Highland Awakening Page 6

  He was better with pistols than with wooing, unfortunately. His previous women had been more than willing to join him for a romp or two. After that, more often than not, they realized what an ass he was and disappeared. He never much cared—it was what he expected. His father’s blood ran in his veins, after all. Like his father, he couldn’t hold on to women. The one woman his father had managed to hold—Cam’s mother—had died at a young age, of misery and unhappiness more than anything else.

  Cam had always made it a personal policy to avoid becoming too close to any woman. He promised himself never to marry so that he’d never destroy a woman like his father had destroyed his mother.

  He didn’t want Esme to think he was an ass after one or two meetings with him, though. He wasn’t anywhere near finished with her yet.

  In truth, he didn’t know if he’d ever be finished with her.

  Cam pressed his lips together, startled at the thought, because he couldn’t know that he would even want her more than once. The only way to know if you wanted to bed a woman a second time was to bed her the first time. With this one, he wasn’t even close to that point yet. Unfortunately.

  “Mr. McLeod—”

  “Call me Cam.”

  She blinked at him, her eyelashes fluttering. Then she said, slowly and softly, as if tasting it on her tongue, “Cam.”

  “Mmm,” he said. Because the way his name rolled off her tongue was delicious.

  “You must leave me alone, Cam.”

  He gave a mirthless snort. “You’re too entrenched in your English society’s expectations, Esme. You ken I hold them in no regard. Be true to yourself and damn the lot of them.”

  Her eyes were glassy when she shook her head. “I cannot.”

  “Why?” he demanded.

  “For my family,” she said quietly. “They have been through so much. I cannot disappoint them.”

  He gazed at her. He was uncertain how to respond—he’d never owed his family any loyalty. Except Anna. He’d do anything to ensure her safety and welfare. Was that how Esme felt about Trent and the others?

  He searched his memories, considering her family. She and Trent had several more brothers—four or five of them, if he recalled correctly—and their mother still lived. He was acquainted with one of the brothers—Sam Hawkins, the illegitimate eldest one, who worked closely with the Highland Knights.

  Did she mean all of them? Probably.

  “ ’Tis honorable to be loyal to one’s family,” he told her. “But sometimes a person needs to make her own choices, not allow them to be dictated by those whose motivations aren’t her happiness.”

  “You’re wrong again.” She seemed to strengthen before him, growing a bit taller. “Their motivation is my happiness. Which is the main reason I cannot disappoint them.” Again, she glanced back toward the drawing room. “We have been out here far too long.”

  Well, if she wanted to remain pure and virginal in her family’s eyes, she was right about that.

  He sighed heavily. “Go back inside. I’ll wait a while out here before I reenter. I’ll tell them I went for a walk in the park.”

  She smiled at him, and he nearly stepped back at the sheer radiance of it.

  “You surprise me,” she said.

  “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.

  Chapter 8

  “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 s
he 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, ye
s, 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?

  Chapter 9

  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.