Unraveled By The Rebel

by Michelle Willingham

  Sinclair’s face turned grim. “She wouldna say. But I took her to your mother’s house.”

  “My mother knew?” Though he’d seen Bridget a time or two, not a word had she spoken of Juliette.

  The darkness simmering within him threatened to erupt into a violent temper. For he hadn’t been there to rescue Juliette. She’d been unprotected… and Paul blamed himself for that. It was as if an invisible hand had reached inside and ripped him apart from the inside. Fury mingled with a drowning guilt and the need to make amends, to help her heal.

  “Bridget took care of her before I brought her home,” Sinclair admitted. “Your mother… helped fix her dress so that no one would know.” His friend shot him a warning look. “Lady Lanfordshire knows naught of this, nor her other daughters. If you say one word, I’ll be denying it with my last breath.”

  Though Paul nodded absently, his mind was reeling. “You should have told me sooner.” It seemed impossible that this could have happened to the girl he loved. That anyone would have harmed her. She had suffered from this and told no one. Not even her own family. And though his instincts wanted to rage at Sinclair for never telling him of it, he knew the man had kept the secret he’d been given.

  “You told me this, so I would no’ push her too hard,” he said dully.

  “Aye. She doesna trust men. And you can understand why she’s refusing to wed.” Cain crossed his arms over his chest. “I won’t be speaking of this again. I only told you because you should understand why she will no’ let any man close to her. If it’s Juliette you want, then you’ll have to be patient.”

  Patience was the last thing on Paul’s mind. He wanted vengeance against the man who had done this to her. Just imagining her terror numbed him from deep inside. She’d been alone, suffering through an attack that never should have happened.

  “I escorted her to London a few days later,” Sinclair continued. “She stayed with her aunt for a long time. I think she was avoiding Ballaloch.”

  And now that she’d returned, Juliette seemed eager to leave. It was possible that her attacker was still here.

  Paul let out a slow breath, wondering what he should do now. He couldn’t allow her to know that Sinclair had told him. But now, her reluctance made sense. Her innocence had been stolen from her. More than likely, he’d frightened her when he’d tried to hold her in the stable.

  “I need time to think,” he said to Sinclair at last. “But you’ve my thanks for telling me of this. I willna let on that I ken.”

  With that, Sinclair gave a nod and returned home, leaving Paul alone with his thoughts. He started walking toward the frozen loch in long strides, then he began to run along the edge. He could hardly see in front of him, save the reflection of the silvery ice against the moon. But he increased his pace, running hard, as if to punish himself.

  His lungs burned, and still he ran. He circled the loch, hardly caring that it was past midnight. He wouldn’t sleep this night. Not after what he’d learned.

  When his legs began to give out, he slowed down to a walk, his breathing unsteady. His ribs felt as if someone had driven a red-hot knife into them, and he reached down for a smooth stone along the edge of the loch. He gripped the edges and hurled it hard, letting it crack against the ice.

  It had been over a year since she was attacked. He understood now why Juliette had stopped answering his letters. Why she’d withdrawn from the world, claiming she would marry no man and that she had nothing left to give. A woman who had been violently hurt would want nothing to do with men.

  Paul walked through the glen, letting the thoughts pour over him, replaying their moments together. She’d been afraid of him, but not to the point where she didn’t want to see him. And she hadn’t pulled her hands back when he’d brought them to his chest.

  God help him, he couldn’t say what he should do. She’d pleaded with him to go, telling him to give up. But was that truly what she wanted? To be left alone?

  He couldn’t abandon her. They’d been friends for years, and friends didn’t walk away when they were needed. If it took years to rebuild her trust, so be it.

  He’d become a doctor to heal others. But this was a deep wound, one that had battered her spirit. To win her back, he would have to woo her slowly, to bring back the friendship they’d had and make her feel safe again.

  And he fully intended to find her attacker and put the son of a bitch in the ground.

  Chapter Three

  “What will we do?” Juliette asked quietly. Her mother was staring outside the window at the snow. From the empty look upon her face, likely she hadn’t slept at all.

  Beatrice took a deep breath and faced her. “You and your sisters will go to London without me. You’ll stay with your aunt Charlotte for the time being.” She straightened, her mouth set in a line. “I will see about repairs to the house. If it can be fixed.”

  Though her mother was trying to be strong, her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. Juliette moved in closer and took Beatrice’s hand. “It will be all right.”

  “We don’t have the money to rebuild,” her mother confessed. “And—and it’s winter. What will your father say if he returns early? I don’t know how we’ll manage.”

  “We have the sewing profits,” Juliette reminded her. “The crofters were helping Victoria. Let them continue to do so, and Mr. Sinclair can sell the garments in London, as he’s done before.” She made no mention of the fact that they were sewing undergarments instead of dresses. Beatrice wasn’t much of a seamstress, and all they needed was her permission—not her assistance. It was better if she didn’t know that her daughters were sewing scandalous corsets and chemises made of silk.

  “And His Grace might help us,” Juliette added. Victoria’s husband likely would not let them suffer. The Duke of Worthingstone appeared to be a good man who loved his new wife.

