Highland Awakening (20 page)

Esme fidgeted while watching her nephews play, hardly noticing their shrieks of laughter as they rolled wooden balls at carved figurines, attempting to knock them over. Lukas would set up another scene, give a ball to Theo, and they'd knock the figures down all over again, screeching with the fun of it, their cheeks pink and their eyes bright. Sarah sat silently beside Esme, a calming presence, but Esme's heart still raced. She couldn't stop looking at the mantel clock. It was two minutes to four o'clock.

Cam would be here in two minutes. Or…he might be late. He might not come.

Nonsense.
Of course he'd come. He'd sent her a note early in the day saying he wished to talk to her and asking if he could call at four. She'd responded in the affirmative. If he'd changed his mind, he would have canceled, wouldn't he?

Her shoulder spiked with pain. She'd been twisting her hands hard enough to make her gunshot wound, which now sported a thick scab, complain about the motion.

She flexed her fingers and relaxed them, glancing at the clock again. One minute to four. Why did time move so slowly sometimes?

There was a knock at the door that sent her bolting out of her chair. A footman entered and said, “Mr. McLeod has arrived, my lady.”

“Thank you. Please show him in.”

The man bowed and retreated. Sarah rose from her chair, her hand on her stomach as if she were worried it might pop open any second. She was absolutely enormous.

“I will take this as our cue to go,” she told Esme, smiling. “Good luck, Esme. I hope everything turns out just the way you want it.” She kissed Esme on the cheek, gathered her boys clumsily, and exited the room. A moment later, Cam walked in, handsome in his blue-and-green tartan, jacket, and cravat, with his dark hair and shocking blue eyes. He'd dressed up for the occasion, though that was hardly necessary. She'd find him handsome in rags…even more handsome in nothing.

He closed the door behind himself, then stepped deeper into the room, staring at her.

“Esme.” His voice was gruff. “How are your injuries?”

“Fine.” She touched the scab at her hairline. “They're nearly healed.”

“Good.” He took a step closer to her. “I missed you.”

They'd been torn away from each other on the night he'd killed Innes. Her brothers had come for her, and she hadn't seen Cam since. She'd tried to bide her time waiting for him, but as each day passed, she'd grown more anxious.

It had only been a few days, but they had been the longest days of her life. Sam had told her that the Knights had been busy handling the repercussions of Innes's death and all that he'd done, and to give Cam time. She'd tried, but she felt like she couldn't do anything, couldn't move forward at all, until she confronted him.

She swallowed hard and told him the truth. “I missed you, too.”

He smiled, stepping closer to her. “You came back to London for me.”

She shook her head. “No. I came back to London to tell you about Innes. To hopefully prevent him from taking more lives. From taking
your
life.” She looked into his eyes. “I stayed for you, though. I hoped…”

Her voice dwindled, and she bit her lower lip, looking away. She straightened her shoulders, wondering exactly what she hoped. The anger and disappointment at his actions still simmered within her. Would it ever go away? He had made it clear over and over that he wanted her, but it had been on his terms. If her relationship with him didn't happen on
her
terms, then she might as well roll over and simply submit to everyone's whims.

But she was done with that.

“You manipulated me, Cam.” She sank into her chair.
“Again.”

His expression sobered. “I ken,” he said softly. Sighing, he pulled a chair near hers and sat, pushing a rough hand through his hair. Clutching a handful of dark hair at his nape, he turned to face her. “I'm sorry for it.” He licked his lips and looked down, dropping his arm. “Sorrier than you'll ever know.”

“Why couldn't you just trust that things would work out as they were meant to?”

“I've never been a patient man, Esme.”

Her lips twisted. “Do I not deserve your patience?”

“Aye, you do,” he admitted. “But it was frustrating, knowing how much I wanted you and that you wanted me equally as much. I couldna see why it was necessary to wait.”

“So you thought you'd expedite matters—”

“Aye,” he agreed.

“—by having my brother walk in on us in bed together. By forcing the issue and causing my family terrible consternation and me untold amounts of embarrassment?”

Cam's lips went tight. “Aye,” he agreed softly. “ 'Twas wrong of me.”

“Oh Cam.” She shook her head in frustration. “Do you see the problem? You've taken my life into your hands and manipulated it to your pleasure more than once, without thinking of me and what I wanted.”

