by Paula Quinn
What Emma did, she did for his good.
She heard him snore and she smiled at Bess’s frustration.
“Ye have the look of a wicked angel aboot ye.”
Emma tilted her head to the dry voice belonging to Cailean. “You’re awake. Thank God.”
“Was I doin’ that poorly, then?”
“Indeed you were,” she replied, checking his dressed wound with the tips of her fingers. Dry and cool, just like the rest of him. Perfect. “But I think you’re going to be just fine. You must be starving. You’ll have to eat light. I’ll have soup brought up.”
He stopped her from going with a gentle touch to her wrist. “I take it whatever ye did just now was to m’ brother, so he must be well?”
“He will be soon.” Emma liked how these brothers asked about each other before anything else. She hoped for the day when she felt things like that for Harry.
“That’s good.” His deep pitch lightened a bit, but there was no humor in his voice. “How is yer dog?”
She smiled. How kind of him to remember Gascon.
“He’s well, sir.” She stepped aside to let him see Gascon for himself. “You have my gratitude for speaking up for him your first night here.”
He didn’t say anything to her but urged her dog forward and then said something softly to him.
“What did ye do to m’ brother?” he asked her next. His tone changed just a bit. It wasn’t menacing but if she were guilty of causing Malcolm harm, she would have lied.
“I drugged him,” she told him honestly.
“Nothing serious I hope?” he asked, sounding neither overly curious nor overly concerned. “Ye’re a healer, no’ a killer, but I know Malcolm can be… troublesome fer some.”
How troublesome was he exactly? If he was that bad, then perhaps she should keep him asleep for another se’nnight, then wake him and send him on his way.
“He’ll sleep for a little while,” she admitted to Cailean. “I did him a favor. Bess isn’t the right girl for him.” She pressed down very lightly on his wound.
“M’ brother doesna’ care aboot the right girl,” he told her, shifting his weight beneath her fingers. Emmaline could feel his eyes on her. “But tell me anyway how ye know who is the right lass fer him?”
“I don’t, but Bess does not have your brother’s best interest at heart. He needs to recover. Just as you do.” She let her smile widen, dropping the topic of Malcolm Grant. The less she talked about him, the better. So, he went out of his way for Gascon; that didn’t mean he was a saint. She knew after listening to him with the girls last night that he was anything but.
“Ye’re French?”
She shook her head. “I spent the last ten years there. I was born in England.” What was she doing? She didn’t need a friend, someone to confide in. People came and went here. No one stayed. His brother certainly wouldn’t be staying.
“In just another se’nnight or two,” she told him, back to duty, “you can begin returning to your regular routine and then be on your way with your brother.”
“Ah, young Mr. Grant.” Harry reached Cailean’s bed and greeted him. Emma could hear annoyance in her brother’s voice. “Malcolm will be happy to see you awake. That is,” he aimed his hardening voice at her, “if he wakes up from his tea.”
Damn. How did he know? “’Tis a mild sedative,” she admitted. “The same one I gave to you when you were so ill. He’ll be awake soon enough.”
Harry made little noises, then coughed into his hand before he spoke to Cailean. “You won’t mention this to your family, I trust?”
“’Twould make an entertaining story to tell,” Cailean answered with amusement lacing his voice. “Malcolm could use a lass in his life who can take control… even by force if necessary. But I willna’ say a word.”
Emma blushed. Was he speaking of her? She could feel the heat burning her cheeks and lowered her head so the others wouldn’t see.
Heaven help her, why was she imagining that the lass was her? Mr. Grant would make a full recovery and then leave. Why would he remain in a brothel? After a while, she suspected that even the most voluptuous bosoms would lose their appeal to the memory of home… or to the next adventure. He wouldn’t be here long enough for her to become “that lass.”
Besides that, his type wouldn’t be interested in her humble breasts and plain features.
Alison returned to Cailean’s bedside and saw that he’d awakened. She greeted him and the two of them fell into a sea of words and meaningful tones. Harry left soon after that, with Bess close behind.
