by Paula Quinn
“What is your opinion on it, Mr. Grant?”
He turned his attention from Cailean’s wound to her and the dainty sweep of her nose. “I think ye are quite the heroine, Miss Grey,” he told her thickly, enjoying the blush stealing over her cheeks.
“Not that,” she said, her voice breathless when she corrected him. “Not that, Mr. Grant. On love. Is there only one thing that men truly love, as Bess suggests?”
Hell, not love again. He looked around the room like he was planning his escape. He gaze came back to her and he sighed. If his brother lived, it was Emma who saved him. How could he repay her?
By telling her the truth.
“Aye. But I havena’ discovered what it is so I canna’ tell ye.”
Chapter Six
Emma kept herself busy for the rest of the night, though there wasn’t much to do save mix more poultices and prepare more ointments for her two patients. Mr. Grant refused to get back in bed when the girls began swirling into the room to check on him. The air permeated with various perfumes, but Emma guessed it smelled better for Mr. Grant than medicine.
“I’m fine,” he insisted to any female who asked.
“You sure as hell are,” was the general response.
Goodness, how they giggled and clung to his every word. She’d heard how they spoke to men—sensual and stimulating their customers into paying for more than just their company.
This was different. They weren’t just doing their jobs. They wanted Malcolm Grant. They purred and cooed and flitted around his chair, touching his head, his shoulders, his thighs.
Emma kept herself mostly in the shadows, listening to his laughter and his charming responses to them. She caught every inflection, every dip in the sensuous pulse of his voice. He sounded very at ease with the women, and pleased with himself.
He was a rake, for certain. She didn’t doubt any of the stories she’d heard about him. He oozed self-confidence and vitality, even wounded and tired.
She could hear that too. He was exhausted, but he didn’t ask his guests to leave. Emma thought about doing it, but he seemed to be enjoying himself.
“Emma,” Bess called from where she lounged on Malcolm’s empty bed. “When do you think Mr. Grant will be fit enough to leave your gloomy room and come to mine?”
“Is anyone else worried about that mongrel growling at us?” Jane asked concerning Gascon.
“’Tis only Bess he doesn’t like.” Mary laughed.
“I feel the same about him,” Bess told them.
Emma gave her a dark glare but doubted any of the girls saw it, so busy were they primping around Mr. Grant.
“If you wish to leave,” Alison said, suddenly appearing beside her, “mayhap take a walk and find your brother, I’ll stay and watch over the Grants.” Her voice was kind and friendly enough, but Emma shook her head.
“It’s just that I know Bess can be cruel,” Alison insisted.
Emma let her smile deepen. She could handle Bess. “I’ve told you already. Bess doesn’t bother me. Now, here,” she said, and handed Alison a small jar of ointment. “Take this to Cailean and apply it to his wound. I’m fine.” She listened to Alison return to her work, sharing words with the rest of the girls as she went.
Emma liked Alison’s determination in tending to Cailean since his injury. She barely left his side, begging the other girls to take her customers while she kept her vigil. She was kindhearted and Emma hoped that when Cailean woke up, he proved to be of a different character than his brother.
It wasn’t that Malcolm Grant was unlikable. On the contrary, he was too likable. His laughter came easy with the girls. It was low and throaty and filled with wicked intentions that made Emma blush earlier when they were alone.
There was also that disarming lilt that made his words almost musical. She listened while he defied her instruction and spoke to the girls around his chair. She liked the sound of it, a little raw and gravelly.
Hell, he was captivating! She was glad she couldn’t see him and completely fall into spasms of giddiness like the rest of them were doing—all except for Alison, of course.
“Miss Grey?”
She blinked, realizing that he’d called her and she was standing smiling like an idiot.
“Oui, Mr. Grant?” She stepped out of the shadows with Gascon at her side.
“Come sit with us.”
Goodness but his smoky invitation spoken from his unhealed throat was tempting.
“Tell me how ye know so much aboot healin’.”
Emma’s heart froze. Was he going to accuse her of being a witch? She feared that the girls, so captivated by him, would agree.
