by Paula Quinn
And she certainly hated him.
Chapter Two
Connor watched Mairi leave with her frilly admirer and clenched his jaw to keep from cursing aloud. He’d like to give her a swift kick in the arse to hurry her departure. If she wanted to revile him for the next fifty years, let her. If she chose to dance with every man at court, let her do that as well. He’d wasted enough years pining over her. She was no longer his and was free to do as she damn well pleased.
But hell, he thought, watching her take the floor with Oxford, she was still the bonniest woman he’d ever laid eyes on. More beautiful than he remembered. She stood apart from every other woman in the palace, donning her out-of-place Highland earasaid with the supreme confidence of a queen, her chin tilted with the defiance she’d inherited from her father. The years had had little effect on her. Her long, coal curls still captured the light as they fell over the swell of her breast. Her skin was as flawless as it was when she was a lass of five and ten summers. Only her eyes, still as blue as the heavens above Camlochlin, were colder.
The music from the balcony drifted downward, filling him with memories of his long days here before he and his men had been sent to Glencoe to keep peace between the MacDonalds and the Campbells. He hadn’t wanted to return, mostly because he knew Mairi would be here for the coronation, but also because he never truly fit in with all the posh and luxury of the king’s courts. He was a Highlander, and he couldn’t stomach being surrounded by false pleasantries and overindulged peers.
He missed Scotland already and he’d only been away for a se’nnight. He wished he were lying in his tent, upon the cold, hard ground, rather than here, with them… with her… mostly with her, even for a day. He was grateful that the MacGregors were returning home in the morning.
He hadn’t wanted to leave his home in the Highlands… or her, for he’d loved them both. He’d had no choice. As fourth cousin to the king, it was his duty to serve his family name. A duty he had not renounced but accepted with pride. The blood of warriors flowed through his veins, after all; his father, commander of the MacGregors’ brutal garrison, along with his mother, had risked his life to help restore Charles to the throne. His uncle and namesake, High Admiral Connor Stuart, once, long ago, defied generals and endured the pain of torture in the Tower.
It had been his turn to defend the throne and Connor had gone without quarrel. But Mairi had never forgiven him for leaving her to serve under a Protestant king. He’d written her, asking her to join him in England. She refused every request. She’d left him with no other choice but to let her go. It was what she had wanted. What she told him would make her happy. So he made himself forget her, and stayed away from Camlochlin, remaining in the army even after his required service to Charles had been fulfilled.
“I had hoped your reunion would go better than that.”
Connor looked down at his mother and shrugged the encounter off his shoulders with a glib quirk of his lips. “A hope that will only continue to disappoint ye if ye hold on to it.”
His mother offered him a tender look before she drew in a steadying breath and looked toward the dance floor. “She is staying here.”
“What?” Connor didn’t realize he’d spoken until his mother startled at his tone and lowered her own voice so that only he could hear.
“Callum doesn’t want her at Camlochlin in the event that the Dutch come looking for the king’s daughter. Colin is staying, as well, for the same reason.”
“What reason is that?”
“Their passion for the blade.”
Connor’s expression darkened. “Hell, ye continued her lessons in battle even after I… and her father, asked ye not to.”
“There is nothing wrong with her knowing how to wield a sword.” His mother glared back at him.
“Save that wielding a sword in practice is quite different from wielding one in true battle. She doesn’t know that or she would not even consider fighting men who recently murdered a convent full of nuns.”
His mother sighed and gave him a rather pitying look just before she smiled at her husband cutting through the crowd to reach them. “Connor, dear, there is much you don’t know since you left.” She gave him no time to ponder her oddly disturbing statement, but bestowed her most radiant smile on his father.
“How went yer meeting with the king?” Graham Grant asked him after tipping back his cap and kissing his wife. “Will we be fighting the Dutch then?”
