Highland Temptation (5 page)

At three o'clock, Colin and Emilia were ready to go. In the mews behind the Knights' house, they stood beside a well-used but sturdy phaeton that the major had procured for them. It had worn leather seats, a retractable hood, and plenty of space in the boot for their luggage, which, given the amount of art supplies they were bringing, was quite bulky. A pair of young roan mares were hitched to the carriage to start them off on their journey.

“Goodbye.” Lady Claire drew Emilia into a tight hug, and the other women followed suit, all of them careful with her injuries, making Emilia feel as if she was cared for, an altogether brand-new sensation. She hugged them all back tightly, trying to show them how much she appreciated their kind acceptance of her.

“Please write to us.” Lady Esme's expanding belly pressed against Emilia as they hugged.

“I will,” Emilia said. “I promise.”

Lady Claire turned on Sir Colin, her expression serious. “You didn't forget what I gave you, did you?”

“I did not.”

“And the instructions?”

“Aye, I have them. And I've already committed them to memory, so dinna fash yourself over it,” he told her.

Lady Claire cocked a brow at him. “If those wounds don't heal properly, you'll have me to answer to, Sir Colin Stirling.”

He gave a false shudder. “Answering to you is more frightening than facing a hungry pack of wolves, milady. I'll not fail.”

“Good,” she said sharply.

The major handed Emilia into the carriage. “You're in excellent hands,” he told her with a small, serious smile. “Stirling is one of the best men I know.”

She glanced over at Sir Colin, who was making some adjustment to the straps on the horses. Turning back to the major, she nodded. “He's one of the best men I know, too.”

It was rather ridiculous she was saying that. Truly, before last night, they'd hardly spoken to each other. But she'd watched him over the months he guarded her father. She'd seen his kindness and his strength and, most of all, his competence. She felt safe with Sir Colin—she always had, even back when he was guarding her father and not specifically watching out for her. She'd felt that if anything bad had ever happened, he'd have been there, stopping it. Taking care of it.

He'd never been there when her father had hurt her. But that wasn't his fault. Her father's evil was an insidious one. He was careful, so much so that if she showed her wounds to the world, she was certain most people wouldn't believe Lord Pinfield was responsible for them.

But these men and women had. They hadn't questioned her or her motives once. They'd taken her in, been kind to her, helped her, doctored her, and now were taking pains to keep her safe. A flush of love for all of them warmed her, deep in the core of her heart.

Sir Colin climbed in beside her. The bench was narrow, and his thigh pressed against hers as he took up the reins. It was such intimate contact, instant heat bloomed in her cheeks. She tried to ignore it, instead waving to the Knights and their wives as Sir Colin directed the horses to a walk.

Moments later they'd turned out of the mews and onto the busy street, the London traffic congested and busy. Sir Colin smiled kindly at her, and she felt stupid for feeling his touch so intimately. Because he was kind to her didn't mean anything. It certainly didn't mean he wanted to do something like…like kiss her.

She licked her lips, the action involuntary, and images of kissing him flooded her mind. He had wonderful lips, full and soft-looking, and his teeth were white and straight…

Oh Lord. She was blatantly staring at his mouth. She jerked her gaze away.

It was just the newness of it all. She'd never been in such close proximity to a man before. It didn't help that he was so handsome, so ruggedly Scottish, that his knees showed below the hem of his kilt, and his thick arms and chest pushing against the fabric of his coat were probably the most masculine things she'd ever laid eyes on.

“Are you cold, lass?” he asked.

“No, not at all.” In fact, she was feeling quite warm, despite the cool breeze that ruffled the curls that framed her face beneath her—or, rather, Lady Claire's—bonnet.

“Good,” he said. “I put the plaids at the top so you can reach back and take one if you start to feel a chill.”

“Thank you.”

“And your back? Is it paining you?”

“It's all right.” She leaned forward slightly on the padded bench seat. Her back still felt as if it had been flayed open—because it
had
been flayed open—but there was nothing Sir Colin could do about it.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Sir Colin negotiating his way around a toppled fruit cart, the sounds of the living city of London surrounding them. People and horses and carriages were everywhere, coachmen scowling at slower vehicles, pedestrians moving about their business, looking serious and sometimes harried.

