Highlander's Hope

HIGHLANDER’S HOPE

COLLETTE CAMERON

SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

New York

HIGHLANDER’S HOPE

Copyright©2013

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Cover Design by Rae Monet, Inc.

This book is a work of fiction.  The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Published in the United States of America by

Soul Mate Publishing

P.O. Box 24

Macedon, New York, 14502

ISBN-13: 978-1-61935-
227-8

www.SoulMatePublishing.com

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

For my daughter, my friend,

Brianna Cherise—

With love and appreciation for believing in me;

for the precious girl you were and

the amazing woman you have become.

Acknowledgements

Words cannot express my gratitude to my husband, Erby, for his patience and selflessness as I spent every free moment on my computer writing this book; to my sons, Jesse and Travess, who still don’t have a clue what a historical romance is but said, “Go for it,” anyway; to my dear friend, Debbie Davison, for your encouragement and prayers, for listening and reading . . . and rereading; to Seth Brock, for your time, creativity, and technical support in designing my website and blog, and, of course, to Debby Gilbert and Soul Mate Publishing—You took a chance on an unknown.

Thank you.

Chapter 1

London Harbor - Late June 1817

“Nooo . . .”

The strangled cry startled Yvette awake. Chest heaving, she choked on dry, rasping sobs as she searched beneath her pillow for the sheath that held her folding dagger. Gulping against the lump wedged in her throat, she fought to draw air into her lungs and calm her stampeding pulse.

Lord, another nightmare about Edgar.

Eyes wide, she peered into the darkness. A sliver of light peeked in the ship’s porthole. The moonbeam illuminated the cramped, airless cabin and the occupants of the equally uncomfortable berths. Though meager, the glow allowed her to see the shadowy interior of her tiny stateroom.

Closing her eyes, she sagged against the bedding in relief. She swallowed again. Finally. The stranglehold of fear evaporated.

Well, not entirely. Truth be told, the suspicious deaths of her parents, her own mysterious riding accident, and Edgar’s two abduction and rape attempts still haunted her. Though there was no proof, she suspected he might be responsible for the latter two as well.

The air above the upper berth was hot and thick. Sticky with sweat, Yvette kicked off her coarse blanket and reached to push a damp curl off her face. Her hand froze in midair.

Before the nightmare, she had been dreaming of
him
.

It was uncanny, but Yvette knew the visitor in her dreams almost as well as if he had been a flesh and blood man. She recognized his spicy, male scent and the feel of his firm lips on hers—his powerful body and his sinewy embrace holding her close, keeping her safe.

That’s what she cherished the most—the safety of his arms.

Yvette touched her lips. They throbbed beneath her fingertips. He had been kissing her. Keeping her eyes closed, she furrowed her brows, and tried to summon his face. Skittering across the fringes of her memory, like some elusive phantom, the image lurked beyond the reaches of her consciousness, then, flitted away.

His eyes, though, she remembered his eyes.

Opening hers, she grinned. The
Atlantic Star
no longer swayed, and the cabin was blessedly silent. For the first time in weeks—no it had been months now—her obnoxious cabin mate, Mrs. Pettigrove, wasn’t rattling the walls, and the berths themselves, with her resounding snores.

Yvette wished another cabin had been available when she fled the mansion in the middle of the night after Edgar and his hired thugs attempted to abduct her again. Her need to escape Massachusetts immediately—and in secret—was so great, Fairchild, her butler, had barely allowed her the time to pack her valise and weapons.

With two guards lying dead, and members of the staff injured, quibbling about accommodations on the ship was unthinkable. She took the sole remaining available bunk, which meant her old nursemaid, Pippa, couldn’t accompany her.

Sharing a cabin with a stranger as difficult and demanding as Mrs. Pettigrove had been taxing. Several of Yvette’s smaller belongings, and her pitiful collection of jewels and monies Edgar had missed in his raid, had gone missing during the voyage. Yvette had found all but the valuables hidden amongst Mrs. Pettigrove’s possessions.

