If it weren’t for the other women, she’d deny the need for protection and no doubt, his gallantry as well. Not overlarge in stature, after their short but sweet kiss, she’d nonetheless clobbered him soundly. He’d borne the bruise for a week.
His battered senses had suffered far longer.
“Such distinguished dames shouldn’t sleep upon the floor, non?” Tempting her with the obvious, he pressed his advantage. “And the vicar doesn’t require two beds.”
Her gentle gaze flicked to each middling-aged woman in turn, then remained on Reverend Fletcher briefly. A steely glint flashed in her large, expressive eyes, deepening their color to a warm treacle before she rapidly concealed the look.
She regally tipped her head in acquiescence. “Thank you, Monsieur de Devaux-Rousset. I gratefully accept on behalf of my aged companions.”
A snort nearly choked him.
On behalf of her companions?
He didn’t doubt for an instant she would’ve plopped her delightfully tight derrière onto the dirty slats lining the floor for the night if it hadn’t been for the other dames.
Mademoiselle Ferguson strove to conceal her more volatile side.
So much so in fact, Jacques doubted few others had been the target of her heated outrage. Or even suspected she had a fiery streak simmering inside. He rather liked her lack of control around him.
He smoothed his mustache again, hiding his appreciative smile. “I’ll need a pallet brought to my chamber—”
“Nae ye winna.” Reverend Fletcher stood, scraping his chair backward and throwing his napkin onto the table. He stalked to the counter, his thin face lined with aggravation.
Several patrons watched his progress, and conversation in the common room petered.
“I be a mon of God.” He slapped the countertop, contempt thickening his tinny tone. “And I be refusin’ to share a room with a heathen.”
A harsh sound, half gasp, half hiss, escaped Mademoiselle Ferguson as she bristled in outrage. “How dare you refer to the Monsieur as a heathen?”
At her unexpected defense, appreciation infused Jacques.
She straightened to her full height and stabbed Fletcher with a blistering glare. “You, sir, are the one sorely lacking in social graces and common courtesy, else you’d not subject three travel-weary women to sleeping upon the floor while you enjoy a comfortable bed and another goes unused.”
Bravo, ma petite.
A sinister gleam shone fleetingly in Fletcher’s eyes before he dismissed her with a reproachful scowl. Speaking to the anxious innkeeper, he bent his lanky form over the counter and thrust his thumb toward Jacques. “I nae be sharin’ a room with a filthy Frenchie.”
Chapter 3
Eyeing the rector, Jacques’s nostrils twitched, as did Mademoiselle Ferguson’s. He checked the laugh welling in his throat.
“Zut. Given the aroma you’re emitting, Monsieur, I dare say I see a bathtub far more frequently than you, and I’m certain my clothes are laundered more regularly as well.”
A few guests laughed or tittered, and the innkeeper hid a toothy smile behind her hand.
“Je ne pense pas qu’on lui ait dit que la pureté de l’âme passe d’abord par celle du corps,” Jacques murmured from the side of his mouth.
Mademoiselle Ferguson’s lips quivered, but she admirably brought them under control. The twinkle in her eye remained unrestrained, though. “C’est précisément cela.”
Exactly so.
Warmth permeated him at the intimate humor they shared.
“What did ye say in that devil’s tongue?” Fletcher glowered and levered upright.
“Monsieur de Devaux-Rousset simply made a reference to an adage about cleanliness and Godliness.” Her agreeable smile widened when Fletcher choked on an irate oath.
Impudent minx.
“Nonetheless, Vicar, I’m willing to share my chamber with you so the dames might have a bed.” Jacques cocked his head. How prideful was Fletcher? “I’ll sleep on the pallet.”
Downwind or with my head out the window.
“Nae. I paid fer the room, and be meanin’ to sleep in it. By myself.” Reverend Fletcher surveyed the now silent taproom, disapproval etched on many travelers’ countenances.
A flicker of unease flitted over his craggy features before he puffed out his chest and elevated his head proudly. Looking down his reedy nose that supercilious way, he bore a rather distinct resemblance to the cranes wandering Craiglocky’s loch.
The look didn’t favor him.
