Highland Awakening Page 12

  Trent shook his head at her and rolled his eyes, but what Sarah said really was true. Esme had never thought of it in that light before. The Hawkins family had been through the rumor mill so many times they should have been ground to dust by now. But Trent’s reputation had reached the highest echelon. He was admired, respected, even revered by many.

  Trent finally sat down on the sofa again, facing her and Sarah. He sighed. “I just don’t want to see you hurt by this.”

  “The only thing that can hurt me is your displeasure.”

  “You’re not sad about Henry? About your engagement?” Sarah asked.

  Esme thought about it, then shook her head. “In a way I am, I suppose. But hearing how he spoke of my writings, and of the fact that I am a writer…I didn’t know he’d be so disgusted by it. He was right. We weren’t compatible.”

  Sarah sighed. “I’m sad about it, I suppose. I so wanted to see you happily married, as Simon and I are.”

  “My marriage to Henry would never have been as happy as your marriage,” she told Sarah. “Hearing him today made me finally realize the truth of that.” She set her claret aside, then squeezed her hands together in her lap. “I was lying to myself thinking that Henry and I could be as happy as you. I rationalized that we’ve known each other most of our lives, just like you and Trent. But there is so much more than that between the two of you. I hope…” She stopped speaking. She’d been about to say that she hoped someday to find a partner like Sarah had in Trent. But she shouldn’t hope for such things. Trent and Sarah’s partnership was a rare jewel. She knew of few other couples that were as strong.

  Among those few were Sam and Élise…and their brother Luke and his wife, Emma. Yes, she knew what a strong marriage looked like now. But Trent, Sam, and Luke were wonderful men, and Sarah, Élise, and Emma were all strong, likable women. She’d never been strong or likable.

  “I’m not displeased,” Trent said after a short silence. “Just worried that you might eventually be hurt by this.”

  “I’m sorry to worry you.”

  Trent sighed. “Don’t be sorry. We’ll take precautions to keep this confidential. I’m glad you’ve found something that brings you happiness. Please, don’t stop writing.”

  She blinked against a sudden sting in her eyes. “Are…are you sure?”

  “Yes. I am.”

  “I’ll continue to be discreet. And if the truth is ever discovered, I’ll protect the House of Trent as much as I can.”

  Sarah grasped her hand. “We will always support you, Esme. And if the truth is discovered, we will stand by your side. We always will. You’re family, and we love you very much.”

  Esme looked back and forth from her brother to her sister-in-law. She was so lucky to have been gifted with these people as her family.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  She closed her eyes, and took in a deep breath of fortifying air. One of her tasks for the evening was done, and it had ended well. Far better than she could have ever hoped.

  Now she needed to find Camden McLeod and give him a piece of her mind.

  Chapter 15

  The only place Esme knew to look for Cam was Lord Pinfield’s house. If Cam wasn’t there, surely another of his Highland Knights colleagues was, and maybe they would tell her where to find him.

  In any case, Lord Pinfield’s house wasn’t far, and if that avenue didn’t work, she’d go to Sam’s house in Belgrave Square and ask him if he knew where to find Cam.

  She pulled on a plain brown pelisse and slipped out of the house unchaperoned as the warmth of the day began to cool into late afternoon. Usually when she left the house during the day she’d go in the company of a maid or footman, but this errand was of a sensitive nature. She’d left the house alone at night many times, but there was a different kind of danger in this escapade, because if someone she knew saw her, they’d question why she was on the streets alone.

  So she kept her head down and her eyes focused on the pavement as she took the ten-minute walk to Lord Pinfield’s townhouse. She’d been there only once, a few years ago with her mother to offer condolences on the death of his wife. He had one daughter, Esme remembered, who was a few years younger than her. She didn’t remember her name, though, and had only seen her once or twice in the past several years. Did Lord Pinfield keep his daughter out of society for some reason?

