To Enchant a Highland Earl

by Cameron, Collette

  One hand extended toward the open stable doors, he flashed a knowing smile. Obviously, his confidence hadn’t been affected one iota. Men.

  “Shall we?” The upward turn of his mouth, as well as the invitation his proffered hand offered, were irresistible.

  Well, to someone who had no desire to resist them, they were. “Aye.”

  Knowing full well Jack and the other groomsmen, trainers, and stable hands likely watched their every move, Kendra was mindful to keep her demeanor polite but reserved while regarding Broden.

  A chuckle escaped her once they’d made good their escape, and they weren’t in danger of being overheard.

  He cocked an eyebrow over his sinfully handsome face. “What, may I ask, do ye find so funny?”

  “Surely ye saw the baffled looks on their faces, and the puzzled glances the poor stable hands kept sendin’ each other. We’ve never spent that long in one another’s company without squabblin’. They dinna ken what to make of it.” Giggling again, she glanced behind her. “’Tis as if they were waitin’ for the other boot to drop.”

  His rich chuckle mixed with hers as he boldly seized her hand and whisked her into a copse of trees between the house and barns. “I wonder what they’d say if they kent I want to make ye my countess?”

  Kendra went utterly still, peering up at him, her heart fluttering like a trapped wren in her chest. She’d been correct about his innuendo earlier, then. “Isna it awfully premature to be thinkin’ along those lines? For years, we’ve scarcely been civil to one another.”

  But hadn’t there always been an undercurrent of sexual awareness between them?

  For certain, she’d been very conscious he was a virile man, and when she’d disliked him, it had infuriated her to no end that she could countenance such irrational stirrings toward him.

  Did Broden feel the same way?

  Had he been as conflicted?

  Had he experienced the same maddening internal battle?

  “Aye, ’tis early to be comtemplatin’ such a drastic step, but I want ye to have nae doubts my intentions are honorable.” He gathered her hands in his, brushing his thumbs across the knuckles in a steady, mesmerizing caress. “We’ve chosen to put our past differences behind us to give us the possibility of a future together.”

  He drew her near, and she didn’t object. Not if it meant more of those soul-searing kisses. Besides, she agreed with his assessment. The past was behind them. She wanted, above all else, to look to the future. Their future.

  Standing up on her tiptoes, she wended her arms around his sturdy neck, relishing the low rumbling growl throttling up his throat a mere second before his mouth found hers.

  “Well, I’ll settle for more kisses for now,” she murmured against his warm, firm mouth. “Let’s just wait and see what tomorrow brings.”

  “I willna be here tomorrow, leannan.”

  God, he wouldna.

  And she didn’t know for certain when he’d return. Never before had she regretted his departure. Now the thought brought stinging tears to her eyes. She closed her eyelids to hide her dismay.

  He kissed her nose. “I adore yer nose. Do ye ken that?”

  Laughter bubbled upward from behind her ribs, and she opened her eyes, his absurdness restoring her good-humor. “My nose.” She touched the appendage, brushing her forefinger down its length. “It has a hideous hump on it. Like a miniature camel.”

  “Nae, ’tis lovely, with the most kissable little nub at the end.” He demonstrated with a swift press of his mouth to said nub.

  “Yer ridiculous.” Kendra laughed again. “Of all the things. My nose. ’Tis my worst feature. My eyes are my strongest asset.”

  “I disagree, but then I find everythin’ about ye exceptional.” He said this as his lips hovered a mere inch from hers. “Please seriously contemplate becomin’ my countess, Kendra love. It will give me somethin’ pleasant to ponder while I’m away from ye, and somethin’ to look forward to when I return.”

  Like the draw of a magnet, her attention sank to his lips, so very close to hers. She wanted his mouth on hers. Needed to taste him. More so than she required her next breath of air.

  Did he deliberately torment her?

  Was he demanding an answer before he satisfied her hunger?

