She leaned the candle closer. Sliced across his hand was a most horrible scar. It covered the whole of the back of his right hand, the skin lifting whitely in the shape of what appeared to be an S.
“Is this why you never appear before us without gloves?”
“Aye. I don’t allow anyone to see my burn.”
“That’s no burn. It’s a—a brand.”
His jaw tensed. He could not meet her eyes. For the first time since she’d met him, he registered something she’d never seen before. Shame.
Her forehead twisted. “Who did that to you?”
“No one. It was a long time ago. Leave it be.”
“Did you do something wrong?”
“I said leave it be, woman!” He seized his candlestick, nearly extinguishing the small flame, and ducked through the opening into the passageway.
The air fairly pulsed with the fury of his departure. She hadn’t just touched upon a sensitive nerve … she had stomped all over it.
She expelled a heavy sigh. There was so much Malcolm wouldn’t speak of, so much she wanted to know. But his lips were a vault, and he himself a fortress. Perhaps a softer touch was needed.
She lay her head upon the pillow, wondering what horrible chain of events had led to that scar upon his hand. What did the S stand for? Slaughterer? Slave? Sexual Deviant?
As she considered the array of crimes that her protector might have been guilty of, she realized that life in Scotland had just become a lot more fascinating.
FOURTEEN
Slaighteur.
It was a word that screamed at Malcolm every cursed day of his life. No matter where he went or how he tried to hide it, they always found out.
Damn his folly for not putting on his gloves before going into Serena’s room. Now there would be questions. Suspicions. Fears.
He sensed, rather than looked at, the scar that broadcast his secret. It was as obvious and palpable as a third arm. He stood before the small mirror that rested on the bare interior framing of the wall. Even when the gloves were on, the word seemed imprinted on his face.
Slaighteur.
Twenty years had passed since the awful day of his family’s massacre, and it still pained him as if it were yesterday. For years, he wondered what had become of the wee ones who’d been kidnapped. Even now, he subsisted on the tenuous hope that they were still alive, growing older and less familiar with each passing year. If they were alive, then like him they were forbidden to carry their real name. Like him, they were now only slaighteur—knaves.
Refusal to stand with the clan in battle was treasonous. A villainous act that was punishable by expulsion from the clan. Not just you, but your whole family. It was the Highland way. And just to make sure that any chieftain you swore loyalty to knew about your cowardice, the sign of slaighteur would tell the story that your shame refused to.
He dipped his hand in the basin and splashed the cold water onto his face, hoping in vain to wash away the memory of his little siblings cowering together in the corner, their little hands blistering from the awful branding. Their innocent eyes watching the slaughter of their entire family. Wrenched from their homes. God alone knew what further torments had lain ahead for them. He choked on the horror.
The pang of regret in his gut stabbed at him. He would never forgive himself for surviving, for escaping. Or for failing to protect them.
His thoughts turned to the woman on the other side of the plaster wall, and he shook his head.
There was a woman who warranted his protection. He knew the dangers she was up against, even if she didn’t recognize them. That note wasn’t just a warning, it was a prediction. Malcolm was aware of how serious these rebels were. He’d already been sent to catch three such rebels, including Jock McInnes. These men were beyond the point of talking about their grievances … they were after instilling terror, and they didn’t care how many innocents died in the process.
Serena Marsh. He had to admire her courage. Even after the threat of mutilation and death, she refused to back down or be driven into hiding. It may have been foolhardy, but it was bold. Worthy of a Highland woman.
God, what an iron-willed lass. He had to smile. All that pluck in the heart of one so fair. She always fought him like a cat on its back, four sets of sharp claws ready to do damage. For the hundredth time, he imagined what it would be like to have all that hiss and spit in his bed. To have each of those milky limbs wrapped around his body. Every time she shouted some imperious command at him, he felt like silencing her sensual mouth with a forceful kiss. Every time she behaved dismissively, he felt the urge to make her moan for him all the more.
