Highland Awakening (8 page)

“You've no control over what I make my business.” He gave a wry smile. “Neither, it seems, do I.”

She looked down at her hands. Even in the dim light, she could see her knuckles had turned white, she was clutching the counterpane so tightly.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked him, her voice throbbing with intensity. “Why are you invading my life? My room? My story?” Her mind? Her fantasies? She felt desperate, out of control when it came to this man. She looked up at him.
“Why?”

“ 'Tis a fair question,” he said softly. “I dinna wish to make you feel invaded…Unless it's what you want.”

She jolted at that.

Because he was right. The way she was speaking to him was not how she should be speaking to a near stranger who'd just invaded her bedchamber. She should be screaming, crying out for help, for Trent to come in and get this horrible, frightening man away from her.

But she didn't shout out for her brother. Because she
wanted
Camden McLeod to be here. She wanted to be talking to him. She wanted to understand him.

She wanted all of that, and more.

She released the counterpane and returned it to the bed, where it belonged. Then she walked around the bed clad in only her nightgown, fully aware that no one except her maid had ever seen her in so few clothes, and stood before him, facing him head-on.

“You shouldn't have done that,” she said softly.

For the first time, he looked as confused and helpless as she felt. “I couldna help it,” he murmured. “I
needed
to see what you'd written in there.”

“Tell me what you think of me now.” She looked him in the eye. “Now that you know what I write. The kinds of things I write about.”

His lips curled. “I think I want you even more.”

“Why? Because of the content of my story? Do you think that just because you know some of the things I have written that I'll give my favors freely?”

He blinked in surprise. “Nay.”

She stared at him in disbelief.

“Not because of
what
you write, Esme,” he said softly. “Because you
do
write.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, it canna be easy for a lass in your position. You need to be determined, ambitious, cautious…intelligent.”

Those were all traits Cam himself seemed to possess—well, except for caution, clearly. “What would you think of me if I told you that three of my books have been published? That this is my fourth, and it's due to my editor in three months' time.”

Surely he would be horrified to hear such a thing. Not only had she engaged in writing such scandalous content, but she had participated in the trade of publishing her books and selling them to the public. Most gentlemen would think she'd debased herself beneath the lowest of the low.

“I'd say that's an impressive feat for any writer.”

She blinked at that, thrown off balance for a moment. Then she gathered her composure and held it tightly against her. “What would you say if I told you that I've lied to my family, friends, and acquaintances about my stories? That no one knows about them except my brother Sam?”

“I'd say well done. And well done to Sam, who has evidently earned your confidence.”

She laughed despite herself, her stiffness melting away like butter in sunlight. “You, sir, are truly unconventional.”

He grinned. “So, it seems, are you.”

She nodded. She'd always felt like an outsider in her family. She even looked different from the rest of the duke's offspring—and it had only been recently that she'd learned why. She wasn't the true daughter of the last Duke of Trent—she was the product of the duchess's long-standing affair with Steven Lowell, a gypsy man from a traveling circus, of all crazy things.

What would Camden McLeod say if she told him that? She smiled, deep inside. Unlike everyone else in the
ton,
he'd probably like her more for it. She loved his reaction to her writing…it was like a breath of fresh air, and so unlike how anyone else she knew would react.

“So tell me, then,” she said, the last of her wariness fading away.

“Tell you what?”

“Why you're here. You said yesterday wasn't a good day. Tell me what happened.”

Cam gave Esme a thoughtful look, trying to decide how much to tell her. Finally, he relaxed his expression. “ 'Tis a long story.”

“Well, I have all night. Or the rest of it, in any case.”

He nodded and held out his hand to her. “Sit with me?”

She took his hand and he led her to the pair of armchairs near the fire. “You're saying I'm unconventional, and that's true,” he said after they'd both taken a seat. “But my work is also unconventional.”

“My sister-in-law said you were in the army, but I know many of the regiments were disbanded after Waterloo. Is that what happened to you?”

“Not exactly. Five officers and two enlisted men from the regiment of Gordon Highlanders were summoned to London and given the opportunity to leave the army and do something different. We all accepted.”

“What was it?” she asked.

He seemed to hesitate for a second, but then he said, “We formed a brotherhood called the Highland Knights.”

She released a long breath. “Ah.”

He raised his brows in surprise at her stiffening posture. “You've heard of the Knights?”

“Yes. My brother Sam works with the Agency.”

He nodded. “I am acquainted with your brother.”

“From what I've gathered, the Highland Knights are an offshoot of Sam's group.”

“Aye, we are.” He tilted his head at her. “How much do you know of the Agency?”

“Too much,” she said flatly.

He nodded, understanding immediately. Sam Hawkins had been an elite assassin for the Agency for many years, but he was deeply incognito and very few knew the extent of the work he did for the country. Clearly, Esme did, though.

“The Knights have only been in service to the Crown since Waterloo. The work we're involved in is much the same, though most of our assignments will be in Scotland and the north.”

