Highlander's Hope (10 page)

Chapter 12

Not quite an hour later, attired in a chaste white nightgown and robe, Yvette sat brushing her hair. She’d found her brush at the bottom of her valise. A knock rattled the chamber door. Pausing in mid-stroke, she called, “Who is it?”

A familiar chuckle echoed without. “Well-done, now open up. I need a moment with you.”

Setting the hairbrush on the table, Yvette stood. Barefoot, she padded to the door, then retied her robe more securely before turning the key. Opening the door a fraction, she peeked at Ewan.

He lifted his brow and his mouth slanted into a sardonic grin. “Vixen. I’ve no intention of conversing with you through
that
gap. Let me in. I need to speak with you.”

He winked. “I promise to behave.”

She retreated a step as he pushed his way into the room, leaving the door ajar. His hair was damp, no doubt from bathing, and the stubble darkening his face earlier was gone. Feet bare, wearing only buckskin breeches and a shirt unbuttoned to the waist, he resembled a pirate.

A dangerous, rakish, sinfully handsome pirate.

She sucked in her breath. He oughtn’t to be here, but he’d said he wanted to talk to her, and he had promised to behave.

Yvette’s eyes traveled the path of silky hair from his chest until it disappeared into his waistband. Her stomach flip-flopped. Sweet Lord above. She pressed her hands to her frolicking middle. Why doesn’t he say something?

A distraction, that’s what she needed. She escaped to the lumpy bed where she had flung her clothing before bathing. She folded and packed the garments into her valise and set it on the floor beside her trunk. She bent to retrieve her bath towel, and peeked side-ways at him from the corner of her eye.

He hasn’t moved. What’s he about?

Grabbing the towel, she glanced downward and froze. The candles to her left bathed her in a stream of light. She could clearly see the outline of her legs. Her nightwear was almost translucent in the candlelight and gave him a shadowy view of—
dear God
—nearly everything.

No wonder he hadn’t moved, the rogue.

Standing upright, she clutched the towel to her, and faced him. “Enjoying the view, your lordship?” she snapped.

Ewan rested against the doorframe, watching her. “Immeasurably.”

Her anger gave way to nervousness. His relaxed posture contrasted sharply with the predatory gleam in his eyes. She tried a different tack. With calmness she was nowhere near feeling she said, “You said you wished to speak with me?”

“Indeed, I did.” He remained motionless except for his eyes, which burned a scorching path from her neckline to her toes and slowly upwards again, lingering on her arms folded across her breasts.

She tapped her bare foot in annoyance. “Well?”

He straightened, then closed the door. His long strides made short work of the distance between them. Yvette scooted around to the other side of the bed. Better to have something between them with
that
glint in his eye. Why had she been so foolish as to let him in?

Because he promised to behave
.

Her mouth dropped open when he didn’t stop, but came around the bed, advancing slowly and sinuously, until his thighs were pressed against her quaking ones. He plucked the towel from her shaking hands, then tossed it onto the floor. His chest was scant inches from hers.

And that glimmer in his eyes?

She’d seen that look before. In Belle-mére’s cat’s eyes. Right before it pounced on an unsuspecting butterfly—and gobbled the poor thing up.

Yvette peered at him, pulling her lower lip into her mouth and nibbling it in her confusion. He most definitely is
not
behaving.

She didn’t have much experience—any experience—with half-clothed men in her bedchamber, but the smoldering in Ewan’s eyes was unmistakable. Hypnotized by the mesmerizing promise bared in the depths of his eyes, she was incapable of speaking. The moment was short-lived as her senses sprang to life, whispering a cautious warning.

In a rush she blurted, “Your lordship, ‘tis most improper for you to be in my chamber. I’m not suitably attired.”

A wicked smile curved his mouth. “I’ve seen you in less.”

The husky timbre of his voice rippled over her flesh, raising the hairs on her skin. Blister it, he had, but he was a bore for reminding her.

The whispering increased, transforming into a shrieking alarm in her head. Merciful God, his eyes were devouring her
.

No indeed, this
was not
good behavior.

He moved an inch closer.

Not acceptable behavior by
any
measure.

His hard groin pressed against her soft womanhood. Arching away from him, Yvette became frantic. She wasn’t sure she could resist his advances. More terrifyingly, did she want to? 

“Lord Seth—”

With lightning speed she was encompassed in an embrace of velvet iron. Ewan didn’t attempt to do anything other than hold her in his arms, one hand stroking her back. Nevertheless, she struggled against the steely band. She was more afraid of herself, of her response to him, than anything he might do.

