by Paula Quinn
He let her go, slowly, reluctantly, stroking her face before severing his touch completely.
He didn’t want to take the chance of hurting her. She liked him.
“We should head back. Harry might be lookin’ fer ye.”
“Oui, of course,” she agreed, and stood to her feet. “Thank you, Malcolm.”
“Fer what?” He grinned down at her.
“For stopping before I had to take my knife to you.”
His smile softened at her sincerity. Let her think what she wanted. He could have disarmed her in an instant. But he wasn’t entirely a rogue.
It was the first thing that lifted his spirits since—Hell, he didn’t remember. It didn’t matter when, but what. A lass. A lass who was somehow finding a way to get under his skin, deeper each moment he spent with her. How far could she go? The thought of actually, finally falling in love with someone scared the hell out of him. Mostly because what he felt was never love and he’d walked away defeated and more empty than before.
“Are you smiling, Mr.… Malcolm?”
“I shouldna’ be, but as a matter of fact, Emmaline, I am.”
“You don’t think I can kill you if I need to?” she challenged.
“I dinna’ think ye want to kill me. Desire makes all the difference.”
“We shall see,” she sang, passing him.
He laughed, watching her depart in the dim light. He couldn’t see much of her but it didn’t matter.
Most alluring about her was the way she hadn’t allowed blindness to overcome her. Hers was a difficult victory in this harsh world. But she’d learned how to let a dog lead her. She had compassion for strangers and courage in dealing with bullies. She knew as much about plants and herbs as his aunt Isobel back in Skye…
… What would Skye think of Emmaline Grey?
There it was again! Him, thinking along the lines of bringing her home! It was madness! Why would he do it? He paused his steps for an instant. Why did he allow his thoughts to travel in such unknown directions when it came to her? Why the hell was he thinking about Emma in Skye?
He wanted to shake his head to clear it. Why was he getting so worked up? He didn’t feel anything for her other than deep gratitude. He was confusing it with something else.
Still, he wished he had Gascon to hold on to when the clouds passed across the moon and she slowed her steps and turned her face toward him at the same time.
“Is something wrong, Mr. Grant?”
Were her senses so keen or was he obviously uncomfortable? He felt like she could see him. Parts of him no one had looked at in many years. He wasn’t certain he was ready to let her see so much.
“Just…” He laughed, feeling foolish. What would he tell her? That he thought about her often and he didn’t know what it meant. He hadn’t begun to care for her. It couldn’t be that. It had never been that before. “’Tis nothin’, Miss Grey.”
“Oh, of course.” Her voice fell like whispers from her lips as she turned away and gave Gascon a tug. “If that’s the way you prefer it.”
He barely heard her, but barely was enough. “Prefer what?” He chased after her to the brothel door.
“Our time together to be,” she said, entering the dark kitchen.
“How d’ye think I prefer it to be?” He banged his foot on the leg of a heavy table but barely paused his steps after a blind lass—who hadn’t stumbled—and her dog.
What the hell was happening to him?
Should he be worried?
“It seems you prefer deceit and games over… other attributes.”
She was correct. Sometimes he did indeed prefer secrets and games. But not tonight. She valued truth and honesty and he wanted to give it to her. He wanted to tell her that she lived in his thoughts, night and day, more and more, and he didn’t know why. But he couldn’t. She would think him a fool. He already felt like one. How was it that he was learned in the bedroom but when it came to matters of his heart, he had no idea what the hell he was doing?
“Sometimes the truth is kept hidden fer a noble reason.”
She tilted her chin in his direction, a smile curling the tips of her lips as they left the kitchen and approached the stairs. “What do you know of nobility, Mr. Grant?”
He smiled and lowered his gaze. “No’ much.”
“Ah, honesty! Better!”
He heard her sweet laughter and looked up to catch her passing him with Gascon.
“You’re improving already.”
Maybe he was. A little. He smiled, then laughed behind her. “Tell me, Emma. What other attributes do I lack?”
She stopped and held her index finger to her chin and tapped it. “Let’s see. Humility, for one. That’s large. You don’t possess much of that.”
“Why should I?” he asked, leaning against the banister, not offended. “Has humility ever won a battle?”
Her dark eyes settled over him, searching, listening. “There is no battle here.”
Hell, if only she were correct. This, he was relatively certain, was the beginning of the biggest fight of his life. Every time he was with her, his heart beat the battle drum.
“Loyalty,” she tossed at him, along with a blond curl over her shoulder.
“I’m loyal to m’ kin. What else?”
“Gratitude,” she fired softly, turning at the top of the stairs to face him.
Gratitude? Hell, he was grateful. How many times had he thanked her for saving him and Cailean?
Hell, none.
“I… Ehm, I…”
“Oui?” she prodded gently.
Satan’s arse, he was fond of a lass who was unaffected by his confident dimpled grin. A lass who looked beyond the frame and expected more.
More, Malcolm Grant couldn’t give her. He wished he could. In fact, if falling in love were possible for him, he wouldn’t mind it being with her.
“Emma?”
“Oui?”
“From tonight on, I’m sleepin’ in the chair.”