“Why are you in London, then?”

“I dinna ken, exactly. We were in Manchester for a time, but since then we've been in London guarding Pinfield. He's evidently been receiving death threats. We've been assigned to protect him and uncover the nature of the threat. Our superiors believe the danger might have originated in Scotland.”

“I see.” She paused. “You've worked with Sam, then?”

“He was with us through the beginning months. He introduced us to the work.”

“Are you an assassin?” she breathed.

“Nay. Though if my duty calls for it, I'll do what must needs be done.”

“So did what happened yesterday have something to do with your work?”

“Aye, in a way. It was…it was one of the other Knights…George Fraser…”

She leaned forward, reaching out to cover his hand that was resting on the arm of the chair. He was trembling, very subtly, and he wondered if she could feel it as she squeezed his hand gently.

He was unused to being comforted. It was a singularly odd sensation. He liked it more than he'd expected to. Quite a bit more.

“What happened?” she asked.

“He was killed.” He closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. “He was my friend. My brother. He was murdered while I was here at your brother's dinner party.”

“Oh, Cam,” she murmured. “I am so sorry.”

They sat in silence for a long moment. Cam kept his eyes closed and his body relaxed, even though it felt alive and awake in every possible way, his senses humming with awareness radiating out from their point of contact at his hand.

“The worst part about it,” Cam said after a time, “is that we dinna ken who murdered him. And we dinna ken why. Fraser had no enemies.”

“But the Highland Knights must,” Esme said.

“Aye.” Again he was surprised at her perceptiveness. She was no insipid female. “Even as green as we are, it's possible we've already acquired enemies.”

Esme shuddered. “That means you're in danger, too.” She squeezed his hand a little tighter. “What will you do?”

“We've questioned everyone at the gaming hell where he was last night. Whoever did it covered their tracks well.”

“It was planned, then.”

“Aye. Probably. And they waited for him to be alone…or not surrounded by a mob, in any case. He was there with another one of the Knights, Ross. But Ross didna leave the tables at all.”

“And Mr. Fraser did?”

“Aye, he did.”

“You'll need to be careful, Cam.”

He didn't respond.

“Please. Tell me you'll be careful.”

“Aye. I'll be careful. But I'm no' going to stop until I find who did this, and why.”

“I understand,” she said softly. “If anything happened to one of my brothers, I'd feel the same.”

Her loyalty to her family didn't surprise him.

“It seems to me, though,” she continued with a shiver, “that you won't need to be looking for whoever did this. If it's truly an enemy of the Highland Knights, I think they'll be coming to you.”

“Let them come,” he said darkly.

They were quiet. Having her here, quiet and strong and holding his hand, was like a soothing balm to his soul. He never talked comfortably with women. He always avoided attachments like this, had always known such relationships would be destined for failure. He wouldn't think of the destiny of this particular relationship, though. Not right now. He was going to remain in the present and drink in all the peace she offered him, like the greedy bastard he was.

He stroked the top of her hand, loving the feel of her skin under his thumb.

She was still engaged to marry that damned Henry Whitworth. But Cam wasn't going to think of that right now, either. He'd tuck that problem aside. But God knew, he'd be dealing with it later.

They talked for a very long time, Cam telling her about his brother Knights and their experiences in the army before the Highland Knights had been formed. Esme spoke of her stories, her inspiration for them, and of the research she'd done.

In a lull in the conversation, Esme glanced at Cam to find him looking at her, a softness in his gaze she couldn't even begin to decipher.

No, that was wrong. Perhaps she could decipher it. It might be…affection. As one might feel for a sister or a good friend. She desperately hoped that was all it was, even when a part of her scoffed—loudly—and knew that it was so much more. Of course, the traitorous part of her wanted it all.

“We're friends, aren't we?” she asked hopefully. Naively, perhaps.

“Aye, lass.” His voice was a low rumble. “Friends…and more.”

“We cannot be more,” she breathed. But the tone of his voice sent heat spiraling through her, and she knew he could read it in her eyes.

He stood, pulling her up beside him, and before she could protest, he kissed her, slow and long and languid, his arms wrapping around her and pressing their bodies tight together. God, he tasted so good. Like whisky and strength and masculine appeal.

He ran his hand down her back, exploring her curves thoroughly now that the only thing between his fingers and her skin was the thin material of her nightgown.

He pulled back for the second it took for him to say, “So bonny, lass,” and kissed her again.

He stroked the dip in her waist, then glided his hand over the curve of her hip and thigh. When his arm had descended to its limit, he bunched up her nightgown in his hand and wrapped his palm around the back of her thigh, just beneath her bottom. She gasped at the sheer intimacy of the touch.

But she didn't pull away. Instead she thrust her body into him instinctively, and as he held her tight, locked against him, she could feel his hardness pressing into her stomach.

“God, lass,” he murmured, nibbling kisses over her jaw. “I want you. So bad. Tell me yes. Tell me to take you. Here, now.”

