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

by Collette Cameron

  “I should have marked the page,” she muttered. “Let’s see, I read something about women having a heart of honor.”

  “You’ve such a heart,” Jacques croaked.

  Issuing a startled squeak, Seonaid dropped the book.

  “Jacques,” she breathed, unable to quell the rush of tears or the joy choking her. She clasped his scabbed hand. “Oh, thank God. I’ve been worried sick.”

  He coughed, then released a guttural groan. “I feel like I’ve been plowed by a coach and four. A dozen times.” He licked his lips and brushed his tongue against his teeth. “And like a herd of swine has taken up residence in my mouth. After rolling in a sty.”

  “And no wonder. You’ve been insensate for four days.” She wanted to rain kisses over his face, to hug him and tell him how much she loved him, but instead she stood, welcoming the floor’s sharp coolness.

  Closing his eyes, he inhaled a ragged breath.

  “Here, drink this. It will help with the pain.” She lifted his head as she touched the glass to his lips.

  He opened his eyes, and obediently took a deep swallow, his gaze riveted on her face.

  When he lay back, as she arranged the bedclothes atop his naked chest—a chest lightly matted with fine, black hair and beautifully contoured muscles—he touched her face.

  “Your cheek has healed.”

  Then he laid his hand across her heart, and she feared the palpating organ would erupt from her chest.

  “I hope one day, ma petite,” his words slurred as he struggled to stay awake, “your heart will too.”

  Never.

  “Jacques?”

  He’d drifted to sleep, and she gave into impulse and kissed him again. And again.

  So much needed saying, but this wasn’t the time. When Jacques recovered, and before he left Craiglocky, she would tell him she loved him. Enough to become his paramour if that was the only way she could be his. The only way to have him in her life.

  Such a scandal it would cause, but a most splendid one.

  Chapter 24

  The next morning, much refreshed after a shave, cleansing his teeth, and a sponge bath, Jacques relaxed against fresh linens and gritted his teeth against the pain radiating from his toes to his hairline.

  A servant had opened the heavy green and gold brocade draperies framing the window, and sun spilled into his chamber, casting zigzagged ribbons atop the stone floor and rugs. For propriety’s sake, the chamber door remained partially open.

  A few minutes ago, Seonaid had entered, bearing a breakfast tray, and after setting out the food, gracefully sank onto the edge of the bed beside him. Smiling, she lifted the spoon. “Open up.”

  Hiding a grimace, Jacques dutifully swallowed the thin oat porridge Seonaid fed him.

  Despite the purplish shadows rimming her eyes—a testament to her constant vigil at his bedside that she’d shyly confessed when he’d awoken—she was a vision with the sun’s rays glowing behind her.

  Her lace-edged velvet gown, the rich ruby of a fine wine, enhanced her gardenia-pale complexion, amber-flecked molasses- brown eyes, and lips tinted the same shade as his favorite dessert, raspberry flaugnarde. And they’d tasted as sweet too.

  If he closed his eyes, he could still conjure her mouth’s dewy lusciousness beneath his.

  His stomach grumbled loudly, and she spooned another thin mouthful between his reluctant lips.

  If the hunger gnawing at his backbone were any indication, he was hollow to his spine. He’d much prefer a hearty Scottish breakfast, complete with sausage, eggs, and tattie scones.

  Throw in toast and bacon too. And strong coffee. Lots of it.

  Perchance the brew would help with the relentless hammering against his skull that threatened to sever his head from his neck unless he moved with an ancient decrepitude’s feeble slowness.

  “I’m not as weak as all that.” He was. “Nor in too much pain.” Liar. “I can feed myself.” Maybe.

  Scratching his neck, he winced when he encountered yet another row of neat stitches. Was there a part of him that didn’t have sutures? Had they used him for a clan-wide sewing social, for God’s sake? The threads itched to bloody high heaven.

  “Seonaid, truly, I can manage a bowl and spoon.”

  Shaking her head, she arranged the serviette more securely beneath his chin, like he was a drooling infant. “Doctor Paterson said you aren’t to exert yourself, else your stitches rip or you disturb your shoulder or ribs.”

  Such a serious expression she wore, her fine brows bunched together, and her pert mouth contorting as it did when she was vexed or thinking. She scooped another spoonful of the gruel and lightly blew on it.

