Dragonblade Holiday Bundle: A Historical Romance Collection

by Alexa Aston

  No one in Baron Penderhaven’s household had ever accused Quinn of being ungentlemanly or, for that matter, of being a gentleman. He skirted the bounds of propriety, not quite drifting so far astray as to be ostracized, but never teetering over the edge into complete respectability either.

  “Might I suggest ye freshen up first?” Nothing subtle about that or the butler’s slightly flared nostrils.

  Quinn was quite covered in dust, and he stank of sweat and horse.

  “Indeed. An excellent notion.” He swiveled toward the impressive staircase instead.

  Twenty minutes later, he tripped back down the risers, having made do with the washstand water after examining the night table clock and finding it three-quarters past two. Just his blasted luck, he’d also nicked himself shaving in his haste. Putting a fingertip to the still-stinging cut, he checked for fresh blood.

  Wouldn’t do to bleed all over his starched neckcloth. He only had three here.

  He passed the impressive library and had nearly gone beyond the drawing room, when movement inside the open doorway caught his attention. Scrunching his brows together into a puzzled frown, he halted.

  Hadn’t Simmons said tea was to be served in the rose salon?

  No, although that was where her ladyship generally preferred to take her tea, the butler hadn’t specified where earlier. Mayhap things had changed since Quinn last visited. After all, it had been over six months. He pivoted and, touching his cut again, strode into the room.

  A startlingly exquisite woman with glorious, pale, honey-colored hair piled atop her head, and attired in a white and robin’s egg blue gown, whirled away from the window. Her incredibly blue eyes widened, and she put a delicate hand to her throat where a single row of creamy pearls rested.

  A long, intense minute stretched out, lengthening into something extraordinary and potent as they stared at each other, neither seeming able to break the inexplicable and immediate powerful connection which thrummed between them.

  Good God. He almost expected choruses of Hallelujah and the harmony of violin strings to fill the sweetly tense atmosphere.

  Finally, somehow marshaling his composure, he swept into a gallant’s bow. Not usually at a loss for words or one to falter when faced with something unexpected—after all, his line of work tossed him in the middle of the perilous and unforeseen on a daily basis—he commanded his galloping pulse to return to its normal pace.

  Opening his mouth, he found every drop of moisture had vanished. He cleared his throat then swallowed. Blast, he was behaving more ineptly than a wet-behind-the-ears pup.

  She remained statue-still, much like a wary doe prepared to flee if he moved suddenly.

  “Please permit me to introduce myself. Quinn Catherwood, yer most humble servant, my lady.” He found himself standing over her, not consciously recalling having moved across the carpet. The top of her shiny head reached his shoulder.

  He envisioned leading her in a dance, or wrapping his arms about her delicate shoulders, or resting his cheek on the crown of her head. Yes, to all of that and more.

  The girl was impossibly more perfect up close; her skin milky and smooth as silk. Navy blue ringed her light azure irises framed by golden, winged brows. A delicate floral and citrus scent wafted upward from her sleek hair, and he inhaled her heady fragrance.

  She was…Odin’s teeth. She was—God help him—an answer to a prayer he hadn’t even known he’d desired. And she must be his. His.

  Gazing up at him, her peach-tinted lips slightly parted, she seemed as transfixed as he. As if coming to her senses, she blinked and lowered her hand to her waist.

  “I’m Skye Hendron, Baron Penderhaven’s cousin, visiting from England,” she said in a melodious, cultured tone. “I’m simply a miss, not a lady.”

  Very proper and English, but not the least stuffy or superior. Her voice held an unexpected husky quality that immediately sent his senses into a spin once more.

  “I’m most pleased I decided to pay my auld friend a visit.” Quinn couldn’t drag his focus from her exquisite features or the lively intelligence dancing in her now amused gaze.

  God’s teeth.

  His pulse leaped again. An extended stay might be in order. No, most definitely was in order. “Will ye be here long?”

  God and all the saints, please say aye.

