The Taming of Malcolm Grant

by Paula Quinn

  “What fer?” he asked. “Ye’re the one who did all the work.”

  It was considerate of him to say so. Emma couldn’t help but smile. In fact, she suddenly felt quite happy. She didn’t know how he made her forget that she didn’t completely trust him, but he did. “You are a mystery. One moment you prove rumors true and the next, you tempt me to stop believing what they say about you.”

  His lilting, liquid laughter swept over her, compelling her to tell him all. “What do they say?”

  She moved out of his embrace and threw back her head to sigh at the ceiling. “That you are a master of…” She stopped before her cheeks burned and betrayed her thoughts. “That you are careless with hearts.”

  “Ah, but ’tis true.” His voice was rich and gruff and wonderfully sensual. “Take everything ye heard to heart. I’m the devil’s own.”

  She shook her head. “Devils don’t make one feel at ease.” There she went smiling like a witless milkmaid again. “Devils also have no choice but to be terrible. You know how to comfort a woman, Mr. Grant.”

  “Malcolm.”

  “If you are careless with hearts,” she continued, afraid that his name on her lips might somehow touch her heart and in a single moment sentence her to a life of pining, “’tis because you choose to be.”

  For a few moments, only the crackling of the flames in the hearth and Cailean’s breath filled her ears. Then, “Ye’re verra’ intuitive, Miss Grey.”

  “You aren’t all that difficult to read if one but listens hard enough,” she told him.

  “Is that so?” He moved closer to her, like he meant to pull her into his arms again. Though his breath seemed a bit off, the amusement in his tone made her turn back to him.

  “Tell me what ye hear then.”

  She shrugged her shoulders and bent her head. She was acutely aware of Cailean’s deep, heavy breath. A good sign. “You’re callous, but I suspect a façade. Then again, you may truly believe you don’t give a damn about most things, but you cared about a dog out in the rain.”

  “Well done,” he said, imbuing it with admiration that made her belly flip. “Ye are almost exactly right aboot me, Emma.”

  “What part is wrong?”

  “I’m certain I dinna’ give a damn. It’s not based on whether I believe it or not. The trail of lasses I’ve hurt is proof enough.”

  “Do you regret it?”

  “I…” He laughed for a moment, but he sounded uncomfortable. “I…” He tried again while he moved back, letting his laughter fade. “I regret many things.”

  She’d gone too far, too fast. If one didn’t know the path, she would surely stumble if she raced over it. She thought the best way out was to take the light off him.

  “I’ve described you,” she said playfully. “Now describe me.”

  He didn’t take long at all and Emma wanted to think it was because he’d been studying her more often than he let on, like Alison said.

  “Ye’re intelligent, brave, and determined. Verra’ pleasin’ qualities in a woman.”

  “Truly?” she asked, remembering how foolish Bess had sounded earlier. “You admire such qualities?”

  “Of course, I do. All the women of Camlochlin are strong. M’ sister, fer instance—Ye would like Caitrina,” he continued, returning to his chair.

  “Well,” Emma said, lying back on the bed and closing her eyes to listen to him. “I like your brother, so that doesn’t surprise me. But tell me about her.”

  “She was a hellion too. Now she’s a pirate.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Malcolm didn’t sleep but stayed awake until the sun rose. He spent most of the night watching Cailean and Emma sleeping. His brother woke twice and Malcolm cared for him, following Emma’s instructions exactly. He didn’t wake her. She’d done so much already. If his mother ever found out how close her youngest son had come to dying, Malcolm would make certain he told her how Miss Emmaline Grey saved his life, tending to him night and day.

  Malcolm enjoyed watching her doing it, caring so much for a life she didn’t know.

  He spent the few minutes he had before Cailean drifted back off confessing to his brother that he’d told her about Caitrina and how he’d helped her convince their father that she belonged with her Captain Kidd.

  He was a bit surprised when Cailean asked him his simple question, thinking his brother wasn’t completely lucid.

  “Why?” Cailean asked him. “Why did ye tell her?”

  Aye. Why, indeed?

