Highland Awakening (3 page)

Four of the Highland Knights sat in the drawing room of their headquarters in London. George Fraser had just helped Cam dress for the evening while Sir Ewan Ross and their leader, Major Campbell, sat across the way from them. Under his mop of red hair, Ross grinned at Cam, while the major, entirely disinterested, read today's issue of the
Times.

Scowling, Cam swung his arms back and forth. The damned tailcoat was so tight, the seams strained with every movement.

Ross smirked at him and took a deep swallow from his glass of whisky before commenting, “Feeling a wee bit constricted?”

Cam made a growling noise. “How the hell can I draw my weapon quickly in this thing? And, by God, these pantaloons are crushing my bollocks to a pulp.” This was why he, and the rest of the Knights, preferred their kilts. He'd never understand the English and their need for confinement.

He could use a hearty glass of whisky, too, but he'd abstained. He needed his senses somewhat sharp tonight—it was a remote possibility that one of the men who posed a danger to Pinfield might be present at this party.

The major looked over the top of the newspaper he was reading. His sharp eyes gave Cam a thorough once-over, then he shrugged. “Tear the seam if you need to move quickly,” he advised.

Fraser, who had become the most fashion conscious of the group, gasped. “Nay! If you'll be needing to choose between the saving the coat and saving Pinfield, for Christ's sake, man, save the coat. D'you ken how much it cost us?”

Cam rolled his eyes. Fraser had taken responsibility for Cam's wardrobe tonight, because he said Cam couldn't be bothered to look respectable in the presence of such esteemed company.

And he was right. Cam didn't give a damn what princes and dukes thought about his appearance. He didn't care if society whispered that he was a slovenly cur.

However, unfortunate as it was, Cam was the son and heir of an earl, and tonight he needed to look the part.

“Anyhow,” Fraser said, “your coat and pantaloons are too tight. There's nowhere to put your pistol without it looking obvious.”

Cam gave Fraser a “what the hell?” look. “How am I to be protecting Pinfield without a weapon?”

“Bring your
sgian dubh,
” Fraser suggested.

Cam crossed his arms, feeling the wool of the coat tighten over the backs of his shoulders in complaint. “I'm to fend off unknown numbers of murderous insurgents with a three-inch blade?” he asked archly. “I ken you have great respect for my prowess in battle, but—”

“Take a pocket pistol,” Ross said.

Fraser shook his head. “Even a wee pocket pistol will destroy the lines of the fab—”

Cam narrowed his eyes. “Do you have yours?”

The major's dry voice came from behind the newspaper. “O' course he does. You ken he never goes anywhere without it.”

Cam held out his hand. “Hand it over, then. Consider it repayment for making me spend the evening with a group of pompous asses.”

“Pompous
English
asses,” Ross agreed.

“Aye. The worst kind,” Cam said.

With a deep sigh, Fraser pulled the pocket pistol from his coat and handed it over. “Only for tonight, and only because I'll be taking the night off. I want it back in the morning.”

Cam's lips twitched. “Canna stand to spend a night away from your beloved?”

Fraser wasn't amused. “That weapon has given me more comfort than any lass ever has. So treat her well.”

Cam stroked the butt of the tiny pistol with his thumb. It couldn't have been longer than four or five inches—it fit nicely in the palm of his hand. “Mmm, sleek as a lass's arse…I can see why you derive such comfort from it. But satisfaction?”

Giving the gun a dubious look, he turned it over in his hands. Because while he could understand how this weapon might provide comfort, it would offer none of the kind of comfort of the woman he'd held in his arms last night.

Esme.
He hadn't been able to stop thinking about her. All day, she had encroached on his every thought, his every conversation.

Fraser raised a brow. “Satisfaction is purely physical, my friend. And I dinna need to seek it out; it comes to me.”

“Tonight, hopefully, it'll come to us both,” Ross said.

“Oh?” Cam asked. “Where are you off to while I languish in purgatory with the dullest of the dull?”

Ross flashed a grin. “Oscar Rohan's opened a new gaming hell in Covent Garden.”

Fraser nodded. “We're going to go see what they have to offer.”

“Gaming hells usually aren't populated by lasses,” Cam reminded them.

“This one is,” Ross told him. “Not only are the lasses allowed to play, but all the employees are female—selected by Rohan for their ‘beauty and grace.' ”

Cam whistled through his teeth. “Now there's something I'd like to see.”

