A Lord for the Lass (Tartans and Titans)

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  Julien.

  In spite of her firm decision to leave, for a moment, Makenna let herself wonder. What would it have been like if she’d met him before Graeme? Would she have chosen Julien instead? Would she have been happy?

  In such a short time, she’d known more joy than she ever had, and not just because of the pleasure she’d experienced at his touch. Though that was wonderful, too. Julien had made her feel like a desirable woman and given her back her lost confidence. But he’d also made her laugh and rediscover wonder in unexpected places. Made her feel like she was worth something. He valued her thoughts and opinions. And she’d never felt threatened around him. He’d sheltered her, protected her when she’d had no one else and nowhere to go.

  In truth, she’d come to care for him. Deeply. After living in such dreadful conditions at Brodie, she’d never felt so light in spirit before. And she knew it was because of Julien. But staying here was selfish, she knew that, and hoping for a fantasy would only lead to heartbreak. Wrenching her eyes away, she turned her horse back to the keep.

  A man riding down from the castle toward the bay swerved in her direction and made her go tense, but as he rode closer, she relaxed. It was Julien’s solicitor. She fought back a blush, considering the last time she’d seen the man, he’d probably gotten an eyeful of her ensconced on Lord Leclerc’s lap in a very compromising position.

  “Mr. Jobson, leaving again so soon?”

  The small man bowed in his saddle, reining his mount to a stop beside hers. “Yes, my lady. I’m returning to Paris after a brief stop in Newcastle.”

  She did not bother to correct the formal way he addressed her. The man was stubborn to a fault. She supposed he had to be to work with someone like Julien. “Newcastle?”

  “Her ladyship wanted to deliver a message to her father, the Marquess of Riverley.”

  Julien’s grandfather. The man who had disowned his own daughter and abandoned his family. Makenna couldn’t imagine her parents doing anything of the sort. Maclarens were a loyal bunch, which was why she’d never said anything about the abuse she’d suffered at Graeme’s hands. They would have strung him up by his toes, declared war, and beaten the Brodies into the ground, though perhaps losing good men in the process. They would not have abandoned her in her hour of need. She could go to them now, she supposed, but her pride still kept her from it. But she would return to Maclaren when everything was well in hand.

  She belatedly recalled that the marquess was ill. “How does Lord Riverley fare?”

  “He is dying.” The solicitor hesitated, torn between unerring loyalty to his employer and his own feelings on the matter. “Her ladyship has said he wishes to make amends.”

  “And Lord Leclerc is resistant.”

  The man smiled. “You know his lordship well.”

  “He’s as inflexible as an ox.”

  Jobson hedged. “It would make Lady Haverille happy if they were reconciled. I have been attempting to speak to him of it for months, but he adamantly refuses. I fear if I bring it up again, I will lose my position.”

  Makenna frowned, wondering why the normally recalcitrant man was confiding in her, and then blinked in understanding. “Ye want me to speak with him.”

  “He listens to you.”

  “Nae. He doesnae. Julien…Lord Leclerc hates his grandfather. Nothing I say will convince him. Ye overestimate my influence.”

  The man shook his head vigorously. “In all my years working with Lord Leclerc, I have never seen him interact with anyone, man or woman, the way he does with you. He cares what you think, my lady, even if you do not see it.”

  Makenna laughed out loud. “If ye ken him that well, ye will ken that he cares for one thing. Money.”

  Jobson shot her a shrewd look. “If he cares so much about money, then why is it that while his businesses are falling behind and his partnerships are being held together by threads, he will not return to France? He insists on staying here, letting other men run his companies and manage his assets.”

  “He came here for his mother’s health.”

  “That might have been at first, but he stays because of you.” Jobson paused with a short bow. “I have to go, but please think on it, Lady Makenna. If we don’t have family in this life, we have nothing, and for his lordship, it will soon be too late for second chances.” He stared hard at her. “We cannot run from who we are.”

  With that, he wheeled his horse around and galloped toward the docks, leaving a dumbfounded Makenna behind him. Had that last part been directed at her? Had he known that she’d decided to leave and run to the Continent? No. She was reading too far into his words, letting her own insecurities undermine her intent.

