone mad even addressing him by his given name.

  And today. After his kiss . . .

  Be sensible, Seonaid.

  One minuscule—all right, two sense-warping kisses—didn’t alter what a scoundrel he’d been. Surely, the emotional upset about Father caused her momentary lapse in judgment and good sense.

  “I’d journey by horseback, except neither Una nor Mrs. Wetherby rides.” Sighing, she balanced her elbows atop the blemished table and cradled her chin in her hands. “We’re good and stuck then.” She peeked sideways. “I’m worried, Jacques. I’m rarely wrong about these things.”

  Resting his cheek upon his knuckles, he angled his head, his ebony eyes mildly probing. What did he seek? “That must be—”

  A pungent odor assaulted her nose, even as a caustic voice grated behind her. “I be tellin’ yer brother of yer harlot’s conduct.”

  Seonaid nearly jumped from her skin.

  Had Reverend Fletcher heard them? She spun to face him, then wrinkled her nose. Did the man have an aversion to soap and water?

  “Kissin’ a Frenchie in public, and ye not wed. Pure, sinful wickedness.” Shaking his finger in her face, the nail grime-caked, he sneered. “Yer brother be needin’ to find ye a husband afore he be disgraced. If’n a man will have an immoral wench to wife.”

  Vile cawker.

  “You cross the mark, Vicar. Rest assured, my brother will be informed of exactly what has taken place.” Seonaid sent Jacques a meaningful glance, and crossing her arms, gave Reverend Fletcher a falsely congenial smile. “By the by, precisely how long are we blessed with your presence in Craigcutty?”

  “Dinnae try to flatter me.” Jabbing his thumbs into his stained lapels, he peered down his nose. “I’m sure Laird McTavish be appreciatin’ how seriously I be watchin’ over my appointed flock. Ye’ll be doin’ penance fer yer ungodly behavior. Mark my words.”

  Penance? Truly daft as a Bedlam boarder.

  Fully at ease, Jacques rested an elbow along the back of his chair and hooked an ankle across his knee. “I suggest you not interfere when you aren’t acquainted with the entire circumstances. Mademoiselle Ferguson and I met in Paris months ago, and I’ve made numerous trips to Scotland to further our acquaintance. Her brother’s aware of my intentions to court her.”

  At his colossal lie, Seonaid managed to keep her jaw from becoming unhinged. Just.

  “Ye mean to marry the lass?”

  Utterly absurd.

  Waves of disapproval pulsating from him, Reverend Fletcher squinted at Jacques. He gave a slight, disbelieving shake of his head. “I canna believe Laird McTavish be pleased. Should be marryin’ her own kind, not a foreigner.” He could barely get the word past his pursed lips. “A man who’d firmly rein in her scandalous ways instead of encouragin’ them.”

  “So you say.” Cutting mockery slanted Jacques’s mouth.

  “Vicar Fletcher,” Seonaid said, yearning to wipe the superior expression from his face. “My mother is French, and my brother is half French, as am I.”

  Fletcher blanched, but she dug the verbal knife deeper.

  “I strongly suggest you refrain from disparaging the French further lest you rouse my brother’s legendary temper.” Seonaid drew in a fortifying breath. If the man had redeeming qualities, she’d yet to see a single one.

  Jacques elevated a brow in approval.

  Una bustled to their table, carrying a laden tray. “Vicar Fletcher, I be sure ye must be starved after yer unrestful night. Have a seat, and I be servin’ ye right up.”

  Extremely intuitive, had Una detected Seonaid’s episode and sought to distract the reverend? Probably. Few people knew Seonaid better than Una.

  She jerked her robust chin toward the entrance. “Miss Seonaid, Mr. Kerrigan offered ye and the baron the private parlor on the stairways’s other side if’n ye’ve a mind to use it. The other guests have decided to stay in the common room. There be a fireplace, books, and a chess set in there. I assured him ye’d pay verra well fer the privilege.”

  “I should be provided the parlor’s use.” Reverend Fletcher’s envious gaze flew to the closed door.

  Why? Because you’ve such a pious opinion of yourself?