  Malcolm wasn’t completely sure why. He shrugged his shoulders and remained quiet, pensive of his reasons. “I havena’ been sleepin’ well. I had nothin’ to do but talk.” It was only half true. He could have done a number of different things. He chose to talk to her because he liked doing it.

  “Remember what she’s done fer us, Malcolm. Dinna’ break her heart. Ferget Harry. Do it fer yer own brother. Dinna’ hurt her.”

  There wasn’t much more than that from Cailean. What more could he have said? Dinna’ hurt her. That’s what Malcolm did, wasn’t it? He broke hearts. It wasn’t something he boasted about or took pride over. He didn’t do it to feel a certain way, to show other men up… or to break any lass’s heart. He’d like more, a wife, mayhap some bairns. But what was he supposed to do, wed a lass he didn’t love, mayhap he’d never love? He didn’t want that—not for himself or for any lass. He wanted… Hell why was he even thinking about this? He’d tried to feel love before, the kind the other men of Camlochlin had found. He never did. He finally gave up, rejecting it as it had rejected him. But damn it to hell, it still followed him, an unfulfilling lack taunting him, tormenting him. Everyone thought they knew him, the rogue, stomping on hearts in three different countries. It was true he had no trouble leaving lasses in tears, but he never stomped on their hearts.

  And he hadn’t enjoyed the pleasure of a woman’s body in almost four years. He thought of Emma’s asking him if he regretted being a rogue. He did. He regretted all of it. Every day he regretted it more. He traveled often, almost most of the time, avoiding any kind of emotional connection always on the move, always one step ahead of the dragon.

  That had changed. He’d let the dragon in. There was nowhere to run. He couldn’t leave Cailean. The lad was his responsibility.

  He turned his gaze from his brother and settled it, as if he had no control over his own body, on Emma. Was he mad? He liked her. He admired her and found her strong and intelligent… and good. She had a good heart fashioned with compassion and humility—when she dealt with Bess—that she wore like a mantle of grace. She challenged him to be more than just a rake. And despite her drab gowns and unpainted face, he found her more mesmerizing than any woman he’d ever met before. He had to admit there was something about her that tempted him to hurl all the principles he’d discovered over the last few years to the four winds and begin the chase.

  How could he find interest in her while she lay there sleeping? But hell, he did. He liked the way she looked, but more, he liked the way she sounded, the way she listened. When he’d told her about sailing upon a ship to rescue his sister, she’d leaned in and inclined her ear to his voice. She’d sat, engrossed in his tale and hearing about the men of his family with whom he’d sailed. Her subtle smiles, her worried expression when he came to a more dramatic part of the tale, and the thoughtfulness she gave to every question she asked him, all convinced him that she was there, in the story, fully immersed in every emotion.

  He liked watching the different play of emotions on her face while she listened. It was better than being seen.

  He didn’t care that she couldn’t see him, but hell, it was like stepping into unfamiliar vales. He’d always relied on his looks. Now, he had nothing but words. And he wasn’t good with those. Especially when he didn’t know which words to say or if he wanted to say them.

  He watched the sun come up and smiled at the sleeping beauty snoring like a small bear in her bed. A little while later, he dressed himself in
the clothes Harry had sent to the room, black woolen breeches and a white shirt with ruffled cuffs and some ruffles at the neckline, which Malcolm left unlaced. There was also a dark blue jacket and justacorps, but he left those alone, preferring a less formal look.

  Gascon sat up and whined at Malcolm’s feet.

  “What?”

  The beast whined again and wagged his tail.

  Thanks to all the dogs in Camlochlin, Malcolm knew what this one wanted. “Come on then.” He stood up and stretched. He felt quite well, besides being tired.

  He and Gascon left the room quietly and headed below stairs. They went to the kitchen first, where Malcolm opened the back door and stepped outside with the eager dog. Immediately, Gascon ran for the nearest tree. So did Malcolm. The brothel did have a privy but it smelled worse than hell.

  He dunked his hands into a bucket of cold, crisp rainwater. When he was done, he called for Gascon, then stepped back inside.

  Voices coming from the foyer stopped him and made his blood run cold.