  “I know he would. But I don’t like relying upon others to solve our problems.” Beatrice returned to her chair and picked up a sheet of paper and a pen. She dipped it into an inkwell and began writing. But when Juliette drew closer, she saw that her mother’s hands were shaking.

  “I don’t—I don’t even know what bills were paid, and whether Mr. Gilderness collected the rents in Norfolk.” She rubbed her forehead, and covered her mouth with one hand. “There’s just so much. The ledgers are burned, and I can’t remember it all.”

  Juliette crossed the room and took the paper from her mother. Upon it were lists of creditors, as many as Beatrice could remember. Juliette studied the list and added a few more merchants, designating which ones had already been paid. Then she wrote amounts beside those that remained.

  “I believe these are the ones you want,” she said, passing the list back to her mother.

  Beatrice stared at her for a moment, her brows furrowed. “How could you possibly know what was in Henry’s ledgers?”

  “I read them each day and changed the numbers when we added our sewing profits,” she confessed. “We didn’t want you to know where the extra money was coming from.”

  She’d expected her mother to be relieved that she had memorized the figures from the most recent accounts. Instead, Beatrice appeared upset. “Why did you feel the need to lie to me? Did you think I was so featherbrained that I wouldn’t notice?”

  Juliette sobered, for she hadn’t thought of it in that way. “We were only trying to help.”

  “I knew the numbers were wrong, but I couldn’t find where they’d been altered.” Beatrice’s tone sharpened. “Do you know how many hours I spent, trying to make them right again?”

  “I’m sorry. I should have confessed the truth to you. We truly thought the extra money would be of use.”

  Her mother let out a sigh. “I know, darling. But I don’t want to burden you with household matters when you’re so young. There will be time enough for that when you’re married.” She stood, clasping her hands together, mustering a smile. “This is the time when you should laugh and dance… wear lovely frocks and
flirt with handsome gentlemen.”

  Her mother’s face grew wistful, and Juliette remembered that Beatrice had not done those things herself. She’d married an officer, because Henry Andrews was the only man to offer for her.

  “You’ll never find a gentleman to wed if you spend your hours buried in accounts,” Beatrice insisted. “You may be good with adding sums, but it’s no life for a lady.”

  “It has its uses,” Juliette ventured. Putting on a false smile, she added, “In case a handsome rake with a penchant for gambling decides to ask for my hand.”

  At last, her mother’s face softened. And Juliette realized that this was all a distraction for Beatrice. Finding husbands for her daughters meant that she could escape her own problems. How many years had it been since her mother had enjoyed her own life? Juliette couldn’t remember the last time Beatrice had bought trinkets for herself.

  Beatrice stood and brushed a lock of hair from Juliette’s temple. “When you return to London, His Grace has promised to use his influence on your behalf.” She reached out and took her hand, squeezing it lightly. “It was part of our agreement when he asked to wed Victoria. You’ll have a Season and all the opportunities I never had.”

  Juliette understood, then, that although her mother wanted to maintain her pride when it came to rebuilding the house, Beatrice had no qualms about accepting help with achieving social status for her daughters.

  “Promise me you’ll try to find a husband,” Beatrice pleaded. “And not Dr. Fraser, much as he might wish to court you.” Her face flushed, as if she didn’t mean to insult the man. “He’s a good physician, don’t mistake my meaning. But Juliette… he’s not for you.”

  “Paul and I are friends,” she said absently. “Nothing more.”

  “Then you might remind Dr. Fraser of that,” Beatrice corrected in a subtle admonition that it was improper to call him by his first name. “He tried to pay a call on you earlier today, but I told him you were not receiving.” She raised an eyebrow. “That was what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

  Her mother’s assumption wasn’t unfounded, from all the calls Juliette had refused in the past few weeks. But even as she shrugged in reply, a prickle of regret tumbled within her. Almost as if she wanted to see Dr. Fraser again.

  She excused herself, kissing her mother’s cheek before she left. Without really knowing why, she went to retrieve a woolen coat and a bonnet. She dressed herself warmly and donned boots to protect her from the snow. Outside, the air was crisp, the sun gleaming across the stark winter landscape. The mountains pierced the blue sky, while more snow blanketed the stony peaks.

  Against the fence, she saw Paul waiting for her. Her heart stumbled at the sight of him, for she’d expected him to give up. He was watching her, his midnight-blue eyes holding an enigmatic expression. They were bloodshot, as if he’d not slept the night before.

  Why was he here? Juliette crossed through the courtyard and saw that he’d worn a tartan today, his hands tucked inside the brown and green patterned wool. Dressed like a Highlander, he appeared less civilized than he had the night before.

  “Good morning,” she greeted him, her breath frosting in the air.

  “And to you.” His gaze passed over her, from her hair down to her boots. She clutched her coat tighter, not knowing why he’d come to see her again. “I wanted to speak to you once more, before you returned to London. Will you walk with me through the glen?”

  She hesitated, glancing back at the house. Her mother was right. She shouldn’t encourage him, no matter what she might feel in his presence. He’d grown so handsome over the years, but though he’d occasionally cloaked himself in the guise of a gentleman, there was something not quite tame about him.