“No, I have medicines to mix and—”
“Can it no’ wait, lass?”
Despite her misgivings, his query made her knees go soft. He sounded so sincere.
What should she say? What should she do? Was he dangerous? Should she feed him more tea?
She needed to get him well, and get him out of her life.
“Mr. Grant, you must rest.” She took another step forward and wiped her hands on her apron. “I think another quarter of an hour should be enough time to bid good eve to your admirers. If you would prefer not to recover, I’ll leave you alone.”
Immediately there were protests, which she tried to ignore. It was difficult what with him laughing and taking it all in like a beloved prince on his throne.
“Emma just wants him for herself,” Mary said, then laughed when the others agreed.
Emma could feel her face go up in flames, but she said nothing and turned away instead. She listened while the girls flirted and offered their bosoms as pillows and their thighs to keep him warm before they left.
She listened while Bess promised him things that made Emma’s ears burn—along with her blood.
This was how a rake lived. Did Malcolm Grant love any of the women he took to his bed? He’d said he hadn’t found the thing that men loved most in a woman. So it clearly wasn’t what Bess suggested.
What did she care? He was her patient. As soon as he was well, he’d be gone.
“Before she left with the others, I was tellin’ Alison that Cailean looked better. His color has returned. How did ye do it?”
She tilted her head, inclining her ear. But for Cailean’s unconscious body, they were alone.
“Why is how so important?”
“’Tis no’.” He laughed. “Never mind it then. I’m just glad he’s recoverin’. Ye’re quite skilled.”
“We should get you back into bed, Mr. Grant.” Her heart still raced. What was he thinking? Did she want to know? Was he the kind of man who could get her strung up and burned?
“Nae, I want to keep an eye on m’ brother.”
She went to him and pressed her palm to his forehead. “You’re cool, but you could relapse if you don’t rest.”
“I can rest in this chair, Miss Grey.”
He was right. She could work on him better if he was sitting up. The thought of him on his back again set thoughts ablaze about touching his body, all of it. What the hell was wrong with her? Malcolm Grant could end up her worst nightmare. Why did she let him excite her?
She sighed against his neck and he leaped in his skin.
“Are you in pain, Mr. Grant?” she asked, concerned about infection.
“Nae,” he told her, but his shoulders were tense and tight. His voice sounded deeper, more throaty than before.
“I do think we should get you into bed now.”
“Lass… Miss Grey.” He turned just a little, bringing his chin closer to her mouth. “Ye’re breathin’ on me. Move yer lips away before I’m tempted to kiss them.”
She moved away quickly, burning to the soles of her feet. How dare he be so bold with her? What if she didn’t want him to kiss her? Did he think he could just do it without her consent and not suffer any consequences? What would he do if she poisoned him?
She tore off another long piece of cloth and wrapped it around his neck. With on
e last, tight pull, she tied it.
Ignoring his painful cough and mumbled oath, she walked around his chair and leaned down in front of him.
“Mr. Grant, whatever others see in you, I see something different. I’m not blinded by your visage. Your beauty, if you possess any, is here.” She poked him in the chest. “You did a kind deed for Gascon. For that, I think of you kindly. But if you believe you can just kiss me whenever the mood strikes you, you will discover you’re wrong, and I will discover that I was wrong as well.”
“Do I get nae acknowledgment then fer warnin’ ye of m’ intentions?”
She stood there for a moment, trying to decide if he was serious or not. She couldn’t tell, so she stepped away, smiling once she was past him.
Since he wasn’t using the bed Gunter had brought to the room, and her feet were aching from standing all night, she sat on the thin mattress and closed her eyes.
The crackle of the hearth fire filled the room for what seemed like a long time before Malcolm broke the silence.
“He canna’ die, Miss Grey.”
“Mr. Grant,” she said softly. She could hear the desperation in his voice, naked and raw. His concern for his brother was genuine. She would be honest with him. “I am trying to make certain that doesn’t happen. But ultimately, ’tis not up to me.”
