A Lord for the Lass (Tartans and Titans)

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  Julien, for his part, had kept his distance for most of the evening, content to let her dictate the terms of their interaction. At first, she’d been cold and aloof, wanting to make him pay for forcing her to go. But then as she’d started to relax and enjoy the merry atmosphere, she’d found herself desiring his company. For a brief while, she’d begun to feel normal again. As if horror wasn’t lurking around every corner. And not only after Graeme’s death and Colin’s accusations, but before she’d even married. She’d felt like the old Makenna. And she’d been grateful.

  Several of the gentlemen there had seemed delighted to learn she was a widow. Makenna hadn’t been the only lady present with that status, but she’d been sure to declare that she wasn’t in the market for a husband.

  Or a lover.

  Makenna felt her cheeks warm. There was only one person who made her blood run hot. To her surprise, Julien had treated her with nothing but gentlemanly respect. Brotherly, almost. The turnabout had completely unnerved her, but she supposed she’d brought it upon herself with her recent coolness…and avoidance. With the threat of danger constantly looming, she hadn’t wanted to involve him more than necessary. And Julien Leclerc was too much of a temptation. In truth, her attraction to him frightened her as much as the danger she faced from the Brodies.

  She peered through her lashes at the slumbering form of the man in the seat opposite her. She hadn’t told him, but he’d also looked very handsome tonight. Dressed in raven black, he’d forgone a loud waistcoat for a muted silver color that was shot through with lavender thread. It was elegant with just enough panache. Julien always had a flair for fashion—or perhaps it was thanks to Giles, who she learned had procured her own dress with Lady Haverille’s help—so it was no wonder he looked so dashing.

  She’d danced with him only once, despite dancing many times with Maxim and several of his friends. And not once in the entire time had she felt threatened by any of her male partners. It was a wonder that she’d felt imperiled by the one man who had sworn to protect her under wedded oath, whereas in a roomful of sailors and scoundrels, she’d never felt so alive. So free.

  Dancing with Julien had been a shameless kind of freedom, and had only reminded her of how much she craved physical contact. But men like Julien Leclerc promised nothing beyond pleasurable gratification. Women flocked to him in droves, only to be left satisfied but heartbroken, especially if their emotions got in the way. Despite her desire, she did not intend to be one of those casualties, but Makenna was more than aware from the lust curling in her belly that she was playing with fire. Dangerous, heart-incinerating fire.

  God, she was a nitwit.

  Her eyes lifted only to tangle with his. Julien was awake and watching her with a hooded gaze that she felt to her toes.

  “Why are you staring?” His voice was low and rich, the slight roundness in its syllables alluding to the fact that he had enjoyed his share of spirits, too. It was an echo of her question earlier in the carriage, though not uttered in anger as hers had been.

  “I wanted to thank ye,” she whispered so as not to wake Tildy. “For a wonderful evening.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She licked her lips, feeling his attention sharpen as she did so. “I’ve no’ smiled like that in years. My cheeks still ache from it. Ye have interesting friends.”

  “I’ve known Max a long time. He’s a dangerous man.”

  The note in his voice held faint menace. Why did it sound like he was warning her away from him? She’d be lying if she didn’t admit that she’d enjoyed her host’s attentions. And furthermore, he was Lady Haverille’s lover, if his drunken ramblings were to be believed. Perhaps that was why Julien was prickly about him. The earl and his friends had treated her as though she was desirable, while the man accompanying her had wobbled between glaring from a distance and flirting with every available woman in sight.

  “As dangerous as ye?”

  “Worse.”

  She doubted that. A shiver of curiosity wound through her. She risked asking the question, knowing Julien might not answer and hoping he would in his non-wary state. “How did ye meet?”

  “We met in Paris. He saved my life.” Julien stretched his long legs out, almost touching hers in the process. She stiffened, but did not move. “I was caught stealing bread.”

  “Stealing?”

  He waved an indolent arm at the opulent carriage. “I did not have all this back then, you see. This came later with blood, sweat, tears, and a great deal of willpower.” His voice hardened. “My parents married for love. It did not put food on the table, so I did what I had to do. My childhood did not go well. Or perhaps it did, for I now have all this, I suppose, and I’m content.”

