Rosy color bloomed across her cheeks, and she closed her eyes for a blink, as if uttering the loathsome words aloud was more than she could bear.
That she would reveal something so utterly personal to a stranger bespoke her desperation. No women would lie about something so abhorrent. Most women he knew were ignorant of such obscene happenings.
“My parents knew beforehand and didn’t care. In exchange for five thousand pounds, I was his.” She flicked him a brief glance. “You see, Manifred needed to wed to inherit a sizable fortune, and my father’s coffers were quite empty.”
Pain and betrayal riddled her murmured words.
“But ye said ye’ve been widowed for two years.” He studied her, watching every nuance for a hint of deceit. He detected none. “Why do ye need a position now? Is it because yer husband didna provide for ye as ye said earlier?”
The ravished gaze she turned upon him, her eyes a deep violet from some inner torment, stabbed him straight in the heart. He had the ridiculous impulse to sweep her into his arms and comfort her. To vow she’d never need fear again.
“Partially,” she said, staring at some point behind his shoulder. “I’ve lived with my parents since shortly after he died.”
That took him aback. If she was the widow of a wealthy man, why was she destitute?
Did he have a gambling problem?
Was she a spendthrift?
He raked a critical gaze over her ugly gown. If this was an example of her wardrobe, she hadn’t been frivolous in that regard, for certes.
“My father needed funds again. So once more, even though I’m of age and I objected most strenuously, he arranged another match for me. To a man even worse than Manifred.”
God’s bloody bones.
How was that possible?
She thrust her chin up, proud and defiant and glorious. “I’d have died before I allowed Leslie Warrington to touch me, the lecherous degenerate. Or before I permitted myself to be bought again. So I searched for a position, sold my possessions to pay for the journey, and fled without telling anyone where I went. That’s why I used an assumed name.”
That still didn’t explain why she lived with her parents, but she’d revealed far more than he’d anticipated. Admiration thrummed through him for her bravery and daring. He didn’t doubt her sordid tale. It astonished and liberated in an odd way.
He rose and stepped near her chair.
Berget eyed him suspiciously, a vulnerability in her gaze that fueled his anger toward her parents and that Warrington slime. Clearly, she didn’t trust Graeme, but she also silently pleaded for him to believe her.
Believe and trust. Not exactly the same thing. One could believe someone without trusting them.
He suspected she didn’t trust anyone and had good reason not to. How awful it must’ve been for her to be at the whim of uncaring parents and a pervert for a husband.
What was it about this particular woman that called to him?
With an undefinable pressure behind his breastbone, he knelt on one knee beside her, using his thumb to wipe away the dampness on her petal-soft cheek.
“I believe ye.”
But he’d be unwise to claim he trusted her yet, because he didn’t. Not mere hours after meeting.
Wonder and relief widened her eyes, and she breathed, “You do? Truly?”
“Aye,” He covered her small hands with one of his. “And I vow to ye, I shall keep ye safe. Ye needna fear any longer. Ye’re welcome at Killeaggian for as long as ye want to stay.”
Her gorgeous eyes welled with moisture and, despite blinking several times, the tears spilled over onto her porcelain cheeks. “Thank you…Graeme.”
Whether it was the use of his name, or that he couldn’t bear to see her sorrow, or that he’d finally admitted the need to hold her in his arms prevailed above all else, but he leaned in and gathered her into his embrace.
He never could stand to see a woman cry. It eviscerated him, releasing a primal urge to soothe and coddle.
She gasped and stiffened as he encircled her, but he murmured, “Shh, leannan. Cha tig cron sam bith thu a-nis. Nae harm will come to ye now,” into her ear as he rubbed the fine bones of her spine.
A shudder rippled through her small frame, followed by a gasping sob. “I’m sorry,” she managed, trying to pull away, but he held her firm, whispering soothing words in Gaelic.
“Dinna be.”
Finally, she slumped into him and wept.
Several moments passed before she collected herself. She blinked up at him, her lashes spikey, her nose red, and her cheeks damp. And Graeme swore by all the saints, he’d never seen a more exquisite face.