  She left the bluffs, watching the harbor below where the solicitor and Julien were speaking. Julien’s face was stern, and she imagined Mr. Jobson had just imparted that he would be traveling to Newcastle. Her stomach soured in anticipation of having to compound his displeasure with her own announcement. Julien would not want her to go. He would try to convince her to stay and fight and trust him to protect her. Then again, if he knew his mother’s safety was in imminent jeopardy, he might agree to her departure. Irrationally, that notion also left her feeling dejected.

  That night, nearing the end of dinner, Makenna still could not bring herself to announce her decision. It should be done privately, between her and Julien. Or maybe she was only procrastinating, yet again. Frustrated, she ignored it and broached another topic, one Mr. Jobson had asked her to consider earlier that morning. “Mr. Jobson said he’s going to Newcastle,” she said. The statement hung over the table as she sipped her wine, Lady Haverille dabbed a napkin at her lips, and Julien speared a strawberry. A few more delicate seconds passed, and Makenna continued bravely. “I’m sorry to hear Lord Riverley is still unwell.”

  “I’ve sent him a letter,” Lady Haverille said, her chin jutting out a bit, as if challenging anyone to question why or admonish her for it.

  “You’ve wasted your time,” Julien said.

  “Thankfully, it is my time to waste,” she replied.

  Julien only speared another berry, his eyes like pieces of green flint. The muscles along his jaw were tense as he chewed. The silent tension between mother and son spoke volumes. It wasn’t Makenna’s place to say anything, but something inside her insisted on pressing the matter.

  He listens to you, Mr. Jobson had said.

  She took a breath. “I dunnae see how making amends with family can ever be a waste of time. No’ truly.”

  Lady Haverille started to smile, but Julien’s retort wiped it clean. “This coming from someone who has cut off her own family for weeks on end? Who chooses to hide here instead of facing them? That’s rich.”

  “Julien,” his mother instantly chided.

  His skin darkened, perhaps knowing he’d been too quick to respond. But before he could make any sort of half-hearted apology, Makenna rose from her seat, guilt flooding to choke her. His words were harsh but accurate. Mr. Jobson had been wrong. Julien wouldn’t listen to her. He was too resistant to budge from his fixed position.

  “I will leave yer family matters to ye,” she said, averting her eyes as Julien stood from his chair.

  Even as she left the dining room, she was relieved that she had not mentioned her own impending departure. She scowled at herself as she marched to her room. Coward. It had to be done, but perhaps when he’d calmed a bit.

  In her bedchamber, Tildy was laying out her night rail and preparing a bath. She took one look at Makenna’s face and stopped what she was doing.

  “Milady, what is it? Has someone come?”

  She hadn’t realized she appeared so distressed. Her maid knew her well, it seemed. “Nae, no’ yet. But we must go, Tildy. Our stay here…” Makenna swallowed the lump in her throat and pushed through. “It’s over.”

  It felt like she’d been turned inside out with those words. There had been moments, however brief, where she’d imagined what it might be like to stay on at Dun
craigh. She’d enjoyed her work as well as what it felt like to be useful and appreciated. Needed. Wanted. But those dreams had been a waste of her time. And letting them go hurt.

  Tildy’s concern for Makenna washed away, replaced by distress. Her usually flushed cheeks went pale. “Where will we go, milady?”

  “London. Or the Continent. I think either of those would be a good place to begin. France, perhaps?”

  Though France would remind her of Julien. Italy might suit them better. Makenna’s head felt stuffed with prospects and yet she could not decide on a single one. They all seemed so far away, and none of them shone as brightly as Duncraigh Castle.

  Tildy looked down, her palms brushing the satin of the night rail lain over the bed. “I’ve never been anywhere but Scotland, milady.”

  Makenna sighed in understanding. The notion of leaving the only country she’d ever known had to be frightening for her. “If ye dunnae wish to come, Tildy, I’m sure I could send ye to Maclaren. Ye’ll be safe there. Colin doesnae want ye, after all.”

  Her maid’s hand stopped smoothing the night rail. Her fingernails dug into the midnight-blue satin, crushing it into her fist, before relaxing again. She turned to Makenna, her expression more determined and serene than before. “I go where ye go, milady.”

