Highland Heat

by Jennifer Haymore

  It wasn’t only the lies that had infuriated the earl, it was the fact that Grammercy had dared touch Claire at all, even for just one kiss. He’d dug into Grammercy’s affairs, discovered his weaknesses, and he’d ruined the man so thoroughly that no one believed his lies—in fact, everyone condemned him for spreading untruths about an innocent lady. His club rejected him, his business partners fled, and he hadn’t dared step foot in London for nearly three years.

  Claire was right—their father had the ability to ruin people. And when it came to protecting his daughters’ virtue, he wouldn’t hesitate to do so.

  “And Grammercy is a viscount,” Claire continued. “Duncan Mackenzie is…” She hesitated. “Well, he isn’t a viscount. Not even close.”

  “I know, Claire. You don’t need to tell me all this.” Grace felt like pulling her hair out by the roots. She sank down on the edge of the bed they’d shared last night. “It’s over. He and I both understand that.”

  Claire sat next to her, her hands folded in her lap. “Yet you’re still drawn to him.”

  Grace closed her eyes and nodded.

  “And he’s clearly drawn to you.”

  Grace raised her brows and gave her sister a sideways look. “Are you going to accuse him of chasing me for my money or position?”

  Claire scoffed. “Of course not. He is an honorable man. Utterly trustworthy, or Rob would not have chosen him for this mission in London. Anyhow,” she continued, “distrust is the response Papa would have, not I.”

  “So you think he’s drawn to me…for me?” Grace asked.

  “I know he is. And…I know what it’s like. Rob and I were the same way when we first met.”

  “I know it was dangerous…but being near him, being with him. It was…so…” Grace shook her head, unable to explain.

  “If Rob or Papa were to catch you together— Oh, I don’t know what they’d do. But I’d truly worry for Duncan’s safety. And if someone in Town was to find out, you’d be the subject of the gossip rags for the next century.”

  The knots in Grace’s gut tightened. “No one will find out. Because, as I said, it is over. Who knows what assignment he’ll be given. I might never see him again.”

  “And if you do see him again?”

  “We’ve agreed that it would be foolish to continue our association.”

  Claire nodded thoughtfully. “Do you know what, Grace?”

  “What?”

  “The rest of the world might not understand, but I do. I see that you genuinely like each other, and I approve.”

  Grace smiled. It shouldn’t surprise her that Claire would accept the idea of her and Duncan. Claire always followed her heart and believed others should do the same. Grace was Claire’s elder, but only by just over a year, and the two of them were close. And Claire’s great criticism of Grace had always been that she was too reserved.

  “And the way he looks at you—”

  “How does he look at me?” Grace asked with genuine curiosity.

  “Like you’re the only female who ever existed for him.”

  Grace sighed.

  “But I’m so worried for him…and for you.”

  Claire was right. She might approve of Grace and Duncan, but no one else would. Not her father. Not the major. Not society as a whole.

  “There’s no need to worry. Our time together is over.” Grace’s voice firmed with resolve. “Nothing can or will happen between us. I’m going to stop thinking about him the moment we set foot on English soil.”

  “Oh, sister.” Claire shook her head sadly. “I wish you the best of luck with that.”

  —

  At twilight, the carriages rolled to a stop in front of a well-appointed townhouse in Westminster. Claire, Grace, and their maid had ridden with Captain Stirling and the major, and even though the carriage had come to a halt, they all sat quietly, staring out the window in bemusement.

  This was where the major and his men would be staying while in London. It was a pretty, fashionable house of the sort that would usually be occupied by a gentleman or a family of high status. They’d all expected a barracks of some sort, so this was unexpected, to say the least.

  The first person to move was the major, who silently climbed from the carriage then helped Claire out so they could say their goodbyes. Captain Stirling followed. There was no reason for Grace to quit the carriage, so she sat there with Mary, twisting her hands in her lap and wishing she could jump out and give Duncan a kiss.

