Scandal's Splendor (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Book 4)

by Collette Cameron

  Stupid, stupid simpleton.

  Only a complete beef-wit threatened men of Jacques’s and Ewan’s ilk. If, as she suspected, Jacques had been in the same line of service as Ewan during the war, he had killed. Undoubtedly, more than once.

  “If I weren’t certain you’d perish, I’d demand we leave your sorry arse here. Only my displaced sense of decency compels me to allow you to continue on.” Jacques flung the rector away from him with the force and distaste of a man holding a gyrating viper.

  Jacques was as dangerous as Ewan. Foolish for the rector to make him an enemy.

  You once considered him thus.

  Nearly falling, Fletcher stumbled backward a few steps before regaining his balance. His wary gaze traveled ’round the stretch of road, and he raised a shaky hand to his throat.

  Jacques’s taut stance, steely eyes, and flexing jaw betrayed a man in rigid control of his temper.

  She didn’t doubt one iota that his respect for the women and reverence for the cleric’s position, if not the man himself, kept Reverend Fletcher from a sound thrashing.

  “Rest assured. I shall be writing the bishop as well.” Pulling his plaid tam o’ shanter onto his head, Ewan stabbed the seemingly contrite cleric a dark glower. “I’d rather Craigcutty hadn’t a rector until Wallace’s return than allow you to stay in my village. You do the Kirk a disservice, and I intend to see you stripped of your position.”

  “Ye widnae dare,” Fletcher stammered, nearly foaming with fear-induced fury. “Ye risk the Almighty’s wrath.”

  Ewan shoved past him. “And you, sir, risk mine.”

  Chapter 10

  Craiglocky Keep

  Early the next morning, before Jacques broke his fast or the chickens poked their speckled heads from their coops, he strode Craiglocky’s dim, chilly corridor on his way to McTavish’s equally gloomy study.

  Damnation. Summoned before I’d yet risen.

  That didn’t bode well.

  Had McTavish spoken with Seonaid already?

  Not unless he’d done so after Jacques retired last evening.

  Conceivable, but doubtful.

  Like the other weary travelers, she’d gone to her chamber straightaway, and a tray had been sent to her room. If hers was anything like his drafty chamber, she probably still slept snuggled beneath a pile of warm bedcovers.

  Except for a few servants silently scurrying about, the castle remained eerily quiet given the sixty-plus souls who slept beneath the barrel vaults gracing her roof.

  After depositing a saddle-sore, half-frozen cantankerous Fletcher at the parsonage—temporarily, McTavish insisted—and Mrs. Wetherby at the Rose and Thistle Inn where her sister would retrieve her, the remainder of their exhausted entourage hadn’t lumbered across the keep’s drawbridge until late evening.

  Heavy snowfall hampered their progress the last several miles, and they scarcely stayed ahead of the impending storm, now blowing a blinding white tumult outside.

  Merde. Highland weather changed swifter than a popular courtesan’s patrons.

  Head wooly from several sleep-deprived nights, Jacques craved a cup—non, an entire pot—of his favorite coffee. Weak and tepid, the English brews he’d sampled this visit didn’t compare to the dark, rich Arabian beans he preferred. In that regard, Jacques reluctantly conceded, the French’s café surpassed the British’s.

  His footsteps, a hollow, echoing cadence on time-trodden stones, accompanied his pulse’s slightly irregular rhythmic beat.

  A prelude of what was to come?

  His stomach pitched like a ship plunging towering waves.

  Nerves? Me?

  Fascinating. And most uncharacteristic.

  Why the edginess?

  The question begged answering, but he wasn’t treading that contorted path. He had one objective, one purpose for being here. Nothing—no one, not even a sloe-eyed temptress—could distract him from his goal.

  Quirking his mouth to one side, he saluted a somber bust stationed atop a heavy, ornate carved table.

  Fearsome lot, these Scots.

  Not all.

  A delicious-smelling, softly-curved, velvety-lipped woman with impossibly expressive eyes framed by sooty lashes had been stamped upon his senses. His memory. Perhaps even more.

