by Quinn, Paula
Without a word or his father ever knowing he’d been there, he’d left. He’d never returned home, and he never saw his father or grandfather again. What he had done was send them a single letter telling them precisely why he’d severed relations with them.
When the solicitor contacted him to inform him of his father’s death and his subsequent bequeathment, he’d mourned the latter more than the former. Quinn had expected to be disinherited. Disowned.
Even now, a decade later, bile burned the back of his throat at the atrocities they committed for coin, and nausea churned his stomach that their putrid blood flowed in his veins.
That was why as a member of a highly secret—illegal—society, he’d dedicated his life, up to this point, to the extermination of forced labor, slavery, and indentured servitude.
But, such a life was too dangerous for a married man. Hadn’t he nearly been killed half a dozen times? Nevertheless, he’d find other methods to continue the fight to help the oppressed.
As a respectable man of means with connections, he’d have the power to influence people. Profiting from the suffering of others was unconscionable and it must be put to a stop.
Truthfully, he never believed the day would come that he’d put aside his fury and hatred of his father and grandfather. But for Skye, he’d walk through molten lava. His pride was as inconsequential as thistle down.
Yes, to make her his bride, he’d willingly, eagerly, cease his wild recklessness and cede his wanderlust, for he’d finally found a home. In the heart of the most remarkable, extraordinary woman to grace God’s beautiful earth.
Skye Hendron.
He directed his attention overhead just as the clouds broke, and the moon’s silvery glow burst through. Almost like a good omen. A derisive grin tilted his mouth on one side. Since when did he believe in such nonsensical claptrap?
Nonetheless, he closed his eyelids and sent up a most fervent and sincere silent prayer that he’d be blessed with his greatest desire. Since he was turning over a new leaf, now was as good a time as any, he supposed, to explore the faith in the Almighty Skye was so committed to.
Humming a rather ribald ditty, he raised his collar higher against the mercilessly cutting wind and, hunched into his coat, tramped onward. Given the moon’s position, he guessed the time to be well past midnight. Rather rude and inconsiderate of him to arrive at Eytone Hall in the middle of the night, but he couldn’t wait one more day to see Skye.
Besides, he’d passed by the last posting house miles ago.
Quinn wouldn’t wake the household, however. As he’d done numerous times prior, he’d enter through the kitchens and find his way to his room. It wouldn’t be the first time the MacKays, or the McGregors either, had sat down to break their fast and he’d wandered in to greet them.
He quite enjoyed the astonishment on their faces.
However, his days of trotting about and being accountable to no one but himself and his superior were over. Yet an unpleasant thought he couldn’t dismiss had dogged him for days and now pulled his eyebrows together in a fierce scowl. God’s bones. Given his delay, Skye might think he’d lied to her. That he had no intention of returning. There’d been no help for his tardiness though.
After visiting Grandmama, and the tough old bird skillfully extracting a promise he’d bring Skye to meet her, he’d called upon his father’s solicitor and then The Royal Bank of Scotland.
He was a wealthy man.
Wealthier than he’d initially believed. The knowledge didn’t fill him with satisfaction. Except, the monies might persuade Liam that Quinn was a good match for Skye after all, and that he wasn’t a fortune hunter. The funds also put him in a position financially to assist those unfortunate souls without the ability to help themselves.
His final appointment had been with his superior to submit his resignation. He’d reluctantly received permission to return to civilian life, after he accomplished one last mission. That task was completed yesterday afternoon, and two lads—not more than eight years old—had been spared indentured servitude in the colonies. With only the merest regret, he’d bid his old life goodbye.
Quinn, the covert operative, was no more.
Chapter Six
The next morning, Skye awoke surprisingly refreshed and with a sense of anticipation bubbling behind her breastbone. Laying amongst the comfy pillows, Patches curled contentedly and purring at her side, she contemplated her newfound optimism.
Christmas in the Highlands.
Yes, that was what had sparked the expectancy in her.
Last night, she’d decided to see if Liam would permit her a Christmas at Eytone Hall. She rather assumed he wouldn’t deny her request. He’d been as concerned as Aunt Louisa, Kendra, and Emeline about her doldrums. And she also suspected, he knew she harbored warm sentiments for Quinn.