When Yvette confronted her, the dame denied so much as touching any of Yvette’s effects. She claimed a ship’s hand had stolen the valuables and placed Yvette’s possessions with hers to make her appear the guilty party.

At the captain’s orders, a thorough search of the cabin and ship had commenced. The valuables weren’t recovered. Yvette was convinced Mrs. Pettigrove had stashed them somewhere until the ship made port. She’d taken to sleeping with her reticule lest Mrs. Pettigrove help herself to the few meager coins Yvette had remaining.

No, Yvette couldn’t wait to part company with her.

Just then, Mrs. Pettigrove rolled over, and the bunks groaned and shook with her labored movement. She grunted, passed a large expanse of wind, and grew silent once more.

Oh, good Lord.

Yvette quickly smashed a pillow across her face as the results of Mrs. Pettigrove’s digestive disruptions drifted upward. She removed the pillow almost as fast. The cloying material was intolerable.

“How can she sleep when it’s this blasted hot?” Yvette wiped beads of moisture from her upper lip with the back of her hand. “I don’t remember June ever being this warm.”

Were the other passengers suffering as much as she? Or did they somehow manage to sleep in the dreadful heat? How they could was beyond her. A shiver of unease whispered across her. She pursed her lips and released a slight huff of air.

One of the other passengers, Nigel Collingsworth, had caused her no small amount of disquiet during the Atlantic crossing. He was tall, muscular, and oozed cool confidence. But his shrewd, dark gaze shifted everywhere, watched everyone, missed nothing. On several occasions, Yvette had caught him staring at her with a peculiar, assessing glimmer in his eyes.

Brows puckered, she frowned. Mr. Collingsworth unnerved her. Thank goodness, she’d never have to see the man again. Hoping to get some relief from the oppressive heat, she flipped to her side and plopped an arm and knee over the edge of her bunk. The new position didn’t bring her much respite.

The quiet slap, slap of the Thames lapping against the ship’s hull reminded her they’d reached London and docked during the night. Mrs. Pettigrove slumbered on, now as silent as a newborn babe. The matron hadn’t slept this peacefully throughout the entire journey.

Yvette glanced at the porthole. What time was it? The sky remained slate without. It was well before dawn then.

Muted bangs and thumps, and an occasional curse or shout, suggested the
Atlantic Star’s
crew stirred in preparation for the debarkation of her passengers and the unloading of the ship’s cargo.

Stretching, she stared at the porthole. The cabin was stifling. Despite the heat, Mrs. Pettigrove, afraid of catching the ague, had insisted the small window remain shut tight.

Did Yvette dare defy her and crack it open for some cool air? She blew a breath of frustration. She might awaken Mrs. Pettigrove. A notion took hold.

That might not be a bad thing. No indeed, not a bad thing at all. The sooner they were dressed and packed, the sooner she could call on Papa’s solicitor. By noon, she would have access to her inheritance and be relieved of Mrs. Pettigrove’s trying company, once and for all.

The idea pleased Yvette no end. A wide smile curved her lips. She had never claimed patience as a virtue. Decision made, she scrambled from the berth, banging her toe in the process. Lord have mercy, it hurt!

Clutching her foot, she hopped about the cabin, determined to put the past, and Massachusetts, behind her.

Just as soon as she could walk again.

Less than two hours later, Yvette stood on London’s East India Docks, surveying the chaotic and malodorous wharf. She crinkled her nose. The stench of the Thames, combined with piles of rotting garbage and decaying fish, was vile.

A smile hovered on her lips, nonetheless. She was home at last.

She peered about. Where was Mrs. Pettigrove? They were to share a hackney. Yvette had handed over the last of her coin for the conveyance. She took a few steps across the scarred wood, continuing to look around.

No Mrs. Pettigrove. No Hackney.

She exhaled in exasperation. Bother and blast, the woman had stolen her money.