  Compassion surged in her, though she didn’t quite know why. Was it because his happiness hinged on other things as hers had done? Or that he did not believe in love? Neither did she, not after everything. Not after Graeme. He’d killed any seed of affection between them. Like Julien, she’d learned to survive without it.

  Makenna changed the subject to something less morose. “I made a fortune tonight! I suppose ye’re used to such entertainments. I do love cards.”

  His eyebrow tented. “You love winning.”

  “Aye.”

  “Did you count the hands?”

  “It was child’s play,” she admitted with gleeful satisfaction, “to know what had come and gone, and what the odds were for the other players. I only bet when I was certain.” She scowled. “Though I’m sure it was cheating. Nobody else seemed to do it.”

  “You used a skill. That’s not cheating.”

  “Ronan would disagree.”

  He smirked, the dissolute curve of that bottom lip doing odd things to her stomach. “That’s because Ronan has a big stick up his arse and hates to lose. Trust me, I’ve seen him on the other side of a table.”

  “Ye’ve bested him?”

  The smirk turned into a grin. “Trounced him thoroughly.”

  “I would have loved to have seen that,” she said, leaning back in the seat and stretching her tired arms out.

  The movement pulled her bodice taut across her chest, and she instantly felt the shift in his attention. And the subsequent burst of tension in the coach. Despite his reserve at the party, she knew he was not unaffected by her. And she by him. Warmth flooded her as she rolled her neck, conscious of Julien’s scrutiny, and reveled in it. Makenna had never felt so gloriously aware of anyone. She hoped to God that Tildy was still asleep.

  After all the dancing, her body felt sore and cramped. If it wasn’t so late, and she wasn’t a guest in someone else’s home, she’d order a hot bath the instant the carriage stopped and invite him to join her. Makenna flushed at her wicked thoughts. Then again, she wasn’t a lady anymore. She couldn’t call for baths at her leisure or command handsome gentlemen to enter them. And she’d do well to remember that the man opposite was her employer. And that she was a dratted fugitive in hiding. She shouldn’t be thinking about getting naked with anyone.

  “You should tell him.”

  “I beg yer pardon?” she said, blinking rapidly. She’d been so lost in her lewd imaginings that she’d started to forget what they’d been speaking of.

  “Ronan. Tell him what happened with your husband.”

  “What? Nae. I cannae.”

  Drawing his knees up and propping his elbows on them, Julien leaned forward in his seat. “Your family will stand by you, Makenna. And the boy, if need be. I cannot protect you. I have no standing in the Highlands. My wealth means nothing among the clans. Your family name is powerful, and Colin will not risk a feud with the Maclarens, no matter how much he wants you. Or Malcolm.”

  “This is no’ their fight,” she replied stubbornly.

  She wondered if her family even knew about Graeme’s death. News in the Highlands went from clan to clan and took some time to travel. With her father just now on the mend, Niall was the protector of Maclaren while Ronan was away, and if he hadn�
�t come knocking on Brodie doors, then he must have believed that she was content to remain with her clan by marriage. She growled under her breath. Colin would be behind that lie.

  “Malcolm is the laird’s son,” Julien said softly, his gaze shifting to the maid who still dozed. “Colin’s son. He will come for the boy. If you want a chance at protecting him, you should tell your family.”

  She clamped her lips shut, all desire drained from her. “Nae. As long as he doesnae ken, Malcolm is safe.”

  “You’re making a mistake.”

  “It’s mine to make.”

  Makenna closed her eyes and pointedly ignored him. Telling Ronan would only cause a war, and while she hated Colin Brodie and her old clansmen, she didn’t want to endanger her family. War took casualties. She would find a way to prove her innocence and safeguard Malcolm. No one else at Brodie knew that he was Colin’s. Arabel had said that no one knew her secret, and Makenna would take it to the grave as well if she had to.