Aye, here was what he should be concerning himself with. England’s new Catholic king had dangerous enemies who were very likely planning an imminent revolt. “Not before James knows fer certain who ordered the attack on the abbey.” They already knew about the exiled Earl of Argyll’s alleged return to England’s shores to gather forces against the king. The Duke of Monmouth could not be far behind. But, it was Prince William of Orange who had the most to gain should James be usurped. Connor let his gaze settle briefly on the king’s nephew and son-in-law sitting at the dais on the other side of the hall. As the king’s alleged firstborn, William’s wife, Mary, was next in line for the throne.
Their quiet conversation came to a halt when Lord Hartley and his daughter Eleanor stopped to give them greeting.
Connor smiled as decorum dictated, but all too soon his thoughts and his gaze returned to Mairi. She was staying, and he had no doubts that she was going to make his life a living hell. Just looking at her made his guts ache. He’d sworn to himself never to risk his integrity on her constant rejections again, but seeing her again tempted him. She was his past. She’d spent every day in it—fearless, reckless, passionate about everything she believed in, including them. He used to think of her on the blackest of nights, when he and his men had gone without food and had had to fall asleep in the snow, looking up at the stars. Loving her had kept him going when he had to fight another day. He thought she would eventually forgive him for leaving. It nearly broke him when she never did.
He’d told himself for more years than he cared to admit, that he could and would resist her if he ever saw her again. He was a captain of the Royal Army, esteemed for his skill on the battlefield, his supreme control over conditions that would have made other men crumble. But he’d forgotten the fire that pulsed through Mairi’s veins. It charged the night with bolts of energy that shot through him like lust-tipped arrows when she set her disdainful gaze on his. He almost smiled at the memory of her eyes tearing through his as she’d gone head-to-head with him a few moments ago. She was still the spirited mare he’d always wanted to tame. The thought of doing so made his cock feel heavy strapped within the tight confines of his breeches.
He clasped his hands in front of him and narrowed his gaze on Lord Oxford. What did he know about the son of Charles de Vere, other than that Connor didn’t like him? His family were professed Protestants, the popular religion to be in England at present. It made Mairi’s interest in him peculiar, since she was as zealous in her hatred of Protestants and Presbyterian Covenanters as she was toward him.
“Why do ye stand here in silence instead of going after her?” his father said after the Hartleys moved on. “Ye’re a Highlander fer hell’s sake, son. Take what ye want.”
Connor accepted a drink from a passing server and, bringing the cup to his lips, smiled at his father. “This isn’t the Highlands. Men are expected to behave more civilly here. More importantly”—he downed the cup’s contents—“I don’t want her.”
“Yer eyes say something different.”
“Ye misread then,” he replied in a rather sluggish tone to prove the topic bored him. “Have ye seen my men?” He looked around, putting an end to the conversation he did not want to have.
“Aye, they headed off to The Troubadour and asked me to tell ye to meet them there.”
Ah, thank the saints for his men and for the tavern. He sure as hell didn’t want to be here while Mairi danced the night away with a dozen different suitors. “I’ll see to them then and return later.” He left with a wink to his m
other that brought a smile to her lips despite the knowing look in her eyes.
He cut across the floor, eyeing Oxford as he led Mairi back to the table. When she took her seat, Connor’s gaze swept over the fine contours of her profile. Her face was ingrained on his heart. Every part of her was. He dipped his gaze to that alluring tear in her skirts, where twice now he’d caught sight of the curve of her knee, then back up, to the creamy roundness of her cleavage.
She’d grown into a woman without him.
His breath stalled at the sensual sweep of her lashes as she raised her gaze to his and then looked away, denying him what she offered Oxford. Another smile.
She still heated his blood, even after she had cut out his heart.
Nae. He was no longer that pitiful sot who wanted what was no longer his, despite the number of women who had sought to win his heart over the past seven years and failed. Fool. How many had he rejected because their hair was not as black as Mairi’s, their eyes nowhere as blue?
He cursed her, and his own feeble resolve and left the Banqueting Hall without another look back.
