Seductive Surrender (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 6)

by Collette Cameron

  He’d written once to say he’d hired an investigator to look into Gerard McClintock’s will as well as the old laird’s association with Mr. Christie.

  Reason dictated there wasn’t likely to be anything of substance found. Nonetheless, she appreciated the gesture, and knowing she’d done everything she could to safeguard Jeremiah’s birthright did bring her a small measure of peace.

  Mr. Christie had threatened her, quite directly, before he’d left last week, demanding to be advised of all her comings and goings.

  Gwendolyn had told him, quite directly, to go bugger himself, and that she wasn’t accountable to him.

  He’d left in a furious huff, and they’d moved to Craiglocky the next morning after receiving a letter inviting them and offering her a governess position. In the preceding days, she’d already grown fond of the pixyish and intelligent McTavish young’uns.

  After stretching her legs in front of her, she crossed her ankles, closed her eyes, and lifted her face to the sky. Even the paltry, feeble rays struggling their way to earth between the dishwater-dirty clouds would freckle her nose.

  She didn’t care. It wasn’t as if she needed to worry about her appearance.

  Lloyd had insisted she and the children were welcome to stay at Suttford, but Mr. Christie had made it clear she had no authority or say there.

  What was she to do all day?

  Embroider? Knit? Polish the already gleaming furniture?

  Before she departed, however, she had directed Mrs. Norris to clean the neglected suites before the infestation of vermin spread to the rest of the house. Surprising they hadn’t already, but that might be attributed to the three tabbies prowling the other wings.

  “Burn the mattresses, bedding, carpets, and anything else that the mice and rats have gotten to,” Gwendolyn had directed.

  She chuckled a trifle wickedly.

  Already in a foul mood because of the dinner menu, Mr. Christie’s encounter with a “rat the size of a fox” had resulted in him brandishing the fire poker like a claymore and destroying two chairs, a nightstand, and a small table in an attempt to thwack the terrified creature.

  The solicitor had spent the rest of the night in the library, curled on a short settee, clutching the poker.

  Her grin vanished as well-deserved chagrin prodded her.

  Not well done of her.

  She’d resorted to petty and vindictive behavior, putting him in that chamber. And worse, she’d involved the staff in her unkindness. She’d apologized to Mrs. Norris, Lowry, and Cook before she left, and though she detected no judgement from them, disappointment in her behavior yet plagued her.

  Gwendolyn opened her eyes, and did a quick head count again. The sky had darkened, and in the distance thunder grumbled.

  Yes, all seven were in view.

  She’d permit them another five minutes of play then scuttle the children back before the tempest was upon them. Thunderstorms in the Highlands proved entertaining, but wickedly powerful.

  Returning to her ruminations, she crinkled her nose the merest bit. She truly couldn’t have stayed at Suttford. Mr. Christie might pop in unannounced, and she didn’t harbor the slightest doubt he’d try to compromise her, then blackmail her into doing his bidding.

  At Craiglocky, she was safe from his unwanted advances and she had something to occupy her time. At least here she kept herself busy, which meant her muddled musings drifted toward Dugall a trifle less often.

  Not likely.

  His rakish smiles, his playful winks, his melodious brogue . . . they seeped into her thoughts and commandeered her dreams.

  There I go again.

  She gave an unladylike snort, then quickly looked about to make sure the children hadn’t heard. In the schoolroom, almost daily, she had to render a discourse on inappropriate body noises.

  How the boys managed to burp or pass wind, practically at will, still baffled her. But each time one did, the other two promptly joined in. Then the girls held their noses and giggled, and all except Iona, attempted their own rendition of belches and burps.

  Gwendolyn quite drew the line yesterday, when so exuberant in their efforts had the boys become, that she had to open the windows and schoolroom door, while covering her nose with her handkerchief.

  Thunder growled angrily again, this time closer. The girls squealed and clutched each other, then giggled in self-conscious relief.

  Shaking her head, Gwendolyn smiled to herself, recalling happier times when she and Marilyn would scamper to the window seat and watch nature light up the sky. Kandie always said thunder was nothing more fearsome than the Good Lord rearranging his furniture.

