Chris gobbled the simple fare Gregor prepared. A piece of bread in one hand and a chicken leg in the other, his mouth bulging, he chomped away.
“Slow down. You’re going to choke,” Sarah fondly admonished.
Chris turned a boyish grin on her and, dropping the chicken, accepted the cup of water she offered.
“Lass, I need to speak with ye.” In private, Gregor mouthed.
She squinted slightly at him, but his striking face and keen gaze gave nothing away. Fine lines creased the corners of his eyes, suggesting he was a man given often to mirth. “All right, Mr. McTavish.” Patting Chris’s shoulder, she gently reprimanded, “Slow down, darling. There’s plenty of food.”
For a change.
Taking a bite of cheese, Chris nodded and continued to inhale the fare.
As she followed Gregor into the sitting room, she shivered and brushed her hands up and down her arms before taking a seat in one of the oversized chairs. At once, the cat began rubbing himself against her legs.
Gregor knelt before the hearth, and after adding coal to the grate and lighting it, replaced the fender. She hadn’t even had a fireplace or a stove in the one-room hovel they’d called home. Many a night, she’d wrapped Chris in her arms, holding him tight to still his quaking. And hers, too.
That first winter had been the godawful worst. Accustomed to much warmer temperatures, even with hats, gloves, coats, and wrapped in two blankets, her very bones had ached with cold.
Cat continued to make little chirping noises and nudged her ankles.
“Come here.” She gathered the tubby feline into her arms, burying her face in his fur.
Cat closed his eyes, and contented rumbles echoed from his fluffy chest.
“I’ve never had a pet, except for Biscuit, my yellow-billed parrot. I always wanted a dog, though. Once, when I was a little girl, I saw a long, skinny dog with short legs at Port Royal. He was black with reddish-brown markings and looked like a long sausage with fat feet. He was the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. If I ever have a dog, I want one like that,” she declared with a firm nod.
Not much chance of that ever happening.
Not when she could scarcely feed herself and Chris.
Cutting Gregor a side-eyed peek through her lashes, mischievousness swept her. “And I shall name it Sausage.”
The latter, she declared to make the Highlander laugh and see if she’d been right about the lines framing his eyes.
He sliced her a disbelieving look and chuckled, the sound a mellow rustle deep in his chest, as he settled into the other chair.
She hid a grin in Cat’s back. Very nice indeed. She quite liked his laugh.
Some men’s were harsh and grating, but his reverberated in his chest, a welcoming, warm invitation to join in his humor. Sarah also liked his melodious brogue. It, too, invited one to listen to his lilting speech. To snuggle into his chest, place her ear upon the vast expanse, and melt into the sound.
“Biscuit? Ye named a bird Biscuit?” He slapped his knee and chortled again. “And ye want to name a dog Sausage?”
The bird’s name wasn’t that funny.
She raised an eyebrow. Her most reproachful one. “Must I remind you that you have a fat feline named Cat, Highlander? And you dare laugh because, as a little girl, I couldn’t pronounce hibiscus?” Another wave of melancholy bathed her. “I had to leave her behind. I don’t know what happened to her.”
He’d removed his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Resting his forearms on his knees, sympathy softened his face. “I am sorry, lass. Ye’ve no’ had an easy time of it, but we need to decide what to do next. I dinna think Santano will easily give up lookin’ for ye.”
The coals glowed reddish-orange, their flames radiating delicious heat. The high sides of the chair captured the warmth, and for the first time in a long while, Sarah enjoyed a toasty fire as well as a small sense of contentment.
Keeping her expression carefully neutral, she threaded her fingers in Cat’s fur. He arched his back, a contented kitty smile upon his broad face.
“I know we do, Mr. McTavish, and I don’t wish to impose upon you further—”
He lifted a wide palm, halting her. “It’s too late for second thoughts. I willna abandon ye and yer brother now.”
She hadn’t even had to ask him. He’d volunteered of his own accord. It had been so long since anyone had cared about or helped her.
