A Lord for the Lass (Tartans and Titans)

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  After she was back to rights, they stayed for a bit to watch the newborn colt find his legs, but then headed down to the river that emptied into the bay, where Makenna dunked her entire arm, capped sleeve and all, into the icy water. She’d make do until she got back to the castle and availed herself of some soap. Turning her face up to the sun, Makenna sat on a large rock and watched the ships in the cove.

  “Are all of those yers?” she asked the man at her side.

  Color was rushing back into his cheeks now that he was out of the barn, and his eyes gleamed strangely. She knew he wouldn’t admit it, but he’d been moved by the birth. No matter the creature, it was always a miracle.

  A miracle she would never know herself.

  Makenna shoved down her sadness and fixed a smile on her face.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “How many ships do ye have?”

  He lowered himself to a squat beside her. “Several dozen.”

  “Do ye ever sail?” she asked wistfully. She’d never been on a ship before, not unless she counted Ronan’s skiff that they used to sail across Loch Rannoch.

  Julien shrugged. “Not as much as I used to. Perhaps one day you’ll come with me.”

  She shook her head and laughed. “I dunnae think I’d be a very good sailor. I’d go green to the gills every time my brothers would force me onto Ronan’s wee boat on the loch at Maclaren. Nae, I think I’ll keep my feet where they belong…on firm ground.”

  They sat in silence for a while staring out at the ships, and Makenna leaned back, letting the sun dry her damp dress. She felt Julien’s eyes on her.

  “Why are ye staring?” she asked without opening her eyes.

  “How do you know I’m staring?” Laughter tinged his voice.

  “I can feel it.”

  “Can you feel this?”

  She held her breath, sensing him leaning closer, until she felt the barest fingertip brushing over her collarbone. She froze, her eyes flying open. “What are ye doing?”

  “Chasing these freckles.”

  As a girl, her mother used to be worried about the golden spots, but being locked indoors for so many years in the Brodie keep, Makenna delighted in every minute she could get in the sun, freckles be damned. Perhaps she should have been more careful if they’d attracted the notice of a rake like Julien Leclerc. She cleared her throat and sat up, moving out of reach of his fingertips.

  “Why have ye no’ married?” she asked abruptly. “I thought that was what ye wanted the last time ye were in Scotland.”

  He didn’t answer for a moment, and then said, “Things have changed.”

  She frowned at the odd feeling in her belly. “So ye dunnae wish to marry now?”

  “Not ever, if it can be helped.”

  “Why the change of heart?”

  “My heart doesn’t factor into it at all,” he said. “It’s purely a logical decision. Marriage, love, and the lot of it, are not for me.”

  It didn’t sound like an exaggeration at all to Makenna’s ears. “What did ye do in Paris for an entire year, then? Aisla wrote that she’d heard rumors ye were with a different lass at every ball.” Makenna clamped her lips shut as she realized what she’d inadvertently let slip—that she’d cared to follow the gossip concerning him. Thankfully, he didn’t react to it.

  Julien waved a hand at the ships. “I’ve focused on diversifying my investments and shoring up my fortune to make sure my mother is well provided for.”

  “Sounds busy.”

  “It was.”

  She eyed him. “And lonely.”

  “Why, Lady Makenna,” he drawled. “Is that an offer I hear to soothe my lonely, starved soul with comforts of the feminine persuasion?”

  “Ye’re deluded.”

  His soft laughter made her smile, but his next question did not, his eyes scanning her dirty, blood-streaked dress. “With your husband dead, shouldn’t you be wearing mourning colors?”

  “Nae, I’ve given him enough of myself to last a lifetime. I’ll wear what I want, damn his rotten soul.”

  “Good for you,” he replied. “He didn’t deserve the mud off your boots.”

  Strangely, the fierce words soothed her.

  They lapsed back into silence. It was strange how comfortable she felt with this man, whether she was talking, or delivering a foal, or sitting without saying a word. As wicked as he was, with his vulgar jokes and commentary, she’d never felt unsafe with him. Not at Maclaren, and not now. And he’d promised she would be safe from the Brodies here. She believed him.

