Highlander's Hope

by Cameron, Collette

  Without hesitation, she closed her eyes and turned her head to rub the soft flesh against his palm. Didn’t that mean she cared for him? It gave Ewan hope, emboldened him.

  Caressing her cheek, he ventured, “There is another option.”

  She opened her eyes, curiosity in their depths.

  “We don’t have to end our betrothal.” Taking a deep breath, he plunged onward. “We could, can, in fact wed.”

  Yvette stiffened. Her eyes widened, and her face drained of color. His thumb rested against her high cheek bone. It contrasted vividly with her ashen face.

  Sitting rigid in the saddle, tension radiated through him. How would she respond? Eyes hooded, he waited, suppressing the unease jabbing at his vitals.

  She sat mute, her doe-like eyes staring at him, as if he had lost any semblance of reason. He cleared his throat and curved his hand to cup her neck.

  “Would being my wife be so objectionable?”

  Yvette gawked, open-mouthed. Lord above, did she hear him correctly?

  Us? Actually wed?

  Her mouth snapped shut. Words and reasoning failed her for several interminable moments.

  She’d been in his arms and enjoyed, even craved his kisses. Was that lust or love? She’d nothing to compare the feeling to. Bother, it all. This was so confusing. Her body said one thing and her dratted mind said the opposite.

  And what of him? Yvette peeked at him from beneath her lashes. His chiseled face revealed nothing.

  He desired her. She wasn’t that naive, but did he only want her body to slake his lust? Or was it the lure of her wealth that enticed him? Men would do any manner of things for money. She searched her memory. Had he said or done anything that gave her cause to believe he cared a whit for her?

  No. Not that she could recall. Suspicion and doubt niggled relentlessly at her.

  He nudged her bottom with is thighs. “Would it, Evvy?”

  “Ewan, I . . . it has scarcely been more,” she swallowed against the dryness in her mouth. “than a week since you rescued me from the docks.”

  She worried her lower lip. A marriage for financial gain was appalling, though acceptable—even desired—in polite circles. But one of unrequited love or without affection? That would be far worse. Simply intolerable.

  No, she wouldn’t marry unless she knew she was loved. Though how she was to tell genuine love from feigned, she had yet to determine. Men had told her they loved her before when it was really her father’s money they lusted after.

  At sixteen, Yvette had thought Theodore Willowy loved her. After only two weeks of courting, he’d tried talking her into eloping to Gretna Green. She’d refused. The next week he ran off with Widow Buffington, twenty years his senior. Seems Theodore had acquired a significant gambling debt, and unless he expediently found himself a rich wife, he was headed for debtor’s prison.

  She’d rather become an old maid than marry without love. At least she’d be a very rich one. She grimaced. That wasn’t a very comforting notion.

  Yvette eyed Ewan. He waited for her answer. His scar pulsed white against his tanned face, and his eyes burned with intensity. What was she to do?

  “These past few days,” she ventured, “I’ve enjoyed your company.” She closed her eyes and rushed on. “But, I’m afraid I can’t make such a decision this soon. I need more time to properly know you.”

  Ewan squelched a stab of disappointment. He had known rejection was a distinct possibility.

  “I . . . Ewan?”

  He met Yvette’s uncertain gaze.

  “I wouldn’t be averse to a courtship.” A fresh bloom of color tinted her face.

  He released a pent-up breath.

  “And,” her blush deepened, though she pressed on, “if the time comes, receiving a proper proposal. That,” she shook her head and waved her finger at him, “was a sorry excuse for one.”

  Jubilant, he grinned. Wrapping his arms around her, he hugged her, holding her tight against his chest. She gasped and laughed.

  Lord, he loved making her laugh.

  “Chérie, then there can be no harm in leaving our betrothal facade as ‘tis. I hope it will be helpful in keeping Edgar at bay.” Ewan spoke into the baby-soft hair at the nape of her neck. “If ‘tis a courtship you want, then I’d be most happy to oblige you.”

  He placed nibbling kisses along her throat. Her breath caught and she arched her neck. He chuckled. She was so sensitive to his touch. Breathing into her ear he assured her, “We can take all the time you need to know me.”