Yvette tightened her grip on her valise and strode across the wharf. She wasn’t worried . . . Well, perhaps a mite. She’d heard stories of things happening to young women on the waterfront. Papa had insisted she never visit his offices unaccompanied and had absolutely forbid her to set foot on the docks and side streets.

She was armed, though, with a gun in her valise and blade in her reticule, though truth to tell, she hadn’t practiced with either in some time.

Yvette stopped to get her bearings. The Dock Manager’s Office was . . . what? Perhaps a half-dozen blocks away? Papa’s offices were a block farther along. Surely someone there would lend her coin to hire a hackney to get to her solicitor’s.

A familiar twinge gripped her.

Her beloved Papa and stepmother, Belle-mére.

No, she would not think of her loss, not now leastways. She was home and joy whispered across her soul despite her grief. In a matter of days she would be at Somersfield, reunited with her cousin, Vangie, and safe from Edgar. There she would consider her future, and decide what she wanted to do.

Edgar’s attacks had served one useful purpose. They had strengthened her resolve to lay the course for her own life. She would bend to the whim of no man.

With no siblings, other than her two stepbrothers—neither of which she was close to, though Rory was by far the more tolerable of the pair—she was the sole recipient of Papa’s fortune. She had the financial means to remain independent once she turned one-and-twenty. And though she’d never wanted for admirers, she had no pressing desire to marry.

In Boston, after she’d rebuffed Edgar’s attempts to court her, he’d called her a bluestocking and claimed she was overly educated, that she didn’t know her place.

Good. She had no intention of ever knowing her place. It sounded quite boring and oppressive.

True, she was highly educated. Papa had insisted upon it. He’d also insisted she be trained in weaponry, so she could defend herself. She grinned. Though grace was not her greatest asset, she was passable with a blade and quite skilled with firearms. Why, she could even hit a stationary target with some regularity.

Yes, Papa had been most unconventional, though overly protective. Yvette hadn’t minded, at least not when she was younger. She had enjoyed her studies, and her extensive education hadn’t seemed to discourage her suitors.

A rueful smile touched her mouth. Papa’s affluence had attracted many beaus. She tried to develop an interest in the gentlemen that had begun calling five years ago, when she was five-and-ten. Truly she did.

She knew some considered her on the shelf. It didn’t bother her. None of those men quickened her pulse. She had no overwhelming desire to kiss them until she gasped with pleasure.

Truth to tell, she had no desire, much less an overwhelming one, to touch them at all. Papa had understood, and he’d never pressed marriage upon her, though every now and again, he would tease her. “I’m hoping for a dozen grandchildren, Evvy.”

Her determination to select her own husband, and to marry for love, did create somewhat of a hindrance, a rather large hindrance, actually. She could never be sure if a gentleman’s interest was genuine. Or if he feigned love and adoration to gain access to her father’s fortune—now her fortune.

It was best to trust no man, except dear, doddering Mr. Dehring, Fairchild, and the twins. Those were the men Papa had trusted. Fairchild had been Papa’s dearest friend and confidant as well as the family’s butler.

Intent on her thoughts, she tripped over a coiled rope and tottered for a moment. Her arm had begun to ache from the weight of the valise. She shifted it to her other hand, and picked her way across another pile of rope.

Traipsing across the dock, she bit her lower lip. She did want children though, lots of them. And there was the corker. She couldn’t very well have one without the other. Good Lord, imagine the scandal. Her gaze dipped to her skirts. What would it be like to have four or five or six children clinging to them?

She could adopt, she supposed. There certainly were enough orphans to pick from. Were unmarried women allowed to adopt? She’d have to ask Mr. Dehring.

Yvette grimaced, her joy fading. Now she was a jumble of confused emotions. As she strode across the wharf’s rough wooden planks, an eerie sensation prickled the length of her spine. Slowing her pace, she glanced over her shoulder. Her heart lurched to her throat and lodged there.

Lord Almighty, was that man following her?