Highland Awakening (6 page)

“Why?”

“You do the most unexpectedly thoughtful things.” And with a small tilt of her head, she lifted her skirts, turned, and walked toward the double doors.

He stared at her until the doors closed behind her. No one had ever called him thoughtful before.

He turned back to the railing and gazed out into the silence of the night. It was late now, and there was no movement in the park.

He was supposed to be watching Pinfield. The man could have been murdered while Cam was outside with Esme, and he wouldn't have been the wiser.

But that hadn't happened. It wasn't just that there hadn't been a disturbance inside; it was that Cam had a keen sense of danger, often spotting it before it manifested. It made him damn good at what he did for the Highland Knights.

Tonight—this party was innocuous. This was an insipid group of aristocratic ladies and gentlemen. No murderers among them, Cam could tell.

Nevertheless, he ought to go inside and continue his position as nursemaid. One good thing about returning there was that he could keep his eye on Esme for the remainder of the evening. With that thought bolstering him, he walked toward the door and gripped the handle. He could hear music and laughter, and he opened the door and slipped inside.

No one noticed his reentrance, except Sarah, the duchess, whose eyes widened as he entered, but then she gave him a small smile and inclined her head.

The duchess was an intelligent one. Clear as day, he could see the warning in her eyes. She wouldn't stand for anyone trifling with her sister-in-law.

He should be annoyed by that warning, but instead he was oddly pleased. Happy that Esme had someone who cared about her.

Hell. He was doomed.

“Wake up, man!”

Cam stretched, opening his eyes into a pained squint. The light in his bedchamber wasn't bright with day but dim with early morning haze. Jesus. He felt like he'd just gone to bed, but it had probably been two hours ago. The Duke of Trent's dinner party hadn't ended until long after midnight. Now, despite not having imbibed an ounce last night, he had the headache from hell.

His fellow Highland Knight Sir Colin Stirling was leaning down and gripping Cam's shoulder, his face ravaged. His expression sent Cam surging up to a sitting position.

“What? What is it?”

“Just come downstairs. Now.” Stirling rose, swiveled, and left the room abruptly.

His heart pounding, Cam quickly buckled on his kilt and strode downstairs, just a minute behind Stirling.

He found the Knights already gathered in the drawing room. Well, five of the Knights—he was the sixth to arrive. Fraser wasn't present yet.

They all looked at Cam as he entered, and his heart sank as he looked upon the five pale, drawn faces. “What's wrong?” he asked.

“It's Fraser,” the major said. Silence swept over the room.

Cam stepped deeper inside, tilting his head in confusion. “What about Fraser?”

“He's dead,” Duncan Mackenzie, the youngest of the knights, said. “Dead.” Mackenzie sank down into the chair nearest to Cam and rested his face in his hands, his wide shoulders heaving.

“Dead?” Cam stared at the man uncomprehendingly. “I dinna understand. What d'you mean?”

“He was murdered last night,” Innes said darkly.

The world spun around Cam. Dizziness swamped him. He looked around the room through blurry eyes, his gaze finally settling on Ross, who hadn't said a word since Cam had entered the room. “You were with him last night,” he said. “At Oscar Rohan's gaming hell.”

“Aye.” Ross looked like a damned ghost—the only color in him provided by his shock of curly red hair, which was arranged in a haphazard mess around his head—pressed flat on one side and askew on the other.

“What the hell happened?” Fraser…dead. Cam couldn't believe it. He looked at the other men, who appeared to be as stunned as he was. Except Mackenzie, who appeared to be ragged with grief. Mackenzie and Fraser were close friends—had been since they'd enlisted in the 92nd Regiment as privates when they were untried youths of sixteen. They'd fought together at Waterloo and in many other battles.

Ross swallowed hard. “We had a long night at Rohan's. Fraser went off with a lass at about midnight. I think he went upstairs. He said he'd see me in the morning. I stayed, intending to play the tables for another hour or two. I…” He looked away, rubbing his head. “I was a wee bit drunk,” he admitted. “I dinna ken how much time passed, but later, a woman started screaming outside the game room. It was the lass Fraser had gone upstairs with.”