  Grace gazed at the men gathering outside from the carriage that had stopped behind theirs. Her eyes caught with Duncan’s and held for several long moments. Then, just before Claire’s form filled the doorway, she saw him mouth the word goodbye, and her heart felt as if tiny fissures had spread across it.

  “Grace,” Claire said breathlessly, “Rob has given me leave to stay here with him and his men. I hope you don’t mind. The driver will take you and Mary straight home.”

  At that moment, Grace felt lonelier than she ever had before. She was leaving the most intriguing man she’d ever known, and now, it seemed, her sister and dearest friend as well.

  “I don’t mind at all,” she said, pushing the feeling aside at once. For the first time in many months, Claire looked happy. Lord, Grace prayed that the major didn’t ruin it. From all appearances, he’d been devoted to her for the days since the battle. But Grace knew how easily he’d walked away from Claire before.

  She kissed Claire’s cheek and clenched her hands in her lap, sitting silently and gazing unseeing out the window on the twenty-minute ride from Westminster to Mayfair.

  —

  Walking into this opulent townhouse was more foreign to Duncan than Salamanca had been to him when he’d marched through the gates of that ancient Spanish city three years ago. The place was furnished, in his opinion, for a king. Maybe it was nothing for the five officers with him. But for Duncan? A Highland sheepherder? It felt like walking into a fantastical dream.

  Parquet covered the floor and rich red draperies covered the windows. A crystal chandelier, blazing with what appeared to be hundreds of candles, lit the entry hall in a dazzling display. Intricate paintings lined the walls. A paper-thin porcelain vase sat upon a small square table with spindly legs. All Duncan would have to do was touch the thing and it would shatter. He promised himself not to touch anything here—certainly they wouldn’t be staying for long. This wasn’t the right place for seven gruff, war-hardened men.

  The man who’d met them at the door—Bailey, he’d called himself—led them down a lavishly wallpapered corridor and opened a door at its far end. There were two beds inside the room, each one with a canopy and thick draperies. Between the two beds sat a heavy mahogany desk, and on the opposite wall a matching armoire.

  “The first of the bedrooms, sirs,” Bailey announced. “For two of the gentlemen.”

  “Aye. Mackenzie and Fraser. This’ll be yours.” The major nodded at them.

  Duncan’s brows rose, but he immediately schooled them into flatness. His gaze flicked to Fraser’s. The other man looked placid, but Duncan knew they were having the same thoughts. Neither of them had ever been referred to as gentlemen before. And wouldn’t the more reasonable place for them to camp be in front of the kitchen fire?

  “Aye, sir,” Duncan said, wondering how it would be possible for him to actually sleep in the midst of all that opulence.

  They followed the other men through the house. There were five bedrooms, one for the two sergeants, one for Lieutenants Ross and Innes, one each for Captain Stirling and Captain McLeod, and the master’s bedroom for the major and his wife. The expansive, comfortable drawing room brimmed with clean, gilded blue velvet furniture that appeared to be new. A complete kitchen with two ovens—which Bailey said would be a-bustle the following morning while the cook and her two underlings prepared the morning meal—stood adjacent to a dining room containing a large, oblong mahogany table that could easily seat all of them. The place was luxurious and new—for God�
��s sake, it even smelled of fresh paint.

  Barely having slept the previous night, the men were all tired, and after sharing a bemused whiskey in the drawing room, they dispersed to their rooms.

  Fraser entered after Duncan, closed the door behind himself, and blew out a breath, collapsing against it. His expression relaxed for the first time all night as Duncan lowered himself onto one of the beds with a sigh.

  “Good God. What do ye make of it, Mackenzie?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Duncan said truthfully. His head was swirling with it all—the odd order for the seven of them to return to London, the strange lodgings…Grace.

  He had a feeling his life was about to change irrevocably.

  Fraser pushed off from the door. “They must want something from us.”