  What could it hurt to say she’d think about becoming the Countess of Montforth? She wasn’t agreeing to do so. Broden hadn’t even proposed. This thing blossoming between them was in the early stages, and it was much too soon to commit to something as serious as marriage.

  But she could consider wedding him.

  If only he’d kiss her again. And again. And again.

  “Aye,” she said, cupping his lightly stubbled jaw with one palm. “I’ll think on it. If ye kiss me.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sommerley Parke House

  Near Carlisle, England

  Five weeks later

  Whisky glass in hand, temper high, and mood brooding, Broden gazed out the study’s tall window, scowling at the snow-covered ground. The infernal white stuff had sifted from the skies for nearly a fortnight, off and on. Good thing Liam had returned to Scotland three weeks ago at Broden’s insistence.

  He was a newlywed, after all.

  Broden had bid Liam carry a message to Kendra. A vow he’d be bound for Scotland at the first opportunity.

  The quartet of Scotsmen had made the trip to Sommerley Parke House in record time. And within three days of arrival at his primary estate, the foursome had set off for London.

  That trip proved a colossal waste of time. Roxdale’s horse had slipped on ice, tossing the duke onto his noble arse. He’d suffered a fractured wrist and wasn’t of any help introducing Broden to society.

  Just as well, since he’d little interest in hobnobbing with elitist snobs, which would further delay his homecoming. He might be an English earl now, but Scotland would always be his home.

  Naturally, Roxdale’s tumble was an unfortunate accident, but he’d eagerly returned to Trentwick Castle, his ducal family seat and his new bride, the former Marjorie Kennedy. No one had anticipated a match between those two, either.

  Broden had called at the bank and, after verifying his identity and procuring the documents Oswald had provided him, had taken ownership of a sizable fortune.

  A very sizable fortune.

  No wonder Edwin Archibald had so enthusiastically anticipated inheriting.

  Arching his back, Broden blew out a long breath before tossing back the rest of his whisky. His shoulder scarcely pained him at all, though now and again, if he moved suddenly, the almost-healed wound was wont to ache.

  He’d discovered his illustrious relative mysteriously absent from London’s social scene. Edwin hadn’t been seen at his favorite haunts, or his lodgings, either. He might’ve retired to the country for the winter, Broden supposed. Still, he’d like to make his kin’s acquaintance to better judge the man’s involvement in the plot to dispose of him.

  Oswald hadn’t mentioned precisely when Edwin had approached him about coming into the earldom. In truth, if Broden’s cousin was responsible for the attempt on his life, he was likely shrewd enough to disappear for a time.

  Oddly, Edwin wasn’t the only person to up and vanish.

  Oswald hadn’t returned from his visit to Broden in Scotland.

  Highly worrisome.

  Oswald’s business partner, Rufus Flowerplay, as short and round as Oswald was tall and lean, was in quite a dither about his absence. He’d notified the authorities, but without any indication of foul play, there was aught they could do.

  What had happened to Oswald after he departed the Toadstool Inn and Tavern?

  Adding Broden’s recuperation period, Oswald had been absent for almost two months. Broden couldn’t help but suspect he might, indeed, have met with violence at the hands of the same fiend who’d tried to kill him. Everything, including motive, pointed to Edwin Archibald Wiggins McGregor.

  Since Broden had left Eytone Hall,
nothing suspicious had occurred to raise his concern. As far as attacks on his person, that was. Still, he wasn’t mollified into laxity. Whoever wanted him dead was still out there, biding his time.

  Precisely where did Oswald fit in the puzzle?

  That merited investigating.

  Toward that end, Camden Kennedy had agreed to put his sleuthing skills to work, and even now, sought the whereabouts of Oswald and Edwin. A former smuggler and occasional covert agent, he was adept at slipping in and out of places without being seen. Camden also possessed an uncanny ability to procure information. Information others preferred remained hidden.

  Only Bryston McPherson remained with Broden at Sommerley, much to Narcissa, Lady Montforth’s discomfiture. Like an anxious mother hen, she rushed her enthralled daughters out of his presence whenever Bryston entered the room.

