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

by Collette Cameron

  On those days, he didn’t return until well after the family dined. Likely, he avoided her too. Hopefully, his extended hours away meant the mining operations went well, and Jacques was pleased with his investment.

  She should be pleased, for his absence spared her chagrin. Unless she reminisced about their toe-curling-stomach-toppling-pulse-skipping kiss and the ensuing humiliation afterward.

  Not that she cared.

  Fine, she cared, in a polite, distant sort of way, but she couldn’t blame him. Though the notion pricked her tattered self-esteem—more like pounded it with a battering ram—she conceded his aloofness was for the best.

  Dodging him for weeks, on the other hand, might prove blasted difficult. If he stayed the full three months, he’d be at Craiglocky until the end of March.

  However, if everything went as her mother anticipated—she didn’t quite share Mother’s enthusiasm or optimism—wedding preparations might be underway by then.

  Perfectly wonderful.

  Even Seonaid’s thoughts resonated with cynicism.

  Freya, her kittens, and the other animals kept Seonaid busy, as did helping Mother with the house party arrangements. The activity eased her apprehension about Jacques, as well as her visions.

  At this juncture, Seonaid might accept the first well-groomed man under the age of forty who asked for her hand. And she’d told her parents as much.

  Father had frowned, loudly harrumphing his displeasure, and Mother had brushed Seonaid’s declaration off as nonsensical twaddle.

  “Flim flam, chérie.” Clicking her tongue, Mother shook her head. “Of my children, you’re the most romantic and sensible, non? You’ll not marry without affection, Seonaid. You’re too caring and generous to be that cold-hearted and calculating.”

  Wonder what she’d do if I told her I brashly asked Jacques to deflower me?

  Heat tracked up Seonaid’s face, so she’d bent over her sewing to hide the telltale flush.

  “Mother, I’ve explained quite clearly, I believe, my reasons for wanting to marry, and sentiment doesn’t factor into my decision.” Although, liking her husband somewhat was preferable. Someone comfortable and good-natured. Someone like Douglas, for instance.

  “Zut. I begin to lose tolerance with you.” Mother impatiently swiped the air with her hand. “You wait and see. I’ll wager, you fall in love at first sight, non?”

  Non. Nae. No.

  Seonaid didn’t have time to wait for love to pay her a call.

  Besides, how was falling in love at first sight sensible? No one in her family had done so, although Father insisted he adored Mother from the instant she set foot in the keep, married to his closest friend. Not that he’d acted on his love until she’d been widowed for quite some time.

  Winking, he bobbed his shaggy head. “Aye, I be thinkin’ that thin’ myself, Giselle. Our Seonaid be confused. She doesnae ken what she wants.”

  That miffed more than a trifling, since his words held a jot of truth, but Seonaid kept her vexation to herself. To her immense relief, she hadn’t had another unnerving vision, and her life had returned to a somewhat normal state.

  That day in the shed, Jacques had left his coat on the outbuilding’s table, but rather than returning it promptly, she’d taken the garment to her chamber intending to have it cleaned.

  Only she hadn’t.

  Instead, twice now, she’d taken the garment from its hiding place at the rear of her wardrobe and sniffed the fabric, relishing his scent lingering there.

  Perhaps she’d already gone daft. How else could her peculiar behavior be explained?

  What were the first signs of lunacy?

  In the village, dotty Mrs. Tipperary mumbled to herself and saw things that weren’t there. She hid from people too, dashing behind furniture, lurking behind trees, crouching in corners.

  Splendid. I’m halfway to loony already.

  Headed to the kitchen to meet Mother and discuss the menu for the party, Seonaid passed the music room. The pianoforte’s lilting strains slowed her steps, and she cocked her head.

  Yvette played with such inspiration that listening was a joy. Perhaps she had ideas of what to serve their guests for the Valentine gathering.

  After all, she was the keep’s true mistress. Come to think of it, had Mother consulted with her about the house party? Surely she must have, for courtesy demanded they include Yvette in the preparations.