  The last was murmured in a deliberate husky, suggestive rumble. She shuddered against him. Catching her demure gaze, he smiled and wiggled his eyebrows wickedly. “And now I know you’re receptive to my attentions, I warn you, petite, I’ll be most persistent.”

  “I should hope so,” she retorted.

  Ewan couldn’t wipe the grin from his face. She wanted to be courted. And she wanted a proper proposal, if the time came. He hoped it would—he’d see that it did.

  He was willing to wait for as long as it took to win her over. Controlling his flesh in the meanwhile, that would take the strength of Hercules. He wanted her—wanted her so desperately he ached. He desired more than her luscious body, needed more than her sweet flesh yielding to him in mindless passion.

  He needed all of her. He had to have her heart.

  Yes, he was a patient man. He would wait.

  Angling his head, he let his eyes roam her profile, taking in each delicate feature, noting the sprinkling of fawn-colored freckles across her nose. Adorable. His heart tightened near to bursting when Yvette turned her head and bestowed a breathtaking smile on him.

  Yes, he most certainly would wait. He shifted, adjusting himself in the saddle. It would prove to be an uncomfortable wait. He gave Yvette a sideways glance. Mayhap he knew a thing or two he could do to hurry her along.

  Chapter 17

  Arm-in-arm, Yvette and Vangie, both attired in white muslin gowns and beribboned straw bonnets, wandered the immaculate manicured path. Their final destination was a wisteria-covered arbor at the far side of the formal garden paralleling a crop of trees. Beneath the arbor’s shady, perfumed covering sat a stone bench. Three gardeners were tending the beds near the manor and nodded respectfully as Yvette and Vangie passed by.

  Yvette carried a small basket with sheers, gloves, and other necessary whatnots should she want to cut a bouquet from the profusion of flowers in the gardens. Her gun was tucked inside the basket as well. Stopping to admire a cobalt delphinium, she remarked, “The sun is quite tolerable this time of day.”

  Shading her eyes, she searched the cloudless sky. “Though I fear, that,” she pointed to the distant sky hazy horizon, “holds promise of oppressive heat later.”

  Vangie nodded and grimaced. “Faith, I wish it were not so. The heat is most tedious when one is this large.” She looked at her rounded stomach, then Yvette’s flat one. “‘Tis impossible to believe I was ever once as slender as you.”

  Hugging her cousin Yvette assured her, “You’re beautiful.”

  “You’re a dear to say so, even if ‘tis a taradiddle. By-the-by, how was your ride with Lord Sethwick?” Vangie shuddered. “I’ve never understood your love of riding.”

  Yvette laughed. “That’s only because you weren’t placed on a horse before you could walk, as I was.”

  She skipped down the path a few steps before whirling to face Vangie. The sheers flew from the basket, clattering to the flagstone path. She bent to retrieve them. “Something astonishing has happened.” Standing upright, she ordered the basket and tucked the sheers inside.

  Vangie caught up to Yvette. “Do tell.” They linked arms and continued along the pathway.

  “It happened when Lord Sethwick and I were riding this morning.” She ca
st Vangie a sidelong glance, smiling at the memory. “It was quite unexpected.”

  And terrifyingly wonderful.

  She kept that bit to herself. How could she explain the paradox of her emotions?

  Noticing a gleam in Vangie’s eyes, Yvette turned to look at her full on. Whatever was her dear cousin up to? Is that a mischievous smile hovering around her lips?

  “This morning’s event, does it have anything to do with how your gaze follows Ewan’s every movement when he’s in the room?” Vangie teased.

  Stumbling to an unceremonious stop, Yvette uttered a mortified squeak and covered her lips with her hand. “‘Tis not so.” She searched her cousin’s humor-filled eyes. “Is it?”

  An impish grin curling her lips, Vangie nodded.

  “Oh, Lord above,” Yvette groaned.

  Looping her arm through Yvette’s, Vangie tugged her along the trail. “I know you better than any person on earth, dearest. Though not apparent to others, you do indeed follow his every move.”

  Yvette’s embarrassed groan brought on another giggle from her cousin who patted her arm and tsked comfortingly. “I’m quite sure neither Ian nor Ewan have taken notice.”