“Ewan,” she gasped, levering her arms between them.

Her eyes searched his, and all the while his hand glided over her.

He bent and kissed her on the nose. “I adore your freckles.”

She went squashy inside.
You do
?

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered.

Yvette relaxed against him. The strong hand caressing her spine calmed her, erasing her uneasiness. So great was her relief, and so wonderful was Ewan’s touch soothing away her tension, she wanted to purr in contentment.

Sighing, she closed her eyes and pressed closer to him.

“
Ma belle
?” He spoke against her hair.

Tilting her head, she recognized the hunger in his eyes. Her breath hitched. He wanted to kiss her, yet he hesitated. He was letting her choose.

Raising her chin, she offered him her mouth.

Lowering his head, Ewan hovered over her lips as if in anticipation, then captured her mouth in a scorching kiss. Yvette was stunned by the fierceness of the assault on her senses. She was trapped in the swirling kaleidoscope of passion, and her defenses were stripped away by the torrent of sensation.

She returned his kiss with longing she had not known she possessed.

He eased her onto the mattress, continuing his tender onslaught on her overwhelmed senses. Rendered incapable of resisting, she could only feel, respond, and savor these delightful new sensations.

Ewan was bewitched. His logical, controlled mind had been taken over by his desire for the woman in his arms. Yvette’s innocent responses added fuel to his passion’s fire. Rubbing his face alongside her soft neck, he inhaled her floral scent, and nuzzled the tender skin. “So soft. You smell good.”

She moaned.

Watching her pleasure-flushed face, he smoothed his hand over the indentation of her waist, drawing the silky material of her gown up, up, up, until the luscious curve of her satiny hip lay exposed to him. The robe she wore fell open at the waist exposing the fullness of her breasts above her nightgown.

Her fingers bit into his shoulders.

He trailed his fingers along the supple swells. His mouth claimed hers in a searing, promising kiss as his hand skimmed her hip.

“Ewan,” she groaned against his lips.

An intoxicated reveler bellowed his drunken displeasure beneath the chamber’s open window.

Yvette stiffened, twisting her mouth free of his. “Stop,” she cried, pushing at her nightgown, forcing his hand from her. “I . . . we can’t do this . . . . ‘Tis wrong.”

Ewan ceased his loving ministrations. Raking in ragged gulps of air, he rested his forehead against hers, trying to curb the lust raging through his body. He willed his labored breathing to return to normal, even as he commanded his body to resist the temptress lying beside him.

He drew back to look at her, then cursed silently. Her eyes were luminous with unshed tears, and her lips trembled with her effort not to cry. He raised onto his elbows. With one hand, he swept her silky hair away from her face. With his forefinger, he caught the solitary salty bead escaping from the corner of her eye.

Yvette squirmed from beneath him, then scooched across the saggy feather tick where she sat looking at him with mournful eyes. Shifting her tearful gaze away, pale cheeks dashed crimson, she whispered, “I’m sorry. I . . .” She picked at the lace trim of her gown. “I believe such intimacies are meant for . . . should be saved for marriage.”

“You’ve no need to be sorry.”

“I don’t know what happened to me,” she burst out. “You kissed me and I remembered naught. I’ve never . . . what I mean is, I don’t . . . No man has . . .”

Her words trailed off as he crept the distance between them. Bit-by-bit, so he wouldn’t alarm her, Ewan reached out and took her hand in his. “‘Tis I who should be begging your forgiveness.”

Pressing her hand to his heart, in a simple gesture, but solemn with meaning, he vowed to her, “I promise, I’ll strive to never put you in a compromising position again
.
I too forget all else when you are in my arms.”

She peeked at him from beneath her spiky lashes. “We’re not married. We shouldn’t have.”

“We did aught but kiss.” He released her hand. She tucked it beneath her thigh. “There’s much more to completing the . . . ah . . . to intimacy between a man and woman.”

“Truly?” Her tone and eyes brightened with hope.

Grinning, he tweaked her nose. “Truly, minx.” Gazing into her sapphire eyes, his heart somersaulted. He hopped off the bed, then cocked his head to one side, eyeing her. A tuft of hair fell forward on his brow. He brushed it aside. “I suppose if I’m to keep my word, I must leave you
.
”

Ewan strode to the door and contorted his mouth into a silly, lopsided smile. “
Bonne-nuit, bien-aimé.
”

She graced him with a beatific smile. “Goodnight, Ewan, sleep well.”