“That's not true,” he said darkly. “I was thinking of what I wanted, but I was thinking equally of you. You must believe that, Esme. I kent Whitworth wasn't worth a second glance from you, that you'd never have been happy with him. I kent you wanted to marry me, but you were having doubts, thanks again to Whitworth. I would never have done anything to hurt you.

“Aye, there was scandal when your engagement ended, and aye, the duke was none too happy with me for overstepping my bounds with you, but both those are temporary things. Marriage…that is forever.”

He was right, but he was missing the most important facet of this. “But what about me? About how both of your decisions completely disregarded what I wished for at the time? You started by reading my story without my consent. And it's true that Henry wasn't right for me, and deep inside, I did wish to marry you the very first time you asked.” She flushed at her words but forged ahead. “But I needed to discover those things on my own time, in my own way. You forced the issue, and that showed a great amount of disrespect for me and my ability to learn things for myself.”

Cam nodded slowly. “Aye. You're right.” He closed his eyes. “The last thing I want to do is disrespect you, Esme. I respect you more than anyone I've ever known, man or woman.”

“Your actions haven't shown that.” Her voice was a near whisper.

He nodded. “There's no excuse for it…except the feelings I was having for you. Both times, they were so strong, and I was desperate, panicked. I usually dinna wait for people to cut my path for me. I do it myself, hacking and pushing my way through. 'Tis the way I've always approached life.”

She knew that; his sister had told her something similar.

“Before now—before the Knights—and besides my siblings, the people who formed my world were self-serving, arrogant idiots. Those were the first traits I learned as a boy. And being self-serving and arrogant served me well for a long while.”

“Those traits still serve you rather well, methinks.”

“But not with you.”

“Even with me,” she admitted, thinking of his arrogant aggressiveness when they'd first met—how it had made her breathless and insatiably curious about him, “to some extent. But not when you make my decisions for me. Not when you take control of my life away from me.”

“I understand.” He swallowed hard and reached over to her, taking her hand from her knee and holding it firmly between both of his. “I vow I'll never do it again.”

“Do you?” She tilted her head at him, seeing the sincerity in his eyes. She knew he wasn't a man to take a vow lightly.

“I do,” he said gravely. “From now on, your life is yours to control.”

“I need that. Perhaps I need it more than most…”

“Aye. Those who dinna know you like I do may think differently, but you took control of your life when you decided to become a writer, knowing how the choice would be looked down upon, but choosing to do it anyhow, and becoming successful at it.”

She nodded.

“I saw that and I admired it in you. But then I took it away.” He drew in a shaky breath. “I vow I will do everything in my power to always show you the respect I should have shown you from the beginning.”

Suddenly, his eyes grew intensely vulnerable, with a sheen over them she'd never seen before.

“And I take it a step further,” he said, his voice so low and tremulous she could hardly recognize it as his. “I'll give you all the power, right here, right now. I will do as you wish. If you tell me to leave you alone and in peace once and for all, I will go. I will leave you with the knowledge that I failed you in the worst way—and I failed myself.

“Or if you tell me to stay, I will stay and do my damnedest to make you the happiest authoress in the world. Tell me what to do, Esme. I am offering you control not only of your own destiny, but mine as well.”

She stared at him, suddenly overwhelmed. To be offered this much control by a man who never relinquished it to anyone seemed like too much.

“The stupid things I've done were because my feelings for you were so damn strong I didna ken how to manage them. I was certain I was an ass and that I'd hurt you, and I feared being with you because I didna want to hurt you like my da hurt my mum.”

Esme gasped. “Cam, you'd never hurt me in that way—”

“I might not have done what he did, but I still hurt you. I kent I was doing it, too, and it convinced me I was just like him and even less deserving of having you.”

He lowered his head and pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I was desperate for you. I was afraid and confused, and I was also stupid. I didna ken how to love someone properly. I still don't—not entirely. But I'm learning. I
will
learn.” He looked up at her, his expression ravaged, and spoke in a near whisper. “I dinna want to be like my da. I want to be a good man. I want to prove to you that I
can
be that man. Please give me a chance. Please be with me. I…” His voice broke, and he swallowed hard. “I canna imagine a life without you, Esme.”

She tried to imagine a life, a future, without him. She couldn't.