  Pressing his back to the wall, he moved a little closer and peeked around the corner.

  “I don’t care if she’s still asleep, Grey,” said a tall blond man with pale blue eyes.

  Malcolm had seen him before, the night he and Cailean had been wounded. He was one of the men who’d fought against them, one who’d gotten away. For a moment, Malcolm wanted to step forward and reveal himself. There were only three of them that he could see. He could take them down without any help. He wanted to.

  But more would come and Malcolm would always be responsible.

  “My lord, the baron wants the red-haired girl. The one who cost his brother Andrew his life. He wants her for one night.”

  Alison! Malcolm glanced toward the stairs. Cailean liked her. Malcolm liked her too. He wasn’t about to let these bastards near her. He had to think of something. And he had to get past them without being recognized.

  “He’ll kill her,” Harry said, sounding frightened but admirably determined to refuse.

  “I, John Burroughs, swear to return her to you alive. Or is my word not good enough for you?” he asked in a low, threatening voice.

  Harry wouldn’t last much longer.

  They thought Malcolm dead so they didn’t give him a second look when he kept his head turned and stumbled toward the stairs like a patron who was barely sober enough to stand. He was glad he’d changed out of his plaid before he left the room.

  He couldn’t let Alison out of the brothel. Cailean would never forgive him. He had to do something to help keep her from Winther’s men. The fever or pox was always good at scaring the hell out of folks.

  As good fortune would have it, Malcolm ran straight into Bess. He told her his plan to let the Winthers know that Alison was very ill.

  “Tell them Alison is verra’ ill with a mysterious fever,” he repeated when Bess refused.

  “They’ll want to see her,” she argued.

  “Not if ye convince them how ill she is. She could perish any moment. Tell them ye think a few of the other girls are startin’ to feel under the weather, as well.”

  She shook her head. “What if—”

  “Do this fer me, Bess,” he interrupted, taking her hand. “And I’ll be in yer debt.”

  “Take me with you when you leave.”

  He shook his head. That was the last thing he wanted to promise her.

  “I’m no’ lookin’ fer a wife, lass. Nothin’ has changed.”

  “If you want my help…”

  Damn, this was going to cost him but he couldn’t let Alison leave with the Winthers. She’d never make it back alive.

  “All right, Bess,” he gave in, needing her help. “I’ll take ye with me when I leave.”

  “Oh, Malcolm, do you mean it?”

  Aye, damn it. He just said it, didn’t he?

  “Now, go.”

  Bess did as he bid her and even coughed in the Winthers’ faces, compelling them to hurry and get out before they catch death. They didn’t demand to see Alison for proof. They just left.

  Malcolm was so relieved he caught Bess in his arms when she raced up the stairs, back to him. But after a moment of her kissing his face, he backed away. He moved her hand away when she cupped his groin through his new breeches and told him that he looked so good in his new garb, it made her want to do all sorts of decadent things to him. When she began to describe those things, he wondered why he wasn’t so much as tempted. Aye, he’d kept himself out of beds of late, but he’d been tempted. What men weren’t?

  Any other man would have been as hard as stone about now. But nothing. He felt nothing. It startled him. Did it have something to do with being shot? Was something damaged? Getting smashed in the skull seemed to hold a bit more weight to his sudden and utter impotence. Did it have something to do with Emma? Was it possible?

  Bess moved forward and leaned up on her toes to speak against his lips. “Come, Malcolm. Let’s go fu—”

  “Mr. Grant?” The door to Emma’s room opened up and her voice stilled the blood in Malcolm’s veins. “Where is my dog?”

  At the sound of her, Gascon appeared and barreled toward her. She took his huge head in her hands, and Malcolm felt his belly twist at the tender smile she offered the mongrel.

  “Come,” Bess urged, giving him a tug.

  He didn’t move.

  “Forgive me.” Emma’s graceful voice fell like stones on him. “Am I interrupting something?”

  He wanted to tell her about the Winthers returning for Alison, about what he’d done to save her, but Bess spoke first.

  “Not unless Mr. Grant plans on taking me right here on the floor.”

