A rotund, petulant matron carrying a basket containing a hissing, yowling cat had boarded the coach yesterday and attempted to commandeer both Berget’s and Mary’s spots: one for puss and one for Mrs. McCurdy who reeked of garlic and rank cheese.
Actually, the fetid odor might’ve been attributed to her stubby feet.
She’d ordered Mary to the conveyance’s other side where the companion would’ve been compelled to sit between two dirty chaps. The fetid smells wafting across the short expanse for the past three days suggested neither had seen the inside of a bathtub in a goodly while.
Berget had politely, but firmly, explained to Mrs. McCurdy that she could either sit on the other side of Mary, or if she preferred, between the men herself. Given her girth, that was certain to cause the trio discomfort.
Instead, the cat, McMouser, had the dubious honor of being crammed betwixt the men. From their fierce scowls and mumbled curses, neither was happy about the arrangement. McMouser’s—ridiculous name—incessant spitting and mewling confirmed he wasn’t pleased either.
Berget was rather enjoying her newfound independence and assertiveness.
She’d also been practicing speaking the King’s English rather than Scots. Her future employer had specifically asked she be able to do so, and she’d assured the registry that she could. Manifred had been British, and she’d lived in England those two miserable years before he died, so the task wasn’t beyond her. Besides, she was a Scottish viscount’s daughter and had been well-schooled in refinement and decorum.
She’d almost not revealed she was widowed, but the registry office had disclosed they’d been unable to fill the position for a cultured governess for over a year and didn’t think her new employer would object. They’d suggested she not make mention of the fact unless asked directly.
What difference did it make if Berget had been married, anyway?
Finding a well-bred young lady willing to live in the remote Highlands who claimed knowledge in the traditional educational subjects, and also spoke French, played the harp and lute, was skilled at archery and comportment lessons, and rode were welcome bonuses, she’d been informed.
Berget had forged her letters of recommendation, and felt marvelously unrepentant for duping the registry. She wasn’t quite as confident about misleading her new employer, however.
Nevertheless, she was qualified for the position. More so than the advertisement had required. The arrangement was mutually beneficial, she assured herself once again to silence her qualms. Her employer required a capable governess, and she’d needed to flee Edinburgh.
No one would be harmed by her subterfuge.
She was convinced she could perform the duties of the position with aplomb and skill. Why should she allow something as trivial as letters of recommendation or a dead husband to muck things up?
“We’ll be along momentarily.” Berget gave the innkeeper a reassuring smile then finished her tea. She’d truly like another cup, but time wouldn’t permit it.
“Aye. I’ll tell him,” he reluctantly agreed, veering his attention to the Scot, still wolfing down his food.
Was the man hollow to each of his muscular calves? Not that she generally paid any heed to men’s legs, but encased in cuaran boots, she couldn’t help but notice his were the size of small tree trunks.
Manifred’s had been the size of twigs. Thin, sapling twigs.
The proprietor clasped the door handle. “Yer mount’s ready as ye requested, Graeme.”
So, his name was Graeme. Given or surname?
She cocked her head. Either suited him.
The starving giant canted his head in acknowledgement while cramming a chunk of sausage in his mouth and seizing two pieces of bread in his ham-like fist. His unbound reddish-blond hair swung around his shoulders, the window-light catching the copper threaded in the wavy tresses.
“I’m near done, Barrie,” he managed around his mouthful of food, earning him a disgusted noise in her throat from Mary.
While Berget couldn’t help but notice his rudeness, ’twas his speech that captured her interest. He possessed one of those impossibly low, melodic voices. The kind that reverberated like muted thunder deep inside his chest. Powerful and mesmerizing and mysteriously rich. The type of voice sonnets and odes ought to be read aloud by and words of passion whispered in a lover’s ear.
Dinna be a clot heid, Berget Enid Tristina Jonston.
“I’ll let the driver ken. He isna goin’ to be happy.” The proprietor turned his regard on Berget, his troubled gaze sweeping over her attire. Pity pleated the corners of his eyes, softening his features.
