“If you don’t marry that young woman and give her a reason to stay with you, then you’re not half as intelligent as I thought you were.”
With that, Digby gave a bow respectful enough to please a duke, never mind the low born specimen they both knew him to be, and then left him alone.
It was a few seconds before Ross let out the shaky breath he was holding. How the devil had this happened? He’d come back to Scotland hoping to lick his wounds and live with his demons in peace without bothering the rest of the world, or having it bother him. What he’d seen of life had convinced him that most people were not worth saving, certainly not fighting for. Not when all the good ones got blown to smithereens fighting for those who wouldn’t piss on them if they were on fire.
That perhaps there were good people out there, good people who might even want him around, want to know him—and not just because they stood a chance of survival fighting beside him—that was a new discovery, and one it was hard to accept.
He had brothers, and from what he’d seen they seemed like decent fellows. Spoiled, soft Sassenachs, yes, but decent.
Digby’s words rang in his ears and he remembered how Mrs Murray had cried over him and his injuries when he’d come home, and then he remembered Freddie. Freddie, who was always by his side when he woke, holding his hand and wiping his fevered brow, just as Sam had predicted. He remembered her soft smiles and softer words, and hearing her weep for him when she thought he was sleeping.
Samuel and Sampson wouldn’t let her alone with him, but he couldn’t blame them for that. Though what the devil they thought he could do in this state was beyond him. He could barely stand without his knees trembling, let alone tumble Freddie onto the bed, no matter how he wanted to.
As if he’d conjured her with the thought, there was a gentle knock at his door, and she peeked around it.
“You’re awake,” she said, smiling as she entered the room, closing the door behind her.
“Aye,” he said, telling himself it was the after-effects of the fever that was making his heart throw itself against his ribs in such a foolish fashion. “I am.”
She came and sat beside him, placing the back of her hand against his forehead.
“No fever,” she said with a happy sigh.
“No,” he agreed, drinking in the sight of her. Her hair tumbled about her face in silky waves, pinned a little haphazardly and with no great care. His fingers itched to remove the pins that had survived and let it all down, to feel the softness over his skin. “Where are yer guard dogs?” he asked, his voice quiet.
Freddie shrugged. “They’ve gone down to the village. There’s only Mrs Murray here and—”
“And she agreed to keep her mouth shut,” Ross said with a grimace.
Freddie blushed and looked a little mortified.
“I’ll… I’ll go if you prefer,” she said, getting to her feet.
Ross reached out and grabbed her hand, tugging her back down. He sighed, reaching out to touch a finger to her cheek. The softness of her skin made his chest ache with longing.
“Ye ought not be here, alone with me,” he said, keeping his voice gentle. “It’s not that I want ye to go, it’s only….”
“Only that you don’t want me to stay enough,” she said, the words quite matter-of–fact, though sadness shone in her eyes.
“God, no,” Ross snapped, aggrieved and frustrated and not knowing what it was he wanted to say to her. “I want ye to stay far too much,” he muttered, pulling her down on top of him.
She fell against his chest with a squeak and he turned her onto her back, ignoring the pain that lanced through his shoulder. His hand cupped her face, stroked her hair, and then sought out all the hair pins as he’d wanted to, and threw them aside.
Freddie stared up at him and made no sound of protest. She just watched him, trust in her eyes.
“Ye make me want things I’ve no business having, mo leannan,” he said, his voice low.
Freddie reached up to him and slid her arms about his neck. “But I want them too, Ross,” she said, and tugged his mouth down to hers.
He let her kiss him: slow, lingering, inexperienced kisses, her lips so sweet and tentative that the ache in his heart expanded, filling his chest with dangerous emotions.
“Stop,” he said gruffly. “I’m injured, not dead and ye don’t know what ye’re playing at.”
“I think I do,” she said, her eyes steady on his.
“Happen ye do,” he said, knowing she was an adult the same as he was, but she didn’t know how cruel the world could be, not like he did. “It’s nae worth the risk, lass. It … it will only make things more difficult, for us both.”