  Folding her hands in her lap, Seonaid returned his expectant stare. Chances were, he didn’t have coin to rent the private room and neither she nor Jacques would volunteer a shilling.

  His demeanor lofty, he puffed out his skinny chest. “I be needin’ the solitude fer my prayers.”

  “Well then,” Jacques veered his attention from the smallish chafed spot he’d been examining on his thumb, “might I suggest you return upstairs and make use of your private chamber where, I’m sure, you can pray in complete solitude?”

  Seonaid bit her tongue against a naughty chuckle.

  Anger and humiliation snapping in his eyes, Reverend Fletcher flushed.

  “I suppose this table be fine.” Easing his lanky form into the sturdy chair Jacques vacated, he waved his hand at Una. “This guid woman be knowin’ how to treat a man of the cloth with the respect he deserves.”

  “Oh, indeed I do.” With a brazen wink at Seonaid over the back of Reverend Fletcher’s head, she stumbled and deposited the tray’s contents onto his lap.

  His outraged shriek shook the snow from the trees and sent the toddler to caterwauling louder as the other guests hooted and guffawed.

  “Maybe now ye’ll bathe and wash yer clothes, ye reekin’ sot.” Una tossed a towel at him before marching back to the kitchen.

  Seonaid’s lips trembled, and the reverend caught the slight movement.

  “Ye’d best take care, woman.” Fist clenched tight, a muscle in his jaw jumping spasmodically, he speared her a hate-filled glare.

  Except for the child’s sniffles, the taproom grew still.

  “I nae be toleratin’ rebelliousness in me flock,” Fletcher said, spittle forming at his mouth’s corners. He stabbed a finger at her. “I deal harshly with insurrection and heretics.”

  So great was his fury, if fire had spewed from his eyes and mouth, Seonaid wouldn’t have been altogether taken aback.

  Everyone’s attention remained riveted on their argument, even the ringlet-haloed toddler, her thumb jammed into her mouth, and her cheek resting against her mother’s bosom.

  “It’s most fortunate it’s not your flock, then isn’t it?” Seonaid rose, burning to slap his sanctimonious face. “And it will never be.”

  Marshalling her composure, she sailed past him.

  Three days later

  Despite being squished between Una and Mrs. Wetherby, the rhythm of Jacques’s bumping and swaying chaise lulled Seonaid into a fitful doze. Every few moments, she started awake and found him and Reverend Fletcher watching her.

  One with warm regard, and the other with . . .

  Well, she hadn’t quite discerned the vicar’s expression, but whatever the sentiment was, warning bells clanged unceasingly between her ears.

  At times, a gleam disturbingly close to longing—or lust—shadowed his unexceptional hazel eyes. At others, judgment and condemnation so intense, her skin prickled, and she edged farther behind Una’s broad back.

  Smelling much better after Una’s accident required the laundering of his clothes, which Seonaid volunteered to pay for, he’d su
nken into a foul-tempered, silent sulk, keeping his distance from her and the other guests.

  She didn’t regret his absence at all.

  Ill-disposed to start, Seonaid couldn’t shake the suspicion he either blamed her for Una’s antic, or presumed she’d caused it and now considered them foes. As if they’d ever been, or would ever be, cozy.

  Over the course of the past three days, Jacques’s courteous attention, his quick wit, and fanciful stories had kept her anxiety about Father somewhat at bay. Worry simmered in her mind’s recesses, but with no recourse than to wait until the roads thawed, she welcomed the diversion.

  Reverting to his prior formal politesse, he hadn’t attempted any more kisses. Not that she’d have permitted another, no matter how splendid the fleeting experience.

  It simply wouldn’t do to develop a tendre for him. He’d return to France shortly, and she had no desire to venture there again. No small wonder Mother, though French-born herself, stayed in Scotland after her first husband died. The French and Scots were as different as frogs and squirrels.

  Marrying someone other than a Scot was possible, but Seonaid didn’t want to leave Scotland. That rather complicated things since everyone within two hundred miles of Craigcutty had no doubt heard rumors of her an dara shealladh.

