Especially when Kristin was alive but before the wee bairns came along. He’d needed the respite from her incessant nagging, harping, and complaining. Never had he known such a discontented woman. Nothing pleased her, and even now, nine years after meeting her, he still couldn’t believe he’d been stupid enough to be caught in her well-devised trap.
He’d not so easily slip into a harness again.
Liam took another bite, and chewing thoughtfully, observed the woman across from him.
Emeline LeClaire was the opposite of his deceased wife in almost every way.
As dark in coloring as Kristin had been fair. As slender and lithe as Kristin had been abundantly rounded in all the places men most appreciated. As soft-spoken, serene and considerate as Kristin had been demanding, difficult, and impossible to please. As unassuming and unaware of her loveliness as Kristin had been bold and confident of her unquestionable allure.
Once before, he’d let himself be blinded by beauty and lust.
And where, devil it, had that landed him?
Never again would he lose control or be vulnerable to a woman’s wiles. Having one’s heart carved out with a bejeweled hair pin and the remnants left for the crows to feast upon rather had a way of discouraging interest or affection for the fairer sex.
Excepting his mother and sister, naturally.
“I only walked a few miles huntin’ this mornin’, but that storm caused a significant amount of devastation. More than I estimated.” He angled his spoon toward the window. “I saw more than one mudslide and, in all honesty, Emeline, I wouldna be surprised if the road hasna washed out.”
She darted a glance outside before bringing her attention back to him, infinite patience in her whisky-colored eyes. Instinct told him she’d make superb mother.
Hold there, he silently chastised himself. She might be a beguiling lass, but musings about motherhood were too bloody intimate for his comfort.
He cleared his throat. “I ken I told ye we’d need to stay for a day, but I dinna think it would be wise to leave for at least three.”
Hooking an arm over the back of his chair, Liam instinctively braced himself for a fit of high-pitched, tear-laced feminine displeasure.
Rather than becoming upset about the delay in their departure, Emeline regarded him serenely. “I noticed the degree of damage in the nearby woodlands.”
Och, aye. Before him was the calm, self-possessed Miss LeClaire.
He relaxed under the knowledge she wasn’t given to histrionics. “The ground’s saturated and unstable and requires time to dry. I’m nae takin’ a chance of travelin’ on sodden earth that may give way beneath us.”
Thank all the saints this wasn’t a woman accustomed to flying into fits of temper. He had known her for less than a day but already knew she thought things through with tranquil logic.
“Ye ken the area, Liam. And as ye are more accustomed to travelin’ by horseback through this type of terrain, I canna but concede to yer wisdom.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the foodstuffs on the shelf. “We’ve sufficient food, the brook for water, and wood for the fire. We shall be fine.”
“Indeed we shall.” He found her bravado irrationally endearing. He also found the idea of spending time alone with her in this isolated cottage far more appealing than he ought to.
Dinna let yer guard down.
Truth to tell, there was much about Emeline LeClaire to admire. Not the least of which was her creamy complexion and luxurious bronze hair. Not quite copper and not quite sable, it shimmered with a light of its own. Her winged eyebrows and lush lashes were several shades darker, and combined with her doe eyes, an aura of warm richness surrounded her.
It comforted and beckoned to him in a way he couldn’t begin to understand but which slightly terrified as much as mesmerized.
She swept her unusual amber-toned gaze about the cottage before turning those beguiling eyes on him.
He recognized that redolent look, and the gnarled knot that was his stomach, pulled tighter.
It was the look a woman gave a man when she meant to ask for something. Kristin had mastered the art with dimple-producing coy smiles and a provocative turn of her neck or sweep of her hand across her ample bosom.
“I dinna suppose ye’ve a hip bath somewhere?” Emeline ventured hopefully. Bashfully.
A rosy hue mounted her porcelain cheeks, and Liam almost choked on an incredulous laugh. That’s what she wanted? God’s teeth, he’d become jaded. “Nae. We usually just bathe in the brook.” If they bathed at all, freezing cold though it might be. The men didn’t come here for comfort or niceties.