“I be Craigcutty’s temporary rector, and I be sure Laird McTavish nae have a wish fer his new cleric to associate with ungodly Frenchmen.”
Acting as if excrement filled his mouth, he spat the last word.
Tried and convicted by a hypocrite.
Fletcher wrongly assumed Jacques was Catholic. What would the fellow do if he knew Jacques aided in Napoleon’s defeat and capture?
One finger at a time, Mademoiselle Ferguson removed her gloves, a placid smile hovering about her pink, bowed mouth. “I rather believed that was a rector’s primary duty. To win others with kindness, love, and acceptance. Yes?”
Geniality grappled with accusation in her direct gaze.
“Dinna be tellin’ me the Laird’s ways, lassie.” Narrowing his eyes to cunning slits, Reverend Fletcher gave her an inflexible stare. “Where did ye say ye be travelin’ to?”
Dropping her gloves within her bonnet’s silk lining, she shrugged. “I didn’t.”
Jacques chuckled delightedly again. Merde, she had an adorable, precocious bent.
“Surely you’re aware whom you’ve shared a post chaise with, Vicar, non?” Canting his head, Jacques met Fletcher’s indolent stare head on. “She’s—”
“Please, allow me.” Smiling, Mademoiselle Ferguson laid her delicate hand on Jacques’s forearm. “I confess, I shall quite enjoy the surprise.”
A scorching jolt swept upward from her touch, and he instinctively almost jerked his arm away. Mon Dieu. The first time she’d voluntarily touched him, and he acted like a man besotted. She’d never smiled at him directly before either, and her genuine amusement’s potency nearly knocked him flat on his arse.
For an instant, confusion knitted her smooth forehead and wrinkled her nose, but as usual, she adeptly masked her puzzlement. Such skill took repeated practice.
Fascinating.
She hid her true emotions.
If only he had the time to discover why.
Grinning, Jacques winked and bent into a mocking half-bow. “By all means. I’m positive I shall relish the telling immensely.”
More than once, he’d been a recipient of her tongue flaying. In the most modulated of tones, she verbally separated meat from bone as expertly as a seasoned butcher wielding a knife.
Mademoiselle Ferguson’s stern-faced, six-foot maid tramped toward them, her bearing both protective and challenging. She raked the men with her unyielding, mossy gaze before her expression softened, and she addressed her mistress.
“What be happenin’ here, Miss Seonaid?”
“Oh, nothing of import, Una. I was about to inform Vicar Fletcher that Laird McTavish, also known as the Viscount Sethwick, is . . .” A saucy smile pulling her mouth’s edges upward, she paused to draw in a strategic breath.
Adorable tease.
“My brother.”
Fletcher’s jaw sagged to his scrawny chest, and he blinked like an owl blinded by afternoon sunlight. “Brother? I didna ken.” Eyebrows and mouth swooping downward, his visage took on a shrewd edge. “Why be a young lass like ye travelin’ alone, and why dinna ye have a brogue?”
“Och, she be returnin’ from a London Season, not that it be yer business. And ye can see she nae be travelin’ alone.” Spearing him a quelling frown, Una crossed her thick arms and stepped slightly in front of Mademoiselle Ferguson.
In a contest of strength between Una and Fletcher, the abigail would thrash the cleric soundly.
Swallowing and tu
gging at his neckcloth, Fletcher retreated a reflexive step.
Le poltron.
The cleric might be a coward, but even Jacques wouldn’t want to cross that she-bear while protecting her charge.
“As for my lack of a heavy brogue,” Mademoiselle Ferguson’s clipped speech conveyed her disdain for the vicar, “an overly zealous governess determined that my sisters and I should speak the King’s English as well as a British subject. I assure ye, I ken how to speak Scots.”
The last lyrical sentence rolled off her tongue.
Facing the anxious proprietor, Jacques offered his most disarming smile, and slid her a few coins. “Please give the dames the vicar’s room, oui? And he may have mine. I’m happy to sleep upon a pallet somewhere in this fine establishment.”