Sleep? Not bloody likely.

Instead of seeking his own bed, he made his way to the icy stream behind the inn. Stripping naked, he plunged into the frigid water. A movement in the shadows caught his eye.

He stiffened. Was it an animal or human?

Chapter 13

Yvette cast a sideways glance Ewan’s way. More than once today, she’d caught him watching her with an assessing glint in his eyes. He stared out the window of the coach, apparently watching the passing scenery. A muscle ticked in his jaw, revealing some hidden agitation. She was sure he would prefer to ride, she would, yet he kept her company in the cramped coach.

Poor Peggy had been most reluctant take her seat atop the coach this morning. Still a trifle pale, she’d muttered, “Blimey, me insides are churnin’ from yesterday.” She eyed the coach with apparent distaste. “How many more days?”

“At least three more,” Yvette said sympathetically.

Peggy’s face turned a shade greener. “Three? Blast and bugger me.”

Angling her head to better view Ewan, Yvette smiled. She liked his hawkish profile. Her gaze fell on the small scar on his face. How had he come by it?

As if alerted to her scrutiny, Ewan turned his head. He caught her perusal of him. The smoldering smile he bestowed on her sent the mild fluttering in her middle into a frenzied vortex, but only for an instant. She hadn’t forgotten the scene at Banbury Inn.

He’d made it clear theirs was a temporary arrangement.

Unease washed over her thinking about the inn. Why then, hadn’t he made it perfectly clear to Lord Ramsbury that they were not betrothed? Her gaze swept Ewan again. He was reabsorbed in the countryside.

She knew next to nothing about him. Was he a rake as she had first suspected? Was he a fortune hunter? She worried her lower lip. Would he use her physical attraction to him to manipulate her—to entice her into his bed?

Yvette sank further into the corner, as if to escape her tumultuous thoughts.

The soldiers parted their company that afternoon, and the next two days of travel were uneventful, and thankfully, much cooler. They passed through villages and towns, some barely large enough to boast a pub, and others offering amenities of every sort.

Ewan had lowered one of the windows and a light breeze caressed her. “I’m grateful it has cooled to a more tolerable temperature.” Gazing
out the window, Yvette fanned herself.

She watched the breeze wafting along the road, ruffling the tall wispy grasses, tickling dangling viridian leaves, and spinning rainbows of wildflowers into languid pathways of streaming color. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Aye, ‘tis something to behold,”   he agreed.

It was his tone that drew her gaze into the carriage. He stared at her with a look she had begun to recognize. Desire. She smiled, though color bathed her cheeks, and she squirmed at the tingling that began in her belly before creeping lower.

Lord, what he did to her with those eyes.

She sought to divert his attention. “I’ve not purchased a gift for Vangie’s baby yet.”

“In Middleham, you’ll find the perfect memento to commemorate the babe’s birth,” Ewan assured her.

Their coach-and-four rolled into the dusty township the third day of travel. He directed Malcolm to stop the carriage so Yvette could shop for the baby’s gift.

Peggy clambered from atop the coach the minute it stopped moving. Clutching her stomach and groaning, she tottered to an oak tree a short distance away, slid to the ground, and collapsed against the tree.

“Peg, can I get you anything? Some water perhaps? I can sit with you until you feel better.” Yvette admired the plucky girl. Traveling aboard a coach didn’t agree with her. She’d been ill from the start, yet she hadn’t complained.

Peggy waved her hand weakly. “Naw, go on with ye. I just needs to sit a spell, miss.” She swallowed and closed her eyes.

Yvette cast Ewan a questioning glance. “Should we leave her?”

He nodded. “I’ll have Trent keep an eye on her. We won’t be long.”

Yvette was hesitant to leave the ill girl. “If you’re quite sure, Peg?”

“Aye, miss,” she mumbled, already half-asleep.

Yvette wandered the town’s lanes, Ewan’s hand at her elbow. She stopped to admire the display in the window of a jewelry store. “Ewan, there toward the back, it’s a silver baby’s rattle. Look at the scrolling on the handle.”

She pressed her forehead against the glass, straining to see the trinket. “May we go . . . ?”

He stepped closer, looking to where she pointed. “Do you wish to go . . . ?”

She and Ewan had spoken at the same time. She giggled. His hearty chuckle blended with her laughter. Nodding, she turned and plowed into him. She would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her by her upper arms.

