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

by Collette Cameron

  He wasn’t a religious man, per se, but if the Almighty didn’t intervene, and soon, not only would he have lost the one woman he’d ever come close to loving, but literally everything else he held dear as well.

  The last vestige of his self-respect had vanished this morning, the moment he’d uttered those hateful, untrue words to Seonaid.

  At the precise moment he closed his eyes, and lifted his face to the sky in silent prayer, a blast of wind shook the trees overhead, sending a cascade of water to soak his face.

  I take it that’s a ‘no,’ Lord?

  Far too immediate and disappointing an answer, but not unexpected or undeserved.

  Sputtering, he swiped his forearm across his face. Scant good it did. His caped greatcoat was nearly wet through and through. Sealskin would’ve been wiser, but he didn’t own any.

  Look at him. What he’d become.

  Mud covered his boots and dirt smudges littered his calves and gloves. He hardly resembled an aristocrat. The knowledge didn’t trouble him overly much.

  Most Scots he’d met appeared a rough, rugged lot, and yet, a more loyal and honest people he hadn’t encountered. Hardworking and fiercely protective of that which they held most dear, too.

  If Jacques meant to work the mine, and he did, he would need other, more suitable clothing. There’s the rub, though. He didn’t have coinage for new garments.

  Well then, his fine clothing would have to do, because he fully intended to lend his help in digging the new vein. Mayhap he could barter his fancier togs for more practical attire.

  Able bodied and bored, he might as well do something with his frustration, and chipping away at a mountain’s innards would do as well as a bout in the ring. That he didn’t know a midge’s rump about the mining process didn’t concern him. He’d learn, and if he failed at the picking, he would labor as a bandsman, putter, or barrow-man.

  Anything to keep his mind occupied and his flesh so exhausted, he wouldn’t have the strength for sensual musing about a woman with soft topaz-flecked, pecan-brown eyes who couldn’t be his.

  Lost deep in his reverie, the trees’ gnarled branches thrashing and whipping overhead, thunder pealing in the distance, and an occasional crack of lightning rending the churning armor-gray sky, he didn’t at first recognize the jarring noise sounding in the distance.

  His horse did.

  Rearing her head in alarm, the mare snorted and sidestepped.

  “What did you hear?” Bending forward, Jacques scratched her neck, making soothing noises.

  The shrill cry came again. Not animal. Human. And a woman.

  “Hue!” Kicking the mare’s sides, he urged her into a run. Clods of mud spewed from her churning hooves as the mare flew down the stretch of road.

  A choked shriek rent the damp air, lifting the hairs on his nape and curdling his blood.

  Seonaid?

  His beaver hat flew off, but he didn’t slow a whit, simply bent lower over the horse’s broad back.

  Rounding a bend, he espied two people to the road’s side, a man sitting atop a woman, holding her down. She struggled, kicking and thrashing, her stockinged legs visible to her slender thighs.

  Mon Dieu.

  Even in the gloomy half-light he recognized Seonaid’s glossy sable hair and Fletcher’s gaunt face. Damn his foul soul to the ninth layer of hell.

  A bitter, coppery taste met Jacques’s tongue. So great was his ire, he’d bitten the inside of his cheek.

  Fletcher jerked his head up, and then renewed his efforts, to . . . To whatever-the-hell he tried to do to Seonaid.

  “Allez. Hue.” Pressing his heels into the horse, Jacques’s vision narrowed, his entire focus aimed on her.

  Writhing beneath the vicar, crying out in terror, she clawed at Fletcher’s face.

  A dogcart thundered from the opposite direction. Upon seeing the commotion, while the cart yet raced forward, a huge Highlander vaulted from his seat. He released a battle cry worthy of a medieval Celtic warrior, the likes of which sent a shudder to Jacques’s toes.

  God’s blood. Wouldn’t want to cross swords with that brute.

  The mammoth Scot sprinted to Seonaid, and cursing in Gaelic, hauled Fletcher off her. He tossed the rector across the road as effortlessly as heaving a child’s rag doll.

  Screeching like a terrified old woman, Fletcher hit the ground with a weighty thud, then lay unmoving.

  Seonaid awkwardly levered to her bottom, her mud-matted hair tumbling down her shoulders and back in filthy, saturated tendrils. Great, shuddering sobs shook her frame and echoed eerily as she pushed her skirts into place.

