Julien’s mouth had gone dry, his chest hot with fury. The bastard had whipped Makenna? He saw red as Malcolm had reeled in a floundering sunfish. He forced his expression to stay blank, not wanting to upset the boy.
“And the new laird, Colin. What do you think about him?”
Julien’s efforts to maintain a casual conversation did not work, however, as soon as he mentioned Colin’s name. Malcolm’s face had whitened, the wriggling fishing line forgotten.
“My mum doesnae like him. She says to stay away from him.”
The boy’s use of the present tense only reminded Julien that her death was still so new. He’d nodded and helped him reel in the fish. “Well, then, I am glad you’re here, Malcolm, and he is not.”
If Julien had his way, that scourge on humanity would be gone forever.
Drenched to the bone, and unacceptably uneasy, Julien stalked inside the castle. He would bathe, dress, and force his mind onto a track that did not include his steward, the torture she had endured at the hands of her dead husband, or the fact that her ex-clan would like nothing more than to find her and punish her for the death of their laird. Or perhaps they wouldn’t. Perhaps in time this new laird would give up his obsession for Makenna, and simply…carry on.
Julien refused to acknowledge how unrealistic that notion was as he shook off the rain inside the foyer.
“Milord,” a footman said as he strode up the first wide stone steps of the stairwell. “A message for ye.”
The heavy cream stock of the stationary as it slid into Julien’s hand surprised him. He knew the seal crest, stamped in ebony wax, from Captain Maxim Dubois, the Earl of Cranston. He’d known the earl had recently purchased a manor nearby in Scotland, but as he opened the letter and read it on his way to his rooms, Julien was surprised to learn he was currently in residence there and not London. He shouldn’t be surprised. Lady Haverille was here, after all. Julien shook his head. He did not presume to understand what motivated men’s or women’s hearts. Nor did he want to.
Maxim was a widower, and though Lady Haverille was close to ten years his senior, neither of them seemed to notice their difference in age whenever they were in the same room. Neither were they inclined to make it more than a friendly acquaintance. Then again, the earl, a man in his late forties, was not a typical British lord. Born on French soil before coming into an English earldom as a remote next of kin, he’d served in the navy, seen battle, and had the gruff, devil-may-care attitude that every man who’d been medaled for gallantry and courage and whatnot, deserved to possess.
And it appeared he was having a house party at his Scottish manor in two days’ time, and wanted Julien and his mother to attend. Despite their frequent lucrative business dealings, Julien had always held him at arm’s length. Perhaps because they’d tangled on the streets of Paris as much as they’d helped each other before the earl had unexpectedly come into his title, and the man had a ruthless streak that rivaled Julien’s. Or perhaps it was because of the nature of his relationship with Lady Haverille.
Julien had declined many a social invitation from the earl in various countries over the years—he preferred to keep it strictly to business—but then again, they’d never been Scottish neighbors. And Julien had never felt so confined or so agitated that such an invitation would feel like the promise of an oasis in a desert. Fighting Brice into the ground could only do so much to dull the edge of his considerable frustrations. A hand of faro and a glass of French cognac would be a welcome change.
As he soaked in the hot water of a hip bath, he considered attending. Max always had interesting friends with deep pockets. It would be a crime to waste such a good opportunity to forge some contacts that might, in the future, be interested in Duncraigh’s stables. Julien planned an increase to the quality of his horse stock. Lords and their horseflesh, and the absurd fortunes spent on their equine obsessions, would only go toward increasing the profitability of the estate.
Wealth. Position. Power.
These were the things he was used to thinking about, not women. And certainly not one woman in particular. With a spike of irritation, Julien decided that Makenna should accompany him as well. She needed something to take her mind off the events of the last week, and get that haunted look off her face. Colin Brodie might be on her trail, but Julien would be damned if he allowed the man to suck the life right out of her.
But first, she would need a dress. Summoning his longtime valet, Giles, he gave specific instructions to be communicated to his mother. Two days was not a long time to commission a gown, but bottomless pockets had a way of guaranteeing the impossible. So did a master-of-waistcoats valet and a connoisseur-of-fashion mother. Together, Giles and Lady Haverille would be a force to be reckoned with.
