A Highlander's Heart: A Sexy Regency Romance (Highland Knights Book 1)

by Jennifer Haymore

  Finished with her tasks, she sat, watching him. Midday melted into afternoon, and the rattle of carts and the rise and fall of voices on the street outside the bedroom window never ebbed.

  Stirling stopped by to check on her in the late afternoon, and about an hour later, a sweaty and dirty Grace arrived.

  Her critical eyes, the same sapphire blue as Claire’s own, swept over Rob. “How is he?”

  “No change.”

  Grace turned her focus to Claire. “And you?”

  “No change,” she repeated, feeling no desire to delve into her current emotional state. “What about you? What have you been doing?”

  Grace crossed her arms over her chest. “They are grossly lacking in transport to the hospitals. Each carriage can take eight men, but there are so many…” She looked away, swallowing. “Anyhow, at first I was sitting with some of the men—those still on the field—trying to provide them with a bit of comfort as they waited for transport. This afternoon I’ve been working at the hospital. There are not nearly enough surgeons for that many wounded.”

  “You are so kind to help them, Grace.”

  Grace shrugged. “It’s all I can do. I wish I could do more. Ease their pain somehow. Or heal them. God, I wish I could heal them.”

  “But I’m sure you do something no surgeon can,” Claire argued softly. “You ease their spirits.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I know I’m right.”

  Grace made an awkward gesture toward the door. “I ought to go back.”

  “Of course.” Her sister could help so much more out there than she could here.

  Grace hesitated. “Will we be returning to Brussels?”

  “You and Mary should. I’ll stay with Rob until he recovers.”

  Grace pressed her lips together. “If he wakes, he mightn’t agree.”

  That was true, but Claire had come all the way here, and she wasn’t leaving until she’d said her piece. She reached out and squeezed Grace’s hand. “Go back out there, Grace. They need you.”

  “You know I won’t leave you alone. Mary and I will stay here.”

  Claire nodded, unsurprised.

  Once again, Grace’s gaze flicked to Rob. “Send word to me if there’s any change.”

  “I will.”

  Grace left, and Claire turned back to her husband, picking up an edge of his kilt and rubbing the wool between her fingers.

  Afternoon trailed into dusk, and still her husband didn’t wake. The surgeon came in and pronounced that Rob had been knocked on the back of his head and that they should let him sleep it off, as if he’d drunk too much whiskey and needed a night to recover. After he left, Claire stared in the direction he’d gone, her lips pursed. The man hadn’t told her anything more than she already knew.

  The urge to wake Rob up and speak to him was almost overwhelming. But she didn’t.

  She sat at his side until late in the night, when Grace returned and said good night before retiring to the small room Madame Lucien had set aside for her and Mary.

  Finally, Claire put her head on her arms and fell asleep at her husband’s bedside.

  Chapter Three

  It hadn’t gone away, the pain in his head. It only felt sharper now, more piercing. That pointed arrow digging through his skull.

  He forced his rebelling lids to open. There wasn’t much light, but there was enough to see his surroundings well enough. It was an unfamiliar place—a very simple room, with a desk on one side and a small table on the other. A lamp flickered on the table. The bed he lay upon was surprisingly comfortable, given the starkness of the furniture.

  There was a weight on his arm, and he looked to the edge of the bed to investigate. Lamplight splashed gold onto the blonde tresses framing the pretty face turned in his direction.

  Claire, fully dressed, was sitting in a chair at his bedside and had evidently fallen asleep. What was she doing here? He couldn’t be back in England, could he?

  He tamped down the instinct to wake her and demand she tell him immediately what was going on. Instead, he turned his focus to the ceiling and racked his brain, trying to remember.

  He’d awoken on the battlefield, he recalled. He hadn’t been able to find any of the Gordon Highlanders. Except…Archie MacNab. Archie MacNab was dead. Rob closed his eyes briefly as sorrow washed through him.