  Gwendolyn still hadn’t made a final decision about what to do. Her position at Craiglocky was a temporary solution. How could she keep her family together and away from Mr. Christie’s control and yet not compromise Jeremiah’s inheritance? It seemed rather impossible.

  She sighed and straightened.

  They’d best be getting back. The twins’ piano lessons were this afternoon and Yvette had said she’d be back from Craigcutty in time for the instruction. A gifted pianist, Yvette gave each child lessons twice a week.

  Lightening ripped a jagged blue path across the sky.

  Botheration. Gwendolyn had tarried too long.

  “Children, it’s time to head back. At once, now.” She stood and clapped her hands to get their attention. Little good it did wearing gloves. For at least the twentieth time she counted the children.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

  “Come along. Don’t dawdle,” she admonished. “I fear we won’t make the castle before the storm is upon us.”

  His cap clamped in one hand, Jeremiah trotted to her side, his cheeks glowing red and a wide grin exposing his newest lost tooth.

  “Did you see the hare?” he asked, breathless and panting.

  “I did.” She bobbed her head toward his as she ruffled his hair. “Put your cap back on. It grows chilly, and I don’t want you catching Kandie’s sickness.”

  “Uncle Dugall!”

  At Broderick’s joy-filled exclamation, she slowly turned around. Her heart, ridiculous fickle thing, kicked into a swifter beat upon spying him, flanked by four rather fierce-faced clansmen.

  The wind caught his unbound hair as he stood gazing at her, such tenderness etched upon his face, her insides went all soft and squishy.

  Faithful Coronis, who’d been noticeably scarce till now, circled overhead, cawing joyfully.

  Gwendolyn well understood the bird’s glee for she couldn’t contain her welcoming smile. “Dugall . . .”

  Rolling thunder crashed again, this time so piercing and loud, her ears rang. She jerked and gasped as fire lanced her upper arm.

  The girls shrieked, and the boys cried out in fear.

  “Aunt Gwenny!” Jeremiah cried, staring at her arm, his eyes wide and horror-filled.

  Good heavenly days. Had she been struck by lightning?

  Burning heat radiated just below her shoulder, and she rotated her arm to examine the area. Curious, the mark was smaller than she’d have guessed from a lightning strike. She touched the damp patch, her fingertips coming away bloody.

  Haziness engulfed her, made worse by the muffled roaring in her ears, and when she tried to blink away the peculiar smoky blurriness, her eyelids felt leaden.

  A zap by lightening did rather stun one.

  She swayed, and Jeremiah threw his arms around her waist, bracing her.

  “Gwendolyn!” Dugall shouted, sprinting toward her.

  Chapter 22

  The next afternoon, Dugall paced back and forth at the foot of Gwendolyn’s bed. His hands clasped behind his back, his gaze remained fixed on Gwendolyn as Dr. Paterson examined her arm.

 
Amusement arcing her coppery brows, and her hair a cascade of fire falling past her shoulders, she regarded Dugall over the doctor’s shoulder.

  How he longed to gather those blazing tresses in his hands, and bury his face in their glorious, sunset-hued ribbons.

  An ivory and poppy-red counterpane, a shade more crimson than her hair, covered Gwendolyn to her waist, and someone—probably Yvette—had loaned her a tartan shawl to wrap around her shoulders and provide an additional layer of modesty over her sleeveless nightgown.

  “Dugall, do sit down. You look about to topple over from exhaustion.” Gwendolyn slanted those striking emerald eyes to one of two dainty armchairs situated on either side of the cheery fire.

  His buttocks instantly rebelled at the notion.

  He’d spent a decidedly uncomfortable night perched in that very chair while Gwendolyn, dosed with laudanum for her pain and to help her sleep, had slumbered. He’d not willingly subject his posterior to such torture again so soon. As it was, he might have a permanent groove in his left buttock from the chair’s edge.

  As she slept, Gwendolyn had snored softly, though she’d likely be mortified to know it. But the slight rasp had been a blessing, for with each breath, he knew she yet lived.