And he was just the man to do it. Just the man to turn her hisses into kisses, her scratching to caressing. Because he understood her. He knew that underneath all that bravado, there was someone desperately in need of protecting. He could read it in her eyes. She had been hurt, and she would let no man get within ten feet of her heart. Treating men like a spoiled child treats its playthings … enjoying them for a time and then leaving them lying around just as soon as she tires of them. It was safe for Serena to keep her distance, because if the toy came to life and left her, she would be devastated. Again.
Malcolm shrugged off his shirt and lay on top of the narrow cot in the passageway. He was involving himself too deeply in this assignment. It was not his job to fix Serena Marsh. It was his job to protect her. In fact, it suited him well that she would not let men get close. It made his job easier. She had little enough regard for the peril in which she stood. The less attention she drew, the better.
He draped his forearm over his eyes to concentrate on the security measures for tomorrow’s outing. Point by point he went over the best strategy to get her safely to Invergarry, to protect her while out in the open, and to see her safely home. And as he finally began to drift off, one thought kept resurfacing.
Was he trying so hard to keep her from the enemy, or just to keep her for himself?
FIFTEEN
That very midnight, near Invergarry, nearly a hundred men met on a remote field, their torches blazing. As they drew together from all directions, their lit torches looked like an explosion happening in reverse.
In the dark, their differing tartans looked much the same. It was just as well, since they were there for a common purpose.
“Tomorrow’s the Games, lads,” said Guinnein Kinross, heartily shaking hands with a MacLaren. “Hope ye’re ready for a Kinross thrashing.”
“Still think ye’re a match for the MacDonnels, Kinross?” interrupted a MacDonnel man. “Or did last year’s Games not convince ye?”
Brandubh McCullough planted his flaming torch in the wet ground. “There will not be a contest among us this year, men,” he said. “Tomorrow we play to a different aim altogether.”
The firelight played on the underside of Brandubh McCullough’s face, giving his handsome features a ghoulish appearance. “We’ve thrown down the gauntlet to the English. They know we’ll not be paying their tax. By now that Marsh fellow, the one they sent to tell us to draw off, will have sent word to Parliament. England will be readying her troops. And when they step foot on Scottish soil, I want us to be ready.
“By my reckoning, there will be twenty-seven clans at the Games tomorrow. Not all of them sympathize with our cause. The heads of fifteen of those clans live in English pockets, and speak with English tongues. That leaves twelve of us to carry the protests of the people into battle.
“Tomorrow, our men will not be there for trophies and rewards. Our men will be there for training. Tomorrow, we’ll be perfecting our battle skills. Our weapons of war will be the clachneart, the caber, and the pitchfork. I want us to be fit and strong and fast. Forget the piping and the dancing. Yer people will be training at swordplay and wrestling and tug o’ war. Because that, gentlemen, is what we’ll be preparing for. A war.”
A shout erupted from the gathering.
MacLaren shook McCullough’s hand. “Don’t ye worry, son. There i
s no’ an Englishman alive that can take one of my lads. We’ve been waiting for this day since my grandfather was a boy. The time has come for us to stand up to the tyranny of the Protestant king. Scotland will be bullied no longer. What do ye say to that, lads?”
Another shout erupted from the men as they stabbed their torches into the night air.
Brandubh McCullough took up his torch from the damp earth. “Scottish home rule, gentlemen. That is the real trophy. Tomorrow, we train champions!”
Their collective shouts split the night.
And when the men finally dispersed, their outgoing torches formed an explosion in the right direction.
SIXTEEN
The day dawned gloomy and forbidding. Gray clouds blanketed the sky, bringing the heavens even closer to the earth.
Serena gazed out through the dining room window. It seemed there was always something around to dampen her mood. Today, aptly, it was the rain.
“You’re cross,” remarked Earlington over the breakfast dishes.
“Can you blame me? Look at the weather. The one day that there’s going to be a fair, and the weather turns anything but.”
“Hardly seems fair.”