“But I do need to ken who ye really are.” His tone changed the merest bit, and all signs of amusement fled his features. His blue-gray gaze probed hers, looking into the depths of her soul, and Sarah barely refrained from squirming.
Averting her attention, she swallowed twice. No one in England knew. Other than her grandmother and the viscountess’s odious butler. “I concede you’ve no reason whatsoever to trust me,” she said softly, still unwilling to take the final step and reveal her true identity.
Relaxing back in his chair, he hooked an ankle over his knee, totally at ease, watching her from beneath hooded eyes. “And ye’ve nae reason to trust me, either, but we’re beyond that, dinna ye think?” The palms of both hands splayed open, his voice held no censure.
She acknowledged the truth of his words and lifted her chin a couple of inches, although her attention remained on the flames frolicking behind the grate.
“Let’s begin again, shall we, lass?” He pressed a massive arm to his chest and dipped his chin in a mock semblance of a bow.
Eyebrows scrunched, she angled her head. What the devil was he about?
“I am Gregor Lieth Conall McTavish of Craiglocky Keep, cousin to the Laird Ewan McTavish, who is also Viscount Sethwick. His wife, Yvette, owns Stapleton Shipping and Supplies, and just under a year ago, I left the Highlands to manage these London offices. I have a twin, Alasdair, and my parents Duncan and Kitta live at Craiglocky too.”
He clasped a hand across his abdomen, drawing her reluctant attention to his muscled forearms once more. This was no weak fop. From his broad shoulders straining the fabric of his shirt, and the well-muscled thighs defined by his fawn-colored trousers, the Highlander was a fabulous specimen of masculine power and grace.
“Now, tell me who ye are.” He rested his square chin with the merest hint of golden stubble on his fist. “And I’ll have the truth this time, Sassenach.”
“Sassenach?” Sarah tried the odd word on her tongue. “What does it mean?”
“Saxon and dinna try to change the subject.”
She shouldn’t be surprised he’d uncovered her secret. Continuing to withhold her identity was moot at this juncture. Particularly if he agreed to deliver a letter to Lady Rolandson on her behalf.
Burying her fingers in Cat’s fur, she scanned his living quarters for the umpteenth time. More for a reason to stall than any lingering curiosity about his living quarters. How had she missed the massive sword propped in the corner by the door? Surely the monstrous thing was impossible to wield.
“Lass…?”
His persistence struck a discordant nerve, but Gregor was right. Santano had spies everywhere, and logic decreed it was only a matter of time before he found her and Chris if they remained in London. But to put her faith in this man she’d only known a couple of hours…
She must.
He’d kept his promise to bring Chris to her safely, surely that meant something.
Filling her lungs with air, she made her decision. “I’m Sarah Paine, and my brother is Christopher. My father was Captain Aaron Paine of the Mary Elizabeth. My mother Mary is—was she still alive? —was the only child of…aristocrats.”
Anger surged through her toward her callous grandmother and the fiend responsible for her father’s death. She squeezed her fists tight, her nails biting into her palms and forming crescents before forging onward.
“Santano and other miscreants commandeered my father’s ship, killing everyone aboard who refused to join in their mutiny. Chris and I fled Jamaica, but our mother was too ill to travel. We’ve
been hiding in London since under assumed identities. I fear Santano pillaged our home, as well.” Bitter tears burned her eyes as she wrestled to control her emotions.
Moments like these, when Sarah let her thoughts stray to Mama, and wondering if she yet lived, were almost unbearable. The not knowing gnawed at her peace of mind. And the guilt she carried. That was nearly as awful.
Every day, she wished she’d insisted Mama leave, too. Then her wiser self would argue; her mother wouldn’t have survived the ocean voyage, and she’d known that. Not ill and recovering from a fever as she had been.
Sarah shifted, the weight of the hidden pocket pressing into her thigh. McTavish didn’t need to know about the key or chest. Not yet, if ever. He’d already endangered his life by helping them. “As I said, Mr. McTavish, I don’t wish to impose, but you are correct. It’s far too late for that, I fear.”
