Highland Rogue, London Miss

by Margaret Moore

  His brows furrowed even more. “Did you sound like that?”

  “If you mean disgusted and angry, I was.”

  “I meant did you use language like that? Predominantly. Interrogation.”

  “I don’t remember precisely what I said,” she admitted.

  “Well, it can’t be helped now,” he said with resignation. “Let’s hope your passionate response is considered an aberration or some sort of personal hobbyhorse.”

  “But what if their suspicions are roused that I’m not what or who I claim to be?” she asked. “What should we do?”

  He shrugged. “Brazen it out.” He ran his gaze over her. “You’re already being fairly brazen in that gown.”

  She flushed with embarrassment, afraid she’d made another mistake. “The modiste said it was the latest fashion,” she explained. “I suggested something to cover the back, but she said it would ruin the look. I should have worn a shawl.”

  “I didn’t mean to distress you,” Quinn said with what sounded like sincerity. “It’s a nice dress—a very nice dress. I just wish there was more of it.” He gave her a little grin. “A man doesn’t like to see quite so much of his wife on display.”

  His body was mere inches away, his broad chest and shoulders shielding her from the light and music and noise spilling out of the terrace doors. Something seemed to change, like the temperature or level of moisture in the air. Something around and between them that she couldn’t name. “I’m not your wife.”

  “I wouldn’t admit that at a ball, even to me,” he whispered, his voice low and husky.

  He was so close, she could hear him breathe and smell the light scent of cologne and tobacco emanating from him. She had but to rise on her toes to bring her mouth to his.

  She shouldn’t, of course. It would be wrong. A weakness. Giving in to what could only be lust…even if he wasn’t still the wastrel she’d believed him to be before they came to Edinburgh.

  Now she knew more about the man beneath the charm and mockery and handsome features. He was a man who had suffered and paid a price, and was still attempting to redeem himself. Was it so very wrong to kiss him? To allow herself a moment or two of desire?

  After this, after they returned to London, her life would go back to what it had been. Was it so wrong to grasp a little excitement while she could?

  Suddenly Esme McCallan didn’t want to be right, or correct, or honorable, anymore. She wanted to be wild and wanton, free and passionate. She wanted to desire and be desired. To kiss and caress and experience the thrill of being in the arms of a handsome man, if only for a little while.

  So she gave in to her yearning, raised herself on her toes, and kissed him.

  Desire exploded. Longing and heat thrilled through her as he gathered her in his arms and returned her kiss with the same fervent ardor.

  Their hands caressed, touched, explored as he deepened the kiss and angled her against the stone wall, pressing closer. Their tongues intertwined, danced, licked. He insinuated his knee between her legs, while his hand crept slowly up her rib cage and hers swept over the expanse of his broad back.

  He pulled back, panting. “Oh, God, Esme, we have to stop or I’m going to make love with you right here.”

  Yes, they should stop. That would be the proper, the correct, the honorable thing to do.

  Except that she’d never been so fully alive and aware of another person. The feel of his body. The light scent of his skin. The incredible heat of his desire.

  Quinn drew back even more, his forehead furrowing with unexpected wariness. “You aren’t trying to trick me again, are you?” he whispered intently.

  For the first time since she’d known him, she heard true vulnerability in Quintus MacLachlann’s voice. She saw the depth of his loneliness and the extent of his anguish in his eyes. She realized the power she held over him if she chose to exert it, and the pain she could give him.

  But she knew what it was to be lonely and vulnerable. She had her books and her legal work and especially Jamie, but that was not enough. Not anymore.

  “No, Quinn, I’m not trying to hurt you,” she whispered. “I simply wanted to kiss you.”

  A smile curved his lips.

  Then another couple walked out onto the terrace and a frown darkened his features. “We had best get back inside,” he whispered roughly, “or who can say what rumors will be started about us?”

  Esme didn’t protest, because he was, unfortunately, right. They were guests at a ball, outside in the dark. They weren’t really husband and wife.

  She shouldn’t be kissing him here, or anywhere. She shouldn’t want to be wanton. She was an honorable woman, with a brother who respected her. She had far too much to lose if she gave in to her desire.

  So she said nothing as he held out his arm to escort her back inside.

  Hours later, as they waited for the carriage to take them home, Esme was a little more relaxed, because it appeared that her outburst in the drawing room hadn’t been a complete disaster. Some of the women had given her the cut direct, but others who shared her views had sought her out. Although she still had to act the fool, she was gratified by their support nonetheless.

  Quinn, however, barely spoke to her for the rest of the evening, and even seemed to be avoiding her.

  Nor did he speak or make any move to touch her when they were in the carriage. He sat hunched in the corner, head bowed and arms crossed, like a turtle retreating into its shell.

  Or as if he was regretting what had happened between them.

  It had been her desire, her weakness, that had led to their passionate embrace and caused him to reveal his loneliness and vulnerability. A proud man like Quinn might regret those revelations, and so the feelings that lead to it.

  A proud man could even come to resent her for it.

  Perhaps even hate her.

