To Woo a Highland Warrior

by Cameron, Collette

  Eyes, partially closed, she wrinkled her nose, considering the question. “I’ve always liked Mareona.”

  He went perfectly still, his mouth drawn into a grim line and his quicksilver eyes boring into hers. Such emotion sparked in their depths, her heart skipped a painful beat.

  “That…that ’twas my bairn’s name.”

  Chapter Three

  Emeline puttered around the cottage, casting frequent glances out the dusty window. She had awoken a couple of hours ago to golden sunlight streaming into the cottage. After summoning her courage, she’d ventured outdoors and used the necessary. She didn’t like the fear that has shrouded her since yesterday.

  Upon returning indoors, she’d rinsed her mouth and added a log to the fire. Shivering, despite the crackling blaze in the hearth, she’d quickly bathed with cold water from the bucket and soft citrus-scented soap she’d found in a jar before hastily dressing.

  Grimacing, she’d donned her bloodstained traveling gown, but there’d been no help for it. Her trunk had been lost in the flood.

  Drawing in a ragged sigh, she placed a palm to her forehead, as if the gesture would help steady her rioting thoughts and emotions.

  She’d brought her best clothes to the gathering at Killeaggian Tower, and everything else she owned was in Edinburgh. The minute they arrived at Liam’s home, she’d borrow a gown and have this one burned.

  Once again peering outdoors, she combed her fingers through her thick, unruly hair. Encountering a snarl, she winced. Heavens. She didn’t even own a hairbrush anymore, and her hair pins had come out while she struggled against the curs hauling her and her aunt from the coach yesterday.

  Continuing to work the tangles free with her fingers, she let her mind wander.

  She wasn’t exactly impoverished, but neither was she in an ideal position. Everything—her very future—hung upon Aunt Jeneva’s will. If she had one. If not…

  Emeline gave herself a mental shake. No sense fretting about something she couldn’t do anything about. Satisfied she’d smoothed the worst of the knots from her hair, she searched for a length of string to tie the fly-away mass back with. Finding none, she ripped a strip from her petticoat and then proceeded to gather her hair into a simple queue at her nape.

  Time enough to worry about the will, or lack thereof, later. For now, she’d concentrate on the simple fare she’d prepared to break their fast while waiting for Liam to return. Thank goodness, she knew how to cook, having prepared most of the meals for her and Aunt Jeneva.

  While rummaging through the supplies on the shelf, she’d found dried apples and had added them to the oat porridge staying warm in a pot before the hearth along with a kettle of tea. Grinning in delight upon discovering a tin of yeast, she’d even managed to set bread to rise. It mightn’t turn out as she’d anticipated since she didn’t have eggs or milk.

  Nevertheless, if as Liam had said, they’d be stuck here for at least a day, they’d not go hungry. Why, she might even try her hand at an apple tart.

  Truthfully, she couldn’t imagine any of the men Liam had mentioned—any man, honestly—making bread or porridge. She’d expected they’d just roasted whatever they’d killed over the fire and survived on meat while they stayed here. Nevertheless, whoever had been appointed to stock the cottage last had done an admirable job.

  Resting a hip against the table beneath the window, she searched the landscape beyond and sipped the surprisingly strong and robust tea. Evidence of the storm’s ravages met her scrutiny. Branches and limbs littered the ground. In the distance, several felled and uprooted trees lay at awkward angles. She could only imagine the damage from the rampaging river.

  When she’d seen that frothing water bearing down upon them—her heart lurched in remembered terror—she thought she’d exchanged one hell for another. It occurred to her then, since the assassins had stopped where they did, she’d have died from the flood, as would they all have. Fate had spared her life in the form of the bear of a Highlander.

  As she took another sip, Liam strode toward the cottage, carrying two hares, his hair brushing his shoulders.

  His plaid swished about his knees, the tartan’s striking pine green and bold blue one of the loveliest she’d ever seen. His deep blue woolen coat emphasized his broad shoulders and from the distance, made his eyes appear slate-blue rather than the flinty gray of the ocean before a storm. With each wide stride, his long hair caressed his shoulders, and his dark brown leather sporran bounced slightly.

