A Yuletide Highlander
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Quote
Copyright
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Other Collette Cameron Books
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
A YULETIDE HIGHLANDER
Highland Heather Romancing a Scot, Book Seven
By
COLLETTE CAMERON
Blue Rose Romance®
Portland, Oregon
Sweet-to-Spicy Timeless Romance®
“Now, tell me who ye are, lass.
And I’ll have the truth this time, Sassenach.”
A YULETIDE HIGHLANDER
Highland Heather Romancing a Scot #7
Copyright © 2020, Collette Cameron®
Cover Design by Darlene Albert
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
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The Honorable Rogues™
A Kiss for a Rogue
A Bride for a Rogue
A Rogue’s Scandalous Wish
To Capture a Rogue’s Heart
The Rogue and the Wallflower
A Rose for a Rogue
Castle Brides Series
The Viscount’s Vow
Highlander’s Hope
The Earl’s Enticement
Heart of a Highlander (prequel to Highlander’s Hope)
The Blue Rose Regency Romances: The Culpepper Misses Series
The Earl and the Spinster
The Marquis and the Vixen
The Lord and the Wallflower
The Buccaneer and the Bluestocking
The Lieutenant and the Lady
Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series
Triumph and Treasure
Virtue and Valor
Heartbreak and Honor
Scandal’s Splendor
Passion and Plunder
Seductive Surrender
A Yuletide Highlander
Seductive Scoundrels Series
A Diamond for a Duke
Earl of Wainthorpe
Only a Duke Would Dare
A December with a Duke
What Would a Duke Do?
Earl of Scarborough
Wooed by a Wicked Duke
Duchess of His Heart
Coming soon in the series!
Never Dance with a Duke
To Lure a Duke’s Lady
Loved by a Devilish Duke
Wedding her Christmas Duke
When a Duke Loves a Lass
How to Win A Duke’s Heart
To Love an Irredeemable Duke
Wicked Earls’ Club
Earl of Wainthorpe
Earl of Scarborough
Heart of a Scot
To Love a Highland Laird
To Redeem a Highland Rogue
To Seduce a Highland Scoundrel
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To Woo a Highland Warrior
To Enchant a Highland Earl
To Defy a Highland Duke
To Marry a Highland Marauder
To Bargain with a Highland Buccaneer
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The Honorable Rogues™ Books 1-3
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To every one of my dear readers who are missing a loved one this Yuletide season.
Sending you hugs, prayers, and comforting thoughts.
A very special thanks to Maryann Dixon Mosby for suggesting Stinkwiggon’s name, and to my entire VIP Group, Collette’s Chéris for selecting A YULETIDE HIGHLANDER’s title. I know I can always count on you for excellent feedback.
Thanks to my awesome assistants DF and CJ for keeping me sane, and never grumbling when I sent them last minute requests so that I could keep writing A YULETIDE HIGHLANDER. This was my first fully dictated book, and I completed it in ten days. That’s not to say there wasn’t a great deal of rewriting when the recorder decided gibberish was better than what I spoke. Still, with a hand healing from surgery, I am extremely grateful for dictation programs.
Finally, because you asked for Gregor McTavish’s story, over and over, I must give credit to you, my loyal readers for not giving up, for your enduring patience, and for your continued encouragement.
East India Docks, London England
December 1826
The oak entry to Stapleton Shipping and Supplies flew open, and a wet young man bolted inside, his chest rising and falling as he gasped for breath. Panic pinched his thin face as he swiftly shut the door behind him. He grasped a small blade wedged into the worn leather belt encircling his navy bridge coat as his frightened gaze careened from corner to corner of Gregor McTavish’s office.
Gregor had seen that same terrified look in the ebony eyes of a fox caught in a snare. Still grasping the quill hovering over his account books, while gripping the dirk he’d yanked from his boot when the youth dashed inside, he relaxed his tense posture.
This scared spitless waif, his back angled toward him while peeking at the pier around the window sash, wasn’t a threat. Scrutinizing the dreary, water-soaked gray docks, Gregor lowered the quill while slipping his blade back into his boot.
Rain pelted a trio of burly, unkempt thugs heatedly arguing several yards away. Wrath contorted their apparent leader’s face, and he flung a stocky arm toward a narrow alley a block farther along the wharf.