  A few days later and shortly before dawn, Quinn sat slumped on a seat of a hackney that was bobbing about like a longboat at sea. In the east, the sky was lightening with the dawn. Bakers, green grocers and fishmongers were beginning to appear with their carts or horse-drawn wagons, while he had spent another wasted night at another gentlemen’s club.

  Well, not completely wasted. He was now quite certain that if there was anything amiss with the earl’s money, it was the man’s own doing, and there was nothing criminal behind it.

  It also seemed that McHeath was as fine a fellow as any man could hope to meet. Nobody had a word to say against him and his clients were all more than satisfied with his work.

  So he had come to one other conclusion tonight, a conclusion that he’d been both anticipating and dreading since that night on the terrace with Esme. The time had come for them to return to London and end this charade, this dream of a life that he could never lead, in a house that had never felt like home until Esme was in it.

  It would be better for them both—her to return to a happy life with her brother and every hope of marriage to a man like McHeath, and he to the lonely, but useful, existence he deserved.

  He rapped on the top of the cab and the driver dutifully brought it to a halt.

  “We’re no’ a’ th’address you gave me,” the cabbie protested when Quinn opened the door and stepped down onto the pavement.

  “I want to walk a little to clear my head,” Quinn replied as he generously paid the fellow.

  “Ah,” the cabbie sighed, giving him a knowing smile. “Want to sober up a little before the missus sees you, eh?”

  Quinn grinned in response, although he was stone-cold sober.

  Too sober. It might have been better if he’d gotten drunk. Then he might be able to forget Esme and how he felt about her. How much he wanted her, and not just in his bed. He could forget all the things he’d done and not done in his life that meant he could never deserve a woman like her.

  Thank God they hadn’t given in to their mutual desire that night on the terrace. Nothing good could come of it, except a brief slaking of their physical need, ev
en if Esme’s passionate desire had been just as strong as his.

  He coughed in the thick air that smelled of smoke. The chambermaids had been up early setting fires in the grates, he thought—until he turned the corner and came to a stunned halt.

  A thick cloud of smoke was rising from the back of his brother’s house.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Fire! Fire!” Quinn shouted at the top of his lungs as he broke into a run.

  As he got closer to the house, he spotted a gaggle of anxious young women and street sellers in the small park across from his brother’s house. The women, who were probably maids, huddled together like refugees, and he recognized one or two. The street sellers were more excited, talking and pointing.

  Where was Esme? Why wasn’t she with the maids? He didn’t see Mrs. Llewellan-Jones, either, he realized as the door of his brother’s house opened. McSweeney appeared, his face and clothes smoke-blackened.

  “The fire’s out and no one is injured, so be about your business,” the butler announced as Quinn skittered to a halt.

  No one was injured. Thank God, oh, thank God!

  McSweeney saw him and, looking as relieved as Quinn felt, trotted down the steps. “My lord! You’re back!” He frowned. “You look terrible. Are you ill?”

  Taking a deep breath, aware that the onlookers were regarding him with undisguised curiosity and probably silently passing judgment on his arrival at this hour and in such a state, Quinn tugged his waistcoat back into place and tried to tie his cravat with fingers that trembled not because of anything he’d done, but because of what might have happened.

  And he had not been there.

  “Well enough. What happened here? Where’s Lady Dubhagen?” Quinn asked as he led the way back up the steps and into the house.

  “I believe her ladyship is in the kitchen having a cup of tea, my lord. It was only a small fire in the garden, I’m glad to say. It looks as if a lantern fell near some of the crates and packing straw that had been left there from the last wine delivery. It was soon put out.”

  “Thank God it wasn’t worse,” Quinn said, “although you look as if you’ve been roasted.”

  “Soot, my lord, and nothing more. The house will need some repairs—a new window and some paint.”

  “As long as nobody was hurt,” Quinn said as he waved his hand dismissively.

  He hurried past the main staircase toward the servants’ stairs to the lower level. He had more questions about what had happened, but they could wait until he had seen for himself that Esme was all right.

  Entering the kitchen, Quinn felt another surge of relief at the sight of Esme sitting at the large table in the middle of the whitewashed room, her hair in a long, dishevelled braid, her pale blue silk dressing gown blackened from smoke and with a spot of soot on her lovely nose. She was obviously safe and blessedly alive.

  If anything had happened to her…

  He was so happy and relieved, he couldn’t help what he did next. He reached her in two long strides and pulled her to her feet, then kissed her fervently, hungrily, with all the passion he’d been telling himself he should never feel for her. Her hair smelled of smoke and her lips tasted of Earl Grey, but he didn’t care. She was well and alive and precious and for one glorious moment, she relaxed against him and let him kiss her—although it was only a moment before she broke away.

  “Ducky!” she cried, blushing and breathless. “Where were you? You smell like a taproom.”

  “I was at a club. Are you quite all right? I saw the smoke and feared—”

  “I’m quite all right. Nobody was hurt and the damage appears to be minor,” she replied, glancing around the room and reminding him they weren’t alone.

  In addition to the cook hovering near the ovens, the housekeeper stood beside the pantry and the scullery maid watched wide-eyed by the back door.