  Seonaid saved his life that night in Paris, for there were still those, including Carnot, who would gladly slit Jacques’s throat for his part during the war if the truth were ever outed.

  That she’d nearly succeeded in having him called out by her French cousin rankled. A great deal, truth to tell since Jacques had been deemed a coward for flouting the challenge. Months later, direct cuts and barbed taunts still flew his way, and more than one High Society door had been closed to him. Not that he cared a damn what France’s elite believed.

  A nugatory crowd, the lot, and more affirmation he’d chosen well when he’d sided with the British. Perchance his maternal grandmother’s English blood ran stronger than his French.

  Then why couldn’t he turn his back on le Manoir des Jardins and sell the place? Or simply abandon her as many other stately homes had been deserted in recent years?

  Carnot would snatch the coveted estate in a blink. And grandly restore her too.

  Unthinkable.

  That meurtrier wouldn’t know the pleasure or honor as long as Jacques drew a breath.

  If he didn’t have an estate to restore, if necessity didn’t require him to acquire funds by one means or another, if he hadn’t offended Seonaid mightily in Paris, perchance he’d explore the enigmatic, relentless stirrings she’d triggered and which now permeated the deepest part of his soul.

  Stop woolgathering, man, and concentrate on the task at hand.

  He needed McTavish’s endorsement, and entertaining sensual musings about his sister wouldn’t further Jacques’s cause. He’d much to lose, everything, in fact, if McTavish withdrew his support.

  A burgeoning sneer skewed Jacques’s mouth. Returning to France, pockets to let, and brazenly seeking a rich-as-Croesus-wife didn’t sit well with his pride.

  Not that he was particularly prideful, but in his estimation, fortune hunters ranked slightly better than resurrectionists, toshers, or mudlarks.

  He shook his head in disgust.

  From their gilded frames, decades of grim-faced, piercing-eyed McTavish ancestors watched his progress.

  Skirting a suit of armor standing at attention and wielding a wicked, mammoth axe—mon Dieu, had a giant worn that chainmail and carried that weapon?—Jacques considered where he’d stay if McTavish gave him the boot. Without abundant coin or another acquaintance nearby, his prospects proved humiliatingly dismal.

  Three months.

  That was the longest his creditors would wait. Nonetheless, he couldn’t leave Scotland. Not before determining Oakberry Quarry’s worth. And excavating in the dead of winter? He snorted. Bloody insane. He needed a damned miracle. At least the mine operated in the wintertime, unlike open pit quarries. A small reprieve.

  Perhaps the camp had extra living quarters, or mayhap a miner would rent him a corner in his. Even a humble shack would do. Jacques hadn’t blunt to spare to let anything finer.

  Another cynical smile twisted his mouth as he marched along.

  Him—a baron with the blood of royalty flowing in his veins, owner of nearly a thousand acres boasting one of the most coveted châteaux in France—reduced to hanging upon the coat sleeves of a friend—his future dependent on stripping the Earth of her treasures.

  A plump, fresh-faced maid in a starched apron and cap scooted by, offering him a shy smile. “Guid mornin’ to ye, sir.”

  “I bid you good day as well,” Jacques said, a trifle perfunctorily.

  In all honesty, the tersely worded note delivered thirty minutes ago hadn’t been unforeseen, and he hadn’t expected to altogether escape an interrogation by McTavish. If someone reported a chap publicly kissing Jacques’s sister, he would be as troubled.

  Non, he’d be raising his sword
in an affair of honor.

  Known for his volatile temperament, McTavish hadn’t demanded satisfaction yesterday while standing in the muck, and that gave Jacques a smattering of confidence.

  Nevertheless, McTavish wasn’t stupid, and though he’d directed the full force of his ire at the wily rector, he would demand accountability for each vile allegation against Jacques today.

  Mentally preparing for the forthcoming dance of words, Jacques vacillated. Why not save McTavish both time and trouble? Tell him everything. Certainly in a slightly different, more favorable light than the dotty cleric had, and pray fortune favored him.