  The man knelt beside her, murmuring quietly and tenderly brushing strands of hair from her cheek.

  Flinging herself into his arms, she buried her face in his disgustingly wide shoulder.

  Envy assailed Jacques, gushing into every pore as he helplessly watched the Scot soothe her. He should be the one comforting and reassuring her, easing her terror.

  Encircling her with his cudgel-like arms, the Highlander spoke into her hair. “It be all right, lass. He canna hurt ye anymore.”

  The enormous Scot had been in the bailey playing with the children the day Jacques brought Freya to Seonaid.

  Who was he? Kin? God knew she had enough living at the keep.

  Bringing the mare to a halt, and after slinging a cursory glance at Fletcher to ensure he remained unconscious, Jacques slid from the saddle. He bit back a curse when his injured ankle threatened to buckle.

  At his hobbling approach, the Highlander glanced up. “Monsieur le baron—”

  Seonaid whipped her head upward, her eyes huge with shock and fear. And accusation.

  At her tear-ravaged face, Jacques’s gut clenched, coiling into a tangled knot.

  A bruise had formed on her swollen left cheek, and crimson marred her split lower lip and smeared her chin.

  Merde.

  His breath hissed from between clamped teeth.

  Fletcher dared to strike her? He was a dead man.

  If McTavish didn’t kill him, Jacques would. He couldn’t be certain in the fading light, but he was damned near certain fingermarks encircled her throat as well.

  Upon seeing him, her expression became shuttered, and she averted her gaze.

  “Douglas,” she rasped, her voice hoarse and raw. From screaming or strangulation, or both? “Please help me up.”

  At once the annoyingly broad-shouldered Scot carefully assisted her to her feet where she wavered unsteadily. He wrapped a thick arm lovingly about her shoulders, his troubled gaze roving her injured face. “Easy, lass. Ye’ve had a tremendous shock.”

  He loves her.

  Chapter 18

  Jacques wanted to shout his objection, yank Seonaid from Douglas’s arms, but it wasn’t his place or right to breathe a word of opposition.

  He loves her, played over and over in his head.

  Nearly staggering under the revelation and finding it excruciating to see the adoration emanating from Douglas’s rugged face, Jacques cast his attention to the ground.

  A cross, a whip, two small bottles, and their stoppers lay scattered beside where Seonaid had lain. A Bible, pieces of rope, and a tool satchel sat in a pile to the side.

  What had the bâtard Fletcher intended? A damned exorcism?

  At the morbid notion, boiling hot rage welled within Jacques, so powerful his vision blurred, and he couldn’t draw a decent breath. If they hadn’t come along. My God, what would Fletcher have done?

  Jacques squatted, and pain jabbed his ankle anew. His movement drew Seonaid’s and Douglas’s attention, and he held his breath until the spasm passed. Pointing to the two vials, he shifted his weight onto his good leg. “Holy water and holy oil, oui?”

  Seonaid shook her head. “No. The round one contained holy oil. He dumped it all over my head to weaken the demons he claimed possessed me.” Her haunted gaze sought his, and her lower lip quivered. “The other was ether. He tried to pour it down my throat.”


  “God rot his twisted soul.” Jacques swung to glower at the prostrate cleric.

  Douglas’s thick brows swooped into a vee. “But why did he set upon ye, lass? Foolhardy at best. He canna think he’d get away with maulin’ ye.”

  “A vision came upon me in the village today, and Fletcher was in it. He’s a vile, evil man and abuser of girls.” Tears streamed over her pale cheeks, and she futilely swiped at them with her fingers. She dragged in a shuddery breath. “And he knows about my visions.”

  Dread clouded her eyes and stilted her words.

  The more Jacques considered it, the more he became convinced Fletcher intended a ritual purging. Surely, he must realize he couldn’t have gotten away with it.

  Unhinged lunatic.

  Not trusting himself to speak without uttering the vulgar oaths parading through his mind, Jacques silently passed her his handkerchief, and then hobbling about, finished gathering the evidence of Fletcher’s treachery. No doubt, McTavish would want to see everything.

  Douglas had yet to release Seonaid from his embrace, and jealousy unlike Jacques had ever known taunted him. He hated this feeling, the powerlessness, the unreasonable, intense resentment toward Douglas.