  She peered at him, and felt a resurgence of confidence. He always seemed to have that effect on her—made her discover her own inner fortitude. Makenna wondered what life would have been like had she been married to a man like Julien. There would have been a lot more laughter, and less torment. Less pain. He simply wasn’t that kind of man, the kind who needed to hit or demean a woman to feel powerful.

  Her life hadn’t been easy, but it had made her who she was. Strong. Hardy. Fearless. It didn’t matter how frightened she was of Colin—she had to stay one step ahead of him. If he accused her of murder and demanded her return to Brodie, she would have to go for a trial. Her father and brothers would rush to her defense, and a bloody feud would be a possibility. Makenna did not want that. And she didn’t want Julien becoming involved, either. This was not his trouble. She needed to figure out how to prove her innocence and free herself from Colin once and for all.

  She was a Maclaren. She would not run, even though that had been her first instinct. Now, at Duncraigh Castle, she’d had time to think. To breathe. Instead of fleeing for the Continent, Makenna knew she had to fight and end this. The primary suspect, the one with the most to gain, was Colin. He’d coveted the lairdship for years, as much as he’d coveted her. The thought of his extended gazes and his furtive touches made her stomach clench. Telling Graeme about his cousin’s attentions had been out of the question; he may have even decided it was good sport to let Colin try her.

  Makenna did not want to go back to Brodie, but it might be the only way for her to prove she hadn’t killed her husband. Colin would stop at nothing to silence her, if he was in fact, the guilty one, and Makenna was growing more certain that he was. The image of her rescuer’s smooth-fingered hands with the topaz ring came back to her. Who had she been? Makenna couldn’t help feeling that there was more the woman had been hiding. Perhaps she had answers. But she didn’t want to endanger her, either, not after what she’d done.

  “What’s going on in that brain of yours?”

  Makenna blinked, turning to see a steadfast gaze on her. She’d confessed the truth to Julien, but she did not wish to complicate things any further by discussing her plans or her worries. He was her employer, and she was his steward…for as long as he agreed to keep her on, and as long as she thought it wise to stay. It could be nothing more, no matter the attraction she felt to him. Or how broad his shoulders were to carry her burdens.

  She had to do this on her own.

  “Steward business,” she lied.

  He stared dubiously at her. “Truly?”

  “Aye, it’s why I’m here, isnae it?” Makenna stood and brushed off her skirt. “I’ll see myself back to my duties now. Good day, Lord Leclerc.”

  She started walking, feeling the weight of his eyes on her back and the disappointed swirl in the pit of her stomach at her own sea change in attitude. But to become friendly with Julien—or anything more—would not be wise. Makenna could still feel his fingertip on her collarbone. Chasing freckles. Her skin tingled.

  She’d known dangerous men, but Julien…he was entirely different. The most frightening part of it was that she didn’t want to run away from this danger. Like an idiot, she wanted to run toward it. She’d have to fight that urge before she ran headlong into disaster.

  Chapter Five

  Sweat trickled down Julien’s temple as he swung the unwieldy claymore to meet his opponent’s downward cut. The steel blades collided in a
teeth-grating clang, one he could feel into the bones of his arms. He deflected the strike, and before his opponent—one of the burlier footmen he’d kept on at Duncraigh—could take a breath, Julien advanced, lunging forward in a riposte and slapping the broadside of the claymore against the footman’s shoulder.

  “Another point for me, Brice,” Julie said as he stood down, the tip of his sword striking the dirt of the courtyard. His muscles ached from the weight of the steel blade, but it was a good, invigorating ache, and he was already hungering for the next round.

  “For the last time, milord, there are nae points; this isnae fencing,” Brice said, his own face sweat-streaked as well. From effort, yes, but Julien also suspected from vexation. Most Highlanders learned how to fight with a claymore as soon as they could walk, and Brice was no exception.