Ross took a deep breath and prayed for patience, for the will to behave himself. In chagrin, he realised the only thing keeping him for taking her here and now was the worry he was too weak to acquit himself with any pride. If not he’d take her at her word and give in to what they both wanted. The realisation that he was a selfish bastard was not a new one.
He moved away from her, doing his best to ignore her obvious disappointment.
“Come here,” he said, sitting up and opening his arms to her.
He smiled as she snuggled against him, her head on his chest.
“I’m not hurting you?” she asked.
“Na,” he said, hearing a tremor in his voice he hoped she hadn’t noticed. Holy God, what the devil was wrong with him? He’d be snivelling like a maid by the end of the day at this rate. Yet no one but Mrs Murray had ever cared a damn for him when he was a young man. Even when he’d sold out and come home, it was only Mrs Murray who’d been happy he’d survived, and Digby had stayed as he’d had no option, or so he’d thought.
Now he had Digby professing his lifelong loyalty and service, four brothers insisting that they wanted to know him, and… and Freddie staring up at him as if she thought him worthy of her affection.
It was overwhelming and unsettling, and he didn’t know what to do with all the excess emotions smothering him and holding him captive. Part of him wanted to weep with the relief of knowing he didn’t have to be alone anymore, but another part just wanted to get away from it, to leave it all behind and not have to face it, because it couldn’t last. Sooner or later he’d be an obnoxious bastard and frighten everyone away, and what then?
“Talk to me,” he said, finding his heart was racing, that odd panicky sensation stealing over him again.
“What shall I talk about?” Freddie asked, tilting her head to look up at him.
“Anything,” he said. “Everything. Tell me about yourself, your life.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Tell me your secrets, and I’ll keep them safe for ye.”
So, Freddie talked, and Ross listened. He listened to how she’d had an idyllic life with loving parents and every advantage a young woman could want. He heard of her excitement the year she was due to come out, her laughing bet with her friend Bunty about who would snare the most handsome husband, and her devastation when her parents died of typhus.
His heart ached when he heard how she’d taken the only job she could find, working for his bastard of a father as governess to the little twins. Thank God the man’s wife had been kind and the brute was rarely at home. He even felt a rush of affection for Sam as he discovered how he’d looked out for her, though this was tempered with an unreasonable amount of jealousy at the knowledge they’d known each other well, long before Freddie had come to Scotland.
She was here with him now, though. It wasn’t Sam she sought, though he was a gentleman, and a handsome one at that. Freddie wanted him. The only thing he didn’t understand was why the hell that was.
Exhaustion crept up on him as he discovered this question was too difficult to answer, and he closed his eyes and drifted to sleep with Freddie’s soft voice inviting him to sweeter dreams than usual.
Chapter 18
“Wherein Ross battles the past and the future.”
Freddie watched Ross sleep,
her heart full of emotion and—
well, in all honesty—lust.
Her memory returned with dreadful regularity to the time they’d shared before he’d left for London. With little effort he’d turned her into a creature of sensation, wanting and needy for his touch. Yet no matter how she told herself she ought to feel ashamed for the way she’d responded to him, she could only pray he would make her feel that way again, and that this time he’d not regret it.
He was such a handsome devil. In sleep, the harsh contours of his face softened, and the often serious line of his mouth became a sensual curve to which she longed to press her own lips. His eyelashes were a thick golden sweep, far too long and feminine for such a masculine face. The shirt he wore gaped open, showing an expanse of his powerful chest, and the desire to slide her hand beneath the linen and touch him was so overwhelming she knew she had to leave. Sam would be back soon, and he’d likely box her ears if he discovered her alone with him again. He’d been trying so hard to be a chaperone to her, to keep her safe. She knew he was motivated by guilt at his father’s behaviour, and so she didn’t like to berate him for it.
