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

by Collette Cameron

  Sliding a hand over his hair, he attempted to smooth the tousled strands. “As a young man, I’d mess my hair on purpose to vex my most proper valet. It gave him fits.”

  A smile teased her mouth.

  “Most wicked of you, the poor man. He’s in France still?” She’d wandered to the window, and after edging aside the draperies, peered outside. “Doesn’t he care to travel?”

  “Non. He died from a fever three years ago, and I didn’t replace him.” Didn’t have the funds to, but by God, Jacques had become damned accomplished at tying a cravat.

  Turning, Seonaid placed her hands behind her back. She leaned against the window, the sunbeams haloing her head and shoulders. Her expression inscrutable, she stared at him.

  “Do you already have an heiress selected?”

  Jacques faltered in taming his wild hair. “Pardonnez-moi?”

  She couldn’t possibly know.

  Had he slipped and revealed something? Wracking his memory, he mentally picked through their conversations. Non, he hadn’t, except for mentioning he hoped the mine would enable him to restore and refurbish the château.

  McTavish might have told her, but not likely. Unless he feared she’d set her cap for Jacques, but she’d done nothing publicly that hinted she’d a tendre for him. She might not recognize her feelings for what they were.

  The second sight then?

  Gaze cast to the floor, she rubbed a finger across an eyebrow. “My gift has altered slightly. Now, it seems I sometimes discern personal things. I’m not quite sure what to make of it yet.” Golden ribbons reflecting off her sable hair, her placid countenance didn’t change a jot except for the minute, momentary narrowing of her eyes. “At least I distinguish things about you. It’s more of an impression, actually, and your astonishment confirmed them.”

  “Confirmed them?” Legs spread, he crossed his arms. Hounds’ teeth. “How?”

  He’d been a spy—even been tortured once—and he’d perfected masking his thoughts and feelings. His reactions too, except for the obstinate member in his pantaloons which, of late, had a bloody determined mind of its own.

  Angling her head, Seonaid stared at him through sooty lashes. “Your eyes betray you.”

  The oddest sensation blossomed in his chest, as if she’d seen straight to the depths of his soul and touched him there. Should he be intrigued or alarmed?

  Glancing ceilingward, she dragged in a deep breath. Her gaze roved the solemn-faced portraits hanging from golden velvet cords throughout the room.

  She cannot bear to look at me.

  Behind her, the sun illumed her pert silhouette, enhancing her ethereal appearance.

  “I won’t say I’m altogether thrilled by another sudden change in my second sight, but that’s how I deduced you’d been a spy.” She cut him a brief glance. “And about the heiress.”

  “Non. I haven’t chosen anyone.” Lying to her wasn’t an option. In any event, how could he deceive someone who discerned things before they happened? Neck bent, he rubbed his nape, suddenly wearier than he could ever recall. Rather disconcerting, her poking around in his conscience.

  “I yet have hope that such a monumental”—horrendous—“step won’t be necessary. I’ve still several weeks left for Oakberry to make good.”

  Not really.

  He’d written Faucher, giving him a list of items he could sell to temporarily appease the creditors. They’d not be pacified for long. Like hounds intent on a fresh fox trail, they hungered for their prize.

  Jacques also asked him to uncover who’d made the offer. A doubt didn’t exist Faucher already knew, but he’d likely been paid to pretend ignorance.

  Which pointed straight to Carnot.

  Gliding to the door, Seonaid summoned an unhappy smile. “I truly admire your dedication to your home.”

  Even in a gown far past the peak of fashion and a mantle of despondency shrouding her, she outshone every woman he’d seen in their court finery. She possessed a rare, inner beauty that heightened her outer loveliness.

  He stretched his injured hand, now bandage free, toward her, anxious to explain and yet keenly aware he shouldn’t. Didn’t have the right. “Seonaid?”

  She stared at his extended palm, lingering on the healing cut, before her attention slowly gravitated to his face. She stood silently, unmoving, disappointment warring with regret in her moist eyes.

  What could he say to soothe her offended feelings?

  He could help her put her infatuation for him aside. She’d detested him once. Past time for her to hate him again.