She valiantly curved her lips upward, notching her higher in his estimation.
“I shall make do with the bucket just fine.” Fingering a lock of hair, she eyed the pail. Was she pondering how to wash her hair? He could offer to help, but he didn’t trust himself to touch her so intimately.
At once, images invaded his mind of her naked before the fireplace, her pearly skin iridescent from the candles’ glow, and water trickling over that satiny flesh as she bathed.
His body reacted to the erotic conjuring, and he shifted in his seat as he gulped down a swallow of tepid tea. The next few days were going to be pure torture. He’d best keep himself occupied outdoors, cleaning up after the storm and chopping wood.
Yes. Just the thing for a randy Highlander with a beauty sharing his much-too-small cottage. Whose bloody damn drunken idea was it to build such a wee hunting lodge?
She brushed a tendril of her burnished chestnut hair over her shoulder, the movement graceful and completely unaffected. Unfortunately, it pulled her bodice tight and drew his gaze to the forbidden mounds.
Wood choppin’. Cuttin’ trees down. Stackin’ wood.
There was a bloody forest outside. He’d chop enough firewood to keep the lodge heated until the next century if it kept him out of the cottage. Kept him away from this alluring woman with her innocent, seductive eyes the color or caramelized sugar. Then, he’d fall into bed so exhausted each night, dreams wouldn’t even disturb his slumber, let alone a lithe siren enticing him in ways he hadn’t been tempted in years.
After a frigid soak in yonder stream.
They finished their simple meal in silence, and just as he was about to ask if she’d like to take a walk, she blurted, “I’m so verra sorry about yer daughter.”
Liam clasped his hand so tightly around his spoon, his knuckles turned white as he clamped his jaw against the grief that yet possessed the ability to steal his breath and stall his lungs. “She’s been gone for over five years.” He hadn’t meant to share something so private with her. He didn’t discuss his children with anyone, not even his mother or sister.
It was simply too damned, gut-wrenchingly painful. Countless times, his mother had begged him to talk about the bairns. She vowed he couldn’t keep the grief pent up inside; that it would corrode away at him from the inside and destroy his soul.
Kendra had said the same, and even though he knew his mother and sister mourned, too, he couldn’t talk about the tragedy that had stolen both of his beloved bairns the same day. The calamity that would never have happened if he’d been the father he should’ve been. If he’d protected them instead of being compassionate.
God, even now, he wanted to smash his fist into the wall and keen his anguish.
Last night, when Emeline had picked the same name as his daughter’s, her choice had so stunned him, he’d blurted that Mareona had been his bairn’s name. His wee cherub of a son, scarcely one years old, had been called Joseph.
Each child had possessed their mother’s golden hair but his slate-gray eyes. And he’d adored them beyond comprehension. Hadn’t known he was capable of that depth of love and devotion. Even thinking about them now brought a rush of biting moisture to his eyes.
“I’m sure ye understand, if I dinna want to talk about it,” he mumbled.
The plump pillows of her lush lips thinning, she conceded with a slight dip of he
r dainty chin. “Aye, I can understand. No’ about losin’ a child, because I’ve never had a bairn, but I do ken about losin’ a relative. Every time it’s brought up, it feels as if the wound has reopened.”
“Aye.” And he feared he’d never heal. He’d never be whole again. Never see a wee blond girl or boy and not feel as if his heart and lungs were being torn from his chest. Never, ever, wanted to feel that kind of pain again.
He glanced to the window and the vivid blue sky shimmering between the greenish-black treetops. Such a contrast to the hellish heavens that had buffeted them yesterday. But then again, he lived in a sort of hell for five years now.
Suspended in place, mourning. Always—God help me—mournin’. He couldn’t seem to move on, to put aside his anger.
Such scorching anger.
At Kristin, the devil’s daughter. At God. At himself for yielding to temptation that fateful night nine years ago and accepting the invitation he naively believed she offered. Only to learn it had been a calculated trap. He’d been played like gullible, malleable fool all along.