  An outsider or a Sassenach then, but one who didn’t object to living in Scotland. Perhaps Ewan was acquainted with someone. He certainly had connections enough and a substantial sphere of influence as well.

  Yes, indeed. Why hadn’t the idea occurred to her before?

  Eyes half-closed, she examined Jacques through her lashes. His dark slate greatcoat accented his blue-black hair and sinfully dark eyelashes. Next to him, Reverend Fletcher appeared a rather dowdy, rumpled sparrow.

  No one could’ve convinced her she’d not only tolerate Jacques’s company, but enjoy it, even look forward to it. To her consternation, she’d miss him, once home. He’d been a pleasant distraction from her troubles, and since his nerve-tingling kiss, she had no more visions.

  Not altogether unusual.

  Weeks or months often passed between them. Wiggling her fingers within her muff, she closed her eyes and relived the brush of his lips upon hers.

  Utterly wicked. And marvelous. And not to be repeated.

  She wouldn’t have believed a man’s kiss could cause a flush of excitement days later, or that if she concentrated hard, she might yet taste him.

  She dared a tiny lick of her lower lip.

  “I count us fortunate the thieves merely stole horses and didn’t rob us or worse.” Nestled in her corner, a pudgy elbow poking Seonaid in the rib, Mrs. Wetherby gave a drowsy affirmation. “I knew from the moment we arrived, they were a sorry, untrustworthy lot.”

  Last night, after cracking the ill-fated hostler tending the Hare’s Foot stables over the head, pad borrowers made off with a dozen horses.

  “Aye. Good thin’ the commotion be awakin’ the monsieur and the other men, or who kens how many animals might have been stolen.” Adjusting her cramped position, Una flicked Reverend Fletcher a dispassionate glance.

  He couldn’t be counted among the bolder men who’d torn after the horse thieves. In fact, though his room faced the stables and only someone deaf or dead could’ve failed hearing the ruckus below, he’d not poked his haughty nose from his chamber until morning.

  Of its own volition, Seonaid’s gaze dropped to Jacques’s bandaged sword hand. During the scuffle, a thief’s knife grazed his palm, and though the cut wasn’t deep, she fretted about infection. To speed healing and fight a dirty blade’s putridity, she’d treated the wound with a mixture of mallow and chamomile.

  This morning, Reverend Fletcher had watched her ministrations with keen interest but kept his thoughts to himself. Attempting polite conversation, she explained how she and Gregor, Ewan’s cousin, frequently tended the keep’s and village’s ill or injured with herbal concoctions or tinctures.

  He’d answered with noncommittal grunts until she’d given up and fallen silent.

  When they stopped next, she needed to change Jacques’s bandage. Thank goodness, she generally travelled with small samples of healing herbs. One never knew when they might be useful.

  More pleasant weather had enabled the guests to depart, but the shortage of horseflesh required the passengers to squeeze into fewer carriages.

  Only a fool would think it coincidental every other coach, chaise, and chariot quickly filled to bursting, and no one offered the vicar a seat. Since their party traveled to Craigcutty, they’d been obligated to offer him a place in Jacques’s chaise.

  However, more than one uncharitable thought pealed about her head. That proved bothersome too. Since when had she become shrewish and unamiable? Unkind in her musings even? Matters were complex enough with her second sight’s unpredictability, but the absence of her easygoing and compassionate nature troubled her as much.

  The carriage jolted, and Mrs. Wetherby’s elbow gouged deeper.

  Wincing, Seonaid gently pushed the offending arm away and giving Una a contrite smile, edged an inch closer to her.

  Worry about Father chafed worse than riding bum-naked, bareback all day. How badly had he been hurt? Perhaps he hadn’t been. He was strong and agile for a man his age.

  She sagged against the seat, and permitted her mouth a minuscule, pessimistic twist.

  No. He was injured.

  From the depths of her being, she felt it. Knew it to be true. Why then, wasn’t she allowed to know what happened? That proved nearly as frustrating as a vision itself.

  In the crowded, stuffy chaise, the miles dragged by, each seemingly longer than the last. She’d have preferred traveling by horseback. Riding fast, she and Jacques could’ve made Craiglocky by mid-afternoon.

