Highland Heat (5 page)

“To what?” he asked, his voice husky.

She shrugged and looked away. “To be alone.”

“Would you like to be alone with me again, lass?” The quiet words were meant for her ears alone.

“Very much.”

He loved how straightforward she was. She wasn't a coy flirt; she was completely honest, and it made him so hot for her, he burned. He had never been interested in the games so many women played, and it seemed like Grace wasn't, either.

“I'd like that, too,” he said. “Ye've no idea how much.”

They relaxed into conversation after that, Grace leaning casually at the doorframe. Although Duncan's gaze was drawn to her with a magnetic attraction, he couldn't maintain eye contact with her for long. He constantly scanned the street, looking for any sign of trouble or any cause for concern.

He found none. Even if he was missing something, there were a score of friendly soldiers within a few yards at any given time. Still, he remained vigilant. He'd never let harm come to two helpless women and his injured major.

They spoke of the places he'd been and the things he'd seen since joining the army seven years ago. Africa, Spain, Greece, Portugal…

“Ye've heard what Major Campbell did in Spain, aye?”

Her brow furrowed. “What did he do?”

“He saved Wellington's life.”

“Oh yes…it was the talk of London for a few months.” She smiled. “My sister was in raptures, because once he was given the baronetcy, my father finally agreed to their marriage.”

“Did ye ever hear what happened? What
really
happened?”

“No, I don't believe I have. Only the gossip around Town.”

“The 92nd was protecting a bridge, ensuring the enemy didn't cross. We'd been taking cannon fire all afternoon. Eventually, the enemy fell back and we on the left flank had a bit of a lull, but we were told to hold our positions—the bridge was of utmost importance.”

Duncan loved the expression of intense focus on her face. She was no vapid society miss. She was present in their conversations—in each and every one they'd had so far.

“Wellington and several men from his staff had come to view firsthand the strategic importance of the bridge, ye ken? I was near to where the major was, on the bank of the river, just beneath the stones where the bridge started. Our division had been sent down to see if any of the enemy might be lurking about.”

“Were there?”

Duncan shook his head. “Nay. But from there, ye could see the condition of the bridge was dire. The thing was in imminent danger of collapsing, crushing us all and sending whoever was on the bridge at the moment to their deaths.”

Grace appeared riveted. “What happened?”

“As soon as we heard the sound of the hooves above us, we froze. All of us, that is, but the major. He rushed out o' there like his arse was afire.”

Her eyes widened, and Duncan cursed himself—this time calling himself an ass in his head. He usually knew better than to swear in the presence of lasses, but he felt so damn comfortable in her presence. “Sorry, milady. I…” There was no way to explain it. Not out loud, at least.

She waved her hand. “It is nothing. Tell me what happened after the major left.”

“As he left, he called to us to get the hell out—” Good God, he'd done it again. “Er…to leave immediately, and we ran, knowing our verra lives depended on gettin' out from under that bridge. Meanwhile, he sprinted up onto the bridge, grabbed the unsuspectin' Wellington, and threw him off just as the bridge collapsed.”

Grace whistled out a breath. “Was anyone killed?”

“Nay. Wellington's horse died. Two of his men were injured, one lost his leg. But Major Campbell saved us all.”

“He is a true hero, then,” Grace said. “It is hard to see that when…” She hesitated, then said in a lower voice, “When he is not so heroic at home.”

Duncan frowned, unable to imagine the major being anything but noble and honorable. “Mayhap you misunderstand him, milady.”

She gave him a sad smile. “Perhaps.”

He reached up, his hand working ahead of his logic, to caress her cheek. She seemed to lean into his touch. But then reality jolted him, and he drew back quickly.

“Sorry.” His voice was gruff. He looked around, seeing if anyone had noticed. It appeared everyone was more interested in their own business, thank God.

“No,
I'm
sorry,” she murmured.

He raised his brows. “About what?”

She sighed. “About…Oh, I don't know. About the fact that we can't be ourselves here, or anywhere else, for that matter. It's frustrating.”

“Aye, it is. But it is the way of things, no?”

She laughed shakily. “I have never had a single problem maintaining propriety before today. You do odd things to me, Sergeant Mackenzie.”

His lips curled. “I'm glad.”

“Oh?”

He loved being the first one to make her feel this shaky, excited sensation of a brand-new attraction. “It's good to be venturing beyond your comfortable circle of propriety once in a while, isn't it?”

“Is it? I can't be so sure. It has always been rather comfortable in my circle. And I have this dreadful feeling that once I step out of it, I'll never be welcomed back in.”

That sobered him. What she said was true—if they were caught doing anything untoward. He needed to be vigilant.

There was a long silence, and both of them watched as a carriage rattled by, its lights cutting through the darkness on the street, followed closely by two men on horseback, both carrying lanterns.

