If she had, he wouldn’t be able to protect her if Scottish authorities or her clan came looking. He couldn’t outright accuse her of lying, but he had to get her to trust him somehow. Or at least tell him more of the truth and exactly who she feared so he was better able to defend her should the need arise. She’d sought sanctuary at Duncraigh. He’d told her of its existence, which meant she had to associate some measure of safety with him. And then she’d stayed.
Deep down, a woman who trusted no one trusted him.
Julien wasn’t sure how he felt about that. The only two people he’d ever cared about were his mother and Aisla. He did not have many close friends, and he held most people, including women, at arm’s length. Even Aisla had never gotten close enough to see the real Julien—the one he kept closed off from everyone. That Julien had inherited his mother’s empathetic and tenderhearted nature, and would have been crushed by the circumstances of his childhood. That Julien would never have endured the hardships thrown in his path. No, the man who had thrived had been carefully constructed. Built to be ruthless and powerful. Impervious.
Julien Leclerc feared nothing and no one.
He kept himself aloof and detached from relationships for a reason. Caring about someone fostered a detrimental reliance upon them, and while he would help Makenna if he could, he would not allow everything he’d worked so hard to achieve to be jeopardized. Viewing her as an object of lust in the past year hadn’t been a dangerous risk, but thinking of her as anything more would be a perilous mistake. No woman was worth losing who he’d become.
“Who are you running from, Makenna? It’s not just Brodie clansmen, is it?”
“I’m no’ running from anyone,” she said with a defiant jut of her chin. Shutters descended over her eyes, and Julien knew he had struck close to the heart of the matter. She was avoiding someone. Was it a man? More than one man?
“I think you and I both know that’s not true, but I’m patient,” he said carefully. “We’re practically family, Makenna, as I consider Aisla a sister, but if you bring danger to my doorstep, I will not hesitate to cast you out. My mother’s safety comes first.”
Her beautiful eyes hardened with a stubborn look he was coming to recognize and resent in equal measure. “Ye’ve made that quite clear. May I help ye with something, Lord Leclerc? I am quite busy with reconciling the estate accounting as ye can see, and I’d like to get back to my duties, if ye’ll allow it.”
Julien well knew the condition of the books already, given his own obsessive tendencies with any of his business ventures, but it’d been amusing to indulge her request to examine the estate books. She wouldn’t find anything out of order there, considering he’d pored over them himself for hours, though her choice of words bothered him. What did she have to reconcile?
“Are they not in order? I confess that I’d much rather be betting on hands of vingt-et-un than staring at boring old ledgers. So much more diverting.”
“Well, now that ye’re the owner of this estate, ye must learn,” she said with a faint note of condescension. “And gambling rots yer brain.”
“Not if I have a competent steward,” he returned with a jovial grin. “And gambling has put a lot of money, including this castle, into these hands of mine.”
“One of these days, Lord Leclerc, ye will lose.”
“I never lose.”
For once, he was serious, but Julien could see that she did not believe him. Most people did not, but he liked it that way. Most of his acquaintances thought him an aimless, empty-headed fool, so much so that they did not see him coming until it was too late. He wasn’t opposed to using that to his advantage in business affairs. It was partially what drew him to Makenna. She, too, had a tendency to be underestimated by others, and not just because she was female or beautiful, although she was both.
Today, she was dressed in a blue gown that set off those brilliant blue eyes, her thick fringe of lashes currently hiding them from view. Her red hair was pinned away from her face, though several curls had escaped their confines and were tucked haphazardly behind her ears. He was fascinated by the fiery amount of her hair, and had more than once found himself fantasizing about her wearing nothing but a river of silken, flaming curls cascading down her back.
“Actually, there are some discrepancies,” she said, jerking him from his distracting thoughts.
“You must be mistaken.”
“Why?” she countered. “Because I’m a woman?”
“No, because I looked over those books earlier.”
She pursed her lips. “Then ye were wrong.”