“And ye’ve nae relatives or friends who might take ye in?” His chin between his thumb and pointer finger, his astute gaze probed her, looking into her very soul.
A droll smile twisted Sarah’s mouth. “My maternal grandmother refused to see Chris and me when we arrived in London. We were turned away at the door and ordered to never return.”
Eyebrows pulled tight at the inner corners, Gregor scratched his jaw, his expression thoughtful. “Is it possible she didna ken ye’d called?”
“I suppose it is, but don’t servants take orders from their employers? The butler vowed most emphatically that she wasn’t at home to us. I’m sure you know that often means the homeowner may very well be peeking at their unwanted visitors from behind the draperies.”
He acknowledged the truth of her words with a slight shifting of his eyes, more blue than gray at the moment. It must be his sky-blue double-breasted waistcoat that caused the color to change. “Who is yer grandmother?”
“The Viscountess Rolandson. Have you heard of her?”
Surprise well-seasoned with reservation flickered across Gregor’s face. His reaction reconfirmed Sarah’s own impression of her grandmother.
“Aye, though I’ve never met her personally.” He rubbed one finger alongside his nose. “She has a reputation for bein’…starchy.”
A polite way of saying she was a crotchety, unforgiving, demanding, grudge-holding old tabby. Not likely she’d be any more eager to meet her daughter’s children now than she had been three years ago.
Changing the subject to a more immediate need, she said, “I’m not sure how Santano’s men found us, but I’m positive our room has been searched.” Ransacked. Their few possessions destroyed.
“So ye’ve nae place to go then, Miss Paine?”
She chuckled and swiped her stiff hair off her shoulder. “Don’t you think it’s a little late for formalities, Highlander? Please call me Sarah, and no, at the moment, Chris and I are without accommodations.” Such a polite way of saying they were homeless.
“I’ll only call ye by yer given name if ye do the same with me,” he said.
She agreed with a brief inclination of her head
He gave a short, decisive nod, as well. “Ye can stay with me for now. I ken it’s no’ at all proper, but I think it’s the safest course. I have an extra chamber.” Gregor angled a pickle-sized thumb to the doorway beside the kitchen. “As long as nae one kens ye are here, yer reputation shouldna suffer.”
She laughed again, this time genuinely amused. Nearly five and twenty, she’d long since given up on society’s strictures.
Not that she’d ever really followed them. Life in Jamaica was much different, much more relaxed and forgiving than stodgy England. Mama had seen that Sarah could conduct herself with poise and decorum in the stuffiest English drawing rooms, but given a choice, she’d prefer to be barefoot and bonnetless.
“I assure you, Gregor, I’ve stopped fretting about my reputation. In the past three years, Chris and I have lived in tenements where prostitutes entertained their patrons in the room next door. You know as well as I do, my repute is beyond salvaging.”
An inarticulate sound of denial reverberated in his throat, but the truth rested in his honest gaze.
She lifted her shoulders, and Cat shot her a why-are-you-disturbing-my-sleep-by-moving-look. “I’m not feeling sorry for myself because I’ll manage somehow. But I do worry about Chris.”
“As I said, lass, ye can stay here for now. Yer brother can sleep on the couch, and ye can take the bedroom. It locks from within.” That almost seemed an afterthought to reassure her. He drummed his fingers, the nails square and clean, upon his broad knee. “I’m goin’ to send letters ’round to friends and relatives and recruit a wee bit of help on yer behalf.”
She crossed her ankles, very conscious of her holey socks and her breech’s soiled, ragged edges. A long soak in the tub would be heaven. And a cup of steaming tea, liberally laced with milk and sugar.
Oh, my that sounds wonderful.
She scrunched her nose. “I thought all of your relatives lived in Scotland.”
It was Gregor’s turn to chuckle, that contagious rumble that called to her, and she couldn’t help but smile in return. He scratched his temple, still grinning. “Och, only partially true. I’m either related by marriage or acquainted with a goodly number of peers who live in London or have residences within a day’s ride.”
