Julien hired an old salt to watch their mounts as they sought out the port master. Once found, the port master apologized; the Horizon had not yet moored, but should be arriving at any moment.
“Why don’t we take a walk?” Julien suggested, pointing toward the gray-faced cliffs a short climb from the harbor. There was a path to a grassy plateau there, and overlooking the water, he imagined they’d see his ship coming around the cape and into the bay.
“If ye insist, my lord,” she replied, as compliant as any other worker in his employ would be. The docile deference turned his stomach.
“I don’t insist. I’m asking if you’d like to take a walk with me.”
Something curious, like doubt and guilt, crept over her expression. As if she did not know which one to feel more. That she felt either of them at all infuriated Julien. He let out a breath. Well, why shouldn’t she mistrust him? He’d given her no reason to do otherwise. His usual lighthearted humor, his teasing and flirting, would not work here, not after the turn their rapport had taken. Only stark honesty. And she deserved as much.
“I would enjoy your company, Makenna.”
He saw the change as she went from cautious to taken aback, and he pressed the advantage, extending his arm to her. She only hesitated a moment before taking it, and then they started toward the bluffs.
“Is that one of yer ships there, in port?” she asked, her attention on the Sea Queen, one of the vessels he’d acquired in grim need of repair and purpose. The last master of Duncraigh had not just let his lands fall to near ruin, he’d also mismanaged his trade. The Sea Queen was the worst of the fleet, with barnacles built up on its hull, and cobwebs gathered in its hold, when she should have been its pride and joy.
“It is. I don’t like idle things, and that ship has been bothering me,” he said, sliding her a glance. “Perhaps my steward can oversee its repairs and think of a way to put it to work.”
“Why save that ship?” she blurted. “She’s a wreck.”
“Because some things are worth the effort,” he said softly. “One man’s refuse is another man’s treasure.”
The double entendre hung between them before she cleared her throat, a faint blush tinting her cheeks. “I hardly ken the first thing about shipping.”
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid to try new things,” he teased. It was a risk; they’d barely broken through the tense silence, after all. But he knew she’d never shy away from an overt challenge or a way to toss back the gauntlet. Makenna returned his wry glance.
“I wasnae the one ready to cast up my accounts at the sight of a foaling mare.”
“That’s a cheap shot. Shipping and trade don’t involve blood and bodily fluids.”
She shrugged as they crested the hill. “Of course, a gentleman like ye wouldnae want to get his hands dirty with such common things as shipping and trade.”
The briny wind, stronger here, buffeted Julien as he came to a stop, halting her along with him. “You would be surprised to know just how dirty these hands have been.” She peered at him, but with a wink, Julien glossed over the unexpected confession. “And not in the lewd ways you’re imagining, Lady Makenna. Where is your decency?”
She pulled her arm from his, not responding as he’d hoped with a laugh, but with interest. “Ye said ye didnae always have all ye do now, so much so that ye were caught stealing bread. But how can that be, when yer grandfather is a marquess?”
He’d said too much in the carriage ride home from Max’s. Too much whisky, and a sharpening desire for the woman seated opposite him had loosened his usually reticent tongue. But if he wanted Makenna to trust him, perhaps it was time he trusted her with some of his truth as well. Opening up went against every grain in his body, but he surged forward before a decade of habituation could change his mind.
“I also told you that my parents married for love, even when my mother’s father forbade it.”
“Why would he do that?” she asked.
“Because my father was a lord’s son of no consequence. A third son. An artist. Possessing very little inheritance. Her father had better connections for her, but she refused to consider them. He threatened to cut her off if she went against his wishes.”
The familiar loathing for the old man he’d never known crept back into his voice. Into his very blood.
“But she loved yer father,” Makenna supplied. Julien couldn’t stop his huff of ugly laughter. She frowned. “Ye think so little of love?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Ye didnae have to.”
He faced away from her, the sea wind breathing into his ears and drowning out the usual voice in his head that argued against choosing love over reason.