  As she wondered about it, she found herself staring at Pinfield’s front door. It was painted black, with shiny brass fittings. She lifted the heavy knocker and rapped it firmly on the thick wood, three times.

  She stood and waited until, a minute or so later, the door opened to reveal a tall, thin, and very proper-looking butler. “May I help you?” he asked, looking down his long nose at her.

  She drew herself up to her full height, still a good foot shorter than this man. But she was the Duke of Trent’s sister, she was an author, and she wouldn’t cower.

  “I am Lady Esme Hawkins. I am here to see Mr. McLeod or one of the other men who’s charged with guarding Lord Pinfield.”

  The butler was a quintessential English butler, and nary a hint of emotion crossed his face. “I see,” he said dryly. “I shall see if he is available.”

  The door clicked shut in her face, and Esme clutched her hands at her front and waited, shifting from foot to foot, thinking of ways she’d refrain from slapping Cam’s face when she saw him.

  A few moments later, the door opened. It wasn’t Cam. It was another man—clearly another Highland Knight, for he was wearing a kilt. He was blond and of average height—a handsome man with sharp, aristocratic features and shrewd blue eyes. He tilted his head at her. “Lady Esme? I am Sir Andrew Innes. McLeod isna here today. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Thank you, Sir Andrew. Do you know where I might find Mr. McLeod?”

  Sir Andrew hesitated for the briefest of moments, his eyes narrowed as they assessed her. Then his face relaxed, and he smiled, his decision evidently made. “Of course.”

  He gave her an address in Westminster and hailed a hackney for her, apologizing that he couldn’t accompany her, he needed to stay with Lord Pinfield. As he walked into the street to hail the hackney, she noted that he had a bit of a limp, favoring his right side slightly—perhaps from a wound he’d received at Waterloo.

  “Thank you so much,” she told him as he opened the hackney door for her.

  “You’re welcome, milady.” He inclined his head, then shut the door.

  Evening traffic clogged the streets, and after the better part of an hour the cab arrived at the address Sir Andrew had given. Esme paid the driver and studied the well-kept townhouse of brown stone as traffic clattered behind her. The dark-brown-painted door was covered by a white lintel, with a large square-paned window beside it. There were two windows facing the street from the first and second floors, then a row of smaller windows on the attic level. The house was identical to the two other townhouses flanking it, and very similar to the rest of the houses on the street—all uniform and neat.

  She knocked loudly, then waited a few moments and knocked again. Sir Andrew had seemed fairly certain that Cam would be here. She wouldn’t give up easily.

  It took another five minutes, but finally she heard the lock clicking. The door opened.

  Cam stood there, dressed in shirt and kilt, with no coat and bare legs. Dishabille became him. He looked ridiculously handsome this way, like he’d just risen from bed. He blinked at her. “Esme? How did you—?”

  She couldn’t stop it. Her hand whipped out, and she slapped him, hard, across the cheek. His face whipped to the side with the force of her blow. Then he reached up to cup his cheek in his hand.

  “Well,” he said quietly. “Come in, then.”

  Fury swarmed in her chest, threatening to burst out of her, encouraging her to slap him again, but she held her fist clenched at her side. “Why should I?” she demanded.

  He raised a brow and dropped his hand. Red blotches in the shapes of h
er fingers bloomed on his cheek. “You came here for some purpose, I assume? Or was it just to slap me?”

  “Slapping you wasn’t enough,” she snapped.

  “Then, please. Come inside so you can slap me some more.” His voice was light, and it infuriated her. All residual traces of the mourning Cam who’d visited her the other night were gone. Only the cocky, overconfident man she’d first met at Mrs. Trickelbank’s establishment remained.

  She glanced over his shoulder, and he looked back, following her gaze.

  “No one’s home.” His gaze returned to hers. “It’s just you and me, lass. Trust me, you won’t be discovered. Though if you stand out here much longer, some passerby is sure to recognize you.”

  That got her moving. She stepped in, and he closed the door behind her, immediately crowding her back against it and caging her in with his arms.