Mrs. Kerrigan’s freckled face broke into a wide grin. “Aye, a perfect solution, m’laird. Thank ye. Vicar Fletcher, give me yer key, please, and I be havin’ yer things moved at once.” She glanced to his unfinished dinner. “Have yerself a seat, and a hot, fresh meal will be brought to ye. I’ve clootie dumpling for dessert too.”
A clever way to pacify a disgruntled guest.
With a mutinous glare, Fletcher relinquished his key and accepted one for Jacques’s room before stomping back to his table. As he passed, guests swiftly presented their backs in condemnation. His ears glowing, Fletcher’s features settled into angry furrows.
Hounds’ teeth, such a surly chap. He’d certainly chosen the wrong profession. Did anyone attend the services he preached? That question would soon be answered since Jacques planned on staying in the area.
What a horrid notion, listening to a sermon by Fletcher.
“Let’s get ye registered, lass,” Mrs. Kerrigan said. “It be a third floor room, but I can get a laddie to help with yer luggage.”
“There’s no need. I’ve just my valises.”
Where was the remainder of her luggage? A London Season required trunks of clothing and fallalls. What about her companions? Did they travel as lightly too?
A few moments later, Mademoiselle Ferguson dropped the key into her reticule.
“Thank you again, Monsieur de Devaux-Rousset.” Her composed mien shrouded her once more.
“My pleasure, but please drop the Rousset. It’s quite too much to manage in one mouthful.” He sketched a brief bow. “Excuse me, s’il vous plaît. I must remove my things from my former chamber.” He smiled at Mrs. Kerrigan. “I’ll return the key as soon as I’ve finished.”
“Monsieur le baron, where will you sleep?” Mademoiselle Ferguson’s gaze roved the assembled guests, lingering a moment on a few seedier patrons. Her jaw’s subtle tightening gave her discomfit away.
There’d been no question of sleeping with the likes of them nearby. If she’d refused the offer of Jacques’s room, he’d have slept below too. With a loaded pistol and his knife tucked in his Hessians.
“Oh, there’s no shortage of cozy nooks where one might stow a pallet.” He gave another swaggering wink. “I shall be fine. I’ve slept in far harsher conditions, I assure you.”
Three years of espionage had exposed him to hellish sleeping environs many times.
“Well, I thank you again.” After giving a brief nod, she faced Una. “I’d prefer to eat in our chamber. Would you please collect Mrs. Wetherby and ask that bathing water be sent to our room as soon as convenient?”
“Aye, lass. And a hot tea toddy, too, I be thinkin’.” Eager to complete her mistress’s bidding, Una bustled off.
A tippler dared fondle her rear as she passed, and Una clouted him in the ear. “I have more respect fer myself than to dally with vermin like ye.”
Elbows resting atop the countertop, Jacques perused the room in search of an acceptable spot to stow his belongings. Maybe that alcove, there, near the stairs.
The four ruffians hovering at a table near the window raised the hairs on his nape, and that revealed much. He’d stake his barony that the grimy quartet were robbers or pad borrowers forced to seek shelter here. As an English spy during the war, he wasn’t a stranger to low-lifes and horse thieves.
Memories briefly assailed him, but he stifled the pain and regret.
France meant nothing.
He owed her even less, and still, he couldn’t bring himself to abandon le Manoir des Jardins. How could he when his entire family lay buried in the once elegant gardens the château was named after?
“Mademoiselle Ferguson, may I escort you to your room? I’m not comfortable with you venturing there alone. While most customers here are stranded travelers like ourselves, there’s also an unsavory element present.”
And that was why he’d sleep outside her door. And why he’d either insist she and her companions complete the journey in his hired coach, or he’d exchange places with the rector.
That ought to set the self-righteous tosspot into a sputtering dudgeon again.
Moreover, Jacques owed McTavish a debt of gratitude and after seeing his sister home, the debt would be paid.
Well, that wasn’t Jacques’s singular motivation.
This girlish woman had entangled his thoughts for months, but every time he approached her or attempted conversation, she retreated with a racehorse’s alacrity and a badger’s ferocity.
“Yes, I appreciate the offer. A few men here do make me uncomfortable.” She gathered her belongings, weariness carved across her fine features and shadowing her gentle eyes. “I’m truly grateful for your generosity. I’m sure you aren’t looking forward to an uncomfortable night on the floor after traveling all day.”