Compassion and sympathy for her parents’ deaths was to be expected, but she couldn’t bear Liam’s pitying looks. A flush warmed her, but she dismissed her discomfiture. Diving into holiday preparations would give her something to do and keep her mind occupied. The very thing she’d needed most to keep her riotous thoughts corralled.
Other than Quinn, of course.
With a renewed sense of vigor, and more energy than she’d had in weeks, she flung back the bedclothes much to Patches’ disconcertment. The kitten leaped to her feet, arched her back, and hissed.
At once, Skye apologized. “I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Soothing the miffed feline, she lifted Patches from the gold, ivory, and robin’s egg blue coverlet. After a few more murmured words of comfort and much petting, Skye set her down on a favorite pillow. With promises of special treats from the kitchen, she attended to her toilette with alacrity that surprised even her.
She truly anticipated something for the first time in months. Something besides Quinn’s return, that was.
Mentally making a list of her favorite Christmas traditions and the supplies that would need procurement, Skye dressed in another plain black gown, twisted her waist-length hair into a loose knot at the back of her head, and dabbed perfume behind each ear and at her wrists. Wrinkling her forehead at her much-too-somber attire, she eyed her jewelry box.
Why not?
’Twas the season to be festive, was it not?
In the wake of donning her mother’s emerald and pearl earbobs, she examined herself in the rosewood cheval mirror. Still rather drab, especially her pale cheeks. She pinched the too-wan flesh and, before she could think on it overly much, clasped an emerald brooch to her bodice before entwining a length of matching ribbon in her hair.
Sitting on the end of the bed, watching her every move, Patches meowed and appeared to nod.
“You approve?” Skye eyed herself in the mirror once more.
Yes, much better.
She brushed her fingertips over her black skirts and pulled her mouth into a straight line. She’d adored wearing burgundy or midnight blue or green or silver or gold during Twelfth Night, but it was too soon to toss off her mourning weeds.
She twisted her mouth into a rueful smile. Truth to tell, she generally started wearing holiday colors the first week in December. Mama used to say, “I declare, my darlin’ wee lass, nobody loves Christmastide more than ye.”
Feeling slightly mischievous—it had been so long since she had—she seized another length of wider ribbon. Soon, Patches bore a bright red bow. She gave Skye the gimlet eye, not at all pleased with the frippery. Her plaintive yowl only earned her a sympathetic quirk of Skye’s lips.
“You’ll become accustomed to the ribbon, darling. Christmas comes but once a year, and you must look the part, too.” Cradling the cat in one arm, she left the bedchamber.
*
A few minutes later, seated at the cozy table in the breakfast room, a bowl of porridge before her, Skye bit her lip, suddenly unsure the Christmas idea would be met with any degree of enthusiasm.
After all, what was an annual tradition for
her wasn’t celebrated by anyone here. Her family couldn’t miss what they’d never known and might think her silly for wanting to recreate the event at Eytone Hall.
As they were wont to do every morning, Aunt Louisa, Kendra, and Emeline chatted about their plans for the day. Liam looked on, a tolerant slant to his mouth. He’d escape to his study or the outdoors before long, Prince—his huge, raggedy dog of questionable heritage—at his side.
She hid a grin as Liam, wholly straight-faced, slid a hand beneath the tablecloth and the entire table wobbled. No one so much as blinked as Prince wolfed down his not-so-secret morsel.
Needing a bit of fortification before she introduced her wild idea to the others, Skye took a drink of cooled tea from the saucer. She’d rehearsed what she wanted to say to convince Liam and Aunt Louisa to permit her the festivities. Naturally, she’d cover the cost, and she’d keep the merriments low-key and unostentatious.
“How did ye sleep, Skye? Well, I do hope.” Also attired in mourning black, with the addition of a dainty black lace cap atop her neatly arranged sable curls, Aunt Louisa eyed Skye fondly as she spread berry preserves on her bread. “Ye seem in a little better spirits today.”
