The Highlander (22 page)

Judging by the wrath glittering in Ravencroft's obsidian eyes, she applauded Lord Thorne's decision.

Knuckles white on the banister and a vein pulsing above his flexed jaw, the marquess captured her attention with his furious glare. He said nothing, but scrutinized her features as if searching for the answer to a question he dare not ask.

Mena watched in fascination as a narrow spectrum of emotion played across his savage expression. Irritation, suspicion, fury, and … bleak misery?

The last one caused her no small amount of confusion and distress.

“My laird, I—”

“Doona I pay ye to spend yer days with my children, Miss Lockhart?” The insinuation that she shirked her duties stung.

Dumbfounded, she could do little but nod.

“Well, then,” he clipped, and dismissed her by descending the rest of the stairs two at a time, as though one didn't pose enough of a challenge for his long stride.

Mena couldn't bring herself to move until she started at the slam of a door.

*   *   *

For the first time in as long as she could remember, Mena couldn't bring herself to eat. Stomach churning with nerves, she kept glancing toward the obsequious Earl of Thorne who insisted on saying something flirtatious every couple of minutes. Then she'd peek at the ominously silent marquess, whose glare gathered more dark fire with every refill of his whisky glass.

The aroma of parsnip and leek soup with white fish in a cream sauce tempted her appetite, but Mena could hardly look at it without feeling ill. Not only was she nervous about this strange dynamic between her and the two Mackenzie brothers, but Andrew was perched on her right squirming with apprehension about whether Lord Thorne would bring up the puppy.

Everyone, it seemed, was wound tight as a bowstring. The sound of the rain lashing against the windows and the clink of fine silver were the only sounds that permeated the uneasy silence that settled around the room like a thick blanket.

Only Rhianna ate with vigor, oblivious to the tension around her as she sat across from Russell, who watched everyone very carefully, obviously trying to ascertain just what he was missing.

“Uncle Gavin,” Rhianna asked once her initial hunger had been sated and she slowed to allow conversation. “Did ye meet any refined, available ladies whilst in London?”

The earl smiled indulgently at his niece. “None I'd consider making a countess.” He wiped at his mouth with a napkin and revealed an impish smile that intensified the sparkle in his eye. “And none so refined as your Miss Lockhart, here.”

“Miss Lockhart is
most
sophisticated,” Rhianna readily agreed. “She's the first governess who ever
made
Andrew read.” She elbowed her brother sharply.

“She's not
making
me read, Rhianna,” Andrew argued, though he looked up at Mena with heart-melting admiration. “She just made me want to. We have an agreement.”

“A distinguished governess, to be sure,” Lord Thorne murmured. “Though she wasna so refined the first time I met her.”

“You didna mention meeting Uncle Gavin before,” Rhianna exclaimed, unaware of the supreme interest the conversation had garnered from all other occupants of the table. “When were ye two introduced?”

Had Mena been eating, she would have choked. She implored the unrepentant earl with her eyes, not even daring to glance toward the head of the table.

Her discomfiture only seemed to encourage the scoundrel. “I happened upon the lass exploring the Kinross Cove. She swam halfway out to sea like she'd done it a million times before, her skirts hiked to her knees, to save yer wee—”

“I didn't mention it because I didn't know he was your uncle at the time, and I thought it of
little
consequence.” Mena interrupted what might have been a reveal about the puppy. This was what came of deceit. A stomach full of guilt and a heart full of lead. She never should have allowed herself to be talked into it. If she could survive tonight, it would all be over in the morning.

Mena glared a warning at him, hoping it would work better than a plea. What in the devil did he think he was doing? Did he not understand that her position depended on the appearance of virtue and respectability?

“It wasna of little consequence to me.” He slanted her his own look full of meaning. “I very much enjoyed escorting her home. Yer governess is as witty and entertaining as she is lovely.”

“Ye should hear her read,” Andrew agreed. “She entertains us all the time.”

The child was an absolute angel.

“Aye, and she's taught me to waltz,” Rhianna added, not to be outdone.