And then he said it, those three sweet words that for so long she'd wondered if she'd ever hear. “I love you.” He took her hand again and squeezed tight. “I love you so damn much.” His voice shook with conviction. “I'd do anything for you, anything to be with you, to marry you. I'm so sorry, Esme. So. Damn. Sorry.”

“I…I forgive you,” she said, blinking hard. “And…I don't want you to go away.”

“Oh, thank
God
,” he said in a rushed exhalation, shaking harder now, perhaps out of sheer relief.

“But I need time.”

He sucked in a breath. “How much time?”

“I always thought a June wedding would be nice…” she whispered.

“Does that mean yes? You'll marry me? In June?”

“I think so. Yes.”

His lips curled into a huge grin. “June is a year from now,” he mused.

“We'll marry next summer. Can you wait that long? Do you have the patience?”

He nodded, deadly serious, looking her directly in the eye. “Aye. I can, and I do.”

“You won't take control from me again?”

“Never,” he agreed, but then he frowned. “Well, that's not entirely true.”

She froze, alarm flaring in her chest.

“There's one place above all I require absolute control,” he said. “And one place I believe you are more than happy to relinquish it.”

She shook her head in confusion. “Where's that?”

He stood and stepped forward, looming over her. “In our bedchamber.”

A deep shudder ran through her at those three words, the alarm dissolving into heat.
In
our
bedchamber.

“Oh,” she murmured.

Oh, yes. She'd gladly give him control—all the control he wanted—when they were in the bedchamber.

He bent down and framed her cheeks with his hands, his fingertips gentle on her scab as he tilted her head up so she gazed at him. “I love you, Esme Hawkins. I'm going to love you for the rest of my life. You'll never regret this choice.”

He kissed her then, his lips soft and seductive, and like always, he became her universe in that moment—her whole being, body and soul, straining toward him. She let him lift her up and wrap her into his arms, and she shuddered with the deliciousness of being surrounded by him like this.

She pulled back and looked up at him, smiling. “I love you, too, Cam,” she whispered.

And at that moment, she knew he was right: She and Cam would be together for the rest of their lives, and she would never, ever regret it.

T
WO WEEKS LATER

Colin Stirling sat with the Knights, along with Lady Grace, Lady Claire, Lady Esme, and Sam Hawkins, in the drawing room of the house, discussing possible additions to their depleted ranks. Thanks to Andrew Innes, their numbers had dwindled from seven to five.

Hawkins had just suggested a youth he'd trained, Laurent Dupré, as a possible candidate. The Knights had frowned at that—a French lad with a group of five hardened Scottish warriors? But they agreed to consider him.

“I can vouch for Laurent as well,” Lady Esme said. “I think he'd make a wonderful Highland Knight.”

“The Highland Knights and a Parisian Chevalier?” McLeod said. “Mayhap we'll have to change our name.”

Lady Esme laughed. “Laurent was raised here in England. I think he'd be offended if you labeled him a Parisian Chevalier.”

Colin watched her share a grin with her fiancé. Since their engagement announcement two weeks ago, Lady Esme and McLeod had rarely stopped gazing into each other's eyes. They were deeply in love, that much was certain. And in lust as well, if the constant touches they shared were any indication.

They made a good match. So good, something told him that their engagement wouldn't last until next June. If he had to put money on it, he'd have them shackled by the end of the year.

“And,” Hawkins added, “Laurent has the way of the chameleon about him. He could pass as a Highlander as much as a Frenchman. I daresay it comes from the necessity of hiding his Frenchness for so many years.”

Colin's lips twitched in a smile. “We'll convert him to a Highlander, then.”

“I imagine you will,” Hawkins said mildly.

“I have a suggestion.”

Everyone turned to Ross, who grinned at them from his perch on the edge of one of the walnut side tables. Ross had finally recovered from his ordeal and was back among them, a fact for which Colin would forever be grateful. He loved the exuberant redhead like a brother.

“Maxwell White.”

They looked at Ross blankly, and Ross tilted his head, frowning. “You dinna know him?”

“Never heard of him,” the major said.

“I went to school with him in Aberdeen before we purchased our commissions, but we've kept up a correspondence since. He was an officer of the Scots Greys.”

Colin nodded speculatively. The Scots Greys were an elite cavalry regiment that had proven their mettle in the Peninsular Wars, again and again.

