The Highlander (13 page)

Curious, Mena asked, “How well do you know Laird Ravencroft?”

The question produced another lift of his muscular shoulder. “It's been decades since he's settled here for more than a few weeks at a time. I doona think anyone truly knows him, as he's not an easy man to be acquainted with. And it's hard to trust a man who was raised by the hand of Hamish Mackenzie. Who looks so much like him, and shares his apparent gift for … brutality.”

It was that penchant for violence that caused Mena the most concern in regard to her life here at Ravencroft.

She'd seen enough of it to fill her lifetime. Though, she supposed, thinking of Dorian Blackwell and his cohorts, of Ravencroft himself, and the many men sent off to war … She'd been exposed to less than others.

Mena spent a great deal of time not thinking about what kind of brutality might be visited upon her should her deception be exposed.

“Even still…” she murmured, more to herself than the man next to her. “He tries very hard to be a good father.”

“Aye,” Gavin agreed with a noncommittal shrug. “He does love those bairns.” With a wave of his hand, the Highlander dispelled the sense of sobriety that threatened their conversation. “It seems to me that people either adore or despise the laird, though all his clan must agree that he's brought fairness and prosperity back to Wester Ross in the short time he's been home.”

Adore him or despise him?
“Am I to assume you are in the latter camp?”

They broke the tree line and the Highlander expelled a sigh. “I doona despise the laird. Though our interactions have been … complicated,” he said cryptically.

“Yes, well, he's a complicated man.” Mena contemplated the keep and its mysterious laird for a moment until she found her hand captured in a warm grip. The heat of Gavin's skin reminded her of how wet her skirts were, and how chillier every moment became.

“Thank you for the escort.” She curtsied to him, her features relaxing into a genuine smile. “I should proceed from here alone.”

“Aye,” he agreed, his emerald eyes becoming heady and dark. “Ye're shivering, lass, and yer lips are a wee bit blue. May I give ye a kiss to keep ye warm and turn them rosy?”

Flustered, Mena squirmed away, pulling her hand from his. “Certainly not.” She'd meant to sound stern, but her smile ruined the effect. “What kind of woman do you take me for?”

He twinkled eyes full of insinuation at her, and Mena did, in fact, feel a little warmth creep from beneath the collar of her dress. “Other than an intelligent lass and a selfless savior of wee beasties, I doona ken what kind of woman ye are, only what kind of woman I was hoping ye'd be.”

His smile was devilish and handsome.

“Well.” Mena laughed a little breathlessly. “I do hate to dash your hopes, but I am a respectable lady, and do not grant my favors lightly, if at all. Now I must bid you a good afternoon and return to the keep.”

He bowed over her hand and pressed a lingering kiss there, the loose collar of his shirt exposing the impressive swells of his chest. “Good evening, then, lass.” He gestured to where the sun began to dip below the trees.

Mena turned away and wandered into the gardens, though she smiled when he called after her. “I'll be seeing ye again, English, of that ye can be certain.”

Shaking her head at his behavior, she found it impossible to repress a smile. She pressed her nose to her bouquet again and inhaled the loamy scent of the heather, mixed with the pleasant, camphorlike smell of the lavender blossoms.

The probability of another such encounter with Gavin was not just unlikely, it was imprudent. Not only was she still a married woman hiding from the high court of the queen, she was not at all looking to become embroiled with another charming, if devastatingly handsome, man.

She'd learned her lesson the first time.

Though, she had to admit, it had been rather nice to enjoy the attentions of a handsome Highlander. During the years she'd spent as a married woman, her sense of self-worth had been stripped away by means of underhanded jibes and blatant humiliation. Sometimes, the wounds produced thusly were slower to heal than bruised flesh.

It seemed to Mena that the standard of beauty up here in the verdant north was a great deal different than in London. Petite, thin, and delicate ladies had always been the draper's favorite. And though men had tended to pay Mena their more vulgar attentions, they'd always remarked unfavorably on her uncommon height … or her weight.