  He hadn’t the heart, nor the strength, truth to tell, to argue. Gratitude warred with chagrin, until Jacques’s misplaced pride silently yielded to her fussing. Merde, he throbbed everywhere, and what didn’t throb, either stung or ached.

  Pain lanced his lower back, and he shifted slightly, trying to alleviate the soreness.

  “I saw you, Seonaid. Before I lost consciousness, I saw you jumping from your bed and running to the door, calling for help.” Arching, he pressed his palm against the ache, then suppressed an oath when he bumped a wad of bandages. “You’d seen the explosion.”

  Spoon halfway to his mouth, her glowing umber gaze flew to his, her thick-lashed eyes wide with astonishment. “You had a vision? Of me?”

  “Yes.”

  She wiggled the full spoon, and he opened his mouth again. Like a damned nestling. What would she do if he chirped? “It’s the last thing I remember.”

  That, and thinking he loved her. How he longed to shout those words, see her beautiful face alight with happiness. But he couldn’t. It wouldn’t be fair. Especially not now.

  Weariness encompassed him, stealing his appetite and the joy he’d experienced knowing she’d remained at his side.

  Everything he’d done had been in vain after all. Better if he hadn’t invested in the mine or traveled to Scotland. Hadn’t indulged the impulse to stay at Craiglocky and see Seonaid. Hadn’t tasted her lips, for she’d spoiled him for wanting other women.

  No use impaling himself with self-recriminations. He’d enjoy this time with Seonaid, and once he’d recovered, bid her adieu. When he left Scotland, he’d leave his heart behind in the possession of a sprite lass with fathomless pecan-colored eyes.

  Stiff from inactivity and the abuse he’d endured, Jacques stretched his legs beneath the bedcovering. God, he needed to move, but it hurt like hell when he did; a conundrum similar to his finances. He needed to sell le Manoir des Jardins to pay his debt, but he expected doing so would be excruciating.

  As if sensing his discomfort, Seonaid set the bowl aside. “Here, bend over.” She leaned him forward, then propped another fluffy pillow behind him. “Is that better?”

  “Um, yes. Thank you.” Her breasts pressing into his shoulder as she adjusted the pillow, and her intoxicating scent enveloping Jacques, caused an entirely different surge of hunger.

  She seemed physically aware of him too, for rose tinted her high cheekbones, and she chatted like a magpie.

  “Ewan and a few of the others arrived home yesterday eve. They stayed to help the miners and bury the dead. Mother told me eight men died, and that many more are injured. Several quite severely. Ewan also wanted to investigate what happened.”

  She collected the serviette before offering Jacques his coffee. “Are you able to hold the cup yourself?”

  The glimpse of her creamy bosom she’d inadvertently given him sent his mind straying into dangerous territory. Again.

  “Jacques?” Her face a mask of confused puzzlement, she lifted the cup a couple of inches. “Do you want your coffee?”

  “I believe I can manage.” Wrapping his hand around the cup, he promptly burned his fingertips.

  Before admitting it, he’d gargle with boiling oil.

  She’d no doubt insist on helping him, and though he was weak as a newborn colt, his body—his
groin, more on point—acted of its own accord when she came near.

  “I know exactly what happened.” He blew on the steaming liquid. “Someone used black powder to sabotage the mine and equipment.”

  “Sabotage?” Blanching, she fumbled and dropped the silverware onto the breakfast tray she’d been straightening. “Who would do such a thing? Why would they?”

  Once he’d taken a sip of the coffee, sighing in pleasure at the pungent heat, he answered. “I don’t know yet. I’m hopeful your brother might have discovered that.”

  “I haven’t spoken with Ewan, but this morning I sent word that you’d awoken. I expect he’ll be here shortly to inquire on your recovery and fill you in on the details. Doctor Paterson will be here soon too.” A knock echoed outside the partially open door, and she bade, “Come in.”

  Ewan strode into the chamber, a grin lighting his face. “Devaux, I’m glad you’ve awoken.” He slid Seonaid a sideways glance. “Gave us quite a scare. You look damned awful, I must say.”

  “Hush, Ewan,” Seonaid chastised softly. “Don’t listen to him, Jacques. Considering what you endured, you look quite robust.”

