To Enchant a Highland Earl

by Cameron, Collette

Carefully picking her way along the corridor, she marveled once more over Broden’s astonishing news. He’d claimed he was an English earl. He hadn’t received a blow to the head, so there wasn’t any reason to doubt him.

  Did that mean he’d be leaving the Highlands now?

  As a newly titled earl, wouldn’t his responsibilities require him to spend a great deal of time—perhaps all of his time now—in England?

  She ought to be pleased with the notion. Broden wouldn’t be pestering and vexing her.

  Pleased was most definitely not the emotion engulfing her. No, indeed.

  Why, if she disliked the man so much, did the thought he might leave Scotland cause her heart to plummet and shatter at her feet, like a delicate eggshell-thin teacup?

  No immediate, sensible answer sprang to mind.

  Outside Broden’s bedchamber, she knocked softly.

  After a moment, the door swung open to reveal a bleary-eyed and haggard Mrs. McGregor.

  “I brought ye a little somethin’ to relax ye.” Kendra offered an encouraging smile while peering over her shoulder to the bed dominating the chamber. “May I come in and drink mine with ye?”

  Mrs. McGregor nodded, gratefully accepting the warm cup. “It smells wonderful,” she said, as she wearily trudged back to the seat beside the bed where she’d been keeping her vigil. Sinking into the overstuffed armchair, she heaved a sigh before taking a sip. “Och, ’tis wonderful. If I’m no’ mistaken, there’s a wee nip of spirits mixed in.”

  “Yer no’ mistaken. I made plenty. If ye’d like more, I can easily fetch it for ye.” Kendra slipped into the chamber, closing the door quietly behind her. “I’ve always found milk dosed with spirits and spices verra soothin’. I sleep like a newborn bairn whenever I drink it before bed.”

  Tonight might prove her a liar, however.

  Candles burned on either bedside table, and the hearty fire cast dancing shadows on the open sapphire blue bedcurtains and the coffer and crown decorated ceiling.

  She crept nearer the bed, both hands wrapped around her cup. “How is he?”

  Seeing Broden, the steady rise and fall of his chest, brought her unexpected reassurance and peace.

  Even bandaged and wan, there was no denying he possessed a warrior’s powerfully built body. The mounds of his suntanned pectoral muscles, sculpted shoulders, and strong biceps attested to that truth. Curly russet hair, slightly darker than that on his head, covered his chest and the contoured ridges of his abdomen before disappearing beneath the bedding across his waist.

  Was he naked?

  The idea brought unexpected and uncomfortable heat skittering over her entire body. Of its own volition, her wanton, misguided gaze wandered to the slight lump evident between Broden’s legs. She forced her curious attention upward, away from areas she had no wish to speculate about.

  Well, not with his mother a few feet away.

  His chest hair appeared soft and springy, and Kendra fisted her hand against the urge to splay her fingers in the curls. Was she mad? God would surely punish her for her wanton imagination.

  His mother sat right here, the poor woman beside herself with worry, and Kendra’s thoughts migrated to carnal urges. She gulped a mouthful of the milk, and nearly swore as she scalded her tongue.

  Forehead pleated, Mrs. McGregor took another tentative swallow of her milk, her anxious gaze fixed on her son.

  “He hasna awoken, but he’s no’ feverish.” Her eyelashes fluttered, and her mouth trembled. She was trying so hard to be brave. “I have ye to thank for savin’ his life, I’m told. He’s all I have left. My only laddie still livin’—”

  Her ragged voice caught on a sob, and tears flooded her kind eyes as her face crumpled.

  Kendra came swiftly to her side. After placing her cup on the bedside table, she kneeled beside the distraught woman and took Mrs. McGregor’s free hand between hers.

  “He’s a braw, strong man. Too mulish and stubborn to die from a measly little poke to his shoulder. Ye wait and see, Mrs. McGregor, he’ll be up, swaggerin’ about in nae time.”

  “I dinna swagger,” came a raspy, barely audible male voice.

  “Och,” cried Mrs. McGregor, swiftly placing her cup on the nightstand and leaning forward to grasp Broden’s hand. “Ye gave me a terrible fright, ye did.”