  As he was kneeling over Archie, he’d looked up and… God, Claire had been there. He’d thought she was an angel. He frowned. He’d said something to her, but he couldn’t quite remember what it had been.

  He turned back to his wife. Goddamn, but she was beautiful. She was radiant, even in this meager light. When he’d first seen her, four years ago in a ballroom, he’d been transfixed. She was so lovely. Small and slender, with burnished gold hair and delicate, aristocratic features.

  Colonel Cameron had been an acquaintance of her father, the Earl of Norsey, and Rob had begged for an introduction. The colonel had been more than happy to comply, and when Rob had taken Claire’s hand in his own and pressed his lips to the back of it, erotic pleasure had burst through him, and he’d thought, good God. Bedding this woman might just kill me. In the very best way.

  He’d been smitten from that moment on. Claire was everything he was not: petite and delicate, refined and educated in the ways of society, cheerful and saucy while at the same time brimming with sweetness and innocence.

  He’d wanted her, but he was realistic enough to realize that actually having her was a far-fetched dream. The daughter of an earl was too far above him. Her father would never agree to a match between his daughter and a lowly Highlander.

  Later, he’d learned that Claire had been single-minded in her attempts to persuade her father to allow Rob to court her. And when Claire set her mind to something, she was a true force of nature.

  She’d been close to convincing the earl, but their destiny was sealed when fate took an odd turn and Rob saved Wellington’s life in the Battle of Salamanca. Afterward, he’d been lauded as the “Hero of the Highlands,” promoted, and granted the baronetcy, and the earl, always thinking of political advancement, began to see a certain advantage to connecting himself to Rob.

  When he’d been granted the title, Rob found himself thrown into a world foreign to him—the world of the English aristocracy. His life to that point had had little to do with the English and their social expectations. In the midst of all the confusion, Claire had always been there, a vivacious beacon of light that had invariably drawn him. Over and over again.

  Their wedding day had been the best day of his life.

  He gazed at her now, reaching his arm across his body to touch his fingers to her silky hair. Even now, wherever they were, after the horror Rob had lived through in the past two days, her hair was the softest thing he’d ever touched.

  Ever so gently, he pulled one shiny curl away from her face.

  She was still the bonniest lass he’d ever seen. Her lashes were long and almost translucent. Her lips were parted, and when he moved his hand lower, the soft puffs of her breaths washed over his fingers.

  He stroked the back of his hand over her cheek. Her skin was warm and smooth. His body was heating, his cock hard. Even though he was confused and disoriented, even though the ache in his head was so sharp he couldn’t see straight, he wanted her.

  He closed his eyes against a sudden rush of emotion. What the hell was she doing here? Had she come to torture him? She hated him. She’d made that quite clear the last time they’d met.

  His palm was pressing against her cheek—too hard. She began to stir. A moment later, she raised her head. Their eyes met, and a hint of a smile crossed over her lips.

  “You’re awake.”

  “Aye,” he said gruffly. His mouth was too dry. “Where are we?”

  “In a house in Waterloo village.”

  “Why?” he rasped out.

  “So you can heal,” she said simply. “I’ll get you some water.” She stood, shaking off sleep, then w
ent to the table and poured water from a pitcher into a glass. “Can you sit up?”

  “Aye.” He lifted himself up to a seated position—a more challenging feat than he’d expected. Pain wound tightly through his skull, and it was all he could do not to cradle his head in his hands. But he wasn’t one for showing weakness, so he gritted his teeth and remained stoic.

  Claire returned and pressed the glass to his lips. He took a drink, and she pulled away. He gazed at her curiously. She wasn’t the kind of woman who waited upon a man. In her world, there were servants for that.

  “What’re ye doing here, lass?”

  She sank into the chair beside him. “I told you earlier,” she said softly, “I came for you.”

  He frowned. “Why?”

  “Because you’re my husband.”

  So she’d felt the need to come due to some misplaced sense of duty? He firmed his lips. “You shouldna be here. It’s dangerous.”

