A Lord for the Lass (Tartans and Titans)

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  Lady Haverille speared her son with an arched brow and a curl of the lip that was reminiscent of Julien’s. “Pray tell why the young lady and her maid are standing out in the foyer, Julien? Surely, you intend to offer your hospitality. I’m certain Lady Makenna would not refuse a cup of tea, a hot meal, and a bath.”

  Makenna nearly swooned at the thought of scrubbing the filth from her body. God knew she wouldn’t hesitate to throw herself at the man’s feet and beg if it included a bath.

  Julien’s eyes, though warm with affection for his mother, remained slightly mocking. “Of course, Maman. I was just about to do so when you came along.”

  Had he? Makenna kept her own brows level by sheer force of will. So he hadn’t been torturing her with pregnant silence in the entryway, while her heart had been drumming a frenzied tempo in her chest? She’d been so certain he’d decided to turn her away that she’d been about to scandalize herself. As if he could read her thoughts, Julien sent her a sly look. The man hadn’t changed. He still made her feel like kicking him.

  His next taunting words compounded the urge. “I was only trying to see if Lady Makenna would admit the true reason for searching me out here at my castle: that she missed my incomparable self.”

  Makenna’s mouth dropped open. Was he suggesting that she’d come looking for him like some lovesick… Without thinking, she advanced a step and froze. What had she planned to do? Smack the arrogance off his face? That would be next to impossible, as it was likely ingrained in every pore.

  “Stop teasing her, chéri.”

  Despite her outer frailty, Lady Haverille took charge, her melodious voice rapping out quick commands, and within moments, Tildy and their belongings were whisked away, and Makenna was ushered toward a bedchamber up the stairs. She glanced over the balustrade to see Julien standing in the lower hallway looking up with a shuttered expression on his face. Cool green eyes met hers and she bit back a gasp at the intensity of his stare. He’d always been able to unsettle her with those penetrating eyes, and right now, the look in them was burningly shrewd. She felt like a rabbit being sighted by a fox. Yet it was nothing like the fear that lived just beneath her skin at the Brodie keep. The way Julien peered at her did not leave her feeling defiled or afraid, the way Colin’s stare always had.

  No, his stare made her burn in places she’d forgotten existed.

  Carnal places, if she was being honest, and Makenna was afraid mostly because she did not trust her traitorous body when it came to Julien Leclerc. As had been made abundantly clear in the entryway when she’d brazenly imagined his skills as a lover. He made her feel and want things she had no business feeling or wanting. Especially now, of all times.

  Why in God’s name does he have to be in Scotland?

  A nervous shiver crept through her. She would not stay here any longer than was necessary, not with such a fox in residence and certainly not with her own weakness to said fox. Perhaps Lady Haverille had contacts in France. Makenna was handy with a needle, she was better than good with figures, and she had a decent enough brain. She could find work as a bookkeeper, or a governess, or if push came to shove, a lady’s maid. She swallowed a hysterical laugh. Poor Tildy. She’d be usurped by her own mistress.

  “Thank ye kindly, Lady Haverille,” she said once they’d arrived in the charmingly furnished bedchamber. The small woman directed the maids with the focus of a battle-tested general.

  “We have already eaten breakfast, but I will make sure the cook prepares something fresh and hot for you once you’ve refreshed.” Lady Haverille smiled, her head tilting to one side as she swept Makenna’s hair and face with an admiring look. “You have such vivid coloring, dear. Like a hothouse rose in full bloom.”

  Makenna blushed and then shook her head. “I feel like a tramped piece of bramble at the moment, but thank ye for seeing beyond”—she extended an arm down her grimy person—“well, this.”

  “Not to worry, you will be yourself once more.”

  The words felt oddly prophetic and Makenna wanted to keep them close. She fought the burn of tears against the backs of her eyes, and thanked the lady again. Lady Haverille waved off her thanks and swept from the room. Within what seemed like no time at all, servants had ferried buckets of water to a waiting copper bath, and Makenna wasted no more time in getting in. Tildy returned as well. She had cleaned up, brushed the dirt from the hem of her dress, and seemed restored in spirits as well.