Serena cracked a smile. “It isn’t funny, Father. This is a brand-new frock.” She ran her fingers along the delicate embellishments of her neckline, a detail she had ordered specially. Tiny green leaves were sewn along the yellow muslin, above the ribboned waist, and along the hem. It was a beautiful walking dress, and she knew that it would turn Malcolm’s head when he saw it.
“I wouldn’t worry overmuch. The sky should clear up soon.”
She set aside the bowl of oatmeal that she had quickly learned to despise, and spread some strawberry preserves on a piece of toast instead. She was upset that she hadn’t bothered to pack her yellow parasol when she left England. Certainly, the green parasol she brought down would match, but it was such a waste to ruin the breathtaking effect of the entire costume. Still, this was Scotland—she doubted anyone would even notice the departure from perfection, let alone bemoan it.
Zoe bounced in. “Are you still eating? Hurry up! Invergarry is still over an hour away. I don’t want to miss any of the Games.”
Truth be told, neither did Serena. This rustic fair that she had scoffed at had turned out to be the high point of her stay. She put down her toast, kissed her father on the cheek, and followed Zoe to the front door.
Their town coach was already waiting in the driveway. A groom stood holding the horses while a footman opened the carriage door. But something was missing.
“Where’s Mr. Slayter?” asked Zoe.
A thread of irritation snaked through her as the girl read her thoughts. All Serena knew was that Malcolm had not yet seen her in her new dress. “I don’t know.”
“Shouldn’t someone go find him?”
Serena perched a hand on her hip. “It is his job to follow me around, not I him.”
Zoe sighed. “Would you like me to run upstairs and call him down?”
“No need of that,” Serena drawled. “Just draw a pentagram on the floor and shout ‘I summon thee.’ That should do the trick.”
Zoe giggled. “Come now, Serena. I can see that you don’t dislike Mr. Slayter as much as you pretend. In fact, I would go so far as to say that you feel for him what I feel for Monsieur Leveque.”
“Don’t be absurd, Zoe. I feel nothing warmer than indifference to him. To either of them.”
Just then they spotted a horse and rider galloping down the path toward the house. Even from the distance, she could tell it was Malcolm—he was a man of singular size. But as the distance closed between them, she noticed something altogether different about him: his clothing. The man was wearing a kilt. A black one.
The horse skidded to a halt on the gravel behind the carriage. Malcolm threw one leg over its giant neck and slid to the ground. Serena caught a glimpse of a long, muscled leg, all the way up to the thigh, before the folds of his kilt draped back down to his knee.
Her heart began to flutter. Here she was, expecting to be upset at him, but all she could do was marvel at the change he presented. Until now, he had dressed in coat and trousers, even a cravat—clothes befitting an Englishman. The man standing before her now was completely alien to her. A coarse white linen shirt, a black woolen kilt, a black plaid draped over a wide shoulder, and a sporran made from brown hide resting between his legs. A head-to-toe Highlander.
He patted down the horse, soothing the great animal as she caught her breath. He gave instructions to the groom, who led the animal away. Finally, he turned his attention to Serena and Zoe, who stood in the doorway.
“Mornin’,” he said, touching a finger to his forehead.
Serena cocked an eyebrow. “Where, may I ask, have you been?”
He gave her a sidewise glance as he checked the harness on the two horses pulling the carriage. “Canvassing your path.”
“Canvassing it? For what?”
“Making certain it was strewn with rose petals. What do ye think, woman? I was checking it for brigands. Highwaymen. Cutthroats. Assassins.”
Finally, he turned around and gave her the full measure of his attention. He leaned against the horse and crossed his arms at his chest. Audaciously, he looked her up and down, which gave Serena satisfaction … and a secret thrill.
“Ye look fetching,” he said. “Ye both do,” he added with a nod to Zoe.
Against her will, Serena blushed. “Thank you,” she replied with as much archness as she could muster.
“Planning to find a champion at the Games?”
“Perhaps. Does that make you jealous?”
He cocked a smile. “Just stay out of trouble. That’s all I ask.”