Flushing, she muttered, “I’m sorry, I thought you had moved.”

“A wee bit eager to see the toy, are ye?” he said with a heavy brogue.

She peeked up at him.

He smiled and winked. He was teasing her.

Yvette returned his smile, her embarrassment evaporating.

Ewan extended his elbow. She looped her hand through it, and they entered the unpretentious shop.

A bell tinkled overhead alerting the jeweler. He glanced up from his ledger. “I’ll be right with you.”

She ambled to the window display and lifted the rattle. It was even lovelier than she had first thought. One side of the rounded surface was etched with a lamb, and the ornate handle was beautifully crafted. Turning it, she noticed a rectangular, flattened area free from decoration.

“‘Tis meant for an inscription. Perhaps your infant’s name?” The rasping voice of the stoop-shouldered shopkeeper jarred Yvette. She hadn’t heard him sidle up beside her.

Startled at the intimation, her gaze rocketed to Ewan’s. He was grinning. Scarlet heat dashed her face. Merciful heavens. Pretending absorption in the rattle, she dared a swift peek at him from beneath half-closed lids. He winked at her.

Why, he seems pleased with the notion.

“‘Tis lovely indeed. However, it would be a gift. I’d like an inscription, but we’re traveling through.” Her eyes met Ewan’s over the jeweler’s head.

Ewan asked, “How long would it take to inscribe the toy?”

“Oh, ‘tis a simple matter. I could have it engraved and polished in under half-an-hour.” Looking between her and Ewan, the skinny man wasn’t sure whom he was supposed to be addressing.

“We’ve time enough,” Ewan said.

Yvette smiled her gratitude.

Glancing around the charming shop, she noticed a carousel on a shelf behind a cluttered countertop. The fascinating toy drew her across the compact room.

Noting her keen interest, the shopkeeper hurried behind the jumbled counter, then reached overhead to take the extraordinary treasure down. “‘Tis one-of-a-kind, missus.”

The jeweler wound the knob on the marble base, and the carousel began to rotate. Awed, Yvette stared at the six intricately carved miniature horses prancing before her. They appeared to be etched from semi-precious stones. Meticulous workmanship had gone into adorning the rotating equines.

Engrossed in the merry-go-round, she only gave Ewan a cursory glance when he moved to a display case across the room. The shop’s doorbell clanked, and she shifted her gaze to the door for a moment. A fashionable man and woman entered. Another clerk appeared from behind a faded curtain and hurried over to assist the new patrons.

As she touched a silver braid affixed lengthways to the toy’s base, Yvette sensed eyes boring into her. Angling her head, she met the piercing, obsidian-eyed stare of a cropped-haired beauty. A shadow flitted across the woman’s face, so fleeting, Yvette believed she had imagined it. Her gaze flicked to the man, who appeared absorbed in the window display.

When she looked back, the newcomer’s smoky eyes strayed to the now silent carousel. The lady issued a throaty, “Ees, ‘ow you say,
favoloso carosello,
no?”

Smiling, Yvette replied in perfect Italian, “
Si tratta di un
giocattolo
più
straordinario
musical
davvero
.” It was true. The carousel was an extrodinary musical toy.

For an ephemeral moment, a look of astonishment appeared on the woman’s face before she shuttered it under mask-like poise.

“Shall I wrap it for you, your ladyship?” asked the solicitous beanpole-of-a-gem-dealer.

Returning her attention to the jeweler, Yvette smiled her acquiescence. “Yes, please, and ‘tis miss, not your ladyship.”

His ears turned scarlet, and the shopkeeper dipped his head, chagrined. “I beg your pardon, miss. You and his lordship, seem so . . .” His words trailed off into painful silence.

She couldn’t bear his pitiful countenance. Would that God in his goodness forgive her for the falsehood she was about to utter. “You’re not so very wrong. We’re recently betrothed.”

A slice of truth there, the recent part anyway.

In glee, the man slapped the countertop. It vibrated the span of its marred surface. His strength surprised Yvette, considering how frail he appeared. His face split into an enormous grin, his beetle brows half hiding his eyes. “‘Tis easy to see you are,
trés amoureux,
in love.”

Yvette repressed a smile. His French was appalling. As was his observation. In love? Ridiculous.

The jeweler’s gaze dipped to her hand. His milky eyes searched hers. “You’ve no ring?” He sounded scandalized.

She stared at the counter, a wretched ache in her middle. Bother it all. This was mortifying.