  Emma turned three different shades of scarlet, then took hold of the fur between Gascon’s shoulders. “Don’t let me keep you,” she said softly, though there was a terse edge to her tone. “Cailean is asleep. Alison arrived in your absence, so don’t make haste to return.”

  There was a moment while Malcolm watched her and her dog walk toward the stairs that he didn’t give a damn about anything other than stopping her. Beneath his breeches, his legs tightened, ready to spring forward.

  What would he tell her when he stopped her? The truth. That he had no intention on bedding Bess, despite what she heard when she entered the hall.

  Why did he feel the need to tell her anything? Emma didn’t care if he went off with Bess. She didn’t want him to hurry back to her. It stung. Like nothing ever stung before.

  He didn’t like it.

  “Malcolm,” Bess prompted. “Shall we go?”

  His eyes remained on Emma’s back as she descended the stairs and disappeared around the curve of the wall.

  “Bess, I—”

  “Why do you show interest in her?” Bess said. “She’s quite plain to the eye. She’s mousey if you ask me, and didn’t Harry warn you about staying clear of her?”

  Malcolm turned to Bess slowly; his eyes uncharacteristically hard and sharp. He didn’t care about how Bess thought Emma looked, but was she making a veiled threat about Harry? Hell, he hated being threatened. Bess had been there with them when he made the promise to Harry, and now she was using it.

  A younger him wouldn’t have wasted a moment but tossed this wench into the nearest bed and had his way with her. Every way he wanted it.

  What the hell had happened? What changed? Did he lose his interest in lasses? Nae, for he found interest in Emma Grey.

  “Make trouble fer Emma and I’ll see personally that ye regret it.”

  “Malcolm!” Bess gasped, sounding shocked at the threat.

  “She’s tryin’ to save m’ brother’s life, Bess,” he told her, choosing to defend Emma. “I owe her much.” And he did. That didn’t mean his heart was involved. She had his gratitude, nothing more.

  But when he looked at Bess he still didn’t want her.

  “We have a bargain and I will keep it,” he told her. “But I’m goin’ to tend to m’ brother today. I suggest ye go and do what ye’re
paid to do.”

  He didn’t wait for her reaction, but walked away. This was what he was good at. Walking away. It was best if Bess knew now that she had no chance of winning him or bedding him. He’d learned that clean cuts healed the quickest. Bess would be fine. It was him who was in trouble.

  He opened the door to the room and stepped inside. He smiled at Cailean and then glanced at the lass who made his brother smile again for the first time since Sage’s death. Alison had no idea the fate she avoided today.

  “Emma was angry with ye fer takin’ her dog,” Alison reported with a warm smile as Malcolm approached the bed.

  “How did she know ’twas I who took him?” Malcolm asked, feeling his brother’s head with the back of his hand.

  “She said Gascon wouldna’ go off with anyone else,” Cailean told him with a wide grin.

  Malcolm wished she were here right now so he could thank her for saving his brother once again. He should do something nice for her before he left Fortune’s Smile and headed back home. Shouldn’t he? “Ye look good, brother, and ye’re cool to the touch.”

  “Does Emma know why his fever returned?” Alison asked them.

  Ah, then she was not only oblivious to what was done on her behalf this morning, but neither Cailean nor Emma had told her that she’d failed to detect a second entry wound in Cailean’s back while she had acted as Emma’s eyes.

  That missing it had nearly killed Cailean.

  Malcolm was glad they hadn’t told her. She seemed quite fond of his brother. Knowing she almost killed him would cause her anguish. “She said fevers are unpredictable.”

  “Mr. Grant.” Emma’s voice raked across his ears from where she stood at the open door. “What are you doing in here? Why aren’t you wasting your time with Bess?”

  He watched her enter slowly with Gascon at her right hip. Her eyes gleamed with warm hues of sable and honey but her tongue was as sharp as cool steel. And hell, her sweet nose begged to be kissed.

  “Well?” she interrupted his thoughts.

  Unpredictable like her—a fever that made his blood boil and his mind delirious.

  Why else would he be stuck on the thought that his heart seemed to beat in rhythm with her breath?