  “Why are you here, Esme?”

  “You…” Emotion crowded her throat, competing with her anger. “You…” She shook her head, looking down. It was all too much, all of a sudden.

  He took her chin between his strong fingers and forced her to look at him. “I…what?”

  She blinked. “You told him. You told Henry about my writing.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  She jerked her chin out of his grasp. “You are so unconcerned. Betraying me was nothing to you, was it? I shouldn’t have trusted you. I should have—”

  “What?” he asked. “What should you have done?”

  He must have bathed recently because he smelled of bergamot and soap. And his warmth nearly consumed her.

  “I…I thought you were a good man.”

  “I’ve never claimed to be a good man, Esme. I’ve certainly implied the opposite. This is your naiveté showing.”

  “No doubt,” she said bitterly. “I should have guessed you’d have no qualms about ruining my life.”

  His blue eyes snapped with sudden electricity. He moved closer, up into her face, his body a hairsbreadth from hers. “Ruining your life? No, lass, I’ve saved your life.”

  “You interfered with my life,” she countered.

  “Only because no one else cared to stop you from destroying it,” he said, his voice hard. “Something had to be done.”

  “Don’t pretend you know me, Camden McLeod. You don’t.”

  “I do,” he said.

  “You don’t. And you have no business making decisions about me and my life. You’re not my father, my brother, or my husband.”

  “Your father’s dead,” he growled, and she remembered he still didn’t know the truth about her parentage. That was one important secret she’d kept from him, and thank goodness for that. “You have no husband,” he continued. “And your brother knows nothing of your secrets.”

  “He does now!” she cried. “Thanks to you!”

  Cam went still, his muscles tense, his expression dangerous. “What? Whitworth told him?”

  “No!” she exclaimed. “I did. I had to—otherwise I’d have had to develop some intricate lie about the ending of my engagement, and I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t out-and-out lie to him like that.”

  Cam relaxed, and the truth struck her like an anvil. “You!” she gasped.

  He arched a brow.

  “You’re the reason Henry promised not to tell anyone, aren’t you?” Her blood was fire in her veins—rushing and scorching hot. Anger mixed with his nearness, and this new revelation…

  “I forbade him to tell anyone,” Cam said mildly. “ ’Tis no one’s business, after all. Just yours. And,” he added dryly, “your future husband’s. I had the distinct impression that if I didn’t threaten him with his neck, he’d ruin your reputation out of sheer pettiness.”

  Cam’s impression was right—it was why she’d been so surprised when Henry had told her he intended to divulge her secret to no one. “But why?”

  “I told you,” Cam said patiently. “The purpose of telling him was to save your life, not ruin it.”

  “But…”

  “Admit it. I was right. Henry Whitworth is wrong for you.”

  “I…” She shook her head, clamping her mouth shut stubbornly. He moved closer, until his lower body pressed against hers. Oh…Lord.

  “Admit it,” he said huskily.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “You had no right.”

  He ground his teeth. “Do you think I’m a man who’d just stand by and watch someone I care about be dragged into a miserable marriage?”

  Cam’s breath whispered across her cheek. The heat in her blood had reduced to a low simmer, and her skin prickled, drawn to his skin, aching to feel it pressed against her.

  She closed her eyes. Cam had overstepped his bounds. He had betrayed her trust. He had done something she never would have agreed to.

  But he’d saved her from marrying Henry Whitworth. And now that she was freed of the engagement, she realized what folly it would have been to marry that man.

  She was confused. She hated Cam. Or she should hate him, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to.

  Because…ultimately, he was right. She had been so blind. She might have never seen the truth clearly until it was too late and she’d committed herself to a man who would never accept her for who she really was.

  “I dinna want your hatred.” Cam’s voice was soft now. “I kent I might have it, after talking to Whitworth. But…” He faltered for a second, and his dark eyelashes fluttered as he looked down, then up again. “I couldna stand by and watch you marry that bastard. It would’ve killed me.”