  Well, that was remedied easily enough. Simply invite Yvette to join her in the kitchen. If she felt well enough. Her stomach had grown quite huge, and Ewan regularly speculated another strapping son rested in her womb.

  Perhaps Seonaid ought to tell them about the twins. She pressed her lips together, wavering, Not yet. But soon. Very soon.

  With a short rap, she heaved open the heavy double doors. “Excuse me for interrupt—” She stumbled to a halt, jaw slack and still clasping the door handle. “Oh. It’s you.”

  At her entrance, Jacques pivoted halfway on the bench, one hand yet upon the keyboard.

  Spinning ’round and bolting from the room was the height of bad form, but hiking her skirts and dashing away tempted nonetheless.

  Weariness lined his molded features, but his expressive eyes, such beautiful eyes, lit up upon seeing her.

  Hadn’t he been sleeping well?

  She had an herbal sleeping draught for insomnia. She’d send a cup to his room tonight.

  Even with purplish shadows beneath his eyes, the deep tobacco brown of his coat emphasized his swarthy features. Simply gazing at him caused a swell of something pleasant, yet unnamable. Something she didn’t dare examine closely.

  He wasn’t her destiny.

  “I thought you were Yvette.” Nothing like stating the obvious, for pity’s sake.

  She ought to go at once, but instead, her feet carried her farther into the room, rather than scurrying along the corridor to the kitchen as her common sense and bruised dignity advised. Silently shrieking in unison better described their indignation.

  Jacques’s mustache twitched. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

  “Oh, I’m not disappointed.” For God’s sake, did she have to sound breathless and wanton? “I . . . We’re deciding the menu for the house party next month.”

  Do blather about more trivial nonsense, and make a hash of that too.

  She gestured toward the instrument. “I wasn’t aware you played, Jacques.”

  A full-blown smile whisked across his face.

  Was her brain functioning today, or had it ceased upon seeing him?

  She glanced downward, hiding a wince.

  Drat, she wore the same shabby affair he’d last seen her in, but after wheedling another treat from Sorcha for Freya, Seonaid intended to walk to the village and call upon Mrs. Drummond and her new bairn. No one would see her gown beneath her cloak.

  Nausea had plagued Mrs. Drummond her entire pregnancy, and Seonaid had provided her with an herbal tea to ease her discomfort. She’d also promised to visit when she returned from London.

  Smoothing her hands down her front, more for something to do and to dry her suddenly damp palms, than the need to erase the few wrinkles, she quashed her vanity.

  What did she care if Jacques saw her in the same drab gown?

  Once a lovely shade of deep green, rather like the Highland hills in high summer, the fabric had paled to a grayish-brown moss color resembling the slime that accumulated between the rocks on Loch Arkaig’s far side.

  Lovely comparison and one sure to bolster my confidence.

  Taking a deep breath, she composed herself, and then offered a polite smile. “You play brilliantly.”

  “Thank you. I couldn’t resist the temptation.” Gratitude lit his face. “Playing clears my head, and this is a spectacular instrument, tuned to perfection. That surprises me given the castle’s atmosphere.”

  Seonaid nodded, edging farther into the room. “Yvette is most meticulous about its care. She adores playing as much as you.”


  “I haven’t indulged in months, truth to tell. Not since my Mère died. She was gifted, had performed for royalty, such was her talent.”

  He ran his long fingers over the ivory keys. Though he curved his mouth pleasantly, his scar stretching with the movement, he exuded despondency and discouragement.

  Despite her determination to remain impervious, Seonaid’s heart constricted, and she almost gasped in empathy, so crushing was the insight that came upon her.

  He’s lonely. Terribly, long-suffering lonely.

  With everything in her, as if this insight, too, was second sight induced, Seonaid had staggered upon his secret. Or one of them. He had more, and she itched to uncover the rest.

  He had no one in France to return home to.

  Nothing to hold him there except an estate which contained cherished memories of the family he’d lost. No wonder he was determined to return and restore her.

  It was all he had left.