…
The silence in the carriage on the way to the Earl of Cranston’s residence was near solid.
As Julien had expected, Makenna had balked at his insistence on her attendance at the earl’s house party. Not even the delivery of the gorgeous new gown earlier that afternoon had been enough to sway her. He’d resorted to begging for his mother’s intervention just to get her to capitulate, and had been punished for it ever since in angry silence and frigid glares that threatened violent harm to his person. Oddly, her threats had only made his desire for her heighten.
“Might I remind ye that someone is trying to kill me,” she’d hissed, glaring daggers at him from across the sitting room, while Lady Haverille busied herself holding the dress aloft and inspecting the excellent threadwork.
“You don’t know that.”
“There was a snake in my bed. And my clan thinks I murdered my husband.”
He’d smirked, knowing it would irritate her to no end. “Neither of those are reasons for not going to a party. Trust me, Makenna, it will be an entertaining diversion.”
“Who is this earl anyway?” she’d muttered.
“A friend,” he said. “And a business acquaintance. He can be trusted with your safety and you don’t have to worry that he is in league with the Brodies. In fact, should you find yourself in need of help, he is a useful person to know.”
His mother had nodded. “Maxim is a dear friend, ma chère, and an evening out will do you a world of good. You will enjoy yourself.”
“I work here. I am no’ a guest.”
“Regardless, you are a lady,” Lady Haverille had gently said, folding the dress back into its box. “The daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Dunrannoch. This is an invitation from a British peer, and a request from my son. Surely, he deserves a thank you for all he has done.”
It was the moment Makenna had given in, albeit bitterly, and Julien had wanted to applaud his mother’s subtle and effective coercion. He suspected he’d inherited that vein of ruthlessness from her—the kind a person never saw coming. To his mother, Makenna had acquiesced with grace, but she hadn’t shied away from laying a hearty dose of blame at his door. He’d take it and more. If only to see her wearing that dress.
Giles and his mother had outdone themselves.
God above, she was stunning.
He’d seen her in formal wear at Maclaren on more than one occasion, but this gown took his breath away. The rich amethyst color made her creamy skin look luminous and brought out the violet hints in her eyes. It set off her glossy red hair that was curled to perfection and falling over the single bared shoulder of the Grecian inspired design. It made him think of Persephone, the goddess of spring, and all he wanted to do was spirit her away like the lustful, possessive god of the underworld.
In the carriage, Julien adjusted himself in the seat opposite, his blood simmering to dangerous levels.
“Why are ye staring?” she snapped.
“You are beautiful.” Those gleaming blue eyes flared, at odds with her flattened lips. He let his own mouth curl at the corners into an appreciative smile. “You take my breath away, Lady Makenna.”
“Compliments will no’ get ye anywhere.” She scowled. “I cannae believe yer mo
ther took ill at the last minute. Poor digestion? She could have at least come up with a believable excuse.” But there was no heat in her voice, only resignation. “I should be working, no’ doing…this. And going to a soiree without a proper chaperone.”
He’d been surprised as well that his mother had decided not to attend. Julien had thought she would have wanted to see the earl. But then again, she had never favored large crowds, and their relationship was still somewhat of a mystery. Not only that, but she was only recently feeling well again. A part of him wondered if she wanted to give herself more time for her health to improve. Julien had better things to do than dwell upon his mother’s love life.
“You’re a widow,” he said to Makenna. “And besides, Tildy is with the coachman.”
“This still feels wrong.”
“Will you at least try to enjoy yourself?” he asked. “When is the last time you had an evening out?”
“One under duress,” she muttered and released a breath, her eyes flicking to his. “And the last time was the wedding.”
His jaw slackened. “Niall and Aisla’s wedding? A year ago?”
“Aye. I was forbidden to leave the Brodie keep.”
He clenched his fingers, recalling what young Malcolm had shared. Of her imprisonment and her punishments. “Then it is long overdue.”
