Highland Awakening Page 3

  “Yes, because he’s French, and French horses are very bad horses.”

  “Are they?”

  “Yes!” the boy declared.

  “But you know the war is over, right? The French are no longer our enemies.”

  Lukas gave his father a skeptical look.

  “It’s true. That’s why all the soldiers have come back from the Continent. They don’t want to fight the French anymore. And the French don’t want to fight us, either. They want to be our friends.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, son,” Trent said gravely.

  “Jean-Paul is a pretty horse, Papa. He’s…brown.” He said the word brown as if he’d just learned it.

  “Yes, that’s true. He is brown, but when a horse is just that color, you call him a chestnut. A chestnut stallion, that’s what your Jean-Paul is.”

  “He shall be friends with all my horses now,” Lukas said with a grin.

  “Good. Now go play, lad.”

  Lukas strode off happily, and Sarah hugged Trent. “You’re so good with him. I would’ve argued with him all day, but you always know just the thing to say.”

  Trent cast his fond gaze from his son to his wife. “I don’t think you would’ve argued with him all day. He’s a reasonable boy, and he gets it from his reasonable mama.”

  “I rather think you’re the reasonable one,” Sarah told him with a smile.

  He planted a peck on her cheek. “I’m off to Westminster. What are you ladies up to?”

  “Discussing tonight’s dinner party,” Sarah said. “Do you have any last-minute suggestions for us?”

  Trent gave her a bemused look. “Me? I have complete faith in your planning abilities, love. You know that.”

  “I know. But just in case…”

  He kissed her, the act so intimate Esme had to look away. She’d never seen Trent kiss anyone until he married Sarah. He’d always been gentle but aloof. Now all that aloofness was gone, and he’d become an affectionate man.

  Esme was so glad Trent and Sarah had finally found happiness with each other. She’d always loved Sarah, who was the daughter of the gardener at their country house, Ironwood Park. Esme’s mother, the dowager duchess, had taken a liking to Sarah as a girl and had included her in many of the family activities, an action the rest of society found utterly appalling. But Esme’s mother had never cared one way or another about what society thought of her.

  After Trent took his leave, there was another knock on the door. This time it was the housekeeper with the tasks to complete for tonight’s dinner party. Esme rose to stand by Sarah and they pored over the long list of things that must be done. The nurse came in to watch Lukas and Theo as Esme and Sarah went to the kitchen to check on the cook’s progress with tonight’s dinner.

  The rest of the day passed in a flurry of preparations for Esme, interrupted only by daydreams of Mr. McLeod. Her lips still tingled from their kiss, and she caught herself skimming her bottom lip with her fingertips at least a dozen times throughout the afternoon.

  Hours later, she stood in her bedchamber as the maid finished buttoning her new gown—a silver crepe trimmed with pearls over a white satin slip. The waist was very high, the skirt flowing in shimmering silver from just below her bosom. A line of lace skimmed the tops of her breasts and trimmed the off-the-shoulder cap sleeves.

  Usually Esme wore more modest clothes, preferring high collars and long sleeves, but the dressmaker had assured her that this gown was the height of fashion.

  Looking at herself in the mirror, she swallowed hard. Her collarbones were visible, as well as the swell of her breasts.

  She was always terribly ill at ease in crowds of people. Tonight, feeling half-naked as she was, she’d be even more self-conscious than usual.

  She cast her gaze to the closed notebook on her dressing table. She’d rather lock herself in her room and start a new story tonight. A story about a man with black hair, icy blue eyes, beautiful lips, and strong hands…

  No. She closed her eyes. She needed to do this. She could not disappoint Sarah and Trent.

  This was her life. Her duty.

  Chapter 4

  Four of the Highland Knights sat in the drawing room of their headquarters in London. George Fraser had just helped Cam dress for the evening while Sir Ewan Ross and their leader, Major Campbell, sat across the way from them. Under his mop of red hair, Ross grinned at Cam, while the major, entirely disinterested, read today’s issue of the Times.

  Scowling, Cam swung his arms back and forth. The damned tailcoat was so tight, the seams strained with every movement.

  Ross smirked at him and took a deep swallow from his glass of whisky before commenting, “Feeling a wee bit constricted?”