  “Gracious, this is heaven.” Makenna sighed with pleasure as she sank into the hot depths of the bath. She luxuriated for a few moments, banishing any creeping thoughts of Colin in pursuit, before helping herself to some of the soap and a cloth to scrub the caked grime from her body. After her skin was scoured pink, Tildy helped to thoroughly wash her mistress’s hair. Makenna sincerely hoped she hadn’t picked up any vermin during her stay in the keep’s dungeons. It felt so good to wash off the filth, both physically and figuratively. She wanted to scrub it all away and start fresh.

  “Did ye find something to eat, Tildy?” Makenna asked when the maid had finished toweling her hair, combing it out in sections, and pinning it on top of her head.

  “Aye, in the kitchens,” she answered in a low whisper as if she were afraid of being overheard. “Are we safe here, milady?”

  “For now? Yes. I believe so.” Duncraigh was a fortress, and they were welcomed guests within its walls, but for how long? Makenna trusted that they would be safe from discovery for at least a little while.

  “Will we be staying?” Tildy asked.

  “Nae.” Makenna shook her head. “I dunnae think it’s safe for us to linger this close to the Brodie.”

  “’Tis far enough, aye?” the maid whispered. “No’ a soul comes to this castle. The villagers fear ’tis haunted. I’m scared, milady. Will yer gentleman friend offer ye aide?”

  Makenna opened her mouth to refute that Julien was any such thing, and shut it. Ideas marched in quick succession through her brain. Tildy had a good point. She hadn’t heard of it being haunted, but Duncraigh Castle was far enough away and decrepit enough not to be noticed, and it wasn’t a Scottish holding. It had belonged to an English lord and had just changed hands to a French lord. Colin might send a few riders to scout the land—the mere thought of which made a bubble of dread rise up her throat—but the pile of bricks would be beneath his notice. She’d have no reason to come here, and he would not suspect it. No, perhaps, Tildy was on to something.

  “Would ye prefer to stay here, Tildy?”

  The maid shrugged. “It might be wise for a time.”

  Makenna chewed on her bottom lip. Aye, it made sense, at least for the moment. They could stay at Duncraigh for a short while until things died down. Until Colin either gave her up for dead or directed his search elsewhere. And then they would leave. Now, she only needed to get Lord Leclerc to agree to let them remain under his roof in the meantime.

  After she was as clean as possible and dressed in another one of her gowns that Tildy had had the foresight to pack, Makenna felt almost back to normal. Since before her prison stay, that was. Those two days had been horrific; she’d barely slept, certain that at any moment Colin would enter her cell. Exhaustion weighed on her as Tildy dried her hair as best as she could and left the still-damp strands loosely wound into a knot. She met her maid’s eyes in the looking glass. Though she’d gotten some more color back into her cheeks, her dark eyes still seemed huge and frightened. Makenna understood her unease completely. She felt it, too, even with the makings of a plan to keep them safely ensconced at Duncraigh, at least temporarily. It was the sort of fear that one could not easily put aside.

  When Makenna descended to the dining room, several footmen were still in the middle of hanging portraits and tapestries on the wall. The embroidered furniture was delicate and obviously French. Self-conscious, Makenna stood to the side as efficient servants bustled in with tea trays and a number of closed platters. Her stomach growled. She and Tildy had shared the meager rations her resc
uer had given her, and the sight of the steaming tea and the rich smells from the covered dishes were almost too much to bear.

  Makenna glanced around. Am I to eat alone?

  No sooner had she thought the question than Lord Leclerc arrived, the doors crashing open and nearly making her leap out of her skin. “My mother has retired with a megrim. It seems that she has overtaxed herself this morning. She sends her regrets.”

  “Oh.”

  “She has insisted that I keep company with you.”

  “That’s no’ necessary,” she said.

  “That’s what I told her,” he replied with a smirk. “You never accept any offers of help.”

  Makenna blinked. “I accept help.”