  He’d kissed Seonaid to stop her vision.

  And because he couldn’t forget her mouth’s unequaled taste and exquisite suppleness.

  The latter, McTavish need never know.

  Rapping sharply on the stout door, Jacques examined the imposing arch overhead. How many generations had the McTavishes or their kin lived in this medieval monstrosity?

  As long as his family at le Manoir des Jardins? Impressive and rustic, Craiglocky Keep possessed un charme d’antan, wholly different from the brightly gilded, ornate chambers and hallways of his home. Nevertheless, he didn’t doubt the McTavishes cherished the place’s bucolic charm as much as he treasured his home.

  He lifted his hand to knock again when McTavish at last gruffly called, “Enter.”

  Oui, Jacques would spare McTavish the trouble and speak candidly.

  The study remained exactly as he remembered from a meeting here a few months ago. Stately, dark, and dismal. Ancient, barbaric weaponry and crest-engraved shields graced two stone walls and another suit of much smaller, tarnished armor stared sightlessly at him from a corner’s half-light.

  Must they keep those rusty novelties about? Rather unnerved a fellow.

  “Sit.” Indicating the high-backed leather chairs before his cumbersome walnut desk with a curt angling of his head, McTavish scratched away at the foolscap before him.

  After sitting, Jacques hooked an ankle over his knee and smiled. “I’ll admit I’m surprised you waited until this morning to have a go at me.”

  Go on the offensive. Another skill he’d learned as an agent. But one McTavish possessed as well.

  “Were you aware your sister fears her visions? Dreads what others say about them?” Flipping two fingers upward, Jacques arched a knowing brow. “That she left London because the haut ton tried to exploit her gift like a cheap gypsy fortune-teller?”

  Hand poised in replacing his quill in its holder, McTavish froze. His mouth and brows descending, he carefully laid the creamy plume in its appointed place. “To my knowledge, Seonaid hasn’t ever expressed anything of that nature to anyone.”

  “Well, she told me, and the rector is a perfect example of why she wants to keep her fey hidden. He essentially accused her of witchcraft.” Mais quel fils de pute! Witch hunter indeed. “She’s bloody terrified, especially since she cannot control their occurrences.”

  The air left McTavish in a rasping whoosh as he slumped into his chair. Drumming his fingers upon his chair’s arms, he gauged Jacques.

  They’d worked together under life and death situations, had forged a relationship founded on trust and dependence. Based on their history, McTavish had no reason to doubt him, so he waited uncomplainingly as the Scot’s brilliant mind processed what Jacques had revealed.

  A firming of McTavish’s lips and the merest slant of his mouth confirmed his acquiescence. “Explain the kiss then.”

  “While breakfasting in the common room, she saw Sir Hugh’s fall. Fletcher’s presence required I shock her out of the episode before he realized what occurred. That sod already suggested something untoward went on with her.”

  “That doesn’t justify kissing her.” Impatience weighted McTavish’s words, tightening his lean features. His caustic gaze scraped over Jacques, leaving stinging condemnation in its wake. “Devaux, I’m trying hard not to jump to conclusions, but I honestly cannot conceive of a logical reason for your actions.”

  “There wasn’t time to cajole her out of the vision or remove her from the room.” Shrugging, Jacques switched his attention to the powdery white blurring the view outside the towering mullioned window. Impossible to visit Oakberry today—for several days, perhaps. His gaze gravitated to his staid host. “Simply put, I didn’t dare let Fletcher see her in the midst of a vision.”

  “Why? Because of that soothsayer, sorcery gibberish he spouted?” McTavish shook his head. “Those types of nonsensical beliefs, and the persecution accompanying them, ceased years ago.”

  “Mostly true, but the church still burns witches in South America, and there’ve been sporadic killings of witches in Europe in recent times.” Fletcher’s insinuations, their possible ramifications, sent dread tiptoeing along Jacques’s spine.

