The Taming of Malcolm Grant

by Paula Quinn

  She’d never been out, enjoying a night, before. Her knowledge of its scents and sounds was learned every night for the month or more she had watched over Gascon from the brothel window.

  Nestled now in the crook of Malcolm’s arm on their way back to the brothel, Emma grew thoughtful about all that had changed since he had arrived and brought a flash of light into her dark days. She had so much to thank him for. So many reasons to love him—and many of them had to do with those attributes she didn’t think he valued. But where would it all lead? They’d been out all day running, swimming, laughing, and he hadn’t brought up taking her and Gascon home with him. He hadn’t tried to lay with her either. She wasn’t sure how she felt about his celibacy now that it involved her. Was he truly just going to leave Fortune’s Smile and her? What would she do? She wanted a taste of what the others had with Malcolm. But what if he left her with child? How in damnation was she going to let him leave without falling apart at his feet?

  “D’ye understand aboot restoration now, lass?”

  She loved the pitch of his voice when he lowered his mouth to her ear. How was it possible that every woman he came in contact with didn’t love him, whether they shared his bed, or not? She hadn’t slept with him and she was dreadfully sure she was falling in love with him. She could be wrong, but what else could make her heart leap in her chest the way it did when she heard his voice? What else could make her willing to give up anything in her life? Hadn’t Cailean mentioned giving up kingdoms for love?

  “I think so,” she replied softly. “I could hear the power of the wind upon the waves, swirling monsters to life. I understand the sheer, raw strength of nature and the damage it can inflict.” She thought of her afternoon chasing Gascon, of how it had taken a few moments or so for her to trust the feeling of being alone, with no guard and no dog. At first, she’d held her arms out in front of her, but soon she let go of caution and spread her arms wide.

  It was the most magical day of her life.

  She saw the sea again and then she flew.

  “But with the end of disaster comes restoration. Things are reborn, better than before.”

  “Aye, that’s aboot right.”

  “And you say I have restored you this way?”

  “Aye.”

  “What will this rebirth of yours mean for me?” she asked him, her heart clanging like a cymbal against her ribs. Would she go with him if he asked her? How could she leave Harry so soon after their reunion? How could she not?

  “I dinna’ know, love, but we’ll have to discuss it later. We’ve arrived home.”

  This wasn’t her home.

  He dismounted first, then lifted her out of the saddle and set her feet firmly on the ground. Gascon arrived almost instantly and waited for her to move.

  “Go,” Malcolm said. “I’ll see ye inside after I tend to m’ horse.”

  She would go, in a moment.

  Rising on the tips of her toes, she whispered close against Malcolm’s neck, “Thank you for the perfect day.” Whatever happened, whatever decision he made, she would never forget the day he gave her.

  She felt his body go tight, his breath grow short. He reached for her but she stepped away. “I’ll see you inside.”

  Without waiting for his reply, she took off at a brisk pace, still exhilarated by running. She didn’t trip, thanks to careful Gascon. She smiled at absolutely nothing—or a dozen things—and entered the brothel through the kitchen.

  “Ah, perfect,” said a male voice as smooth as honey and as deep as the ocean she just left. “Are you the cook?” he asked, blocking her path.

  Gascon growled low in his throat and Emma turned her face toward the door behind her, hoping Malcolm would get here soon. It wasn’t because she was afraid—and she was. She didn’t know if the stranger was holding a knife. She should excuse herself and move around him. Chances were he meant her no harm. Besides, Harry didn’t let her speak to the customers.

  “Forgive me,” the man amended quickly, sensing her anxiety. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m Sebastian Fletcher—a guest at this fine establishment while I journey to Newcastle to trade some goods. I arrived a short while ago from Durham, seeking some food and a place to rest my head.”

  The pitch of his voice was deep and honey thick, and well practiced in the art of attraction. He sounded like a man built for seduction, not violence. Emma sighed. Another handsome face who believed his charm worked on every woman.

