Highland Heat (20 page)

The day that the doctor finally allowed Duncan to leave his room was a warm summer day that smelled richly of new vegetation. The pleasant sound of insects droned in the air, and fat, white clouds hung in a jewel-blue sky.

Grace and Duncan were taking a long, slow walk, skirting the edge of the property bordering the forest and having an animated conversation about the benefits of kilts over trousers.

“Easy access.” Grace had laughed. “That's certainly a benefit.”

“Aye, I'll agree with that one,” Duncan said. “Pantaloons and trousers and breeches all have those plackets that make it uncomfortable when a man needs to take a piss. Wear a kilt, and ye can have instant relief.”

“I was
not
talking about pissing,” Grace said haughtily.

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “What were you talking about, then?”

She straightened her spine. “I meant, easy access for a lover. Or perhaps a wife.”

A gleam of heat grew in his eyes. “Aye,” he said huskily, “there's that too.”

“And that overwhelms just about every negative I can conjure for kilt-wearing,” Grace said with a shrug, as if that were the end of the conversation.

“Well, to be fair,” Duncan said after a moment of reflection, “sometimes it's cold.”

“I assume it's the same temperature whether you're wearing trousers or a kilt, though you may have a bit more coverage with trousers.”

“Aye, that's true. But…there can be a wee bit of a problem when there's a draft.”

“Oh,” Grace said, wide-eyed.

Duncan nodded sagely. “Ye see, when there's a cold draft, a man's ballocks can shrivel up like currants and try to crawl into his body.”

Her brows rose. “Currants?” That seemed rather impossibly small.

“Aye, and—”

That was when they heard the sound of a throat clearing. Grace and Duncan looked at each other, then grinned and turned around.

The Earl of Norsey stood not five feet behind them. Grace straightened as heat bloomed in her cheeks. Still, even though she was embarrassed being caught by her father discussing currants and ballocks, she wasn't and never would be ashamed of standing beside Duncan with her arm wound through his.

Her father approached them cautiously, as if he was afraid one of them might turn into a rhinoceros and attack.

“Good afternoon, milord,” Duncan said. “Would ye like to join us?”

Duncan had never seemed to dislike her father, per se, but when he'd heard that Mr. Dunn had been found stabbed through the heart outside the stables, he'd gained a great deal of respect for the lengths the earl had gone to protect Grace.

“He did it for you,”
Duncan had told her.
“Because he needed to keep you safe.”

Grace didn't disagree. Although her father hadn't spent any time with Duncan, she'd ventured out of Duncan's room on occasion to see him, usually ensconced in the parlor, with Claire fretting over him. Between Grace, Duncan, and her father, the earl had seemed the most shaken from the encounter with the Newsmiths. Which made sense to her. He'd never feared for his life before. He'd never had to kill a man before. Grace knew he was thankful they'd all come out alive, but she didn't think it was an encounter he'd be forgetting anytime soon.

Her father finally reached them. They turned, and the earl fell into step beside Duncan as they walked in silence for a moment. Then he asked, “How are you feeling, boy?”

“Happy to be out o' that room.”

“I can imagine,” the earl said, and Grace glanced at him in shock. Was that a hint of sympathy she'd heard in her father's voice?

“Just a few more days of healing,” Grace said, “and he'll be about his business as if it had never happened.”

The word
it
hung in the air for a few seconds. Then the earl said, “I'll be departing for Norsey House tomorrow.”

Both Duncan and Grace stared at him. Grace's heart started pattering. Would he command her to come with him? She'd refuse. He couldn't make her…

Oh, but she truly didn't want to have this argument right now, not on Duncan's first day out of bed in two weeks.

The earl gave Duncan a hard look. “I'll be leaving my daughter with you, Mackenzie.”

The air whooshed out of Grace's lungs, and she nearly stumbled but somehow managed to keep her steps slow but even. Duncan nodded, keeping his eyes locked to her father's.

Her father took a deep breath. “I was wrong. You
are
a good match for Grace.”

A small noise burst from Grace's throat before she could stop it. She couldn't define how she felt, what that noise was born of. Surprise, gratefulness, hope…

Her father ignored it, keeping his focus on Duncan. “I watched you in that stable. I saw in your face how deeply you care for her. I saw in your actions how far you're willing to go to protect her.”

“I will go to whatever lengths necessary to protect Grace, milord.”

The earl nodded. “I cannot imagine anyone who could care for her or protect her better than you will.”

“Nor can I,” Grace whispered.

“And you make her happy,” the earl said gruffly. “What more could I ask for my elder daughter but for her to be happy and safe?”

Grace gave him a wavering smile. He caught her eye, then blinked and looked away, straightening to his full height—almost as tall as Duncan. “I give my permission for the two of you to wed.”

“Oh, Papa—”

“Please do it as soon as possible,” he interrupted. “Anyone who sees the two of you together will know right away the depth of affection you hold for each other. The rumors about your match will be bad enough—I'd prefer to avoid the more salacious gossip.”

Duncan nodded. “Understood, sir.” He glanced at Grace. “We will depart for Scotland tomorrow, if Grace doesn't object.”