  Julien walked over to the sideboard and filled two plates, one of which he handed to her. He took a seat at the long elegant table, and gestured to one of the empty seats. She sat without protest. “Eat, and then enlighten me on the last time you actually asked for and accepted anyone’s help.”

  “I asked ye for help no’ an hour ago. To stay here.”

  Lord, she’d think the man was daft if she didn’t already know just how perceptive he was.

  “And before that?”

  “I dunnae remember.”

  Makenna gritted her teeth. She did not remember because the bounder was right. Asking for help meant she wasn’t capable of handling something herself. That she wasn’t strong enough. It was the sole reason she hadn’t gone to her parents about Graeme. She’d borne her lot like a true Maclaren. Like a fool, as it turned out.

  She sucked in a breath to compose herself and swallowed what was left of her pride. “Regarding my stay here, I’m willing to work for my room and board.”

  “Is that so?” Julien asked, his sensual mouth curling.

  She dragged her eyes away from that dissolute curve. “On the land.”

  A different expression crossed his face as his gaze fastened to hers, narrowing with sudden purpose and calculated intelligence. “Do you have any experience with sheep?”

  “Aye. Brodie is kenned for its wool trade.”

  “Can you handle the duties of a steward?”

  “Does a bee sting?” she asked.

  He grinned. “Only when it is vexed.”

  “Ye might want to watch out then.”

  Julien laughed, but his look of relief was almost comical. “Good. You’re hired, if you’re interested in the position.”

  She would not give away just how interested she truly was, so instead, she stared at him blankly. “Why are ye here anyhow? Shouldnae ye be in a ballroom in Paris somewhere, sweeping the debutantes off their feet? Why would an eligible lord like ye want to be here, neck deep in manure and piss?”

  “Maybe because I like manure and piss.” He shrugged at her look of disbelief. “Or maybe because the fresh country air will be better for my mother.” Julien lifted a full goblet in toast. “To our future.”

  She frowned. “This is a temporary arrangement.”

  “Of course,” he agreed in dulcet tones.

  Which made her freeze. She recognized that tone. It meant that Lord Julien Leclerc was about to get his way. His slow, measured smile made her feel like tucking her skirts up and running out of the room. But that was the old Makenna. The lion-turned-mouse who fled at the slightest provocation. The new Makenna felt grim. She was already on the run. She was an accused murderess fleeing from her clan’s vengeful and sadistic laird.

  Colin had almost certainly launched a search for her and would stop at nothing to find her. If she were to leave Duncraigh right then, no matter what direction she rode in, chances were high that she would be spotted. If she were to be dragged back to the Brodies now… Makenna had been terrified of Colin before. Now that she’d angered and humiliated him, his punishment would only be worse.

  Without a doubt, the greater evil lay behind her, not in the man watching her with a deceptively placid expression.

  She could handle one arrogant Frenchman, couldn’t she?

  Chapter Three

  At some point during the later half of the day, a tall case clock had found its way into the dining room. It hadn’t been present at breakfast, when Julien had been discussing with Makenna the terms of her employment as steward; however now, as he and his mother dined on roasted lamb, mint chutney, and a potent blend of potatoes, turnips, and whisky sauce, the hollow tick-tock inside the carved mahogany case echoed into the otherwise silent room.

  It must have been one of the pieces his mother had brought with her, from her home in Paris, though Julien didn’t recognize it. It wasn’t an heirloom, of that he was certain. They hardly had any of those. When he’d been young, his mother had sold what she’d managed to take with her from her previous life as a cherished and fortunate daughter of an earl. Jewelry and silver, gowns and trinkets, all exchanged piece by piece for francs that would keep them from submerging into outright poverty…at least for a time.

  Julien’s father had gone through his own small inheritance as quickly as a stone falling through water; without vice, but also without any common sense. Artists were so often like that, oblivious to anything but their muse, their inspiration, their feelings. Just thinking of his late father’s mismanaged wealth—if it could even truly have been called that—made Julien clench his jaw. The muscle leaping there kept ludicrous time with each tick of the clock.