  What did she think?

  He was going to abduct the lasses and hold them for ransom?

  Bryston only grinned and winked at the girls, which sent them into fits of giggles and caused their mother to turn a starchy, blue-eyed gaze upon him. The two—or was it thrice?—occasions Broden had seen her in the company of her offspring.

  True, Bryston’s scarred face, long blond hair—the sides pulled back and secured in a messy knot—and tattoos on his arms and beringed fingers lent themselves to a rascally, swashbuckler’s appearance. As did the ever-present sword and dirk at his waist. Broad of shoulder and easy of temperament, he took the countess’s anxious scurrying about in stride.

  What would she do if she knew Bryston McPherson had been a privateering buccaneer at one time, and Camden had smuggled his goods?

  From his observations so far, Lady Montforth wasn’t the fainting sort. Nonetheless, Broden was convinced her ladyship would find a way to rid the household of what she considered unsuitable riffraff.

  He was similarly certain that he was lumped into that category as well, though she dared not voice her opinion to his face.

  She was, after all, wholly dependent on his benevolence, as were her daughters.

  He pitied her that.

  A woman’s lot wasn’t easy.

  Pulling his earlobe, he glowered at the pile of correspondences and other documents demanding his attention atop the oversized mahogany desk. Everything about Sommerley Parke House was grand and large.

  He’d received so many bloody invitations, he could paper his entire house in Scotland with them. And he had not attended a single event thus far.

  Much to Lady Montforth’s consternation and frequent vocal objections. She was out of mourning and expected him to accompany her on her social jaunts. Her mistake for putting her confidence in him.

  Broden was no fool. He well knew most of the invites were sent out of curiosity by those eager to meet the new, barbaric, Scottish Earl of Montforth.

  Eyebrows pulled together into an unforgiving line, he turned his mouth down.

  He probably ought to hire a secretary or a man of business or both. But how did one go about such a thing? How did one find someone trustworthy and efficient?

  Roxdale might know. Even Liam would come to think of it.

  He’d write and ask them both.

  Lady Montforth had hinted, broadly and often, that she could recommend such a person. But given she also presumed Oswald to be a, “Solicitor of superior character, impeccable decorum, and advanced acumen,” Broden didn’t put faith in her preferences.

  In all likelihood, the countess secretly desired to influence him via his man of business. She’d soon learn he wasn’t easily swayed or manipulated.

  Sighing, he forced himself to sit in the comfortable leather desk chair and thumbed through the letters. He first searched for any from Eytone Hall. Mother had written last week and said, while she enjoyed the hospitality of the MacKays, that if Broden didn’t return soon, she meant to go home.

  Not to Glenawayshire, which she diligently sought to refurbish as he’d asked, but to their own cozy house. She maintained she wouldn’t take up residence at Glenawayshire until he did, as well.

  That worried him no small amount, even if Liam’s men continued to guard her.

  Heaving a disgruntled sigh, he poured another dram of whisky.

  Damn the delays. Damn the weather, which made travel nearly impossible right now. Damn his duties and responsibilities. Others had depended upon him before, but never in the quantities and degrees they did now.

  Six females’ every need and comfort rested upon him. Not to mention the extensive staff here and skeletal staff at four—or was it five?—more residences.

  Swearing beneath his breath, he picked up another letter, examining the unfamiliar penmanship.

  No’ from Kendra, either

  She’d sent three short correspondences, to which he’d promptly responded. God only knew how long it had taken for their delivery. Given the inclement weather, no post could be transported in a timely fashion at present.

  Neither of them said much of import in their missives, other than reporting on their daily happenings. Broden wasn’t the sort to wax poetic or pen flowery phrases. He’d rather tell her how he felt in person.

  And neither was she one to put her emotions on paper and risk someone else reading them. She was an immensely private person and held her feelings close to her chest. Yet, she’d managed to wholly and entirely enchant him.

  Just when they’d been on the cusp of something magnificent and magical developing between them, he’d had to leave. He might’ve postponed his departure, but eventually, he would’ve needed to deal with those same matters.