“It's getting late,” she murmured.

“Aye.”

He expected her to take her leave then, but she didn't. She just gazed up at the sky in silence. Eventually she said quietly, “I returned to the field this afternoon.”

His brows rose. “Did you?”

“I couldn't stay away. It seemed so silly to be sitting in this house when there were clearly so many things to be done, so many ways to help. So I went back to the field, then I helped at the hospital tonight.”

Warmth spread through him, but it didn't surprise him that she'd gone back. He already knew that she was a thoughtful, caring woman. Nonetheless, a fierce protectiveness seized him. Her safety wasn't guaranteed here by any means. He worried for her among all these men, most of whom, himself included, hadn't experienced the pleasure a woman could offer in months—even years. Unfortunately, too many men possessed neither honor nor restraint.

“Did you go alone?” he asked stiffly.

“Yes.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to get this strange feeling under control, to not rail at her. He'd been protective of his sisters, yes, but never to this extent. A part of him wanted to drag her against his side and never let her leave it.

But telling her how he felt right now would only frighten her. She was an innocent lass who didn't understand the evils of men—and he hoped she never would.

He took a deep breath and managed to get the words out calmly. “Dinna do that, Grace. 'Tisn't safe.” He had no right to give her orders, of course, but he didn't really care.

“Why?”

“Because there are too few women here and too many men, and not all of them are honorable.”

She seemed to consider this. Then she bit her lower lip, looking chagrined. “I suppose you're right. Perhaps I was foolish.”

“I'll accompany you next time.”

Her blue eyes brightened. “Would you?”

“Of course.”

“I'd like to return tomorrow.”

“Aye, of course.”

“Excellent. It's a plan, then.”

He took a moment to glance away from the street to look at her. She leaned against the doorframe comfortably, smiling at him, the moonlight catching in the blond strands of her hair.

He'd kissed this beautiful, ethereal creature earlier today, in a haze of laudanum and brandy.

He wanted to kiss her again, even more now. He wanted to take her to a dark corner and press his lips to hers, drink in her innocence until both of them were breathless. Then he wanted to strip her slowly, removing each layer of exquisite, expensive material until he could see all of her, touch all of her. He could only imagine her pale, sleek flesh, her soft skin…

He swallowed hard. His fantasies were running away with him, and his body had grown hard again. He shifted uncomfortably and smiled back at her. “Aye,” he said gruffly. “It's a plan.”

Two evenings later, Grace sat beside her sister in the carriage and tried to calm her clanging heart. When her brother-in-law had awakened, he had quickly returned to his usual brusque and closed-off self, and the doctor had finally cleared him for travel late this afternoon. Oddly, the major's orders were not to travel with his regiment, but to take a select group of soldiers and return with them to London.

The most shocking news, to Grace anyhow, was that Sergeant Duncan Mackenzie was among the group of six men who were chosen to accompany the major. The group included Major Campbell, two captains, and two lieutenants, all chosen by Wellington himself. The two sergeants chosen by the major rounded out the group of seven war-hardened soldiers.

Now they were all returning to London together. The carriage was headed to Ostend, where they'd board a ship bound for Dover. From there, they'd take another carriage to London, where the soldiers would go about their duties and Claire and Grace would return to the Earl of Norsey's Mayfair house.

If she didn't know better, Grace would say that it was fate that Duncan had ended up being a part of the small group. But it was a bothersome kind of fate. She had spent almost all day yesterday with him. There had been no more drunken kisses, and her body sang with displeasure because it craved the feel of his lips again. But there had been no opportunity—they had been within crowds of men, and Grace had been covered in dirt and blood all day long.

She had helped as much as she was able. It wasn't enough. Then again, it would never be enough when it came to some of those men. No amount of help would save them.

It was serious work. Sad work. Hard work. She had done the best she could. She'd held a man's hand while he'd finally succumbed to the bullet that had punctured his chest. She'd wiped mud from several deep, fatal wounds. She'd cleaned a bayonet stab wound in a man's eye.

All the while, Duncan had been at her side, helping when he could with his one functional arm, offering murmurs of support and a calming hand when she began to feel like she might fall apart.

He was a powerful, strong man. A warrior who must evoke true terror on the battlefield. But he was gentle and kind, with light, clear eyes and a smile that made them twinkle with humor and warmth.

Just being with Duncan yesterday had been a delightful experience, despite the hardship of the day's activities. Having him at her side contented her, made her feel confident in a way she never had before, made her feel oddly powerful.

And now he was coming with them to London.

She glanced out the carriage window to see him riding beside them, his kilt swinging around his muscular legs. Her gaze roamed up his body, past where he held the reins in his uninjured hand, until it snagged on his rugged face. He grinned at her and tilted his head in greeting before riding ahead, leaving her smiling and feeling warm.