Julien shoved off the side of the desk to come around to where she was sitting, resigned to demonstrating where she had erred. Makenna stiffened at his approach, but he was more focused on what she’d said to note her reaction to him. His eyes scoured the untidy column of numbers as well as her careful notes in the margin. Her handwriting was neat and legible, which he’d expected. What Julien did not expect, however, was the precise notation of where the numbers did not add up, and now that she’d marked it, the mistake was glaringly clear. Indeed, there was a discrepancy of a minimal number. Although it was tiny, only a handful of pounds. How in hell had he missed it?
“It seems you are correct,” he said slowly, his finger sliding down the column as he redid the numbers in his head for the fourth time. “Good catch.”
Makenna made a huff under her breath of what sounded like laughter. “Did ye doubt it? I told ye I was good with numbers. I used to do the books for Graeme’s drunken steward all the time. It wasnae a wonder that Graeme needed my dowry so badly. He wouldnae listen about the grain for the whisky and kept losing more and more coin every year. He didnae believe a woman could have a capable brain, much less a head for figures.”
“I shouldn’t have doubted you,” Julien replied honestly. “I checked the accounting myself and simply didn’t catch it.”
She nodded, pleased. “I did as well the first time. It’s no’ a mistake, though.”
“What do you mean?”
Makenna leaned in, her fingers brushing his as she pointed out a line of numbers on the previous page. “Look over here. There’s a similar disparity. Small, but no’ enough to notice.” She moved another page back. “And here as well.”
Julien was paying close attention now, his own eyes following her calculations. He flipped through the pages, finding her meticulous notations. They were small sums, but the total would add up to several thousands of pounds. “Son of a bitch.”
She didn’t respond to his muttered oath. “They dunnae add up because they were adjusted. I think money was taken out on purpose. Might have been the previous duke.” She sent him a sidelong glance. “I’ve been speaking to the other staff. His debts were nae secret. He must have been using profits from the estate to shore up his accounts at the gaming houses.”
Julien was impressed. “How long did it take you to see this?”
“Yesterday and today.” Brushing his hand away from where he held the edges of the ledger, she flipped forward a few more pages. “I bet ye’ll find more here.”
She hadn’t made any notations there, so he assumed she hadn’t had the time to labor through the sums. Julien’s eyes deftly scanned down the columns, and almost at the same time he found the adjusted totals, she jabbed at the line. “There! Seventeen pounds.”
He blinked his surprise. In all his years of working with people, he’d never come upon anyone who could calculate as quickly as he could. “Did you just do that in your head?”
“I told ye, I’m good with numbers.”
“I see that.” He grinned. “What’s the total of this one?”
Three hundred and ninety-three, he estimated, rounding up.
“Three hundred and ninety-three,” she said smugly. “And sixty-two pence.”
Julien threw back his head and laughed. The woman was a bloody treasure. He turned toward her, and suddenly he was all too aware of how close they were at the desk, his side brushi
ng into her shoulder. Hunched over as he was, their faces were mere inches apart, hovering over the inked parchment. They were so close that he could see the spattering of golden freckles across the bridge of her nose, and the flecks of indigo in the endless depths of her eyes. A small pink tongue darted out to wet her lips, and Julien felt an answering tug low in his belly.
Hell, he’d never wanted to kiss anyone more.
Then again, this was Makenna, the siren who had haunted his thoughts for a year. She’d become an infatuation, and Julien had known he was well on his way to becoming besotted. He’d developed an untimely fascination for red hair. For statuesque females with brilliant blue eyes and long, strong limbs. For women dusted in golden freckles. He had dreamed of her so much that fantasy and reality had become muddled.
And she was here now.
Very real and clearly as affected as him.
He promptly forgot every single one of his earlier stern declarations as her beguiling scent filled his nostrils, tension humming between them, and Julien could not tear his gaze from that full mouth. He wanted to devour it, lick it, conquer it. Instead, unable to curb himself, he grazed his lips across the velvet surface of her cheek. Julien groaned. That was a mistake. The softness only made him want more. Indulging himself, he leaned in, trailing his mouth down the slanted edge of her jaw—tantalizingly close to those beckoning lips—before veering down the graceful column of her neck.