  “I know, I know, Brice, but I can’t help it,” Julien said with a wry grin. “I like accumulating points. Lets me know when I have to raise my game.”

  They had been sparring for over an hour, and though Brice had, at first, had the advantage, Julien had quickly rebounded. He had taken up fencing a decade or so ago, and he was not only fleet of foot, but of mind as well. He could swiftly catalogue his opponent’s tells, his style, and thus, be able to anticipate a potential next move. Unlike the street fights of his youth, fencing was not a brute sport, but one of calculated finesse. It suited Julien very well, however seeing as how he was now in Scotland, he figured it would be wise to take up a sturdier sword than a foil and add to his list of accomplishments.

  “In a true battle, the only point that matters is this one,” the footman said, indicating the tip of his blade.

  “Very well, Brice, no more points. It shall be first blood from here on out. If you’re up to the challenge the next time we spar?” Julien said, goading the young man with a raised brow.

  His aim was to hone his skill with a sword, and if he was going to see it done, only the brawniest Scot would do. Brice grinned at the offer, clearly looking forward to the chance at putting the master of Duncraigh through his paces. Julien laughed. Competitive brutes, the lot of them. Then again, so was he, just in a different way.

  “Aye, milord,” the footman replied.

  Julien dismissed him and turned for the castle entrance. It was a warm spring morning, and he’d discarded his shirt not long into the sparring session with Brice. He took up his shirt now but the air inside the castle was cool and he let it dry the sweat from his chest and shoulders as he made his way up the stairwell, toward his rooms. At the landing, he paused to peer down the corridor that led to the study.

  Over the last couple days, Makenna had closeted herself in that room, making herself scarce as she’d pored over the accounts and ledgers accumulated on his desk. The work kept her busy and her mind off things, she’d said, and so, he’d left her to it. Though he’d been tempted to keep her company and try to make her smile, the way she had after helping the distressed horse to foal, he’d given her the space she needed. In the meantime, he’d kept his word and had his men patrol the borders of Duncraigh lands, and focused on his own work on his ships in the bay.

  She had spent two days in that study now, nose-deep in ledgers. Avoiding him. Julien frowned. Despite his promises, he had no intention of being used while she kept him in the dark. She was afraid of something specific, and he’d bet his entire recent cargo that it was a person. Someone in particular. When she thought he wasn’t looking, she wore a look of dread, one she’d often worn with her deceased husband. Julien planned to get the truth out of her eventually, and he would. He couldn’t protect her if she withheld information from him.

  With a determined breath, he cracked open the door to the study. As expected, the object of his thoughts sat behind the dainty desk his mother had ensconced beside the larger mahogany desk cluttered with his own piles of correspondence from his solicitors.

  A pair of blue eyes lifted and widened as they took in his scandalous state of undress, hitching on his chest and then slipping lower. Julien savored the surprise and the hint of female appreciation simmering there before it was chased away. An auburn brow lifted as she put down her quill and studied him with blatant aplomb. “Either something catastrophic has befallen the world or ye must be severely ill.”

  “How so?”

  “Lord Leclerc without one of those flamboyant waistcoats is sign enough of the apocalypse.” She studiously avoided looking anywhere below his neck, keeping her eyes focused on his. Faint color crept into her cheeks, though she kept her voice level. “Are ye going to put on yer shirt?”

  He smirked. “Why?”

  “It’s indecent,” she said. Unable to hold his gaze, her eyes dropped to the open ledger on the desk. “What if yer mother were to walk in? Or any of the servants? They’ll gossip.”

  He laughed and tugged the dampened white lawn over his head, though he couldn’t imagine it was much better. If anyone were to walk in and see them, tongues would undoubtedly wag. “There, I’m decent now. You can quit being scandalized, though after you’ve had your entire arm up a horse’s behind, I’m not sure that my lack of a shirt qualifies as breaking the boundaries of decorum.”

  “One is a miracle of nature.” She gestured toward his mussed person. “The other, despite your own gargantuan sense of self-importance, is…no’.” He put on a playful scowl, and, looking rather pleased with her barb, she continued, “Why are ye no’ dressed anyway?”