Except for her dark hair and gray eyes—Mama possessed gray-blue eyes and almost blonde hair—Aunt Louisa greatly resembled her younger sister. She sounded exactly like her, however. More than once, Skye had momentarily thought she heard her mother speaking before reality unmercifully crashed down upon her.
“I did sleep quite well.” The best night’s rest she’d had in months, truth be told. “Very well, indeed, actually. I had a thought last night…” She had everyone’s attention now. Clearing her throat, she patted her mouth then, gathering her initiative, draped her serviette across her gown once more. “I know ’tisn’t customary in Scotland, but I wondered, perhaps, if we mightn’t celebrate Christmastide this year?”
Kendra sat up straighter, a distinct glint of interest and excitement in her dove-gray eyes. “Och, could we? I’ve read about the festivities. It sounds so grand and entertainin’. I’d love to make a clove orange pomander.”
Unusually restrained, she swept her gaze expectantly between her brother and mother.
Emeline beamed, catching her husband’s eyes, and a slow smile kicked up one side of Liam’s mouth. His bride colored prettily, a matching smile framing her lips.
Skye was quite certain the current discussion had absolutely no bearing on his joviality or his wife’s demureness.
“It would be such good fun, Liam,” Kendra said, her enthusiasm contagious.
Aunt Louisa set her knife on her plate and, slanting her head slightly, regarded Skye intensely. “Och, that explains the red bow Patches is wearin’. I thought perhaps ye were tryin’ to keep tabs on the little beasty.”
Unfortunately, Patches had a penchant for pouncing on Aunt Louisa’s ankles and making mischief in her yarn basket. She’d also left a dead mouse, it’s four tiny feet poking straight upward, atop the cushion of Aunt Louisa’s favorite chair in the salon.
Skye hadn’t been able to convince Aunt Louisa that meant Patches liked her. Cats only brought gifts to those they favored and wanted to share with, she’d explained. Aunt Louisa had sniffed and declared she was loath to contemplate what Patches might bring should she dislike her.
Waving her fingers, Skye indicated her earrings and brooch. “These are my first small attempts at seasonal gayness, since mourning rather limits me, presently.”
Approval shone in her aunt’s kind gaze. “They are lovely on ye.”
Not receiving any immediate objections to her idea, she rushed on, “I know the holiday isn’t widely observed in Scotland, but Mama and Papa always celebrated in England.” Skye’s father had been an Englishman, through and through, though he disdained drunken revelry. “It has always been my favorite time of year, and I thought, perhaps, by including a few of the simpler traditions, I mightn’t miss them quite so much this year…”
She trailed off as she voiced the pain squeezing her heart.
“Och, well, now.” Liam leaned forward, speculation glinting in his eyes, the same quicksilver shade as Kendra’s. Fingering the handle of his knife, he dipped his chin in a contemplative nod. “’Tisn’t illegal, per se.”
“What’s no’ illegal?”
Everyone swung their astounded attention to the entry. Bold as brass and wearing an equally bright smile, Quinn strode into the breakfast room, his gaze immediately fastening on Skye.
She barely suppressed a cry of delight.
He came! Oh, thank the divine powers. Quinn is here.
Prince woofed a warning and trotted to greet him. After circling and sniffing quite intrusively around Quinn’s ankles and bum, he padded back to Liam.
Kendra slipped him a bite of egg as he passed, and he wagged his bushy tail in thanks.
If everyone kept feeding the dog, he’d be as round as a goat expecting triplets before long.
“Christmas, ’tisn’t illegal,” Skye managed, sounding almost normal. Difficult to do with glee burbling behind her ribs and delight toppling her stomach over on itself. “We’re to have a Christmas at Eytone Hall this year.” She slid a quick glance to Liam. “That is, if Liam approves.”
Even if he said no, the only thing she wanted for Christmas stood framed in the entry as virile and handsome as she’d remembered.
Why had he come back?
Because he’d promised to?
Or was there another reason?
Chapter Seven
It was all Quinn could do to prevent himself from striding across the carpet, scooping Skye into his arms, and kissing her until they both grew dizzy.
Or Liam punched him.