A moan escaped her, and Julien growled in response, while his tongue darted out to feast on her flesh. He’d never dared to let himself get this close to her at Maclaren, and for good reason. She was fire in his blood and lightning in his veins. His eyes lifted to meet hers, and the burning desire he saw there mirrored his. This woman would drive him to the brink of madness.
“Makenna,” he whispered in a half plea, half protest, not comprehending what he was asking for. Permission? Opposition? Some direction to guide his vacant brain.
“Dunnae stop.”
The hoarse command literally drove him to his knees. Acquiescing, Julien swiveled her with the chair and sank down in front of her. Her fingers tangled in his hair, head tilting back in explicit invitation to expose the creamy swells of her bosom. Julien’s hands slid up her sides, over the silky fabric, to the sweet curves that quivered at his eye level, and an index finger traced the tantalizing edges of her bodice, delving into the shadowy hollow between her breasts. He wanted to fill his palms with her. Map every inch of her fragrant skin with his mouth. Make her tremble and cry out with pleasure.
No, Julien didn’t intend to stop, but they both froze as the sound of running footsteps pounded in the hallway beyond, coming toward them. They lurched upward at the same time, her head cracking into his chin with a speed and an accuracy that made him see stars.
“God, that hurt,” she muttered as he rubbed his jaw and adjusted his shirt, just as a footman rapped on the door. He agreed, feeling like a youth caught in a hasty, fumbling tryst.
“What is it?” Julien said to the footman, his annoyance plain. He was not accustomed to being hasty or fumbling in anything. He strode to the door and eyed the hapless servant.
The man quailed, stammering, “There’s a woman, milord. She claims she’s a friend of Lady Makenna’s. She has a bairn with her. A young lad.”
Makenna looked confused as they exited the room to follow the footman to the front of the castle. In the courtyard, Julien saw that the man had indeed been correct. A small bedraggled boy in shabby clothing stood behind a short blond woman who looked like she was on her last legs. Her horse looked to be in as bad shape as she was.
“Do you know this woman?” Julien asked.
Makenna nodded, her face pale, horrified recognition in her eyes. “Aye. She’s one of…Graeme’s.”
He took her meaning with a grimace. “And the boy?”
“His son.”
Julien felt her pain, though she concealed it well. He felt another surge of rage toward the man who had made her life a living hell, only to flaunt her infertility with children from other women. But as Makenna strode decisively forward to greet the ailing arrival, Julien couldn’t help but feel profound surprise.
“What are ye doing here, Lady Arabel?” she asked.
The woman pitched forward into Makenna’s arms. “Thank God we found ye, my lady. Please, ye have to…help.”
Makenna’s eyes met his, a silent plea in them. His widened. Did she mean for him to take them in as well? More Brodies, and potentially more trouble on his doorstep? Julien opened his mouth, but before he could form a response, the woman’s face went stark white and she collapsed.
Chapter Six
Makenna sat on the edge of the guest chamber’s large bed and pressed her palm to the woman’s forehead.
“She’s feverish,” she whispered to Julien, careful to turn her head and keep her voice low.
The woman’s son stood back from the opposite side of the bed, out of the way of a bustling maid as she drew the blankets to the woman’s chin and propped her head with a few pillows. His fathomless pale blue eyes were watery as he stared, unblinkingly, at his nearly unconscious mother. She made small moans, but her eyes had not opened since Julien had lifted her in his arms and carried her from the courtyard to this guest chamber.
The boy could be no older than six or seven, though his face appeared gaunt with dark smudges under his eyes from sleepless nights. Makenna’s heart ached as she searched her memory for his name. He had been born little more than a year after she and Graeme had wed, and she recalled the whispers throughout the Brodie keep. She’d ignored them, knowing there was truly nothing to be done about any of it. The woman, Arabel Brodie, had been one of Graeme’s longtime mistresses, perhaps even from before he had taken Makenna to wife. She was younger than Makenna, and shorter, with thick, dark blond hair.