  Makenna exhaled, relieved. She knew Tildy would have been safe at Maclaren, but she still selfishly wanted her maid at her side.

  “Are ye ready to get abed?” Tildy asked.

  “No’ just yet. I want to check in on Malcolm.”

  Makenna reached the boy’s bedchamber and heard his loud protests as two maids fought to get him scrubbed in the bath. She smiled. Each day his excuses for not bathing got more and more creative. She hadn’t been a mother for very long, but she was learning that little boys would do anything not to be scrubbed from head to toe. Makenna nearly faltered over her own feet at the realization of how she’d referred to herself. A mother. She wrapped her arms about her middle, her heart extraordinarily full. She was Malcolm’s mother now, no matter who his father was, and he would always have her to protect him.

  “But I’m no’ dirty,” Malcolm was wailing as she entered the bathing chamber. “’Tis only a wee bit o’ mud, ye ken. If ye wash it, the pirates willnae ken me and then how will the castle be protected?”

  “The pirates?” Makenna asked with a smile, grinning at the boy’s imagination.

  “Aye,” he said, fighting off the hands washing his hair. “If they dunnae ken my smell, they will leave, and then we willnae be safe.”

  She fought a giggle at his earnest expression. “They protect ye by smell?”

  “Lord Max told me that that’s how ye ken who are the true pirates. The smelly ones.” He tapped his chest proudly. “He said that I’m a wee pirate.”

  Lord Maxim had paid Julien and Lady Haverille a visit shortly before Makenna had nearly broken her neck on the ride with the tampered saddle. He had spent the majority of his visit with Julien’s mother, of course, and it wasn’t any surprise that the rough and tumble earl had taken to Malcolm as well. Makenna made a mental note to have a word with Maxim about boys and regular bathing. “Well, the earl, Lord Cranston, is a peer, and while he’s on his ship he may no’ have baths, but he still has to be clean. Nae one likes a dirty pirate.”

  “He says ladies love dirty pirates.”

  She bit her lip as one of the maids washing Malcolm’s hair went flaming red and made a choking noise. Now Makenna would really have to have a word with the man. But he’d given her the opening she had needed.

  As the drenched maids took their leave to get dry, she wrapped the boy in a fluffy length of toweling. “How would ye like to go on a grand pirate adventure?”

  Malcolm’s pale blue eyes widened. “Truly?”

  “Aye,” she said. “On a big ship.”

  “Will Lord Max and Lord Julien be coming, too?”

  The mention of Julien’s name seemed to carve a fathomless hollow inside her chest, but she disregarded it and managed to keep her voice steady.

  “Nae, it will just be ye, me, and Tildy.” Malcolm’s face fell and Makenna hastened to reassure him. “They will visit us later, I promise. Perhaps ye can be the pirate captain on this voyage, since they willnae be with us.”

  He perked up at the thought, but then his lips pursed. “But I want Lord Julien to come.”

  “His lordship is a busy man, Malcolm, and we have been a burden on him long enough. We will go on an adventure, sail the seas, and discover the world. I cannae do it without ye, ye ken. I need ye to teach me and Tildy how to be pirates.”

  “The first rule of being a pirate is nae baths,” he said firmly.

  She laughed and kissed his head, pulling his nightshirt over his small shoulders and tucking him into bed. “We shall see. Sleep well, sweet boy.”

  Makenna rose and nearly stumbled at the sight of the tall figure leaning against the doorjamb opposite Malcolm’s chamber. Her heart hammered against her rib cage at the look on his face, wondering how much he’d overheard. A bit, she guessed, from the thin line of his mouth and his inscrutable gaze. She pulled the boy’s door shut behind her, her throat dry.

  “I meant to tell ye at dinner.”

  His brows crept upward. “That you were leaving?”

  “Can we talk somewhere a bit less…?” she trailed off, gesturing at the hallway. “Public?”