  Cam made a growling noise. “How the hell can I draw my weapon quickly in this thing? And, by God, these pantaloons are crushing my bollocks to a pulp.” This was why he, and the rest of the Knights, preferred their kilts. He’d never understand the English and their need for confinement.

  He could use a hearty glass of whisky, too, but he’d abstained. He needed his senses somewhat sharp tonight—it was a remote possibility that one of the men who posed a danger to Pinfield might be present at this party.

  The major looked over the top of the newspaper he was reading. His sharp eyes gave Cam a thorough once-over, then he shrugged. “Tear the seam if you need to move quickly,” he advised.

  Fraser, who had become the most fashion conscious of the group, gasped. “Nay! If you’ll be needing to choose between the saving the coat and saving Pinfield, for Christ’s sake, man, save the coat. D’you ken how much it cost us?”

  Cam rolled his eyes. Fraser had taken responsibility for Cam’s wardrobe tonight, because he said Cam couldn’t be bothered to look respectable in the presence of such esteemed company.

  And he was right. Cam didn’t give a damn what princes and dukes thought about his appearance. He didn’t care if society whispered that he was a slovenly cur.

  However, unfortunate as it was, Cam was the son and heir of an earl, and tonight he needed to look the part.

  “Anyhow,” Fraser said, “your coat and pantaloons are too tight. There’s nowhere to put your pistol without it looking obvious.”

  Cam gave Fraser a “what the hell?” look. “How am I to be protecting Pinfield without a weapon?”

  “Bring your sgian dubh,” Fraser suggested.

  Cam crossed his arms, feeling the wool of the coat tighten over the backs of his shoulders in complaint. “I’m to fend off unknown numbers of murderous insurgents with a three-inch blade?” he asked archly. “I ken you have great respect for my prowess in battle, but—”

  “Take a pocket pistol,” Ross said.

  Fraser shook his head. “Even a wee pocket pistol will destroy the lines of the fab—”

  Cam narrowed his eyes. “Do you have yours?”

  The major’s dry voice came from behind the newspaper. “O’ course he does. You ken he never goes anywhere without it.”

  Cam held out his hand. “Hand it over, then. Consider it repayment for making me spend the evening with a group of pompous asses.”

  “Pompous English asses,” Ross agreed.

  “Aye. The worst kind,” Cam said.

  With a deep sigh, Fraser pulled the pocket pistol from his coat and handed it over. “Only for tonight, and only because I’ll be taking the night off. I want it back in the morning.”

  Cam’s lips twitched. “Canna stand to spend a night away from your beloved?”

  Fraser wasn’t amused. “That weapon has given me more comfort than any lass ever has. So treat her well.”

  Cam stroked the butt of the tiny pistol with his thumb. It couldn’t have been longer than four or five inches—it fit nicely in the palm of his hand. “Mmm, sleek as a lass’s arse…I can see why you derive such comfort from it. But satisfaction?”

  Giving the gun a dubious look, he turned it over in his hands. Because while he could understand how this weapon might
provide comfort, it would offer none of the kind of comfort of the woman he’d held in his arms last night.

  Esme. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her. All day, she had encroached on his every thought, his every conversation.

  Fraser raised a brow. “Satisfaction is purely physical, my friend. And I dinna need to seek it out; it comes to me.”

  “Tonight, hopefully, it’ll come to us both,” Ross said.

  “Oh?” Cam asked. “Where are you off to while I languish in purgatory with the dullest of the dull?”

  Ross flashed a grin. “Oscar Rohan’s opened a new gaming hell in Covent Garden.”

  Fraser nodded. “We’re going to go see what they have to offer.”

  “Gaming hells usually aren’t populated by lasses,” Cam reminded them.

  “This one is,” Ross told him. “Not only are the lasses allowed to play, but all the employees are female—selected by Rohan for their ‘beauty and grace.’ ”

  Cam whistled through his teeth. “Now there’s something I’d like to see.”

  Not as much as he’d like to see the mysterious Miss Esme again, though. And he would see her again. He’d find her, and he’d learn more about her.