  This morning, Jacques had forfeited any right he might have to comfort Seonaid, but his heart yearned to mend her suffering. To tell her he’d been an unmitigated arse, and he didn’t mean a single, vindictive word.

  After drying her face and blowing her nose, Seonaid stepped away from Douglas. Retrieving her basket and damaged goods, she cocked her head. “Douglas, why are you here? Did Mother become worried and send you to fetch me?”

  “Aye, lass. She sent me to collect ye, but not because ye are tardy returnin’.” Pushing a strand of overly long auburn hair behind an ear, he sent Jacques a telling glance. “Lady McTavish be havin’ pains, and they be afeared the babe comes too early. The doctor’s been sent fer, and the midwife, but her ladyship be askin’ for ye.”

  Seonaid paled further and swayed. Her skin nearly translucent, she pressed a hand to her chest. “No. It’s too soon. They’re not supposed to come until March. They won’t survive.”

  “They?” Jacques and Douglas spoke at the same time.

  Already headed to the cart, Seonaid nodded. “Yes. Twin girls. We must hurry. I have herbs and tinctures to help stop the contractions.”

  Jacques considered the man towering above him. “Does that ever get old?”

  “I be wonderin’ what she kens and doesn’t say. What secrets she might reveal.” Douglas slid Seonaid a careful glance, then allowed a small upward turn of his lips. “It makes her mysterious, but she’d nae appreciate the comparison.”

  Non, she wouldn’t. Smiling in return, Jacques permitted himself a lingering look at her. “Oui, precisely my line of thinking as well.”

  The rain lessened a degree, and Douglas adjusted his tam o’ shanter, pushing it back to reveal more of his forehead. “I be Douglas McLean, sir.”

  Jacques extended his hand, and the Scot seized it in a firm grip.

  “And I’m Jacques, Monsieur le baron de Devaux-Rousset, but I’m sure you were aware of that already.”

  “Aye. Not much stays unknown at Craiglocky, especially with Miss Seonaid about.” He canted his head toward her as she marched to the cart a few feet away.

  “I’ve no doubt,” Jacques said.

  “When she was a lass, nae more than eleven, my mither couldn’t find my sister. Senga were sixteen and bonnie, and in recent weeks, two lasses had been abducted from farms by rogue Scots or Highland gypsies. Fearin’ the worst, Mither bade me accompany her to the keep and ask Sir Hugh for help. The laird be at university at the time.

  “Sir Hugh promptly arranged a search party, and as we be prepared to leave the great hall, Miss Seonaid wandered in carryin’ a scrawny cat. Homeliest wee rat of a kitten I ever did lay my eyes upon.”

  McLean bent his head and whispered. “She always be carin’ for some creature or other.”

  His wistful gaze trailed to her.

  Poor lovesick sot.

  “Here, let me have the vicar’s things, Monsieur. I can put them in the wagon.”

  After dutifully passing him Fletcher’s possessions, Jacques gathered the mare’s reins, then cleared his throat. “I assume there’s more to the story?”

  “Och, aye.” Grinning, McLean adjusted his armful as he faced the dogcart. “Sir Hugh vowed, ‘We will find Senga, I promise ye.’ Miss Seonaid stopped pettin’ her ugly as the devil kitten, and blinked at us with her big eyes. ‘Senga isn’t lost. She’s in the hayloft with Broden. Her skirts are rucked up. I think he’s looking for a spider that crawled up her leg.’ Then she skipped from the hall.”

  Jacques gave a short chuckle and wiped a rain droplet from his nose. “A spider? Surely not.”

  “Aye, and my sister now be married to Broden. Sir Hugh saw to that. She be expectin’ her fourth bairn soon.” McLean jerked his head in Fletcher’s direction. “What do ye intend to do with him?”

  Moaning, Fletcher still lay sprawled, face down in the muck.

  “I’d like to run him through,” Jacques bit out. “The bloody bugger.”

  McLean spat, his face carved into fierce planes. “I’ll help ye bury his rotten corpse after ye do.”

  Jacques wanted to hate the handsome, muscle bulging Scot, but he was too damned likeable. More was the pity.

  They’d reached the cart, and Jacques rested an elbow on the side, taking the weight off his sore ankle. The other hand planted on his hip, he considered Seonaid.

