Highland Rogue, London Miss

by Margaret Moore

  “But your nose—”

  “Is fine,” he said, his voice low and seductive as he reached out to take hold of her arm and bring her to him. “Let’s go back to bed, Esme, my wife-to-be.”

  She smiled the most devilish smile he’d ever seen on a woman’s face. “I don’t see why we have to go back to the bed when you look so comfortable here, my husband-to-be,” she said as she straddled him, her thighs resting on his hips.

  “Good God,” he murmured, delightfully surprised as he put his arms loosely about her. “If I had realized what an adventurous, brazen woman existed beneath those dowdy clothes you wore, I would have set about wooing you the day we met and not stopped until you were mine in body, name and law.”

  Her arms around his neck, she inched forward. “We have achieved one of those objectives, and one more. You have my heart and my body, too. All that remains is for the law to be satisfied,” she said before she kissed him.

  Instantly, passionate desire flamed into life between them. Their tongues entwined, their kiss deep and exciting as Esme’s naked breasts brushed against Quinn’s chest.

  “I want to make love with you again,” he whispered, his mouth against her cheek, “but I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “If it hurts, we’ll stop,” she promised, raising herself to take him inside again.

  “Esme?”

  “It’s all right,” she assured him as the pleasure overtook a little twinge of pain. “I don’t want to stop.”

  “Rock forward,” he prompted as he brushed his lips across hers.

  She did as he suggested, the sensation making her breath catch.

  “Keep rocking,” he whispered, holding her with his left hand while stroking her pebbled nipple with the pad of his right thumb.

  Then his mouth was on her breasts, sucking, licking, pleasuring her with his lips and tongue. She began to rock faster, with fervent need and longing, as that wondrous tension built to a new crescendo.

  A low growl began in Quinn’s throat, rising almost to a roar, and she clenched her teeth to keep herself from screaming with ecstasy when they both reached an explosive climax. Her eyes closed tight as wave after wave of release swept through her and over and around her, taking her to blissful satisfaction.

  He held her close, his chin resting on her sweat-slicked shoulder, until she moved back and examined his face.

  “I’m not bleeding again, am I?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, relieved.

  “And you? How are you?”

  “I feel wonderful,” she said, until he moved a little, and she again felt a painful twinge.

  “Not quite,” he said with a frown. “Can you move?”

  “Yes,” she said, easing herself away from him. “I’ll be all right in a little while.”

  “Soon, I hope. In the meantime, you should rest. With me,” he said, nodding toward the bed.

  Weary, sore, but joyously happy, Esme didn’t protest. After all, they were supposed to be husband and wife, weren’t they? And one day soon, they would be.

  She nestled against him, blissful and secure. “I love you, Quinn,” she whispered.

  “I love you, Esme,” he said, kissing her tenderly and holding her as they fell asleep.

  They were still entwined in each other’s arms and slumbering peacefully when they were startled awake by the sound of footsteps thundering up the stairs.

  Jamie McCallan burst into the bedroom. Clad in his indigo greatcoat and hat, face pale and hair dishevelled, he stared at the tableau before him as if Esme and Quinn were standing over a body in blood up to their elbows.

  “Jamie! What are you doing here?” Esme cried, clutching the sheet to her breasts while Quinn scrambled from the bed and grabbed the coverlet to wrap around his waist.

  Jamie turned away from Esme to address Quinn, as if he couldn’t even bear to look at her. “I trusted you,” he charged. “I trusted you to take care of her, not—”

  “This is my fault, not his,” Esme interrupted, getting out of bed and draping the sheet around her like a toga.

  Jamie regarded her in a way that cut her to the quick, as if she were no more than any other foolish, pitiful woman easily seduced by a cad. “I thought you, of all women—”

  McSweeney arrived, panting, on the threshold. “I’m sorry, my lord! The gentleman wouldn’t wait.”