  He paused at a lean-to, lowering the hares to the damp earth. His mouth turned upward affectionately, he brushed his palm over his horse’s withers, speaking to the magnificent beast all the while. The massive gelding, an unusual steely-silvery gray color, nudged his master’s chest, and Liam chuckled.

  Teacup halfway to her mouth, Emeline gasped, sloshing a splash of the warm brew onto the bodice of her gown. Och, my goodness. She hastily dabbed at the spill with a cloth.

  When Liam laughed unrestrainedly, his entire countenance lit up, transforming him from a brusque, harsh man to an irresistible Grecian god. Well, if she’d ever seen a statue of Grecian or Roman god, she imagined Liam resembled one.

  What would he look like, shaved and his hair shorn?

  She canted her head, considering him. A strong nose divided his face, and given the chiseled planes of the rest of him, he likely possessed an angular jaw and chin beneath that nest of a beard.

  He’d be one of those men too handsome for words, she suspected. But there was a guardedness about him, an aloofness. A stay-at-arms-length reserve even while he’d held her in his embrace, comforting her last night.

  She’d noticed it before, too.

  At Killeaggian Tower, he’d kept to himself during the celebration.

  No, that wasn’t entirely true.

  He’d mingled with the men, laughing and joking, quaffing back pints of ale. But whenever an unwed woman approached, except for his spirited sister, he’d all but pelted in the other direction, sword drawn.

  The table’s edge biting into the flesh of her hip, she shifted her position and narrowed her eyes. There was much about the enigmatic Baron Penderhaven she didn’t know or understand, but she was honest enough to admit he’d stirred her curiosity and heretofore, undecipherable longings. Illicit and immoral longings, given he was a married man.

  “That was my bairn’s name.”

  Was, not is. How had she died?

  Such pain had permeated his ragged voice, she’d immediately elected to use Margaret instead. God knew Margarets abounded in Scotland, as common as red squirrels, heather, and the mountain hares he’d snared today.

  Last night, without another word, he’d turned his broad back to her. Feeling like she’d committed a breach of etiquette, she’d faced the wall opposite wall as well. Exhaustion soon overtook her, and she’d tumbled into a deep, but decidedly unpeaceful, sleep.

  As she took another swallow of the rather good tea, she furled her forehead. Why hadn’t his wife accompanied him to the cèilidh?

  Perhaps she was unwell, or she didn’t like social gatherings. Or mayhap, they didn’t get on well together. No one had mentioned he was married. Not Berget and not his sister, Kendra. Emeline had liked and admired Kendra instantly. Confident, kind, full of life, and a bit mischievous, she was so very different than her somber brother.

  So very different than Emeline, too.

  After another pat to the horse’s side, Liam collected the hares. He glanced toward the cottage, and his gaze locked with hers through the dingy glass as he slowly straightened to his full six-foot four height.

  Emeline couldn’t pull her attention away and, across the span, something powerful and unnamable sparked between them. An invisible bond that speared straight to her soul took root there.

  It was wrong. He was married. Yet she could not avert her gaze.

  To her consternation, Liam glanced away first, and strange disappointment tunneled through her. Flames licking her cheeks, she hurriedly
spun from the window and made her way to the table. She placed her cup beside a bowl. She’d no business noticing a man’s looks or paying attention to disturbing flutters behind her breastbone and in her stomach.

  For God’s sake. Her aunt had died yesterday. Men had tried to kill her. She had no idea what the future held. What she did know without a doubt was it did not include the brawny Highlander who’d saved her.

  He. Is. Married.

  A half-dozen breaths later, the door swung open, and he entered. At once, his presence filled the space. He lifted the hares, a hint of pride sharpening his already hewn features. “I need to tend to these, but I wanted to make sure ye didna need anythin’ first.”

  “Nae, nothin’.” Although she was grateful for the meat, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sadness for the sweet creatures.

  “I did see several red deer today, but we canna eat one between us, and I willna wantonly hunt and waste the meat.” His cheeks slightly ruddy from the wind, he jerked his strong chin. “Between hares, fish from the brook, and grouse, I’ll keep ye well fed.”