  “Don’t be stubborn.” Julien shifted farther forward, putting a hand on her satin-covered knee and making her eyes fly open. “It isn’t a mistake to ask for help.”

  “Why are ye pushing this?” she asked, scowling. His light touch sent waves of heat through her limbs. Fury and desire twisted together into a knot in her belly. She shifted her legs back, careful not to wake Tildy, out of his reach, and mourned the loss of his fingers when they fell away. Gracious, she was an amadan.

  “Because I heard something else tonight,” he said, his voice pitched low. “Maxim said that a small village north of Duncraigh was raided.” He exhaled a harsh breath. “And that this was not the first occurence. It’s happened to a few other outlying farms and hamlets. The men claim they are looking for a female criminal with red hair, matching your description.”

  Her heart sank. “A criminal with red hair.”

  Makenna felt sick to her stomach. Colin hadn’t given up. He was closer than ever.

  “Makenna, tell Ronan—” Julien began, but she held a hand up to stall him, cutting him off mid-sentence.

  She clutched the other around her middle. A village had been raided because of her. If Colin felt thwarted, a raid could turn into much worse. She had to squash this. Do something before others got hurt. “Please dunnae say more, I cannae. Ye dunnae ken him.”

  Julien acquiesced, and when they arrived back at Duncraigh, the pale streaks of dawn were just beginning to creep across the dark sky. Without looking at him, she shook Tildy awake and they descended the coach. She could feel his concern, but she had no strength to face him. Even if she did tell Ronan or Niall, Julien did not know her brothers. It was the reason she’d never said anything about what she’d suffered at Graeme’s hands to them. They would stop at nothing to defend her and she couldn’t put them in harm’s way. It’d been her bed to lie in, not theirs. She did not need anyone’s help.

  A tiny inner voice reminded her that Julien had helped, and Makenna felt her heart clench. It had felt good to lean on him. And not that he was expendable, but he’d simply been a means to an end. She was certain that Colin would not even conceive that she’d take refuge here, with a foreigner. She hadn’t meant to accept Julien’s help…she’d only required shelter for a short while until she could figure out her next steps, and it had turned into so much more.

  But her situation, despite the safety it provided, was only temporary. Makenna had almost forgotten what was at stake, until Julien had suggested she tell Ronan. Lives. Her life. Malcolm’s. Tildy’s. Other innocent people. She had to do something, not bury her head beneath the sheets and pretend she was safe and sound at Duncraigh. In truth, she felt ill that Colin was so close. The letter that she’d had Brice deliver to Celia had to have been found somehow. How else would Colin have known to look nearby? Duncraigh could be next.

  God, she was making a muddle of things.

  “Good night, my lord,” she said to Julien once they were inside.

  Julien nodded without a word and disappeared in the direction of his room.

  With a futile sigh, Makenna climbed to her own bedchamber, with Tildy close behind, and allowed the maid to unlace her dress and stays. She’d give anything for a good long soak, but she’d have to make do with the basin of cold water. Once she was finished and dressed in her soft lawn night rail, she yawned, her own exhaustion hitting her like a sack of bricks. She had one thing to do, however.

  “Thank ye, Tildy. I’m sure ye’re as tired as I am. Ye can go to bed. I’ll see to myself in the morning.” Makenna reached for her matching robe and the maid frowned. “I’m need to check on Malcolm. He hasnae been sleeping well, and neither of us have been here. Go to bed.”

  “Is it true that Malcolm is Colin’s boy?” Tildy whispered.

  Had the maid not been asleep in the carriage? She frowned at what else Tildy might have overheard or noticed, and nodded brusquely. “Aye. I thought I told ye.”

  “Nae.”

  “Before she died, Arabel confessed that he was no’ Graeme’s. Did ye ken she and Colin were married?”

  Tildy’s eyes darkened. “I heard some gossip, but nobody spoke of it. So the bairn’s no’ a bastard?”

  “Nae.” Makenna grasped her maid’s arm. “And they must never ken, Tildy. No’ Colin, and no’ Malcolm. We have to keep him safe at all costs, ye ken?”