There was no attraction between them, Emilia told herself. Sir Colin felt protective of her and had vowed to keep her safe. That didn't translate to attraction. And even if he did feel something beyond protectiveness toward her, nothing could come of it. With her father, a lord of the realm, probably already engaged in a frantic search for her, she was in no position act upon the lure of this handsome Scot.

And even if she was in such a position, what would she do? She nearly laughed at the thought. She was an inexperienced, reticent woman of twenty-one. Sir Colin was probably a decade older than her, worldly, and hardened by battle. How could he possibly be interested in a young Englishwoman who had been so utterly beaten down by her own life?

She pushed these silly thoughts from her mind. They were thoughts for later. Right now she and Sir Colin were trying to leave London without being discovered by her father, and she needed to focus on the immediate problems at hand.

“ 'Tis good you're keeping your head down,” Sir Colin said. “We dinna want anyone to recognize you.”

Even if she wasn't wearing a wide-brimmed bonnet, even if she danced a reel on the phaeton's bench, she probably wouldn't be recognized, she thought ruefully. She had been out so seldom in society in the last few years, no one knew her anymore.

She didn't voice those thoughts, though.

“I've been thinking,” he said, his gaze on the road, “about our name. What d'you think of the name Montgomery?”

“Er…it's a good name, I think,” she said.

He nodded, satisfied. “Good. I'm John Montgomery, returning from a visit to London with my new wife.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed. She looked up at him. “We're posing as a married couple, then?”

His brows drew together, his expression becoming extremely serious. “I mean nothing untoward by it. I'd never hurt you, lass, or compromise you in any way. You ken that, aye?”

Heat once again prickled across her cheeks. “Of course,” she murmured, though the devil inside her wondered if being compromised by this man would be such a bad thing.

“ 'Tis the safest thing. I thought of posing as your brother but no one would believe it. You're far too bonny a lass to be any sister of mine.”

She laughed. “That's not true.”

He gave her a strange look but didn't comment.

“Do you actually have any sisters?” she asked him.

“Aye. Two of them. Twins.”

“I'm sure they're lovely.”

“They're hags.”

“Sir Colin!” she exclaimed, aghast. But his eyes were twinkling.

“I always called them
hags
as a lad. They called me
bumptious wee nyaff.
So 'twas only fair.”

“What's a
nyaff
?” she asked, the Scottish word feeling strange on her tongue.

“An idiot.”

“Ah,” she murmured. “I suppose they deserved it, then.”

“Oh, they did. They bullied me relentlessly.”

“Are they older than you?”

“Aye, by two years.”

“Do they live in Scotland?”

“Aye, in the Highlands. Both are married now, with bairns of their own.”

“So you're an uncle.”

“I am.” He smiled, seeming pleased by that.

“And they're not hags, truly,” she told him.

“Well, I suppose not,” he said reluctantly, and in his expression she saw the little boy he must have been. A scamp with big amber eyes and wild brown hair, scowling and stamping his foot and calling his cruel big sisters
hags.

“But they look nothing like you,” he added.

“What do they look like?”

“Dark hair. Dark eyes. Tall.”

“They look like you, then.”

“Aye, I suppose. Mayhap a touch more feminine.”

She arched a brow. “Just a touch? I doubt that.” Because from head to toe, Sir Colin was 100 percent masculine.

As they drove out of London, they talked about their plan. They would be John Montgomery and his reticent wife, Emilia, a middle-class Scottish couple returning home to Edinburgh from a family visit to London. Emilia hoped she wouldn't have to speak too much, because her aristocratic English accent would be obvious the moment she opened her mouth.

Once she stopped having all those disturbing thoughts about Sir Colin, about his warmth and his handsomeness, and how they'd be each other's sole source of company for Lord knew how long, she found it very easy to talk to him. Instinctively, she knew she didn't have to bite her tongue with him as she did with her father, and society in general. Nothing she said to Sir Colin would go back to her father. She was for the first time truly safe, and it was so liberating.