  Crossing to him, her boots made no sound on the plush sage, russet, and ivory Aubusson rug Yvette recently purchased to give the room a degree of warmth. Except for Mother’s solar, Craiglocky wasn’t cozy or particularly inviting.

  Embarrassment over their kiss strained to raise its malevolent, misshapen head, but Seonaid redoubled her determination to act gracious. After pelting the emotion into the ashbin, she continued on to Jacques.

  Once beside the pianoforte, she clasped her hands behind her back lest she brush the lock of hair temptingly tumbled over his noble brow. “I trust everything at Oakberry goes well now that the snow is mostly gone?”

  “Not quite as good as I’d hoped at this point. The weather, equipment mishaps, a minor cave-in, and a bout of stomach sickness amongst the miners has put us behind schedule.” He shoved his hair off his forehead before slicing a quick glance to the open doors. “And the manager hasn’t returned from a trip to Edinburgh yet, supposedly to talk to potential buyers.”

  His attention veered to the doors once more.

  Did he fear she’d throw herself at him again? Her stomach tumbled in that queer discomfort-mixed-with-chagrin way. He needn’t worry. She wasn’t an idiot or eager for another stinging round of mortification. Scots would relinquish their beloved plaids and go about naked as a needle to their knees before that ever happened again.

  Skirting the instrument, she put a safe distance between her and Jacques. In his presence she reacted most disconcertingly, and she didn’t trust herself. “How did you get your scar?”

  God’s teeth!

  How horridly rude. Of late, she spewed her thoughts.

  No, the irritating, ill-mannered practice only occurred with him, no others.

  He touched the fine, white line, tracing its length with his forefinger. “I had a rather unfortunate encounter with a knife-wielding fellow determined I not live a moment longer.”

  Resting her forearms atop the pianoforte’s glossy surface, she winked. “When you were a spy?”

  Chapter 15

  Merde.

  Only years of training kept the surprise from registering on Jacques’s face. What clues had he inadvertently given that led Seonaid to her accurate conclusion?

  Mayhap none, and nothing more unusual than a clever imagination contributed to her insight. Or, unbeknownst to her, had her gift revealed the truth? Could confidences or secrets be kept from her? Ever?

  Wouldn’t that make for an interesting marriage?

  You cannot marry her.

  Think of le Manoir des Jardins.

  And his maman and the rest of his family lying in the cemetery. But absolutely nothing else anchored him to France. Nothing.

  Except his blasted, eight-generations-past, barony title.

  “Oui, ma petite, when I was an agent.” Raising a forefinger to his lips, he leaned forward and winked. “Shh. That must be kept our secret, non?”

  “I knew it.” A satisfaction-borne grin tipped her mouth, and she bounced on her toes.

  He could trust her with the truth, especially since the war ended, and in this remote corner of Scotland, she wasn’t likely to engage in a conversation with anyone regarding the matter.

  “Did you ever work with Ewan?” Bent over the pianoforte, her eyes sparkling with excitement, she canted her head.

  How did she discern such things? Had McTavish chattered about his escapades?

  No more than Jacques would have.

  Her bent position thrust her full bosom forward, taut against her gown’s modest neckline.

  He swallowed and tore his gaze from the pearly flesh barely an arm’s length away, their hardened tips deliciously outlined. Without effort, she seduced and enticed, luring him. How could a mere mortal resist such a tempting armful?

  “Did you, Jacques, even once?”

  “Zut! Too many questions which I cannot answer.”

  He laughed and gave her hand a short squeeze, forgetting for an instant what touching her did to him. Fire raced to his loins, and he instantly released his hold. Instead, he made a pretense of selecting another piece of music. Something melancholy to cool his ardor.

  A funeral dirge ought to do it.

  “I suppose that’s a rule.” Sighing, she pursed her lush lips. Slanting her gaze sideways, she whispered covertly, “Can you tell me if you met any women spies?”

  “C’est assez.” Would she never cease? Persistent minx. He threw his hands up, then shook a finger at her. “Non, I cannot.”