“Bloody hell,” Stirling murmured.

“She was in hysterics. She claimed she and Fraser had been upstairs. That men came in, grabbed him. Cut…” Ross's voice broke. “Cut his throat.”

“Jesus.” Innes thrust a hand through his blond hair.

“Where is he now?” Cam asked, suddenly wanting to go to Fraser, irrationally wanting to be at his side, even though it was too late.

“I went up to the room where the lass said they'd gone.” Ross seemed not to have heard Cam's question. He blinked hard, and his eyes shone. “There was blood everywhere. It looked like he fought hard, but couldna overcome them—him. Whoever it was.”

“Where is Fraser now?” Mackenzie repeated Cam's question. “Is he still there?”

“Aye.”

“We should go,” Cam said, his feet itching to move, to not stand around discussing this but to do something. Find Fraser's killer and let him know exactly what happened to someone who hurt a person Cam cared about.

“Aye,” the major agreed. “Let's go.” The men separated—the major and Mackenzie going off to talk briefly to their wives while the rest gathered their weapons.

A few minutes later, the Knights met at the back door. As they headed toward the stable, Stirling asked, “Who would've done such a thing?”

“Fraser wasna the kind of man anyone would want to kill,” Mackenzie said. “I dinna think he had any enemies.”

“Aye, but the Highland Knights might,” Innes pointed out. “People are beginning to know us. What we stand for.”

“Are you implying someone wants us dead?” Cam said. “All of us?”

“I dinna ken. After what happened in Manchester last year, our name doesn't elicit love in some circles.”

“I was at the hell with Fraser,” Ross argued. “No one tried to kill me.”

“Aye, but you were surrounded by people the whole time,” the major said. “Fraser was alone with a woman.”

“Did anyone but us know that you and Fraser went to Rohan's hell?” Cam asked Ross.

“Nay,” Ross said. “No one.”

“They could have been followed,” Stirling said.

Stepping inside the darkness of the stables, they looked at one another uneasily. The thought of people watching outside their house, following them, made Cam's stomach twist.

“Our location isna the secret it used to be,” the major said, the lantern he held casting a ghostly light over his rugged features.

It was true. The Highland Knights were still new, but they'd quickly acquired a reputation after their first assignment of quelling an insurgent group in Manchester, and saving an English earl's daughter—now Mackenzie's wife—in the process.

The major turned toward his horse and reached for his saddle. “We need to see our brother home to the Highlands. Then we need to find whoever did this.” He gave each of them a grim look. “And kill him.”

“My dear Esme.” A broad smile spread across Henry's face. He really was a handsome man, tall and blond and well built, with straight, white teeth and a deep dimple in his right cheek.

He'd scheduled an early evening visit with her today, and Esme had told herself she would spend their time together cataloging his positive traits—reminding herself of why she'd agreed to marry this man.

“Good evening, Henry.” She hated the shy inflection of her voice. One would think she'd be able to be herself with this man—she'd known him all her life, after all.

She held out her gloved hand to him and he brought it to his mouth and kissed the back, his touch light, almost limp. Every time Mr. McLeod had touched her, his touch had been firm, strong. He'd taken control.

No, she mustn't compare Henry and McLeod. That wasn't at all a good idea.

“You look lovely this evening.”

“Thank you.” She was wearing a new dress that had been delivered just this afternoon. It was a light-blue silk with the usual high waist and cap sleeves but a bit of flare to the skirt, and darker blue satin ribbon trim.

He took one of the armchairs near the window. Esme poured the tea and was proud that she spilled only a few drops—unlike the last time he'd come and she'd dumped half his cup onto the floor before it reached him. He'd been very kind about that. He'd always been kind to her, which was more than she could say about the majority of the members of the
ton.

You're rationalizing,
a voice inside her said.
McLeod is right—you don't love this man.