  “Robust? Looks like he’s been trampled by a Highland cattle herd,” Ewan whispered in her ear.

  At her miffed scowl, he chuckled and briefly patted her shoulder as he passed. “Have a seat, Seonaid. I have news you’ll want to know as well.”

  Jacques wasn’t altogether sure he wanted to hear what McTavish had to say. He waved his hand at his bed. “I’d offer you a seat, but . . .”

  McTavish leaned against the canopied bedpost and folded his arms. “At least your humor hasn’t deserted you.”

  Seonaid perched primly on the chair’s edge that had been her bed the four nights hence, and folded her hands. “I don’t mean to seem rude, Ewan, but Jacques needs his rest. He’s been up too long already.”

  Yes, an entire forty-five minutes.

  Her practiced gaze roved him, lingering a mite too long on the hair-covered vee exposed by his nightshirt. Jacques hoped to hell McTavish hadn’t noticed, but little escaped the hawk-eyed Scot. One reason he’d made an exceptional spy.

  Hauling his gaze from her, he met McTavish’s censure- weighted expression.

  He’d noticed.

  Small wonder he’d agreed to allow Jacques to convalesce at Craigcutty given his determination to keep Seonaid away from Jacques. Well, at least he needn’t worry about being called out.

  Yet.

  Scratching his forehead, McTavish’s focus gravitated between him and Seonaid. “There’s no delicate way to say this. Fletcher was found dead at Oakberry Quarry. It appears he was hiding behind the steam pump and the explosion tipped the engine, crushing him. I’d bet Craiglocky he set the explosions.”

  Seonaid gasped, covering her mouth with her hand and blinking away tears. Even after what Fletcher attempted, she could feel compassion for him?

  Jacques wasn’t so noble. He struggled not to shout, ‘Hallelujah.’ He ought to have suspected Fletcher from the start, such was the man’s hatred of him.

  “I’m glad. That makes me horrid, but I’m glad.” A defiant tilt to her chin, Seonaid wadded her skirt. “Good men died because of him. Wives lost their husbands and children their fathers. And Jacques . . .” Her voice wavered, and she cast her attention to her lap. “He could’ve died too, and his dreams for the mine have been ruined because of that evil man.”

  “It also saved me from running him through for touching you.” No hint of mercy tinged McTavish’s tone. He withdrew a letter from his pocket, and after unfolding it, stared at the fancy parchment for a lengthy moment. “This letter arrived while I was at Oakberry. It’s from Bishop Archibald. Give me a moment while I find the passages I want to share.”

  Seonaid’s wide, curious eyes met Jacques’s, and he gave a slight shake of his head. He hadn’t a clue what the letter contained either.

  McTavish ran a finger down the page. “Ah, here it is.”

  I regret to inform you, Reverend Arthur Fletcher was found stuffed down the well on the small farm where he’d gone to call on a former cleric. Always an optimist, Mr. Fletcher still held hope Ralph Huxley would mend his corrupt ways.

  After receiving your correspondence, Lord Sethwick, I became alarmed and sent two of my most trusted advisors to Huxley’s.

  Upon arrival, it was apparent to them, from the disarray and blood within the cottage, that a struggle had taken place. I can only assume Fletcher told Huxley about his temporary assignment to Craigcutty.

  Huxley was defrocked a year ago for participating in cruel and unsanctioned practices. Furthermore, I have cause to believe he has a perverse appetite for young girls, though I’ve never acquired the proof I required to see charges brought against him.

  The man is dangerous and unhinged, and I strongly urge you to use utmost caution and to notify the authorities at once so that he might be apprehended.

  “Well, that certainly explains a lot, non?” Jacques tried to stifle his yawn. “I say we’re well rid of the lickspittle. Terribly unfortunate for the real Vicar Fletcher.”

  And the miners and their families. He would deed his share of Oakberry to them to work as a cooperative effort, but the mine was worthless.

  Seonaid hopped up from her chair. “Ewan, Jacques is fatigued. Let’s allow him to rest, shall we?”

  The struggle to keep his eyes open became colossal, and whatever draught with which she’d dosed Jacques’s coffee—the precocious minx—made lifting his eyelids virtually impossible.