He had to be the most masculine, appealing man she'd ever seen. He seemed to find a feminine appeal in her she'd never thought she possessed. It was an utterly drugging sensation.

Claire was the beautiful one, the one who garnered everyone's focus with her looks and impulsive, saucy behavior. Grace had always stood quietly on the side, not craving attention like her sister.

Claire had changed, though. Nearly a year ago, she and the major had lost their infant son, Jamie. That had been the catalyst of the rift between her and the major, and it had altered her irrevocably. Claire appeared more mature now, more thoughtful and introspective. But the sparkle in her eyes had dulled, and sadness still hovered around her, even when she was at her best.

Claire stirred beside her, and Grace turned to find her sister giving her a narrow-eyed, assessing look.

“You fancy him, don't you?”

Instantly, Grace's warm face grew hot. “I…Who?”

Claire smirked. “Sergeant Mackenzie.”

She didn't know what to say. Quickly, she attempted to unscramble her thoughts. “Um…He is very kind, and he was so helpful to me at the hospital. I like him, of course. He seems very loyal to the major.”

“Oh, Rob thinks he's quite capable. Which is why he was chosen for this mission.”

Grace frowned. “What
is
this mission, anyhow?”

“I'm not sure, exactly. Neither is Rob. He was told they'd be given specific instructions when they arrived at the War Office in London.”

“I see,” Grace said, happy to have successfully maneuvered her sister's attention off her feelings about Duncan Mackenzie. “Is he concerned?”

“Oh no,” Claire said. “Rob will perform his duty with equanimity no matter what it is.”

“What about you?” Grace asked softly. “Are you concerned?”

“I'm simply thankful that he's coming home with me. I'm so glad he didn't join the march to Paris.”

“He would have never let you march with the regiment.”

“I know.” Claire sighed.

Grace hesitated a moment, then asked, “So…you have reconciled, then?”

While Claire had fallen into a deep mourning, the major had hardly seemed to notice poor little Jamie's death. Claire had despised him for his lack of compassion, his utter blankness of emotion. She'd railed at him, told him that if he was going to be such a stiff and uncaring ass, he should leave her, because she couldn't bear the sight of him.

To Grace's deep disappointment, the major
had
left. He'd abandoned Claire, who was lonely and grieving. The only communication he'd had with his wife over the past year had been in terse, over-polite letters. Grace had tried to help her sister as much as she could, but Claire had been inconsolable for a very long time.

Grace didn't hate the major, exactly. But she didn't like him. And she certainly didn't trust him.

“No,” Claire said softly, “we haven't reconciled—not completely. But we have made strides.” Her blue eyes were bright and hopeful. “I think…if we stay together…if we continue to talk as we have been, then it might…”

Grace took her sister's hand. “I hope you have the happiest outcome.”

“I know you're not fond of him. But he
is
my husband.”

“I know he is your husband, dear,” she said, squeezing Claire's hand. And she prayed that he would finally start to act like one.

They arrived at Ostend in the early hours of morning. Grace, Claire, and their maid, Mary, were given a private cabin for the voyage across the Channel while the major, Duncan, and the rest of the men were given cots in the hold. Grace and Claire immediately fell asleep, to awaken at dawn just a few hours later to join the men in the ship's dining room.

The first thing Grace saw as she entered was that Duncan's arm had bled through its bandage.

She rushed to him in dismay. “What on earth happened?”

He had been smiling at her, and upon hearing her question, he glanced at his arm. “Och,” he murmured, his brows rising in surprise. “I dinna ken. I slept the wrong way?”

Taking the seat beside him, she blew out a breath. “How can you not feel this? It must pain you terribly.”

He glanced around the table, and she followed his gaze. The other six men and Claire were looking at them in bemusement, some outright smiling. Except for the major, whose expression was thunderous.

Duncan's wasn't the only injury at this table, nor was it the most severe. But still, worry coursed through her, and she straightened her spine. “I will need to redress the wound,” she said stiffly, “and refashion the sling.”

“Aye,” Duncan said good-naturedly. “But maybe after breakfast, eh? I'm fit to eat a horse.”

She eyed the bandage. It didn't seem like the stain of blood was spreading. She sighed. “Very well. After breakfast.”

She squared her shoulders, refusing to be embarrassed at the scene she'd just created. Everyone knew that she and Duncan had spent time together over the past few days, and everyone knew that she had been particularly keen to help the injured soldiers. Nothing about her reaction to the fresh bleeding was abnormal.

After breakfast—in which Duncan did indeed seem to eat a massive amount of food, though she was immensely pleased that the meal consisted of ham, eggs, and kippers and not an actual horse—Grace led him to a well-lit corner of the room and unwrapped his shoulder as he chuckled.