She handed him his tea and sat in the chair across from him, the low table between them. Henry was handsome—but in a different way from McLeod. He was light where McLeod was dark, soft where McLeod was sharp.

No! She
must
stop comparing them. Immediately.

They sipped in silence, until Esme fidgeted, her mind scrambling fruitlessly to conjure some relevant topic of discussion.

“So,” Henry finally said, “I was surprised to see Mr. McLeod here last night. I wasn't aware your families were close.”

Oh dear. This would not have been Esme's choice for conversation. She would have to tread carefully to not give away her confused feelings.

“I believe my brother had expressed some interest in becoming reacquainted with Mr. McLeod. Evidently, he's been away with the army for several years.” Good, that sounded just as it should have, she thought.

“Yes, he has.”

“How do you know him?” The words popped out of her, and she clenched her hands before releasing them. The question was merely a politeness. Henry wouldn't think it too forward, surely.

“We went to Eton together. For almost ten years.”

“You are the same age?” she asked. For some reason, McLeod seemed older than twenty-nine.

“Almost exactly, as I recall. Our birthdays are a month apart.”

“So you knew him well?”

“Yes. But we weren't the best of friends. McLeod was…” His lips thinned as he considered how to say whatever it was he wanted to say. “Well, he was rather a hell-raiser.”

She tried to swallow down a snort of laughter, but failed. What emerged was an embarrassing grunting noise. Heat flaming her face, she attempted to continue. “For some reason, that doesn't surprise me.”

Henry raised a brow. “It doesn't? Why not?”

“Oh…ah…well, he gives off the air of hell-raisery, I suppose.” Goodness, hell-raisery? She should just stop talking altogether.

“I suppose he does,” Henry said. “He was always getting into trouble in school—and he was always caught, which seemed to make little difference in his desire to flout the rules. He was also stubbornly…
Scottish.
”

She raised her brows. “He
is
Scottish, isn't he?” It felt like a foolish question. But what else would Henry expect from a Scot?

Henry rolled his eyes. “He insists on being Scottish—adopting the brogue, speaking of his homeland like it's heaven on earth. He never stopped complaining that he couldn't wear a kilt at Eton.”

“I hear Scots do like their kilts,” she murmured.

“But he was raised in London. He rarely visited Scotland as a child, and I think his mother was English. He's almost as English as you and me.”

“But his father is a Scottish earl, isn't he? That makes him a Scot, surely.”

“I suppose, technically, but it's the principle. He couldn't deign to be like the rest of us boys. He had to make himself different. Above us.”

“I doubt that's what he meant to do.”

“Perhaps not. But it felt as if he looked down upon us for being English.”

Surely
not. He had never even noticed her Englishness, as far as she knew. There had to be something more to it than that.

“After Eton, he bought a commission in the army, and I didn't see him or hear from him again until last night. I didn't know if he'd survived the war.” He shrugged. “I suppose it's not too much of a surprise that he did. He always did have a rather strong instinct for survival.”

“Are you not pleased he lived?”

“Oh, yes, of course I am,” Henry said, a beaming smile spreading over his features as if on cue.

It wasn't as if he was lying, exactly. More like he simply didn't care one way or the other whether McLeod had lived or died.

“Though I'm not sure why he's come back,” Henry added.

“Because the war's over, I imagine,” Esme murmured.

Henry shook his head. “Why not Scotland, then? By all accounts he loves the place. Why come here, to London, where his father resides?”

That was a good question indeed. She considered Lord Pinfield and his connection to Mr. McLeod. Then she thought of the Earl of Sutton. Sarah had said McLeod had had a falling out with his father—but what did that mean, exactly?

There was so much about Camden McLeod she wanted to know…to understand. He was a mystery to her. A
fascinating
mystery.

Henry was giving her an odd look. She cleared her throat then took a swallow of tea in an—undoubtedly vain—attempt to cover her thoughts.

How was it possible that she felt a stronger connection to a man she hardly knew, who wasn't even here, than to the man sitting across from her whom she'd known her whole life?