Malcolm. That was the boy’s name. He stood with his little hands clenched into tight fists, his arms straight down at his sides. His tartan was muddied and frayed, as if he’d gone crawling through a thicket of thorns. Arabel’s state of dress was much the same. The pair of them resembled her and Tildy from the week before, when they’d come upon Duncraigh Castle, fleeing in the dead of night.
She glanced toward Julien, whose frown pressed deep grooves into the space between each brow.
“I’ll send for the doctor,” he replied. She let out a breath when he asked no further questions. He had to be brimming with them, as was she.
“I’ve already done so,” Lady Haverille announced as she entered the room, carrying a large porcelain bowl. A maid was at her heels, a heavy pitcher of water in her hands.
“Merci, Maman,” Julien said, stopping at the foot of the bed and sparing the boy a glance. “My name is Lord Leclerc, but you may call me Julien. What is yours?” He’d gentled his voice without changing it to sound light or patronizing.
“Malcolm, milord.” It was barely a whisper, and Makenna could hear the sob entrenched in his throat. She searched his face, looking for similarities to Graeme, however his coloring and bone structure resembled that of his mother. It was his eyes, though, the light blue color of them, that gave him a look of the Brodie. Not the exact shade of blue of Graeme’s eyes, but close enough. Makenna could not fault the boy for who his father was, however, and pushed the discomfort aside.
“Malcolm, why don’t you come with me? I am sure my cook, André, has heard that I have a new young guest and is wondering why you are not yet in the kitchen so he can feed you all manner of treats. Come,” Julien said, beckoning the boy with a gesture of his outstretched arm.
It was a kindness, and Makenna warmed at the thought of him rescuing the boy from the chaos of the room. Arabel was in clear distress, and by the looks of her pale skin, her sallow cheeks, and the wracking cough every few minutes, she had been for some time. Malcolm had been missing sleep so he could take care of his mother, she presumed, and that should not have been a burden for someone so young.
He didn’t seem at all excite
d at the prospect of food, and indeed, as he stepped away from his mother’s bed, Makenna nearly expected him to change his mind and seal himself to her side. But he took Julien’s proffered hand, and with a last anxious glance toward the bed, left the chamber.
“The poor lad,” one of the maids murmured.
“They look like they’ve been traveling for days,” the other said.
It could not be, Makenna knew. It had taken she and Tildy less than six hours to make their escape to Duncraigh. She had only appeared worse for wear because of the time she’d spent in the keep’s prison cells before that. So what had happened to Arabel and her son? Had they, too, been kept in a cell before making their escape? How the woman had ended up here made no sense.
“Let’s bring down her fever, and then we can ask our questions,” Lady Haverille said, calm and reasonable. Unflappable and to-the-point.
Just like her son.
On Lady Haverille’s direction, the maids tended to Arabel, stripping her of her damp, muddy clothing and washing her with cool water. Makenna lifted her head to help her sip water, though she was unable to swallow more than a few sips before another bone-rattling cough tore through her chest. She covered Arabel’s mouth with one of the many cloths the maids had brought, and once the coughing fit had passed, drew it away. Splotches of red had leached into the fibers. Makenna’s stomach dropped like a stone. She’d seen this before, at Maclaren before she’d married Graeme. An older woman had contracted consumption, and when she’d cough, the handkerchief would come away speckled with crimson.
She looked at Arabel’s pallid cheeks, her parched lips moving over words that Makenna could not hear. If this was consumption, then the woman had been ill with it for some time.
“Arabel?” she whispered. Then louder, “Arabel, it’s Makenna. Please, open your eyes.”
Her eyes fluttered, her chapped lips parting. “Water,” she croaked, and Makenna pressed a cup to her lips.
Arabel had never been one of Graeme’s more cruel mistresses, those who would flaunt the fact that they were the laird’s chosen woman. He’d cast them aside, then bring them back into favor, and then cast them aside again. Arabel had been a constant, but she had also been quiet and reserved. She was one of the few who had lived in the keep, though she and her son had always kept to their area of it. If she hadn’t been her husband’s lover, Makenna might have even tried to befriend her.
A Lord for the Lass Page 7