  “I was having a bout with Brice in the training yard. Fighting in a waistcoat and stuffy cravat is not conducive to winning.”

  “A bout?” she asked with a disbelieving frown. “Of fisticuffs?”

  “Claymores.”

  She gaped at him. “With Brice? As in Brice Macdonald, the footman the size of a small house?”

  “The very same.”

  He sauntered to the edge of the desk, noting the barest hitch in her breathing. Good. He wanted to keep her off-balance. Make her discomfited enough to let something slip or comfortable enough to confide in him. He would be satisfied with the outcome of either strategy.

  “And ye’re still standing.”

  “Shocked?”

  Those wide-bowed lips curved into a reluctant smile. “A few more rounds with him and ye might be able to take me on.”

  Julien didn’t know why he was surprised, but he was. “You’re proficient with the sword?”

  “Ye forget that I have four brothers and one mule-headed baby sister who needed constant supervision so that she didn’t saw herself in half.”

  He perched a hip on the desk. “The one married to the Duke of Glenross?”

  Julien was well familiar with the Maclaren males, more so the oldest and youngest, though he’d only met Makenna’s little sister once. He’d never met her eldest sister, Annis, who apparently had married a disowned Campbell-turned-ship-captain and they had both run off to the Americas. The youngest Maclaren, Sorcha, had carried several scars on her face that she wore like badges of honor. And they had been, Julien knew, considering she’d survived an attack by a wolf as a child. He would not want to go toe-to-toe with the fierce duchess—she’d carve him up like a fatted goose on Michaelmas.

  “Aye.” Makenna grinned with sudden devilish humor. “Ye can challenge her only after ye’ve beaten me, then Finlay and Evan, and then Niall. She’s even trounced Ronan, though he’ll no’ admit it.”

  Julien had seen Niall fight, and even with the loss of his left hand, and just one sword arm, the man was deadly skilled. He didn’t doubt that Makenna would also be. She was the kind of woman who excelled at anything she put her mind to—from delivering newborn foals to dueling with Scottish steel.

  “Why didn’t you fight him?” he asked quietly.

  Her eyes slammed into his, her breathing faltering. They both knew who he meant—not any of her siblings, but her cheating louse of a spouse. Her throat bobbed and she clutched at the edges of the desk. “He was my husband.”

  “He hurt you.”

  She did
not deny it. “I was his to do with as he wished.”

  “You could have left. Why didn’t you?”

  Angry color stamped her skin now. “And gone where? To my parents? To any of my sisters? It’s all well and good for a man to say such a thing when ye ken very well a woman has nae rights. I was his. Like these stones around us. Or a head of cattle. Do ye no’ understand how marriage rites work, my lord?” Her voice went brittle with rage, directed at him, it seemed, and Julien recoiled from the force of her anger. “I listened to ye once. Stood up to him, and all I received for my efforts were more broken bones, and there was no’ a bloody thing I could do about it. Name any man who wants a useless wife.”

  “Useless?” Julien repeated dully.

  “Barren, my lord.”

  The word was uttered with such self-defeating pain that if the piece of filth weren’t already dead, Julien would trek up to Brodie lands and do the deed himself. No woman deserved to be treated as Makenna had been, because she could not have children. That was no fault of hers. Even as powerless fury raged through him, guilt riddled him. He did recall telling Makenna something in that vein while they’d been at Maclaren—that she shouldn’t allow any man to threaten her thusly. He wanted to kick himself at the inadvertent hurt he’d brought upon her.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  She was silent, the cadence of her breathing harsh, as if she hadn’t expected the outburst, either. But then she let go a long sigh and rubbed her temple. “Ye’ve nothing to be sorry for, and how could ye have kenned the monster he was? Ye’re no’ at all like him,” she said. “In truth, yer words gave me the strength to remember who I was inside, even if they didnae get him to stop. In the end, all I could do to protect myself was to be invisible, and hope that one day, I would be free of him. And now I am.”