Emma left Cailean and Alison alone and returned to sit beside Malcolm. She wasn’t sure what she thought of him. Why did she have to think anything about him? Who was he but a heart-breaking rogue?
She would stop thinking about him and forget him the instant he left. He certainly was nothing special. Not the kind of man she’d ever choose for a husband.
Tending to him was a burden really, she pointed out to herself while leaving her chair to prepare his medicine. She found little pleasure in touching him to apply her poultice to the wound on his head. His skin felt cool to her touch, his chopped hair, soft in her fingertips. His temples teased and tempted her to traverse down them and feel the contours of his face. She didn’t, but moved on to his throat and collarbone next. She could feel previous scars on him and wondered if he was as skilled with his sword as he believed he was. She trickled her fingers over the outline of his corded upper arm. Her breath boomed in her ears while she imagined those arms around her.
Alison’s laughter shattered the image, but only for a moment.
Too quickly, she thought of the intimacy of touching his fingers. Were they strong? Would his palm be rough against a softer part of her? Her mouth went dry thinking about it. She’d learned much in a month of living in a brothel. Thank goodness he was asleep and unaware of how bold she was.
She paused and tilted her head just a bit to hear better. His breathing had changed. He was awake.
She pulled her hand away. Oh, damn it all to hell.
Chapter Eight
Malcolm knew she was aware that he was no longer asleep. How did she know? He’d been careful not to allow his muscles to twitch while she explored his arm. Hell, he’d never felt anything more sensual than her fingertips gliding over him, lingering on him… here… there, pulling shorter breaths from him.
He should be angry with her. He was angry with her! She’d drugged him! But she touched him like she wanted to know him. Did he want her to? What good would it do?
“Cailean is awake.” Her soft voice stole across his ears.
“I know,” he answered. “And in the good care of Alison, I see. Cailean?” he called out.
“Aye, brother?”
“Are ye well?”
“Aye, Malcolm, are ye?”
Once they assured each other of the other’s well-being, Malcolm returned his attention to Harry’s sister. She saved Cailean’s life. She saved his family. He wanted to offer her a rare, genuine smile but first he had a question to ask her.
“I will leave him to Alison fer another moment or two to ask this of ye instead, Miss Grey.” He lowered his voice so that Alison wouldn’t hear. He didn’t know if she would go to Harry and tell him his sister was drugging folks in his brothel. “D’ye drug all yer brother’s patrons?”
Her spine stiffened and she folded her hands together in front of her. “Not all. No.”
He wasn’t surprised that there had been others.
“Do you often pretend to be asleep so that you could spy?” she countered.
“I wasna’ spyin’. I was lookin’. And takin’ m’ time aboot it too. But enough of ye distractin’ me.”
Her mouth fell open. “Me? I—”
“I dinna’ care aboot yer other victims.” He cut her off. “Dinna’ drug me again. D’ye understand?”
“I cannot make you any promises,” she muttered softly. “I’d like to do it right now.”
; “What was that, then?”
“Nothing, my lord.”
“I’m no’ yer lord,” he said, a little disinterested. “And dinna’ be coy with me. It doesna’ suit ye.”
“You’re correct,” she said with a corner of her shapely mouth curling at the edge. “You deserve to hear it.”
She repeated what she’d mumbled.
“Mayhap,” he mused, liking her sauciness better than her being coy. “Bess should tend to me from now on. Send fer her, please.”
“No.” Her lips pulled up in a smile that was as exasperated as it was victorious. She didn’t give in easily, this one. “Bess is busy in the beds of her customers, Mr. Grant. I have knowledge of herbs.” She cut him a suddenly anxious glance. “If you want to recover, your best option is with me.”
“Well, if ye’re the best option…” He flashed his own triumphant grin and pushed himself up in bed to a sitting position. He should be angry that she’d drugged him and made him completely powerless, but he was enjoying her too much.