  He wanted her, and Cam always found a way to get what he wanted. Always.

  The major glanced over his newspaper again to give Cam a pointed look. “It’s almost eight o’clock. Time for you to go, McLeod.”

  Cam released a sigh. He wouldn’t be going to a gaming hell tonight. Nor would he be returning to Mrs. Trickelbank’s establishment to find Esme—that would have to wait for another day.

  Instead, he was going to play nursemaid to a pompous lord in a group of tedious aristocrats.

  He tucked the pocket pistol into his coat pocket. It produced the smallest of bulges, though it was large enough to make Fraser groan.

  Cam shrugged and clapped Fraser on the shoulder. “There’s naught to be done about it. I’ll not be going without a weapon.”

  “Right,” Fraser grumbled.

  Cam paused, an unsettling feeling coming over him all of a sudden, then he squeezed Fraser’s shoulder a little harder before releasing him. “Have a good night, then.”

  Fraser nodded. “I intend to.”

  Cam bade Ross and the major farewell and went upstairs to tuck his sgian dubh into his stocking. As he walked out of his bedchamber, he cast a longing look at his dirk and pistol lying side by side on his bed. He rarely went anywhere without his two weapons, but tonight the sgian dubh and the pocket pistol would have to do.

  He arrived at Pinfield’s house by hackney fifteen minutes later. Another Highland Knight, Sir Andrew Innes, answered Pinfield’s door. Innes had been assigned the task of keeping Pinfield safe in the daytime this week. When he saw it was Cam at the door, Innes released a sigh and pushed a relieved hand through his blond hair. “He’s been a pain in the arse today,” he said in a low voice. “Good luck.”

  Cam made a disgruntled noise. All he needed was for the usually disagreeable Pinfield to be even more intolerable.

  “There you are!” Pinfield screeched, rushing down the corridor toward the entry hall. “You are late!”

  Cam stepped aside to allow the stout man passage into the hall. “Sorry,” he said mildly, even though he was right on time.

  Pinfield turned on Innes. “Is my carriage ready?”

  “Aye, sir,” Innes said. “It’ll be awaiting you in the front.”

  Pinfield didn’t answer—just walked through the open doorway and stomped outside. Innes raised a commiserating brow at Cam before Cam followed the viscount.

  Pinfield stopped just outside the carriage door, waiting for someone to open it for him. He couldn’t deign to open a damned door. This kind of pomposity so often exhibited by men and women of his class irritated the hell out of Cam.

  Before the coachman could climb down, secure the horses, and do the deed, Cam wrenched the door open. He gave Pinfield a mocking bow. “After you, sir.”

  Pinfield was far too dense to pick up on the sarcasm in Cam’s voice. He lumbered into the carriage.

  Thank God the ride wasn’t long. He only had to endure the cloying scents of Pinfield’s flowery perfume and pomade for just a few minutes as they rode to St. James. As they approached the house, the row of gaslights lining its front casting golden beams over the street, Pinfield turned his beady gaze on Cam. “Keep your distance tonight, McLeod. I don’t want you hovering.”

  Despite the heavy wave of annoyance that crashed over him, Cam gave the other man a pleasant smile. “I’ve checked into everyone in attendance tonight. I dinna think there’ll be any problems. I’ll be close if you need me.”

  Pinfield rolled his eyes. “Your little group is far too heavy-handed. This is an intimate gathering. You shouldn’t feel the need to attend at all.”

  “What you consider heavy-handed is us performing our duties how we know best.”

  Pinfield began to argue, but just that moment the coachman opened his door. Thankfully, the man shut up and slid his bulk out of the carriage.

  Cam followed Pinfield into the house, which was crowded with people and bright with the lights of hundreds of candles. They were ushered into the drawing room, where guests were enjoying pre-dinner refreshments.

  Cam stood well behind Pinfield, whose mood had turned jolly as he hailed people by name. Cam had separated himself from this world a long time ago, so he didn’t recognize very many of the men and women in attendance. But they were glittering and stylish, and just as stiff and dull as he remembered them to be.

  It was going to be a long night.