  A slight shadow passed over her features, tipping her lovely mouth downward as she directed her focus to the window behind him. “Truthfully, I’m not sure. My father has fallen ill, and my mother sent me to Eytone Hall while she tends him. I pray ’tis nothing serious.” As if as an afterthought, she arced her hand gracefully. “Aunt Louisa is my mother’s sister.”

  At her obvious distress, a strange coiling began in Quinn’s middle, spreading outward, until it tangled around his heart. How could he want to gather this woman in his arms and promise her she could rely upon him for…what?

  Comfort? Protection? Security?

  Aye. Aye, and much more.

  Something he’d never considered until this very instant, but so wondrous, he’d be an absolute idiot not to pursue whatever this was.

  “I’m sorry, lass. I’m sure ye’d rather be with them than here no’ kennin’ what is happenin’.” He tipped his mouth into a compassionate arc. “It must weigh heavily on ye. Have ye any brothers or sisters?”

  She pulled her vibrant gaze back, surprise and appreciation for his understanding shining in her eyes. “It does, and no. I am an only child.”

  So was he.

  “Mr. Catherwood—”

  “Quinn. Ye must call me Quinn, please. I would deem it the greatest honor.”

  Taking her soft hand in his, he cupped it reverently. How he wanted to hear his name on her lips. He didn’t know what had come over him and, in truth, he didn’t give a ragman’s scorn. Something had clicked the instant he laid eyes upon her, and he knew as well as he knew his name that his life had inexplicably veered down a heretofore unexplored path.

  It was terrifying. And exhilarating. And marvelous.

  His request for her to address him by his given name lay completely outside the bounds of propriety and, yet, she made no attempt to remove her hand from his. In fact, she cupped his palm back, her pale fingers in stark relief against his sun-browned skin. Her dainty, fine-boned hand nested inside his as if sculpted to fit there.

  “And it would please me if you’d call me Skye,” she said, a touch of color high on her cheekbones.

  A secret thrill tunneled through him. She was bold in the sweetest way possible.

  Eyes guileless and the merest bit curious, she curved her mouth upward. “Quinn, I know this may sound strange, and please believe me when I tell you I am not usually so forward, but I feel as if I’ve known you my entire life. That we aren’t strangers meeting for the first time at all.”

  Yes, he knew exactly what she felt, because the same sensation sluiced through him.

  She gave a self-conscious chuckle, and her lush lashes fanned against her porcelain skin for the space of a blink before she met his gaze again. A hint of becoming color tinged her sloping cheeks. “’Tis silly, I know.”

  “Nae, no’ silly, Skye.” He stepped nearer, drawing her close and then tipped her chin upward with one finger. “I ken exactly what ye mean, for though I canna explain it, I feel precisely the same way.”

  “You do?” she whispered, her breath sweet and smelling of strawberries.

  “Aye, lass,” he murmured before brushing his lips across the velvety softness of her fingers. “I feel like I’ve come home at last.”

  Chapter Two

  One month later

  Despite the chilly October morning, Skye wandered the scrupulously maintained garden path. The last month had been both the most exciting and worrisome of her life.

  Weeks ago, Quinn had arrived unannounced, quite tilting her world on end in a most delightful fashion. After enduring the worst thunderstorm she had ever experienced, Liam finally returned home with Emeline Le
Claire. He’d saved her life during a flash flood, and they’d scandalously spent several days alone in a hunting lodge.

  Skye quite thought it the most romantic thing.

  One had only to look at them to see how in love they were.

  Could everyone see how much she adored Quinn?

  Was it as obvious as Liam and Emeline’s affection for each other?

  Lord, she hoped not. Chagrin nipped at her pride.

  It was one thing to gaze at someone with admiration when one knew the sentiment was returned, but quite another when no such words had passed between her and Quinn.

  Shortly after Emeline’s arrival, the entire household—she and Quinn included—had embarked on a great adventure. Well, at least Skye had thought it a great adventure. They’d journeyed to Edinburgh and, once there, Liam, Quinn, and several other Scots, had foiled an assassination plot against dear Emeline.

  She and Liam had married shortly after everyone’s return to Eytone Hall.

  Skye plucked a late blooming aster blossom, fingering the delicate violet petals as she followed the meandering path.

  He loves me.