“When can I get oot of bed?” Why the hell was he asking?
“Anytime you wish, as long as there is someone here with you to come get me if you fall.”
He laughed. “I doubt I’ll fall.”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course you doubt it. You’re prideful and full of yourself.”
“Nae,” he corrected. “I’m confident.” His smile began to change into one crafted to charm and get him what he wanted from a lass. But what good was it? She wasn’t swayed by it.
He much preferred a woman who could see to one who couldn’t. “I’d like to leave the bed right now and see m’ brother.”
“Go right ahead,” she allowed.
He scowled at her. He wasn’t sure why and swung his legs over the side. He gave himself a moment to stop spinning. He wasn’t sure if it was his wound or Emma that unbalanced him. Why was he so confused about how he felt about her? He was angry and grateful and attracted at the same time.
He stood up slowly, straightening to his full height. He gripped the chair in front of him, then reached for her to pull her under his arm. For such a slight woman, she offered much support. She was strong and very, very soft. He hoped to show her that he wasn’t too prideful if he admitted to needing her aid. Why he hoped to show her anything, he wasn’t completely certain. It was all very unsettling.
His eyes fixed on his brother as he grew nearer. Relief at seeing him there, no longer pale but strong, propped against a few lush pillows, filled Malcolm with such relief he paused to keep from tipping over.
“Ye gave me a scare, Cailean,” he said, reaching him. “I feared tellin’ our mother that ye were lost to her.”
“I willna’ be taken doun by a pistol ball, Malcolm. The food in this place will kill me before a pistol ball does,” Cailean answered, bringing a smile to Malcolm’s face.
He felt Alison’s eyes on him and he turned that smile on her. Cailean cast him a warning look when she blushed to her russet roots, and Malcolm backed off. But it was good to know he hadn’t lost his charm.
Pity Miss Grey didn’t see it. Pity for him, that is. If he ever wanted to win a heart like hers, he didn’t know how. His appearance usually got him what he wanted from lasses—and it was never their hearts. He’d never wanted to woo or win a woman’s heart. He still didn’t. He needed to recover quickly so he could be away from Emmaline Grey. She reminded him that his dragon was hot on his arse. She reminded him of love and how incapable he was of it. She was trouble. And Malcolm didn’t want any.
He let her go and sat without aid. He was strong. He’d be up on his feet and practicing in a day or two—then gone from here.
“Hell.” Cailean grimaced at him from his bed. “Yer face looks like ’tis recoverin’ from a memorable poundin’.”
“Fortunately fer me,” Malcolm replied, pleased to find his brother in good enough spirits to challenge him about his vanity, “I dinna’ remember a thing.” He turned to Alison. “Do I truly look so hideous?”
Before she answered, Cailean laughed. “Will ye stop at nothin’ fer a compliment, then? False as it may be?”
Malcolm didn’t answer right away.
Cailean had laughed.
A rare sound of late. Malcolm wanted to thank whoever was responsible for it. He smiled at Alison again while Emma clasped on to Gascon and moved away with Alison to give the brothers time to speak privately.
“Ye were shot in the neck?” Cailean asked him, apparently not knowing what had happened.
“Aye, and ye in the gut,” Malcolm told him. “She dug the pistol ball oot.” He motioned to Harry’s sister on the other side of the room, changing his linens with Alison’s help. “But before ye thank her, ye should know that she’s been known to drug her patients, even after they recover.”
“The stubborn, prideful ones I’m told,” Cailean said, still smiling!
Malcolm didn’t know whether to take offense at his brother or celebrate his return to the living… and more than just in body.
“All who were raised with us are stubborn and prideful, so dinna’ drink the tea.”
They laughed together, the way they used to, the way brothers do. Malcolm vowed silently to thank Emma for all she’d done for his brother—just before he got the hell out of there.
Emma could hear every word between them. She told herself a hundred times to stop listening and pay attention to Alison, but she failed over and over, drawn toward the sound of his deep, honeyed voice and deep, male laughter.