  And you like it, a sinful voice taunted her conscience.

  He reached into his coat and held out a small ball of fur. “I brought you something.”

  When she stepped closer, she saw that it was a tiny gray and white kitten. He held it out to her, and she suddenly understood that this man was not about to play fair with her heart. He fully intended to weaken her defenses, using any means necessary.

  In the early days of their letters, she had complained to him that her mother would never allow her to have a cat of her own. They were allowed in the stables, but never the house.

  “You remembered,” she said at last.

  “Aye.”

  When she took the ball of fur from him, his hands brushed hers. The slight touch flared up the feelings she was trying to lock away. Being anywhere near this man was an assault upon her heart. To distract herself, she focused all her attention upon the animal.

  The kitten reminded her of a white tiger, and its eyes held a seriousness, like the way Matthew had stared at her in the first minutes of his life. Her heart abruptly crumpled, and she cuddled the animal against her side. His tiny claws sank into the sleeve of her gown, but he appeared blissfully happy.

  Careful, her heart warned. Paul knew her better than anyone, and it seemed that despite her warnings, he fully intended to court her. And that wasn’t right.

  “I shouldn’t keep him,” she confessed, even as the kitten nudged at her hand, letting out a tiny meow. “We’re traveling back to London, and he’d be frightened without a true home.”

  “But you want to keep him.” His gaze held steady, and when he started walking toward the glen, she found herself unable to do anything except follow. Juliette bundled the kitten beneath her coat and walked behind him.

  Her brain was crying out for her to thank him and leave. Although she knew it was perfectly safe to be alone with Paul Fraser—albeit improper—she found her willpower weakening. He was handsome, but the years had weathered his face, turning him fierce. He’d always been tall, but there was a lean strength to him, and a sense that he would never let any harm come to her.

  Immediately, she shut down the thought. Last night, she’d made it clear that there would not be anything more than friendship between them. Regardless of what he wanted to say to her, that could never change.

  “We won’t be walking too far,” Paul added. “Just over by the crofters’ tents.”

  He led her through the snow, upon a pathway trod by horses. A layer of ice had frozen on top, and he took her arm to keep her from falling. For a time, they walked together in silence, their breath frosted in the air. “The duke has promised to let them build their homes here.”

  “Is your mother dwelling among them?”

  He nodded. “And so am I. Until our house is rebuilt.”

  She sobered at that. The weather was freezing cold, not at all suited for anyone to sleep in tents. “The children should sleep in the stable until we have more shelters built.”

  “Aye, that would be best. We’ll be dividing up the land, and the building will start this morning. Soon enough, they’ll be safe and warm again.” His hand took hers, and the heat of his palm brought her comfort. Yet, when they stood at the top of the hill, overlooking the dozens of tents, she saw the visible signs of loss.

  Her family had been displaced by the fire, just as these folk had. It was only because of her sister’s marriage that they had a house to sleep in, instead of thin tents like the crofters. The frigid wind made her grasp the edges of her coat, just imagining it.

  And Paul was living among them.

  “No one should have to live like this,” she whispered. “It’s too cold to survive.”

  “It is,” Paul agreed. “I’ve been tending the sick all winter. And more will die this month. Whether from starvation or cold, it’s all the same.” He pointed toward the rows of tents that had once held a place on her father’s land. “I’ll do what I can to save them.”

  She took his arm, leaning against him as they walked. “You’re needed here.”

  Especially after all the uprisings. When Lord Strathland had evicted the tenants, they’d had nowhere to go. It was one thing to drive out grown men… but when the elderly and children were forced out into the snow, tempers were risin
g hotter.

  “They should ne’er have been driven off their land to begin with,” he insisted. “Strathland is to blame. Him and his damned sheep.”

  The edge in his voice held hostility, and the cold that washed over her had nothing to do with the wintery weather. “He’s too powerful. None of us can stop him.”

  “I’ll stop him, Juliette.” He turned, his glare fierce. “I havena forgotten what Strathland did to my father.”

  Danger and vengeance simmered within his tone, and she took a step back. “If you raise a hand against Strathland, you’ll only be killed.”

  His father’s hanging had cast a pall over all of them. And although His Grace, the Duke of Worthingstone, had acquired Eiloch Hill from the earl after a gambling debt, few of the crofters were eager to live there. There were too many bad memories associated with the land.

  “I’m no’ a coward, Juliette. And I’ll see to it that the crofters have all that they need. No man will drive them away from their homes—especially Strathland.”

  “What will you do?”

  His gaze grew distant. “I’ve a few things in mind. My father’s family was…” His voice drifted off, as if he were reconsidering his words. “That is, my uncle may have some influence.”

  Juliette waited for him to continue, but he offered nothing else. A frown furrowed his face, as if his thoughts had gone elsewhere. “The crofters will be fine,” she reassured him. “Now that they’re away from Strathland, they can rebuild their lives.”

  “As you will?” he prompted.

  Though she knew he was referring to the fire that had destroyed their house, she focused on something else entirely: away from Strathland.

  “Yes,” she answered. She fully intended to be hundreds of miles from Lord Strathland.