Highlander's Hope

by Cameron, Collette

Before she changed her mind, Yvette returned to her chamber door, and edged it closed. The key rested in its keyhole on the other side. Walking to the room’s outer door, she tried to open it and found it locked and the keyhole empty. She pressed her ear to the door.

  Silence.

  Exhaustion wrapped its arms around her, claiming what scant reason she had left. It would not be too great a sin to sleep a few hours in this unused bed, would it? It was perfectly safe here. She had her small dagger and the door was locked from without. Her chamber was a few scant steps away. She would slip into her room before dawn, and Mrs. Pettigrove would be none the wiser.

  Too tired to think, Yvette succumbed to the beckoning of the welcoming bed. After folding the weighty coverlet to the end of the bed, she hopped onto the mattress, then flopped onto her back. “Oh, this is wonderful,” She said, sliding between the cool, satin sheets. Sighing in contentment, she turned onto her side, tucking her knife beneath the pillow.

  Edgar had experienced the end of her blade once. She’d not hesitate to use it on him again.

  Ewan closed the door without whisper, then strode across the carpet to the window and slid the curtains aside. With a twist, he unfastened the latch, before shoving the sash open, letting in the bright moonlight and refreshing night air. He inhaled, savoring the tangy coolness. Standing in the path of the light breeze, he removed his coat. Habit caused him to survey the deserted street below.

  With measured tread, he moved to the chair. He grinned and shook his head. It had become second nature to him to move about a room soundlessly after so many years working as a spy.

  He sat, then toed off his Hessian boots. The rest of his garments followed. He rose and stood naked before the window. With one last lingering look, he padded to the washstand in an alcove, where a second, smaller window gleamed with moonlight.

  As always, the washstand was prepared with water, towels, and soap. His garments would be pressed and hung in the wardrobe, and the satin sheets he required would be washed and spread upon the mattress.

  Lord, he craved some sleep.

  Without a doubt, Marquardt was in London. He’d been seen in the less reputable establishments Ewan had visited this evening.

  That’s not to say the evening had been a total loss. He grinned in satisfaction. Belvidere’s lair had been uncovered, thanks to a tip from Nighthawk. No one knew who the phantom informer was, but he had been assisting the War Office for over four years.

  With the help of Yancy’s agents, Belvidere was detained. Yancy and Ewan had spent the past several hours interrogating the spy, who had remained stubbornly closemouthed about his association with Marquardt.

  He sighed in frustration. Blister it. Ewan wanted to be done with this subterfuge. For over six years he’d been at Yancy’s beck and call. No, that wasn’t fair. He’d been at Prinny’s beck and call. Ewan yearned for Craiglocky, his clan, and his kin. His obligation to the crown came first, though. Until he caught the treasonous bastard—he exhaled in frustration—the highlands would have to wait.

  After splashing water on his face and head, Ewan lathered a bar of soap, and quickly washed. Toweling off, he tied the linen about his waist and cleansed his teeth. He ran a hand across his face. Shaving could wait until morning. He winced when he connected with the tender skin on his jaw. Grinning, he recalled the precise moment his charming passenger had smacked her head on his chin.

  He yanked the toweling from his hips, then rubbed the cloth across his hair one more time before turning in the bed’s direction. Bunching the linen, he lifted his arm to toss it on the nearby chair and froze.

  Lying on his bed, sound asleep, was Miss Stapleton. He’d known she was staying here. Ian had told him as much, but what was she doing in his chamber?

  Doubting his senses, he shook his head to clear his muddled mind. Was he so exhausted his sleep deprived brain conjured her image? Was he hallucinating? Or was it the excess of spirits he’d consumed tonight while venturing into numerous pubs, gambling dens, and other hell-holes?

  He approached the bed. She lay on her back, her shift midway up her thighs. She’d kicked the sheets aside in her sleep. One slender arm curved above her head, and the other lay across her midsection. The moonlight illuminated her golden hair fanned across the pillow and wrapped around one shoulder. A shiny lock curled under one breast.

  What was she doing in his bed?