  “After a delicious meal served by a lovely maiden called Brianne, I had the desire for something sweet. A scone, perhaps?” He shoved his hand into the saddlebag hanging at his side. “I can trade you a small pot, or perhaps a book?”

  She could hear the smile in his voice and gave in to the urge to smile back.

  “Do you know if there are any scones in here?”

  She nodded. Best to help him be on his way. Harry wouldn’t like a patron in the kitchen. She held on to Gascon with one hand and reached out before her with the other, moving toward a shadowy alcove. She felt around for what she was looking for and smiled when she found it. A basket of butter scones, freshly made this morning. Harry’s guest would be pleased.

  “You cannot see,” he observed when she turned back to him with the basket.

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  “That’s a curious thing to say.” The timbre of his voice softened, as if he were smiling. “Can you see or can’t you?”

  “I can, just not with my eyes.”

  He didn’t respond right away and in the silence a chill swept down her spine.

  “I’ve heard of you,” he said quietly. “People around here say you were recently abducted and escaped. Is it true?”

  Her eyes opened wider. “People around here speak of me?” Her belly felt like it was falling to the ground. What were they saying?

  “Come, now.” He laughed softly. “Is it so far-fetched that they would?”

  She nodded, not sure why she was still standing here talking to him. She wanted to ask him if they were calling her a witch.

  “Escaping an abduction is an extraordinary thing worthy of whispers around a kitchen fire. It must have been terrifying.” His voice dipped with sympathy. “How did you do it?”

  The door opened and Malcolm entered with the wind at his back. His footsteps were swift and heavy, bringing him to her side. He stood at least two heads taller than her, rock hard and ready to pounce if there was trouble. She fought the urge to slip her arm through his and let it proclaim to everyone in the dining hall that she was Malcolm Grant’s and Malcolm Grant was hers.

  She kept her arms at her sides as Sebastian introduced himself to Malcolm, his voice every bit as friendly as it had been to her.

  “And you are, sir?”

  “Malcolm Grant of Perth.”

  Perth? Emma struggled to keep from yawning. What about Skye… and Camlochlin? She shrugged, too tired to really care. She hadn’t slept well in over eight months since Clementine’s death. But lately, especially tonight after being in the sun and the water all day, she could barely keep her eyes open. She had Malcolm to thank. He’d brought laughter to her, and passion. Whether she was kissing him or arguing with him, he scalded her blood and made her want to remain in his life. Oh, what would she do without him? She had to find a way to make him stay.

  “I’m a trader,” Sebastian Fletcher was saying. “I can get you anything you need.”

  “I dinna’ need anything,” Malcolm replied.

  Emma hated that he believed what he said.

  “Where d’ye keep yer goods?”

  “In Durham,” Mr. Fletcher told him, and then patted his bag. “Among other places.”

  “And how did ye come to find yerself in the kitchen?”

  Emma listened to Mr. Fletcher explain his scone tale and then she tugged Gascon’s fur. “If you will excuse me, I will retire. Enjoy your stay, Mr. Fletcher. Good night.”

  “Miss…”

  “Grey,” she provided.r />
  She might have let her gaze swing to Malcolm’s for an instant or two. She wanted him to follow her and she hoped he saw it in her gaze. Without another sound, she curled her fingers into her friend’s fur and let Gascon lead her away.

  She’d almost made it to the stairs when Harry spotted her from the parlor and hurried after her.

  “Cailean Grant is well enough and I’ve moved him to his own room.”

  “Good news, Harry, oui?” Was that all he wanted to tell her? A relief. She smiled, patted his arm, and continued on. She’d miss sharing her room with Cailean but she also missed her privacy.

  “Emmaline. I think they should be leaving tomorrow, the next day the latest.”

  She paused and said a silent prayer for patience. She should have known there was more on his mind. He didn’t allow her to spend the entire day away without a few words. She was too tired for this.

  “I’ll examine Cailean tomorrow and see if he’s strong enough to leave us.” She started up again.

  “You were gone all day.” His voice shook with restraint.