Cam paced his bedchamber. He'd been avoiding the rest of the Knights all evening. They didn't need to see him like this. Usually in such a situation, he'd imbibe until the darkness turned gray, then find himself a woman who could bed the rest of it out of him.

He knew what he wanted right now, and it was neither of those things. He wanted Esme.

He lay back on his bed, his fingers threaded behind his head, and closed his eyes, going over the information they'd learned today. There wasn't much. The woman who'd been with Fraser, one of Rohan's employees, was still hysterical and upset. Rohan had given her a tonic, which hadn't helped; instead it made her memories vague and her speech slurred.

From what they could gather, she and Fraser had been kissing on the bed when a man had burst inside. The intruder wore a hooded black cloak and had blue eyes. Other than that, he evidently had no distinguishing characteristics. She'd turned away and buried her head under the pillow, not to emerge until long after the man had killed Fraser and left.

They'd questioned everyone they could find from the gaming hell, staff as well as patrons, but the place had been crowded, and a quiet man in a black cloak hardly garnered extra attention.

Cam gripped the back of his skull. Why would someone take the life of a good man like George Fraser? Cam had liked—no,
loved
—Fraser. He was loyal to the bone, strong, with a ready smile and a joke when he felt the men needed it. They'd never stop feeling his loss. He'd leave a hole in the Knights that would never be filled.

Someone knocked on his door. “Come in.”

The door opened, revealing Stirling, who came in as if each of his feet weighed a hundred stone.

“Checking on you,” Stirling said.

“I'm fine,” Cam said. “But how's Mackenzie?”

“Not well.”

“Aye.” Last Cam saw Mackenzie, he'd been starting to write a letter to Fraser's family, a task that none of them would consider easy.

“He'll be all right,” Stirling said. “Lady Grace is with him.”

Lady Grace was Mackenzie's wife. She and the major's wife, Lady Claire, were sisters, and the two of them had been doing their best to help the men with their grief since they'd returned from Rohan's house earlier this evening. Of course, both of them had been fond of Fraser, so they struggled with their own grief as well.

“He's lucky to have her,” Cam said.

“Aye, that's true.” Stirling lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. “But you dinna look so well yourself. And you haven't any Grace for comfort.”

The image of Esme pushed itself into his mind, and he tried to thrust it aside.

“Aye, well”—he shrugged—“neither do you.”

“True enough,” Stirling agreed.

Cam sighed. “I need to find who did this.”

Stirling nodded.

“I feel like it's my fault.”

“Nay. It wasna your fault. You were with Pinfield.”

“Aye, but I had Fraser's pistol.” Cam swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. If he hadn't insisted upon taking Fraser's pocket pistol, would he have been able to protect himself? Would he be alive tonight, teasing Cam about his lack of fashion sense?

“You couldn't've known there'd be murderers lying in wait for him.” Stirling rose stiffly. When he turned back to Cam, his eyes were narrow and dark. “There's too much evil in this world, McLeod. Too much death.”

“Aye,” Cam agreed. Stirling didn't take evil and death well. To this day, nearly a year after he and the other Knights had left the army, he suffered from horrible visions and nightmares. Since Waterloo, Stirling had been fragile, and the rest of the Knights knew it. There was something volatile in him close to the surface, which if ignited would certainly explode. None of them wanted that to happen.

“We're going to find whoever did this,” Stirling said.

“How?” Cam asked, sitting up. “The damn trail is already cold.”

“We'll get to the bottom of it,” Stirling said. “We have to. Otherwise, none of us will be able to live with ourselves.”

Cam was still for a minute, then he nodded, remembering Anna. He hadn't been able to move on, to live again, until he'd taken care of the men who'd hurt her. It would be the same with Fraser.

Anna! Oh, damnation.

He raked a hand through his hair and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Bloody hell. I was supposed to go to my sister's house tonight. I'm late.” He glanced at the clock over the mantel and winced. “By over an hour.”