  Ewan watched the rise and fall of her chest as she slept. Her full breasts, their dusky peaks barely discernible through the filmy fabric, threatened to spill from the scanty chemise covering them. He secured the towel about his waist, then edged onto the bed. Lying on his side, his elbow bent, and one hand supporting his head, he stared at her.

  Magnificent.

  Everything about her enthralled him, from the dark arc of her lashes brushing her cheeks, to her straight, petite nose, and her full lips.

  Ewan’s gaze inched from her face to the rest of her figure. Her skin was flawless, perfection in the shimmering moonlight. Her long neck flowed into sloped shoulders, complimented by plump breasts. A small mole on her left breast peeked from beneath her shift, daring him to touch it. His hand was half-raised before he stopped himself.

  His gaze traveled to her small waist, then to the flaring of her hips, and downward to the tempting length of her thighs. This was a woman whose full curves demanded touching. His hungry eyes lingered for the briefest of moments on the shadowy triangle at the juncture of her legs.

  Never in his seven-and-twenty years had a woman stirred him thus. According to Warrick, she was intelligent, well-educated, and a fine equestrian too. His conscience twinged. He’d still use her to get to Marquardt if he couldn’t find any other means.

  She shifted in her sleep, rolling closer to him, and wedging one of her legs between his thighs. Her arm found its way across his waist. At the intimate contact, he inhaled sharply. She smelled of honeysuckle and jasmine.

  Ewan shoved Marquardt to the recesses of his mind, intent on enjoying this moment. He might not ever have another like it with her. He firmed his lips. He doubted she would allow him to call on her if she had any inkling he’d exploited her connection to Marquardt.

  Lowering himself until his head rested on the same pillow she slept upon, he lay watching her sleep. Scant inches separated their faces. She murmured something unintelligible and scooted closer to him, then nestled her head into the crook of his arm. Her silky head fit perfectly beneath his chin. Wrapping her in his arms, he snuggled her soft body even closer, until she was cocooned within his embrace.

  Closing his eyes, he breathed her in, one hand caressing the gentle curve of her spine. Only a few moments more, then he’d waken her, and learn what brought her to his bed.

  Yvette was surrounded in sensation. Muscled arms held her to a firm, hair-covered chest. She wrapped her arms tighter around the comforting, familiar frame of her dream lover.

  Breathing deeply, her nostrils quivered at his scent. He showered soft kisses on the top of her head, forehead, nose, and, at last, upon her waiting lips. The kiss was as sweet as any long-awaited, keenly anticipated homecoming.

  His tongue licked the corner of her mouth, even as his thumb pressed against the crease, forcing her lips to part. Though she was inexperienced, she recognized the suppressed passion in his kiss. It mirrored hers, which had lain dormant and untouched.

  A large hand feathered across the swell of her breasts rising above her chemise, and nudged the frail material aside. Yvette shifted, arching, then sighing in bliss when his calloused hand closed over her breast.

  She twisted beneath his weight and felt his rigid length pressing against her belly. Reaching between their heated bodies, she wrapped tentative fingers around his expanse.

  He groaned, a deep rumbling echo, and she smiled against his mouth. He lifted his head, and she was held captiv
e by the intensity of his sea-green eyes.

  Chapter 6

  Ewan jolted awake. “Merde.”

  He had fallen asleep with Yvette in his arms. Shooting a worried glance at the window, he recognized the first golden blush of daybreak sweeping across the hazy sky.

  Sucking in a strangled breath, he grasped the inexperienced hand fondling him. Blast it. The towel had come loose while he slept.

  “Yvette,” he whispered as she showered kisses across his bare chest and neck. Grasping her roaming hands, he ensnared her in his embrace, and raised his voice. “Yvette, wake up.”

  He gave her a gentle shake. Dark lashes trembled, rising to reveal drowsy eyes. A smile lit her face when her gaze met his. She lifted her hand, caressing his face, her fingers lingering on his scar before she raised herself, then kissed the mark. Caught in the powerful spell, he almost forgot himself. He fought the urge to throw reason to the wind and kiss her with the desire he was holding in check. “Yvette . . .”