How well she knew that look.
“Thank you. As I said, we’ll be along shortly. His schedule won’t be delayed on our account.” Berget dipped her chin in dismissal, an art her mother had perfected.
This widow façade had worked well so far. She’d have to abandoned it when she reached her destination, of course. No child wanted a governess who looked like an oversized raven hovering about.
Rising, Mary released an exaggerated sigh. “Thank the divine powers we’ll arrive today. I dinna ken how much longer I can tolerate sharin’ cramped quarters with foul-tempered felines, unwashed bodies, and uncouth louts.”
She slid a sideways look at the Scot, in the process of wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. A grimace twisted her face and pulled her lips downward. She hadn’t complained all of the journey—only every waking moment.
At her pointed insult, he chuckled and stood, noisily pushing his chair back. It seemed as if he did deliberately act the boor. Taller and broader of shoulder than any man of Berget’s acquaintance, he possessed a confident, animal-like grace as he strode to the door. It surprised her, given his immense size and the vast quantity of food he’d consumed.
She’d expected a plodding oaf.
“Praise be to St. Christopher and St. Michael he willna be joinin’ us,” Mary muttered with a hard thrust of her round chin toward his expansive back while crossing herself.
Instinct told Berget he wouldn’t willingly choose coach travel. His type preferred to be in control, atop a horse, breathing the fresh air, the wind whipping through his hair. She could almost see him bent low over his horse’s back, racing across the moors, his war cry echoing harshly.
There went her imagination again.
“We’d never all fit inside. ’Tis too crowded as ’tis,” her companion grumbled.
Berget stifled an impatient sigh at Mary’s crossness.
Only a few more hours, and they’d part company. Still, she was grateful the girl had agreed to accompany her for a pittance if Berget covered her expenses. Doing so had reduced her already meager funds, but traveling alone was too dangerous. Even for a widow.
Suddenly, Graeme pivoted and flashed a breathtaking smile, revealing strong, white teeth. His eyes, a merry shade of blue reminding her of summer sky, twinkled with repressed amusement.
One thick forearm clasped to his chest, he swept into an elegant bow, astonishing considering his stature, and murmured in a perfectly cultured baritone, “I wish ye a ’coimhead gu dìomhairs and safe travels, wherever yer destination might be.”
God’s speed and safe travels?
Berget went perfectly still, wariness and awareness battering her. His earlier impolite behavior wasn’t easily dismissed, but even a pessimistic widow such as herself couldn’t deny he was a magnificent specimen of manhood.
He possessed features too wildly rugged to be handsome, but nonetheless were striking in their architecture. A wide, high forehead, sculpted cheeks, a chiseled chin, and a granite-like square jaw portrayed a warrior’s countenance.
His regard dipped to her bodice for the briefest of moments. So swiftly in fact, she wondered if she hadn’t imagined the downward flick of his eyes before his focus trained on her lace-covered face once more.
To her utter astonishment and absolute consternation, her stomach flipped, and her dratted bosoms dared to perk to attention,
as if to say, Look at us again, please sir. Never in her life had such a thing occurred. Ever. In fact, her flesh had shrunk away from Manifred’s cold, thin fingers.
“Impudent Highland scoundrel,” Mary muttered.
Highland scoundrel, indeed.
Holding herself immobile, Berget refused to acknowledge he’d rattled her composure. She also ordered her breasts to behave like a proper widow’s should. Soft and droopy and completely unaffected.
The insolent, hard-nippled things ignored her.
He gave a wicked wink before breaking into a thick brogue once more. “Who kens, lass. Mayhap we’ll meet again in the no’ so verra distant future.”
Chapter Three
Killeaggian Tower
Later that day
In one agile movement, Graeme Kennedy swung his leg across Manannán and slid from the saddle. He arched his back, stretching his arms wide. God’s bones, ’twas good to be home. He’d been gone over a fortnight. The third time in as many months he’d taken extended trips to either Inverness or Edinburgh on business.
He despised the city, Edinburgh in particular.