“Did ye never consider, my lord, that ye and yer grandfather may have something in common?”
He whipped toward her, ready to deny it, his face freezing into a furious mask, but Makenna did not cower from him. Cool blue eyes met his, strength and compassion equally present. He curled his hands together, jaw tight.
“Ye both discounted love,” she went on. “The marquess valued position and wealth over it, and ye—”
“I am nothing like him.” Julien quickly doused the anger she’d so effectively stoked, and unclenched his fists. “And I want nothing to do with him or his title.”
She blinked. “Are ye his heir?”
Aisla was the only person, beyond his own mother, who knew, and by the expression of surprise on Makenna’s face, it seemed Aisla had kept his secret.
“That bloody title could fall into ruin for all I care.”
She looked skeptical. “Surely, a title is worth something.”
“Is it?” he drawled. “He has named me his heir because he has no one else. Because he doesn’t want his legacy to pass into fugue. Growing up, his precious title was worthless. It provided no food, no shelter, no clothing, no medicine. It didn’t save my father from dying. All it was ever good for was to make my mother lose the only family she knew.”
Julien paused, not needing to go into detail about the poverty he and his parents lived in. Makenna was keen enough to know the truth of it by now.
“My grandfather has his fortune, and I made mine, and not for one second do I lament the fact that they are completely and utterly unrelated. Not for one second do I lament the fact that I own estates across the globe, that I have ships trading in tobacco and silks and spices from the East, that I have earned my money and security for myself and my mother.”
A gust of wind battered him, and as he watched it finger through Makenna’s locks, making her loose curls appear to be wild whips of fire, he let go of his anger. He thought of her instead. Something he’d been doing far too much of lately. And yet he was unable to stop.
“I know what it is to want to be safe,” he said. “To know you cannot depend upon anyone but yourself.”
“But ye werenae alone. Ye had yer mother.”
Julien reached for one lock of hair that had streaked across her bright eyes. He tucked it behind her ear, his fingertips lingering on her skin. “No, I wasn’t alone. You’re not alone, either, Makenna. Not anymore.”
She closed her eyes, knowing what he meant. “But if Colin should come—”
“You’re safe here. You and Malcolm.”
He wanted it to be true, and he’d learned long ago that if he wanted something—truly wanted it—he must work to see it done. Julien hadn’t worked himself to the bone for over a decade, accumulating wealth and power and influence, only to find himself unable to protect those he cared for when they were in need.
And he did care.
His throat went dry with the sudden clarity of it.
She kept her eyes closed, as if she couldn’t bear to face an empty promise, and for several heartbeats, Julien wanted to still time. If she looked at him, he feared she would see through to his soul. He pictured what she might see there, something vulnerable. Something susceptible. These were things he’d vowed to never feel again. To bare that part
of himself to anyone was to invite misfortune. One fissure in his defenses and it would all crumble.
Makenna’s eyes opened at the same moment the hollow clanging of the harbor bell sounded. It was signaling the arrival of a ship.
“I cannae let down my guard,” she whispered.
“I understand, perhaps better than you think. I’m not asking you to let down your guard.” He stepped closer and cupped her cheek. “May I ask you a question?” When she nodded, he went on. “Before, when you said I was like the Marquess of Riverley, I reacted in anger. Yet you did not recoil from my anger, why is that?”
Her eyes met his, vulnerability shimmering in them. “Because I kenned ye wouldnae hurt me.” She swallowed hard. “Strike me.”
“Never, I swear it to you, and I’ll kill any man who ever touches you again,” he vowed. “All I want is for you to feel safe here. Do you?”
He waited for her answer as the bell tolled again, his breath locked in his chest.
Finally, he felt the pressure against his palm as she nodded once. “I do. It feels too good to be true sometimes, but I do.”
Julien breathed out. “You can trust it, Makenna. I promise.” He grinned and caressed her cheek with his thumb briefly. “Barring any more crumbling stones from the castle rooftops, you are safe.” He released her and stepped back. “Come. I think my ship is arriving and you’ve work to do.”