  Ewan knew the moment she came fully awake. He felt her stiffen in his arms and heard her small cry of shocked dismay. She pressed at his chest with both hands. He released her and watched her scramble across the bed. She stopped in the middle, facing him. Her hair swirled around her, settling in shimmering waves about her hips.

  Dawn’s glow lit the room. He could see her expressions. Shock, followed by confusion, then complete horror as she realized the full scope of her situation.

  Frightened, her head muzzy from sleep, Yvette knelt in the center of the bed. Nearly unclothed, she was on a bed occupied by a naked man—the man from her dreams.

  She gulped, fully recognizing him, or rather his eyes. Hers rounded in stunned disbelief. Dear God in heaven. Ewan McTavish, the man who had rescued her.

  He retrieved a towel from beneath the bedding and covered his lower body. “Why are you in my bed?”

  His voice soothed her, banished her fear. She didn’t understand why. Mayhap it was the lilt of his barely discernible brogue.

  Scanning the room, she saw his discarded clothing, the open window, the door to her room. Brows drawn together, she searched her memory. She remembered crawling between the bed’s cool sheets. Then nothing. Until she was summoned from an incredibly realistic dream; a dream about him.

  It was only a dream, wasn’t it?

  Lord Almighty, had she been touching him there? A wave of warmth swept her face. Gaze fixed on the sheets, she started to speak, “I . . .”

  Dragging in a large breath, she edged backward off the bed and didn’t exhale until her feet touched the floor. Her gaze remained riveted to the wooden surface. She didn’t dare look up, too afraid she would stare at his powerful, muscled chest, or heaven forbid, allow her gaze to travel lower, to the vee of curly black hair disappearing beneath the towel draped casually across his narrow hips.

  Yvette swallowed, mortified. Had she given herself away? Did he know her dream left her tingling? She folded her arms across her middle. Honesty was her only option. She began again, her voice husky with guilt and embarrassment.

  “I thought the room was empty. My room is next door.” She stole a glance at the closed door separating their rooms.

  He stood, then secured the insufficient toweling about his waist before edging nearer. It seemed he was afraid she might bolt. Moving inch by careful inch, he approached her. Yvette felt like an animal caught in a snare, and though she didn’t move, her gaze skipped to her door several times.

  She closed her eyes and swallowed, trying to dislodge the nerves gripping her throat and striving for the courage to face him.

  He tipped her chin upward with his finger. Startled, she sprung her eyelids open and met his hypnotizing gaze. She suppressed an insane urge to giggle. And here, she’d wondered if she would ever see him again.

  Holding her chin, he pressed her in that same caressing tone. “If you’ve a chamber of your own, why are you in mine?”

  Why is he being kind?

  An enraged shriek rent the early dawn. Without hesitation, Yvette stepped closer to him.

  The trusting movement caused something deep and primitive to birth within Ewan. Folding her hand in his, he rushed to the adjoining door and yanked it open. Inside the chamber, a man fought to free himself from a large woman. She had a beefy arm around his throat and a hand fisted in his hair.

  “Edgar!” Yvette shrank against Ewan.

  He shoved her behind him. Damn, his man was watching the inn. How had Marquardt gotten in?

  At their appearance, Marquardt seemed to renew his efforts to free himself from the matron. With a sound blow to her well-padded ribs, he knocked the air from the woman.

  “Fiend,” she gasped, collapsing on the bed, her bum upward. She lay there wheezing, face pressed to the bedclothes.

  Ewan lunged for Marquardt.

  With a sidelong, venom-laced glance, and a sneer curling his lips, Marquardt bolted from the chamber a handbreadth ahead of him. He halted, caught short by the cloth slipping from his hips, and the accusing screech of the oversized dame.

  “Miss Stap—le—ton!”

  He pivoted around to face the women. Miss Stapleton, her hair spilling to her hips, stood cringing, completely at the overbearing woman’s mercy.

  The dame sat on the edge of the bed, shaking with outrage. “What’s the meaning of this? That man,” she flapped her hand toward the door, “woke me whispering your name.”

  She pointed a stout, accusing finger at Miss Stapleton. “Where were you?”