Gordon had been lusty and voracious at first. But that hadn't at all been pleasant. Quite the opposite, in fact. Then, as his mother and sister had done their best to craft her into the woman
they
wanted her to be, he'd turned into a cold and cruel beast.

Other men had approached her. Desired her. Her father-in-law for one, then Dr. Rosenblatt, and the late Mr. Burns. But she'd been nothing but an object to them. A pair of uncommonly large breasts with a few warm orifices attached, to use for their pleasure.

But these Highlanders … they roamed their untamed land like giants, and among them she felt like … well … like more of a
woman
than an object. A feminine creature.

She'd be lying to herself if she couldn't admit that she liked it. The afternoon's flirtation with Gavin St. James somehow felt as rare and warm as the disappearing rays of the sun. Full of impossibility, but lovely nonetheless.

Reaching the edge of the garden, she circumnavigated a thorny everblooming rosebush, and a few fading pink and burgundy blooms caught her eye. The frost was coming and these were, no doubt, the last roses she'd see this season, as Ravencroft had no hothouse.

Reaching in, she carefully plucked the roses and added them to her bundle.

She closed her eyes and enjoyed their sweet, almost ostentatious fragrance as she turned toward the keep. Perhaps once she'd changed for dinner she'd beg Mrs. Grady, the housekeeper, for a vase. Or maybe make a satchel of lavender for her pillow or to soak in the bath—

Large hands clamped around her upper arms like manacles, barely stopping her from plowing into a barrel-chest.

“Forgive me, I wasn't looking where I—”

The hands around her arms twitched with anger, or the effort it took for him to not snap her bones in two, she couldn't tell. Dark eyes flashed with wrath in the quickly fading afternoon light, and Mena blinked against the savage majesty of the Laird of Ravencroft as he glowered down at her with barely leashed hostility.

“Explain to me, Miss Lockhart, just what
the fuck
ye were doing alone in the woods with
that
man?”

 

C
HAPTER
S
IX

It was her mouth that did him in, Liam decided, as he glowered down at the startled governess held captured in his hands.

He'd spied her drifting through the gardens like a wayward flower petal, her lush lips tilting up slightly, as though the fragrance of the blooms brought a forbidden secret to mind.

Her mouth not only haunted his dreams, but also his every waking moment. And if that fucking ingrate had charmed her into letting him have a taste, Liam was going to burn Inverthorne Keep to the ground.

With Gavin St. James still inside.

After an enjoyable day out with his children, Liam was surprised to discover how much he looked forward to returning home. Because Miss Lockhart would be there, swishing about the halls of his keep in some lovely gown or other. Charming the staff, tantalizing the men, and smiling that kind but mysterious smile.

He'd anticipated that smile all bloody afternoon.

Once they'd arrived back at the keep, the lass had been disappointingly absent, and Russell had informed him that she'd been seen running into the woods alone, as though chased by the reaper.

Ravencroft was generally a safe place, but peculiar and dangerous things had occurred lately, and he didn't like the idea of a London lass in the Wester Ross woods alone. Concerned, Liam had taken it upon himself to go after her, as the hour began to grow late, and had barely set off when he'd heard the musical cadence of her laughter drift from the tree line.

She'd appeared, and not alone.

The smile in which Liam had meant to bask, she'd bestowed upon someone else. And not just anyone else, the very man who'd already betrayed him once before.

A familiar rage ignited inside him. Liam grasped onto that anger with both hands, calling forth the demon that had been forged in the inferno of his fury. It smothered the pain and suspicion with arrogance and superiority. He couldn't allow himself to notice the soft give of her flesh beneath his rough hands as he held her. Nor could he glance down to see the wet skirts clinging to her legs, outlining every lush curve of her voluptuous body.

“Answer me, woman,” he growled. The image of her rolling beneath Gavin St. James in the waves sent a shock of murderous rage through him that lit his blood aflame. “What the bloody hell were ye doing in the forest with
him
?”