“If you wish.”
“And thank ye fer savin’ m’ brother’s life.”
She quirked a honeyed brow at him. “Not yours?”
“Mine is…” He let his words fade in the air between them and turned away. How could he tell her that there was no woman who would suffer his death too long? No lass whose life he’d deeply affected. It had hit him not long after he left Fortune’s Smile four years ago. Rather than fight the dragon, he fought his physical desires and devoted his days to traveling and practicing. If he was off his horse, he was on his toes. It had done his body good, hardened him more, quickened his reflexes, and kept his thoughts from things he didn’t want to face.
“I might pine for you, Mr. Grant.”
He looked up to the top of the stairs. Had she whispered those words or did his own lonely heart conjure them up? How could she know what he was thinking? Feeling? And then say the one thing that could make him doubt he was deficient after all?
She said nothing else nor gave any indication that she’d said anything a moment before. He watched her return on her trek to the room they shared. Behind her, he allowed himself to wonder what losing his heart would do to him, if it were, after all, possible?
Why her? What was it about her that was beginning to keep him up at night? Hell, what wasn’t it about her? It was everything. He liked her. He admired her.
Hell, he needed a drink.
Chapter Twelve
I think your brother and Emma like each other,” Alison whispered above Cailean’s face. “She went walking with him hours ago. Do you think he’ll try to kiss her? I don’t think she’s ever been kissed before.”
Cailean smiled and raised a hand to her cheek. His body felt warm from looking at her succulent pink mouth. If he was feverish it was because of her and not some bullet wound.
“What have I done to earn such attention?” he asked her.
Hell, he loved how that flush of pink stole across her nose before she spoke. “You speak like my at
tention is something to be coveted.”
“D’ye think I woulda’ fought four Winthers fer ye if ’twasna’ so?”
She lifted her chin and shined her smile on him full force.
He wouldn’t lie—he liked the look of her. She stood out to him on that first night by the way her russet hair captured every hue of the candlelight, the way she moved across the dining hall, and when, at one point, she turned, as if feeling his eyes on her, and met his gaze. He thought he’d never seen eyes so green as hers. After getting to know her a little that night, he decided she was worth the fight, worth the bullet.
“No one has ever fought for me before,” she told him, her emerald eyes shining on him like dancing flames.
“Then they’re fools fer m’ benefit.”
“Perhaps.” She smiled. “But they are not lying helpless in a bed stitched up like a fine lady’s embroidery.”
“In yer care,” he pointed out. “Helpless to yer charms.”
Her laughter made him forget everything else, things that plagued him, like Sage’s great head in his lap, her breath shallow, a low whine coming from her throat. She wouldn’t let anyone move her away from him. Her pale gray eyes fixed on his as she breathed her last breath.
“Emma’s correct, you do have sad eyes,” Alison told him, taking his hand.
“Nae,” he promised her, trying to stay awake. “I’m happy. When I open my eyes and see ye here, I’m happy.”
He wanted to kiss her. It was all he thought about and the last thing he remembered. But he smiled at Emma instead when she returned without his brother.
Emma bent her ear to Cailean’s chest and listened to his breathing pattern. She held up her finger to quiet Alison when the girl began to bid him good night. He’d slept most of the afternoon and evening, waking intermittently to smile at his breathless admirer. Alison was losing her heart to Cailean. It was clear in the way she giggled at everything Cailean said, in the wistful breaths she took when she spoke to him, or of him to Emma. Harry was being kind by letting her stay by Cailean’s side for days, without working. But what would happen when her brother insisted she return?
“Has his fever come back, Emma?” Alison asked her now, her voice tense and on the verge of alarm.
“It hasn’t fully left,” Emma told her. Why hasn’t it? Was she doing something wrong? She wasn’t a physician with all medicine at her disposal. She closed her eyes because when she was little she closed them to pray. She prayed now for Cailean Grant, not because she was afraid of his family coming here to avenge him. She liked him and the honesty in his tone. His death would be difficult for her, for Alison, but mostly for Malcolm.
Keep him with us, she beseeched the Lord.
“The fever is low,” she reassured Alison while she straightened. “He will be fine.” She smiled to convince her though she herself was not convinced. “Now, go get some sleep. If you see Malcolm, send him to me.” She had to tell Malcolm.
“Emma?”
Emma stopped and gave Alison all her attention. The poor girl needed more reassurance that Cailean would survive. Emma would do everything, everything she knew how to keep him alive.
“You care for Malcolm.”
What? “No! I—”
“It’s quite all right. I understand. But I would have you know that he watches you all the time. He lights up when he sees you, and when you speak to him he clings to every word. I just thought you should know that.” She moved closer and before Emma knew what to do, Alison leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Good night, Emma. I’ll be back at first light.” She leaned down and whispered things to Cailean that Emma wished she couldn’t hear.
Why would a simple peck on her cheek make her so watery? And why would knowing that Malcolm watches her all the time and lights up when he sees her make her feel so incredibly desired? Emma was glad to hear the door open before Alison thought her mad because of the foolish grin on her face.
“Oh, Mr. Grant!”