  She cast a leering glance Ewan’s direction. “In his room?” Chest heaving with indignation, the overwrought woman stood, then slipped her wrap on, tying it round her podgy waist.

  Brows furrowed, he resecured his towel, then closed the door. Hands on his hips, he surveyed the scene before him. The devil take it. This was a fine kettle of fish.

  The matron never paused in her tirade. “Why are you coming from the room of a . . .” she paused to ogle him, her eyes lingering at his groin, “a . . . a naked man?”

  Meeting her eyes, he quirked a brow at her bold appraisal.

  She finally averted her gaze and flopped into one of the armchairs. It squeaked in protest at the rude treatment.

  Ewan swung his gaze to Miss Stapleton.

  She was biting her lower lip, fighting tears. “Please, Mrs. Pettigrove . . .”

  “You’re ruined, young lady,” Mrs. Pettigrove said, her gaze traveling over Miss Stapleton’s scanty attire.

  Mrs. Pettigrove’s crass pronouncement commandeered his attention again. How did Miss Stapleton come to share a room with this harridan? Was she her chaperone?

  No, she couldn’t be. Miss Stapleton had sailed alone.

  “Make no mistake,” Mrs. Pettigrove’s chuffy face scrunched into a scowl, “when word of this gets out, you’ll be branded a ladybird. No, worse, a harlot!”

  She flung her hand across her chest and moaned. “Oh, the scandal, the gossip. What will my sister, the Baronetess Clutterbuck, say?”

  Ewan’s lips thinned, outrage surging through him. Shrewish fussock.

  Yvette remained swaying in the doorway, her body wracked with trembles. At Mrs. Pettigrove’s spiteful words, she blanched. “Please, let me . . .”

  “And to think, I’ve been in your company, shared a cabin,” she waved her hand through the air, “and now this room with you.”

  Ewan glowered at her. With a dark look from him, many a man had curbed his tongue. This harpy seemed incapable of halting her self-righteous prattle.

  “What will people think of me? The scandalmongers will link our names.” She gripped the armchair and bent forward. “Lud, had you no concern for my character? How your behavior would reflect upon my good name?”

  “Cease, madam.”

  Through a haze, Yvette hea
rd Laird McTavish’s harsh command. His black brows were drawn into a fierce scowl. He’s in a high dudgeon. She worried her lower lip again. Who is he angry with? Mrs. Pettigrove, or me, for putting him in this dreadful situation?

  She didn’t respond when he marched to the wall, lifted her shawl from its peg, and strode across the room to wrap the garment about her shaking shoulders. Rooted to the spot, her mind numb with shock, she stared at Mrs. Pettigrove.

  Deep lines of condemnation were carved into Mrs. Pettigrove’s fleshy face. “Who do you think you are, sir, ordering me about? Why, I’ll have you know . . .”

  Laird McTavish interrupted Mrs. Pettigrove’s diatribe once more. “Madam, allow me to introduce myself.”

  Yvette had to acknowledge, even half-naked, he evoked power and authority. He bowed before Mrs. Pettigrove, the scant bit of linen not quite covering his taut buttocks. She averted her eyes, though perhaps not as fast as she might have. He did have such nicely muscled . . . legs.

  “I’m Ewan McTavish, Viscount Sethwick, Laird of Craiglochy, and Miss Stapleton,” he drew her quaking form to his side, “is my intended.” The merest hint of a Scot’s brogue flavored his last few words.

  Yvette’s glance rocketed to his face, her eyes opening wide in sudden recognition as memory flooded her. The phantom lover of her dreams. Her rescuer yesterday. The man at Vangie’s wedding. The Viscount Sethwick Vangie wrote of. They were the same man.

  Intended? Is he addled?

  “And you are?” He stared at Mrs. Pettigrove expectantly.

  “Mrs. Millicent Pettigrove.” Her lips skewed in a moue of disapproval. “Intended? You’re affianced, your lordship?”

  Her beady stare traveled between him and Miss Stapleton, her expression growing doubtful. “Miss Stapleton hasn’t spoken of it. She shared my cabin for weeks, and she didn’t once mention she was betrothed.”