The noise, the crowds, the vermin—not all the four-legged type—and the godawful, permeating stench. He drew a deep breath into his lungs, relishing the Highland’s crisp, fresh air. Soon, the heather would bloom, blanketing the hillsides and glens in lush purple hues and scenting the Highlands with sweet perfume.
There was nothing as beautiful as the Highlands in August, except for a woman’s naked form. That was God’s ultimate masterpiece.
“Welcome home, Laird.” Robbie grinned and patted the stallion’s wither. Manannán tossed his head, and pranced sideways. “Shh,” the boy crooned softly. “Yer lady friends missed ye.”
The stallion snorted as if to say, “Indeed. Take me to my harem at once.”
Passing his horse’s reins to Robbie, Graeme tousled the stable boy’s hair. “Thank ye, lad. Brush him down well for me.”
“Och, I shall.” Robbie ran his hand down the horse’s neck. “He’s a beauty, he is.”
Graeme removed his bag from behind the saddle before the boy led the stallion to the stables. Returning the many greetings directed his way, he nodded and raised a hand, his heart swelling.
Damn his eyes, but he loved this place and its people.
That was why he’d sworn to himself and to Sion as his brother lay dying, he’d strive to be the best laird he could possibly be. To make these lands productive and protect his clan, crofters, and the village until his last breath.
He needn’t have stayed at the Hare and Hog’s Inn last evening. Killeaggian was but a three-and-a-half-hour ride by horse, closer to seven by coach. But his meeting with Logan Rutherford, Coburn Wallace, Liam Mackay, Broden McGregor, and Bryston McPherson had lasted far into the night, and they’d all imbibed more spirits than was wise.
The others had departed before dawn, Rutherford and Wallace particularly eager to see their brides, but Graeme had lingered to break his fast.
The vision of the crow-like woman in the inn’s parlor intruded upon his musings again.
Nae. No’ crow.
A graceful black swan.
Her atrocious garb hid her face and figure, all but her strawberry-red mouth, delicate alabaster jawline, and a rather mutinous chin. That she was recently widowed was apparent, and her flawless manners and regal air revealed she was likely of noble birth. Young, too.
An aura of mystery surrounded her, and he couldn’t deny he’d wanted to see her face. To discover if the rest of her features were as arresting as those below the obsidian lace of her veil. What he could see was a complete contrast to the ugly garb she wore.
He’d also been deliberately obnoxious, simply to rile her stuffy companion who’d looked upon him as if he were offal or cow droppings. It wasn’t the first nor would it be the last time he behaved in that manner. Snobbery irritated the hell out of him.
“Welcome home, Graeme,” Brody, the blacksmith, called, lifting an anvil as if it were no heavier than a feather.
“’Tis good to be back,” Graeme returned. “Please take a look at Manannán’s left rear hoof. I think a nail may have come loose in his shoe.”
“Aye. I shall. As soon as I’m done here,” Brody said, slamming a piece of metal onto the anvil.
Graeme’s mind ventured back to the reason he’d been at the inn in the first place. All the Scots he’d met with shared the same concern he did: they feared another Jacobite rising was imminent.
Scotland teetered on a precipice, and an inner sense told him change was coming to this great land. Change that would forever divide her people and threaten the clans’ very existence.
He loved his country, would die for her and felt helpless to stop the inevitable.
Och, he’d ponder that uncertainty later. For now, he was home, and he was hungry. He took the front stairs two at a time, grinning as he entered the keep.
He employed no butler, nor a valet for that matter. Whomever happened to be nearest the door when a knock came upon the thick wood, answered the door.
His nieces called out an exuberant greeting.
“Uncle Graeme! Uncle Graeme! Ye’re home!”
They ran to him, wearing identical pale-yellow frocks, their little arms outstretched, and curly hair flying about their shoulders.
“Aye, caileagan brèagha—”darling girls—“I am.”
He scooped them into his arms and planted a kiss on their downy cheeks. Six-year-old Cora and her seven-year-old sister Elena smelled like sunshine and cinnamon and shortbread. He’d been more of a father than an uncle to them these past five years since Sion’s passing.
