A Highlander's Heart: A Sexy Regency Romance (Highland Knights Book 1) (6 page)

It was all very mysterious, given that the Gordon Highlanders were marching to Paris and they were leaving their remaining injured men in Waterloo for the time being. And the association to the Duke of Wellington continued to bewilder him.

But Rob didn’t question the orders of his superiors. He followed them, just as he counted on those below him to follow his command. The first sergeant he chose was Duncan Mackenzie. At twenty-three, Mackenzie was very young compared to the rest of them, but he was a true Mackenzie warrior. He’d been injured in the battle with a serious stab wound to the arm, but he had proven himself not only as a fighter but as a loyal and intelligent leader in the four years Rob had known him.

The second sergeant was George Fraser, of “brave, braw, and broon” fame. But not only was he brave, handsome, and dark-haired, he was loyal to a fault. Stirling had chosen Fraser to guard Rob’s wife, and if it had been up to Rob, he would have made the same choice.

The only two in their motley crew who hadn’t been injured were Stirling and Sergeant Fraser. Besides Mackenzie’s stab wound, McLeod had suffered a blow to the leg that had required forty stitches, and walking was a trial for him. The two lieutenants had been grazed by gunfire—one on the arm and the other above his hip.

From Ostend, the seven of them, along with Claire, Grace, and their maid, had boarded a ship for Dover, arriving late the following day, sodden and tired. Rob was surprisingly thankful for Claire’s presence. She had tirelessly tended to the men’s injuries, seen to their welfare, and provided a sense of calm that felt foreign to all of them after the events of the past month.

In those long two days, Rob began to see his wife in a different light. He’d only known her in her father’s London town house and at the earl’s seat, Norsey House in Kent, where they’d lived whenever he wasn’t in the service of his regiment.

Those times, over the past few years, hadn’t been very often, granted. But in England, Claire was an earl’s daughter and hence treated with the utmost respect and deference. She rarely had the need to do anything for herself. She’d told him once that when she was a child with a cold, she wasn’t allowed to wipe her own nose—there was a servant to do that work for her. She’d found that highly annoying and secretly began wiping her nose as often as she could out of pure defiance.

But in the carriages bound for Ostend and for the day on the ship, she had proven herself to be independent and resourceful. She had cleaned and bound wounds, turned Lieutenant Ross’s mind to lighter subjects when he began to grow dark and distant with the memories of the battles, comforted McLeod when he was overcome by violent seasickness, then helped her maid to clean his vomit.

As she’d checked his head wound on the ship, Rob said, “I didna ken you’d possessed skills in healing, lass.”

“No?” she asked teasingly. “I never told you about my erstwhile medical training?”

Rob raised his brows. “Nay,” he said slowly, “you did not.”

She grinned. “I used to sneak into the village dressed as a maid so I could watch the boxing matches in the square. One time, one of the men fell, his face bleeding, and I was so overcome, as he was my favorite, that I rushed to his side and reached him before the doctor did. The doctor allowed me to assist him and deemed me worthy enough that, from that day onward, every time I was in attendance and one of the boxers needed medical attention, I was allowed to help.”

“And what did your da think of this?”

“Oh, he didn’t know! He would have throttled me!” She laughed.

Rob shook his head in bemusement. He’d known she’d been a defiant and adventurous lass, but he never seemed to be able to connect those audacious stories with the distinctly feminine, petite, and well-bred woman she’d become.

Despite the almost unbelievable tales of her wild youth, Rob had never truly believed his wife was cut from the cloth of the army wife who’d doggedly follow her husband into the heat of battle. Claire was just too delicate. She was right when she’d said he thought she was made of glass. But for the first time, he wasn’t only hearing about her resilience and boldness, he was witnessing them in action.

Claire leaned down to whisper into his ear, “Look at Grace.”

He glanced over at Claire’s sister, who was with Mackenzie, as usual. Their heads were together, and they were talking animatedly in hushed tones. From the moment they’d left Waterloo, Grace had focused her attentions on Duncan Mackenzie and his injured arm. Mackenzie was the man she’d spent much of her time tending to after the battle. So infatuated was she with the sergeant that she probably didn’t realize she’d left the bulk of the work to Claire, who’d borne it without complaint. In fact, Claire seemed to relish her role in providing all of them with comfort and companionship.