“I don't,” Grace whispered.

This was really happening. The day after tomorrow, she and Duncan would be husband and wife. And her father wouldn't reject the match, wouldn't reject her. She'd still have her family intact.

This was happiness. It unfurled and bloomed inside her like a flowering vine, warm, colorful, sweet, and so beautiful she nearly burst with it.

“I would also like to…invite you and your new wife to my house party this month,” the earl said.

Grace's mouth dropped open. It was one thing for her father to accept her marrying Duncan. It was something else altogether for him to invite her and Duncan to openly associate with his friends and peers.

Duncan looked at Grace, an equal surprise reflected in his own expression.

“Sir Robert and Claire will be attending, of course,” the earl said quickly. “I have already asked them. I do think it would be…
fine
to have my family with me at home this summer.”

His family. He didn't mean just Grace and Claire. He meant the major too. And Duncan. Tears pressed behind Grace's lids. “We'd love to attend, Papa,” she managed.

“We'd be honored,” Duncan added.

The earl tilted his head in acknowledgment, and they walked in silence, turning a corner so they intersected the drive that led to the front of the house. Without looking directly at either of them, her father turned away. “Well, then. I shall return to the house. I have much to do to prepare for my departure tomorrow.”

Without saying another word, he pivoted and strode down the drive. Grace and Duncan stopped walking to watch him go. Moments later, he opened the front door and disappeared inside.

Grace and Duncan turned to each other. He gazed down at her, and she could feel the warmth he felt for her spread over her skin.

“No more secrecy,” he murmured.

“None,” she agreed.

“We'll be married soon.”

She nodded. “I can't wait.”

“Neither can I.”

He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her, a long, soft, warm kiss. A kiss that a man might bestow upon a wife he truly loved. And she kissed him right back—in a way a wife might kiss a husband she adored.

When he pulled back, he looked up at the sky. “It's getting late.”

She cocked a brow at him. It was two o'clock in the afternoon.

He huffed out a laugh. “Ye ken all my protests about being in bed this past fortnight?”

“Oh, I definitely do ken. I'd never imagined you were such a complainer,” she teased.

“Well, I think I ought to go back to bed.”

Her eyes widened. “What? Are you all right? Is it your ankle again? Has your wound op—?”

He pressed a kiss to her lips, cutting her off midword. He touched his tongue to hers then pulled away, laughing, his blue eyes twinkling in that lighthearted way of his.

“Nay, my ankle's healed and the wound is fine, love. I need to go back to bed, but I need to take you with me. Right now. I dinna think I can wait much longer before I have you. It's been far too long.”

“I don't think I can wait much longer until I have you too.”

He took her hand and turned toward the house. “It's settled, then.” He tugged her along, looking over his shoulder at her, his expression so full of heat she felt it like the blast of a flame over her skin. “I'm going to keep you there all night, Grace. I hope you're ready.”

“I am,” she said confidently. She was more than ready.

Duncan hadn't exaggerated. He took her to bed and kept her there until morning. They made love, they talked, they shared dinner in bed, passing bits of food back and forth. It was like a wedding night two nights before the marriage.

By ten o'clock the next morning, they were in a carriage on the way to Gretna Green. They headed to their future and the rest of their lives, both of them glowing with the knowledge that they belonged to each other. And they always would.

Camden McLeod gripped his ale in two hands and swallowed deeply. There was nothing like the deep, smooth malty flavor of a good Scottish ale. He'd loved it as a lad of fourteen, the last time he had visited his homeland. He'd thought about it often since, and had wondered if his memories of it had perhaps been exaggerated, but no. It was just as delicious as he remembered.

He glanced over the room—a habit born not only in the army, but in his childhood home, where danger always lurked. The tavern was crowded with men wearing kilts and hardy, pink-cheeked women. The place fairly burst with exuberance—such a different environment from the aloof, placid English drawing rooms he'd seen far too much of in his life.

Across the room, Mackenzie and Grace sat at a table together. They were kissing again, not at all concerned that the entire room was witness to their displays of affection. Their audience was kind, however. Moments ago, an old Scot had raised a glass to the newlyweds, and everyone in the tavern had joined the toast, and there was much cheering and applause when Mackenzie and Grace had locked lips after taking sips from their drinks.

The two of them couldn't keep their hands off each other—which was a good thing, Cam supposed, since they were now irrevocably shackled for the rest of their lives.

Cam would never be shackled to a woman. He was already shackled to his damned family name, and that was more than enough. He needed to keep some semblance of freedom in his life.

No woman would want to be bound to him anyhow. He was far too bitter and cynical to develop any kind of loving spousal relationship like the one Mackenzie and Grace would share.

He'd probably end up being as good a husband as his father was, and he wouldn't subject any woman to that misery.

He took another deep swallow of his ale. It was a strong brew, and he was well on his way to getting drunk, but he felt like it tonight.

By all rights, he shouldn't feel this way. His life wasn't so bad. He liked being part of the Highland Knights, liked the men who had joined the cause with him.

But something felt…wrong. He felt empty inside, as if he were a hollow shell that would be easy to crack.