She wanted him, too. She wanted to live all the things she wrote about; experience what she'd never believed was possible. This man could give all that to her, and she sensed he'd be generous in doing so.

But if she pursued this course, chances were high that she'd once again become a topic of gossip and scandal. And that would not only hurt Henry, it would also damage her entire family.

She'd done so much wrong, so much to hurt Trent and the rest of the family. Her panics and public awkwardness were incontrollable parts of her personality that she'd always struggled with but had never been able to conquer. While the desire to explore the forbidden with this man was strong, it was controllable. Indeed, it was one thing she
could
control.

“I need you, lass,” Cam murmured. “You…fill something inside me. Something that's missing in my soul. You can replenish it for me. Make me whole again.”

She wanted him to an extent that scared her. But he was a man, and she knew from her research that men were prone to say and do things that they didn't necessarily mean when driven by these primal urges. He might mean those pretty words, but she couldn't begin to contemplate what it meant for both of them if he did. More likely, he was being driven by forces over which he had no control.

If he'd lost all sense, she couldn't afford to. Still…Oh, but she wanted him. So badly.

She gathered all her strength, all her desire to hold true to her promises and all her loyalty to her family and to Henry, who would be part of her family soon, and pulled away. She breathed hard, and her cheeks were so hot, she was certain he could see the flush of pink in the moonlight.

“Cam,” she whispered. “I can't. We can't…” The despair seeped through, that war she was waging against herself revealed by the broken syllables of her words.

She turned and pushed her hands into her hair, striding the length of the room and sinking onto the edge of the bed. “Oh God. I'm such a terrible person.”

“Nay.” He sat beside her, his presence solid and surprisingly comforting. “You're the opposite of terrible, lass. You're a complex package of intriguing and intelligent. Bonny and sweet. Innocent and a minx.”

He wrapped an arm over her shoulder, and drew her against him. “Call it off,” he said.

He meant her engagement, of course.

“You know I cannot,” she said miserably.

He sighed. “Here's one thing I canna understand about you—this need for propriety, this desire not to be the cause of gossip or to disgrace yourself or your family. Who cares about everyone else? This is about you and me.” His expression clearly said,
You don't want that insipid Whitworth, lass. You want me.

“Why do you care what any of them think?” he continued.

“It's complicated,” she murmured. “You have been out of society for so long, you probably don't know all that my family has been through.”

“You're right. I dinna ken any of it, except that there've been rumors that all your brothers aren't full brothers.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “That barely touches the tip of the iceberg of the matter.”

“Tell me, then. I want to understand you.”

She looked up. “Do you? Are you certain you really want to know? It'll take the rest of the night to list the scandals poor Trent has had to endure in the course of his life.”

“Your brother isna that old.”

“I know—he's only thirty-three. That's why he shouldn't have to bear any more scandal. He's had more than enough to last a lifetime. And through it all, he has done everything in his power to protect me. I owe him so much. I cannot disgrace my family after all he's done for me. Without him, I'd be nothing.”

“How?” Cam demanded. “How has he protected you?”

She couldn't tell him. It was too complicated. She looked sideways at him. “My family's secrets are deep. It would be stupid and careless of me to bring you under the heavy weight of our confidence.”

“I don't care about your family's secrets,” he murmured. “Only yours.”

“But mine are entwined with theirs, don't you see? I cannot bring you into my confidence without betraying their secrets, and I won't do that.”

“Your loyalty is admirable.”

She gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. “Very little about me is admirable. I can't even be myself without being a disgrace. I live behind masks and shadows, but there's naught to be done about it.” She looked down, distractedly noting that her fists were curled into tight balls in her nightgown. “I don't deserve my position in this world,” she whispered. “I have always been a failure at it.”

Cam made a low sound of disapproval in his throat. “Nay. Your position doesna deserve you.”

Surprised, she snapped her head up to look at him, then shook it in wonder. “I've never in my life been in the presence of a person who truly makes me feel as if I can be me.”

“You've led a lonely existence, then.”

Her bare toes curled into the carpet. “Yes,” she murmured, “sometimes. But the writing helps. It takes me to places I could never otherwise go.”

“And gives you experiences you've always felt you could never have.”

She nodded in agreement.

“But you can have them, Esme. With me,” he said softly.

I wish I could have them with you…
“You know I cannot.”

“Picturing you with him…” Cam shook his head, looking away from her. “Damn it, lass. I canna give you what you deserve. But Whitworth canna give you what you need.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“How will you write your novels when you're married?” he asked quietly. “Propriety is important to Whitworth. He wilna stand for having an authoress for a wife.”

She flinched. These were things she forcibly pushed from her mind the minute they started intruding. “I've tried not to think too much on it. I'll take a hiatus from writing for a time. Then, maybe, as he begins to know me better, he'll understand…”

“You're lying to yourself,” Cam said shortly.