  She blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the moisture in her eyes as she beamed at him, her love for her son shining on her face.

  The dark arcs of his eyelashes fluttered, and he opened his eyes, looking first to his mother and then Kendra. His hooded gaze took in her night robe and the plait draped across her right shoulder.

  A flash of awareness zipped across the room, an almost physical connection, yet they weren’t touching. Did he feel the current, too? The pulsating, magnetic pull?

  Utterly implausible. Wholly indescribable.

  And, she very much suspected, completely life-altering.

  In that instant, the heavens shifted, and her world upended.

  Kendra knew, beyond a doubt, that things would never be the same between them.

  “Thank ye, Kendra.” He lifted his hand, palm upward, reaching for her hand.

  She bit her lower lip.

  It wasn’t appropriate to hold his hand, especially attired only in her night clothing. But he was an invalid, and his mother was present to assure no impropriety.

  Sidling around the bed, she pondered this unexpected change in him. Was it simply because he was, quite literally, flat on his back, weak as a newborn calf, and had nearly lost his life?

  Or was something else at work here?

  No. It must be gratitude. People often behaved differently when direly ill.

  She imagined if he’d saved her life, she’d be grateful, too.

  As she slipped her hand in his, and he curled his fingers around hers, his touch singeing her so that she nearly gasped, Kendra pondered the warmth and surprising strength. And what was that gleam in his brandy-colored eyes?

  “I’m glad ye are recoverin’ Broden,” she said softly. “Ye’ve been asleep for hours.”

  I’ve been worried about ye.

  That she could not say aloud.

  His mother finished her milk, her earlier despair having evaporated.

  The punch had done its job. Excellent.

  If only Kendra might’ve finished her cup, her nerves wouldn’t be humming with tension and uncertainty at this moment. She felt wound tighter than a top. Or a corkscrew. Or any number of other things wound around and around until they were tightly coiled.

  “Are ye hungry, Broden?” Mrs. McGregor asked as she straightened the perfectly tidy linens, pulling them a trifle higher over the delectable ridges spanning his torso. She, too, must have realized how inappropriate it was for Kendra to see his unclothed state.

  “Aye.” He still didn’t relinquish her hand, even after his mother’s pointed look.

  Mrs. McGregor’s right eyebrow arched high, and her attention fixed on Kendra, giving her a look quite similar to the one her mother had given her earlier.

  A flush swept her, and for some unfathomable reason, Broden chuckled then winced and glanced at his bandage.

  She very much suspected Broden and his mother shared a secret she wasn’t privy to.

  Chapter Five

  A fortnight passed, and though it nearly drove him mad, Broden managed to obey the doctor’s dictates and his fretting mother’s regular pleas and stay abed. What no one knew was that after the fifth day, he began rising when everyone sought their mattresses each night.

  Diligent to not open the healing wound, he stretched and conducted a series of calisthenics to keep his muscles strengthened and toned. He refused to become a feeble weakling by the time the doctor finally deemed him recovered enough to leave what was quickly becoming a most hated bed.

  It was a wonder anyone ever recovered from ailments if their brains and muscles were always let go to mush.

  If it hadn’t been for that small amount of exercise and Kendra�
�s company, he might truly have gone mad. Liam visited daily to impart any updates about the manhunt for his shooter, and the Dowager and Lady Penderhaven also put in an appearance each afternoon. But Kendra stayed for an hour or two after breakfast and did likewise in the evenings after dinner.

  Her sacrifice rather astounded him, but she claimed other than his Mother, her schedule allowed the most freedom. Broden would’ve liked to have believed her attentiveness was because she cared at least a little.

  Unused to idleness, even when recuperating from something as significant as a gunshot wound, as the fourteenth day dawned, he was dressed in the clothing his mother had thought to bring from home. Everything except for his coat, that was.

  Unable to quite wrestle into the snug-fitting jacket by himself, and not wanting to chance tearing his wound open, he’d opted to forgo the garment. The ladies’ sensibilities would have to be offended, for he intended to eat breakfast wearing only his shirt, belt, and trews.