Chris wandered in from the kitchen and made straight for the couch. Bluish shadows framed his eyes, a testament that he’d not been sleeping well, either. Lying on his side, one hand nestled beneath his hollow cheek, his eyelids drifted closed.
She stood and crossed to her brother. After placing a throw pillow beneath his head, she brushed his hair off his brow. “Poor thing. He’s exhausted.”
“Na more than ye, I’d wager.” Gregor rubbed his nape before saying, “I also advise ye to write yer grandmother and tell her what has transpired. Unless she’s completely without a heart, she’ll nae turn away her grandchildren.”
Sarah wasn’t positive that the viscountess had ever possessed a heart, and any organ in the woman’s chest had long since turned to stone.
He considered Chris then rose and disappeared into one of the bed chambers for a moment. When he returned, he carried a blanket, which he tenderly laid across the already fast asleep child.
An unfamiliar sensation uncurled in Sarah’s chest.
A perilous thing for a woman relying on her wits and independence to survive. She had no room for emotional entanglements. But this burly, attractive Highlander was proving to be the most kind, considerate man she’d ever met. The type of decent, honorable man a woman could fall in love with.
A woman not afraid for her life and responsible for a crippled child. A woman so accustomed to leeriness and mistrust, to living in a constant state of fear, she’d forgotten the happy, carefree woman she’d once been.
He ran his practiced gaze over her shoddy garments. “We also need to see ye attired in clothin’ befittin’ a viscountess’s granddaughter. All the more reason I’ve decided to seek help from my female family and friends.”
“I haven’t the funds to spare to purchase clothing for myself or Chris.” She refused to be embarrassed by that fact. She’d done well by her brother, keeping them fed, not always full, but they hadn’t starved. She’d also kept a roof over their heads and managed to do so without compromising her virtue.
“Dinna worry about the funds. I’d offer to pay for them, but I can see by the independent spark in yer eye, ye’d refuse me and tell me to bugger myself, to boot.”
“Right you are, Highlander.” The small upward tick of her lips contradicted her rejoinder. She enjoyed bantering with him. Much more than she ought.
“Between Ewan’s sisters and our friends, I’ve nae doubt they can spare everythin’ ye need from the skin out,” he said.
She couldn’t prevent the blush scorching her cheeks at the mention of undergarments. Men simply didn’t discuss something so intimate, but he continued on as if he hadn’t crossed the mark or noticed her discomfiture.
“They’ll be happy to do it too.” He rolled his eyes. “Nothin’ those noble ladies delight in more than a waif or an orphan to take under their protection.”
“I hardly qualify as, either,” she retorted, her tone drier than flour.
Did he genuinely expect her to accept charity from women she didn’t know? Her pride chafed mightily at the idea, but dash it to ribbons, he was right. Making a positive impression the first time she met her grandmother and entered Polite Society was imperative.
“By the way, Sarah, I saw ye peekin’ from the window when I returned.” He tempered his rebuke with a rakish smile. “Ye must be more careful.”
Damn. She’d thought she’d been so cautious.
“Remind Chris to stay away from the windows too,” he advised, turning to examine the long panels. “In fact, until we’re sure that Santano is convinced yer no’ here, let’s leave the curtains drawn.”
He crossed to the windows and released the tiebacks on either side. With a whoosh and a rustle, the crimson velvet floated across the glass, obstructing the view.
Wouldn’t that alert Santano or his thugs if they still watched the building?
“If ye’re wonderin’ if that’ll make Santano’s bounders suspicious, it willna. I generally leave the draperies closed. I’m unused to neighbors and like my privacy,” he said by way of an explanation. “My housekeeper opens them the days she cleans.”
He’d read her mind—unnerving and disquieting. Exciting, too.
“I intend to order a couple of warehouse workers to be extra vigilant and patrol the premises, just in case Santano or his men return. In the meanwhile, pen a letter to yer grandmother, and I’ll make sure it’s delivered.”
He’d thought this through, hadn’t he? But how long could she and Chris realistically stay here?
“However, there is one small kink in my plan, lass.”
A Yuletide Highlander Page 4