  He loves me not.

  He loves me.

  He loves me not.

  She plucked the purple petals, one by one, a tiny smile arcing her mouth. There was no need for a flower to predict the outcome, for she was confident Quinn returned her regard.

  A lone lavender blade extended from the aster’s center.

  He loves me not.

  Frowning, her shoulders slumping, she exhaled deeply and tossed the spent blossom aside. Flim flam.

  He does care. I know he does.

  Her musings turned to the other matter plaguing her peace of mind.

  Several days ago—was it close to a fortnight now?—Mama had written and explained the delay in Skye’s returning home. Papa had taken a slight turn for the worse—nothing to fret over, she assured—but the two servants who’d also fallen ill were on the mend. The physicians were baffled at the nature of the lingering illness.

  Skye expected to be bidden home any day. Unease niggled a trifle that she hadn’t heard from her mother again, but no doubt caring for Papa was most time consuming.

  A chuckle escaped her, and a dainty, greenish bird flitted away from the branch it perched upon.

  A man accustomed to being active and constantly busy, her father wasn’t a biddable patient, and Mama tended to fret overly-much. Hence, why Skye had been trundled to her cousin’s rather than risk her becoming ill, too.

  Though she missed her parents awfully—she’d never been apart from her mother before—she couldn’t bear the notion of leaving Quinn. Even contemplating being apart from him brought hot, stinging moisture to her eyes.

  When summoned, she must leave, of course. Even if he declared himself, she’d no choice but to return home. She adored her parents and wouldn’t defy them. Quinn had never mentioned marriage. Perhaps he felt it was too soon.

  It wasn’t.

  It didn’t matter that she knew next to nothing about him. From the moment she’d seen him in the drawing room, fingering a small cut on his chin, her heart had been his. She couldn’t find the words to express what had passed between them that day, but he’d been the attentive suitor since.

  “There ye are,” came a familiar melodious brogue.

  How she loved Quinn’s Scottish burr.

  Not for the first time, he’d suddenly appeared; as if thinking of him conjured him to her side. Unable to contain her joy, she smiled, extending her ungloved hand. “I was just thinking of you.”

  Waggling his eyebrows naughtily, he murmured seductively, “Indeed?” as he took her hand in his work-roughened palm.

  “You are too cocky, by far.” She adored how playful and easygoing he was.

  A boyish grin quirked his molded mouth. “Have I told ye how beautiful ye are today?”

  Laughing, she shook her head. “You tell me that every day, Quinn. You’ve praised my hair, nose, eyes, lips, skin, the size of my feet and hands, and my voice. Though I know I am far from any such thing, you make me sound like a divine goddess or a vision of loveliness.”

  He made her feel like that, too.

  “’Tis true. I could gaze at ye forever and never grow tired. That shade of pink is especially becomin’ on ye. It makes yer skin glow.” Such warmth emanated from his pale green eyes, her toes curled.

  Surely, he felt the same wild beating in his heart as she. The same yearning to see her when they were apart as she felt when away from him. She glanced behind him to the tall drawing room windows. Aunt Louisa stood framed behind the panes, and Skye reluctantly withdrew her hand. “My aunt watches us.”

  That was unusual. Normally, Aunt Louisa didn’t fuss over Quinn’s time with Skye. Skye had always presumed she trusted him since he was such a good friend of Liam’s.

  To his credit, Quinn didn’t glance over his shoulder, but instead offered his arm. He gestured to the aster and then to the verdant meadows beyond the tailored gardens. “I’m pretendin’ to expound upon the Highland’s many attributes,” he said out the side of is mouth. “Nod as if I’m impartin’ glorious knowledge to ye.”

  Choking on a giggle, Skye dutifully bobbed her head and pointed to another shrub.

  He bent near, inspecting the fading foliage, going so far as to lift a branch. “I have nae idea whatsoever what this plant is or anythin’ about it, except ’tis green.”

  “What shade of green?” she quipped. “Fern? Pine? Holly? Sage? Rosemary? Grass?”

  His expression unusually grave, a footman approached. “Miss Skye, the dowager baroness requests yer presence in the rose parlor at once.”