Claire also seemed to approve of her sister’s growing familiarity with Mackenzie, though Rob himself thought it was a dangerous game the two of them were playing. Mackenzie was a commoner and a Highlander. Grace’s father would never allow their family to be connected with someone of such low status.

They arrived in London late and were transported directly to a town house in Westminster. The carriages finally stopped, and Rob helped his wife out, then drew her aside.

When they were alone, he turned to her, bending close so he could speak softly. “I want to say good-bye to ye without the others near,” he said. “And I wanted to thank you for all you’ve done in the past few days.”

Her jaw fell. “Good-bye? Why?”

“You and Grace will be returning to your father now.”

She squared her shoulders. “No. I must stay with my husband.
Grace
needs to return to my father.” Her lips twisted. “Though I’m sure she’d rather stay with Sergeant Mackenzie.”

He sighed. “Claire, you canna stay here.”

“Why not?” she challenged.

And…he had no answer besides, “It’s probably not a good idea.”

She laughed. “I think we’ve already established that my decisions of late have little to do with ‘good ideas.’” She leveled her gaze at him. “I am going with my heart, Rob. I want to stay with you. Don’t make me go. Please.”

The way she was looking at him… God, who could refuse those big blue eyes? Her actions had already proven that no one could. And there was no doubt that sending her away now would deepen that rift between them.

That was something he didn’t want to happen. Over the past few days, hope for the healing of his marriage had begun to bloom within him. Something was happening between him and Claire, some cautious rekindling of what they’d once had.

The way she’d looked at him for the past two days, desire burning in her eyes. And something deeper than desire…

Perhaps she wasn’t unreachable. Perhaps love for him still stirred within her. Even after—

He cut off that thought. As he always did.

His nod was brusque. “Very well. You may stay.”

“Thank you.” She grinned and rose on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, then sent Grace and the maid off, promising to call for them if they were needed tomorrow. Rob joined his men at the steps to the town house’s front landing. He wasn’t sure what he’d find inside, but all the lights were on, and when they trudged up to the door, it seemed to open magically.

A man stood at the threshold, his cool, impassive eyes looking them over. They paused on Claire for a moment, then moved on. “Major Sir Robert Campbell?” he asked.

Rob stepped forward. “I am.”

The man bowed. “I am Bailey, sir. At your service.” He stepped aside. “Come in, please.”

They filed inside. The place was beautifully furnished—a crystal chandelier glowed over the entry hall, illuminating mahogany tables covered by Greek artifacts.

This display of wealth and elegance no longer awed Rob, but it was surprising that a troop of injured and battle-weary Gordon Highlanders would be welcomed to London in such a style.

He glanced at Stirling, who was stone-faced, then looked at Mackenzie and Fraser, who’d probably never seen this kind of luxury. Their expressions were carefully blank, which was part of the reason he had chosen them. Both men were quick-witted but thoughtful. They took charge of their men with a confidence rarely found among their ranks.

Why would they be given quarters such as these? Uneasiness stirred within Rob, but he nodded at the pair of footmen who arrived to carry their luggage, then followed as Bailey showed them to their separate bedchambers, each one elegantly appointed. Rob’s room was saved for last.

Bailey opened the door to a bedchamber on the second story at the back of the town house. “Here are the master’s quarters, sir.” His gaze flicked to Claire. “I apologize, my lady, but we weren’t expecting you, and there are no separate quarters for the mistress.”

She gave him a serene smile. How she could look so bonny and fresh after two and a half rough days of travel, Rob would never comprehend. “We will make do, Bailey. Thank you.”

He bowed. “Will you require anything else, Sir Robert?”

Rob blinked, unaccustomed to being addressed by any title but “major.” But he was back in London now, where his status as a baronet, a random title granted for a single deed, overshadowed his status as a major in Wellington’s army—a position and title he’d spent years working for and had dedicated his life to.

Had chosen over his wife’s happiness.

Guilt stabbed at him, but he thrust it away. She was here with him now, by her own choice, and his.

“No, that will be all. Thank you.”