  “Oui, I was.”

  “Where did you go?” he asked, trying unsuccessfully to sound mildly interested. “What did you do?”

  “We can speak of it tomorrow, Harry. I need sleep.”

  “I think we should speak of it now. I—”

  “But I just finished answering a host of questions to the patron in the kitchen.”

  “The kitchen?” he demanded. “There was a patron in the kitchen? Where is he now?”

  “Still there, I assume. His name is Sebastian Fletcher and he claimed to be looking for a scone.”

  “And you believed him?” her brother shouted at her while he raced away toward the kitchens.

  Emma smiled, thankful for escaping a confrontation with Harry. It was easy when his kitchen was involved.

  Malcolm waited in the shadows. When Harry disappeared into the kitchen, he took off for the stairs. On the way, he caught sight of his brother in the dining hall, holding a scone to his mouth. Harry wouldn’t find Fletcher in the kitchen because he was already at Cailean’s table surrounded by Mary and Jane, and thankfully, even Bess.

  Deciding to look in on his brother later, Malcolm took the stairs three at a time and hurried silently down the hall to Emma’s room. He’d caught her reckless glance before she left the kitchen. An invitation he couldn’t refuse.

  Before he knocked, the door creaked open to let him in.

  He rushed in and met Emma on the other side. He wanted to gather her into his arms. He wanted to slip one hand around her nape and tilt her mouth to his.

  She stepped away while he hesitated and let that moment pass.

  He resisted tossing back his head in frustration with himself and ran his hand down his face instead. She tempted him beyond endurance. He could easily bolt the door, undress her, and kiss every inch of her delectable body. Could he stop there? He didn’t think so, not if the thought of her beneath him, pushing her hips against his in a rhythm of drumbeats and blood flow, didn’t drive him mad with desire for her.

  “I must go, fer yer sake.”

  “My sake?” she asked him quietly, quizzically, bathed in soft, golden light.

  “Aye, lass, I’m no’ sure I can keep m’ mouth, or m’ hands, off ye.”

  “Oh,” she said quietly. “And what is so bad about that?” She lowered her chin to hide her burning cheeks from him. When had she become so wanton?

  “I dinna’ want to do anything to ye that ye might one day regret.”

  She moved closer to him and put her hands on his chest. “Like loving you?”

  “Aye,” he answered just as quietly.

  “Because you believe you cannot love me back.”

  “What?” He covered her hands with his. “Where did ye hear that?”

  “From Cailean,” she told him. “He also told me you’re celibate, but I must admit I don’t get what one thing has to do with the other in your case.”

  What? Cailean knew? And he told Emma? Hell, Malcolm was going to kill him.

  “Well?” She blinked her glorious eyes at him and waited.

  He didn’t want to be talking about this with her. He remembered his encounter with the trader from Durham and shoved his hand in his pocket.

  “I got this fer ye,” he said, placing a leather-bound book in her hands.

  She smiled and brought it to her nose. “Where did you get it?”

  “From the trader, Mr. Fletcher.”

  “Malcolm,” she barely whispered, pulling him in closer to hear her. “What is the title?”

  “’Tis Le Morte d’ Arthur.”

  He regretted trading one of his daggers for the book when her tears fell on the old leather.

  “’Twas one of my favorite tales when I was a child,” she told him.

  “Aye, m’ grandmother’s too,” he shared. Then, more gently. “Why are ye weepin’, lass?”

  “I miss the tale desperately but I cannot read, Malcolm.”

  He smiled at her. “I know ye canna’ read.” He walked her to her chair and sat her in it, then came around her and sat on her mattress, facing her. “But I can.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Malcolm read her three chapters and then they talked about each one in between. He loved watching her listen. She did it so intently and seemed to hear so much more than he did.

  Hell, if Cailean or his cousins found out he’d read Mallory to a lass in her bedroom, they’d likely toss him over a cliff believing he was an impostor who’d murdered the real Malcolm Grant.

  It got worse.