As it always did when thinking of his older brother’s senseless death, Graeme’s chest tightened, the pain still rapier sharp after all of these years. For a mighty warrior like Sion to succumb from an infected foot that had turned putrid, didn’t bear thinking upon. His death had thrust Graeme into the role of laird, something he’d never coveted.
It only proved how very little control any of them had upon their destinies.
What was meant to be, would be. Such was life.
Graeme knew there were whispers he ought to marry his brother’s widow. Sassenach or not, Marjorie was beloved by the people, and he was fairly certain she’d be amendable to the suggestion. Verra amendable, he’d wager.
He, however, wasn’t as certain a match between them was wise. She’d known a husband’s devotion and love. He didn’t feel that way about her and was convinced he never would. Besides, his own short marriage had proved disastrous, and he’d vowed to never trod down that prickly path again.
Cora tipped her head back and grinned at him, revealing another missing front tooth. “Did ye bring me somethin’?”
“Cora,” admonished her sister, though curiosity gleamed in her bright eyes as well, “Ye ken ’tis rude to ask.”
Hugging them until they squealed, Graeme chuckled. “Have I ever returned without bringin’ ye a token?”
The girls shook their red heads, their sky-blue eyes so like his brother’s, wide with expectation.
“Let me speak to yer mother and make certain ye’re deservin’ of a gift.” With another kiss to their cheeks, Graeme strode into the great hall, still toting a niece in each arm.
Stuffed trophies adorned one wall of the large chamber, while shields and an assortment of weaponry dating back hundreds of years were displayed on the other. A seldom used minstrels’ galley festooned with deep blue draperies occupied the area directly opposite the entry. The past two generations of Kennedys used the newer formal dining room, drawing room, and ballroom for entertaining guests.
Wearing a simple sage-green gown, the Kennedy tartan pinned in place at her left shoulder, their mother turned from speaking to a pair of serving girls. Marjorie’s face broke into a wide, welcoming smile.
The kind of tender, secretive smile a woman greeting her lover gave.
Unease skittered across his shoulders.
She extended her hands and crossed to him, her long flame-colored hair, the same vibrant shade as her daughters’, swishing past her shoulders. Standing on her toes, she kissed his cheek, pressing her breasts into his chest the merest bit. “Welcome home, Graeme. We’ve missed you.”
Aye, something a good deal warmer than sisterly affection shone in her treacle-brown eyes and colored her simple greeting. He’d long suspected his resemblance to Sion accounted for her attraction to him, rather than an interest in him for himself.
She probably wasn’t even aware she’d transferred her feelings. For over a year after Sion’s death, she’d been a broken woman, and only the love for her daughters had kept her from sinking into complete despair.
“Thank ye.” He set the girls down before crossing his arms in mock consternation. Raising a brow in a severe manner, he asked in his most serious voice, “Have my leannans been good in my absence?”
“I suppose as good as a Kennedy can ever be,” came their mother’s wry reply, tempered by a fond smile as she cupped the backs of their heads.
He was almost afraid to ask what they’d been up to. Especially since they thrust out their lower lips, pointed their attentions to the floor, and shifted from barefoot to barefoot.
Where, by all the saints, were their shoes?
And more on point, what had the mischievous imps done this time?
More earthworms in the kitchen vegetables basket, because they needed a home with plenty of food? Becoming stuck in trees much too large for little lassies to climb, requiring a clan’s member or a tolerant uncle to rescue them? Sneaking into the library in the middle of the night to make paper dolls from silly old books?
He still winced when he considered the marvelous tomes that had fallen prey to their antics.
Och, the Kennedys were a brave, headstrong, and inquisitive lot, and these bonnie lasses kept everyone on their toes. Far past time they spent part of their days in the schoolroom, but finding a qualified governess willing to endure the isolation and hardships of the Highlands had proven more difficult than either he or Marjorie had anticipated.
To Seduce a Highland Scoundrel Page 2