Until she remembered her position. Who she was, where she was going, and why. When that happened, they launched into a long silence, Emilia drawing bucolic scenes in her notebook and sparring with her inner demons until dusk descended.

She often glanced at Sir Colin, wondering what he thought about. His expression was serious but otherwise emotionless, which she felt was deliberate. A mask he'd placed there for the benefit of others.

It was almost nine o'clock at night when they finally stopped. Sir Colin had lit the lanterns on each side of the carriage hours before, but other than the soft golden glow they cast over the road, there was no light. Clouds had obscured the waxing moon and the stars, the road traffic grew sparse, and they could no longer see signs of life beyond the road, except for an occasional glimmer of light from a cottage or farmhouse.

They stopped in the town of Caxton, first at the Crown Inn, which had no vacancy, then the George, which was also full. Finally they tried the Cross Keys Inn, a small, whitewashed rectangular structure. Sir Colin gave Emilia the horses while he went to see if a room was available. She waited on the quiet street, holding the reins and studying the homey-looking buildings lining the street.

It had been a long time since she'd been out of London. Her father owned a house in Nottinghamshire, but they'd not visited it for several years. She had been locked up in a city teeming with people, close to others but rarely seeing them, alone and lonely but always surrounded. Here, though, it was peaceful. Serene. Being in this sleepy town reminded her of pleasant days spent as a child at Pinfield Manor, walking with her governess and her mother outside, playing with the village children; sledding and singing carols in winter; fishing in the warmer weather, lifting her skirts and kicking off her shoes and wading in the creek during summertime. That was back when she'd led a regular—albeit privileged—life. When had it all changed?

It was easy to pinpoint. The moment her mother had died.

Sir Colin emerged from the inn, opening the door and stepping into the light pouring out from inside. A boy followed him onto the dark street.

“Brush them down well,” Sir Colin told the boy, who was scrawny and could be no more than eleven years of age. “They've worked hard today.”

“Aye, sir.”

With a shy smile, he took the reins from Emilia. “Good news,” Sir Colin said, “they've a room for us.” He helped her from the bench seat then handed the boy a coin and asked him to bring up their luggage when he was done with the horses.

“Aye, sir. Thank ye muchly, sir.”

Sir Colin led her toward the door, bending to speak into her ear. “There was only one chamber available. And it has just the one bed. We'll be sleeping in the same room tonight, I'm afraid.”

The thought of sleeping in a strange place brought her as much panic as it had the night before. To know that Colin would once again be close to her—on the same bed—was a relief. And the anticipation of him lying beside her, perhaps touching her, made her stomach flutter with pleasure.

Excitement bloomed in Emilia's chest. She managed to tamp it down, though she couldn't contain her smile. It came from somewhere deep inside her, stretching her mouth wide. Muscles in her mouth that had been long denied still worked, and it felt wonderful.

Sir Colin's lips twisted. “I'll sleep on the floor, of course.”

“We slept in the same bed last night,” she reminded him as they stepped onto the landing. “It'll be all right.”

“Last night,” he said quietly, sounding like he was speaking from between his teeth, “we were surrounded by Highland Knights who'd gladly kill me to preserve your honor.”

Her brows drew together as he opened the door, and they walked into the brightly lit entry hall.

“I don't think it makes one bit of difference,” she told him. She didn't know how he might have responded to that, because the innkeeper appeared, clutching a long brass key. “Mrs. Montgomery?”

She began to greet him, then remembered her new Scottish identity, closed her mouth, and nodded.

“Welcome, ma'am. I'll take you to your room.”

She inclined her head.

The man led them up a narrow staircase to a short landing that led to two closed doors on the right side and two closed doors on the left. He went to the far left door, slid the key into the lock, and opened it. “Here you are. No fireplace in this particular room, but there's a good coal brazier near the bed. The missus'll be bringing up your dinner, too, in a trice.”

“I thank you, sir,” Sir Colin said politely.

