The Highlander (39 page)

A blush crept above the high collar of her gown as she recalled the conversation they'd had before their frenzied interlude in the rail car. He not only reminded her of the uncontrolled passion they shared, but also of her admission.

She'd fallen for him. Fallen in
love
with him.

What does he feel for me?
she wondered. Desire, of course, and perhaps a bit of protective tenderness. But could his emotions possibly resemble the depth of her own?

“Aye,” Andrew chuffed. “Only Miss Lockhart can speak to ye like that.” His eyes, a shade paler than his father's, glimmered with mischievous meaning, and Mena knew her color only intensified.

“Well,” she said with an overabundance of cheer. “Let's do go see what the footmen are doing about our luggage.” Threading her arm through Rhianna's, she bustled toward the growing pile of baggage on the platform, purposely not making eye contact with the wicked marquess. Every time she looked at him, her belly quivered. She knew how tender that hard mouth could feel on almost every inch of her body now. How one would assume his large hands to be brutish and unwieldy, but they could coax such unimaginable pleasure with their surprisingly deft touch.

She'd tasted the barbarian beneath the fine suit, and that knowledge caused her most secret muscles to clench with delight. Though she'd learned to live a lie, she'd never quite mastered the art of deception, and the children were obviously picking up on the thread of heat between her and their father.

They'd have to be more careful until the future could be discussed.

“Where's Uncle Thorne and Russell?” Andrew queried, trailing behind them.

“They had some … family business to attend.” Mena noted the slight change of Liam's tone as it lost its cheer. “In fact, I must join them once ye're on yer way to yer grandmother's.”

“Are ye coming with us, Jani, or are ye going with Father?” Rhianna asked as they threaded their way through the dispersing crowd. Theirs was the last train from Scotland to arrive, and this close to supper, Mena couldn't imagine many other departures.

“There is business I must attend with the marquess after I see to your things,” Jani said, a dark shadow of sadness settled over his dusky skin.

Mena reached for him covertly, and gave his arm a reassuring squeeze.

“They
do
have vendors,” Andrew exclaimed, pointing toward a steaming cart of what appeared to be candied nuts and caramel-dipped autumn fruits.

“Oh, Papa, please say we can have some!” Rhianna begged.

Fishing coins from his jacket, Liam motioned to a footman. “All right,” he said indulgently. “Ross will take ye to the vendor and conduct ye to Lady Eloise whilst I see to a few things. I'll be joining ye shortly.”

The press of bodies gave them an excellent excuse to stand close to each other, and Mena enjoyed Liam's proximity while they watched after his children as they bounded through the crowd like frolicking deer.

“Do you remember being so young?” she asked, feeling a little wistful. “When the world held such excitement and curiosity, when everything seemed so possible and wondrous and the days were endlessly carefree.”

Liam's hand covertly caressed the small of her back, and though he stood behind her, Mena didn't have to see his face to understand the meaning in his touch. “I never experienced such things as a youth, didna understand what those words meant; though … I'm beginning to now.” His words brought tears to her eyes that had nothing to do with steam or coal smoke. There was such yearning in his touch, so much gentle reverence in his voice that her heart crested with hope. She wanted to be the reason the second half of his life was carefree. She wanted to give him the peace and comfort he so ardently deserved.

She wanted a future that was patently impossible.

The baggage car sat between the locomotive and the passenger cars. Rail workers unloaded trunks, bags, crates, and boxes of various sizes while passengers handed tickets to the baggage employees to retrieve their things. Jani had taken their tickets and the other accompanying footman to the baggage line.

Even though the crowd of people had begun to disperse, Mena found the bustle a bit oppressive. It surprised her how accustomed she'd become to the remote and bucolic paradise that was Wester Ross. Certainly it lacked the convenience and diversions of the city, but it also lacked the dangers, the cloying smells, the ceaseless noises, and the endless stretches of stone and steam and winter pall of coal smoke.