Fists balled, the other man took a menacing step forward, but the bully puffed out his chest and yelled something. Whatever he said stalled the other man mid-step. After a slight pause and exchanging infuriated glances, his two companions thundered off.
Where to, and why did every instinct suggest the lad would know? Gregor veered a swift, hooded glance toward the boy before refocusing his regard on the sailor.
Only three buildings opened directly onto this section of docks. Was his uninvited visitor fleeing those thugs?
His hands on his hips, a fierce scowl pulling the corners of his eyes and mouth downward, the remaining sailor rotated slowly to the left and then to the right. He obviously searched for something. Or someone. His acute gaze swept past Stapleton Shipping and Supplies then slowly gravitated back.
Even from his seat, Gregor recognized the shrewdness quirking the sailor’s mouth and gleaming in his narrowed eyes fixated on his office.
His nape prickled.
Danger.
He stood, pushing his unfashionably long hair over his shoulder. In the Highlands, he seldom tied it back, and he oft’ forgot to do so in the morning since moving to London almost a year ago. He rather enjoyed the shocked expressions his blond mane caused the stuffy upper echelons of society.
The boy’s narrow shoulders and back quaked. From cold or fear?
“Can I help ye?”
The lad spun to face him, his frightened gaze ricocheting about the office once more.
Nae, no’ a laddie. A lass. A comely one at that.
“I’m Gregor McTavish.” He introduced himself, careful to keep his tone calm and soothing in the hopes he might alleviate some of her fright. “My cousin’s wife owns these buildin’s and this establishment.”
“Those men attempted to abduct me.” Still breathing hard, she motioned toward the window. “Might I stay here for a few minutes until the last one leaves?”
“Aye, of course.” Brutes, like those outside, had no honorable business with bonnie lasses.
At first glance, because of her height, bulky, dark blue overcoat, and sailor’s cap, Gregor had mistaken her for a boy. She wasn’t as young as he’d first believed either, though she certainly was not on the shelf. About the ages of his Ferguson step-cousins—somewhere in her early to mid-twenties, he’d guess.
Another inspection of the dock sent alarm, sparking up his spine.
The unsavory fellow tramped across the wooden walkway, straight for Stapleton Shipping.
Damnation.
“Quick, lass. Come here. He’s comin’.” Gregor made an urgent gesture. “Hide beneath my desk. Now.”
In a blink, she dashed across the room, and he stepped back to allow her to crawl into the kneehole.
No sooner had Gregor resumed his seat and dipped his quill in the inkwell than the office door sprang open again. With deliberate intent, he took his time and finished the entry. His mind on the terrified woman crouched inches from his knees, he almost swore upon realizing he’d recorded two hundred and fifty barrels of molasses instead of twenty-five.
The sailor blocking the entry roughly cleared his throat and angrily stamped his feet. The wind blasted rain into the entrance, yet the man made no effort to shut the door.
The blighter earned himself a longer wait. Gregor suppressed a grin and dipped the nib into the ink again.
“Give me a moment,” he muttered, taking far longer than a child’s first attempt to form the letters of each word. After scribbling a few more lines—he might’ve ordered more flour than the whole village of Craigcutty could consume in a year—he finished and set the quill aside.
Twisting his mouth into a thin, hard smile, he rested a forearm on the desk and took the blackguard’s measure from greasy brown hair, unshaven face and stained clothing, to his even filthier boots. The man’s rank odor wafted across the room, and despite the open entry, Gregor’s nostrils twitched in protest.
“Come to apply for one of the crew openin’s, have ye?” He nonchalantly cradled his jaw in his palm. “Have ye any experience?”
Upon hearing Gregor’s Scot’s brogue, a sneer curled the man’s upper lip. “No. I’m lookin’ for a fugitive. She stole a large purse from my employer and was last seen runnin’ in this direction.”
“Och,” Gregor murmured with mock understanding.
The sailor’s astute, accusing eyes searched every inch of the office, lingering for a long moment on the half-open door leading to the stairwell and Gregor’s apartment. Suspicion flared the man’s nostrils before he tore his distrustful scrutiny away.
“I can assure ye, nae lawless lassies have entered this buildin’ today.” He leaned back and flung a casual look about the tidy office. “As ye can see for yerself,” he waved a languid hand, “there’s naebody here but Cat and me.”
Upon hearing his name, the long-haired white and orange tabby opened his citrine green eyes and yawned, then arched his back before padding over to Gregor and hopping onto the desk. Purring, and with complete disregard for the ledger he stood upon, he pushed his head beneath Gregor’s hand, demanding he be petted.