“Work?” she echoed.
He smiled. “A Sea Queen that needs to be reminded that she’s a monarch.”
Chapter Eleven
After she left the crowded port, leaving Julien to his cargo, and rode back to the keep, Makenna went past a few tenant cottages on the way to the castle. They had been vacant not a week before, but Mr. Jobson, Julien’s solicitor, had hired several dozen more men at Lord Leclerc’s urging, and the cottages now housed families, settling in. Half of the tenant cottages on the estate had been empty, the Duke of Craig using his money to finance his lifestyle in London instead of funding the care of his lands and tenants. Nearly all of the new hires had been displaced from their clans because of the brutal land clearances that were ravaging most of Scotland by wealthy English landowners. Displaced families were evicted from their homes in droves in lieu of the land being used for sheep and cattle farming. Most of them had settled on the coast, farming kelp and fishing, and struggled to survive.
She was surprised that Julien even cared to go against his peers. And the Englishmen were his peers. For all he wanted to deny it, he was English nobility. He was the heir to a marquessate. He was also a self-professed man of business, who would not part with a single farthing if it didn’t bring him more in return. And yet, here he was, helping dozens of families. On his own coin. Makenna wasn’t fooled. They did not need that many men to work the cattle or the crops, or on his ships.
“A man feels better when he’s earning an honest living,” he’d said, when she’d remarked before that Duncraigh didn’t need so many workers.
“They’re no’ yer responsibility,” she’d said. “Ye’re no’ their laird. Ye’re no’ a Highlander.”
He’d given her an irreverent grin that had shot straight between her thighs. “Should I have Giles dress me in a kilt, then?”
“A kilt doesnae make a man Scottish.”
“But a decent wage makes a man feel like a man.”
That had silenced her. He was a charlatan, Lord Leclerc. That stony exterior of his hid a compassionate nature that was becoming more obvious to her by the day.
Makenna called for a bath to wash the salt and horsehair from her skin, and as she relaxed into the steaming water, she rolled her sore muscles. She’d spent most of the day with Julien, assessing the gorgeous horse stock he’d acquired. She had to admit that his plans for the stables were grand ones. A part of her lamented that she wouldn’t be around to see, or help deliver, the future foals of the Duncraigh stables.
On her way back from the port, Malcolm had flagged her down and shouted for her to come see the delivery of a baby lamb. Malcolm had been helping, and had been quite interested in the procreation and delivery process. She’d taken it upon herself to explain it matter-of-factly, without blushing, and the boy had seemed satisfied. Then again, the birthing wasn’t like the intimacy she’d endured with the lord of the manor, and she was glad that he hadn’t been present for such questions.
The boy was naturally curious, wanting to learn everything and anything. Clearly, his mother had not stifled it, despite rearing him alone and in a place like Brodie, where boys were beaten into brutality before they could walk. Malcolm had endeared himself to everyone, and to her especially. Makenna had wondered whether she would have to keep him at arm’s length because of the family resemblance, obvious in his dark hair and ice-blue eyes. Though Malcolm’s were lit with mischief and humor, not cruelty or hate.
As she relaxed in the soothing water, she thought of the unexpected sense of closure for her that Malcolm had brought. He had found a place in her heart reserved for motherhood that she had always thought would remain hollow. Graeme had taken pleasure in taunting her with her barrenness, crowing that she was a broken woman and would never have children of her own. He’d said the problem had clearly been hers; the existence of Malcolm proved it.
But Malcolm wasn’t Graeme’s…
Enough, she told herself. She’d hoped for so long for a child of her own to love in the face of so much loss and pain she’d endured at the hands of her husband that it ached to think of those empty wishes now. Malcolm was a gift, and he was hers. If she didn’t have another child, she would still be grateful for him, and if Colin came to reclaim him, she’d defend the boy to her last breath.