  She’d climbed into the seat and placed the pathetically mashed bonnet upon her sopped curls. More swelling distorted her lip and cheek. The doctor could tend her as well. Jacques would insist upon it.

  “I suppose we let McTavish deal with Fletcher,” Jacques said. “If he dares stay close after what he attempted. Should we tie him to a tree?”

  “He’s gone.” Seonaid pointed behind them. “He ran in that direction.”

  Jacques and McLean spun around.

  Holy Christ.

  Jacques gritted his teeth to prevent his grunt of pain when his affronted ankle shrieked at his careless treatment. “I’ll go after him. You take her home, Douglas. Make sure she’s seen by the physician too.”

  “No, Jacques. He’s dangerous. Let Ewan deal with him, please.” Concern and something more potent shimmered in her eyes before she retreated behind her veil of indifference once more.

  McLean regarded them, a slight frown marring his high, much too noble forehead. “It’ll be dark soon. I’d do as Miss Seonaid asks, unless ye’ve the skill to track vermin in the dark as the laird does. He was a spy, ye ken.”

  Seonaid covered her startled gasp with a delicate cough, studiously avoiding Jacques’s gaze. Shivering, she wrapped her arms around her shoulders. “We need to collect Maeve. She expected me over an hour ago. And we need to hurry. I must get home to Yvette.”

  Who the blazes was Maeve? Seonaid would catch the ague if she didn’t get warm and dry soon.

  “Monsieur le baron, if I may be so bold.” McLean regarded him keenly. Nothing about the Scot’s demeanor suggested a jot of servility. “Ye take Miss Seonaid home, and I’ll ride to the McDuffs’ and tell them Maeve will be collected in the mornin’.”

  Huddled into a ball, obviously miserable to her toes, Seonaid managed through chattering teeth. “Yes, that would be best.”

  A moment later, McLean leapt onto the mare’s back.

  Bloody, talented show-off. Jacques hadn’t ever been able to do that.

  With a jaunty wave, McLean clicked his tongue and trotted his horse away.

  Jacques unbuttoned his greatcoat, and after managing to climb into the squeaky cart without swearing in pain, he draped it over Seonaid’s quaking shoulders.

  She mustered a grateful, partial curve of her stiff lips while scooting as far from him as the small seat permitted.

  Settling onto the narrow boards, he examined the leaden sky through the fr
olicking tree branches. They wouldn’t make the keep before nightfall, and Seonaid was half-froze already.

  Turning the cart in the direction whence it had come, he kept his attention focused on the barely visible, miry path. Silence stretched before them, awkward and uncomfortable.

  Hurt radiated from her in undulating, tangible waves, and he’d bet le Manoir des Jardins, caused more by his actions and words this morning than the assault at Fletcher’s hands.

  “You had a vision of Fletcher?”

  “Yes.” She shuddered. She put a hand to her throat, and tentatively touched the bruises there. “It was awful. I cannot believe he’s truly a cleric.” A small sigh escaped her, and her shoulders slumped. “I should have told Yvette and Ewan of my vision about the twins.”

  “I’m sure you had good cause not to.”

  She faced him then, and for the first time since Jacques came upon her, she met his eyes, urgency in hers. “I did. I didn’t want them fretting.” Fiddling with his greatcoat’s sleeve, she worried her lower lip. “I meant to tell them soon.”

  “Can I assume what you discovered isn’t entirely welcome news?” He tooled the cart around a stump, careful not to venture where water had accumulated at the side. Easy to get stuck in the thick sludge, and with Seonaid in her condition, he didn’t relish slogging to the castle.

  When she didn’t answer, he covered her ice-cold hands with his. She didn’t wrench away, which encouraged him. “Seonaid? You can tell me. Trust me, so you don’t carry the burden alone.”

  He winced inwardly. She had valid reason not to trust him.

  She stared straight ahead, her pert profile dark and tense against the twilight. “If the vision proves true, the birth will be difficult, and Yvette . . .” Her gaze dropped to her lap and she drew in a shuddery breath. “She . . . She will nearly die.”

  Chapter 19

  Leaving Jacques’s greatcoat upon the seat, Seonaid scrambled from the cart before he could help her alight. At the gatehouse she called, “Thank you for the use of your coat, Monsieur.”