Not as much as he'd like to see the mysterious Miss Esme again, though. And he
would
see her again. He'd find her, and he'd learn more about her.

He wanted her, and Cam always found a way to get what he wanted.
Always.

The major glanced over his newspaper again to give Cam a pointed look. “It's almost eight o'clock. Time for you to go, McLeod.”

Cam released a sigh. He wouldn't be going to a gaming hell tonight. Nor would he be returning to Mrs. Trickelbank's establishment to find Esme—that would have to wait for another day.

Instead, he was going to play nursemaid to a pompous lord in a group of tedious aristocrats.

He tucked the pocket pistol into his coat pocket. It produced the smallest of bulges, though it was large enough to make Fraser groan.

Cam shrugged and clapped Fraser on the shoulder. “There's naught to be done about it. I'll not be going without a weapon.”

“Right,” Fraser grumbled.

Cam paused, an unsettling feeling coming over him all of a sudden, then he squeezed Fraser's shoulder a little harder before releasing him. “Have a good night, then.”

Fraser nodded. “I intend to.”

Cam bade Ross and the major farewell and went upstairs to tuck his
sgian dubh
into his stocking. As he walked out of his bedchamber, he cast a longing look at his dirk and pistol lying side by side on his bed. He rarely went anywhere without his two weapons, but tonight the
sgian dubh
and the pocket pistol would have to do.

He arrived at Pinfield's house by hackney fifteen minutes later. Another Highland Knight, Sir Andrew Innes, answered Pinfield's door. Innes had been assigned the task of keeping Pinfield safe in the daytime this week. When he saw it was Cam at the door, Innes released a sigh and pushed a relieved hand through his blond hair. “He's been a pain in the arse today,” he said in a low voice. “Good luck.”

Cam made a disgruntled noise. All he needed was for the usually disagreeable Pinfield to be even more intolerable.

“There you are!” Pinfield screeched, rushing down the corridor toward the entry hall. “You are late!”

Cam stepped aside to allow the stout man passage into the hall. “Sorry,” he said mildly, even though he was right on time.

Pinfield turned on Innes. “Is my carriage ready?”

“Aye, sir,” Innes said. “It'll be awaiting you in the front.”

Pinfield didn't answer—just walked through the open doorway and stomped outside. Innes raised a commiserating brow at Cam before Cam followed the viscount.

Pinfield stopped just outside the carriage door, waiting for someone to open it for him. He couldn't deign to open a damned door. This kind of pomposity so often exhibited by men and women of his class irritated the hell out of Cam.

Before the coachman could climb down, secure the horses, and do the deed, Cam wrenched the door open. He gave Pinfield a mocking bow. “After you, sir.”

Pinfield was far too dense to pick up on the sarcasm in Cam's voice. He lumbered into the carriage.

Thank God the ride wasn't long. He only had to endure the cloying scents of Pinfield's flowery perfume and pomade for just a few minutes as they rode to St. James. As they approached the house, the row of gaslights lining its front casting golden beams over the street, Pinfield turned his beady gaze on Cam. “Keep your distance tonight, McLeod. I don't want you hovering.”

Despite the heavy wave of annoyance that crashed over him, Cam gave the other man a pleasant smile. “I've checked into everyone in attendance tonight. I dinna think there'll be any problems. I'll be close if you need me.”

Pinfield rolled his eyes. “Your little group is far too heavy-handed. This is an intimate gathering. You shouldn't feel the need to attend at all.”

“What you consider heavy-handed is us performing our duties how we know best.”

Pinfield began to argue, but just that moment the coachman opened his door. Thankfully, the man shut up and slid his bulk out of the carriage.

Cam followed Pinfield into the house, which was crowded with people and bright with the lights of hundreds of candles. They were ushered into the drawing room, where guests were enjoying pre-dinner refreshments.

Cam stood well behind Pinfield, whose mood had turned jolly as he hailed people by name. Cam had separated himself from this world a long time ago, so he didn't recognize very many of the men and women in attendance. But they were glittering and stylish, and just as stiff and dull as he remembered them to be.

It was going to be a long night.

As Cam watched Pinfield exchange a hearty, beaming handshake with a man he didn't know, he clasped his hands behind his back. The weight of the pistol in his pocket was comforting, but not as heavy—nor as comforting—as his regular pistol would be. His eyes scanned the crowd in the opulent dining room. Nothing looked ominous; everyone looked just as he expected. He almost wished he could sense
something
malevolent—the promise of danger would keep him alert instead of miserably bored.