  “So I see. Who do you think you are, McCallan, to burst into our bedchamber in this barbarous fashion? Have you completely lost your mind?” Quinn demanded, his manner suddenly haughty and disdainful—as befit an outraged earl. He had his mask firmly back in place, as she and Jamie should, too. This plan had been Jamie’s idea, after all. If he now had any cause to regret—

  “I have important news for his lordship,” Jamie announced. “Very important news.”

  She suddenly noticed how pale her brother was and that he had dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept for days. Or had come from London as fast as humanly possible.

  Her maid appeared at the door, with Esme’s robe over her arm and a very surprised look on her face.

  Quinn took it from her, dismissed her with a brisk order to go, then said to McSweeney, “This man is my solicitor in London. See that we’re not disturbed.”

  “Very good, my lord,” McSweeney murmured as he went out and closed the door behind him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Quinn had regretted many things in his life, but nothing more than what he’d done with Esme as he faced her righteously indignant brother. No matter how much he loved Esme, he should have had more self-control and waited to make love with her until they were legally married.

  Then he realized that Jamie apparently wasn’t angry anymore. Now he looked…sorry. And perhaps even sad.

  “What is it?” he demanded. “What’s happened?”

  Jamie met Quinn’s gaze squarely and answered without further preamble, although with obvious sympathy. “Your brother and his wife died of ague in Jamaica a month ago. You are now officially the Earl of Dubhagen.”

  For a moment, Quinn felt…nothing. Not sorrow, not regret, not joy. Nothing, as if Jamie’s announcement applied to somebody else, and that person was a stranger.

  Until Esme’s hand, warm and soft and vital, slipped into his.

  “I received a letter from an associate of mine in the office of the earl’s solicitor in Jamaica,” Jamie explained. “He was also writing to the family solicitor here in Edinburgh, so I thought I should make haste to tell you of the change in your circumstances and to decide how best to proceed.”

  “But I can’t be the earl,” Quinn protested. “My father disinherited me.”

  “So he may have threatened or even planned to do, but he never did. There’s not a single legal reason you would be barred from the title. And since Augustus has left no heirs, everything goes to you—title, estate and income. You’re a rich man, Quinn—or should I say, my lord.”

  He hadn’t been disinherited? He could scarcely believe it, but if Jamie said it was so…

  “Your father must have loved you, after all,” Esme said softly.

  “Perhaps he did,” Quinn agreed after clearing the lump that had come to his throat. “I wish I’d known it when he was alive. It would have…it would have made a difference. I wouldn’t have felt so alone.”

  “You aren’t alone anymore,” Esme said as she squeezed his hand, her presence and love a comfort.

  Jamie cleared his throat, the sound loud in the silence. “I’m sorry to have to be practical at such a time, but your family’s solicitor here in Edinburgh will be learning of your brother’s fate any day. Perhaps it would be best if you both returned to London.”

  “Mr. McHeath and the rest of Edinburgh society are in for a shock whether we stay or go,” Quinn replied. “Since I’ve really been the earl for a few months now, I haven’t been breaking the law. If people assumed I was Augustus and Esme was Hortense, well…”

  “The only lie we’ve really told is that we’
re already married,” Esme said. “I never actually said I was from Jamaica. I just said it was hot—which it is.”

  “As for the married part, we intend to rectify that as soon as possible,” Quinn said. “Thank God the laws of Scotland are more accommodating in that respect.”

  Jamie felt for a chair and sat heavily. “Married?”

  “While I should like your blessing, Jamie, I’m of legal age, so I don’t require your permission to marry,” Esme quietly noted, as if speaking to a person taken ill. Her expression and voice softened, almost to a plea. “You like Quinn, don’t you? I love him and he loves me, and we’re going to be married.”

  “You truly want to marry him,” Jamie said, looking as taken aback as Quinn would have, too, if somebody had made that suggestion even a fortnight ago.

  “Yes, I do. I also want to make it clear that Quinn didn’t seduce me. It was my decision to spend the night with him without benefit of clergy, despite his efforts to dissuade me, so if you must be angry with anyone about that, it is I.”