  Her body jerked in response to the raw honesty in his words, and she pressed herself closer to him, finally letting go and allowing herself to slip her arms around him.

  “He wasna good enough for you,” he whispered. “Not nearly good enough.”

  She closed her eyes and sighed as his lips touched hers. The kiss started soft, then became stronger. He pushed her lips open, swept the inside of her mouth with his tongue, and she responded in turn, tasting him, trying to go deeper. She wanted all of him.

  And yet…a part of her was still angry. He’d betrayed her. He could kiss her a thousand times and that bitter truth would never disappear. She let the anger flow through her body, felt her movements grow stronger, her fingers curl into his shirt, digging into the muscles of his back.

  “Oh Christ,” he groaned, pulling back and looking at her with such blazing intensity she shivered. “You’re driving me mad.”

  He kissed her again, his lips hot and hungry.

  Desire flared within her like a wildfire. Now that she was no longer promised to anyone, the walls of her inhibitions crumbled to dust. She wanted him as fervently as any of the heroines in her novels wanted their heroes. More, perhaps.

  “I want you,” she said boldly, between frantic kisses to his stubble-roughened jaw, running her hands over his body, exploring him as much as she could over his clothes. “I can do what I wish now. I’m free.”

  “Thanks to me,” he gritted out, then his teeth closed gently over her ear, and she gasped.

  “Thanks to you. And I still hate you for it.” She shuddered, a bone-deep shake that originated in her core and radiated outward. “I hate you so much, Cam. But I also want you. Is that crazy?”

  “Nay, I dinna think so. Because you’re fragile and upset, and I’m going to take direct advantage of your state and take you to bed. What do you think about that?”

  “Do it.”

  “I told you I wasna a good man,” he murmured, dragging his lips over her jaw. She tilted her head up to give him better access. “A better man would send you home.”

  “I don’t want a better man. I want you.”

  He pulled back again, his gaze suddenly deadly serious, his grip hard on her shoulders. “I didna tell Whitworth so I could trick you into my bed. You ken that, right?”

  “I don’t care about that right now, Cam. I really, really don’t.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, then heat replaced the conc
ern in his expression, and he dragged her against him, bending down to whisper into her ear, “I intend to make you scream, lass. With pleasure…although this first time, it might be from pain. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” She shuddered at the realization he planned to do this more than once.

  He kissed her eyebrow, his lips soft as he nuzzled her forehead. “Say you want it. Say, ‘Take me to your bed, Cam.’ ”

  She obeyed but took it a step further. “Take me to your bed, Cam. I want it. I want you. Take me as you see fit. Show me everything.”

  Chapter 16

  Cam pulled back, surprise freezing him for a second, then he scooped her into his arms. Truly, there was no woman in the world like Esme Hawkins.

  She laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck as he carried her down the corridor and up a narrow set of stairs. He took her into his functional bedchamber, the plain bed and bureau shadowed in the dimming early evening sunlight, and laid her on the quilt.

  As he turned to lock the door, he heard her sigh as she stretched out on the bed. After he’d secured the bolt, he turned back to face her and just stood there for a long moment, studying her.

  “Bonny Esme,” he murmured. He wanted to ravish her, show her everything, just as she’d requested. But some stranger had piped up, a voice inside himself that told him to be gentle. That she was a virgin and he didn’t want to hurt her. That he cared for this woman, and he wanted to make it special for her.

  In fact, with a woman like Esme, it told him, he should probably marry her first.

  He blinked hard at that one. Clearly he’d lost his sense. Marriage would be a mistake for him. One he had no intention of making.

  But that voice inside mocked him. He might have never wanted to marry, but this woman…he could marry her. She would make him happy.

  Too bad he didn’t have the capability to make her happy in return.

  He stalked toward her. She stared up at him with shining dark eyes. She didn’t look at him with trust, though. There was a wariness there, lurking on the fringes of her expression.