“What's he done since Waterloo?” the major asked.

Ross shrugged. “He told me he's been on the Continent doing mercenary work. From what I can gather, he's ready to move on.”

“Will he make a good Highland Knight, though?” Colin asked Ross. “Be honest, now.”

Ross nodded vigorously, his red curls bouncing. “Aye. He will.”

“You seem convinced,” McLeod mused.

“I am. White is intelligent, a powerful warrior, and loyal to a fault.”

The men exchanged glances, and the major nodded. “Let's meet with him, too, then.”

There was a short knock on the door before it opened to Bailey bearing his silver salver. “Excuse me,” he said in his most English-butler-ish tone. “A letter has just arrived for Lady Esme.”

He went to Esme and held the silver tray in her direction. Her brows raised, the lass plucked the note from the tray and opened it. Her eyes scanned it quickly, and she jumped to her feet so abruptly, Bailey had to take a step backward. “It's twins!” she exclaimed. “Sarah has given birth to healthy twin boys this afternoon!”

“Twin boys?” Hawkins asked, as if he'd never heard of such a thing.

“No wonder she was so enormous!” Esme exclaimed. “Oh my goodness. I have to see her. Immediately.”

Two seconds later, she was out the door. Another two seconds, and McLeod had followed her. Within the next ten seconds, the room had completely drained of its occupants, leaving Colin alone.

He hated being by himself, but lately he'd been managing it better. He sat still, listening to the excited voices outside, the opening and closing of doors, the rap of boots on the floorboards. Eventually the sounds died down, and he wondered if, in fact, the entire household had gone to welcome the duchess's new arrivals.

Which, in turn, would mean he was well and truly alone.

Don't think about that. Don't think about it.

Beads of sweat breaking out over his forehead, he rose abruptly. He'd go out, that's what he'd do. London was good, because there was always a soul nearby. It wasn't guaranteed, but usually surrounding himself with strangers was enough to chase the demons away.

He tried not to think of the dead silence of the house as he strode upstairs to fetch his coat and hat. God, he couldn't even hear the cook or Bailey. Mayhap they'd gone to celebrate the newborns as well.

Why hadn't he gone? Perhaps he should have. But he didn't know the Duke and Duchess of Trent, not like the others. And he hadn't even had a chance to think twice about it before they'd all banged out of the house.

He went into his room and leaned back against the wall, breathing hard. Why was he breathing hard? He was losing his mind, that was why. He hadn't previously known that breathlessness was part of the process of losing one's mind, but he'd learned in the past year that it definitely was.

Come on, man,
he told himself.
Stop. Breathe.
Don't lose your wits—not here, not now.

He hated it when that happened. When his throat constricted so tight he couldn't get in a breath, until he felt his pulse beating frantically, his heart nearly bursting from his chest. Until he was absolutely certain he was going to die.

He hadn't died, not yet. Once, though, he had lost consciousness, only to wake on his floor with bright sunlight streaming over his face, wondering what the hell had happened.

He lunged forward, managing to open his wardrobe and pull out his coat and shove his arms through the armholes. He left the room, forgetting his hat, then remembering it and staggering back and grabbing it. Hurrying down the stairs, he clutched the handrail with a trembling hand, then lurched down the corridor and opened the door to the unseasonably cool day.

Miraculously, he managed to lock the front door behind him, even though his hand shook like a leaf in the wind.

There were several people close, thank God, walking up and down both sides of the street, as well as an endless stream of carriages, horses, and carts rattling over the cobblestones. He looked to the right and to the left, and then decided to turn left. His walks often took him in this direction lately, toward Mayfair and Viscount Pinfield's house.

His tendency to find himself pulled in this direction was somewhat a mystery. Pinfield had definitely earned his position at the bottom of the list of people Colin wished to see, ever.

Not Pinfield's daughter, though. She was a light in a world of darkness, a sweet, kind angel…

He hadn't seen Emilia since that night at Vauxhall Gardens when Ross had been attacked. He hadn't had Pinfield duty since then—and Colin missed those rare glimpses he'd had of her.

He strode down the street, trying to appear in control, but it was no use. Even the crowds weren't helping. His breaths were getting shorter, raspier, more panicky.

Dinna do this. You
can
breathe. It's all in your mind. Your mad, addled mind…

But the monsters had him, their talons digging into his chest.