“Feelin’ a wee bit better?” He brushed a stray tendril of dark honey-toned hair off her wet cheeks.
“Yes,” she said, averting her face. “But I’m mortified to have come undone like that on my first day here. I don’t normally cry.”
With his forefinger, he turned her face back to his. “Ye’ve nothin’ to be ashamed of, lass. I think ye’ve had a hard time of it and have been verra brave for a verra long time.”
Her gaze shifted to his mouth before darting away, and awareness tingled through him, sparking his lust once more.
She desired him.
She was a widow with a widow’s needs. And the Good Lord and all the saints knew his body hungered for her. Was ravenous for her. He’d been without a woman for months. Far too long.
Even as his mind screamed a warning, he leaned in and brushed his lips over hers.
God. So verra sweet.
She remained perfectly still for an instant before her mouth slackened and moved under his. Awkward and unsure.
Raging desire buffeted Graeme, igniting a wildfire in his blood so swiftly and powerfully, his head spun dizzyingly. He prodded the corner of her mouth with his tongue and, with a half-moan, half-sigh, she opened to him. When he touched his tongue to hers, she went taut, then after a brief hesitation, tentatively met his thrusts.
Damnation, if he didn’t know better, he’d think her an untried maid. Had her husband never kissed her? Mayhap not. Had he used her as he did the boys he preferred?
Nae. Nae.
His mind screamed no to the revolting thought and to his taking advantage of her weakened emotional state.
This was wrong.
It went against all he stood for.
He was the laird.
Berget was a governess and was now under his protection. Which meant, she was forbidden to him. His honor dictated it as much as his word did. Taking care to keep his expression neutral, he set her from him and stood.
“Graeme?” Confusion shone in her eyes.
Despite his descent into stupidity, she must know her place. “Ye do give me reason to doubt ye’re morally fit to school my nieces.”
God damn ye for an arse, ye cold-hearted scunner.
Blanching as if slapped, her rosy mouth parted on a tiny gasp.
He recognized the instant her passion turned to chagrin then glorious fury, for she swiftly pointed her attention to his boots. Her breathing shallow and rapid, her lips pressed into a thin ribbon, she held herself so stiffly, she might shatter if he sneezed.
“I’ll have bathwater sent up for ye. Tomorrow, I’ll take ye on a tour of the keep and grounds.” Without a backward glance, he strode from her chamber, leaving the door open.
Chapter Nine
Over the next week, Berget settled into a routine with her charges. After breakfast with their mother and uncle in the great hall, she spent the morning in the schoolroom. Camden had yet to return from Edinburgh, and she wasn’t certain whether to be relieved or nervous.
With each passing day, she grew more attached to Cora and Elena, and more exasperated with Laird Graeme Kennedy who all but ignored her.
Her pupils proved to be intelligent, eager to learn, but also spirited. Unaccustomed to sitting for lengthy stretches, the girls became restless after a couple of hours. If the weather permitted, Berget took th
e lasses for a lengthy walk before their midday meal. They visited the stables, gardens, even the family cemetery. She used the opportunity to instruct them about flora and fauna and the climate.
When the weather prohibited them from venturing outdoors, she tutored them in needlework, music, etiquette and comportment, and even dance lessons. The latter was what they were engaged in at present.
Her back to the entrance, Berget demonstrated the first steps of the minuet while the girls imitated her movements.
“’Tis quite simple, girls. Four straight steps in any direction.” Step. Step. Step. Step.
“When I add a Sink and Rise to the first step, ’tis called a Bouree.” She dipped to show them.
“And when I add the Sink and Rise to the fourth step, ’tis called a Half Coupee.” She sank again.
Humming, she demonstrated the entire process once more as Cora and Elena, their little faced pinched with concentration and limbs gangly, bobbled along across from her.
“Och, ye canna do it properly without a partner, lass.”
She started and glanced behind her.