Mena loved some things about London, but all she could think of now was how unhappy her life had been here. She'd grown up in the country with wood fires instead of coal, with open spaces and sweet-smelling grasses, emerald fields, and stone fences. She felt at home amongst those things.

Here she was a visitor, and it had ever been thus.

“They're waiting to offload Hamish until the authorities arrive.” Liam sighed as Mena turned toward him and caught the baleful look he cast toward the train. “I have to remain to see him off and may be yet a while. Go to the portico and take the carriage that awaits Rhianna and Andrew.”

Suddenly struck by uneasy anxiety, Mena also regarded the train with distaste. “I hate to leave you to deal with this all on your own,” she fretted. “What if something … goes amiss?”

Liam leaned down until his warm breath caressed her ear, and sent shivers of awareness skittering along her skin, heedless of anyone who might see his actions as untoward or inappropriate. “Ye are eternally sweet, Mena mine,” he murmured tenderly. “But between Russell, Gavin, and me, not to mention the officers they're sending to retrieve him, Hamish willna have an opportunity to cause trouble. Besides, if something dangerous were to happen, I'd not like ye or my children anywhere near.”

Mena turned her head slightly toward him, pressing her cheek against his before pulling away. “Very well.” She smiled up into the features that had become more precious than any she'd known. It amazed her how much trust and tenderness she could feel for such a big and brutish Highlander. Millicent LeCour's words filtered back to her from the last morning she'd spent in London.

Sometimes … the safest place to be is at the side of a violent man.

She hadn't truly understood the actress at the time. In fact, she'd wondered if the woman had fooled herself into believing that, because her own fiancé was the very cold, very lethal Christopher Argent. The man who'd snapped Mr. Burns's neck right in front of her as though he'd done so a million times.

Mena understood now. It didn't get more violent than the Demon Highlander, and she'd never felt more secure in her life than when she was by his side. The power and prowess that used to frighten her had, indeed, become her sanctuary.

“Promise me you'll be careful,” she admonished, putting a staying hand on his arm before she could stop herself. “I have this terrible feeling. We've only just … there's so much to say … and I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you.”

Liam turned his head and looked away from her, his features tightening, his jaw working and flexing, and the vein at his temple pulsed like it did when he was trying to hide displeasure. When his gaze met hers again, Mena's heart stopped. A suspicious and shocking gloss shimmered in his dark eyes before he blinked it away.

“Are you all right?” she asked alertly.

He didn't speak for a long time, instead staring at the her hand, still clutching his suitcoat. “It is a new experience for me to part with someone knowing that they might … wish me to return.”

Her own eyes, already misted with emotion now welled with it. “I not only wish for your return, I do not wish us to be parted in the first place.”

His smile was uncharacteristically charming, and a new softness found its way into his hard eyes. “I will hurry as fast as I am able.” He reached for her hand and kissed it over the glove. “While still taking the utmost care.”

“See that you do,” she said primly, adopting a very governesslike expression. “I'll not be disobeyed.”

Heat simmered away any vestiges of vulnerability and Mena feared he'd melt her into a puddle of lust right in the middle of the Euston Station platform. “Tonight, lass, I'll be yers to command.”

Flustered, she turned from him with a lightness in her step and a glow in her heart she didn't think anything could extinguish. The children were no longer at the vending cart, nor could she see them in the milling crowd, so she headed in the direction of the portico toward the carriages, hoping they hadn't already left for Lady Eloise's. Though, if they had, that might give her time to stop by Farah's home and commiserate with her about—

A hand clamped down on Mena's wrist and nearly jerked her off her feet. Her scream was lost in the tinny whistle of a locomotive.

 

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-
TWO

“I've got 'er!” a wiry, unfamiliar man crowed from beneath a grimy hat. His clawlike fingers bit into Mena's arm as she struggled to free herself. “I've got the viscountess!”