  For her sake.

  And his.

  When she regarded him the way she did now, despite his being an unworthy nipfarthing determined to acquire a fortune, he was sorely tempted to follow his heart. Just this once, to selfishly consider his wants.

  No one he cared for remained to condemn him for making a selfish choice.

  Non, but his family, at least Mère and his sister’s family, might yet be alive if he’d been at home, not spying for the English or smuggling in another vain attempt to raise funds.

  Guilt and remorse proved powerful motivators to return to a country and an estate that no longer felt like home—hadn’t for a long while, truth be known.

  He’d play his hand, and then remove himself to an empty miner’s hovel for the remainder of his time in Scotland. Staying at Craiglocky was inconceivable after what he meant to do.

  I am indeed, an utter, colossal arse.

  He bestowed his most charming smile on her. “I suspect my actions, my kisses, have misled you, Seonaid, and you’ve developed a tendre for me.”

  God, he loathed himself right now.

  Seonaid flinched, pink coloring cheeks as pale as the marble busts displayed behind her, but she bravely held his gaze, nonetheless.

  Oui, he’d been right when he’d told McTavish she was the strongest of the sisters. “But, if I may be perfectly blunt, I’m afraid your dowry wouldn’t begin to suffice.”

  Churl.

  The color drained from her face as quickly as the blush had appeared. Trembling, her eyes luminous, she swallowed and fisted her hands in her worn skirt.

  What strength of character she possessed. Any other woman would either be weeping or railing hysterically. Or have swooned.

  “I didn’t take you for a cruel man, Jacques. I’m perfectly aware you require a fortune to renovate your home.”

  Each softly spoken word in her lilting brogue stabbed, rapier sharp.

  Lower lip trembling and tears shimmering in her eyes, she serenely forged on. “You’ve also made it clear you don’t desire me, and I’ll confess, my inexperience with men led me to believe otherwise.” Her small chin angled upward. “However, I assure you, I’m not crushed by the knowledge. I, too, plan on marrying for convenience, and I have you to thank for helping me make that decision.”

  Non!

  His turn to gulp in a hefty breath and swallow against the tightness in his throat, making speech impossible.

  Seonaid should—must—marry for love.

  Because she was unique. And extraordinary. And wonderful. And gentle. And had the purest heart he’d ever encountered.

  He clamped his jaw and stiffened his knees against the need to stride across the room, take her into his arms, and whisper those very things. And that he wanted nothing more in this world than to make her his, all else be damned.

  What of le Manoir des Jardins? His family? His title? His self-respect? His promise to Maman?

  Did they mean naught?

  Non. Not compared to Seonaid.

  He’d give everything up for her, but a pauper had no business marrying, particularly a woman of refinement and breeding.

  How would he support her? As a gentlemen’s secretary or man of business? Not in the fashion to which she was accustomed.

  A way existed which preserved his pride.

  Sell le Manoir des Jardins.

  To Carnot? Who else? For surely he’d made the offer.


  That, Jacques couldn’t do. Anything but sell his cherished home to his nemesis, the man responsible for his sister’s death.

  He couldn’t abandon Jeanette again.

  Selfishly, Jacques committed to memory every angle of Seonaid’s face. Her upturned nose, her Cupid’s bow lips, and expressive deep, pecan-brown eyes. Her long, ivory neck, trim waist, and curves perfect for cupping by a man’s hands. The way she held herself, elegant and poised, a hint of mystery hovering about her. How her mouth contorted and nose crinkled when she was deep in reverie.

  He’d never know her intimately, never touch her satiny flesh, would never see her smile at him in adoration, or hear her cries of ecstasy when he brought her to fulfillment.

  And still, though he’d spoken brutally, he beheld kindness, and perhaps even now, a degree of adulation on her beautiful, ravaged face.

  He’d done that to her, and though he’d rather sever a limb, he must wound her more. Must make her turn away from him in complete disgust and loathing. Must destroy the last vestiges of affection she harbored for him. So she could be free to eventually give her heart to someone more deserving.