  “A secret mission?”

  “Mayhap. The major is a war hero.”

  Duncan nodded. “Did it ever occur to you that they’re all from the upper classes? All of them—the major, Stirling, McLeod, and Lieutenants Ross and Innes—have a link to the aristocracy.”

  “Aye,” Fraser breathed, “you’re right. The major is a baronet. Stirling and Ross are knights. McLeod is the son of the Earl of Sutton. Lieutenant Innes…?” His voice dropped off in question.

  “His uncle is the Marquess of Lochleid.”

  “Damn. Never knew the 92nd was so plump with the upper orders.”

  “I never thought about it,” Duncan admitted, “until I began to question why they were put together for this mission.”

  “So,” Fraser said slowly, “they’re all aristocrats.”

  “All but us.”

  “Aye, but the major chose us. Wellington chose the officers.”

  Duncan nodded.

  “What can it mean?”

  “God only knows.”

  “And Wellington,” Fraser said.

  “And the War Office.”

  Fraser chuckled. Bailey had said that they’d been summoned to the War Office, where they’d be given their orders. “I suppose we’ll be finding out tomorrow.”

  “Suppose so.” Duncan took off his coat, then his boots and hose before lying back on the bed. It was so soft, his body seemed to melt into the mattress. “Hell. I’m no’ sure if I’ll be able to sleep.”

  “Anticipating tomorrow?”

  “That and this damn bed. I’m no’ used to sleepin’ like the King o’ England. Mayhap I ought to sleep on the floor.”

  Fraser laughed.

  And that was the last thing Duncan remembered, because he fell into a sleep so deep, the next thing he knew was that he was opening his eyes to a bright, sunny morning.

  Chapter 7

  Grace awoke to sunlight streaming in through her bedroom windows and a soft knock on her door.

  She yawned. In a way, it was lovely to be home and in her own familiar, comfortable bed. In another way, it felt like she had opened the door wide open into a brand-new, exciting world, but had retreated once more and the door had been slammed shut behind her.

  “My lady?”

  It was Mary, come to see to her morning routine. Usually Grace was wide-awake by the time her maid came to her room, reading or working on her correspondence to friends and relatives. “Come in.”

  Mary opened the door but then stopped short on the threshold, her narrow face twisted in an expression of alarm. “Oh, dear, my lady. Is it too early? I can return—”

  “No, no, of course not.” She rose to a seated position. “What time is it?”

  “Ten o’clock.” Mary bustled in and opened the wardrobe door, then quickly withdrew an armful of clean undergarments.

  “Goodness.” Grace hadn’t slept so late since she’d come down with a fever last year.

  “Will this dress do, my lady?” Mary held out a white muslin day dress.

  “Will there be any visitors today?”

  “No visits have been scheduled, but the earl would like to see you before he leaves.”

  Grace nodded. Her father hadn’t been home when she arrived last night. His parliamentary duties had consumed him for the past several months—thanks to Bonaparte. Hopefully Parliament would recess soon and the pressures that weighed heavily on his shoulders would lessen. “Then that dress will be fine. Did my father want to see me before luncheon?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Very well. We should hurry, then. I don’t want to keep him.”

  This was similar to the conversation she had with Mary a thousand other mornings, and Grace knew without a doubt that she’d been thrust back into the regular pattern of her days. She didn’t know why that made her heart pang with a touch of sadness. She’d been content with her life before the brief visit to the Continent.

  An image of Duncan Mackenzie flashed through her mind, and she hesitated, closing her eyes and pushing it away. She was not one to dwell on what could not be. She was not one to feel self-pity. She was a woman who embraced her lot in life, and who was thankful for everything she had. A high position in society that demanded respect. The opportunity to use her position for good. A father who loved her—even if he had a difficult time expressing that love sometimes. A sister who was a friend and confidante, who understood her down to her marrow.