There would be a time, soon, when she would not leave, however. She’d already decided. Though she was no femme fatale, she didn’t need the benefit of experience to know Ross wanted her. She could see it in his eyes, feel it in the tenderness with which he touched her, spoke to her. Beneath all that gentleness was a powerful force that he held back, held fiercely in check, never allowing his own desire to overwhelm her.
Yes, Ross Moncreiffe wanted her, but more than that, he needed her. He might not know it, but he did, and she needed to make him see that.
Freddie didn’t need anyone to tell her she was taking a terrible risk, that there was no guarantee she’d break though his defences and make him admit that he wanted her to stay with him, but she had to try.
Daring to lean down and press a kiss to his forehead, Freddie sighed with longing and slid from the bed, taking care not to wake him, and went in search of Mrs Murray.
***
“I think you ought to wait a bit longer, another day at least, sir.”
Digby stood wringing his hands in distress as Ross flung the bedcovers back.
“Ach, quit yer bellyaching, Digby. If I lay in this bed another day, I’ll go off ma head.”
“Well, perhaps if I made you up a bed in the study,” Digby said, brightening a little. “A change of scenery, perhaps?”
“No, damn ye! Ye are nae my wet nurse. I’m getting up and anyone who tries to stop me will exit the room via the window” Ross snapped, maddened not only to be babied so, but to have the aggravating doubt in his mind that Digby might be right. He was tired and irritable, and so tired of being tired and irritable that he was living up to his own description as a foul-mouthed curmudgeon. “I’m going to get dressed and go downstairs and have some breakfast sitting at a table, and there’d best be some meat, Digby. I’ll not face another morning of invalid food, do ye hear me?”
“I imagine Mrs Murray can hear you in the kitchen, sir,” Digby retorted with a dignified sniff. “Seeing as how you’re bellowing loud enough to wake the dead.”
“Bring me my kilt,” Ross barked, annoyed to discover he needed to hold onto the bedpost, and that lying down again didn’t seem such a terrible idea.
Through will power and sheer pig-headed stubbornness, he dressed and made it to the dining room, where Sampson and Samuel were already tucking into a hearty breakfast.
“Ross!” they both exclaimed, getting up and going to greet him.
“Hell’s bells, you look awful”, Sam said, shaking his head. “Aged ten years, I should think.”
“Shut yer gob, ye wee dandy,” Ross shot back, glowering a little at Sampson, who was sniggering at him. He was aware they were teasing him, and it reminded him of being back among the lads during his soldering days. Brothers, he realised with a smile. “Soft bellied Sassenachs, the pair of ye. Just ’cause ye pamper yourselves and preen like wenches, don’t mean the rest of us must. This is what a real man looks like.”
Sam wrinkled his nose as if offended by the idea, and Sampson snorted, shaking his head. “For heaven’s sake, sit down before you fall down, you hard-headed Scot. We’re all suitably impressed with your masculinity, I assure you. There’s no need to go beating your chest.”
Ross did as Sampson suggested as he had no other choice. Standing any longer was not an option.
With a sigh of satisfaction, he gave an approving glance to the laden table and tucked in.
Once his belly was satisfied, Ross discovered he felt a little steadier on his feet and decided he needed to get some air. It was a lovely October day with billowing clouds scudding across the sky and the colours turning the landscape into something that might have been touched by the hand of Midas.
“Ross!”
He’d barely made it outside before Freddie called him.
“What are you doing up?” she demanded, looking him over with concern as she hurried up the hill towards him.
“What are ye doing here without your chaperone?” Ross countered, though he was pleased by the worry in her eyes.
“Oh, never mind that,” she said, as though it didn’t matter a jot.
She walked straight up to him and put her hand to his cheek, and Ross started with surprise. It was an intimate, familiar gesture of concern and he almost stepped back, unused to such open affection.
“Are you well enough to be up?” she asked, such tenderness in her voice that Ross could only stare at her.
He hesitated, uncertain what to do or what to say. His instinct was to pull her closer and kiss her, but he knew he ought not. That he could keep her here, with him, if he only asked her to marry him, was an idea that both beckoned and repulsed him. She would belong to him, and he to her, and that thought made his breath catch in his throat. It also made him want to take to his heels and disappear into the heather and the mists.