Alison’s discovery on the other side of the door tore Emma’s grin away. His brother wasn’t doing well and she had to tell him.
“Here he is now, Emma,” Alison called out from the door. “Well, good night.”
His presence filled Emma’s world with crackling charges that left her nerves scorched, the scents of peat, whisky… and rose. Where had he been for the last hour? When they’d returned from their walk he’d been right behind her.
“Were ye lookin’ fer me?” He swept into the room and hurried to his brother’s bed. “Is Cailean all right?”
She wanted to tell him oui, his brother was fine. But she couldn’t. “His fever has returned, worse this time.”
He touched his hand to Cailean’s cheek and cursed under his breath. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” she told him truthfully. “I don’t understand why this fever is lingering. ’Tis beginning to concern me.”
“I thought he was stable.” She could hear the worry in his voice as well.
“He is, but ’tis my herbs keeping him that way. I fear there is something I’m not seeing, something I have missed.”
He was quiet for a few moments and she thought she told him too much.
“How did ye know how to treat him?” he finally asked, sounding on the verge of something.
“What do you mean?”
“Ye knew he had a pistol ball lodged in his gut. How? Did ye use yer hands?”
She shook her head. “No. Alison described it and I felt for an exit wound but there was none.”
“She told ye that was the only wound?”
Emma hadn’t checked! She hadn’t checked for herself! There’d been too much going on. She’d never tended to men who were shot in a fight.
But she’d only heard two shots. Emma’s heart fell to the ground but she managed to remain on her feet. Another wound! He’d been stabbed! No! There would have been more blood. “We need to check his body,” she cried, hurrying to do so herself.
“Can we turn him over?” Malcolm asked.
She nodded and they moved him gently. From his deep sleep, Cailean groaned, and so did Emma.
“Emma.”
The fear in Malcolm’s voice made her breath shorten.
“There’s a wound,” he told her. “A slice, small in size, not deep.”
“’Tis infected,” she guessed. It was the only way a small cut could make him so ill.
“Aye,” he confirmed.
Emma stopped breathing and counted, feeling light-headed. Fourteen. Another wound. She’d missed it. Such a small, easily treated thing and now he could die because of it. Because of her. She stepped back and almost fell over the chair leg.
Malcolm caught her. “Ye canna’ give up on him now, lass. Please. Ye have to help him. Ye’re the only one here who could.”
He was correct. There wasn’t time to feel responsible. Not now.
“I don’t know if—”
“Ye can,” he cut her off gently. “We can. I’ll help ye, Emma. We’ve done it before.”
She nodded. But it wasn’t the same. They could lose him this time.
“Lay him on his belly.”
She wouldn’t tell Malcolm the high risk. She would fight to help Cailean live.
Two hours, four basins of fresh water, boiled rags, and twelve mixtures of different ointments later Emma covered Cailean’s stab wound with leaves and wiped her hands.
The younger Mr. Grant lived. For now. Every hour would be crucial. When there was nothing more to do for him, Emma sat on her borrowed bed and Malcolm sat in the chair beside her.
After the way Clementine had been treated by her patients, Emma never cared who she helped or who she didn’t. Why should she care? So they could burn her alive for it later? She barely trusted Malcolm not to turn her in. Would he do it after she helped his brother—or because she almost let Cailean die?
It was better if she never picked up another herb. She had no place learning medicine when she couldn’t see her patients.
“M
r. Grant.”
“Aye?”
“I want you to know how very sorry I am for not…” Oh, she didn’t want to be responsible for anyone’s life! Cailean was such a vital young man. The thought of his death because of her negligence broke her heart and made her do something she hadn’t done in years.
“Are ye weepin’, Emma?” He was out of his chair in an instant and sitting beside her on the bed the next. He put one arm around her and with his free hand lifted her chin to have a look at her. “Och, lass, dinna’ weep.” He sounded pained enough to almost make Emma stop.
“I should have checked him with my own hands,” she cried.
He pulled her in close and held her while she gathered herself and did her best to stop crying. Being in his arms was like nothing she’d ever experienced before. No man had ever held her like this. Not even Harry. This was an embrace, all consuming, tender yet firm, a shield against the harsher things in life. She didn’t ever want to move again.
“Come, lass.” His voice was as deep as the shadows, caressing her, comforting her. “We willna’ give up on him now.”
“But I should have—”
“Hush now, Emma.”
He stroked his hand down the back of her head and made her sigh against him like an untarnished innocent. But no one was untarnished.
“What’s done is done,” he said, moving her away so he could look at her. She could feel his gaze, his attention on her, and she was tempted to lift her hands to his face and look back at him.
“We move forward now, aye? We save m’ brother.”
“Oui,” she promised, though she fought to keep her tears controlled. She wouldn’t think about not being able to save Cailean. They could do it. They would do it. “Oui, we save him.”
He touched his fingers to her cheek, startling her. Instinctively, she backed away, prompting him to return to his chair.
How had he so easily forgiven her for almost killing his brother? How had he so easily pulled her back from a chasm of guilt?
“Thank you,” she said softly beneath his chin. It didn’t seem enough.