“Will you still go?”

“Aye.” He wouldn't miss his weekly dinner with his sister, even though the food would surely be cold by now, and she'd probably given up on him. If it were anyone else, he wouldn't bother. But this was Anna.

Anna lived in Holborn, in a house of her own that Cam had purchased for her seven years ago. After the falling out with their father, he'd suggested she return to Scotland, but she'd been younger than Cam had been when she'd last seen her homeland, and she said she'd feel more comfortable, less conspicuous, in London.

It was luck that the house assigned to the Highland Knights was only a ten-minute ride from her house. Cam exited into the mews, went to the stable, and quickly saddled his horse. The traffic wasn't too bad this time of night, and he kept glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone was following him. He wasn't keen on leading murderers to his sister's home.

For good measure, he made a few extraneous turns before arriving at his sister's and securing his horse.

“Cam!” Anna said, opening the door to greet him. “I was worried.”

“Aye, well, it wasna a good day.”

She
tsk
ed, a sound that reminded him of his mother, who'd died when he was fourteen years old. She'd loved them with all her heart. And Cam couldn't help but think that if she had lived, Anna could have somehow avoided the terrible things that had happened to her.

“Come. Martha kept dinner warm for you.”

That brought a smile to his face. Anna had known he'd come, despite his tardiness.

“Thanks,” he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “I'm famished.” It was true, he realized. He hadn't eaten a thing today.

Anna led him into the dining room, where her servant, Martha, greeted him, then laid a veal pie on the table. He sat and dug into the savory dish. Anna sat across the table from him. When Martha left, he raised a brow at his sister. “You're not eating?”

“I already ate. You're quite late, you ken.”

“Aye. Sorry.”

“You're forgiven.” She smiled at him, but as always, it was a sad smile. Full of all the suffering she'd been through. He'd do anything to see a return of the bright, happy smiles she'd given him when she was a girl.

Those smiles had disappeared when their older brother, Alastair, who'd been born with a weak heart, had died. Alastair had been the heir to the Earl of Sutton, and their father had never let him forget it. From the moment their brother could walk and talk, the earl had put endless strain on him, punishing him brutally whenever his actions fell short, which, according to their father, was constantly. Finally, when Alastair was twenty-four years old, his heart couldn't take any more. He'd fallen asleep at his desk one afternoon and never awakened.

At the age of twenty-two, Cam had come home to bury his brother. He had never returned to his father's house after that.

“Tell me what happened today,” Anna said quietly. “It was nothing good—I can see it in your eyes.”

Cam shook his head stubbornly. “I dinna wish to talk about it.”

Anna nodded. She knew full well by now that Cam disliked talking of violence and horror with her. That didn't mean she'd stopped trying to question him about that part of his life. “Aye, well, if today was so awful, tell me about your yesterday, then.”

He remembered the dinner party at the Duke of Trent's house, and his first smile of the day curled his lips when he thought about Esme, about her flushed cheeks and dark hair and bonny, curvaceous body.

“Ah…” Anna leaned forward. “Something good happened. Tell me about it.”

Cam snorted. “You're a gossiping harpy.”

She raised a brow. “I don't have anyone to gossip with but you. Now, tell me.”

He shrugged. “Just a lass I met.”

Her brow notched up higher on her forehead. “Aye? Well, I'm sure you've met many lasses. But this is the first one you've told me about. What's her name? Is she English?”

“Aye, she's English. Her name…” He hesitated. Saying it out loud to Anna felt as good as publicly declaring his interest in the woman.

And, he realized, that was exactly what he wanted to do.

“…is Lady Esme Hawkins. She's the sister of the Duke of Trent.”

“
Och,
Cam.”

“What?”

Her smile was playful, but there was worry in her eyes. “I've heard of the Duke of Trent.”

“Aye, well, everyone has.”

“You like to aim high, don't you? I'd imagine the Duke of Trent's sister is about as accessible as the queen.”