  Stopping on an arched footbridge, Yvette leaned over the rail to watch several swans’ unsynchronized swimming. At least Vangie would think her flushed face was due to bending over.

  A fat duck quacked a warning when the swans neared her quartet of downy ducklings. Several jeweled-colored dragonflies flitted and dipped across the pond’s glimmering surface.

  Yvette straightened and they resumed their walk.

  Vangie pressed her, “So what did happen?”

  Not quite recovered from her embarrassment, Yvette toyed with the basket’s handle. “I agreed to allow him to court me after he said we might marry.” It was completely backward. A proposal then courting—and no declaration of affection at all.

  “Marry?” Vangie said, “Oh, that would be splendid!” She wrapped her arm round Yvette’s waist. “So, did he kiss you?”

  Yvette laughed, hugging her cousin again. “Indeed, he did. Most thoroughly.”

  For a moment, Vangie’s laughter mixed with hers, then Yvette sobered.

  “I worry if his affections are engaged, though. Papa’s riches have caused more than one man to declare his ardent affections, when ‘tis been the money they were enamored with, not me.” Her gaze met Vangie’s sympathetic one before shifting away. “I’d rather not marry than have a man marry me for my money.”

  “You have to learn to trust, though the Lord knows, after that debacle with Theodore you’ve reason not to. Give Ewan the chance to prove himself.”

  But what of Lord Ramsbury’s comments about her wealth and Edgar in the inn? Ewan hadn’t refuted them.

  Recalling the degrading morning leading to her betrothal, Yvette’s mouth bent into a wry smile. “I must say, I never anticipated our betrothal ever becoming genuine.” She met Vangie’s warm gaze, then shifted the basket to her other arm. “Ewan hopes Edgar will leave me be if he believes I am to wed soon.” She didn’t voice her doubts regarding that, or her suspicions that Edgar was queer in the attic.

  “I think ‘tis wise too.” Clasping Yvette’s hand, Vangie gave it a quick squeeze. “I want you to be happy. As happy as I am with Ian.”

  Pausing to bend and sniff a voluptuous, peach-etched rose, Vangie ventured, “You said Edgar found your room at the inn the day, or rather the night you arrived in London. Do you think he still pursues you?”

  Wrinkling her brow, Yvette thought for a moment. Should she tell Vangie her qualms about Edgar? Vangie straightened, then rubbed her lower back. Her belly was enormous. No, better to not cause her any undue upset, with the babe expected in less than a month.

  The untied purple ribbons of Yvette’s bonnet twirled round her shoulders when she shook her head. “I’ve not seen anything to indicate he does, although, Ewan did take every precaution traveling here.” Indeed, her derrière had been sore for days after riding in the post chaise.

  She watched a wood pigeon swoop to land further along the footpath, cooing to its reluctant mate sequestered in a nearby magnolia tree. “He would tell me if anything suspicious occurred.” She knew that to be an untruth. He wouldn’t and that troubled her.

  Yvette paused, she was protecting Vangie from unpleasantness much the same way Papa, and now Ewan, protected her.

  “You don’t think . . .” Vangie stopped and began again. “The night you arrived, when there was the commotion with Mr. Carmichael . . .” Her sentence trailed off.

  Yvette’s brows dipped downward again. Yes, Ewan had acted odd that night, as if he was hiding something.

  Nearing the wisteria arbor, Yvette conceded Mr. Carmichael’s shooting continued to plague her. Though it had occurred a week ago, the day she and Ewan had first arrived, she wasn’t certain Edgar hadn’t followed her to Somersfield. Who was the man hidden in the forest if not him? Even now, she felt he was watching her. He was the devil’s own to be sure.

  An icy shiver tingled the length of her spine.

  Did Ewan have reason to be suspicious of the couple they’d seen in the jeweler’s shop? Is that why he had asked Mr. Carmichael if they spoke Italian and if it was possible for one of the highwaymen to have been a woman?

  If it was the same pair, why would they want to abduct her?

  She’d asked Ewan those same questions, rather heatedly in fact, and he would only say he was investigating the matter. Investigating the matter? What, she’d like to know, did he mean by that? Why were men forever protecting women from anything disagreeable?