He knew what would fix this feeling—at least temporarily. Good ale and a good woman.

One woman who might be acceptable was just now approaching Mackenzie. She was one of the barmaids—dark-haired and freckled, with generous curves in all the anatomically correct places, and not too young or untried. She walked with a confident stride that told Cam she knew exactly what she was suggesting with the sway of her hips and the generous cleavage revealed by her bodice.

She held out a folded piece of paper to Mackenzie. He studied the note for a moment, then rose, holding his hand out for Grace, who clasped it and rose along with him.

Cam laughed softly. He'd no idea how Mackenzie was going to get back to work. He and Grace had been joined at the hip since their marriage four days ago. Cam had never seen them with anything more than a few feet of separation between them.

He hoped by the time they left Gretna Green that Mackenzie would have bedded her frequently and vigorously enough to curb some of that need.

As they approached, Cam slouched deeper into his chair and pasted on the look of casual negligence they'd come to expect from him.

Mackenzie and Grace slid onto the bench across the table from him. The barmaid had followed and hovered behind. Mackenzie passed Cam the paper—he saw now that it was a letter.

“You read it, McLeod,” Mackenzie said. “I dinna want to ruin my night.”

Cam raised his brows and looked down at the letter. It was addressed to both him and Mackenzie, and bore the major's seal.

He slid his thumb under the seal and unfolded the paper. The message inside was simple and concise.

New orders to be received in London—likely will require staying in Town for some time. Part of the assignment will be to ensure safety of Lord P______d, whom I believe has some connections to Sutton. You are required to return to London forthwith.

Cam swallowed the rest of his ale.

“Och, I'll fetch ye another straightaway, sir,” the barmaid said. She turned around with a swish of yellow skirts.

“Orders?” Grace asked softly. “Are you summoned back to the Knights?”

“Aye.” Cam studied the letter for another few moments, hoping he hadn't read wrong. It seemed he hadn't.
Sutton
referred to Cam's father, the Earl of Sutton. Lord P______d was certainly Lord Pinfield, one of his father's closest friends, and one of the people in this world Cam admired the least.

He passed the letter back to Mackenzie.

It sounded like the major intended to use Cam's family connection to Pinfield in some way. Wonderful. Cam would do a poor job of ensuring that man's safety. He might end up strangling Pinfield himself.

God. He felt fissures starting to crack up through his hollow shell. Where was his damned ale?

Mackenzie and Grace sighed at the same time, and Mackenzie set the letter down. He turned to Grace. “It looks like we're going to have to cut our honeymoon short, love.”

She smiled gamely. It was one of the things Cam appreciated about this woman. From what he knew of her, she was highly open and adaptable, which seemed like essential traits if one married a Highland Knight.

“We knew this might happen,” she said. She squeezed Mackenzie's hand. “We'll visit your family another time. Soon, I hope.”

“Aye, me too,” Mackenzie said.

“Hear, hear,” Cam agreed, thinking more of limiting his time in the vicinity of Pinfield than Mackenzie's future visit to his family's sheep farm.

“We'll head south tomorrow, then?” Mackenzie asked.

“Aye, we should,” Cam said.

They sat in silence for almost a full minute, each one of them contemplating their change of plans, and all that the near future would hold. Cam wondered why Pinfield needed protection. God knew, the man had many enemies. But they wouldn't have called the Highland Knights to the task unless there was something dangerous and subversive going on.

“Well,” Mackenzie finally said, rising and of course taking Grace's hand as he did so, “we're off to bed.”

Grace nodded. “Yes, if we need to leave tomorrow, we should get a good night's sleep. It's a long journey from here to London.”

Mackenzie raised a brow at her. “Don't expect too much sleep, lass,” he said. “I havena had my fill of you yet.”

They shared a secret smile, and Mackenzie led her toward the steps leading up to the inn's rooms.

Cam sighed. He started to stand, but a yellow figure appeared before him. The barmaid, bearing a frothy tankard of ale.

“Here ye are, sir,” she said. He liked the sound of her voice. It was light and airy, as if she hadn't a care in the world. He couldn't remember the last time he didn't have any cares. If ever.

“Bless you,” he said, taking the drink from her and sinking back into his chair.

She gave him a smile, all saucy flirtation. “I'm about done here for the evenin'. Your room'll be the one in the corner upstairs, aye?”

Oh. This was nice. He appreciated a lass who was forward. “Aye,” he said silkily, “that'll be the very one.”

She placed two hands flat on the table and leaned toward him, giving him a close view of her cleavage. He couldn't wait to touch those ample breasts—feel how soft they'd be under his hand.

“I'm Catriona,” she said to him.

“McLeod,” he answered. He never told anyone his given name—it seemed too personal. And when someone heard “Camden McLeod” and connected him to the Earl of Sutton, it was irritating as hell.

“Half an hour, then, McLeod,” she murmured, her breath whispering over his ear.

“Half an hour,” he agreed.

Catriona turned, and her backside swayed at him as she walked away.

Yes. This was what he wanted—what he needed—tonight. He would forget everything but the soft touch this woman could give him.

That would keep him alive…at least until tomorrow.