  I bet that never happens in those fancy English houses.

  His wound was healing splendidly—the doctor’s words, not his—and there were too many things demanding his attention that he couldn’t postpone.

  Of the shooter, Liam had informed him, they’d found no trace except for horse hoofprints leading to the township. There, the trail went frustratingly cold, as any number of people had visited Eddleshaugh that fateful day. Most especially after the locals had been home-bound on account of the rains.

  Liam had questioned Angus McCurdy and Tobias Moore, the two lodging house owners, and learned Mr. Philibius Oswald had departed the Toadstool Inn and Tavern for London early the morning the day the weather cleared.

  He’d made his displeasure known far and wide that he’d been unwillingly detained by the Scottish Highland’s dismal and most uncooperative clime. He’d also adamantly proclaimed he hoped never to have to venture to the Highlands again.

  As Broden had no intention of retaining the man as his attorney, he could think of no reason Oswald would need to.

  The other lodgers—three at the Toadstool Inn and four at The Trumpeting Swan—had been unfortunate travelers caught in the storm. Not a soul raised any obvious suspicions amongst the lot.

  Still, Broden wanted to speak to the innkeepers himself. He also must travel to his new estate—an ostentatious-sounding place called Sommerley Parke House—to make arrangements for the countess and her children, as well as follow up on his hunch and visit Oswald’s offices in London.

  And then there was the envious cousin.

  Edwin Archibald Windbag McGregor

  World traveler, investor, and hobnobber with aristocrats. Oh, and until a short while ago, under the misapprehension, he would soon be the Fifth Earl of Montforth.

  Precisely where had he been the day Broden had nearly been picked off?

  He meant to find out.

  Although he conceded, Edwin might be the sort who hired the job done, rather than commit the act himself. If that were the case, someone knew something, and a few shiny coins had a mysterious way of loosening tongues.

  What to do with his mother in his absence was another matter. He was of two minds about her.

  He’d be gone at least a fortnight, probably more, and he didn’t want her alone at their house until the fiend who shot him was in custody. Yet he was hesitant to impose upon Liam and ask that she be permitted to stay at Eytone Hall until he returned. She’d be safer here.

  Independent and proud, she might refuse, in any event.

  Perhaps it was best to have a candid discussion with Liam before he made that decision.

  Taking one last, disinterested glance in the looking glass above the washstand, he scowled. He’d cut himself shaving. Twice. A scratch on his chin and another nick near his left ear. What was more, his hair hung loose, but clean, about his shoulders.

  Not a ribbon or length of leather was amongst his possessions. His mother’s only oversight. Or, perhaps she’d deliberately forgotten to pack them. She’d prefer that he wore his hair shorn short.

  His casual appearance would have to do.

  No mincing fop here. Thank God. A grin split his face as he imagined the reaction to England’s perfectly proper and stuffy peers if he should arrive at a grand function appearing as he did at this moment. Nae, wearing a kilt, too.

  Hell, he might do so if only to see their responses.

  As he exited his chamber, muffled footsteps echoed in the corridor behind him. He turned in the direction of the steady pace, his heart leaping in unanticipated joy.

  Kendra, wearing a fetching, rich blue gown the color of the sky just before twilight, glided down the passageway, her movements a graceful ballet, tempting and captivating, each swish of her silken skirts a sensual thrum of intrigue enveloped in sheer femininity.

  God, but she was devastatingly lovely. Impossibly, amazingly breathtaking. A vision he feasted his eyes upon. He’d like to strip that gown from her fragrant flesh and…

  An incandescent smile wreathed her radiant face.

  He blinked, almost peering over his shoulder to see the recipient of her smile. It took a handful of breaths to realize the endearing, upward arc was for him. For him. What an unforeseen and wholly charming gift.

  Edged by full, sable lashes, her wide, gray eyes sparkled. She lightly touched Broden’s forearm with her ungloved fingertips. “I’m glad to see ye out of bed, but are ye positive ye are fit enough?” Her focus dropped to his wound and the bandage hidden by his shirt.