“What is it?” she asked.

“You're so worried about my arm, lass.”

“And that's funny?” She scowled at him.

“It'll be fine.”

“It could fester if we don't give it attention.”

“Anything could fester, though,” he observed. That was true enough, and it made a chill run down her spine.

“Not this wound,” she announced. “Not if I can help it.”

He laughed again. “I have great confidence that you'll frighten away all ideas of festering by sheer force of will.”

“That is my goal.”

“Then I'm glad you're here to help.”

They shared a smile, and she went to work. As she unwrapped his arm, she asked Duncan about his home in Scotland.

“It stank of wet wool,” he told her.

“All the time?”

“Most o' the time. Sometimes you could smell other things too. The soil in the mist. Lavender and heather and grass.”

“Those sound like very fresh country smells.”

He made a small Scottish noise in his throat that sounded a bit like
umph
. “I said sometimes. Mostly…just wet wool.”

“And your house?”

He raised a brow. “My mum keeps the sheep out for the most part, unless we're to have mutton for dinner. So it smells of bannocks and porridge, and sometimes like meat. But those are all pleasant smells.”

“I've heard the Highlands are cold and wet.”

“Aye.” His eyes twinkled and his voice grew husky. “But there're ways to keep warm.”

She shivered at the suggestiveness of his tone, but six men and her sister all sat within ten feet of them, so she struggled to keep the conversation light. “Do you have brothers and sisters?”

“Aye, six sisters. All of 'em younger than me.”

She gaped at him.
“Six sisters?”

He seemed to enjoy her surprise, his eyes dancing merrily. “Aye.”

“And no brothers?”

“Nay, I was the only son.”

“My goodness. What a large family. Was your farmhouse very large?”

“Four rooms.”

She nearly spit out her tongue. That alone was testament to the difference in their classes. A family of nine in a four-room house. Norsey House, her father's country estate in Kent, had over thirty rooms. And their family consisted only of her, Claire, and their father…and technically the major, though he was rarely at home.

That didn't include their spacious London townhouse, which had eleven rooms.

“How did you all sleep?” she wondered aloud. “You must've been piled atop one another!”

“Oh, nay. 'Twasn't so bad. I shared a room with my sisters, but never all of them at once. There was always a babe with my mother, and by the time the wee twins, Anna and Maggie, were born, I was thirteen and wasna home much, because my da had sent me to school in Inverness.”

“You sound very fond of your family,” Grace observed, using a damp cloth to carefully cleanse the wound.

“Aye, I am. I miss them. Haven't laid eyes on my family for a long time.”

She nodded gravely.

“Two of my sisters are married. Four still live with my parents at home, and my mum spends most days tryin' to marry 'em off.”

Grace smiled as she began to twine a fresh bandage around Duncan's arm. “I can only imagine. But they must be lovely girls if…” She broke off quickly. She'd been going to say,
if they possess your good looks.
But that would be…inappropriate.

She gazed at him for a moment. He was beautiful. Her lips still tingled from their kiss three days ago. She'd like to kiss those lush lips again. She'd like to touch him, to feel that hard, muscular body.

He gave her a quizzical look. “If?”

Oh, now she'd trapped herself. What could she say? She just shook her head and smiled, concentrating on the finishing touches of the bandage.

When she was done, she sat back on her heels, her cheeks tingling with heat, unable to look at him. She'd never felt so comfortable in a man's presence before. She'd never felt so
unsettled
in a man's presence, either.

Duncan was different from any other male she'd ever encountered. He did something to her, something that made her feel…well, simply delicious.

His finger pressed beneath her chin, forcing her to look up at him. He leaned forward to whisper into her ear. “I want to kiss you again.”

She jolted back in surprise, but he held her firm. “Come with me,” he said quietly. “Tell your sister you're takin' some air.”

Looking at him wide-eyed, she nodded.

They rose and headed toward the exit. As she passed by Claire, who was doctoring Lieutenant Ross's torso—he'd been clipped by a bullet in the waist—she murmured, “I'm going out to take some air.”

Claire nodded but hardly spared her a glance, so intent was her focus on the red-haired lieutenant. Claire possessed a rather odd fascination with the art of doctoring, so it didn't surprise Grace that she had taken the responsibility for treating the men's various ailments. Except for Duncan's injury. Besides helping Grace fashion him a new sling, Claire had left his recovery entirely in Grace's hands.

But as they passed the major, he scowled at them, his eyes narrowed at Duncan. Grace tried not to flinch away from the man. It seemed so strange to her that a man who at times didn't seem to care one way or another about his own wife would give a fig about her interactions with one of his men.

But there was male logic for you, she thought. In some warped way, he felt it was his duty to protect his sister-in-law's virtue.