He laughed. “She's a bit more accessible than the queen, I think.”

“Still…”

“I ken. And she's engaged—” Oh hell. He flinched. Why had he said that?

“She's engaged!” Anna's voice was a near shout. “Cam—”

He raised his hand to stop her. “The engagement won't last. He's a bore.”

“Don't be a child,” Anna snapped.

He scowled at her.

“Just because you don't think a marriage should happen doesn't mean that it won't.”

“She doesn't love him.”

Anna threw her arms up. “How can you possibly know that?”

Cam took a big bite of pie, chewed, swallowed, and downed a deep gulp of wine from the glass Martha had given him. “I just do.”

“How?”

“A man can see these things.”

Her gaze went serious. “What game are you playing, Cam? This sounds like something Da would do, and—”

Cam stiffened. “Da would rip the lass from her loving family and take her how and when he pleased.” That was what he'd done with their mother. He'd manipulated her, seduced her, forced her into a loveless marriage, then proceeded to make her life a living hell. And while he'd slowly killed their mother, he'd taken countless mistresses and treated them no better. “Do you really think I'd do that to a woman, Anna? Any woman?”

He clenched and unclenched his fists. Damn it. Because ultimately Anna was right—what he was doing with Esme
did
sound like something their father would do.

But he didn't want to stop. He
couldn't
stop. He didn't intend to cause Esme any harm, truly. He'd try like hell not to. But he wanted her. He
wanted
her, and he couldn't let her marry Henry Whitworth. He
couldn't.

That was how this would end, wouldn't it? He'd hurt her. How could there be any other outcome?

Damn. Damn damn
damn.
He truly was a bastard.

“Nay, you would never hurt a woman deliberately,” Anna soothed, clearly seeing the emotions that must be twisting his face. “I know that.” She leaned forward, her expression earnest. “But what are your intentions? What do you intend to gain from this course of action?”

“I want to save her from an unhappy marriage.” He blew out a breath. That was the absolute truth. An intriguing, complicated woman like Esme would wither away shackled to a lifeless lump like Henry Whitworth.

Anna released a frustrated breath.

“Getting that man away from her would be a favor,” he said.

“Why? Is he a bad man?”

Cam snorted. “Bad for Esme, aye.”

She still didn't seem satisfied. Cam couldn't think about this anymore. Endlessly comparing himself to his father was going to drive him mad. He needed to stop reminding himself of the McLeod blood running through his veins that had made him into the ass he was. He
knew
all that already, damn it.

“I think you'd like Esme,” he said, forcibly lightening his voice. “I hope you can meet her someday.”

“I don't meet dukes' sisters often,” she said with a smirk.

“You should, though.” As the daughter of an earl, she should be at all of the social events of the Season. But no. She had been disowned by her father and was now shunned by every member of the society who had once venerated her for her position alone.

“Aye, well, I don't miss that life.”

“Don't you?”

“Nay,” she said, and he believed her.

“I dinna miss it either. I'm being forced back into it because of bloody Pinfield, and I hate it.” As far as he was concerned, the whole hypocritical lot of them could go to hell. They had all known Anna wasn't at fault for what had been done to her, yet they now treated her as if she were less than nothing. Even the girls who had proclaimed themselves her lifelong friends had turned their backs on her. He despised them all for what they'd done to his sister.

Anna's mouth turned down in an expression of distaste. “How is dear Pinny?”

“Annoying as hell.”

“Does he ever mention Da?”

“Nay. Not once.” Last Cam and Anna knew, their father and Lord Pinfield had been close friends. Now, Cam had no idea. “He's never acknowledged my identity either. He treats all of us Knights like lowly servants.” He didn't care about Pinfield ignoring the fact that Cam was his father's heir, but it chafed him that the man disrespected the Knights.

“Does he know who you are?”

Cam snorted. “Oh, aye, he does. He's idiotic but he's not an idiot.”

“He's terrible. I always despised him.”

Cam raised his brows. That was a strong statement, coming from his sister. “Why?”