Julien could not trust himself to say more, and they lapsed into a strained sort of silence. He spared her a glance. Makenna did not fidget, her gloved arms resting placidly in her lap. Every inch the lady, she looked regal and elegant. And altogether too guarded. Once more, Julien had the sensation of being on shaky seas. She was uncharted waters, full of treacherous rocks and dangerous currents. He could not read her—an ability he supposed she had perfected over the years of hiding her true feelings from everyone. Protecting herself.
Julien was rarely unselfish, but he found himself wanting to please her. Wanting to make sure that she had the time of her life. Where she did not have to pretend. Or be afraid of anyone.
It was with that objective in mind that he descended at the Earl of Cranston’s magnificently lit home. By the number of carriages in the drive, it was not a small soiree, but then again, the earl never did anything in half-measures. Julien extended his arm to his lovely, tight-lipped companion, her dour, disapproving maid trailing behind them as they entered the domicile. They were announced by a butler, who was summarily shoved aside by the earl.
“My friend, it’s been too long!” Maxim shouted, gathering him in a bear hug. Julien returned the effusive embrace, noting that the older man was already considerably into his cups. Black-haired with a touch of silver at the temples, dark-eyed, and swarthy, the Earl of Cranston had no mind for propriety, or stuck-up toff graces, as he called them. And he could hold copious amounts of liquor. “And who is this lovely lass?”
“May I present Lady Makenna Maclaren,” Julien said with a sideways smile to the silent woman at his side. “My lady, allow me to introduce our illustrious host for this evening, Lord Cranston.”
“A pleasure, my lord,” she said with a flawless curtsy.
“Call me Max,” he said, kissing her knuckles. “No formality here.” He peered at her. “Maclaren, eh? Duke of Dunrannoch’s daughter? Ran into yer brother, Ronan, a few times. He can be a right arse.”
She gave a startled laugh, the sound rich and throaty. “Aye, he can be.”
Julien did not miss the fascinated look that Maxim sent her way. A hot, unfamiliar feeling roiled in his chest. Was it jealousy? Surely not. The man was old enough to be her father, and he was involved with Julien’s mother. But the unfamiliar emotion was accompanied by an instinctive urge to mark his territory like a challenged wolf.
“I like this one,” Maxim said with a wink and grin. He extended his arm to her, and she sent Julien a tiny look before accepting his escort.
Dismissing her maid with a nod, Julien followed them into a crowded ballroom, although a ball wasn’t in progress. In typical Maxim fashion, the giant hall had been turned into what appeared to be a room full of gaming tables with refreshments on one side, and an area left clear for dancing adjacent to a quintet of musicians. It looked like a replicated Parisian gaming hell. Julien smiled at the delighted look on Makenna’s face.
Introductions were made and entertainments resumed. Julien recognized quite a few people he knew, but instead of doing what he’d come there to do, he sat with a glass of cognac in hand and watched Makenna charm everyone in the room. He nearly laughed as Lord Bolson, a viscount, attempted to teach her vingt-et-un. Julien did not have any doubt that she could count the number of cards being dealt backward, given her propensity for numbers. As expected, she loosened up quickly, her natural charisma and effervescence bubbling to the surface. And also as expected, by the end of a few hours, she’d accumulated a tall stack of money in front of her.
“Wherever did she come from?” a voice from behind said. “She’s a treasure. Are you going to keep her?”
Julien shot the earl a look as Maxim took up a chair beside him. “How long have you known me, Max? I’ve no time for keeping women. She’s a friend, nothing more.”
“That’s not what Eleanor says.”
Julien’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me, what did dear Maman have to say? And when were you at Duncraigh to see her, you bloody degenerate?”
“I am an earl,” he said, puffing out his considerable chest. “A gentleman. And I have my ways. Eleanor merely mentioned that she’d never seen you this…conflicted over a woman.”
“More like inconvenienced.”