He stepped outside and looked up at the charcoal clouds passing without rain. Hell, it was going to be another balmy night. He left the gate toward Parliament Street, his boots clicking hard against the stone. She was staying. How the hell was he supposed to avoid her when they were living in the same place? He wanted to be as far away from her as possible. Away from the temptation of smiling at her, staring at her, strangling her.
His heavy breath echoed through the narrow, empty streets as he drove on toward The Troubadour. What he needed was a handful of drinks and a wench in his lap. He reached the small tavern and stepped gingerly out of the way of a body being tossed out onto its arse. He felt better already. Here was what he needed… to be in the company of unrefined, uncivil men who would rather a kick to the face than a wig on their heads.
“Connor!”
Connor’s dark scowl softened into a grin as wide as his shoulders as he strode forward and hauled his dearest friend into a crushing embrace. “ ’Tis good to see ye, Tristan.”
“And ye, old friend.” Mairi’s brother pounded him on the back. “Though I must tell ye,” he said, stepping away, “ye look a wee bit pasty. Ye have seen my sister then.”
Connor’s smirk went dry as he tossed his arm around Tristan’s neck and led him toward the table where his men sat. “Aye, but let us speak of more pleasant things. I see ye’ve already met some of my men.”
Their reunion was cut short when they reached the table and a lad with dark curls and hardly a hair on his face rose to his feet. “Captain,” Connor’s cornet, Edward Willingham, said, offering him his cup before Connor motioned for him to sit. “We were hoping you would join us.”
“Aye,” Richard Drummond, Connor’s lieutenant, raised his cup to him before guzzling its contents. He swiped his sleeve across his mouth, then motioned to a serving wench to bring more. “Yer friend MacGregor here told us ye’d likely be miserable upon yer return to the hall.”
Connor cut Tristan a foul look before slipping into his chair. The last thing he wanted his men to know was that he had once loved a lass more than waking up victorious the morn after a battle. “Aye, being holed up with all those English milksops has a way of wearing on my pleasant nature.”
“I’m English.”
Connor looked up as another man he hadn’t seen in a pair of years clapped him on the back before taking a seat with the rest of them.
Beside him, Drummond scowled into his cup. “Is that something ye truly feel is worth boasting about, Captain Sedley?”
“Indeed I do, Scot.” Nicholas Sedley, captain in Prince William’s navy, turned from his leisurely appraisal of a serving wench’s full, swaying hips and flashed him a grin that Connor had seen him wear before he took Drummond down on the training field when the three had first arrived at Whitehall for duty. “While you were chopping wood behind your hut, I was being meticulously groomed in arts you cannot even pronounce.”
Drummond, despite being below him in rank, merely slid his pitying gaze to Connor and nodded. “Milksop.”
It felt good to laugh—even at his friend’s expense. Not that Nick took offense to being called a coward. He was one of those men who knew perfectly well how capable he was in everything from the battlefield to the bedroom.
“I heard you’ve been keeping peace between some clans in Glencoe.” Sedley turned to Connor with a doleful look. “Is there nothing more worthy of your sword than stopping Highlanders from killing each other?”
“There could be.” Connor reclined in his seat, his smile slow and curious. If William of Orange were planning a deposition, Sedley would likely know of it. But would he tell Connor anything? “I have reason to believe that Admiral Gilles has returned to England.”
“Oh?” Sedley arched his raven brow. “Isn’t Gilles the Duke of Monmouth’s right-hand man?”
“So I’ve been told.” Connor glanced at Richard and Edward, silently warning them to say nothing of the attack on St. Christopher’s Abbey while another serving wench set down a fresh round of drinks before them. “If Gilles does serve Monmouth, then I have reason to concern myself with his arrival. Unless of course, the admiral traveled here with the prince.”
Sedley shook his head. “I’ve heard nothing of him, or of Monmouth for that matter.”
How the hell did a captain in William’s navy know nothing about a small naval fleet secretly landing on England’s shores? Sedley wasn’t going to tell him what he knew. He’d grown loyal to his liege, and why not? They were both Protestants.
