To Woo a Highland Warrior

by Cameron, Collette

  Where is Liam?

  Every horrible scenario possible had played out like a macabre skit on a stage in Emeline’s skull, and she feared she’d go mad from worry and dread. He must be all right.

  He must. He must. He must, she chanted to herself.

  She hadn’t told him she loved him at Eytone Hall. Hadn’t been bold or daring enough to risk his rejection or scorn. Or worse, his cold indifference. And now—

  What if it was too late? If something happened—

  “My dear girl.” Lady Penderhaven patted the gold and ruby cushion beside her on the divan. “Come sit. Ye’re makin’ me nervous and techy as a broody hen on a nest with yer pacin’ and frettin’.”

  Naturally, Liam’s mother was every bit as concerned for her son, yet she sat regal and composed. The epitome of unruffled refinement while Emeline’s lower lip had been tortured unmercifully and the cuffs of her borrowed rose and gold gown were much worse the wear from her repeated plucking at the edges.

  “Forgive me, yer ladyship.” At once chagrined, Emeline fashioned a contrite upward tilt of her lips.

  Again, his mother tipped her mouth into an inviting smile and indicated the cushion with another firm pat. “Come. Sit. Have a spot of tea, or do ye prefer coffee?”

  “Tea, please.”

  Emeline plopped onto the divan in an undignified fashion, straining her ears for any hint of a familiar male voice. A specific male voice.

  She absently accepted the saucer of tea Lady Penderhaven offered. Her gaze fell on the satchel, still exactly where Camden had placed it when they entered the drawing room. She’d flung Kendra’s cloak over the back of the closest chair.

  Precisely what did the two boxes nestled within her bag contain?

  She didn’t want to examine the contents with an audience but avid curiosity had scythed her from the moment Liam had discovered the second box. Perchance, examining the items would help keep her mind off of Liam’s continued absence and the any number of awful reasons he was taking so long to return. She set the still hot tea down and wiped her suddenly damp palms on her skirt.

  “I believe I’ll retire to my chamber.” She rose and, after draping the cloak across her arm and seizing the bag in a much-too-firm-grip, swept to the door. At once, Prince lumbered to his oversized feet and came to her. “I should like some time alone. Please excuse me.”

  Compassion and understanding softened the women’s faces.

  “Of course, my dear,” her ladyship murmured. “We understand. This has been most tryin’ for ye.”

  Kendra and Skye exchanged a knowing look before turning sympathetic gazes upon Emeline. “Perhaps ye should have a lie down, too,” Kendra suggested, her usual mischievousness subdued. “Ye’re a wee bit pale.”

  She also had a headache. “Aye, I may.”

  But not until she’d thoroughly examined every single thing in both boxes.

  Camden came to her side at once. “I’ll accompany ye, Miss LeClaire, and stand guard outside yer door.”

  Of course he would.

  It made her feel like a prisoner rather than protected. However, as she’d learned during the awful ride home, Camden wouldn’t give an inch. If she weren’t so vexed with him, she’d have admired his loyalty and commitment to Liam.

  Camden Kennedy was a man of his word. An excellent man to have as an ally. Not such an excellent fellow to have as a prison guard.

  Nonetheless, she pulled a face before painting on a placid expression. “Did Liam tell ye no’ to let me out of yer sight or some such balderdash?”

  “Some such balderdash.” An unrepentant grin tipped his mouth.

  Rolling her eyes, she snorted. “Men.”

  Five minutes later, she sat cross-legged atop the soft turquoise coverlet on her bed. The pair of boxes lay before her and Prince sprawled beside her. As much as she was dying to know their contents, trepidation also squeezed her ribs and made her feel hot and cold all at once.

  Her future may very well lay inside these unassuming containers. My past, too.

  She lifted the satinwood octagon, preferring to explore the known before the mysterious and potentially distressing. Slowly, tentatively, she raised the familiar etched lid. Nestled inside lay the leather bag of coins she’d expected along with a black velvet cloth which she knew to contain a few pieces of jewelry: a set of ruby earrings, a string of pearls, a pair of diamond and gold hair combs, and a rather masculine looking gold ring stamped with the same emblem as atop the case.