  After drawing the hunter green velvet bed curtains on one side, she collected the food tray, then waited at the door for her brother.

  Was she aware she’d continually used Jacques’s given name? Or perhaps she didn’t care about the impropriety.

  He’d detected a rebelliousness in her he hadn’t previously observed. He quite liked it. The spirit he’d suspected lay dormant within her at last surged to life. Sadly, he wouldn’t be around to see her transformation.

  That McTavish wanted a word with Jacques was apparent from his hesitation, but Seonaid wouldn’t budge from the doorway. A rather mulish glint in her eye, she tapped her foot. “Ewan. Aren’t you coming? He must rest. Doctor Paterson is expected soon, and I wouldn’t want Jacques fatigued. What would the doctor think of my care?”

  She protected him, and Jacques wanted to laugh and kiss her until she begged him to stop.

  “Yes, what I want to discuss with Devaux can wait.” McTavish separated himself from the post, and for the first time, real warmth shone in his eyes. “I’m heartily glad you were spared. I’ll return this afternoon if you’re feeling all the thing.”

  “I shall look forward to it.” As much as he would enjoy having a tooth yanked. McTavish no doubt wanted to discuss the loan he’d extended to Jacques and the terms of repayment.

  “I’ll check in on you in a while, Jacques.” Seonaid pointed to the bedside table. “There’s a bell atop the nightstand, and I’ll leave the door slightly cracked. You’ve only to ring or call and someone will be in to assist you at once.”

  At Seonaid’s gentle smile, his heart welled. He didn’t deserve her love, but by God, he reveled in it nonetheless. She probably meant to creep in later and continue her watch.

  “Merci.”

  He closed his eyes, welcoming the fatigue engulfing him. At least while he slept, he didn’t have to think about returning to France and selling his château. Or what he’d do afterward with no home or prospects.

  Maybe he’d go to America.

  He’d almost fallen asleep, when McTavish’s hushed, but firm, voice roused him to wakefulness.

  Clenching his teeth against the pain lancing him, Jacques maneuvered onto his side to peer out the doorway. Sweat broke out upon his brow, and he took several shallow, measured breaths. Not the wisest thing to have done. He’d never be able to turn over, and Seonaid would scold him soundly.

  She and McTavish stood a few feet farther along the corridor, tal
king in muted tones.

  Jacques strained to decipher their hushed conversation.

  “Seonaid, I wish to speak with you about the propriety of you continuing to nurse Devaux.” McTavish stood near her, his neck bent.

  She smiled sweetly. “Ewan, I’m positive you mean well, but I intend to spend every moment I can with him until he returns to France, decorum be damned.”

  “Now see here—” Sternness riddled McTavish’s low voice.

  She flapped her hand in his startled face. “Don’t take that lairdish tone with me.”

  “Seonaid,” he warned. Many a man had cowered beneath the formidable visage now scowling at her, but she plowed on, unruffled.

  “I won’t be deterred.” Though her voice remained calm, there was no mistaking her steely determination. “I’m not a child, and I understand Jacques’s plans don’t include me—cannot include me. Still, I shall build a storeroom of remembrances. They won’t be what you and Yvette have, but I’ll take what I’m able. Would you begrudge me that?”

  He touched her shoulder. “I wouldn’t see you hurt, and cannot think it is in your best interest.”

  She sighed and bowed her head. “I know, but how do I tell my heart to stop loving him?”

  Jacques shut his eyes against her forlorn figure. How did he tell his to stop loving her?

  A fortnight later, Jacques stepped from his bath and was in the process of tying his banyan when someone rapped at his chamber door.

  Not quite one hundred percent yet, he’d healed sufficiently to dine below this evening in celebration of Lady Ferguson’s birthday.

  He quite anticipated leaving his miniature prison, although his injuries, rather than a jailer, held him captive there. He scrubbed his palm over his freshly shaven jaw, his attention falling on the book Seonaid had been reading to him.

  His warden had been a distinct delight, and every hour in Seonaid’s company had been the sweetest of torments.

  She’d forgotten her shawl, and he lifted the silk and sniffed, inhaling her unique essence. He battled the temptation to fold the wrap and stow it amongst his things. Sighing, he returned the fabric to her chair. He wasn’t a thief.