  True, last night Doctor Paterson had assured Dugall that she’d only suffered a superficial wound—nothing at all life-threatening. But she’d been so ghastly still, her skin pale as death, he’d still feared the worst.

  Doctors misdiagnosed patients sometimes.

  “I’d rather stand if ye dinna object.” His unhappy buttocks relaxed a fraction. Not so, his taut-as-a-violin-string shoulders. Until Dr. Paterson guaranteed Gwendolyn would absolutely make a full recovery, he’d not inhale a regular breath.

  Yvette and Gwendolyn’s aunt, Miss Standish, stood on the bed’s other side, utterly calm. Ridiculously calm if you ask me. As if his dearest leannan hadn’t come within a hand’s breadth of being killed yesterday.

  Why were they smiling as if everything were right in the world?

  How could it be?

  His Gwendolyn had been shot and might yet die.

  What if an infection set in?

  She might begin bleeding again.

  No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t unravel the snarl in his stomach. Dread dug her talons into his spine, scything deep grooves across his already knotted shoulders.

  There’d been so much blood.

  He’d seen wounds before, some ghastly and fatal. But when it was the person you adored most in the world whose life was in peril—

  By God, that had nearly unhinged his knees.

  He shut his eyes and swallowed the thickness clogging his throat.

  At first, he’d thought she’d taken a ball in her side, and in that instant, desperate fear like nothing he’d ever experienced prior or ever wanted to feel again had stabbed him to his core.

  Gwendolyn had fainted, and Jeremiah, his face contorted in exertion and determination, had valiantly kept his aunt from slamming to the ground until Dugall reached her and swept her limp form into his arms.

  Without asking, three of the clansmen, weapons drawn, had fearlessly torn into the woods in pursuit of the gunman. Gregor, Ewan’s cousin and a healer in his own right, had sprinted to Gwendolyn, sacrificing his neckcloth as a makeshift bandage to stem the flow of blood.

  She’d been so pale, her eyelashes miniature auburn fans against her alabaster cheeks.

  The urge to charge into the pines and put an end to the shooter’s life had paled in comparison to Dugall’s need to get her to safety.

  And there were the children to consider, too. Seven moon-eyed, traumatized countenances sought his assurance, desperate to know Gwendolyn would be all right.

  Not convinced the danger had passed, he ordered the children home as fast as their feet would carry them. They trotted before him as he carried Gwendolyn, his legs eating up the ground in his haste to get her inside, out of harm’s way.

  A gentle touch on his arm stirred him from his gloomy reverie, and he opened his eyes.

  “Why don’t you get some sleep now, Dugall?” Yvette’s blue-eyed gaze searched his face, fine lines of concern edging hers. “You were up all night.”

  “Nae. I dinna want to leave yet.” He never wanted to leave his Gwendolyn again.

  A sympathetic smile tipped Yvette’s mouth. “Then how about a pot of strong coffee? I know you favor the brew over tea. But I must insist on a toddy for Gwendolyn with a spoonful of heather honey. It’s a mite bold-flavored for tea, but the honey helps fight infection.”

  Could some be smeared on Gwendolyn’s wound then, too?

  Patting his forearm, Yvette glanced to Miss Standish. “Would you care to help, Barbara? I know you wanted to see how cock-a-leekie soup is prepared. I asked Sorcha to make a pot this morning. There’s nothing better for speeding healing in all of Scotland.”

  Miss Standish’s intelligent gaze flickered between Yvette and Dugall before she nodded regally. “Yes, Sugah, I did. Quite the tastiest chicken soup I’ve ever had the pleasure of eatin’.”

  Yvette raised up onto her toes and kissed his cheek. “She’s going to be fine, Dugall,” she whispered in his ear.

  She kens.

  Knew what he’d only admitted to himself last night.

  Och, he’d known there was something unique about Gwendolyn from the onset. Knew he’d ached to take her to his bed for just as long. But he hadn’t known what to call the unsettling, niggling feeling that beleaguered him.