  She sighed. “The battle is over.”

  “That battle, aye. But—”

  “No, Rob. The battle is over. The war is over. Napoleon is finished once and for all.”

  Rob took a moment to digest this.

  “Even if the battle and the war weren’t over,” Claire whispered, “I’d still be here.”

  He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “I must see to my men.”

  “Wait,” she said quietly. Her hand applied firm pressure on his leg. Why did that have his heart racing? God, it’d been too long since he’d had a woman. Not since he’d last had his wife. Over a year ago.

  “The duke wanted you to recover here for a day or two,” she said in her soft, aristocratic English voice. “Your head—”

  “The duke?” he interrupted, unsure he’d heard her right.

  “Yes, the Duke of Wellington.”

  Rob frowned. “The Duke of Wellington wanted me to rest here?”

  “Yes, that’s right. One of his aides de camp asked Madame Lucien to give you a room, and she very kindly obliged.”

  The Duke of Wellington’s man had asked a Belgian lady to give Rob a room in her house. Clearly his wife had no idea how odd that was. In spite of their brief encounter in the Battle of Salamanca, Wellington was about as far from his reach as…well, as Claire herself was.

  “Anyhow,” she continued, as if all that were inconsequential, “your head was injured in the battle. You need rest. You need…to be with me.”

  He gave her a hard look. Her presence here still defied understanding.

  “What do ye want, Claire?”

  She looked startled, her big blue eyes luminous in the dim morning light, and as deep as the Atlantic. He’d always felt like he could dive right into her eyes. “I want you to get better,” she said quietly. “And then I want to go home.”

  If she wanted him to heal so she could leave him, that was exactly what he’d do. But she needn’t wait. He needed to get up and get to his men. Surely they’d be given marching orders soon, if they hadn’t already. “I’m well enough,” he said. “It’s a minor wound. If ye wish to go—”

  “No.”

  They gazed at each other. It hurt to look at her, she was so beautiful.

  All that had happened between the two of them seemed to well up between them, a mire of pain and rejection he was certain couldn’t be crossed.

  Why had she come, then? To cause them both more pain? It was better when they stayed apart from each other. So much better.

  He frowned. “Where’s your da?”

  “He’s at home in London.”

  “Who brought you here, then?”

  “I brought myself.”

  He scowled. “And you haven’t any companions?”

  “Of course I do. Grace. And my maid.”

  Three women alone on the Continent, when the world was so unsettled? He groaned. “Good God, woman, are ye mad?”

  “Maybe.” She shrugged.

  That was Claire. Impetuous and tenacious. She always seemed to find a way to get what she wanted. He couldn’t imagine her father ever allowing her and Grace to come to the Continent in such a time of turmoil, and yet, here she was.

  “You didna ask me if you could come.”

  “You would have said no,” she said simply.

  Damn right he would. “This is no place for a woman.”

  “I happen to know that several officers’ wives followed their husbands to the Continent.”

  “Those are just women. They’re not you.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get all these roiling emotions under control. Usually his emotional responses were easier to manage.

  Perhaps it had something to do with his injury. That would make sense. The pain itself was enough to make him cross-eyed.

  The fact was, Claire was here. She shouldn’t be, but she was.

  “Where’s Grace?” he growled out.

  She gestured to the doorway. “The next room over.”

  “By herself?”

  “With our maid,” she said patiently.

  He ground his teeth. “Do ye ken what kind of men have flooded this place? Have you gone daft?”

  “Not at all,” Claire said mildly. “There are two guards from your regiment posted outside. One of them is Sergeant Fraser. Do you know him?”

  Sergeant Fraser—in the regiment, they teasingly called him “Brave, braw, and broon.” Brave due to his heroism in saving men’s lives on the Peninsula. Braw, because the ladies swooned at his dashing appearance. And broon…well, because he had brown hair and eyes.

  “Aye. He’s a good lad.”

  “You see? We’re safe here.”