If he didn’t marry her, though, someone else would.
A jolt of fierce emotion shot through him, winding him. No. He didn’t like that idea one bit.
“Ross?” she said again, clearly concluding that he was not well at all, as he’d failed to answer her. “I think you’d best go back to bed,” she said, a scolding note to her voice as she withdrew her hand from his cheek.
Before he could think about it, Ross grabbed her wrist, holding it in place and turning into it. He kissed her palm, pleased by the hitch in her breath, the soft pink that bloomed on her cheeks, and the darkening of her hazel eyes.
“Walk with me, mo cridhe.”
She smiled at him and despite knowing he ought not, he kept a hold of her hand, tugging her to follow him.
“What does it mean?” she asked a moment later as they took the path that wound down to the river.
Ross didn’t answer, wishing he’d not said it. He gave himself away too easily now and he feared he would hurt her.
“What does what mean?” he asked, pretending to misunderstand her.
“Mo cre….” she began and then laughed at her attempt to copy him. “What you said. It’s Gaelic, isn’t it?”
“Aye.” Ross looked away, avoiding her gaze. “Look,” he said, relieved to change the subject as he pointed to a bird in the far distance on the other side of the river.
Freddie lifted her hand to shade her eyes, staring at the majestic bird as it drifted closer with a gasp of delight.
“How magnificent he is,” she said in wonder. “What is it?”
“A golden eagle,” Ross replied, enchanted by her delight in the discovery.
She drew in a breath, still staring at the bird until it flew out of sight, and then gazing around at the countryside laid out before them, at the mountains and valleys, and the imposing presence of Ben Nevis that presided over all like a powerful monarch.
“It’s so beautiful,” she said, her voice tinged with awe. “I’ve never been as devout as I ought to be, I know that, but when I look
at it, I can see why Uncle Phin wanted to spread the word of God. It must make the most fervent atheist believe there is some higher power, don’t you think?”
Ross shrugged, uncomfortable with the question. He believed he’d seen hell on earth more than once, and any faith he might have had had died because of it. Yet, standing here, staring at Freddie and seeing her wonder at the beauty around them made something flicker to life in his chest, some tentative spark of hope that there might be something left in the world that he could believe in.
By the time they were halfway down the path, Ross realised he’d been rather over-confident in the strength of his recovery. He was exhausted, his shoulder was throbbing, and he was feeling nauseous, his breakfast sitting in his gut like lead.
“What a perfect spot,” Freddie said, gesturing to a patch of open ground. “Do you mind if we sit here for a moment, Ross? I know you wanted to walk, but it’s so pretty. Could we admire the view for a little while?”
Ross glanced at her, but she turned her back on him as she sat, taking a moment to arrange her skirts in a ladylike fashion. He knew damn well she’d seen he was struggling, and knew he was too pig-headed to admit it. She’d done that to save his pride and allow him to rest.
He swallowed, unsettled by the way she cared for him, and sat down beside her with a thud, trying not to sigh with relief. He dared another look at her, but she had lain back on the grass, one arm shielding her eyes from the sun, and Ross felt desire surge through him. Apparently, his libido had more optimism than the rest of his body, and he tore his gaze away with a muttered curse.
She was tempting him on purpose, inviting him to lie down beside her, and the need to do just that was tantalising, but he wasn’t a fool, she wanted more than a quick fumble in the heather. She deserved more. Far more. More than he could give her.
Try as he might, Ross could not bring any clarity to the jumble of his thoughts. He’d never imagined a future where he had a wife and children, and picturing it was like reaching for the sun. The images were too bright, too unreachable and he was too undeserving. He’d decided long ago that the world was a foul and wicked place, and that he’d played a fine part in making it that way. Ross had sworn he’d not be responsible for a child suffering the misery of it as he had.
The Scent of Scandal (Rogues and Gentlemen Book 16) Page 18