“Then you shouldn’t have any concern if I introduced her to a few eligible gentlemen,” Maxim said with a sly smile. “Men graced with lofty titles. Unlike some others who refuse their birthright.”
Julien clenched his jaw. “I’m not in the mood, Max.”
As if that was going to stop the lout from saying what he aimed to say.
“You know how much it would mean to your mother if you would at least consent to see him,” Max said. He was speaking of Julien’s grandfather, the marquess.
“And give either of them false hope that I’ll take the sodding title? You know I’ll never do that.”
Max, of all people, should have understood. He’d seen the hardships the Marquess of Riverley’s cruelty had wrought on Julien and his mother. He’d been there when they had struggled, and had lent a hand whenever he could manage it. How could Max imagine that Julien would go crawling to his grandfather now that the old man beckoned him?
“I know you’re hardheaded and proud. But consider it, my friend. For your mother, if no one else.” He nudged Julien. “A title has its benefits, after all. The women come flocking.”
“I’ve never known them not to, title or no.”
Max’s attention strayed back toward Makenna. “So she is yours, then?”
Her low laughter made them look over in tandem. Julien did not know how to answer. She wasn’t his. Other than a tumble in bed, he’d never wanted to keep a woman. But this one, she confused him. He had the indescribable urge to see her happy. To make her smile. To make up for everything she’d lived through so far. The sound of her husky laughter was just as rewarding as the thought of getting her into bed. Julien’s eyes met hers across the tables, and he felt a pulse of lust in his cock. Almost as rewarding, he amended.
“It’s complicated,” he replied eventually.
“Don’t wait too long, my friend,” Maxim said with a knowing laugh. “A woman like that is rare.”
Julien scowled, reminded of the fact that he didn’t much like the man. “You’ve barely made her acquaintance.”
He heard his hypocrisy straight away—hadn’t Julien sensed Makenna’s singular charisma upon their first meeting? Wasn’t it why thoughts of her had lingered in his mind all year?
Maxim grinned indulgently and patted Julien’s back. “Tell Eleanor I’ll see her soon. Enjoy the party. Ask your lady to save me a dance.”
“She’s not my lady. And I’m
not your bloody go-between for either of them.”
But Maxim had already moved on. Julien studied Makenna from afar, his irritation receding. She was rare. She was beautiful, clever, generous, witty, and stubborn to a fault. She’d give the skin off her back to protect others. Even in the face of debilitating fear, she possessed courage in spades. And a mind that was razor sharp. She was remarkable in a multitude of ways. A thousand dazzling ways that he’d never expected.
Julien caught himself mid-veneration and froze. Hell, he sounded like a besotted Byronite. Dieu. She was turning him into a bloody milksop. Women were distractions. Not for waxing poetic about their rare qualities and tenderhearted sensibilities. He did not form attachments. Blast Maxim for putting that maggot in his brain!
Julien had to end this insanity before it was too late.
Chapter Nine
Makenna was grateful that the ride back to Duncraigh was much the same as the outbound journey earlier: quiet. The angry tension between the occupants of the carriage had shifted into something less so. Mostly because Lord Leclerc seemed to be asleep. As was Tildy, whose head rested on the velvet squabs beside her. She had shown some displeasure at the sight of gaming tables and mixed company, muttering about indecency, and had only relaxed when Makenna had assured her she would be perfectly safe. Tildy had reluctantly retired to the kitchens with the rest of the earl’s staff.
Makenna was still pleasantly abuzz from the evening’s festivities and enough champagne to set her blood on fire. Lady Haverille had been right. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed socializing with her peers. And not fleeing for her life or hiding away like some tortoise in its shell. She had enjoyed herself thoroughly. Lord Cranston’s peers had run the gamut from blue bloods to dock workers. The earl had surprised her as well. His rough edges had lent him a roguish charm that reminded her of her own brothers, and despite his rank, he had not treated any of his non-noble guests as less than. She’d been interested to learn that he and Lady Haverille shared a tendre for each other, which had only been imparted in a drunken confession during a reel.
A Lord for the Lass (Tartans and Titans) Page 11