  She exchanged a swift glance with Quinn. Was she to be chastised for permitting him to hold her hand too long? Summoning a smile, she said, “Of course. I shall come immediately.”

  He bowed and retreated.

  “Please excuse me, Quinn.”

  “If ye’ll permit me, Skye, I’ll escort ye inside.” He gave her a wicked wink. “It shall afford me a few more pleasurable moments in yer company.”

  “You are a flatterer, sir.”

  “Only with ye, lass.” He pressed his hand atop her fingers resting on his arm. “Only with ye.”

  How she wanted to believe that were true.

  A few short minutes later, Skye entered the parlor.

  Solemn-faced, Liam, Kendra, Emeline, and Aunt Louisa sat upon the matching settees. Were those tears in Aunt Louisa and Kendra’s gray eyes?

  Liam promptly rose and came to meet her at the door. He took her elbow, kindness and something far more ominous glinting in his pewter eyes. “Come, Skye.”

  She tossed a glance over her shoulder into the corridor. She wanted Quinn. Whatever was about to happen, she wanted him at her side.

  Hands on his lips, his neck bent, he listened to something Simmons whispered in his ear. Quinn jerked his head up, his gaze tangling with hers across the short distance. Devastation glimmered in his beautiful eyes. He mouthed her name just as Liam guided her farther into the room.

  “Something is amiss,” Skye said.

  A statement of fact, not a question.

  Liam and her aunt traded strained glances.

  A nasty sense of dread curled around Skye’s ribs, constricting her lungs, and turning her cold from the inside out. She glanced to her aunt and each of her cousins in turn. “What is it? Tell me.”

  Her mouth bent upward into a wobbly smile, Aunt Louisa patted the cushion beside her. “Sit here, my dear.”

  Trepidation making her movements stiff, Skye sank onto the settee. Dread clawed at her stomach, and bile rose in her throat.

  At once, her aunt took her hand in hers, and Kendra flew to sit beside her. On the opposite settee, her eyes awash in tears, Emeline dropped her gaze to her lap. She swallowed hard and pursed her lips as if struggling not to cry.

  “Skye…” Her aunt’s eyelids drifted shut, and a fat droplet slid from the corner of her eye.

 
Genuine fear streaked down Skye’s spine.

  “What has happened? Is it Papa?” Had he taken another turn for the worse, and that was why her mother hadn’t written?

  Oh, God. Please. No.

  Tossing propriety aside, Liam sat upon the table. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, grief etched into the rugged planes of his face. “Skye, I am so verra sorry to have to tell ye that yer mother and father have succumbed to illness.”

  “Succumbed? Mama is ill, too?”

  “My darlin’, yer father died nine days ago. Yer mother four,” Aunt Louisa murmured, her voice strangled and tinny.

  Skye blinked, then blinked again. A low buzzing began resounding in her ears. She shook her head to quell the annoying sound.

  Aunt Louisa wrapped a comforting arm across her shoulders. “The two servants who’d fallen ill survived. The physicians suspected plague since yer father recently returned from France. But they’ve ruled that out. They canna be sure what the cause was, but still believe yer father brought the illness home with him. And because yer mother tended him personally and didna protect her own health…”

  Skye heard the gently uttered words, but her mind refused to believe the truth of them.

  “No,” she managed through stiff lips, wadding her skirts in her hands until her fingers cramped. “You’re wrong. It’s a mistake.”

  “Oh, Skye,” whispered Kendra, her brogue thick and tortured as fat teardrops plopped onto her lap. “’Tis no’.”

  No. No. No!

  “No!” Skye screamed, feeling as if her heart were being torn from her chest. “They cannot be dead,” she sobbed, darting her gaze around the room in an effort to find an escape from this excruciating pain. “I…” A great rasping sob tore through her, the agony eviscerating. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

  Her breath stalled in her lungs, and she couldn’t breathe. Spots flickered before her eyes.

  She dragged her attention to the doorframe.

  Quinn.

  He strode into the room, his mouth pinched into a grave line.

  With a soft cry, she collapsed into Aunt Louisa’s side just as darkness claimed her.