She looked impossibly more fetching than the last time Quinn had seen her, three and a half weeks ago. Color blossomed across her sculpted ivory cheeks as she gifted him a beatific smile. He’d have walked across Scotland barefoot in January to see the luster of her incandescent smile directed toward him like that.
Even her drab ebony gown couldn’t detract from her loveliness. She’d deemed to wear gems today, so hopefully, that meant she was starting to heal from her parents’ deaths. He’d be right by her side from now on, to make certain she didn’t have to do so alone anymore.
Liam surged to his feet and came around the table. He clasped Quinn’s hand in a hearty grip and slapped his shoulder. “’Tis good to see ye. When did ye arrive?”
“Early this mornin’. I believe ’twas about quarter past three.” He glanced out the north-facing, frost-etched window to the stables beyond. “My horse went lame, forcin’ me to walk the last several miles. I didna want to disrupt the household so late, so I used the kitchen entrance.”
“But ’twas freezin’ last night.” Eyes wide, Kendra looked aghast. “Ye might’ve froze.”
“She’s right, Quinn. More than one Highlander has unexpectedly met his maker by underestimatin’ the frigid temperatures,” the Dowager Baroness Penderhaven said, adding a lump of sugar to her tea. “Why didna ye travel by coach?”
“Horseback is much faster.” He cast Skye a meaningful glance and was pleased to see her blue eyes widen in understanding and a tinge of pink sprout upon her cheeks. “Besides, I’m accustomed to the elements, and I really didna have any choice once Benedict went lame. We either kept goin’ or spent the night outdoors huddled under a bush, which presented a far greater risk of freezin’.”
Skye made a distressed sound then quickly dipped her chin and studied her porridge with admirable concentration.
Quinn barely suppressed a triumphant grin.
She cares.
Delight soared through him, sending a joyful symphony tunneling through his veins. “Benedict wouldna have thanked me for the latter either.” He skewed his mouth sideways, a trifle self-consciously. “He’s a wee bit spoiled. Likes his comfort, he does.”
“As do we all,” the dowager baroness murmured distractedly while giving Skye a perceptive glance. Not much escaped Liam�
�s mother’s hawk-like attention. Her focus shifted to Quinn, her keen gaze drilling into his soul. “Please, fill yer plate and join us.”
After a moment, Skye drew her gaze upward. “How is your horse?”
“Verra well. His leg has been tended to, and he’s warm and comfortable in the stables.” Quinn ambled to the sideboard and, after helping himself to a generous amount of food, considered the three empty seats. Without a hint a of reservation, he placed his plate in front of the chair beside Skye, fully aware his action spoke volumes to all present.
Fine.
Quinn wanted them all to know what he harbored in his lost and lonely soul.
He pointedly disregarded Liam’s dark eyebrows elevating an inch as he veered his gaze just as meaningfully at another chair.
Sorry, old chap.
“Ye entered through the kitchen?” Emeline asked, sending her husband a half-bewildered, half-concerned look. “Shouldna the doors be locked at night against vagabonds and the like?”
Sinking onto his seat and snapping his serviette open, Quinn wagged his eyebrows. “Who said they werena, my lady?”
Kendra giggled, and Skye’s rosy lips swept upward, too.
Her ladyship’s eyes rounded. Clearly uncertain how to respond, she cut Liam a glance, but with the aplomb of a princess, she wrested her surprise under control. “Quinn, ye ken we dinna stand on ceremony. Please call me Emeline.”
“How many times have I asked ye no’ to pick the locks?” Liam resumed his seat and leveled him a reproachful stare.
Quinn hitched a shoulder as he cut into his sausage. “I was tryin’ to be considerate and no’ wake yer household at the ungodly hour. I’m sure yer housekeeper and butler are grateful for my thoughtfulness even if ye are no’.”
Liam made a rude noise under his breath.
“Aye, so sneakin’ into our house in the middle of the night is considerate?” Arms folded, Kendra teased, mock annoyance in her tone. “What if ye’d disturbed a servant or Liam and found yerself shot as a result? I think that would’ve been quite inconsiderate. I really canna tolerate the sight of blood.”