Makenna had no doubt that he would come. Despite Julien’s assertions of safety and protection, she hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that something was brewing in the winds. That falling rock had missed her by mere inches, and paired with the adder in her bed, she had trouble reconciling the event as happenstance. However, the castle was ancient, and it did need some repair. Perhaps she was seeing menace and intent where there was none. Being overwrought and constantly on one’s guard tended to do that.
She had been careful to observe the recently hired men—none of them had hailed from Brodie, thank God, but that didn’t mean they weren’t kin or had old clan alliances. Even if the spy hadn’t managed to get another missive through, she knew it would only be a matter of time before Colin and his men turned to Duncraigh. The fact that there were so many new ships in port was reason enough.
“My lady,” Tildy said gently, shaking her from her thoughts and holding a large drying cloth open.
Makenna stepped out of the bath and wrapped her body in the soft cloth, her mind whirling. She felt torn between her ingrained mistrust and feeling protected because of Julien. Dressing quickly in the clean gown Tildy had selected, she sat in front of the fire for the maid to dry and braid her hair.
“Are ye happy here, Tildy?” she asked.
Hands stilled on her scalp. “Why do ye ask?”
The thread of worry was clear in the maid’s voice, and Makenna rushed to reassure her. “I was thinking it might be time to leave. It’s no’ safe here any longer.”
“And go where?”
“Far away.”
Tildy resumed braiding Makenna’s hair, and after a long exhalation, asked, “Do ye wish to stay, milady?” Her knowing voice made Makenna look up to meet her eyes in the looking glass. The maid was hiding a slightly disapproving look, one that made Makenna blush and duck her eyes. She did not want her feelings to be so transparent. That she did feel safe here.
“I dunnae ken,” she said. “Malcolm seems happy.”
Makenna was, too. Though she couldn’t bring herself to admit it. Without the threat of Colin looming, Duncraigh would be a place where she could feel safe. A place she could build a future for her and Malcolm. And Tildy wouldn’t have to leave her beloved Scotland. But those were aimless dreams, and dreams didn’t guarantee people’s s
afety. She needed a plan to get out from under Colin’s thumb. Perhaps she and Malcolm could leave on the return voyage of the Horizon. It would be headed back to Spain or France. Colin would have his men on all the roads leading south, so by ship would be their best option.
“What of ye, Tildy?” she asked in a tight voice. “Have ye made any friends?”
The maid did not meet her eyes. “Aye, some of the maids, and a groom. Douglas.”
“Douglas?” Makenna asked, her brows shooting high. She vaguely recalled the name from earlier, the young man who had saddled the horses to go down to the port.
Despite her renewed plan to leave, it made her happy that Tildy was also experiencing some measure of joy, when she, too, had had so little. It made her even more determined to thwart Colin. Or maybe he would let her go and move on. He didn’t know about Malcolm—he would have no interest in the boy. And if he thought she’d run off to the Continent, so much the better.
“Will ye never return to Brodie, milady?” Tildy asked. There was a strangely embittered note in her voice, layered with what sounded like regret. Makenna did not fault her—their whole lives had been wrapped up in that clan.
“Ye ken I cannae, Tildy. No’ if Colin remains there.” And he would never leave, that much Makenna knew.
“And the laird…if he kens about the lad?”
Makenna set her lips. “Pray he never finds out.”
Once Tildy had completed her duties, Makenna made her way downstairs for dinner. She had decided to join Julien and Lady Haverille, instead of taking a tray in her room. There was no reason to avoid Julien after they’d mended the awkwardness between them earlier on the harbor bluffs. The attraction they both felt was undeniable, however their open conversation had in some way opened another door, one that included not only mutual desire, but something just as important—at least to Makenna.
Trust.
He’d let her in, told her things about his past that she suspected he’d never revealed to anyone else. And he’d made her a vow of protection. Julien Leclerc was not a man who did not follow through on his promises. And she was grateful for that.
A Lord for the Lass (Tartans and Titans) Page 14