  “Evvy, the baby kicks.” Grinning, Vangie cradled her belly. Seizing Yvette’s hand, she placed it on her stomach where the infant was making its presence known.

  Yvette’s eyes rounded in delighted surprise. “Vangie, I felt it, the babe’s movement. I think I felt its foot.”

  “Well, well,” droned a deep voice, “what a touching scene.”

  The women whirled toward the voice. Two intruders stood in the garden.

  Yvette was incredulous. She knew them both—the woman from the jeweler’s and Lord Fielding. Fissions of unease prickled her skin. Why were they here, together?

  “Do forgive the interruption, ladies,” Fielding mocked.

  “Lord Fielding?” Yvette sent a questioning glance to Vangie.

  The imperceptible slanting of her eyes answered Yvette’s silent question. The women shifted into defensive stances. Yvette inched over and gripped Vangie’s trembling hand.

  Tilting her chin upward, sounding every bit the lady of the manor, Vangie confronted the pair. “You are trespassing on Somersfield lands. What business have you here?”

  As if conversing in a drawing room, Fielding answered with polite smoothness. “None with you, Lady Warrick. Miss Stapleton on the other hand, will need to accompany Pauline and myself.”

  “I think not.” Yvette refuted, sidling closer to Vangie and wrapping her arm about her waist. Trembling, Vangie covered Yvette’s hand with her own.

  A throaty laugh reverberated amongst the foliage. In a sweeping arc, Pauline brandished the wicked looking knife she had concealed in her short jacket. “I ‘ave de weapon. You ‘ave no choice. You will come with us.”

  Hurling the gardening basket at Fielding, Yvette shouted, “Now, Vangie.”

  In a flurry of swirling skirts, Yvette aimed for the Italian’s shoulder and fired the pistol she had hidden in the basket. She missed, piercing the Italian beauty’s hand clear through instead. The knife Pauline wielded dropped to the ground.

  From the corner of her eye, Yvette saw the small knife she slipped Vangie fly with deadly precision. Clutching his throat, Fielding issued a strangled groan. Scarlet streamed from the knife imbedded in his neck.

  Pauline held he
r oozing hand, a prolific stream of Italian profanity pouring from her white-edged lips. Eyes narrowed she vowed, “Dis ees not over. We weel meet again, and I weel finish next time.”

  Yvette stared at her speechless. Was the woman addled?

  Vangie let loose with a virago’s scream. She flipped the hem of her dress, removing a razor-sharp dagger sheathed to her thigh. Neither intruder gave her the opportunity to use it. They sprinted into the woods, neck or nothing, their dual droplets of blood leaving a speckled ruby trail in their wake.

  Satisfaction washed over Yvette. Never before had she been as grateful for the weaponry training she and Vangie had received. Though, Vangie’s skill with a blade was more an element of her Romani heritage than anything else, as was the dagger she kept strapped to her leg.

  A gruff bellow echoed in the distance, followed by coarse shouts.

  An inarticulate sound drew Yvette’s attention from the retreating intruders. Vangie stared at her soaked skirts, a bewildered frown on her face. Dropping her pistol, Yvette dashed to her. Vangie crumpled to the ground holding her stomach, her eyes glazed with pain.

  “Are you all right?” Scalding tears filled Yvette’s eyes. “Is it the babe?”

  Vangie didn’t respond but lay against her, with her eyes closed. Terrified, Yvette whispered, “God, help us.”

  “It would seem my baby is about to be born.” Vangie’s lips tilted fractionally. Her nascent smile faded as pain wracked her.

  “Vangie, Evvy, where are you?”

  Ewan, thank God! Yvette turned her head, calling, “Over here, on the wisteria path. Hurry!”

  She sagged in relief when Ewan, Ian, several grooms, and a stable boy drummed down the flagstone footpath. Ian rushed to his wife. Kneeling beside her, his hand shaking, he brushed a raven lock off her pale cheek. “Vangie, sweeting?”

  “My lords,” Palmer, the head groom, pointed to the discarded pistols and the blood-spattered tracks ending at the wood’s edge.