Why did she even like him? He was just like the folks in the village who never appreciated what Clementine had done for so many of them.
People were all the same, especially men. There were none alive like the ones her mother used to tell her about from her books. Especially not Malcolm Grant, a rogue who set women talking about him for several months after he left them. And according to her brother, he left every single one. She didn’t want to think about him all the time. She didn’t want to fall into some deluded fancy about him and have her heart broken—or worse—when he left.
“He has a chill… Emma, you asked me how Cailean looked and then you don’t even pay attention when I tell you!”
Oh no! “Forgive me, Alison! I’m listening, I promise!”
Alison held back, probably to cast her a doubtful look but then continued, as if she couldn’t wait to describe him.
“He has a look to him that is both chilling and vulnerable. It’s his eyes.”
“Sad?” Emma guessed.
“Perhaps,” Alison allowed, sounding pensive and a bit captivated. Emma suspected she was looking at him while she spoke.
“They are big and deep,” Alison continued. “Like oceans and the color of waves in moonlight. But it’s his chin that makes my knees weak. It’s fashioned with a deep dimple that adds even more fullness to the pout of his lower lip. I think about kissing him all the time. I cannot stop myself.”
Emma smiled; better that than let herself blush to her roots, revealing her exact thoughts about Malcolm.
“Then you should kiss him,” she said, wishing that if she had the boldness to follow her own advice, Malcolm wouldn’t break her heart. But he would.
“That’s the odd thing, Emma,” Alison said like someone confiding in her dearest friend. “Though I am a…” She paused, struggling to utter what she would say and finally gave up. “He is different from the others. I… I think I am beginning to care for him.”
Emma reached out for her hand. She liked Alison, but she was glad she hadn’t fallen for Malcolm the same way. Still, if Alison had the chance of a future with a man who loved her, then Emma would help her. “If your feelings continue to grow you must speak to Harry about finding another duty in the brothel that you can tend to besides the patrons. Perhaps you can cook or clean the rooms.”
“Do you think he would let me?” Alison asked hopefully. “I mean, if there turns out to be something with Cailean. Something serious.”
Emma nodded.
“I will lend my voice to your cause.”
They agreed and laughed softly at their silly fancies.
“You would like Malcolm Grant’s appearance, Emma,” Alison went on to say.
Emma had heard enough. She didn’t want to hear how Alison described his visage. She liked letting his character craft it.
“His eyes are blue like the sky and green like a field, blended together.”
Hell, Emma knew those colors.
“They are shaped with more of an angle at the edges than Cailean’s. His eyes are more playful. I would even say they dance. Or perhaps it’s the flash of his twin dimples that give his devil-may-care grin such life.”
Emma had heard enough. He was a carefree rogue who’d come here for sex. Nothing more. So, his eyes sounded quite nice. What did any of it matter to her? “I don’t care about him,” she said to convince herself more than Alison.
“Miss Grey?” Malcolm called to her.
“Mr. Grant?” she called back.
“I’d like to share some whisky with m’ brother to celebrate his recovery.”
She felt her way back to him. “Mr. Grant, I don’t think that getting drunk—”
“Lass,” he said, stopping her, sounding weary. “I’d prefer it if ye’d quit denyin’ m’ every wish and just had the whisky brought to us.”
Emma smiled. She wasn’t sure how she managed it instead of flinging the nearest, heaviest object at him, but she smiled.
“I deny your wishes because they will cause you harm.”
“I appreciate your concern, Miss Grey…” She could hear his smirk in his voice. “… but I’m not a helpless child.”
“No, but you’re a foolish one,” she muttered, and sank her fingers into Gascon’s fur. Without another word, she left the room.
In the hall, she dug her hand into a deep pocket in her skirt and pulled out a leather pouch. Inside was a powerful sleeping aid of crushed hops and passionflower mixed with a little bit of Valerian root. She’d scooped up the sachet on her way out of the room.