Graeme’s large frame filled the doorframe, and from the amused grin slanting his mouth, he’d been observing her efforts for some time. As usual, he wore a belted plaid, a fine white linen shirt, long plaid waistcoat, and black neckerchief tied at his strong neck.
Today his woolen jacket was a dark blue and deepened his eye color to indigo. The fabric strained against his corded muscles, reminding her once more of his powerful build. Must he be so damned virile? So blatantly masculine?
The fury that had seized her that first night as he questioned her morality had gradually abated, leaving her more confused about him. He’d kissed her. True, she’d responded like a wanton and after a restless night, admitted to herself that she’d been as much at fault as he.
Truth be told, he was within his rights to dismiss her, and that he hadn’t gave her much to ponder. He’d abdicated his promise to take her on a tour of Killeaggian though. Instead, Lady Marjorie had done so.
Berget angled her head. “My laird.”
She hid her satisfied smile as a line of disapproval appeared between his eyes. He couldn’t very well insist she address him as Graeme in front of his nieces. Not if they were to observe propriety. Which he was most adamant must be adhered to.
In five sleek strides, he was at her side, extending his too-big hand. “Miss Jonston, please allow me to partner with ye.”
Her pulse fluttered indecently in excitement. Stupid thing, flitting about like a covey of nervous quail.
He sounded the perfect gentleman. Did she detect a hint of lingering remorse in his piercing blue eyes?
Cora and Elena burst into fits of giggles.
“Uncle Graeme, ye canna dance a min-ette,” Cora said, mis-pronouncing the word. “Ye only ken how to dance the sword dance and jigs.”
Jigs? Berget couldn’t imagine this brawny Highlander prancing about in such a manner.
“Nae, Cora. Ye’re wrong,” Elena argued. “He’s danced at weddin’s and such, too.”
Berget eyed him uncertainly, her stomach queerly tense. Except for meals—which surprisingly, she was expected to take with the family, as were the girls—he’d avoided her since sharing, what to her, had been a bone-melting kiss.
However, the kiss had been nothing but a cruel test to him. A test she’d failed most soundly. That knowledge still stung her pride. But she had learned her lesson. He wasn’t to be trusted.
Oh, how she’d chided herself fiercely many times a day for being so utterly imprudent as to kiss him back. In all honesty, she’d expected him to pack her aboard a coach the next morning. Gratitude that he hadn’t made her redouble her efforts to be an exceptional governess.
To her astonishment, she’d also found a politely worded note of apology slipped beneath her door the next morn. Graeme assured her his behavior was a mistake he deeply regretted and that she was safe from any further advances from him. He made no mention of his slur to her character.
Should she be insulted or relieved?
That niggling question she’d asked dozens of times the past week and was no closer to an answer than she had been upon reading the short missive.
“Miss Jonston?” he said once more, lifting his hand an inch.
With no viable excuse to refuse him, Berget addressed her rapt pupils. “Girls, before you begin dancing, always curtsy to your partner. He will bow to you.”
She dipped, and Graeme bent at the waist, a wry smile quirking his bold mouth.
Both girls followed suit, though Cora’s tongue sticking between her lips bespoke the effort it took her not to stumble.
He lightly gripped Berget’s hand, and her heart fluttered against her ribs like the frantic wings of a snared sparrow. Oh, this wouldn’t do. Not at all. She mustn’t allow him to affect her. The frenzied flapping slowed to a manageable tremor.
Careful to keep her focus straight ahead, she proceeded through the steps with him. To her astonishment, he hummed—slightly off-key—which struck the girls as hysterical.
They clung to each other, laughing and pointing. And then once more, they awkwardly attempted to mimic the steps and movements.
“It does rather sting a mon’s dignity to be the object of his nieces’ amusement,” he murmured from the side of his mouth.
Cutting him a sideways glance, her stomach pitched, and she missed a step upon seeing his devastating smile. Why, it almost looked compassionate. Tender even. “They adore you.”
“Och, and I them.”
He’d make a wonderful father.
The notion caused the most peculiar warmth to bud in her middle, burgeoning ever hotter and expanding outward. Was he considering marriage to Lady Marjorie? It made sense, considering how fond he was of his nieces. She had been the wife of the late laird, after all.