  He needed to protect her, not that she’d ever admit to any such need. He wanted to help her raise Julia and Jeremiah. He longed to see her belly swell with his child.

  And he yearned to make this fascinating woman his wife far more than he wanted to become a covert operative for England.

  He loved Gwendolyn.

  Loved her enough to hurl everything else aside, because while he could contemplate the end of his life drawing near without ever having been an agent, living his life without her was unfathomable.

  That had become clear as fine glass last night as he watched her sleep and realized how close he’d come to losing her. Had she not had her arm raised, tousling Jeremiah’s hair, the ball might’ve struck near her heart.

  Or struck Jeremiah in the head.

  As the demented fiend had intended.

  “Ye’ll barely have a scar, lass.” Doctor Paterson winked and straightened after tying off the bandage. “Ye’re verra lucky the ball only grazed ye. I dinna want ye usin’ yer arm for at least a week, though.”

  He wiped his hands on a cloth then pointed at the blue laudanum bottle. “Dinna be afraid to take yer doses. Sufferin’ never hurried anyone’s healin’.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” Drawing the plaid over her bare shoulder, she winced. “Other than aching and feeling a bit stiff, it’s not that uncomfortable.”

  “Ye still have the effects of yer last laudanum dose in ye, Miss McClintock.” He joggled his wiry brows. “So mind my words. Take yer medicine.”

  “I shall if I need to.” The slightly crinkled corners of Gwendolyn’s eyes and the stubborn angle of her jaw said otherwise. But unless you knew her well, had watched her expressions, you’d not recognize her subtle defiance.

  Not wishing to be on the receiving end of one of her lethal glares, Dugall constrained his grin.

  After a couple of attempts, the doctor’s well-worn bag’s clasp finally closed with a crisp snap. He held it up and cocked a grizzled brow. “I ought to get me a new one, I ken. But I’ve had this bag for nigh on thirty years now. I canna just toss her in the rubbish because she’s showin’ her age.”

  He scratched his chin and considered Dugall. “Ye look like ye wrestled with Black Donald all night, mon. I agree with Lady McTavish. Seek yer bed for a wee spe
ll.”

  Dugall had grappled with the devil, all right.

  His conscience.

  And he’d made a decision.

  Fatigued as he was, peace encompassed him.

  It was the right conclusion.

  Now all he had to do was convince Gwendolyn. Leaving her alone was the last thing he intended to do from now on.

  “I’ve gone without sleep longer than this.” He swallowed his yawn. Actually, he hadn’t slept in almost eight-and-fifty hours. He’d been eager to tell Gwendolyn what he’d uncovered in Edinburgh.

  “Suit yerself. I’ll call back tomorrow mornin’, lass. Make sure yer still abed.” Hunching a shoulder, the doctor waved his hand in the air as he departed.

  “You should get some sleep, Dugall.” Fidgeting with the counterpane’s crocheted edge, she produced a weary smile. “I need a nap myself. The doctor said blood loss would leave me tired and weak, and I am feeling the after-effects.”

  Unbuttoning his rumpled coat, Dugall crossed to the bed, and without an invitation, scooted onto the other side. He extended his legs, careful not to jar Gwendolyn’s injured arm.

  She eyed him warily, then cast a troubled gaze to the open door. “This is most improper. What if someone comes in? My reputation will suffer.”

  No one at Craiglocky would spread tales, but it mattered not in any event.

  He gave her a conspiratorial wink as he gathered her to his side and gently pressed her head to his shoulder. “Then I’ll tell them they’re intrudin’ on a newly betrothed couple.”

  Chapter 23

  Gwendolyn snapped her head up so swiftly, her crown cracked against Dugall’s chin. Accusation sparked in her eyes.

  “Ouch,” they said at the same time.

  Idiot. Now ye’ve upset her.

  “Dugall, that’s not amusing.” Rubbing her head, she presented him with her aristocratic profile. She tried to shove away, flinching when her injured arm objected to the movement. Voice low and thick, she mumbled, “In fact, it’s most unkind and not worthy of you. I don’t require a pretend betrothal to keep Mr. Christie at bay, I assure you.”