“He’s verra’ passionate aboot life. He was,” he said more deeply.
“You speak like he’s dead already. He’s not. I believe he’ll live.”
He moved around in his chair, his voice, when he spoke, fell around her like smooth satin. “I’m relieved that ye do.”
“He’s a damn ferocious warrior,” he continued. Emma listened because she sensed he needed to speak of his brother.
“He’s a poet too, though no’ a verra’ good one. Wherever he went, whatever he did, ye could always find ink on his fingers. Or paint.”
Emma smiled, imagining a handsome young, passionate man going through life like a storm.
“You love him very much.”
“Aye,” he told her. “I do. What aboot ye and Harry? He told me ye were reunited last month after a decade. That must be difficult.”
“Oui,” she told him, liking that he wasn’t oblivious to the feelings of others. “’Tis.”
“How did ye both get separated?”
“He left.”
He was quiet for a while, and Emma was sorry she told him if he now thought less of Harry because of it.
“Why did he leave?” he finally spoke again to ask her.
“He was afraid, I suspect.”
“Ye’ve never asked him?”
“No,” she said, not wanting to discuss it anymore. “I never asked him. But enough about that. It seems Alison is quite taken with your brother.” She didn’t think the change of topic was subtle. She didn’t care. “Does a prostitute losing her heart to your brother concern you?”
“Nae, and it wouldna’ surprise me. Hearts get lost whenever they’re around m’ kin.”
“Then you do believe love is real, Mr. Grant?”
“I never said ’twasn’t, lass.”
Was it madness that she liked the way he called her lass?
“I know ’tis real,” he said. “I just want nae part of it, and it wants nae part of me.”
Chapter Seven
Light streamed through the window and cloaked Emma in an almost ethereal luminescence while she crushed some herbs by the table in her room.
From his bed, where he ended up the next morning weak and exhausted after sitting up by Cailean’s side all night, Malcolm looked away from Emma when Bess, sitting on the side of his bed, asked him if he was listening.
He wasn’t.
He nodded, but his gaze wanted to return to Harry’s sister. He remembered her breath on his neck last night, while she tended to him. Hell, he didn’t remember anything thrilling him more. She’d fired his blood so much that it actually pained him not to taste her mouth. He liked how she smelled leaning over him. He liked the silhouette of her body through her gown when she stood near the window. He thought about kissing that decadent mouth while she smiled at her dog or Alison, or relaxed it when she looked his way.
He’d promised Harry. His friend had been through too much to be betrayed now as well.
He wondered if liking her company so much could also be considered betrayal. She didn’t fawn all over him, giggle at everything he said, amusing or not. He found her knowledge of healing fascinating and admired her fortitude to defy her odds. If he had to be laid up here, he’d prefer her company.
He feared his head was more seriously injured than any of them thought.
His gaze returned to her—just a glance to catch the delicacy of her profile, the thick cut of her mouth.
Someone opened the bedroom door and she looked up toward Malcolm in time for him to look into her eyes. He began to smile.
“A group of Winthers just left,” Harry informed them as he entered.
Malcolm ignored Bess’s slight gasp and stared at Harry’s gaunt face, his eyes hard and sharp.
“Did ye tell them I was going to kill them?”
“No, Malcolm,” his friend advised with shaking hands. “I told them that you and your brother were dead. Bess,” he said, barely looking at her, “I’ve informed the girls to say the same if asked about our guests. And no one gives out their name.” When she nodded, he continued. “I don’t think they’ll be back as long as they believe you’re dead. Just to make certain that you stay dead in their minds I’m having proper English garb sewn for the both of you. Two men lived and likely told the baron that you were Highlanders.”
“I’m quite sure I can handle another Winther.”
“Oliver Winther is different, Malcolm,” Harry insisted. “I don’t want that kind of danger here.”
“Verra’ well, Harry,” Malcolm consented. “I’ll let them live to save ye from a fight ye canna’ win.”
“You or Cailean killed Andrew their brother.”