  Grinning at her concern, and not just a little thrilled by it, he flexed his spine, testing the injury. It pulled uncomfortably and panged with the movement. “Aye, I’ve had enough of convalescin’, thank ye. I do plan to be careful if that alleviates yer worry a mite.”

  “Hmm.” Eyeing his casual attire, she made a noncommittal sound. Her avid attention gravitated down the length of him before she hauled it back to his face. A pinkish flush tinged her cheeks.

  Was that womanly appreciation in her searching gaze, the color of quicksilver today?

  He quite liked the notion. Aye, more than liked it.

  “Thank ye once more, Kendra, for sacrificin’ yer time and keepin’ me company.” The truce they’d forced these past two weeks left him on uncertain ground. He unequivocally did not want to return to the verbal sparring and insults, but neither was he certain how to proceed.

  He wouldn’t ascribe their newly forged relationship as friendship, but he lacked a proper description to define what they’d become.

  A delicate blush tinted the graceful slope of her cheeks again. “Ye needna thank me. ’Twas nothin’.”

  It wasn’t nothing. For a wild creature such as Kendra, playing attendance in a sickroom, twice daily for a fortnight, had been high sacrifice indeed.

  After his morning ablutions and he’d broken his fast, she’d read a portion of the news sheet to him. A half dozen times, she’d dined with him, too.

  In the afternoons, he took a nap, mandated by his fretful mother. Broden didn’t argue, for he knew she also took the opportunity to have a lie-down. If he had to pretend to sleep for an hour or two so that she might rest, he’d not grumble. Afterward, before she retired, Kendra read a book to him, or they played chess or cards.

  She was damned skilled at the latter two.

  Naturally, his mother adopted the role of a chaperone, and more than once, he’d caught her evaluating gaze upon him or Kendra while she embroidered or knitted. Did she sense the shift in their relationship? Perceive the burgeoning attraction?

  He strove to conceal his interest, but mothers had a way of knowing their children like no other ever could.

  More than once, when she’d been alone with him, he’d vow she’d been about to broach the awkward subject. But for some obscure reason known only to her, she changed her mind.

  At the first opportunity, Broden must dispel any notions of a match between him and Kendra. He’d seen Mother’s eyebrow—her very telling eyebrow—raised several times.


  God only knew what she’d contrived in that active and all too creative mind of hers.

  Not that he would be opposed to a union with Kendra.

  In fact, he couldn’t think of anything grander. Two weeks of idleness—mind-numbing idleness and too much time to think idleness—had given him ample time to reflect upon his life. To reflect upon what he wanted for his future, especially now that fate had thrust him into a position of a man of power and means.

  A Sassenach earl.

  By Odin’s teeth, he might’ve inherited an earldom. But Scotland was now, and would always remain, his home and where he’d live out his life. He wouldn’t change who he was as a person simply because he was encumbered with an earldom, wards, and the role of a most unwilling aristocrat, now.

  He never desired the ridiculous trappings of a peer or the restrictions High Society enforced. A simple Scotsman he’d always be.

  But several notions—implausible dreams, actually—had tumbled around his mind for years. Notions that had genuine viability now, including establishing a school nearby. Or a home for unfortunate lads and lasses who found themselves on the streets. Mayhap both.

  Every child should know how to read and write, no matter their station. But they should also have a roof over their heads, food in their stomachs, and to not live in fear every day.

  Shaking off his bitter reflections, Broden extended his elbow to Kendra. “May I escort ye to break yer fast?”

  A slightly startled look flashed across her face, but with only the slightest hesitation, she placed her fingers into the crook of his arm.

  Other than when she’d wrapped her arms around him to keep him atop Sheik, this was the only time he could recall her touching him voluntarily.

  They’d never danced together at assemblies or balls. And Broden couldn’t help but relish the feel of her hand upon him, her touch once more scorching him, leaving a brand singed upon him. Not to mention sending all sorts of erotic, very unbrotherly, thoughts clambering through his mind.

  In truth, once she’d bloomed into the striking woman beside him, his thoughts had long since transformed from anything remotely platonic or fraternal.