In a moment, the man was gone, and they were alone again. Sir Colin busied himself with lighting a lantern and the brazier, while Emilia removed her bonnet and pins and combed her fingers through her hair. The bonnet and the tight chignon at her nape had kept it somewhat subdued, but the edges that had been exposed all day to the elements were frizzed, and as the glow of the lantern blanketed the room, she glanced into the simple looking glass on the wall and sighed. She looked like a blond Medusa.

Sir Colin came up behind her in the mirror, and they gazed at each other in the glass for a protracted moment. “You…” He cleared his throat. “Ah…here, let me help you with your cloak.”

He reached around and deftly untied the bow at her throat. He was close now, touching her, and pleasant heat radiated off him. It was early spring, and the nights were still cool, but with Sir Colin so close, she was as warm as if it were midsummer.

“Thank you, Sir Colin,” she murmured.

“Nay.” The word was a low Scottish purr that seemed to rumble up her spine.

She gave him a questioning look.

“You mustn't call me Sir Colin. You must call me John.”

“John,” she tried. “Oh, but that name doesn't fit you at all.”

“Aye, well, it sounds a wee bit odd to my ear as well. But if I give you leave to call me Colin, will you remember John when we're not alone?”

She nodded.

“Verra well, then. Call me Colin. The sir isna necessary.”

“Thank you,” she said, “Colin.” She whispered his name. It felt so very intimate to call a man by his first name, alone in a bedchamber, with his hands on her shoulders as he removed her clothing…

Not her clothing, she amended in her mind. Just her cloak. He pulled it off and hung it on a convenient hook beside the door.

“You're welcome,” he said. Goodness, the low rumble of his voice was doing all sorts of pleasant things to her insides.

Warmth, safety, comfort. All those things that had seemed so distant to her only yesterday. She could thank him a thousand times and it would never be enough.

The boy came up with their luggage, though it took him two trips to lug it all upstairs. Soon after, the innkeeper's wife came bearing a tray with their dinner. It was simple fare—roasted mutton with vegetables—but when they sat down to eat, Emilia found her stomach rumbling with hunger, and it tasted delicious. A plate of cheese and apple slices made a pleasant dessert, and a pitcher of good ale—which Emilia had never drunk before—washed it all down.

Finally, she sat back, her stomach comfortably full, her blood tingling through her veins—perhaps from the ale. She looked from her empty cup to Sir Colin, who gazed at her with his usual serious expression.

“Did you enjoy the dinner?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “Probably too much.”

“Nay, I dinna think so. You're but a wee thing. You could use a bit of meat on your bones.”

Her cheeks heated for about the millionth time today.

“You should go to bed, lass,” he said quietly. “We've a long day of travel ahead of us tomorrow.”

She nodded and stood, stretching until she felt the pull on the wounds in her back. Sir Colin stood as well and began to rifle through their luggage. He found the satchel she'd brought—filled with Lady Claire's clothes—and withdrew her nightgown.

Another extreme intimacy. A single man touching her unmentionables. And so familiarly, too. Her heart beating hard, she licked her dry lips and snatched the nightgown from his hands when he offered it to her. “Ah…” she said breathlessly, a riot of heat on her cheeks, “thank you.”

“Aye, of course. Do you need help with your dress?”

“No, thank you. It is a round gown, see, so it wraps and ties in front.” She gestured at the large green ribbon at her waist, which concealed the ties. Claire had been thoughtful in the choices of garments she'd offered Emilia. Everything was simple but new and clean, easy to don without a maid's help, and they fit her perfectly. She was so thankful for all of it, but Claire had acted as if it were nothing. As if they weren't near strangers, but sisters who shared everything.

“Verra well.” Sir Colin cleared his throat and gazed at her, his eyes sparkling amber in the lantern light. “I must see to your back, then. If you dinna mind removing the top of your gown and petticoat.”

“Of course,” she breathed. She set the nightgown on the bed and went to work on the ties, then glanced up to see him staring at her. He turned quickly so that his back was to her. She turned also, so they were back to back, and quickly untied the front of the gown before slipping the sleeves off her arms. Finally, the bodice of the dress fell over the skirt, and she stepped out of it. She took off the petticoat; then, dressed only in one of Lady Claire's nearly transparent shifts, she untied the neckline, pulled it over her shoulders and down, bunching it at the waist. Now her back was bare, so he could check the dressing, but her front was also naked, and cool air washed over her breasts and made her shiver.