Likely several nights sprawled on the floor, given the storm’s savagery.
And that created other worries.
Did the inn have sufficient supplies to last several days? Hungry, bored, and confined men habitually drank too much, and the belligerent ones either started fights or demanded women for their more primal urges.
Too bad Jacques traveled alone, but he’d disbanded his smuggling and informant system after buying into Oakberry, and a valet was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
Not many of the patrons hunkered over their tankards, food, or cards appeared capable of defending themselves against anything more aggressive than a horsefly. Dragging his attention back to Mademoiselle Ferguson, her mesmerizing eyes ensnared him.
Toast brown irises, ringed by deep jade, glittered with citrine flecks and, if he wasn’t mistaken, true concern for his comfort. Her half-French heritage was evident in her small straight nose, and her face’s delicate angles and high cheekbones. An intense desire to sample her lips’ softness again assailed him.
Christ, quell salaud.
He was a bâtard, envisioning her in an intimate embrace when she practically slept on her feet.
“You didn’t explain what brought you to Scotland again, Monsieur.” Several steps ahead, she pitched the question over her shoulder.
A wicked smile splitting his face, he hurried to relieve her of her valises. “I might move here.”
Chapter 4
A red squirrel could’ve built a sizable nest in Seonaid’s gaping mouth. Only plowing into a small trunk left near the stairs by a careless servant—or perhaps a guest eager for a stiff peck or the fire’s warmth—roused her from her flabbergasted daze.
She rubbed her sore knee. Another bruise, no doubt.
Move to Scotland?
Monsieur de Devaux held a French title. Surely he but teased.
“You’re fatigued, ma petite. Let me assist you.” Brazenly, he gripped her elbow, steadying her.
At his touch, a sensation much like heavy, warm velvet encompassed her. Comforting, yet sensual too. And alarming in its intensity.
Gently, and without meeting his astute gaze, she extracted her arm on the pretense of lifting her gown for the risers.
Stones weighted her eyelids, and she swallowed an unladylike yawn. He, on the other hand, never looked more dashing and virile. Utterly unfair.
Climbing the narrow stairs, she tried to keep her hips
from swaying, much too aware he followed close behind.
“Why isn’t your family journeying with you?” An innocent enough question, except a note of true concern, or perhaps censure, tinted Monsieur’s words.
“I left London rather abruptly and didn’t want to wait until someone could be sent from Craiglocky to accompany me. Besides, Mrs. Wetherby was anxious to find a traveling companion and gladly served as my chaperon.”
A bit of an exaggeration, there. Mrs. Wetherby had been paid handsomely to speedily depart London.
“It’s not typical, and can be dangerous, non?” His deep, accented baritone caressed her.
How could a man’s voice be so deliciously pleasant? And bother it all, why did Seonaid notice? Especially Jacques’s? A man who piqued her no end most of the time, and she didn’t vex easily.
She shook her head. “No, it’s not commonly done, but I felt that under the circumstances, and with my maid and a chaperon, it was acceptable.”
Barely.
Undoubtedly, her parents’ chastisement awaited her upon her arrival, and probably Ewan’s too. He respected his stepfather Hugh Ferguson immensely, but as laird, Ewan would likely feel it his duty to reprimand her.
Truthfully, she expected it. Deserved it.
Fiercely loyal and dedicated to the clan, members were obliged to consider how their actions affected the tribe, and single lasses gallivanting from England to Scotland in the dead of winter, even with a pair of middling-aged women, bordered on scandalous.
A splendid sort of scandal, because for a few brief days, Seonaid was completely in charge of her life.
Freedom’s taste proved intoxicating and addicting.
Her family’s admonishments would be naught compared to what she’d endured in London. What she’d continue to withstand as her visions grew stronger and occurred more frequently, as seemed the case.
Dread hitched her breath, momentarily making her dizzy, and she placed a palm against the coarse planks lining the stairway. Why did people have to turn her God-given gift into a circus attraction or fair exhibit?
Scandal's Splendor (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Book 4) Page 3