  At her reputation’s expense.

  Though she hadn’t a riding habit, and it spelled certain ruination, she’d still been tempted, until Jacques firmly quashed the notion.

  “Ma petite, I’ll not have your good name in tatters.” He’d taken her hand and given it a gentle squeeze. “You must be patient.”

  Patient.

  She’d spent a lifetime being patient and biddable, and feared she’d soon come to scorn the trait.

  “When do you suppose we’ll stop? I’m quite famished.” Mrs. Wetherby leaned forward to examine the scenery.

  Did she expect an inn would suddenly appear beside them? More likely she needed a quaff or two of spirits, and with Reverend Fletcher’s hawkish gaze noting their every blink and breath, she didn’t dare sneak a sip from her flask.

  Flicking a disinterested look to the window, Jacques tapped his muscled thigh with his uninjured fingertips. “Soon, Madame. The team tires, I think, non?”

  Resting her head against the plush velvet squab, Seonaid willed herself to sleep. Both men disturbed her in ways she couldn’t quite distinguish, and other than staring at the floor, or craning her neck to peer past her stout seatmates, her choice of view was limited.

  A short while later, she woke abruptly.

  She yawned delicately. She’d been dreaming, one of those erratic, nonsensical dreams that occur when she half-dozed, somewhere between deep sleep and true wakefulness.

  Highwaymen had surrounded the chaise, and with pistols drawn, demanded the passengers’ money and valuables. When Jacques refused, they’d pointed a gun at his and Fletcher’s heads.

  True to his cowardly character, the rector had blurted Jacques kept a gold pocket watch in his waistcoat, Seonaid’s luggage contained jewels, and Mrs. Wetherby’s cumbersome cloak hid a heavy purse.

  Mrs. Wetherby fainted straightaway, and when a robber grabbed Seonaid, Una jumped to her protection and had been clubbed in the cheek.

  A most disconcerting, true to reality dream.

  Blinking sleepily, and still disturbed by the recollection, Seonaid tried to collect her bearings. Waking up and feeling the intense emotion was like . . .

  God. No!

  She lurched to the center of t
he chaise, and planting her hand against the ceiling for balance, looked out one window before pivoting and scrambling to peer at the other.

  Una touched her back. “Miss Seonaid? Be somethin’ amiss?”

  “What in the Lord’s blessed name be ye doin’ flittin’ amuck like a chicken afeared of the cook pot?” Fletcher snapped.

  Yes, just ahead the road narrowed between high, boulder-lined ridges. Exactly like her dream. No help for it. They must prepare themselves for the inevitable.

  Seonaid whirled toward Jacques. “We’re going to be set upon by highwaymen.”

  A shrill shriek escaped Mrs. Wetherby as she wilted against the seat, mopping her eyes.

  “Wheesht. Enough of yer blasted hysterics.” Giving the chaperone a stern look, Una reached under her gown. A moment later, she produced an impressive knife, which she concealed in her cloak’s folds.

  Seonaid withdrew her dagger from her boot.

  His eyes protruding, Reverend Fletcher’s mouth worked as inarticulate sounds emerged. At last he managed a stuttering, “H . . . how can ye p . . . possibly ken such a th . . . thin’?”

  Seonaid had no intention of revealing how she’d come by the knowledge. Better to pretend she hadn’t heard him.

  “And why do ye women have knives?” Undoubtedly, he yearned to spout drivel about knives and the devil.

  “Una, you watch out that window.” Seonaid jerked her head toward the small rectangle nearest her maid. “I’ll watch out this one. Mrs. Wetherby, scoot to the middle.”

  The older woman remained rooted in her seat, her eyes wide and stricken.

  “Now, if you please.” Seonaid essentially dragged her from the corner. Settling onto the seat’s edge, she perused the Scots pine for movement as she deftly removed her gloves.

  Jacques didn’t question her, but immediately slid open a secret compartment under his seat. He glanced up, his gaze calm but intense. “How soon?”

  Seonaid lifted a shoulder, her scarlet mantle’s folds rippling with the action. “I don’t know.”