  “I know I’m not nearly good enough for her,” Quinn said, “and despite the love I feel for her, I should have waited until we were married to share a bed. But since we didn’t, I hope you’ll forgive me. I do love her, Jamie, with all my heart, and I give you my word that she’ll always be first in my life. I’ll do everything I can to make her happy.”

  Before Jamie could reply, there was a sharp, insistent rap on the door.

  “My lord!” McSweeney called from the other side. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but a footman has come with an urgent message from Lady Catriona. It’s the earl. He’s had a fit of apoplexy. He’s dying, the footman says.”

  Esme and Quinn dressed as quickly as they could, then joined an equally anxious Jamie in the carriage. On their way to the earl’s, Esme and Quinn told Jamie what they’d discovered about the earl’s finances, and what they had not.

  Esme doubted he heard half of it.

  They were admitted to the earl’s house immediately and shown into the drawing room, while the butler dispatched a maid to summon Catriona. The house was hushed, as if no one dared to speak, or were afraid of what might happen if they did. Esme sat beside Quinn on one of the sofas and held his hand while Jamie began to pace in front of the hearth.

  “Apoplexy isn’t always fatal,” she said, desperate to break the unnerving silence. “He may yet rally.”

  “Perhaps,” Quinn agreed.

  “Remember Mrs. Beesdale?” Esme said to her brother. “She was on death’s door from that very cause at least three times that we’re aware of and always recovered. She made a new will every time,” she added for Quinn’s benefit.

  Jamie didn’t seem to hear that, either, but at the sound of light, rapid footsteps, all eyes, including his, darted to the hanging stairs beyond the door.

  Catriona came hurrying down the steps. Her hair was in a long braid, and she wore the most simple of frocks for the day, a printed green muslin with only a single row of darker trim—proof that she’d dressed quickly and that the earl’s attack had probably happened in the night. She was pale, and it looked as if she’d been weeping.

  Esme glanced at Jamie, who stood unmoving, as if the sight of Catriona had rooted him to the floor.

  “Thank you both for coming,” Catriona said, rushing toward Esme with outstretched hands.

  Until she saw Jamie. The remaining color drained from her face and she began to sway.

  As Esme cried a warning, Jamie raced forward and caught Catriona before she fell, then carried her to the sofa. Esme followed, desperate to help in some way and regretting they hadn’t given the poor girl some warning of Jamie’s presence. Quinn, meanwhile, ran to the door and called for assistance.

  Esme watched helplessly as Jamie sat half on the edge of the cabriole sofa, looking at Catriona as if she might evaporate or expire on the spot. He gently brushed her hair from her face, his expression and action proving to Esme, more than any declaration, that her brother still loved Catriona, and probably always would.

  Now aware of what love between a man and woman could be, she couldn’t fault him for his devotion, in spite of what had happened in the past and the years since. She could only admire and respect her brother more.

  The butler appeared and lost some of his stony calm.

  “She swooned,” Esme explained. “Is the doctor still here?”

  “No, no!” Catriona cried weakly as she opened her eyes and looked at Jamie as if uncertain he was real. “Let Dr. Seamus stay with my father. I was just… Is it you, Jamie? Is it really you?”

  “Yes, it’s really me,” Jamie assured her.

  “Bring some tea and brandy,” Quinn told the butler.

  The man immediately departed, while Catriona grabbed Jamie’s hand. “Papa’s fallen ill. Suddenly. Just this morning and I sent for the doctor, who says there’s no hope, so I wanted…I thought…Oh, Jamie, how I’ve missed you!” she cried, throwing her arms around Esme’s brother and sobbing against his shoulder.

  Esme had no idea what to do, or say. She glanced at Quinn, but he looked equally lost at sea.

  “Perhaps Esme and I should leave,” he ventured.

  “No!” Catriona cried. “Please, stay. I want Esme to hear everything, even though she hates me, and justly so, because of what happened between her brother and me.”

  “I don’t hate you, Catriona,” Esme quickly said. “I was angry and resented you before, but not anymore.”