  Better sooner rather than later.

  Once he’d settled things here, hired a reliable man of business, and replaced the ancient steward, whom he’d found sleeping every time he’d desired a word, he could trot along with his life.

  His life with Kendra.

  A pleasurable warmth spread from his gut outward that couldn’t be attributed to the rather good whisky.

  Nonetheless, lurking at the forefront of his mind, hovered the knowledge that someone wanted him dead. Yes, it was better he remained at Sommerley, luring the killer away from Eytone Hall, Kendra, and his mother.

  But did that put his wards and their mother in jeopardy?

  Another question remained, too.

  How much time and effort should he allow before giving up the hunt for his assassin? What he should do was set a trap. That idea had real merit. Entice Edwin or his henchman into making a stupid move and revealing themselves.

  But how?

  Time to ponder that later, he supposed. But not too much later. He was deuced eager to be on his way. He’d believed he’d be back in Scotland by now, wooing Kendra, but had greatly underestimated how much was required of him once he’d claimed the earldom.

  More fool he.

  He’d always been a man who kept busy, but he grudgingly admitted there was more to this peerage business than he’d realized. At least, that was, if a noble took his responsibilities seriously. Broden never did anything in half-measures, and his role as the Earl of Montforth was no exception.

  Managing the countess was no small accomplishment, either. Narcissa was a deceptively serene woman, quiet and poised, quite lovely in truth. But with a stubborn streak wider than the Atlantic Ocean. And she had very decided opinions about what was expected of him when she deigned to speak to him at all.

  Though only a year Broden’s senior, she’d taken it upon herself to hint she could suggest young ladies she deemed qualified to be the next countess. Although she’d conceded, there was no need for him to rush into a marriage. He was young, after all.

  Their first argument had occurred when he informed her he’d already selected a lass to become his wife.

  Never had he been so completely and politely taken to task. A Scotswoman not of noble birth was simply not appropriate, Narcissa staunchly maintained. Such a woman would never be accepted by Society, nor by Narcissa.

  He might’ve suggested she mind her own business in less
than gentlemanly terms.

  If it hadn’t been for his wards, he would’ve moved the countess to the dower house, but he’d inspected the place when he’d first arrived, and with only five bedchambers, two of which were for servants, he didn’t have the heart to make her toddle off with her boisterous brood.

  After meeting her sunny-haired daughters, Amaryllis, Bergenia, Celosia, Dianella, and Eustoma, ages nine, seven, four, three, and six months, each named after flora and in alphabetical order, he’d found himself surprisingly taken by the energetic, but sweet-natured lasses.

  Their haughty mother, not so much.

  Her deceased sons, Standish Jr. and Harry, had been spared the horror of floral names.

  A rap at the door interrupted his reflections, and he lifted his head. “Come.”

  Chapter Ten

  Lady Montforth sailed into the room, her pink gown styled in the very latest fashion—according to her—billowed extra wide due to her panniers. She never quietly slipped into a chamber.

  Each time, she made a grand entrance, clearly, a woman accustomed to receiving a great deal of attention. At this moment, however, acute displeasure etched her regal features. Achieving a modicum of poise, she clasped her hands before her.

  “Forgive the interruption, my lord, but several Scottish persons have arrived at the front entrance. Morris was prepared to send them on their way straightaway, but they insist upon seeing you at once.” She elevated her perfect nose and sniffed disdainfully. “Rather loudly and forcefully, I might add.”

  “Where are they now?” Broden rose, stacking his unopened letters into a pile before putting the letter opener in the desk drawer.

  Who the devil would’ve traveled here in this unfriendly weather?

  Camden?

  Possibly.

  But who else?

  Had he located Oswald? That would assuredly explain the unexpected call.

  Broden’s heartbeat quickened in anticipation.

  Bryston slipped into the room, his features unreadable, but his posture suggesting he was battle-ready. One hand resting on his dirk, he took a position beside the door.