It was not the answer she had hoped for. As if to echo her ire, a distant rumbling in the sky was followed by a spittle of rain. Serena ducked back farther into the doorway, opening her green parasol and raising it heavenward. Malcolm, on the other hand, was completely indifferent to the rain, the drops adhering his shirt to his body.
A look of consternation crossed Serena’s face. “Perhaps we should postpone our trip until the weather clears.”
“No!” cried Zoe piteously.
Malcolm shook his head. “Just a smirr of rain. Come over to the carriage with ye.”
The skies opened up, and the rain turned into a downpour in a matter of seconds. She gave her lace parasol a distrustful glance. The decorative accoutrement was useless.
“Even a sheep bleats in complaint when it rains. It’s not my fault if you haven’t its sense.”
Zoe tugged on Serena’s sleeve. “If we make a mad dash, we won’t get too wet.”
“No, Zoe. These are new shoes.”
Malcolm stamped over to her. “Och, woman, ye do get yeself into a state over naught.” He took the parasol from her and set it on the floor. He slipped the plaid from his shoulder and, unfolding it, wrapped her in the wide swath. It was a thick wool cloth, resistant to the dampness.
“Thank you, Mr. Slayter, but I’m afraid—” The next thing she knew, she was bent forward over his shoulder like a sack of barley.
He carried her in that ignoble manner all the way to the carriage, and tossed her through the open doorway. She clambered to the seat just as Zoe ran inside, and Malcolm ensconced himself on the opposite seat.
She stared at him, her mouth open in affronted pride.
“No thanks necessary,” he said. “It’s reward enough that yer shoes are still dry.” A knock on the carriage roof signaled to the driver that they were ready, and with a lurch they were off.
In the seat opposite her, Malcolm ran a hand through his wet hair, which spiked chaotically. He seemed entirely unaffected by the rain on his skin. She, on the other hand, found the look of it on him quite irresistible. As he adjusted the plaid back in place over his shoulder, Serena stole a long look at him. Rainwater glistened on his face, giving his complexion a bronze sheen. His eyelashes became tiny black daggers as they fanned acros
s his wet cheek. The damp shirt turned invisible now that it stuck to his chest and arms. For the first time, Serena could see the well-defined bicep that mounded over the crook of his arm, and the thick pads of muscle on his chest. He was a stallion of a man, all hard curves and beautiful lines. A rivulet of rainwater fell from the hollow of his throat, and Serena watched as it slowly caressed the valley of his chest and disappeared behind the open shirt.
Serena looked away. The vistas of rolling hills and lush greenery became nothing more than a languid blur as her thoughts wandered to the man in the opposite seat. Her skin still tingled from where he had handled her. Breathlessly, she began to imagine what such a man would feel like wrapped around her entire body. To feel those knotted forearms wrapped around her waist, that hard chest pressed against her exposed breasts, those lean hips spreading her thighs …
She pulled a frilled kerchief out of her reticule and dabbed it upon her reddening cheeks. How heavenly it would be not to have to be so strong, so proper anymore. If she could cease to be Serena Marsh, the ambassador’s daughter, and just be Serena, an ordinary woman? Maybe then she would be able to give vent to the desires that consumed her.
Malcolm sat back in the seat and peered out of the window. What a mystery he was to her. He was always present, but never there. Close at hand, but inaccessible. Beautiful to look at, but unavailable to the rest of her senses.
If only he would touch her first, then perhaps it would be easier to reciprocate. But he never made any overtures toward her. After he’d checked her room last night, he’d never come back in, even though she’d secretly hoped he would. It was almost painful knowing that his bed was so close, his nearness tempting her like a forbidden sweet. There, through that secret door in her bedroom, slept a healthy, gorgeous man. If she had dared to go to his room to steal a kiss, no one would ever find out.
And yet, she was forced to wonder if he would even welcome her attentions. Malcolm was the most inscrutable man she’d ever met, and even when she could read him, he seemed so hard and unyielding. The only time she’d seen him less than self-assured was the moment she discovered the brand on his hand. That scar seemed to be his private shame, his Achilles’ heel. The thing that made him most human.
Secrets to Seducing a Scot Page 8