“Everyone here at Ravencroft agrees that Miss Lockhart is an excellent and bonny addition to the staff.” Russell joined the conversation, his beard splitting into a ruddy smile. “It's good for us Highland heathens to see what real manners are like, eh, Laird?”

Mena gathered the fortitude to look at her employer and instantly wished she hadn't. Ravencroft sat stock-still, a knife in one hand and his fork in another, a bite frozen halfway to his mouth. He glared at his brother, black eyes glittering with malevolence.

“You are all too kind,” Mena said in a breathless rush.

“Ye must tell me when ye are planning to take another swim in the sea, Miss Lockhart,” the earl said with no small amount of insinuation.

Ravencroft's utensils clattered to his plate.

“Yes, and ye must take us with ye!” Rhianna insisted with palpable eagerness. “Ye can teach me how to swim.”

Mena also had to set down her fork lest everyone see how her hands trembled. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been so distressed by a simple dinner since her days at Benchley Court. “The weather will be much too cold for swimming for some time.” Calling upon her so-called refinement, she turned to a universally accepted topic for salvation. “Russell, is the climate in this part of Scotland always so unpredictable in the autumn?”

“I'm afraid so,” Russell answered slowly, seeming as relieved for the change of topic as she was. He studied the mottled red beginning to journey up from beneath Ravencroft's collar with russet brows drawn low before turning to address her. “It'll frost before long, but I hope the rain shadow of the Isle of Skye clears things up around Samhain as it's like to do.”

“Samhain?” Mena asked.

“My favorite festival of the entire year.” Rhianna said, sighing.

“Aye,” Andrew agreed, his features the most animated Mena had ever seen them. “When the spirits of the dead rise to cause mischief and we call the Druid spells to keep the demons away.”

“Likely known to ye as All Hallows' Eve,” Lord Thorne supplied helpfully.

“There's a festival, you say?” Mena queried.

“It marks the end of the harvest, distillery work, and sowing of the winter crop,” Russell explained. “We open an old cask of whisky or two for all the Mackenzie of Wester Ross and a few visiting clans and their lairds, and have a feast and ritual.”

“There's dancing and games!” Rhianna almost knocked over her glass in exaltation.

“And we sacrifice animals over bonfires,” Andrew chimed in.

“More of a roast and feast, than an actual sacrifice,” Russell corrected with a smirk.

Mena smiled for what seemed like the first time that evening. “Sounds delightful. I am so looking forward to my first Samhain in the Highlands.”

“Ye'll have to save a dance for me, English,” Thorne said around a bite, offering her that cheeky smile of his. “Perhaps I'll teach ye a thing or two.”

Ravencroft planted his fists on the table with enough force to rattle the china, causing everyone to jump. His chair made a sharp, grating sound as he stood and advanced around the table toward Thorne.

“A word,” he gritted out as he grabbed his younger brother by the shoulder and all but hauled him out of his seat.

Thorne's smile barely faltered as he partly walked and was partly dragged toward the door by a furious Ravencroft. “Excuse us for a moment,” he called jovially as they disappeared into the shadows of the hall.

Mena blinked profusely in sheer astonishment before Russell rushed to comfort her. “Doona worry, lass. The earl is always trying to get under the laird's skin. Been that way since they were lads.”

“Oh?” Mena smoothed her hands over her waist and sat straighter in her chair. She found the entire exchange quite vexing. In fact, she didn't know if she'd ever feel steady again. Not until she put this to rest with both the Laird Mackenzie and Lord Thorne.

“Miss Lockhart.” Andrew put his hand over hers. “I'd like to be excused. I doona feel well.” He gestured with his eyes to his room.

Rune would need to be let out before bed, and now was a perfect time. “All right, Andrew. I'll accompany you.”

She said good night to Rhianna with a kiss on the cheek, and then excused herself from Russell's company.

“You
must
tell him,” she fervently reminded Andrew once again as they found themselves alone in the hall. “Or I'm going to have to.”

“I will, I promise, but I think it's best to wait until the morning.” Andrew gallantly offered his arm at the base of the back stairs and escorted her up. “Miss Lockhart, do ye know why my father would be so angry with Uncle Gavin over what he said?”

