Seducing the Highlander (25 page)

The answer was obvious enough upon a closer look.

As if there were not already enough dead bodies littering the road. When Adain clambered inside and pulled the old man’s neck cloth aside, he could feel no pulse.

He climbed back out and wondered how in the devil he was going to break this bit of news to a young woman who had already been through a hellish, frightening experience. As gently as possible, he said, “I think your uncle was more ill than he realized. Perhaps if he had agreed to stop and summon a physician, he could have been saved.”

Even in the thin moonlight, he could see her tremble. “What?”

“I am sorry.”

“He’s . . . dead?”

“Aye, it seems so, lass.”

For a moment, she seemed unable to speak, and then she whispered, “I wondered whether he was getting worse, but he wouldn’t listen to anything I had to say. I could hear him struggling to breathe. I thought he was finally falling asleep, but perhaps he was slipping away.”

Comforting suddenly bereaved young ladies who had just been the near victim of an unexpected attack was not his forte. Adain murmured, feeling inadequate, “Perhaps the excitement of the attempted robbery stopped his heart. Perhaps it was inevitable anyway. Who knows.”

She swayed slightly, and he stepped forward to catch her by the waist, alarmed that she might swoon. “This is a nightmare,” she said, collapsing against his chest, her slim form shaking. “Surely I will wake soon.”

Though Adain sympathized with her shocked sensibilities, he hadn’t lied earlier; the road was a dangerous place to be. Risking it himself was one thing, but she needed to get to safety as soon as possible. Those disreputable three were hardly the only predators on the prowl. The local magistrate could take care of what should be done with their bodies.

Why does she have to be a bloody English lass?
he thought with wry cynicism as he felt the light, delicious weight of her body against him, a soft floral fragrance drifting from her pale hair. He despised her country as much as any good Scot, but she was stranded and alone, no matter her nationality.

He’d much rather rescue a bonny Scottish girl.

“I will help you in any way I can, but at the risk of sounding callous, we should ride on. At the next village, we can make arrangements for your uncle and coachman to be buried. You need rest and shelter. It grows later with each passing moment.”

She said nothing. Then he felt her straighten her spine and heard her inhale a deep breath as if composing herself. “You are right. And very generous, sir. Thank you for your aid, and for your offer. I feel I have been a great deal of trouble already, and I do not even know your name.”

“Adain Cameron, at your service.”

“I am Lady Gillian Lorin.”

He almost smiled at the formal tone of her voice despite the grim and tumultuous circumstances of their meeting, and released her waist. “A pleasure, Lady Gillian. Now, let us go.”

Gillian sat across a pair of muscular thighs and felt the night wind caress her face. The events of the past hour had left her dazed. The ride had a surreal feel to it—except for the man next to her, guiding his horse with an expert hand down the dark, gloomy road. The one who wielded a sword as if it were part of his body, so smooth, graceful and yet deadly; he had made the entire fight look effortless. He felt solid, hard, strong, and very male as they rode along.

Was she safe with this man? There was no doubt she was entirely at his mercy, but what choice did she have? Adain Cameron seemed kind.

Could a man who had cut down those two ruffians without blinking an eye still be kind? Well, she supposed so, because he’d acted in her defense and they weren’t even acquainted. Even now, he was helping her and had no obligation to do so. Her plight was dire, but not his affair.

Through her lashes, she dared an unobtrusive look at his face. It was handsome, she thought, though the light wasn’t good. Dark hair brushed his shoulders, framing features that had clean, masculine lines: straight nose, square chin, and downy dark brows. His eyes were a light gleaming color, and she had a feeling that if he ever smiled, he would be very appealing.

But there was something somber about him that made her wonder if laughter were not a stranger in his life.

“There is an inn a few miles up ahead,” he said in his clear, brusque voice. “We’ll stop there and hope there is available space and something hot to eat. It’s getting late.”

She didn’t exactly have an appetite after the evening’s events, but he was right; they could do nothing for her uncle now.