“I know you! It's McLeod, isn't it?”

Cam turned around, brow raised. The voice was familiar, and when his gaze landed on the other man, he did indeed recognize him. Henry Whitworth. Henry had been in Cam's year at Eton, though the two had never been friends—Cam had been a hell-raiser, while Henry was a model student.

A dark-haired woman stood beside him in a shimmering silver dress, and something about her posture made Cam's gaze snap to her.

Esme.

He stared.

Her arm was linked with Whitworth's, and Cam's mind scrambled, unable to wrap his head around the sight. The woman he'd kissed so passionately last night, who he hadn't been able to stop thinking about today. Standing here, amongst these people. Touching Henry Whitworth.

It made no sense. No sense at all.

It didn't to her, either, clearly. She had gone pale, all color completely drained from those cheeks that had been so flushed and pink last night. She seemed to sway a little on her feet.

As if from a great distance, Cam heard Whitworth's voice.

“Have you two met?”

Neither of them spoke.

Whitworth waited a moment, then he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Mr. Camden McLeod,” he said, “allow me to introduce you to my fiancée, Lady Esme Hawkins.”

The world around Esme faded into a confused blur. She had panicked; indeed, she had nearly fainted when Mr. McLeod had turned around. Her gaze had clashed with his, and she'd stared. He'd stared back. Both of them were frozen in place, staring, for seconds that seemed to tick on for hours.

Her life was in this man's hands. He could ruin her, disgrace her family. He had all the power. And it was her fault.

She swayed. Black spots swarmed in her vision. Around the spots, she stared up at McLeod. He was still unbelievably handsome, even though he wasn't wearing the kilt she'd found so appealing at Mrs. Trickelbank's. Power, strength, and confidence radiated from him.

He reached out and took hold of her upper arm. “Are you all right, milady?”

She blinked hard. He'd recovered, she realized. But she hadn't. Not yet.

Perhaps she never would.

With great effort, she swung her head to Henry. He gazed at her, his brow furrowed in mild concern. “Do you feel faint, Esme?”

She managed a small nod.

“She needs air,” Mr. McLeod said. “Best get her outside.”

“Excellent idea,” Henry said. “We'll catch up later, eh, old chap?”

“Aye.” Mr. McLeod spoke to Henry, but Esme felt those icy-hot eyes on her. Burning into her. She turned to face him. She parted her lips. She needed to say something…but what? She couldn't beg him to pretend as if he'd never seen her before, not in front of all these witnesses.

She had…nothing. No words. She simply gaped at him like a landed fish. Remotely, she felt Henry tugging on her arm. It was irritating, and she almost yanked her arm away before she remembered where she was and what was happening. He was taking her outside. For air.

McLeod was right. She needed air. It was a very good idea.

Dragging her gaze away from him, she allowed Henry to tug her along. They weaved through people, some of them speaking to them, but she couldn't hear a thing over the roar in her ears.

He could destroy you.

He's here.
Here,
in your home.

She and Henry emerged onto the terrace that looked over Green Park, and Esme ground her steps to a halt, taking a deep gulp of fresh air.

Henry covered her hands with his own, his forehead creased with concern. “What happened in there, Esme?”

“I…” Her voice dwindled, because how could she answer that? The truth was so awful that it would send poor Henry running screaming from this place, never to look back. Henry, who believed she was far more innocent than she actually was.

Inappropriately, laughter bubbled in her chest.

I was out last night at a whorehouse—not to partake in the…er…
festivities,
so to speak, but to research my next novel. Oh? You didn't know? I'm a lady novelist who writes sensual romances. Well, when I was there, I was locked in a room with Mr. McLeod for a while. We were immediately attracted to each other, and we kissed. It was the best kiss of my life…

She was a horrible person. The laughter died in her throat, and she looked down, appalled.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered.

Henry squeezed her hand. “It's quite all right. I'm simply concerned for your welfare.”

He was so
good
. Yet the man had never made her heart beat frantically. He'd never brought sweat to her palms. He had never
aroused
her.

Not like McLeod had after she'd known him for only a few minutes.

But that was of no consequence.
This
was the man she was going to marry. Anyone would tell her that craving the tingling feeling in her core was a waste of time when considering a husband.