Gregor sliced a pointed look to the open doorway, water dripping from the overhang and wetting the floor.
“If ye’ll excuse me.” He tapped the ledger with the fingers of his other hand. “I’ve much work to do. Monthly reports, ye ken. Inventory to take. Supplies to order.”
Lasses to protect.
“Receipts to record.”
Riddin’ my office of stinkin’ horses’ arses.
“Och, my employer is most demandin’,” he rattled on, giving a woeful shake of his head and wholly enjoying the impatience creasing the sea tar’s weather-worn face.
Cat, now sprawled full-length across the register, his eyes half-closed in lazy contentment, made a mockery of Gregor’s claim he’d work to attend.
He’d rescued the starving kitten from the hard life of a wharf cat after he first arrived in London. Loneliness had compelled him, though he’d never admitted as much to a soul. For the first time in his life, there wasn’t the pleasant chaos of a dozen or more people around at any given moment.
The spoiled beast didn’t hesitate to show his gratitude. Although at times, his affection embarrassed Gregor. Cat lazily lifted a paw and patted his hand as if to say, “I require your attention. A belly scratch, if you please.”
“Nae, I’ll no’ be rubbin’ yer belly.” He gathered the cat, frowning at the smudged entries, and placed the ball of sharp-clawed fluff on the floor.
With a dismissive flick of his impossibly long tail, and a few fresh ebony ink stains accenting his silky coat, Cat sauntered to the stairs.
When the man continued to lurk in the doorway, Gregor summoned his most formidable look. The one that usually sent men scuttling away.
“Yer sure I canna talk ye into applyin’ for a position? I have a ship sailin’ to Africa in a fortnight that needs hands.” He scratched the back of his head, raking his gaze up and down the man’s form. “Can ye cook?”
The sailor’s mouth skewed into another wide sneer, revealing missing, broken, and yellowed teeth. He folded dirty fingers, one by one, around the bone knife hilt protruding from his belt and, spreading his legs, ticked his chin upward as brutes of his ilk were wont to do when bent on threatening others.
“You best be tellin’ me the truth, you bloody Scot.” He settled another doubtful look on the stairs.
Bloody Scot?
Was the man a lackwit that he dared come in here and hurl insults? This Sassenach piece of horse shite had just tipped the scales from patience to annoyance.
The sailor wasn’t a puny weakling, but Gregor and his twin had been called giants on more than a few occasions. And for good reason. Standing well over six and a half feet a
nd massively built, even at three and thirty, no man had ever bettered him in a physical challenge—except for his twin.
Only because of the terrified young woman huddled beneath his desk had he kept a tight rein on his temper and tongue. Otherwise, this codpiece would’ve already found himself sprawled on the dock—unconscious and arse up.
“Cap’n Santano doesn’t take kindly to people interferin’ in his business,” the blighter pressed.
Why wasn’t Gregor surprised to learn this sod worked for Santano?
The captain’s nefarious reputation preceded him, and six months ago, Stapleton Shipping and Supplies had refused his request to enter into a commercial relationship. Infuriated and full of his own self-importance, Santano had taken his business elsewhere.
Leisurely rising, and wholly unrepentant, Gregor used his immense size to intimidate the churl. He spoke slowly and deliberately as if addressing a simpleton. “If I tell ye nae thief entered this establishment, then nae thief is here.” He made a show of lifting his clenched fists waist-high. “Do ye ken?”
The shady fellow’s eyes shifted back and forth several times, and he nervously fingered his scraggy tobacco-stained beard with one hand while the other flexed upon his knife handle. He gave a grudging nod, his bluster disappearing in the face of someone capable of pounding his ugly face into pulp.
“Well, if you do see a tall, skinny blonde wearin’ a peacoat, notify the cap’n at once.” He half-turned and examined the pier. “While in port, he’s usually aboard the Mary Elizabeth, at the Seven Seas Alehouse or,” a lewd smile curved his mouth. “Madam Mionnet’s.”
Ah, the infamous brothel. No man valuing his ballocks sampled those whores. Most were fraught with disease.
“The chit usually has a scrawny, crippled whelp with her, about this tall.” Santano’s henchmen raised his hand midriff high. “You’d best take care, or she and that street rat will pick your pockets clean.”