  Julien gestured to the sitting area behind him. This was his bedchamber, she knew. Makenna hesitated at entering a bachelor’s room, but if they left the door open, it shouldn’t be cause for alarm. The sitting room was sparsely furnished in dark woods and plain fabrics, unlike his colorful taste in fashion. She’d half expected his space to be as foppish as his gaudy waistcoats, but the room was unexpectedly spartan in design. Even the bedchamber, just visible beyond, seemed to favor a similar decor. Much like the man himself beyond all the chaos of the jokes, smirks, and flashy clothing, he was the eye in the middle of the storm, calm and indomitable.

  A comfortable sofa and armchair stood before a large hearth, and Makenna took a seat on the edge of the sofa nearest the door.

  Julien handed her a glass of brandy. “So you’re planning to stowaway on one of my ships?”

  “I meant to tell ye earlier,” she blurted. “And no’ stowaway. I plan to pay for our passage.”

  He swirled the contents of his glass, still standing and still unfathomable. “Is this what you want, Makenna?”

  “Yes. Colin willnae stop looking for me. His man, Gregor…the one at the tavern…he mentioned he might pay Duncraigh a visit.” She dragged in a strangled breath, her fingers flexing spasmodically on the glass. “If he does come, and he finds out ye’ve been hiding me, I willnae be able to forgive myself if something happened to Lady Haverille.” Or to you. She left those last three words unsaid.

  “Where do you want to go?” he asked.

  “Anywhere. France, maybe. Anywhere I can make a life for Malcolm, out of the reach of Colin or any of the Brodies. It’s what Arabel would have wanted.”

  “Is that what Arabel wanted or is it what you want?” he asked, and she froze, her heart thudding. She placed the glass down on the table and went to stand in front of the fire, staring at the flickering flames, plagued by sudden indecision. Was she doing the right thing by taking Malcolm away from his family? He was the heir of a laird—he had a future with Clan Brodie, and if she denied him of that, wouldn’t that make her just as bad as Julien’s grandfather?

  “I just want him to be safe,” she mumbled.

  “Why are you running, Makenna? A woman as brave and as courageous as you are doesn’t run.”

  She didn’t look up at him. “Ye told me I was brave once, and I believed ye. But I’m no’ brave enough for this. If something were to happen to ye when they found me… I cannae”—she gulped, the words she’d stifled before clamoring to escape—“lose ye.”

  “You won’t lose me,” he said, walking around to where she stood. “I’ll protect yo
u. I’ll stand up with you to declare your innocence, and help you get your life back. Fight, Makenna. Fight for yourself for once. Fight for what’s yours, what you deserve.”

  “How? Dunnae ye see? And even if ye did help me, we cannae win. Ye’re a rich man and ye’re of noble blood, but ye need the backing of the king or a duke or some such to even get past his men without being killed. Ye’re a powerful man, but no’ powerful enough. No’ here in the Highlands.” Her laugh was hopeless, defeated. “And how do ye ken I didnae lie to ye? How do ye ken I didnae kill Graeme?”

  “Because I do.”

  “How?”

  His fingers brushed her chin and then rose to cup her cheek. She wanted to lean into his touch, lose herself in it. “Because no one with your heart and your courage could ever murder someone.”

  She shook her head in wonder. “Sometimes I think ye see a mirage, Julien. I’m no’ that woman. I’ve dreamed of doing away with Graeme for years.”

  “But you didn’t. I see you, the real you, Makenna. I always have.”

  His eyes bored into hers, his lips lowering to graze her cheek and then buss over her lips. It was inconceivable that such chaste kisses could make her body feel so warm. Makenna stepped away from him, the rush of air on her skin as his palm dropped away like a sudden measure of clarity.

  She paused at the door, eyes glancing to the man who hadn’t moved from his position in front of the fireplace. His pale green gaze met hers, a muscle flexing in that lean jaw of his. He wasn’t a man who showed his cards often, but he didn’t hide anything from her. Not the naked vulnerability on his face or the raw longing that she knew mirrored hers.

  Carefully, quietly, she closed and bolted the door before turning to him.

  Julien’s eyes glittered as her fingers went to the pins in her hair. She loosened them one by one, letting the locks fall free. By the time her fingers reached the edges of her dress, her knees were shaking, but she’d never been surer of anything.