The earlier warmth disappeared, replaced by…well, she didn’t know precisely what the peculiar feeling was. But it was wholly uncomfortable and just as unwelcome.
Clearing her throat, she cast an eye to the girls.
Hand in hand, they skipped and romped around, having completely abandoned their dancing lessons.
“Are ye still sore from yer fall?” Graeme inquired solicitously, drawing her to a stop but still holding her ungloved hand. His blue-eyed gaze swept her from head to foot, and a glint of appreciation darkened his eyes to cobalt, making her glad she’d worn her rose gown today.
Of the six she’d brought with her, this frock was her second favorite.
Not trusting herself to speak, and very much aware of the large, coarse fingers cradling hers, she shook her head. He’d already alluded she lacked morals. Holding her bare hand was most improper.
Was this another test?
Well, she’d not fail again if it was. She withdrew her hand and after linking her fingers behind her back, said, “I’m quite recovered.”
She wasn’t. Bruises colored her bum and left shoulder.
A knowing look entered his eyes. Not quite approval, but as if he knew she didn’t mind his touch. “Ye will let Marjorie or me ken if ye need anythin’?”
“I have all that I require, thank you.” She glanced to the doorway, half-expecting the kind lady to appear. “Lady Marjorie must’ve been anticipating a governess for her daughters for some time. The schoolroom is well stocked, I cannot imagine anything she hasn’t thought of.”
Did Berget dare ask to borrow books from the keep’s absolutely wondrous library?
Her first day here, she’d taken her charges there, explaining to them once they’d learned to their letters, they could read any of the hundreds of books lining the dark wooden shelves.
Except for Cora and Elena’s bedtime story—after which their uncles and mother bid them goodnight—and supervising the girls during supper, Berget’s evenings were her own. She’d grown quite bored, sitting alone in her chamber with nothing to do.
“Might I borrow a book from the library?” she asked on imp
ulse.
It was his turn to look taken aback. “Of course. Ye needna ask. This is yer home now. If ye’re interested in a particular subject, I can point ye in the right direction. My grandfather had the books alphabetized by subject.”
Appreciation squeezed her heart. Surely, that’s all the sensation was. “Thank you, but I believe I can manage.”
A governess who couldn’t properly find her way around a library had no business teaching children.
Graeme, clasped his arms behind his back, too. “Has Marjorie approached ye about helpin’ her with the plans for the cèilidh in three weeks? ’Tis to be a grand celebration.”
Berget had never attended a cèilidh. She wasn’t sure if she was expected to participate in the gathering either. She supposed there was time enough to ask that later.
He glanced to his nieces, who’d abandoned their dancing lessons to fuss over Frigg’s eight wriggling puppies in a box near the hearth.
“She mentioned the celebration but said I had enough to keep me busy just attending to the lasses.” Berget couldn’t prevent a longing look toward Frigg and her bairns. Mother had forbidden any pets. As an only child neglected by her parents, she’d been lonely and longed for a kitten or puppy.
Graeme must’ve caught her wistful sigh. He glanced between her and the mewling pups, born just two days ago. “Have ye held one yet?”
She jerked her attention to him. “No. I didn’t know ’twas permitted.”
He leveled her such an odd look, a flush worked its scorching way from her square bodice to her hairline.
“Come.” Taking her arm, he led her to the straw-lined box Frigg lay in. At his approach, the deerhound wagged her tail excitedly. He squatted and rubbed her ears before running a hand down her back. “There’s a bonnie lass.”
Frigg’s tail flopped faster. Her adoration was endearing and somewhat embarrassing.
“Sit down, Miss Jonston.” He indicated a place beside the bed. “Is there a pup in particular ye’d like to hold?”
Sporting a crest-shaped white patch on her chest, a tiny puppy weakly lifted her head. “That one.” Berget pointed as she settled to the floor. “She’s much smaller than the others. Her mother won’t mind?”
To Seduce a Highland Scoundrel Page 7