She didn't love Henry, and she was quite certain he didn't love her. But Esme needed to marry, and when Henry had been presented as an option, it had seemed like the perfect solution to her troubles.

It had all happened this past winter. After many months, the chatter about the Dowager Duchess of Trent's marriage to a gypsy had died to a dull roar, and the greedy gossipmongers had needed something new about the House of Trent to spew to the hungry masses.

When she was twenty, Esme had been kidnapped by an evil man trying to use her as bait to get to her brother Sam. She'd spent days tied up in an attic before her brothers had finally rescued her.

By last winter this was an old story, but people were hungry for
something,
and it was a prime opportunity for some inventive person to speculate.

And speculate, he did. He published an anonymous piece in one of the gossip rags about how Lady Esme hadn't been kidnapped, but instead was trysting with an unknown lover, only to be found and yanked from the man's arms by the frantic Duke of Trent a few days later. The writer proclaimed that since then, the duke and his family had done everything in their power to hide the truth: Their sister was no better than a Covent Garden strumpet.

Esme had been stunned at the viciousness of this attack, but Trent was enraged. He did everything he could to find the author of the piece, to no avail. The best he could do was force the paper to publish a retraction, write his own rebuttal describing the events of the kidnapping, and contract a marriage for her to a decent, respected gentleman who truly believed in her innocence.

That man had been Henry. He'd been acquainted with her since she was a child. He was a family friend. A respected gentleman. And quite eager to marry her, especially once he'd heard the enormous number attached to Esme's dowry.

Trent's efforts had worked, for the most part. Esme knew some still whispered about her, wondered if she'd indeed run off with some man. But most people had dismissed the article as vicious slander.

Now she just stood on the terrace, looking down and watching the glow of the wall sconces flickering over the tiles, while Henry pressed on her hand for several minutes. He was so kind, so patient. Finally, she sucked in another deep breath of the cool night air and looked up at him.

“I'm so very sorry. I just…” Her voice dwindled. She still couldn't explain it.

He shook his head, looking stern. “Don't be.” His brows drew together. “Was it Mr. McLeod? Do you know him?”

“Ah…” She scrambled in her brain for a response. “I don't know him, really. I might have seen him once before.”

That was the truth, after all.

“Then it wasn't him who upset you?”

“Oh no!”

That
was a lie.

“Good,” he said firmly. After a beat, he cocked his head and added, “Are you ready to go back inside?”

She looked at the French doors, dread clawing at her gut.

For all she knew, McLeod had spent the last ten minutes in there regaling everyone with the story of their encounter in the whorehouse. She swallowed hard.

She'd never considered herself a brave woman. But now was the time for bravery. She needed to know if McLeod had destroyed her. If he hadn't, she'd be strong and get through this night. If he had…well, she had no idea what she'd do.

They returned inside just as dinner was announced. They all filed into the grand dining room. Henry wasn't paired with her as her dining partner; instead she was partnered with Lord Pinfield, a round man who always made Esme feel vaguely uneasy. Esme knew Pinfield and her brother sat in Parliament together and were of a mind about most of the issues. However, while the men encountered each other frequently, Esme knew they had never been friends. And though Trent had told her nothing of his opinion of Pinfield, she knew why. Pinfield was…slimy.

He held out his arm for her, and she hesitated openly before coming to her senses and taking it. She forced a smile onto her face as she looked up at Pinfield. “I hope you are enjoying your evening, my lord.”

“Oh, I am.” Pinfield chuckled. “Immensely.”

And…she had no more weapons in her arsenal of pleasant conversation. She'd run completely out of things to say to him. She was a poor conversationalist in the best of times, but right now she could feel McLeod's presence behind her. She could feel his eyes burning into the exposed skin of the back of her neck.

Yet no one else appeared to be looking at her askance. Everyone was talking gaily, and the atmosphere was cheerful. Surely that wouldn't be the case if McLeod had told them about Esme's foray into the whorehouse.

With that thought bolstering her, she lowered herself into the seat Pinfield held out for her. He sat to her right and she took a deep breath, watching as Trent, Sarah, and the remaining guests took their seats around them.

The grand dining room was just that—
grand.
Esme and her family only ate in here on special occasions, usually preferring the cozy, sunny comfort of the breakfast room to take their meals. The grand dining room was a long, stately room with an enormous walnut table running its length. Three crystal chandeliers hung over the table, each one containing scores of candles to cast light over the meal.