  As Cam watched Pinfield exchange a hearty, beaming handshake with a man he didn’t know, he clasped his hands behind his back. The weight of the pistol in his pocket was comforting, but not as heavy—nor as comforting—as his regular pistol would be. His eyes scanned the crowd in the opulent dining room. Nothing looked ominous; everyone looked just as he expected. He almost wished he could sense something malevolent—the promise of danger would keep him alert instead of miserably bored.

  “I know you! It’s McLeod, isn’t it?”

  Cam turned around, brow raised. The voice was familiar, and when his gaze landed on the other man, he did indeed recognize him. Henry Whitworth. Henry had been in Cam’s year at Eton, though the two had never been friends—Cam had been a hell-raiser, while Henry was a model student.

  A dark-haired woman stood beside him in a shimmering silver dress, and something about her posture made Cam’s gaze snap to her.

  Esme.

  He stared.

  Her arm was linked with Whitworth’s, and Cam’s mind scrambled, unable to wrap his head around the sight. The woman he’d kissed so passionately last night, who he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about today. Standing here, amongst these people. Touching Henry Whitworth.

  It made no sense. No sense at all.

  It didn’t to her, either, clearly. She had gone pale, all color completely drained from those cheeks that had been so flushed and pink last night. She seemed to sway a little on her feet.

  As if from a great distance, Cam heard Whitworth’s voice.

  “Have you two met?”

  Neither of them spoke.

  Whitworth waited a moment, then he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Mr. Camden McLeod,” he said, “allow me to introduce you to my fiancée, Lady Esme Hawkins.”

  Chapter 5

  The world around Esme faded into a confused blur. She had panicked; indeed, she had nearly fainted when Mr. McLeod had turned around. Her gaze had clashed with his, and she’d stared. He’d stared back. Both of them were frozen in place, staring, for seconds that seemed to tick on for hours.

  Her life was in this man’s hands. He could ruin her, disgrace her family. He had all the power. And it was her fault.

  She swayed. Black spots swarmed in her vision. Around the spots, she stared up at McLeod. He was still unbelievably handsome, even though he wasn’t wearing the kilt she’d found so appeal
ing at Mrs. Trickelbank’s. Power, strength, and confidence radiated from him.

  He reached out and took hold of her upper arm. “Are you all right, milady?”

  She blinked hard. He’d recovered, she realized. But she hadn’t. Not yet.

  Perhaps she never would.

  With great effort, she swung her head to Henry. He gazed at her, his brow furrowed in mild concern. “Do you feel faint, Esme?”

  She managed a small nod.

  “She needs air,” Mr. McLeod said. “Best get her outside.”

  “Excellent idea,” Henry said. “We’ll catch up later, eh, old chap?”

  “Aye.” Mr. McLeod spoke to Henry, but Esme felt those icy-hot eyes on her. Burning into her. She turned to face him. She parted her lips. She needed to say something…but what? She couldn’t beg him to pretend as if he’d never seen her before, not in front of all these witnesses.

  She had…nothing. No words. She simply gaped at him like a landed fish. Remotely, she felt Henry tugging on her arm. It was irritating, and she almost yanked her arm away before she remembered where she was and what was happening. He was taking her outside. For air.

  McLeod was right. She needed air. It was a very good idea.

  Dragging her gaze away from him, she allowed Henry to tug her along. They weaved through people, some of them speaking to them, but she couldn’t hear a thing over the roar in her ears.

  He could destroy you.

  He’s here. Here, in your home.

  She and Henry emerged onto the terrace that looked over Green Park, and Esme ground her steps to a halt, taking a deep gulp of fresh air.

  Henry covered her hands with his own, his forehead creased with concern. “What happened in there, Esme?”

  “I…” Her voice dwindled, because how could she answer that? The truth was so awful that it would send poor Henry running screaming from this place, never to look back. Henry, who believed she was far more innocent than she actually was.

  Inappropriately, laughter bubbled in her chest.

  I was out last night at a whorehouse—not to partake in the…er…festivities, so to speak, but to research my next novel. Oh? You didn’t know? I’m a lady novelist who writes sensual romances. Well, when I was there, I was locked in a room with Mr. McLeod for a while. We were immediately attracted to each other, and we kissed. It was the best kiss of my life…