His appetite gone, he pushed the bowl away and took up the cup of tea. Apparently, the same was true for Emeline, for she leaned back in her chair, her cup poised near her soft lips.
“Have ye any other children?” she softly asked, a hint of hesitancy in her husky voice.
Closing his eyes for an agonizing blink, Liam swore a thousand curses beneath his breath. “I had a son.”
As comprehension dawned, air exploded from her in a harsh whoosh. “Och, my God, Liam.” She thumped her cup down hard, jostling the table. “Please dinna tell me ye lost him, too?” Her words emerged, strangled and tight, as if tears and emotion clogged her throat.
He couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t stand to see his own anguish reflected in her tormented eyes. Instead, he stared fixedly at the coin-sized stain beside his cup. “Aye. At the same time.”
Her harsh respiration slashed his heart. His composure.
He glanced up then, knowing he’d see pity and sympathy and compassion. They only fueled his agony. His mother and sister, friends, the clan members, the staff at Eytone Hall, the tenants and villagers—all had turned that sorrowful, helpless expression on him hundreds and hundreds of times.
Odin’s teeth, he’d been offered platitudes and condolences and banalities and commiserations until he wanted to break something. To smash his fists into a stone wall and tear the pennants and portraits from Eytone Hall’s galleys. To shout his rage to the heavens until he was hoarse.
But none of that would help.
Nothing…nothing would repair Joseph’s and Mareona’s wee broken bodies.
He’d never again see their precious faces light up as they giggled or smell their sweet essence as he held them, his face nestled in their downy hair. Never grin as they capered about the house and lawns, or sigh in immeasurable contentment as they snuggled on his lap.
Shaking her head, her eyes luminous, Emeline put a trembling hand to her bosom. “My heart aches mightily for ye, Liam. Words canna express my sorrow,” she whispered brokenly. “How ye and yer wife must suffer.”
He lowered his brows thunderously, familiar bitter lines hardening his face as he slammed his fist upon the table, rattling the dishes and utensils.
Emeline jumped, her expression equal parts dismay and confusion.
His good sense and control had flown in the face of the rage resulting from Kristin’s actions. Rancor made his voice razor sharp. “My wife is dead. I dinna ever speak of her. Ever.”
Lower lip trembling, her face white as the lace edging her bodice, Emeline swallowed. Her doe eyes huge and alarmed, she regarded him warily before casting a less-than-covert glance toward the door. She thought him utterly and completely mad.
He had been off his head for the first few weeks after his children’s deaths.
Gaze leery, she folded her hands, shadows of doubt and fear stamped upon her face.
Dammit. Now he’d succeeded in frightening her.
But ever since yesterday, he’d been thrown into a lather. He despised this lack of self-control. Loathed feeling. Sighing, he scraped a hand over his eyes. “Forgive me. ’Tis no’ somethin’ I can speak of or think about without becomin’ angry. But ye’re in nae danger from me, lass. I give ye my word.”
Marked uncertainty was engraved upon her features. “I believe that’s for me to decide, and in order to do so, I fear, I shall have to impose upon ye further.” Her eyes the color of warm dark honey, she courageously notched her small chin slightly higher.
No’ so brave, after all.
“How…” She licked her lower lip. “How did they die?”
Chapter Five
The fraught silence stretched onward, the initial uncomfortable sliver lengthening into an unspoken challenge. A challenge he knew for damned certain he’d lost. Shite. With a grumbled oath, Liam slouched against his chair.
He wouldn’t put it past the enigmatic Emeline LeClaire to set out on her own if he didn’t answer. And by damn, he hadn’t risked his life to have her break her dainty neck haring about these storm-ravaged woodlands. However, for this unwelcome conversation, he’d need something significantly stronger than tea.
He wrested his flask from his coat pocket, and after taking a long swallow—relishing the steady, bracing burn to his gut—he set the silver container atop the table. He didn’t bother putting the cap back on since he knew full well, he’d likely finish the contents. He also knew there were two bottles of whisky and another two of brandy at the back of the top shelf. After all, he’d seen the cottage supplied last.