She truly didn't understand what it was Ravencroft wanted from her. What he saw in her. Why he would be … be what? Jealous? Surely he could see that she didn't return the Earl of Thorne's flirtations.

“I can't imagine,” she murmured.

Andrew flicked her a perceptive look from beneath his lashes and his slash of a mouth quirked up just a little. “I can.”

 

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

Liam stopped short of shoving his brother into his study, and he slammed the door behind him. His hands shook with dark needs and murderous impulses. Fury sizzled through his blood, riding the waves of the whisky he'd downed at dinner to keep from hurling his knife across the table at Thorne.

Pacing the room, he wrestled with the seething beast clawing its way through him. The study was too small. Why had he chosen to do this here?
Oh aye,
because this was the only room that didn't carry the essence of
that
woman. She'd never been in here. Never left her sweet floral scent to invoke the enticing memory of her skin.

God,
he felt as though he'd truly been possessed. A great number of the deadly sins surged within him and fought for supremacy when it came to Mena. Pride, envy, greed, lust. And at the moment …
wrath
.

He couldn't even bring himself to look at his vainglorious brother for fear of what he would do. Gavin St. James was handsome in that disarming way the lasses melted for. He'd always been thus. Every time Liam looked at his brother, he imagined Mena Lockhart pressed against him.

Was that why she'd run from Liam after he'd kissed her? Why she had avoided him after that day in the chapel? Why she seemed so guilty and secretive tonight, as if she were frightened of discovery?

Was there something between his brother and his governess? Was he being lied to?

Again?

“Did ye fuck her in the woods, Thorne?” He posited the question in such a low register, he wasn't even certain he'd heard
himself
correctly.

“What?”

“My governess, ye daft bastard, did ye put yer sullied hands on her?” he thundered. Had he tasted of her sweetness? Did her lips part for his plunder as they had for Liam's? He
had
to know, even if the knowledge might just push him past the edge of his own sanity.

“Technically I'm legitimate, so not a bastard in the truest sense of the word.” The laconic flippancy in Thorne's tone lit fire to the alcohol already in Liam's veins.

“Stop saying nonsense to sound clever,” he barked.

“I doona know, brother, ye should try it sometime.”

Liam spun around. Thorne still hadn't wiped that sly smirk away from his mouth. Though when Liam took a step forward, the smile quickly died.

“Mark me, Gavin, I will rip yer spine out through yer throat and not feel a thing—”

“All right.” The earl put his hands up in a gesture of surrender, knowing that when Liam used his real name, he'd hit his mark. “Nay, I left the woman as untouched as I found her, I promise ye.”

Liam leaned in; his generally uncanny ability to identify a lie with abject clarity had somehow become maddeningly obscure. “Then why talk to her like ye made her yer mistress in
my
house, at
my
table?” he demanded through clenched teeth.

Thorne's shrug was meant to be conciliatory. “I was flirting is all, Liam. I'm a wee sweet on the lass. She's a bonny lady with a pair of tits I'm not like to get a chance to—”

Liam seized two handfuls of his brother's suit and nigh yanked the man off his feet. “Open yer filthy gob about her again and I'll see yer guts spilled on the flagstones.”

Thorne's verdant eyes widened, not just with fear, but with disbelief. “Ye want her,” he marveled.

“Haud yer wheesht.”
Releasing him roughly enough to make his brother stumble, Liam turned to his desk, trying his best to slow the frantic hammering of his heart.

“My
God,
Liam. After all this time of self-imposed isolation, ye're hard for the
governess
?”

“I said.
Haud. Yer. Wheesht!
” Unable to stand it, Liam lashed at the closest thing he could get his hands on. A sheaf of papers, their brass paperweight, and a box of writing implements flew into the bookcase behind the desk and clattered to the ground in chaotic disarray. Struggling to fill his lungs beneath the pressure tightening about his ribs like a vise, Liam stalked to the sideboard and grappled with the stopper in the decanter while looking for a glass big enough for his desperate thirst.