  The young woman’s lips quivered as she spoke. “Oh, I’m glad! But I still want…need…to explain, to tell you all—but especially you, Jamie. I lied to you when I said I wouldn’t marry a man who worked for his living. I lied for your sake, because my father threatened to ruin you if I didn’t give you up—and he could do it, too!”

  Her expression grew more determined and impassioned. “I wanted to marry you, Jamie, oh, so much! I told him what a fine man you were and how much I loved you, but Papa still wouldn’t agree. I even threatened to run away with you, but then he said he would destroy you.

  “He’s a powerful man with influential friends,” Catriona went on, her voice shaking with emotion. “He could have ruined the career you worked so hard for, Jamie, even if we went to America or Australia. I couldn’t risk that. I wouldn’t, even though I broke your heart, and my own, too.”

  Esme suddenly wished she was somewhere—anywhere—else. This was the sort of conversation no one but the principals should be privy to. She began sidling toward the door, while Quinn stared out the window as if he’d been turned to stone.

  “But that’s not the worst of it. He’s been lying about his finances, too,” Catriona said, arresting Esme’s attempt to leave. “After the doctor had told him…told him this attack might be fatal, Papa confessed to me that he hasn’t been losing money at all. That was a lie, every time, to keep me near him. To make me think he was in danger so I wouldn’t leave him.”

  His expression unreadable, Quinn slowly swivelled on his heel to look at the couple.

  “It’s not because he loves me,” Catriona bitterly continued. “Who would be his hostess if I married and left him? Who would fuss over him and tend to his needs, his whims? Who else except a dutiful daughter? He only told me now because he wants to die in a state of grace, or at least with God’s forgiveness.”

  The earl sounded monstrously selfish and many would likely have a difficult time believing that Catriona could be telling the truth, but Esme could, and so could Jamie, or Quinn, or anyone familiar with the sort of cases that crossed a solicitor’s desk: the disputed wills, the bitter settlements, the quarrels among family members, the marriage contracts drawn up with no thought of love or happiness or even contentment. Everyone in that room had seen enough to believe that a selfish, arrogant old man could and would do just as Catriona described, and for no other motive than self-interest.

  Catriona wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m not crying over him—not anymore,” she said with trembling defiance.
“I’m crying because of what he did to us, Jamie. And because I’m so happy to see you again.”

  She lowered her eyes and twisted her hands in her lap. “I didn’t think to ask…” She raised her eyes, hopeful and yet frightened, too. “Are you married?”

  Esme’s brother smiled as she hadn’t seen him smile since the night Catriona had jilted him. This was the Jamie she had known in her childhood, the Jamie who’d been absent for so long. “How could I marry when my wife-to-be is here? You will marry me, won’t you, Catriona?”

  “Oh, yes!” she cried, throwing her arms around Jamie’s neck and kissing him passionately.

  The butler appeared at the entrance of the drawing room. His eyes widened, but duty demanded he keep his voice expressionless, and he did. “If you please, my lady, the doctor says you should come at once.”

  Catriona’s breath caught before she nodded and got to her feet, holding on to the arm of the sofa for support, until Jamie put his arm around her. “Would you rather see him alone?” he asked softly.

  She leaned against Jamie and looked up at him as if he were her champion come at last to save her. “I need you, Jamie, now and always,” she said before she turned to Esme and Quinn. “I would be grateful for your company, too. I would like to have friends nearby if this is to be goodbye.”

  The earl’s large bedchamber was like a tomb, full of dark, heavy furniture. Thick velvet draperies surrounded the bed and more were drawn across the tall, closed windows. The only light came from a small candle on the table beside the curtained bed, and the air was stale and smelled of the sick room. The earl himself seemed dwarfed by the pillows and covers, as if he’d shrunk, or was already dead, his face gaunt and cadaverous.

  Yet his bony chest still rose and fell, albeit with shallow, gasping breaths.

  The doctor, waiting by the bed like a high priest about to administer the last rites, turned toward them when they entered the room. If he was surprised to see four people, he hid it well. Esme supposed that he, like a lawyer, had seen too many things in his life to be surprised by much.