If he were alone, he’d likely drink himself into oblivion. Something he’d done far too much of over these past few years. A habit he’d vowed nearly daily to stop; to cease giving Kristin that kind of power over him. But grief, hatred, bitterness, heartbreak, and despair were much easier to face with a dram or two of strong spirits dulling one’s senses.
So was the knowledge he’d never see his wee darlings again.
Schooling his features into a mask of indifference he was far from feeling as the fury yet fulminating in his veins testified, he regarded Emeline coolly.
She met his gaze straight on, her eyes bright and clear.
Again, he admired her pluck. He was accustomed to men cowing from him when he leveled his frigid glare upon them.
“My wife was English,” he said, the words bitter upon his tongue. “A Sassenach from Kent. The short story is that after trickin’ me into marryin’ her, and nearly four years of livin’ in the Highlands, she decided it wasna the life for her, after all. One day in early January, when I took several of my clansmen to deal with marauders on the northern border, she packed our children into a travelin’ coach, intent on returnin’ to her parents in England.”
He stared at the table, absently noting the many scratches and grooves from the fifteen plus years of him and his friends using the place. He ran his forefinger over a deep indentation, which, if he recalled correctly, was a result of Broden McGregor’s cutting a stag hide.
“I returned three days later, after havin’ chased the bandits from my lands. To my absolute dismay, I learned the coach carryin’ Kristin and our children had overturned on a particularly treacherous stretch of road less than ten miles from Eytone Hall. I have nae idea why she chose that circuitous route in the winter.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Unless to deliberately evade me.”
He’d never forced her to his bed. Never laid a hand upon her in anger. Never demanded she assume the duties of the lady of the house or visit the tenants or villagers. Kristin had been a pampered, self-indulgent termagant.
Dragging his gaze upward, he recognized his own misery reflected in Emeline’s incandescent eyes. A tear leaked from the corner of hers and dribbled down her cheek.
She made no effort to wipe it away. “And…they all died?”
Giving a terse nod, he swallowed against the boulder in his throat. “Aye. The coach rolled several times. All
were lost, includin’ her maid, the coachmen, and the team.”
Lower lip clamped between her neat white teeth, she slanted her head, emphasizing the elegant lines of her neck and shoulders. She was all grace and loveliness, yet she seemed wholly unaware of her subtle appeal.
Emeline’s was a gentle beauty like that of a candle’s soft glow on a sleeping bairn’s face rather than the vibrant hues of a glorious sunset or sunrise upon a loch. One branded the heart, the other, the soul.
“Thank ye for tellin’ me, Liam, and please forgive me for insistin’ ye reveal somethin’ so terribly painful to a woman ye dinna ken.” She knuckled away the moisture from the corner of her eyes. “I ken my words dinna help ease yer pain, but I am verra sorry ye have suffered so. I’d have gone mad with the grief.”
He was still half-mad after five years. When would he heal? Would he ever? Was this to be his existence for the rest of his life, only half-alive?
Moody? Angry? Bitter?
“Thank ye,” he solemnly said. In some small way, it had helped to tell her. But he feared he might’ve uncorked a bottle, and now there’d be no way in hell of stopping the contents from gushing forth.
Her expression at once despondent and compassionate, she pushed her chair back. “I…I should check the bread.”
“And I’ll take care of the hares.” He stood as well. At the door he paused. “Emeline?”
“Aye?” Holding the bowl with the bread dough in one hand, she glanced over her slender shoulder.
Liam reached into his sporran and withdrew an embroidered velvet coin purse. As he did so, she straightened and faced him, wonderment softening her features.
“I collected this yesterday,” he said, crossing to her in three paces. “I placed yer aunt’s earrin’s inside, too.” The woman hadn’t been wearing any other jewelry but the simple pearl earrings. The pretty fallal was another reminder Emeline had lost everything, including any valuables she might’ve been traveling with.
Her expression a mélange of sanguinity and melancholy, she set the dough aside and accepted the small gold purse. After a moment’s hesitation, she opened the clasp. What might’ve been relief flickered over her face.
To Woo a Highland Warrior Page 5