Ewan’s deep voice interjected from behind her, startling her again. “I prefer the Scot’s tradition of presenting my betrothed with a Luckenbooth brooch.”

In his hand, he held a spectacular brooch. Two silver hearts were entwined and encrusted with vibrant marquise-shaped sapphires, glistening garnets, and diamonds. A dazzling, ruby graced the center.

Yvette could only stare, her baffled gaze traveling from the amazing pin to his beaming face and back again. Lord Almighty, what was he thinking?

Smiling, Ewan addressed the jeweler. “I’d like this engraved too.”

He doesn’t need to carry our masquerade this far.

“Certainly, your lordship,” agreed the gem dealer eagerly. “Hanley, please wrap the lady’s selection,” he said. “I must see to the inscriptions.”

Excusing himself from the other couple, the clerk hurried over to do as he was bid.

“Miss,” the storekeeper inquired, “what would you like inscribed on the rattle?

Yvette contemplated for a moment. “Gift of God.”

“Indeed,” crowed the scrawny man.

“‘Tis most fitting, Yvette
.
”

Pleased by Ewan’s approval, she tilted her mouth into a smile.

“And you, your lordship?” The jeweler peered at Ewan expectantly.

Yvette glanced across the room. Her breath caught and hung suspended in her lungs for an interminable, prickly moment. The Italian creature’s eyes were fixed on Ewan with something akin to loathing laced with yearning. Her swarthy companion’s scowl wasn’t as complex.

Pure, unadulterated distaste, aimed straight at Ewan.

Gripping the beauty by the arm, the man swung her around hissing under his breath. Even so, Yvette’s ears burned. She heard the last few words of their heated exchange.

“
Controllare se stessi,
Pauline.”

Control yourself?

“Miss,” said the clerk, “would you like me to pack the carousel in straw to protect it?”

Yvette tore her gaze away from the quarrelling couple, her skin crawling from their exchange. She shuddered, then rubbed her arms, suddenly chilled. “Yes, please. I don’t want it damaged during the remainder of our journey.”

“Do you have far to go?” Hanley asked.

She cast a cursory glance at the arguing pair. The woman was so agitated, her abrupt movements threatened to send the slew of vibrant feathers on her bonnet aloft. The gentleman appeared unaffected. His dark eyes hooded, he raised a well-manicured hand to smooth his mustache.

Yvette lowered her voice. “A bit farther, on to my cousin’s in Northumberland.” She was reluctant to reveal her final destination.

Moments later, still issuing a frenetic tirade in Italian, the exotic woman flounced from the shop in a swirl of magenta skirts. Leveling Yvette with an inscrutable stare, her companion followed at a more sedate pace.

The clerk finished arranging the carousel in its plush straw nest inside a stout box. It was but a few minutes more, and the jeweler returned with two wrapped parcels. He handed one to her and the other to Ewan. She tucked hers inside her reticule, then reached for the carousel. The bony shop-keep lifted the treasure and passed it to her waiting arms.

“Allow me to carry it for you,” Ewan offered after tucking his package into his coat’s inner pocket.

Yvette sent him a grateful smile. “Thank you, ‘tis rather heavy.”

“What say you, rather than walking to the carriage, we first dine at that charming eatery?” His gloved finger emerged from beneath the package, pointing to the café across the street.

Yvette nodded.   “Oh, yes. I’m quite hungry.”

Tucking the toy beneath one arm, he extended his other to Yvette. Without hesitation she slipped her hand into the crook.

“Vangie will be thrilled with the carousel.” She and Ewan stepped into the street. She turned, half-facing him. “Did you notice the sculpted details on the horses? I do believe one of the horses is carved from jasper and another from onyx.”

Without warning, Ewan jerked his arm from her hand. He lifted her bodily and leapt backward. Yvette emitted a strangled shriek as a gilded barouche, pulled by four pitch-black horses, roared past. She felt the wind brush her face.

Sweet Jesus, that was too close by far. Was that a hint of fuchsia she had seen through the swaying window shades? No, she was light-headed from fright—that was all. She tried to take a deep breath but a band was wrapped tight round her middle.

She looked to her waist. Lud, Ewan’s arm was crushing her as he held her, dangling in the air.

Yvette tapped his forearm. “You can put me down now.”

He didn’t respond except to let her slide down the length of his rigid body until her feet rested on the ground. Faith, he was strong. Somehow he’d managed to retain his hold on the carousel too. Trembling, she arched her neck to look at him.