  Only slightly relieved, Rob fell back on the pillows. The action made pain stab through his skull again.

  “Hell,” he grumbled under his breath. He didn’t like Claire here, among all these rough men. She didn’t belong here. She wasn’t safe here. He wanted her gone. Locked up in her castle where nothing bad could reach her.

  No…he didn’t.

  He didn’t know what he wanted. But Claire being here… It was just wrong. So wrong, he hadn’t the slightest idea what to do about it.

  “You’ll be taking the next ship back to England.”

  “Oh Rob.” She laughed softly. “So will you.”

  He scowled. “What d’ye mean by that?”

  “Captain Stirling received orders from the Duke of Wellington just a few hours ago. You are to take a few men and return to London.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not certain. It’s all rather a mystery, I’m afraid. But those are your orders, and Captain Stirling says they must be followed.”

  There was something enormously wrong with this entire situation. His wife floating back into his life like some kind of angelic specter. The Duke of Wellington, the commander in chief of the entire British Army, taking an interest in his recovery, and ordering him to return to England.

  It was too much for his pained head to wrap around.

  “When?” he ground out.

  “They have agreed that you should be fit enough to travel after another day’s rest. So tomorrow we’re to Ostend, and from there back to England.” She squeezed his thigh. “Grace and I will be going with you. You’ll be able to recuperate in my father’s town house.”

  He waved his hand. “I dinna need recuperation.”

  He thought of London—of the Earl of Norsey’s fancy town house with its ornate furnishings. He’d be away from his men… These orders… London? Why not Edinburgh?

  “My men,” he rasped out. He tried to get out of bed again, but her hand, pressed so gently on his thigh, must weigh a thousand pounds.

  “Most of your men are gone, Rob. They marched out with the rest of the army yesterday afternoon.”

  He stared at her. His regiment was like a part of him. A limb. Discovering they’d left him without him knowing about it… Good God.

  “They were given marching orders late yesterday morning wh
ile you were unconscious,” she said quietly, obviously taking note of the panic that must be showing starkly on his face. “The doctor said it wouldn’t be wise to try to wake you just then. But Captain Stirling remains, as does Captain McLeod. You’ll be returning to London with them, plus a few others.”

  “And the dead? How many did we lose?” Rob thought of Archie, motionless on the battlefield. If they’d lost Archie, they’d lost more.

  They’d already lost so many in the battle of Quatre Bras. Had they been completely decimated?

  She moved her hand on his arm and squeezed gently. “It wasn’t as bad as Quatre Bras, Captain Stirling said. He told me that the regiment lost no more than thirty.”

  Thirty. God, that was about thirty too many. He squeezed his eyes shut. Her palm stroked up and down his thigh, and comfort seemed to flow from her hand and under his skin.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “I think it’s around five thirty in the morning.”

  His head felt so large and heavy. He rubbed his temple, trying to think beyond the dizziness and pain. “Maybe I ought to sleep, then. For a short time. When I wake, I’ll talk to Stirling.”

  “Would you mind so very much if I lay beside you?” Claire asked quietly.

  Every muscle in his body went tight. Why was she asking this of him? The last time he’d gone to her, she’d told him she despised him and never wanted to see him again.

  He wasn’t sure he could endure having her beside him again. Endure the pain of it. The need and the fear and…

  “Is there no other bed?” he asked harshly.

  She flinched.

  Bloody hell. He was such an ass.

  The last thing he’d ever wanted, since the first night he’d met Claire, was to cause her pain. But he didn’t know how to stop causing her pain. Whenever he’d seen her for the past year, every time he’d opened his damn mouth, it had hurt her.

  “No,” she whispered. “There’s no other bed. Grace…” She hesitated and continued. “It’s just a cot she’s sleeping on, meant for one person. And Mary is on the floor.”

  That explained it, then. She was tired, and there was nowhere else she could sleep. And the bed he was on, while simple, was quite large. Plenty of room for his wife.