  “I’m glad it wasn’t worse,” Quinn said as matter-of-factly as he could, even as he noticed the cracked glass in the kitchen window.

  “I shall summon a glazier and painter as soon as possible,” Mrs. Llewellan-Jones said.

  “Good. And have a tub and hot water brought to my wife’s room right away, and another to my room, as well,” he said, taking Esme’s hand to lead her from the kitchen.

  As they walked toward the stairs, Quinn noted the dark circles under Esme’s eyes and how pale she was beneath the soot. He considered picking her up and carrying her up the stairs, but refrained—until she stumbled. He immediately swept her into his arms.

  “Don’t tell me to put you down,” he warned as he started up the stairs.

  She didn’t even try. Instead, with a weary sigh that made him curse his absence anew, she laid her head against his shoulder.

  “Are you sure you’re not injured?” he demanded with quiet concern. “Sometimes you don’t realize you are until after the crisis.”

  “No, I’m not hurt, just tired.”

  He carried her down the hall and into her bedroom, kicking the door shut before he put her down. She didn’t complain about that, either, thank God, because what he had to say was for her ears alone.

  “Esme, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here,” he said, his gaze faltering as guilt overwhelmed him again. “If anything had happened to you…”

  She laid her hand on his shoulder, offering him the sort of comfort her brother probably took for granted. At once a pang of longing swept over him, to have that sort of love and devotion from a woman like Esme…

  “It’s quite all right,” she replied softly. “No serious harm was done. It was a very small fire and only a little damage was done to the house. Fortunately, Mrs. Llewellan-Jones was already up and about and saw the smoke. It was a simple matter to organize the servants to put it out.”

  Her cheeks reddened with a blush. “I forgot I was supposed to be merely decorative.”

  She felt guilty? He should have been here to protect her instead of wasting his time in another club. “Considering I wasn’t here, I’m glad you did.”

  Or perhaps she was upset by his kiss in the kitchen.

  He decided not to speak of it, and to try not to think of it, either. “McSweeney told me the fire started after a lantern was dropped near some straw and crates left after a wine delivery. Do you think it was an accident, or deliberate?”

  Her delicate arched eyebrows knit with thought. “I did consider the possibility that it had been deliberately set by someone who had come from the mews through the back gate, but not until the fire was out. By then, the gate was open. However, it could have been opened from the inside. Nevertheless, I made certain all the servants were accounted for at once, and none of them were missing. Of course, it could be that the fire was started, then the perpetrator came into the house and up to the servants’ quarters before Mrs. Llewellan-Jones raised the alarm.”

  She thought of everything, just as he was sure she was capable of anything, including fighting a fire single-handedly, or summoning and guiding any available assistance.

  “Someone could have climbed the wall, of course,” she went on, “and it’s possible they lit the lantern inside the garden, so nobody saw them in the mews. But why would someone try to set fire to your brother’s house? What enemies does he have here? Or do you think somebody knows we aren’t who we claim to be and that they mean to frighten us into leaving Edinburgh?”

  “Whether it was an accident or not, I’m not willing to take any chances with your safety, Esme,” Quinn said firmly. “I’m hiring a coach to take you back to London tomorrow.”

  Esme stared at him with dismay, her fatigue from the early excitement of the fire vanishing in an instant. “It could just as easily have been an accident, not set by some villain out to harm us. After all, I should think somebody who genuinely wanted to hurt us would have gone about it in a better way, don’t you? There was only enough wood and straw for a very small blaze, hardly enough to destroy the house or even cause much damage.”

  She straightened her shoulders and faced
him squarely. “Besides, I’m not a coward who flees at the first sign of trouble. I came here because Jamie asked me to, and I won’t leave until I can give him a satisfactory answer about Catriona’s father.”

  An equally stubborn glint appeared in Quinn’s blue eyes. “We’ve found nothing to indicate the earl is being swindled, so there’s no need for you to stay. Before I returned this morning, I was going to suggest we both go back to London, but now I shall remain in case the fire was set on purpose, to find out who did it and why.”

  “If this fire was set by someone who knows who we really are and to discourage us, that is proof that there’s something amiss here after all, and I don’t intend to leave until we know what,” she replied just as sternly.

  “Whatever is happening here, I doubt your legal expertise will be required,” he countered.

  “You don’t know that,” she retorted. “And how would you explain your wife’s sudden departure?”

  “I can simply say you went to London to visit friends or buy some new clothes.”

  “But—!”

  “Enough, Esme,” he declared. “You’re leaving. Tomorrow.”

  “I will not!”

  “I won’t put your life at risk!”

  “You aren’t,” she decisively pointed out. “I am—or Jamie did when he first suggested this plan, so you may absolve yourself of any responsibility for me.”

  “Whether you agree or not, I am responsible for you and I’m not going to put you at risk,” he said, his patience clearly running out.

  She didn’t care if it was, or what he said. She wasn’t going to run away. Did he think she was a child he could order about? Or an underling? Or a coward, that she would be too afraid to stay after this mere hint of danger? After all, the fire might have been an accident, caused by a servant too afraid of dismissal to confess, rather than a threat or warning.