“All right.” Managing to keep the fabric of the shift bunched at her waist, she crossed her arms over her chest. She didn't turn around, but sensed Sir Colin turning.

He made a gruff, incomprehensible noise, then came close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. Gently, he touched the wrappings, and sighed.

“You've bled through them, lass.”

“Oh,” she whispered. “Have I?”

“Aye. I'll have to take the bandage off and redo it.”

“All right.”

“Are you in verra much pain?”

“No,” she said truthfully.

He unwrapped the bindings, his hands bigger and stronger and also gentler than Lady Claire's. Claire's hands had been briskly competent, but Sir Colin took his time, almost painstakingly slow as he reached the last layer, where the gauze was, at places, stuck to the edges of her wounds.

“Is this hurting you?” he kept asking her.

“No,” she repeated, again and again. Compared to the feeling of her father flaying her skin with his cat-o'-nine-tails, this was nothing.

When Sir Colin finished pulling the ends of the fabric from her skin, he was silent for a long moment, his gaze burning into her back so intensely she was compelled to ask, “How does it look?”

He pushed out a short, harsh breath. “It looks better. It's already beginning to heal.”

He fetched the salve and more gauze as she stood there motionless, her arms still crossed over her breasts, trying not to think of how close she was to being naked. In a room alone with a man. Almost anyone who saw this scene would think her a brazen whore.

But she didn't feel like a whore, and Sir Colin certainly didn't seem to think of her that way. No one was here to see her or to judge her, yet the strictures of society had been so deeply drilled into her, she couldn't help but think of them constantly. Of how wrong this entire situation was.

It isn't wrong
, she told herself.
It's right. Because it is the only way. The
best
way.

She'd almost convinced herself of that by the time he'd finished gently slathering the salve over the wounds and begun to wrap her torso in fresh gauze. Finally, he tied off the ends and rested his big hands gently on her hips. The gesture was possessive and intimate, and instant warmth swept through her. He was so close to her that she could feel his breath at the top of her head.

She froze, glorying in all the hot sensations pounding through her. His lips pressed on the top of her head, and she closed her eyes, feeling like she was melting.

But then he released her and took a quick step backward. She looked over her shoulder at him, to find his face absolutely expressionless. She didn't have any talent for hiding her feelings, and she knew her face was flushed, her eyes wide, her lips parted.

He gestured at her. “Go ahead and put your nightgown on. I'll…er…be back in a few minutes. I need to ensure the horses are well.”

She nodded, and something told her that despite his flat expression, Sir Colin might be as discomfited by all this as she was. He'd already told her they'd trade the horses for fresh ones tomorrow, so he shouldn't be too concerned about them.

He swiveled and, before she could blink, he had grabbed their dinner tray and was gone. She stood still for another long moment, staring at the closed door. Then she dropped the shift and stepped out of it before pulling the nightgown over her head. She tidied up—pushing the chairs in under the small table, carefully hanging the dress over one of the chair backs so she could wear it again tomorrow. She wondered when they'd have time to have their laundry done and decided it might not be until they arrived in the Highlands. So, after ensuring that no blood had seeped onto the petticoat or shift, she hung them on separate pegs on the wall to air out.

Finally, with nothing left to do and having no idea when Sir Colin would return, she pulled back the bedcovers and climbed into the bed, happy that the sheets were clean and the straw mattress was comfortable. She lay on her side, facing the door.

She should just try to sleep. Sir Colin could be gone for hours. But she wasn't tired. She knew he would try to sleep on the floor, but how would he get a good night's sleep on the cold wooden slats? She wouldn't do that to him. He'd slept last night with his arms around her, and it had been completely wonderful. It had also been completely innocent.

That was how they should sleep tonight—in comfort and warmth.

She lay on her side and stared at the door, awaiting Sir Colin's return.