  “Love does elude me, Emma,” Malcolm found himself answering her earlier question of what celibacy and being incapable of falling in love had to do with each other before he could stop. “Withoot it, m’ life was verra’ empty and meaningless. I tried to ferget it existed by indulgin’ m’ physical whims. But I stopped wantin’ one withoot the other.”

  She looked like she was about to say something but stopped herself and then began again. “Are you trying to bring honor home to your father?”

  He smiled. “Mayhap. Who knows?” He didn’t. And it didn’t matter now. Only she mattered.

  “Tell me what turned you into a rake.”

  He laughed, and then he shook his head at himself. He’d always been so charming before, never awkward or exposed with any lass. Why did Emma and her questions shake him up so? What turned him into a rake? How the hell was he supposed to answer that?

  “Lasses never denied me anything. I learned how to get what I wanted with no’ much more than a smile. It made me lazy. I didna’ realize there was somethin’ different between me and m’ cousins when they used to talk aboot the lasses they thought they loved. Even as lads, they were always fallin’ fer this lass or that. But no’ me.”

  Was this him speaking? Sharing things he never shared with another soul? He stared, enchanted by the subtle grace of her beauty while she leaned her head against the chair and blinked slowly, heavily.

  “Do you truly believe you cannot fall in love?”

  Did he? Still? He didn’t know. He didn’t know if he was falling in love with Emma. He hated that it frightened him, but that was the truth of it. Even worse was that it wasn’t just love, it was loving her when he wasn’t sure if he was worthy of her.

  The problem was that just looking at her made him forget everything else. He wanted more time with her, mayhap even all the time he had left on this earth with her.

  “I want somethin’ that I stopped believin’ I needed,” he confessed. His smile lingered over her closed eyes. Was she sleeping? She’d had an adventurous, tiring day. He knew she was exhausted.

  He got up and scooped her into his arms.

  “Oui,” she said quietly, coming awake for a moment. She didn’t open her eyes but smiled when he laid her in her bed and covered her with her blanket. “I want that too.”

  He leaned over her and spoke close in her ear. “Even with a rake, lass?”


  “A reformed rake, oui,” she whispered back groggily.

  He kissed her forehead, and then her temple, before he stepped away. It took every ounce of strength he possessed to leave her room. He wanted to climb into bed beside her and hold her close to him. He wanted to throw caution to the four winds and tell her how important she was becoming to him, but he’d wait until she was awake and alert enough to understand. He didn’t fully understand it either.

  His muscles were wound tight. What he needed was a drink. He patted Gascon’s head and left the room. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he spotted Harry sitting at one of the tables in the tavern with Cailean and Alison, and surprisingly, Mr. Fletcher was still with them. Curious about Fortune’s Smile’s new patron, he headed in their direction.

  He thought of the woman he just left asleep in her bed. Was he a fool to go? Nae, he wanted to be a better kind of man for Emma. A man she deserved. Malcolm the Rake was fast becoming Malcolm the Considerate, the Honorable, the Gentleman.

  He’d seen it before—this… affliction plaguing the men of Camlochlin. There was no more question.

  He was falling in love.

  ’Twas possible after all!

  Satan’s bloody balls!

  Sebastian studied Malcolm Grant as he approached the dining hall from the stairs. He knew as soon as he first laid eyes on the strapping Scot, that he was the one who attacked John’s small troupe when they abducted Miss Grey. Grant was big enough to swipe off a man’s head.

  Even dressed in civil garb, Grant had the look of a Highlander, untamed and unruly, a bit less refined than the younger Grant at the table. They could be the two Highlanders John had spoken of. Or not. According to some of the girls he spoke to, several traveling Highlanders had passed through in the last fortnight.

  Sebastian didn’t think the Grants were the alleged dead Highlanders though, because John Burroughs wouldn’t recognize a Northman dressed like an Englishman and would not have described Andrew’s killers as Highlanders.

  Still, he’d find out who the Grants were. If they were guilty, he’d make certain their deaths were drawn out and painful.