He walked for several minutes—maybe ten, maybe more—until his vision blurred and he had no clear idea where he was. He felt the demons inside him, trying to take him over, body and soul.

He wouldn't let them. He couldn't. He continued to walk. It didn't matter where. As long as he kept walking, he maintained some semblance of control.

“Sir Colin? Sir Colin!”

He stopped, blinking, his chest heaving, and looked around. A young blond woman in a straw bonnet and pink dress stood nearby. It was her who was speaking…maybe. Her lips were moving, but he seemed to catch her words long moments after she spoke them.

“I thought that was you.” A look of concern passed over her face, and Colin recognized her, finally. It was Lady Emilia Pinfield. “Is…is something wrong?” she asked him.

“Wrong?” Colin managed, still gasping for breath. “Er…nay.”

Her frown deepened. “But you're breathing very hard.”

“I've…uh…been walking. Quickly.” That was hardly an acceptable explanation, but he couldn't think of anything better.

“You must sit down and rest for a moment, then. There's a bench right over there. Come.” She gestured for him to follow her, and turned. He realized they were in a square—though for the life of him he couldn't remember which one. Berkeley Square, mayhap? Anyhow, she walked down a path flanked by trees, and moments later, a bench appeared, just as promised.

She stood by it, waiting for him. “Sit, Sir Colin, and catch your breath.”

He did as he was told, clutching his knees and bending his head, taking in deep gulps of air. It seemed he
could
actually breathe again, and he gorged his deprived lungs.

Finally, he looked up at her. “Thank you, milady.”

“Are you going to be all right?”

“Aye,” he said.

She eyed him warily. “Are you certain?”

“Aye.”

After studying him for another prolonged moment, she seemed satisfied. “You're welcome, then.” She lowered herself on the bench beside him. “I'll sit with you for a minute to make sure you're all right, but I must go soon. My father will be home any minute now.”

Colin stiffened at the mention of Pinfield—he'd seen firsthand how sternly the man treated his daughter. “You should go, then,” he told her. “I dinna want you to get into any trouble.”

She shrugged, surprising him. “Ah, well, trouble is all I seem to get into lately. You could hardly make it worse.”

He frowned. “What d'you mean by that?”

“Oh, it is nothing.” She waved her hand in dismissal, but he recognized the dark shadows in her eyes. Something was wrong in Emilia Pinfield's world, and he had a sudden, desperate need to make it right.

She laughed, but the sound was high and false. “Trouble seems to follow me wherever I go. It's always been like that, though. I do believe I'm a bit of a magnet for it.”

Colin had never seen this version of Emilia Pinfield before—for he'd never seen her without her father. When Pinfield was near, she was quiet and shy and seemed to try to make herself smaller, but this young woman seemed simply
larger
in just about every way. She'd spoken to him more, and more animatedly, in the last thirty seconds than she had in their entire acquaintance.

“If you're in any trouble, milady,” Colin said slowly, “you can come to the Highland Knights. You ken that, aye?”

“Come to you?” She raised a skeptical brow. “The men who guard my father?”

“Aye. Come to us. We can protect you from…”
From your father. From anyone.

“Can you?” she asked softly, finally seeming to consider him seriously with intelligent gray-blue eyes.

He nodded. “Anytime.”

“Like…knights in shining armor.”

“Aye, exactly.”

She smiled again, but this time it was a sad smile. “Oh, Sir Colin. I wish I could believe you. But I fear it's too late for anyone—knights in shining armor included—to rescue me.”

Alarm shot through him. What did she mean by that? “Nay, you're wrong, milad—”

She rose abruptly. He'd thought she was very young before, perhaps nineteen or twenty, and she did have the delicate features of a younger lass, but now her expression appeared much older and he wondered how old she really was.

“I must go,” she said. “I'm so glad you're feeling better, Sir Colin.”

He rose and held out his hand, grasping her arm just as she turned away. “Dinna underestimate the Knights, milady. If you ever need our services, find us. We will help.”

He was back to himself, he realized, the demons banished, his breaths slow and even, his voice serious and earnest.

She gazed at him with sorrowful eyes for a moment, then lowered her lashes. “Thank you, Sir Colin,” she said, ever so politely.

She gently extricated herself from his grasp, then walked away.