Connor was thinking of the next question to put to him when a pretty blonde serving wench fell into his lap.
“Why, Captain Grant,” she pouted, looping her arms around his neck, “you returned to England and didn’t come see me?”
Connor smiled at her lush pink lips, then closed his eyes and almost shook his head to chase another set of more venomous lips from it. “I just returned this day, Vicky.”
“You could have called me to serve you.”
Aye, why the hell hadn’t he? Vicky’s tender fingers had helped drive Mairi away in the past. Why was he wasting time thinking of Mairi now? It had taken him four years to admit he’d lost her, three to heal from it. He’d be damned if he considered allowing her in his life again—or anywhere near his heart. He could find ways to avoid her. It would be easy in a palace with fifteen hundred rooms and hundreds of acres of land.
“Will you be coming to call on me later then?”
He blinked, remembering Vicky on his lap. “Mayhap another time,” he said, giving her a tender push off.
Sedley was the only one who watched her go, his pale gray eyes darkening with desire. “Mind if I seek her company?”
“Go right ahead.” It was the second time tonight that he’d given his consent to losing a woman. This time though, he meant it. He would figure out tomorrow if and what Sedley knew about Gilles. Now, he simply wanted to enjoy the company of his men, and of his closest friend. They had much to catch up on, many stories to share—his far less frolicsome than Tristan’s, he was sure.
“Ye haven’t penned me a letter in over a year. How are things with ye, ye bastard?”
“Looking up.” Tristan smiled while Connor raised his cup to his lips. “I wish I could say the same fer ye.”
After a hearty swig of his drink, Connor nodded, thinking of the days ahead with Mairi MacGregor in them. Satan’s balls, he wished it too.
Chapter Three
I didn’t know you were acquainted with Captain Grant.”
Mairi looked up at Lord Oxford’s profile while they stepped out into the warm, moist night air. Dear Lord, did it never rain here? It was England for hell’s sake!
“Ye have sat with me and Lord and Lady Huntley. Ye know we are friends.”
He laughed shortly, visibly at himself. “Indeed, that is true. I fear I chose to forget their son and the remarkable effect he has on women.”<
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Damnation, she was tired. Her feet were sore from dancing and her nerves were ready to snap from seeing Connor, and then not seeing him again for the remainder of the night. She’d imagined their reunion thousands of times. She, strong and unfazed by his charms. But he had not been charming at all. He’d been cold and detached. He had even insulted her. She didn’t want to speak of him. She wanted to go to bed and forget this day and the ones ahead. She should not have agreed to let Lord Oxford escort her to her chambers, but, hell, the man would not take nae for an answer. “What do ye mean, his remarkable effect?” Och, what in blazes did she care? She hadn’t meant to ask. She didn’t want to know.
“The flush across a woman’s cheeks. The shortness of her breath. The flame sparking her eyes.” Oxford turned to look at her. “The same effect he has on you.”
Mairi would have laughed right in his face if her denial of his charge wasnn’t already battering against her lips. “Captain Grant has no such effect on me. I dinna’ even like him!”
“He’s quite handsome.” He looked away now, hiding the scar extending from his eye to his jaw on the opposite side of his face.
Poor man. Mairi suffered a pang of sympathy for him. No lady at court had ever lost her breath from looking at him. He wasn’t unattractive. In fact, he was quite comely if not for the ridiculous wig atop his head. His eyes were wide and deep brown, ringed by lush dark lashes and his nose was rather small for an Englishman. It was true, he was as dull as a rusty blade, assaulting her with endless compliments and his vast, yet useless knowledge of everything English since the first day she showed him any kindness. She had only done it to gain information on his family. So far though, he’d given her no reason to suspect he was anything worse than a Protestant. In fact, she had discovered that the Earl of Oxford’s brother had raised an army called the Horse Guard Blue to fight on the king’s side back when Charles had been restored to the throne. Lord Oxford and his father were too busy kissing the new Catholic king’s arse to scheme against him. The de Veres loved the courtier life more than their religion. Zealots, they were not.