  Shrugging nonchalantly, he yawned widely, rudely. Let her think him an uncouth bore. “Marry for convenience? If you’re able to snare a man who can tolerate your second sight.”

  Unmitigated, unforgivable, calculated cruelty.

  A tiny, strangled gasp escaped her. Wincing, one hand at her throat, she stepped backward like she’d suffered a tremendous blow. For a beat, she didn’t respond, just stood stunned. Then, she jutted her perfect oval chin in the air, icy haughtiness worthy of a beau monde patroness rippling off her rigid form.

  “You’re sorely mistaken, Monsieur de Devaux-Rousset, if you presume I ever considered marrying you. I’m neither desperate nor deranged.”

  Chapter 16

  Five hours later, Jacques paced Mr. Newton’s office, rubbing his nape, where pebbles huddled together in solid, unrelenting clusters to torture him. Giving the nubby mass a final squeeze, he lifted his head. “How long since silver ore has been mined?”

  Easing back in his squeaky chair, Oakberry Quarry’s manager scratched his bristly chin. “We’ve found cobalt and lead aplenty, but no silver ore or galena in . . .” Staring into space, he tapped his fingers atop the desk. “Och, maybe eight or nine weeks.”

  Weeks? Hell’s bells.

  Not unusual for a mining operation, but Jacques didn’t have weeks to spare. The digging and extracting were only part of the process. Assessing the ores’ quality and finding a fair buyer took time too. Precious time he didn’t have.

  He’d rushed into this venture and haste might mean the end for him. But even desperate, he refused to overwork his crew, treating them scant better than beasts of burden or slaves as other mine owners were wont to do.

  “Monsieur, all’s not lost. There’s a good market for cobalt and also lead. It don’t pay as much as silver ore, but it’s usually enough to keep us in supplies an’ equipment an’ to pay the crew.”

  Mr. Newton stood and, after scooting his lanky frame around the shabby, scarred desk, pointed to a series of tunnels depicted on the roughly sketched map hanging askew on the crude wall behind Jacques.

  “Here’s where we’ve found a few small rich silver ore veins, and there’s also cobalt throughout.” He drew a stained, callused finger along a chamber. “I think we’re close to striking a giant lode. The signs are all there.”

  Scrunching his eyes and studying the map, Newton tugged at his earlobe.

  What signs did he see that Jacques couldn’t?

  “How can you be sure?” He also studied the markings, which meant nothing to him. He hadn’t researched mining before jumping at the offer Mr. Needham made him in London. An upstanding banker, he’d trusted the man, but uncertainty still nipped.

  Had Jacques thrown all his eggs into the proverbial basket, merely to lose everything?

  Newton chuckled, a deep belly laugh as if Jacques had delivered a fabulous joke. “You canna ever be sure, Monsieur. Call it gut instinct. Or intuition.” He poked the wrinkled map again and nodded confidently. “I’ve been minin’ for over twenty years, and trust me, sir, there’s silver ore in Oakberry. Have patience. We’ll find it. Shouldn’t take more than two or three months to dig the new shaft.”

  Jacques closed his eyes for a second. “Two or three months with our current crew? What if we hired more? Could it be done in half that time?”

  It had to be.

  Nodding slowly, Newton pursed his mouth. “Experienced miners could do it—with the right equipment. If’n you had enough and offered them a worthy wage.”

  Where would Jacques get the funds for that?

  McTavish.

  So much for the morsel of pride he still possessed.

  God help him if Seonaid breathed a word of their conversation in the music room. McTavish would call him out, and justly so, even if he had warned Jacques away from her.

  “See to hiring additional men. Make sure they’re the best.” At the door, Jacques swung back around. “By the way, I’d prefer to be closer to the day-to-day operation. Is there an empty cabin, or do you know of a miner who might be willing to accommodate me?”

  Newton raised a grizzled brow. “Sir, with all due respect, the men wouldn’t be comfortable with an arrangement of that nature.” His sudden absorption in his jacket’s button revealed his apprehension. “And if’n you mean for me to double the crew, quarters are going to get mighty crowded.”

  “I see.” Damnation. Jacques would have to get a room at an inn. An expense he could ill afford.