  Emeline had never doubted it. Liam MacKay seemed most capable at fending for himself and those under his care.

  “I have tea and porridge ready and bread risin’, too.” She swept a hand toward the hearth. “Would ye like to eat first, and then perhaps, ye can show me how to skin and clean the hares?”

  His gypsy dark eyebrows shuffled high onto his noble brow. “Ye want to learn to clean hares?” He appeared so astounded, she might’ve asked him to dance a jig naked in the snow while playing the bagpipes. His blatant amazement stirred unexpected resentment and chagrin.

  “Ye dinna have to teach me if ye dinna want to.” She wasn’t exactly keen to learn to skin the animals in any event. Nevertheless, for some unfathomable reason, she wanted him to understand she wasn’t cosseted or pampered. Wishing to steer the conversation in another direction, she said, “I assume ye snared them?”

  “Aye.”

  “I’d like to learn how to set a snare, too.” And with that imprudent candidness, she’d trod right back into the quagmire.

  He placed the hares on the floor and still eyeing her curiously, also set aside his sword and dirk. Befuddlement reshaping his countenance and three lines creasing his forehead, he shook his head slowly. “I think perhaps, Miss Emeline LeClaire, ye’re the most unique woman I’ve ever met.”

  Not altogether certain he’d meant the observation as a compliment, she pinched her lips together. “Why, because I asked ye to teach me to clean the hares?” She hitched a shoulder, feigning a nonchalance she was far from feeling. “Honestly, I think it’s a skill that I might have use of someday. One never kens what life might throw at ye”

  Hadn’t they seen that firsthand yesterday? And today as well?

  His eyebrows scuttled higher as he settled himself into the chair opposite her. “Forgive me for bein’ obtuse, but I canna imagine the need ever arisin’.”

  Because she wasn’t quite a lady of station, but neither was she a farmer’s wife required to kill and pluck her own chickens? He didn’t know that though. Stifling the terse retort tapping her teeth, Emeline turned her attention to breaking their fast.

  She had no quarrel with him. She was grateful for all he’d done for her. It wasn’t his fault she found herself in this impossible situation. He’d been all that was gallant. If he believed the chore too distasteful for her to learn, then she wasn’t going to kick up a fuss about it.

  After using a cloth to bring the porridge and tea kettle to the table, she settled into a chair, her hands on either side of her bowl. She was famished, not having eaten since yesterday morning.

  “Never mind. It was a foolish thing to ask,” she said, dropping her gaze.

  Liam placed one hand over hers, giving her fingers a minute squeeze. He then turned her hand over and traced his forefinger over the pads. A jolt of sensual awareness traveled from her palm up her forearm to her shoulder, and heat blossomed across her chest before hurtling up her neck and face.

  A simple, innocent touch. Tantalizing. Tempting.

  The inarguable physical attraction to him bewildered and alarmed her. No man had ever set her, sensible and reticent Emeline LeClaire’s, pulse to cavorting. This wasn’t wise. He was married. They were unchaperoned.

  Her heightened senses were due to the scare she’d suffered yesterday. The primitive need to survive. Wasn’t it normal for people thrust into dire circumstances together to form a connection? A bond borne of forced company? It didn’t mean it accounted for anything.

  With his next words, all of her rational arguments scattered like thistledown in a gale.

  “Ye’re a gentlewoman. These soft hands are no’ meant for menial labor, lass. Neither are they meant to be covered with blood and gore.” He slanted his arresting blue gaze to the now empty clothes line. “Ye were wearin’ gloves yesterday. Women who skin hares and set snares dinna even own a pair of gloves.”

  The last held a measure of steel and censure, and she wasn’t altogether certain he still spoke about her. Nonetheless, smothering a barbed response, she snatched her hands away as if scorched. Scowling, she lifted her forearms and spread her fingers.

  “These hands are for whatever I need to do to survive, Baron.” She speared him a reproving glare, not quite understanding why his words had angered her. “I’ve been sewin’ with these hands since I could hold a needle at the age of five. I kept my aunt’s house, cooked for us, ordered her supplies, and maintained the books for her business. True, I’ve no’ done much menial labor, but I am no’ above soilin’ these hands. My life has been neither easy nor pampered, and after the events of yesterday, I have nae doubt it has become vastly more difficult.”