  McTavish exhaled a vulgar noise—half snort, half curse. “Primitive hogwash. Scotland’s Kirk is far more civilized.”

  “You heard him say there are ways of dealing with ‘her kind.’ What do you think Fletcher referred to? A polite cozy in the grand parlor?” McTavish must understand the urgency. If ever a man was fou, completely mad, Fletcher fit the description. “Overzealous holy men have accused, condemned, and murdered innocents for years, McTavish. Sometimes their entire families too. I’m convinced Fletcher presents a danger to Seonaid.”

  “Seonaid?” McTavish’s brows soared to his hairline, then hung there suspended. “You dare such familiarity?”

  Damnation. Stupid, careless slip.

  “Forgive me. I overstepped the bounds, but we Frenchmen are passionate about such matters, oui?”

  Mon Dieu, quel imbécile je suis. Passionate?

  “Indeed.” A cynical brow notched upward farther. McTavish’s deceptively casual mien didn’t fool Jacques. He wanted the truth. Would have the truth. All of it.

  “Let me worry about Fletcher, Devaux. I haven’t a qualm about tossing his skinny arse in my dungeon if he as much as utters another syllable against my sister.” A shrewd glint entered McTavish’s eyes, though a hint of humor shone there as well. “Tell, me, what did Vicar Fletcher mean when he said you courted her?”

  Remembered that tidbit, had he?

  “It was the only acceptable, quick explanation I could come up with for kissing her, and far less harmful than him disparaging her reputation, non?”

  “And that be yer singular motivation?” McTavish leaned forward, and after placing his forearms onto the burnished desktop, laced his fingers. His brogue had thickened, and something more troublesome than doubt tempered his voice.

  “Precisely what happened between you two in Paris? I’m not blind. I’ve seen how Seonaid reacts to you. And her response isn’t at all typical for her.”

  Ah, he comes to the actual point.

  “Mon ami, you’ve been itching to ask me that question for months, non?”

  McTavish’s expression relaxed a fraction, and he grinned. “Aye.”

  Uncrossing his legs, Jacques weighed his options. Lie and risk McTavish uncovering the truth later—guaranteed to make him an enemy. Or explain he’d had no choice but to kiss Seonaid that time too.

  Doubtful McTavish would believe him. Though the truth, the explanation sounded preposterous and farfetched even to Jacques.

  Once, he wanted to kiss Seonaid out of desire, not because one of them needed protecting.

  Better set aside that dream, old chap.

  He sighed.

  Out with it, then.

  Sitting back in his chair, he extended his legs before him and closed his eyes. Mon Dieu, he was tired. Mentally and physically. He yearned for the contentment his friend radiated.

  McTavish, Viscount Sethwick in their espionage days, had been a far different man than this serene fellow sitting on the desk’s other side. Well, given his current line of questioning, perhaps not wholly serene.

  “Well? What have you to say?” A man accustomed to others obeying him straightaway, McTavish regarded him expectantl
y.

  “I arranged to meet a contact at the Salle Richelieu theatre. However, she failed to show, and my position was compromised. Mademoiselle Ferguson”—a mite late for formality at this juncture—“happened to be in the appointed alcove and to prevent detection, I kissed her.” Jacques cynical chuckle held no amusement. “Surely, even you can understand the need to protect my sources, non?”

  Once a dedicated spy himself, McTavish couldn’t argue against that logic. He’d have done the same in Jacques’s position, and he damned well knew it.

  “Yes, though it maddens me to admit you’re right.” Conceding a grudging nod, McTavish cast his attention to the window, a frown pulling his mouth downward farther. “What are your intentions toward her? She’s not one of your trifling playthings.”

  Even he didn’t know Jacques’s reputation as a womanizing rakehell was an affected front. Jacques’s conscience poked him.

  Not entirely contrived.

  The information he’d gleaned from women eager to share his bed had been quite useful. Except he usually contrived an excuse for why he couldn’t accept their eager offers, which made them all the more desperate, it seemed.