  She’d seen them all before. Knew the ruby earrings had been her mother’s, and the pearls her grandmother’s. Aunt Jeneva had never explained the exact origins of the hair combs and ring, but when Emeline had asked about them as a child, she had crossly muttered something about them being family tokens.

  Emeline set the coin bag and jewels aside then lifted the folded papers from within the satin-lined box. Prince cracked an eye open and, after giving the two items a baleful look, resumed his slumber.

  The documents included the deed to the shop, a record of Emeline’s birth—chronicled at a parish outside Edinburgh by a Father Sinclair—a pile of neatly tied letters, and a third parchment. She gingerly unrolled the slightly yellowed pages and stared down at her aunt’s last will and testament. A quick perusal of the document answered one question. Aunt Jeneva had bequeathed her everything.

  Tucked into the last page was a short letter addressed to her from her aunt. The paper was crisp and the ink fresh. No wax seal adorned its face either. She’d written this quite recently and possibly in haste.

  Gooseflesh raised on Emeline’s arms, and a shiver rippled from her nape to her waist. Her breath came in short pants as realization dawned. Had Aunt Jeneva had a premonition something was going to happen?

  Prince lifted his head and whined.

  “’Tis all right, boy,” Emeline soothed, skimming a hand over his coarse coat.

  My Dearest Emeline,

  If you’re reading this, then I’ve passed on. Hopefully, our Heavenly Father found favor with me and admitted me into His holy Kingdom. I know I haven’t been as warm or affectionate in my behavior as you’ve needed me to be. Neither sentiment came naturally to me, but I’ve tried my utmost to do what was right by you.

  Without you, Emeline, my life would have been a spinster’s meaningless, lonely existence, and although the reasons why I came to raise you were difficult, please know that I’ve treasured every day you’ve been a part of my life.

  A tear dribbled down her cheek.

  How often had she’d questioned if Aunt Jeneva held her in any regard? She’d always felt a burden to her aunt, but now she knew beyond a doubt that Aunt Jeneva had loved her in her own way. Sensing her distress, Prince crawled nearer and laid his big head in her lap, gazing at her with soulful eyes.

  “I’m all right,” she said, more to convince herself than the docile dog.

  Sniffing, she blinked to clear her vision and read on.

  I wish I could end this letter on a positive note and tell you to be happy and to live your dreams, but you must be made aware that you have a younger half-brother, Jean Claude Gagneux.

  Jaw slack, Emeline’s heart welled with joy. A brother? She wasn’t alone, after all.

  He is not a good man, and that is why I encouraged you to marry a distant cousin in France.

  Her euphoria dissolved as swiftly as salt in cock-a-leekie soup.

  I have corresponded with our distant cousin, Pierre Durpreiz, intermittently over the years and hoped he could protect you in ways I could not. He is not aware I suggested a union between you, but if you should ever need help for any reason, do not hesitate to contact him. He will aid you in any way he can. He told me as much in his last letter.

  I’m sure you’ve also found the second box. It contains several very important documents that only recently came into my possession. Pierre sent them, believing you should know the truth of your birth. I don’t know how he came to have them, but he was a good friend of your father’s. I
can only conclude your father wanted you to have them and asked Pierre to assist in that endeavor.

  I beg you to forgive me for not telling you. I was selfish and didn’t want to lose you. Live well, Emeline. You’ve been an exquisite gift, and I have loved you.

  Aunt Jeneva

  Great fat tears fell in earnest now, cascading down Emeline’s cheeks, and she fumbled for her handkerchief. She pressed the small square to her mouth. Shoulders quaking, she buried her face in Prince’s neck, weeping for the aunt who’d never told her she loved her until she did so in a letter after her death. Several minutes ticked past until she wrestled her grief under control. Giving a final shuddery sob, she sat up and dabbed her face with her sodden hankie.

  Aunt Jeneva’s letter hadn’t only intensified her curiosity, but magnified her dread, too.

  “I have a brother.” A not-so-nice brother, according to her aunt.

  Emeline eyed the stack of letters tied together by a faded green ribbon. She’d reached to untie the silk tie, but the metal box beckoned. Shifting her position, she gingerly lifted the lid. An ordinary looking packet wrapped in brown leather lay inside.