The table itself was decorated with a dozen candles placed at intervals interrupted by a pair of large crystal-and-silver epergnes brimming with red roses and blocking Esme's view of the people sitting across from her.

The seat to her left was pulled out, and she turned just as McLeod sat down beside her. He was facing away from her, seeing to the comfort of the lady he'd been paired with, and Esme's mouth went dry as she gazed at the soft-looking strands of black hair that curled against the collar of his stylish, tight-fitting tailcoat.

Probably feeling her eyes on him, he turned. A slight, wry smile lifted the corners of his mouth.

“Lady Esme,” he said cordially, with a tilt of his head. But she didn't miss the slight emphasis on
Lady,
as if he was chastising her for forgetting to include that very important bit of information when she'd told him her name last night.

“Mr. McLeod,” she pushed out, her voice sounding breathless and weak. There didn't seem to be enough air in this room.

“Will you look at all those lovely roses!” the woman to McLeod's left squealed, and with a slight nod to Esme, he turned away to answer his companion.

“Hot in here, ain't it?”

She heard Pinfield's voice as if from miles away, and she returned her attention to him, murmuring yes, it was very hot indeed, and perhaps she should ask to keep the doors open…

Pinfield kept up a blustering conversation throughout the meal, talking mostly of the food, criticizing it for not containing enough salt, or of the meat being too thoroughly cooked or the vegetables not soft enough. He ladled her turtle soup, then handed her a plate for her fish and carved her venison roast.

Esme usually possessed a rather hearty appetite, but tonight was different. Her stomach was tied up into so many knots that the thought of introducing food into it made her nauseous. So she moved the food around on her plate to make it look at least partially eaten, and took sips of her wine, all the while pretending to commiserate with Pinfield on the low quality of the food—which everyone else around them appeared to be complimenting generously.

Pleasant conversation was punctuated by the clink of silver on porcelain, but even as she tried to pay attention to Pinfield, she thought about the man who was currently making the entire left side of her body burn.

It was odd that McLeod was at this end of the table. The guests were seated in order of precedence, and he was up here toward the duke's end, just below Viscount Pinfield. As a “mister” he wasn't a lord—not yet, at least. To rank just below a viscount, he must be the son of an earl, or the younger son of a marquis, and it wasn't like the country was awash with earls and marquises. In fact, even as seldom as she was out in society, Esme knew all of the marquises and many of the earls both in England and Scotland by their titles, most of them by sight. So why on earth had she never heard of him before? Why had she never
seen
him before?

It was a mystery that whipped around in her head even as she halfheartedly stirred the food on her plate and nodded serenely at Lord Pinfield's declaration that rump of mutton was the best kind of meat in the world.

At last it was time for dessert—cherries, apricots, and cheeses, along with an apricot ice and lemon syllabub.

“May I offer you some cherries, milady?”

Mr. McLeod's voice in her ear made her jump, and she turned to him. When she didn't answer him right away, he cocked his head expectantly.

“No,” she breathed. “No, thank you.”

“Very well.” He set the bowl of cherries on the table in front of his plate. A quick glance beyond him revealed that his dinner partner was talking with the gentleman to her left. Pinfield was speaking to Lady Bellingham, who sat to his right.

Esme and Mr. McLeod were free to converse.

He held up his wineglass and gave her a meaningful look. He was offering to take wine with her. She lifted her wineglass, squeezing the stem tightly. He raised his glass to hers, his eyes glinting with…with what?

What did it
mean
that his eyes glinted like that? She had no idea. Nor did she have any idea how to interpret the slightly mocking expression upon his face.

He hadn't told anyone.
She was sure he hadn't betrayed her secret. If he had, she would have known by now. Then why was he looking at her like that? Did he intend to reveal it later, during the dancing?

Snap!

The stem of her wineglass broke, flinging the entire upper part toward her. The bottom portion toppled onto the table while wine splashed over her bosom and the rest of the glass plopped directly into her lap.

She stared at her hand, now empty.

She'd been clutching the crystal with all her strength. Too hard obviously.

A cool trail of wine trickled between her breasts, and she looked down. The beautiful dress was ruined, with blotches of red staining the bodice and a big deep-red blob right in the middle of her lap—the most unfortunate location possible. As the liquid began to seep over her thighs, she looked back up to find a dining room that had gone dead silent, more than twenty pairs of eyes staring at her, aghast.