“I—I took a walk by the sea.” Her eyes searched for anywhere to land but his. “A pup almost drowned and I waded out to save it for poor Trixie, and Mr. St. James was likewise looking for his dog and he offered to escort me home and—um…” The words tumbled out of her in desperate chaos bereft of any of her characteristic eloquence.

“It is
dangerous
to lie to me,” he roared, giving her a firm shake.

Instead of offering more excuses, as he'd expected, the woman blanched a ghostly shade, and moisture welled to the rim of her lids as angst tightened her soft skin against her lovely features.

Confronted by what seemed to be guilt, Liam felt physically ill. “Is this how you conduct yourself? The second ye're left alone, you run off to whore in the woods with a known scoundrel?”

Her chin snapped up, and her eyes locked onto his, brimming with something other than tears, something he'd never expected to see from such a timid creature.

Fearless defiance.

It turned her irises an intense shade of azure-green and flashed at him with the strength of a sea storm, as though she were Calypso herself readying to unleash her wrath.

“You
will
unhand me, sir.” She whispered the order, softly,
slowly,
as she twisted in his grip in such a way that Liam knew it would cause her pain if he didn't let go.

So he released her, though his hands curled at his sides, aching with a sense of loss. With the need to touch her again.

She took a step backward, then another, brandishing her bouquet like a shield as her features became harder and colder with each careful retreat.

Conflicted, provoked, angry, and bemused, Liam advanced, which seemed to fuel her hostility.

“How dare you?” she spat, her voice almost a whisper, and somehow carrying the weight of a Viking's cudgel. “How
dare
you cast such unfounded aspersions at me when I have given you no reason to draw such dreadful conclusions?”

Liam summoned his indignation to smother the shame he felt at handling her roughly. “What other conclusions do ye expect me to draw, Miss Lockhart?”

“Perhaps you should gather information before making wild and ridiculous accusations. Before calling me a
whore
.”

Would that she were a whore rather than a governess.

The errant wish shocked Liam so thoroughly that his next words escaped more harshly than intended. “Do ye deny that any of yer pretty London lords and ladies wouldn't suspect the same after witnessing such behavior?”

“Wasn't it
you
who informed me you were different than they are?” she accused.

Liam blinked, momentarily speechless. No one dared to speak to him like this, not in decades. He'd thought this wee lass a timid English mouse. And though her heart-shaped face was leached of color, her eyes burned with a lovely jade fire, fueled by her defensive indignation.

“Mr. St. James treated me with more respectful deference and gentlemanly conduct than you have since the day I arrived at your keep,
my laird,
and
he
kept his hands to himself.”

“How do I know that?”

She'd looked so guilty when he'd accused her of being a liar.

“You have my word as a lady.”

“I trust no one's word.” Besides, she was no lady. Merely a governess.

“That's no fault of mine,” she quipped. “What was it Shakespeare said? ‘Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind.'”

Liam's head snapped to the side, as though she'd slapped him. He couldn't look at her for a moment, couldn't see the fire in her eyes match the heat burning inside of him.

He'd not be responsible for what he would do next.

Gritting his teeth against his conflicting emotions, he pressed forward, forcing her to step back again, retreating toward the walls of the keep. His demon temper wanted her cornered. Wanted her helpless and trembling before him.

He wanted her to beg. Wanted her to
kneel
. He. Wanted …

Her
.

Beneath him. Above him. He didn't care. The thought of her with another man, with
that
man, caused his Mackenzie blood to simmer with dominance.

For such an intelligent lass, she wasn't smart enough to fear him. He needed to change that, for her own good.

He was a monster, after all. A demon. And it was best for all involved that she stay out of his way.

Though … hadn't he sought her out?

Pushing that troubling thought to the side, he gave her the look that had sent the most powerful of men to their knees. “If ye wish to retain yer position here, or if ye want Mr. St. James to live with his hands
attached
to his wrists, ye'll make certain they stay away from yer person. I'll not have ye keep company with the likes of him.”