  Once more, Prince had spread out on the coverlet and succumbed to sleep.

  She undid the string holding the rectangle tight and unfurled the leather. The scent of leather, ink, and parchment wafted upward. The first parchment named Tron Parish where a marriage record between Madeleine LeClaire and Antoine Gagneux could be located.

  Emeline sucked in a ragged breath, nearly dropping the parchment as she reread the flourishing script.

  Oh, my God and all the angels.

  Her parents had been married. She wasn’t illegitimate.

  She knew exactly where Christ’s Kirk at the Tron was. That’s where she and Aunt Jeneva attended Sunday services. Could it be true? Could the very same parish she’d been in so many times contain the record of her parents’ marriage?

  Why, then, hadn’t her father ever acknowledged her?

  She wrinkled her forehead, more confused than ever.

  Was this why Aunt Jeneva had asked for her forgiveness? For keeping this monumental secret? At one time, Emeline would’ve been furious at Aunt Jeneva for this deception. Now, after everything that had occurred, she couldn’t bring herself to be angry at her aunt.

  Brows pulled together, Emeline unfurled the next document. It contained the name of a solicitor in France who had a copy of Monsieur Antoine Gagneux’s Last Will and Testament. According to the scribbled note, as Gagneux’s only legitimate heir, she’d been named the sole beneficiary of his substantial estate.

  Her lungs stalled as she absorbed the last line.

  Och, now that is certainly reason for someone—likely my brother—to want me disposed of.

  Heart pounding and her head reeling from what she’d learned, she picked up one of the two letters between her thumb and forefinger. She didn’t recognize the scrawling penmanship, yet she knew with absolute certainty her father had written it.

  Inhaling a bracing breath, she broke the wax seal. A seal that exactly matched the emblem on the ring and the etching on the satinwood box. Additional proof of her heritage.

  While she mightn’t be able to muster anger for her aunt’s deception, molten anger and frustration simmered beneath the surface for the cowardly man who’d sired her.

  It further raised her ire that she should care. That this man she didn’t know could cause such an unwelcome and unfamiliar reaction.

  Didn’t this letter prove he knew of her existence?

  Yet not once in over four and twenty years had he made a single effort to contact her.

  Why?

  Jaw clamped to still the weird chattering of her teeth, Emeline read the letter. Exhaling her breath in a whoosh, she flopped back onto her pillows in disbelief.

  She’d never have guessed the truth. Never.

  Her father had loved her mother. They’d secretly married in Scotland, because his family didn’t approve of a disgraced comte’s impoverished daughter for their son. Vowing to return, he’d left Mama with Aunt Jeneva and ventured home to tell his family the joyous news.

  He hadn’t kept his promise.

  He’d never returned. The unconscionable bounder.

  Evidently, Antoine Gagneux had led a very privileged life and had wrongly assumed as the cherished only son, his family would come around and accept Mama as his wife.

  However, threatened with disinheritance and banishment, he’d committed bigamy and conceded to an arranged marriage to a duke’s daughter. He’d sired two children with her: Jean Claude, two and twenty, and Jeannette, eighteen.

  I have a sister, too.

  Was she of the same caliber as their brother?

  Sadness twisted Emeline’s belly. Her whole life she’d longed to know something of her father, and such overwhelming disappointment flooded her to learn he was a poltroon of the worst sort.

  He’d been aware of Emeline’s birth through his lifelong friend, Pierre. Weakling that he was, however, Gagneux hadn’t the courage to contact her. Dear cowardly Papa hadna the valor of a turnip or a cabbage, it seems. Besides, indulged and selfish, he’d suspected how infuriated Jean Claude would be to discover the truth.

  How could Jean Claude not be furious? He’d expected to inherit.

  So, these many years, Emeline’s father had kept his despicable secret.

  “What a bounder,” she grumbled, causing Prince’s tail to thump once. “Ye like that, do ye?”

  Bounder. Cur. Blackguard. Coward. She was sorely pressed to summon a single positive moniker for her sire.