  “The recent sickness has me concerned too, Monsieur, especially if we bring more men on.” Newton ventured to the grimy window overlooking the mining camp. “There are still three men and their families ill.” His perceptive gaze veered to Jacques for a second. “And I don’t know if you’re aware, but the Gibsons lost their toddler yesterday mornin’. Ain’t sure if it was the same sickness.”

  “Has a physician been to visit?” Paying for medical treatment wasn’t Jacques’s responsibility, but these people barely had enough for their daily needs.

  “No doctor, they canna afford his fees, but Miss Seonaid sent her tonics, and the new vicar has visited. He performed the burial ceremony for wee Willie. If you don’t mind my sayin’, sir, the rector’s a queer one, he is.”

  “He is indeed.” Fletcher rode clear out here? Well, at least he took his responsibilities seriously.

  Jacques would forgo the inn, stay on at Craiglocky Keep and use his meager funds to pay for a doctor. Avoiding Seonaid after his unconscionable behavior might prove trickier. Mayhap he could stay in the clansmen’s barracks. Except that might give rise to tattle that he didn’t want to explain.

  Well, the sooner he had a healthy work force, the sooner he could expect to see a profit and take his leave of McTavish’s hospitality.

  Jacques tiredly wiped a hand over his heavy eyes. Could anything else go wrong?

  Seonaid tramped along the pinewoods-shaded dogcart path to Craigcutty, her angry pace and gait anything but ladylike. Her raucous thoughts fell far short of that mark as well.

  Wet soil and decaying leaves, combined with the scents of the stately pines and low-lying underbrush riddled the air with an invigorating, but earthy, aroma as she trudged along.

  With each stomping step, her basket banging against her hip, she imagined slapping Jacques’s handsome, mocking face as she’d longed to do in the music room earlier.

  How she managed to curtail her tears and prevent calling him a bloody tosspot, or cracking him over the head with a Greek god’s marble bust, still astounded.

  Never had she experienced an urge to do someone bodily harm. Not even Reverend Fletcher. She hadn’t believed herself capable of experiencing such fury.

  What was it about that despicable Frenchman that wriggled beneath her skin? Caused her to behave and think in manners so foreign, she scarcely recognized herself?

 
; He’d scorned her second sight. She’d naïvely believed he understood her plight, the wretch, and he’d essentially suggested her visions made her undesirable to men. Even unfit to wed.

  The bite of his calculated words punctured deeply.

  She shouldn’t have trusted him. Shouldn’t have fallen prey to his dark good looks and suaveness. Should never have responded to his knee-weakening kisses.

  Gone was the cordial, caring man of recent days and the sardonic, cold devil she’d met in Paris had returned.

  But why?

  What did it matter?

  Stupid, to have imagined he’d changed. He cared for nothing but acquiring money by whatever means available. A fancy man, no better than a demi-rep. It shouldn’t have surprised her, and that it had, made her more furious with herself than him.

  Gullible ninnyhammer.

  Thank God, she hadn’t surrendered her maidenhead to the conceited, mercenary cull.

  She snorted, startling a mountain hare that tore from the clearing as if snarling, teeth-gnashing hounds of hell chased it. Smart creature.

  Seonaid should’ve done the same the instant she’d seen Jacques at the Hare’s Foot Inn; should have dove headfirst into the snow and taken her chances in the storm. Perishing from the elements was preferable than dying from mortification.

  Developed a tendre for him, indeed.

  She stamped along, leaving deep footprints in the saturated soil and finding a perverse joy in the act.

  Jacques had kissed her. Thrice. Not the reverse.

  True, she’d responded like a wanton that last time, but his kissing skills were well-honed. No doubt he’d had a great deal of practice. A bloody monstrous amount.

  At the memory, a not-unpleasant tremor shuddered her from knees to breasts. Her treacherous nipples had the audacity to pucker, even after what he’d said to her?

  Oooh, the irksome boor.

  She gave a pinecone a vicious kick, sending it airborne to bounce off a tree. Gritting her teeth and sucking in a bracing drag of tangy air, Seonaid balled her fists until her fingers cramped.