  “Must that clock be so obnoxious?” he muttered, the prongs of his silver fork trailing paths through the turnip and potato mash.

  It wasn’t that he wasn’t happy that his mother could now afford to purchase ridiculously loud and ornate tall case clocks. Hell, if she wanted to put one in every room inside Duncraigh Castle, he’d stand aside and let her. But tonight, his patience was thin. And it was all due to the mysterious and stubborn woman currently taking dinner in her rooms.

  “I hadn’t realized an inanimate piece of machinery could be offensive,” his mother replied from her place at the other end of the table. It had been shortened, the leaves removed so that the two of them would not be required to shout in order to converse, and yet the table still felt too large and empty.

  “It’s simply wearing on me,” Julien replied, knowing he was being particular for no good reason. At least, no reason he was willing to part with. He sat back in his seat, reaching for the glass of wine the footman had just refilled.

  Julien had not seen his unexpected houseguest since they had parted ways after breakfast. He’d recommended that she settle into her room, explore the grounds, and take the day to get her bearings before beginning her position as steward the following morning. He, too, had needed some time alone to think over everything she had said since showing up in his foyer, looking disheveled, her eyes half crazed as she announced her husband’s death. It had been so unlike the Makenna he remembered from their time together at Maclaren that it had taken him a moment to reconcile the two.

  Her husband, that swine, was dead, and here she was, at his estate instead of at her family seat. She had never replied as to why she’d made that choice, but he hadn’t wanted to push too fast, or too hard. She’d clearly needed a place to stay, but Julien also suspected Makenna was not completely adverse to taking her maid and riding away, either. So instead, he’d relented. And if it were any other woman, in any other place or situation, he may well not have asked. He would not have cared.

  However, Makenna Maclaren was not any other woman. She was the one who had filled his head this past year, thoughts of her cropping up at the most inopportune of times, like when he would see a beautiful redhead crossing a ballroom or walking through a park in Paris. Without intending to, he would compare and contrast the color of the woman’s hair, her eyes, her figure, all against the memories of a woman who had intrigued him as much as she’d confused him. She’d been married when they first met. Off-limits.

  She isn’t now, a voice in his head said.

  Julien shrugged away the thought and chewed a succulent bite of lamb. He considered the man who h
ad been her husband with a grimace. From what she’d told him, she was better off without him. At Maclaren, she’d lambasted Julien for asking the simplest of questions when he’d caught her with the letter: Why return to a man she despised?

  He’d done it to be contrary, to make her battle those tears and the man who was so undeserving of them. Julien well knew that the laws in Scotland would be the same as anywhere else—a woman belonged to her husband in no uncertain terms—but he had hated seeing her looking so beaten. So frustrated and desolate. None of those things had matched up with her confidence, her wit, or her quiet joy when she walked through the halls of her parents’ keep and rode the grounds, which hinted at another happier version of Makenna. With a husband like that, short of death or divorce, she would never have been free.

  Now, though, she was.

  The baffling way she’d arrived, how she avoided giving straight answers, made Julien want to sift through the mess, to the truth. It wasn’t like him to be so suspicious, but Makenna’s untoward arrival—and her disheveled appearance—had unsettled him, and that he did not like.

  “Jules, you are most certainly lost in your own head tonight, are you not?” his mother said with a soft sigh. “That’s the second time I’ve asked you about André’s new sauce.”

  “I’m a terrible dinner companion, forgive me. The sauce is delicious.”

  He finished his wine with an apologetic glance to his mother. Her coloring was still a bit wan, but he was encouraged by the quick recovery she’d made that afternoon, after her megrim. Not many months ago, she would have been abed all day, and perhaps the next as well.

  “Tell me about your lovely guest,” she said, sipping her wine. “Is she married?”

  Julien took a deep breath and signaled the footman, waiting in the wings like a statue, for another glass of wine. “Newly widowed,” he replied, “and well you know it, Maman. You’ve had all day to wring the gossip from that hatchet-faced maid of hers.”