  “Emeline, I meant nae offense.” He looked taken aback, and a hint of remorse turned his firm mouth downward.

  A mouth she very much would like to kiss. That realization shocked and thrilled.

  “Didna ye?” she said, spooning porridge into his bowl then hers with short, terse movements.

  “Nae, and I beg yer pardon.” He sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I only meant ye dinna have to lower yerself to such a task. ’Tis nae pleasant, even for a seasoned hunter such as me.” He accepted the cup of tea she shoved his way then pointed a thumb over his shoulder.

  She tracked her attention to the hares before quickly looking away.

  “I saw the way ye looked at the wee things,” he said. “Ye’ve a soft heart, and there’s nothin’ wrong with that. Ye’ve been through a terrible trauma. I’d no’ add teachin’ ye how to skin and clean an animal to yer burden right now.”

  Despite her stern admonishments, she felt her ire and humiliation melting away. She could almost believe him genuinely concerned.

  Imprudent warmth bloomed in her heart.

  “Ye need time to heal.” He winked, and her heart stopped for a full beat. “At Eytone Hall if ye’re still of a mind to learn, I’ll teach ye.”

  Chapter Four

  Liam ran a hand over his beard. Of late, he’d actually contemplated shaving it off. Kristin had despised facial hair, and after she’d scarred his face, he’d grown the beard, partially to conceal the scar, but primarily to rile her.

  With deliberate intent, he shoved thoughts of his unhappy, dead wife aside. She’d haunted his dreams and memories long enough. From beneath half-closed eyes, he watched Emeline pick at her breakfast.

  What in the name of the wee man had possessed him to tell her she wasn’t meant for menial tasks? He’d sounded like an arrogant, condescending arse. Anyone with eyes in their head could see she wasn’t a pampered lass in manner or appearance.

  The color still high on her cheeks, and what he suspected was hurt shimmering in those gorgeous big doe eyes of hers, she gave a slight shake of her dark head. “Let’s no’ argue. Ye’re right. I dinna want to perform the task. I just wanted to show that I was capable and have nae need to be waited upon.”

  Lifting the cup, he took a
n appreciative sip while studying her. Why did she feel a need to prove herself? He hadn’t paid her much mind at Kennedy’s gathering, but from what he had observed, she appeared timid and retiring.

  He didn’t recall her dancing, or even speaking to any men for that matter. But that might’ve been due to her dragon of an aunt hovering about and breathing fire at any gentleman who glanced at Emeline with more than passing interest.

  Why wasn’t she married?

  Why did he care?

  He didn’t. And with that determined and final thought, he turned his attention to his cooling porridge. Taking a bite, he opened his eyes wide in surprise. “Ye put apples in the porridge?”

  She gave him a searching look and then a hesitant nod. “Aye. I thought they’d add a bit of flavor.”

  “It’s delicious.”

  This time, a flush of pleasure turned her cheeks rosy, and when she dropped her umber-eyed gaze to her own bowl, a slight, pleased smile bent her pink lips upward. “I thought, if ye’d like that is, I could make an apple tart or pie this afternoon. I found a small sugar cone, but nae spices.”

  An apple pie? Odin’s balls, he adored apple pie.

  Why wasn’t this jewel of a woman married?

  Were all men in Edinburgh blind, daft idiots?

  The prices of spices were far too dear to leave them in an unattended cottage. However, Liam adored apple anything. Had since he was a wee laddie.

  “I’d be most grateful for a pie,” he said with a wink.

  She appeared inexplicably pleased by his response and gifted him a celestial smile.

  His heart leaped behind his ribcage, shaking his judiciously erected ramparts of isolation and aloofness. If he wasn’t diligent, this entrancing lass might very well cause the formerly impenetrable battlements he’d come to rely upon to crumble to fine dust at his feet.

  Mustering his equanimity, he helped himself to another serving of porridge then casually glanced about the small cottage. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d come here with his friends or by himself.