  Those thoughts strengthened her, and she rose and, with Mary’s help, dressed and fixed her hair before going downstairs to meet with her father.

  She found him in his study with a pile of papers spread out before him. As she entered, he glanced up, removed his spectacles, and rubbed the bridge of his nose, then combed his hand through his thinning blond hair.

  Grace and Claire had both inherited their father’s fair hair and blue eyes. Except for their bone structure and Claire’s diminutive height, neither resembled their mother, who’d been a dark-haired beauty. Grace had—much to her chagrin—inherited the lanky height of their father.

  Grace and Claire’s mother had died when Grace was fifteen, and since then, her father had turned to Grace to run the household. Grace had taken up those reins willingly, knowing her flighty fourteen-year-old sister wasn’t up to the task at the time, and her father, as much as he tried to hide it, was near to collapsing with grief over the loss of his wife.

  “Sit down, daughter.” There was no gushing hug from him—there never had been. He hid his affection for her—which Grace knew was great indeed—under a stern veneer.

  “Yes, Papa.” She took the seat across the desk from him.

  “I hear your sister has chosen to remain with her husband?”

  “Yes. They were given a house in Westminster for the time being.”

  “With other soldiers?”

  “Yes.”

  The earl ground his teeth. “I dislike the idea of my daughter among a group of rough army men.”

  “Don’t worry, Papa. The men were handpicked by the Duke of Wellington himself.” Except for the two sergeants, Duncan included, but she didn’t bother with that little detail.

  Her father made a disapproving noise.

  “In any case,” Grace continued, “the major would never allow anything bad to happen to her.”

  The earl gave her a disbelieving look, and his lips twisted. “Is that so?”

  Grace winced and looked away. Her father’s skepticism came from a place of deep concern—the earl had been witness to Claire’s unhappiness over the past year, and like Grace, he blamed the major. “Claire is happier than I’ve seen her for a long time,” she hedged.

  “I don’t trust him,” the earl snapped. “She’s tenderhearted. He has never understood that.”

  Grace nodded, then said something that surprised even her. “I think we must give him one more chance. Claire wants so badly for her marriage to work.”

  The only emotion her father showed was in the slightest arch of his brows. “Very well.” The topic dismissed, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Did you witness the battle?”

  “No, Papa. We arrived the morning after.” Her mouth went dry at the memory of
casting her eyes on the battlefield that first time. She’d have nightmares about that scene for the rest of her life. “Claire found the major unconscious on the battlefield.”

  “Did she?” Her father pursed his lips. “Injuries?”

  “He suffered a bad blow to his head, but he is recovering quickly.”

  “I must say, I was surprised to hear he had returned with the two of you.”

  Grace nodded. “I think everyone is surprised.”

  “Do you know why he was ordered back to London?”

  “I’ve no idea. Nor does the major himself. I believe he and his men are going to receive their orders today.”

  “I see.” Her father paused, the edges of his mouth tight, his eyes serious. It was the earl’s usual expression. Watching Claire’s misery last year had caused him terrible grief, but it was so subtle that someone with an untrained eye would never have seen it—thinner lips, tighter shoulders, anger that flashed across his face lightning fast whenever the major was mentioned. It was in subtle clues like these that Grace had learned to understand her father over the course of so many years.

  “I trust you are recovered from your travels?” he asked her.

  “Yes, of course.”

  He studied her for a moment, then nodded in agreement.

  “I am glad you’ve recovered,” her father said, “because Parliament will be recessing in four weeks’ time. I need you to contact the servants at Norsey House and let them know we will be arriving in late July or early August and to have the house ready. I’ll need you to supervise the closing of this house for the remainder of summer—please work with Mrs. Fitch to ensure that all proceeds smoothly with our transition to the country.”

  Mrs. Fitch was their very competent housekeeper, and Grace had worked alongside her for years. She nodded, storing all this information inside her head. “Of course, Papa. Do we know the exact date we’ll be leaving?”