  Tildy nodded. “Aye, milady.”

  “Good, now go to bed. I’ll check on him and return shortly.”

  Her thoughts churning, Makenna wandered down the dark hallway to Malcolm’s room. She and Tildy had been gone for hours, and though Lady Haverille had been here, if she truly had been ill, Malcolm would have been on his own. She worried, especially having lost his mother so recently, that he would have felt abandoned. She cracked open the door and froze.

  A dark figure stood hunched over the boy’s bed, a small form in his arms.

  Makenna’s heart thumped in her chest as the man turned, a scream lodged in her throat, but it was only Julien, who put a finger to his lips. He lowered the boy, and then tucked the edges of the blanket over the small lump lying in the middle of the bed. He made his way on silent footsteps toward her.

  “He fell asleep with Maman,” Julien whispered. “I brought him here.”

  “Ye checked on him?” she asked with some surprise, but glad that she hadn’t come first and discovered an empty bed. She would have screamed the keep down.

  A sheepish expression crossed his face. “Giles mentioned that he’d been out of sorts.”

  “Thank ye.”

  “You’ve nothing to thank me for.”

  They stood in awkward silence in the darkened hallway. Makenna fidgeted, winding her hands in her robe, and belatedly noticing that he’d changed from his formal clothing and wore a robe as well. His gaze swept her, his stare hot in the gloom. She might as well have been naked for all the cover her flimsy night rail and robe provided. Despite her worries, a lick of desire curled like a live thing between them, and every nerve in her body tensed in immediate response.

  Fighting the urge to wrap her arms around herself, she canted her head. “Sleep well, then.”

  “Would you like a drink?” he asked.

  She startled, her hands faltering on the balustrade. “It’s almost dawn.”

  “So?”

  So? It was a mistake, Makenna knew. They’d both had large amounts to drink already and weren’t thinking straight. Not with the rational parts of their brains anyway. And after the heated conversation in the carriage, they were also not at their most logical. At least, she wasn’t. Furthermore, they were both alone, with no Tildy in sight to remind them of what was proper, and neither of them were dressed for polite company.

  But Makenna did not want to be polite. Or proper. She wanted to not think about what she had to do: leave. Leave him. And it made her reckless.

  She nodded and followed him in silence.

  The instant the door to the study closed, his mouth was on hers, his tongue thrusting and teasing and h
ot, and her hands were fisted in his hair. Groaning, Makenna opened to him, the taste of him heady and mind-numbing. She wanted to devour him. She wanted to be devoured.

  This was wrong. This was oh so right. She couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but feel. His lips left hers to trail hot openmouthed kisses down her throat, to the vee between her breasts, as he tugged her robe open with an impatient motion of his fingers. Together they tangled and crashed backward, bumping into furniture until her thighs hit the back of the desk.

  “I’ve thought of this for months,” he muttered, shifting the embroidered lace edges of her wrapper to the side and kissing the exposed swell of one breast.

  “Months?” she gasped.

  “I’ve thought of nothing but getting my hands on you since the moment I saw you at Maclaren.”

  “That was a year ago.”

  “Too long.” He blew a breath over her sensitive skin, making her flesh tauten almost painfully. “And tonight, watching you, seeing you, these luscious breasts, nearly spilling out of that sinful dress…it was bloody torture.” Pulling the sides of her robe wide, his eyes scorched her bare bosom. “Mon Dieu, you couldn’t be more perfect.”

  He took a peaked nipple into his mouth. Lust streaked through her like lightning, and Makenna moaned, flinging her head back. God, no one had touched her like this, had ever revered her like this. He turned his attention to her other breast, making her brain fizzle and die at the sensation coursing through her. Dimly, Makenna registered the fact that nothing but the silk of his robe and the cotton of her night rail separated them.

  His roaming hands slid down her legs to resume their journey under the fabric, and Makenna stopped thinking when he pushed it up to skim her thighs. Skillfully, his large hands grasped her now bare hips, dragging her against his prominent arousal. Desire stormed through her as he adjusted himself perfectly against her, nothing between them but his robe now.