“How d’ye know ’twas one of us?”
Harry eyed him like he couldn’t be serious. “You’re the only two men they were fighting. Now, as I was saying. If the baron knows you’re alive, he’ll come here and kill you—and me for deceiving him. Eventually, they will leave us alone completely. Or they won’t.”
“That choice will get them killed,” Malcolm vowed. He’d had enough of making promises he likely wouldn’t keep.
“Is that so?” Harry asked. “What do you plan to do? Fight a hundred of them in your condition?”
“My condition is improvin’. Is that not so, Miss Grey?” he asked Emmaline while she mixed herbs in a jar by his brother’s bed. When he coughed she stopped mixing and poured a cup of tea. When he coughed a second time, still waiting for her answer, she let Gascon lead her to his bed.
“What did I tell you about speaking without soothing your throat first, Mr. Grant?”
“Oh, Emma,” Bess whined, piquing Gascon’s ears. “Why nag the poor man? Hasn’t he been through enough?”
Instead of answering Bess, Emma turned to him. “How does your throat feel, Mr. Grant?”
“Sore,” he answered.
“Would you rather I quit ‘nagging’ you? Or would you prefer the tea?”
“The tea.” He was careful not to let Bess see him smile. Bess didn’t like Emmaline. He didn’t know why. She could be jealous but he had no interest in knowing. It wouldn’t make any difference in anything. He did like that Emmaline didn’t seem to care one way or the other if Bess liked her or not.
He waited for her to hand him the tea, sipped it, and then asked her his question again.
“You’re improving quickly,” she assured him. “But you won’t be fighting anything anytime soon.”
“I’ll be ready fer them soon enough,” he muttered, turning to Bess’s encouraging smile.
“Harry,” Miss Grey said to her brother. “Is he normally so prideful and pigheaded?”
Prideful and pigheaded, him? He
sipped his tea and turned back to her. “What is pigheaded aboot bein’ confident? I know m’ strength and m’ stamina, fer I practice every day.”
She aimed her slightest of smiles at him, and like a thin shard, it pierced his chest and warmed his blood from its source. “I don’t doubt your skill or your endurance, Mr. Grant. But has your head ever been smashed in before?”
It was a simple question, and one he should have an easy time answering. She was right. His body wasn’t at its peak because of the blow to his head. It would take time to tone his mind, thoughts, and reflexes back to top condition. She wanted him to heal first. She was right.
He should have told her. He should have said something before letting her walk off with her dog, but he didn’t.
“Pay her no heed.” Bess’s voice played like a siren’s song against his ear, pulling him back to her. “She has nothing else to do all day but hover around here. Ferget her words and show me how quickly ye can recover.”
Aye, Malcolm agreed, forget.
Sleep. He yawned and thought about dreaming. Bess’s face was poised over him. Damn, he didn’t want to sleep now…
His gaze slipped to Emma. He looked at his cup of tea and then closed his eyes. Suddenly relaxed and so sleepy he couldn’t open his eyes again. “Och, damn it,” he said out loud. “The wench dru…”
He didn’t feel Bess’s hand on his arm, only the luxurious comfort of his pillow.
She drugged him.
Emma hurried to the other side of the room with Gascon at her heel. She knew the way. She kept herself looking busy though she knew Mr. Grant’s sleep wouldn’t last much longer. Oh, how did anyone put up with such stubbornness? Did he truly think he could fight the Winthers now? Fool. He needed to understand that he was still too weak. He needed his rest to recover. She hadn’t slept a bit, worrying if he would accuse her of witchcraft. All it took was one soul to stir the pot. He had to recover and leave. Emma would see it done even if she had to force him.
She didn’t like Bess around him. What red-blooded man could resist her? Bess would work Malcolm up and he would possibly relapse. But not if he was asleep. There was, of course, an added bonus to spiking his tea. Bess had in him a virile, self-proclaimed rogue and a helpless audience. He was bedridden, unable to do anything but lie there and listen to her talk about herself or defy almost all of Emma’s instructions.