  Haunted by his abandonment of Mama and her, he’d vowed to make it right and changed his will when his wife had died five years ago. By providing proof he’d been married before he exchanged vows in France, he’d relegated his other children to the status of bastards.

  That had to have been awful for them. Unless—

  Perhaps, it wasn’t public knowledge yet. Could that be why she’d been targeted?

  More befuddled and bewildered than she’d ever been, she shook her head. Not only wasn’t she illegitimate, she was an heiress. She couldn’t find a great deal of compassion for a man who was so feeble in character, he deserted his wife and committed bigamy.

  All because he hadn’t loved Mama more than his wealth and position.

  Scant doubt remained who had the most to gain if she were dead. She remembered the second letter. Without rising, she stretched to clasp the crisp paper addressed to her. A distinctly feminine hand met her wary perusal.

  The missive was short, but incredibly sweet. Jeannette was thrilled to learn she had an older sister and hoped they could meet soon. She apologized for their father’s dishonorable behavior and prayed one day Emeline could forgive him. She also hoped Emeline knew she didn’t begrudge her the inheritance. The flourishing inscription read:

  Your adoring sister,

  Jeannette

  It was difficult to believe the sincerity of the letter given the rotten nature of their father and brother, but Jeannette had written of her own accord. If she were as angry and spite-filled as Jean Claude, wouldn’t she have ignored Emeline? Perhaps, even conspired with their brother?

  The afternoon had faded into evening and, cracking an eye open, she glanced at the bedside clock. She’d been hauled bodily away from Liam almost five hours ago.

  Surely if everything were all right, he would’ve returned by now. So would have the others.

  Fighting tears, she sat up and returned all of the items to their respective boxes.

  She’d ask Liam to lock them in his vault. Except the letters. She’d read them later. When she’d recovered from the shock she’d sustained this day. A body could only take so many surprises in a day.

  “Emeline!”

  Her breath caught, and she went perfectly still.

  Liam. Praise God.

  “Emeline,” Liam boomed again. “Where are ye, lass?”

  She jumped from the bed and wrenched ope
n her chamber door. “Liam’s callin’ me,” she said unnecessarily to Camden.

  With what surely was approval glinting in his eyes, he wordlessly stepped aside.

  Not caring who knew her carefully-guarded secret, she tore down the corridor, gown hiked to her knees. At the landing, she pulled up short. Her hand gripping the balustrade, she was suddenly unsure.

  Mayhap he only wanted to ensure she was safe.

  Except for the Kennedys, his other friends crowded the entry, speaking in low tones.

  Yes, he’d kissed her, caressed her, undressed her with his smoldering gray eyes. But he’d never voiced a single syllable that she meant anything to him.

  Lady Penderhaven rushed into the entry, immediately followed by Skye and Kendra. She gave her son a fierce hug. “Dinna ye ever worry me like that again, Liam Kirk Fletcher MacKay. I’ve nae doubt I have several more gray hairs after today.”

  “The delay was unavoidable,” he said soothingly, before kissing her cheek.

  She stepped back, eyeing him from head to toe and scrunched her aristocratic nose. “Really, Liam, dear. Shouldna ye do somethin’ about yer appearance before ye see Emeline? Ye’ll frighten her half to death,” his mother admonished.

  Dirt and blood smeared his face and coat, which hung open, one sleeve ripped almost completely off at the shoulder. His bare knee poked from a hole in his breeches and, even from where she hovered above them, she couldn’t miss the bruises and cuts on his knuckles.

  He’d never looked more wonderful.

  As if sensing Emeline’s presence, he glanced up, seeing her poised to flee on the landing. The distance between them vanished, his eyes entreating her and sparking with emotion.

  “Emeline,” he whispered, raw and yearning. He extended his left arm wide, vulnerable and inviting and wholly irresistible.

  With a strangled joy-filled cry, she flew down the stairs into his warm, perfect embrace. He grunted as she plowed into him before bracing his arm behind her shoulders and pressing her tight to his chest. Nothing had ever felt so absolutely perfectly right. As if she’d finally come home to rest.

  In full view of his mother, sister, cousin and friends, he lowered his mouth to hers. “Mo chroí.”