Bailey slipped away, and Claire and Rob glanced at each other. They hadn’t slept in an actual bed in a few days, and this one was large, plush, and welcoming. Someone had turned down the covers, and the sheets were crisp and clean.

Rob blew out a breath. “I havena seen a bed that bonny in a year.”

She frowned at him. “What about my father’s house? You don’t find our bed bonny there?”

“Oh, aye. That’s the bed I was speaking of.”

“Ten months, then,” she reminded him. “Not quite a year. You last slept in that bed ten months ago.”

“Aye…”

“Ten months, one week, and four days,” she said, “to be exact.”

His throat went dry. She hadn’t forgotten him completely, as he’d thought she had. She’d counted the days since they’d last slept in the same bed.

God. Had he been that stupid? That blind? He’d taken her words as raw facts: She hated him. She never wanted to see him again. He was a cold, unfeeling bastard.

She’d turned away to the basin of water on a long, dark table, and he watched her as she first removed the pins from her hair, letting it fall in blonde waves down to her waist, then used a towel to wash her face.

Patting her cheeks dry, she looked over her shoulder at him. “Will you help me with my laces?”

He took a deep, shuddering breath, suddenly feeling like a green lad given leave to touch a lass for the first time. He cleared his throat. “Aye, of course.”

He stepped behind her and stared at the sight of his wife from the back before gently moving her silky hair aside and beginning to undo her laces. The muslin opened slowly, exposing more creamy skin and supple curves with each lace. He stroked her warm skin, light, swiping touches as he moved his hands to the next tie. Her breaths grew deeper, and he became certain of one thing—his touch still affected her.

Finally, the dress slid down, snagging on her hips, but he helped it along, pushing it over the gentle curves so it pooled at her feet, exposing the tight lacings of her stays running in Xs up her spine.

When she stood in front of him like this, half-naked, exposing the swanlike curve of her neck, trusting him with her back to him, he forgot about war and loss and grief. He forgot about this strange house and their reasons for being here.

There was just him and Claire. A man and a woman who wanted each other.

He worked on her stays, pulling the string through the eyeholes until it gapped open, and he lifted it over her head as she obediently held her arms up. Then she stepped away from her dress and turned to him, the color high on her cheeks.

“Thank you.” Her throat moved as she swallowed, drawing his gaze from her flushed cheeks down to her neck and lower. Her nipples had tightened to sharp beads, pushing against the material of her thin chemise.

He dragged his gaze back up to her face. “I…er… It’s been a verra long time, Claire. My injury’s mostly healed…and if we go to bed together tonight…” He pulled in a deep breath. “Lying with you…I’m no’ sure I’ll be able to control myself.”

Her gaze softened, and she touched his cheek, a featherlight caress. “Then don’t.”

Rob couldn’t remember ever having undressed so rapidly. His jacket, waistcoat, and kilt were off in a matter of seconds. Down to his knee-length shirt, he quickly washed himself using the water in the basin, then turned back to Claire, toweling off.

The humor in her eyes was unmistakable.

“I forgot how refreshing you are,” she murmured.

“Refreshing? You find me
refreshing
?”

“I do,” she said, a smile blooming on her face. “You Highlanders aren’t as tightly wound as your British counterparts. You’re fearless and brave. You’re passionate. You go after what you want.”

“I dinna ken about any o’ that,” he grumbled. “Save the ‘go after what you want’ part.”

“Really?”

“Aye, because I ken what I want. And I’ll be going after it. Now.”

He stalked toward her and yanked her into his arms. She squealed and grabbed his shirt. “I think you should take this off, husband.”

In return, he bunched the waist of her chemise in one fist. “Oh, aye? Then this’ll come off too, wife.”

“Must it?”

“It must.” He tugged it up, leaving her dressed only in her shoes and stockings and exposing her most private parts. His cock went from semihard to granite in the space of a single second.

He was so overcome by the sight of her that he’d forgotten to finish the task of removing her chemise, so she did it for him, pulling it over her head, leaving her bare for him.

“Good God,” he whispered, so awed he found himself unable to say anything else. From the first time they’d been together, she’d been unabashed and bold in the bedroom. He’d never met a woman like her.