  She blinked at him innocently, yet mischief frolicked in the uncanny depths of her eyes. “I should like to have been a spy. Or an informant. Imagine if I could control my visions, what a help I might have been during the war.”

  At what? Thirteen? Fourteen?

  Contemplating what would happen to a girl that age, Jacques shuddered. And someone with Seonaid’s abilities? If she could indeed master her second sight? A shiver did skitter from shoulder to waist. Both sides would’ve exploited her gifts without remorse or conscience.

  What le bon ton wanted from her, nonsensical parlor tricks to entertain their bored, elite masses, was child’s play compared to what unprincipled, hardened generals would’ve done. Not so different than what Fletcher suggested, though certainly motivated and justified by a wholly different cause.

  No wonder she wanted to eradicate her fey.

  “I will confess on thing, ma petite.” He smoothed his trim mustache. “That night in Paris, I was supposed to meet an informant in the alcove and found you hidden away there instead. I’ve always been curious, why?”

  “You were? Really?” Seonaid’s eyes and mouth rounded for an instant. “I was avoiding an over-zealous beau.” Consternation flicked across her face and she ran her fingers over the base of the silver candelabra sitting atop the piano. “I presume your contact was the courtesan you mistook me for?”

  “Oui.” He gave her a smile, a small shamefaced turn of his mouth. “But I never mistook you for my contact, ma petite.”

  “You make a habit of kissing strangers, then?” Tone drier than the cold ashes lying in the hearth, her brow swept upward.

  Masculine vanity tried to persuade him jealousy colored Seonaid’s voice. “Non, only when danger of exposure lurks nearby and the woman is beyond tempting. In this case, an enemy of mine saw me enter the alcove. Most careless of me.”

  “Hmph.” Pensiveness replaced her excitement, and she tapped the fingertips of one hand atop the piano, her short, oval nails clicking a soft staccato. “I might have saved lives, shortened the war, if I could master my visions’ occurrences.”

  “I, for one, am glad you cannot. There are those who would’ve used you for ill-gotten gain.” He stood, then and dared touch her creamy cheek for a fleeting instant.

  Her eyes widened, and her breath hitched.

  “That would’ve been tragic,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.

  Seigneur Dieu, but she was lovely. Her parted lips beckoned, and he’d lowered his head to taste them—when decency kicked him ferociously in the arse.
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br />   A man of his experience recognized a woman well along the path to becoming enamored, and he’d made the situation worse, had encouraged her affections by nearly kissing her once more.

  That must not happen again. Four times a fool, he was not.

  He needed to distance himself from Seonaid, at least emotionally. Wisdom decreed physically as well. When she’d been furious with him, couldn’t stand his company, it had been better. Safer. For them both.

  Straightening, he raked his fingers through his hair. “I beg your pardon. I vow, that won’t happen again.”

  A bemused expression flitted across her refined features, but she swiftly donned an unaffected mien. Rolling a shoulder, she dropped her gaze and pressed her lips into a firm line. “As you say.”

  Hell, he’d offended her. Again. Well, better she feel insulted than let her entertain notions that might break her heart.

  Wasn’t she busy planning a grand house party, hoping to snare a husband? McTavish made mention of the event in passing, grumbling about fawning swains underfoot. McTavish didn’t think Seonaid ready to marry.

  Why the rush then?

  The notion sent a jagged, rusty blade twisting in Jacques’s innards. He had no claim, no right to harbor feelings toward her. The best he could do would be to help her in her husband-hunting endeavor, though why she was quite so eager to wed, he couldn’t fathom.

  Unfortunate, that things couldn’t be different between them, or he’d ask to court her. Instead, although their mutual attraction undeniably remained, they each sought to marry others, albeit for entirely different reasons.

  Though he hadn’t sought anyone just yet, if Oakberry didn’t start producing soon, he’d be prowling parlors and soirées in pursuit of a purse-heavy bride. Or mayhap, he’d send Faucher to America to locate an heiress.

  Pulling upright, Seonaid pointed to his head. “Your hair is standing up every which direction.”