A cold fear Mena had never before experienced speared her chest as five men detached from where they stood posted next to every exit to the platform, and began to hurry in their direction. They were dressed to blend with the crowd in plain clothing, but each of them had the demeanor of hired muscle. Two of them brandished clubs and one swung irons much like the ones she'd been subjected to in Belle Glen.

Somehow, they'd found her. They'd
known
that Philomena St. Vincent, Viscountess Benchley, was going to arrive on a train at Euston Station today.

How?

This couldn't be happening.

“Let me go!” she cried, twisting in the thin man's surprisingly strong grip.

By the time Mena processed that the sickening snap she heard before the thin man's scream was his arm breaking, Liam had already planted a knee in her assailant's face with such force, blood exploded onto the white stone floor and sullied Liam's fine gray trousers.

He didn't seem to notice, let alone care. He thrust her behind him, turning to face the others, who sprinted toward them now.

Mena would have thought that the first one to reach them was a big bruiser if he hadn't been advancing on someone the size of Liam Mackenzie. Running at full speed, the man raised his club and prepared a vicious and dangerous swing at Liam's head.

Liam never let him get close enough. He lifted his boot and drove it into the man's chest with such force, the bruiser seemed to collapse around it, folding in on himself. Liam finished him with an uppercut that sent more blood flinging into the air, and somehow he ended up with the man's club.

Chaos erupted after a breathless moment of pure shock. Screaming travelers scattered through the pillars of the portico and spilled onto Drummond Street, or they retreated to the stairs leading to the great hall to avoid the violence.

Mena wanted to lose herself within their ranks. With sickening, detached clarity she knew her ruse was at an end. Even if Liam managed to defeat all these men, there would be questions. Ones she'd have no choice but to answer.

But she couldn't bring herself to run. Didn't take the moment to escape, because the true sight of the Demon Highlander pinned her feet to the ground in pure, unmitigated awe.

Realizing the threat he posed, the three advancing men began to fan out and attempt to flank him, one with a club, one brandishing a pistol, and the other swinging the irons like a mace.

Liam took no time to consider his enemy or formulate a plan. True to his reputation, he lunged forward, an animal of pure aggression and predatory rage. Fearless. Flawless.

And furious.

He didn't seem to hear the screams of the people around him, nor did he note those who may have been in his way. He merely charged forward with all the power of a Spanish bull.

Dropping his shoulder as he reached his first quarry, Liam drove it into the man's chest with enough force to lift him from his feet. Using the momentum, he flung the man up and over his shoulder like a rag doll and dropped him on his back. Turning, Liam stomped the sprawled man very low in the ribs, doubtless breaking a few, before scooping up a second club.

A terrible smile pulled that hard mouth away from his teeth in a wolfish snarl before he turned for the two men only now rounding a small mountain of luggage heaped onto the platform.

Jani and the footman ducked behind the luggage before Liam advanced, striking his two clubs against each other to make ready.

The one with the pistol aimed at Liam's enormous chest and fired. He got two rounds off before Liam reached him and struck him on the face with his club. The pistol clattered to the platform as the man's head jerked to the side with such speed, Mena feared his neck had broken.

After two more swings of Liam's clubs, the irons went flying end over end across the floor right before the man holding them did the same thing in an eerily similar fashion.

The Demon Highlander hadn't a scratch on him. Not one drop of blood was his own. How was that even possible?

It was Mena's scream of pain as a hand wound into her hair that stopped Liam short. He whirled around, and roared as she was brandished once again as a shield against him.

Mena's captor didn't have to speak for her to recognize him. This grip she knew. This man she feared.

This moment marked the end of all hope.

“How kind you are, Lord Ravencroft, to bring back my missing wife.”

She noted the moment the singular word permeated the haze of crimson violence surrounding Liam.

Wife.

Heedless of the blood of his enemies staining his clothes, Liam drew himself up to a regimental stance, long and wide, and undeniably commanding.

“Ye
will
take yer hands off her,” he commanded in the voice that sent many a hardened soldier scurrying to do his bidding. “And then ye'll tell me who the fuck ye think ye are.”