At least her future was settled, and Cameron had found the betrothal papers and brought them along.

Practical and efficient, he had emptied her uncle’s pockets and made her retrieve any small valuables she carried lest more criminals come upon the abandoned carriage. It had been on the tip of her tongue to mention her fiancé as she saw him fold the documents and tuck them in a small bag, but she had refrained. Complicated explanations were beyond her at the moment. She felt numb all over.

The minute Aunt Eugenia had died, her world had shifted, and now it was shifting again. She was entirely dependent on an utter stranger, and the feeling wasn’t new.

She didn’t like it, even though it was becoming disturbingly familiar.

Her rescuer trotted his big horse into the yard of the inn and slid off in one lithe, athletic movement. With ease, he lifted her from her sideways perch in the saddle and set her down. There were still lights in the windows, she saw with gratitude, and both fatigue and a lack of food made her feel light- headed. He led the way, escorting her inside.

In moments, she was in some sort of private parlor, her shivering eased by a crackling fire and a glass of warmed wine in her hand. Abstractly, she could hear Mr. Cameron explaining to the innkeeper what had happened and offering coin for someone to retrieve the carriage and the bodies. Her mind didn’t seem to function properly, trying to absorb this latest catastrophe in a life that had been less than settled as of late.

“Drink some of the wine; it will warm and ease you. I’ve ordered food and secured you a room, lass.”

She glanced up at the sound of the quiet words. Her savior was very tall, and the flickering firelight threw his shadow across the small room. “I am grateful to you for everything,” she said truthfully, lifting her cup obediently and taking a sip.

“I understand your grief, as I lost a beloved uncle not that long ago. If you would prefer to be alone, I can take my meal in the taproom.”

“He was not beloved to me in any way,” Gillian said firmly, the glass in her hand wobbling a bit. Maybe she shouldn’t tell this to a stranger, but the words spilled out before she could stop them. “Though I certainly did not wish him dead, I did not even know my uncle until a few weeks ago. When he became my guardian on the death of my mother’s sister, he made it quite clear he did not want me or the responsibility. I am shocked, but not grieving.”

Cameron’s dark brows shot up. “I see.”

“I suppose it sounds unfeeling of me, but I was more contemplating my situation. He was the last of my family.”

In better light, she could see Adain Cameron had gray eyes, the color almost pure silver. There was something about them that made him seem vividly alive—a distinct gleam of intelligence and purpose, perhaps. At the moment, they held sympathy and an awareness of what exactly she was saying. “Is there no one who will take you in?”

“That depends. My uncle had arranged a marriage to one of your countrymen. I am betrothed . . . or, well, almost betrothed, I suppose. We were traveling to my intended’s estate near Hawick. I believe the marriage will take place only if he approves of my appearance.”

“I somehow doubt that will be a problem.” The words were said neutrally, but there was a subtle undertone in the voice of the tall man leaning so casually against the fireplace mantel that made her cheeks flush suddenly. “You are lovely. He won’t refuse you.”

The compliment flustered her, but it also brought up some unsettling doubts about her future.

“My uncle didn’t think so either,” she admitted, doing her best to hide her bitterness, for it was hardly an uncommon practice—most young women did not get to choose their husbands—and it made her seem ungrateful. “He was quite cheered at the idea of relieving himself of any responsibility and acquiring a substantial marriage settlement at the same time.”

In short, she’d been sold.

Cameron reached for the bottle on the small table between them and refilled his glass, the splash of the wine low against the comfortable crackle of the fire. “Hawick is not far from here. If I can escort you there, I would be happy to offer my assistance.”

Considering all he’d done already, it was a most generous offer. “I am sure Lord Kleiss would be in your debt, though I confess I know little about him.”

“Lord Kleiss?” Cameron stopped in the act of taking a drink, the glass arrested inches from his mouth. “The Earl of Kleiss?”

Gillian wasn’t sure she liked his reaction. “Yes. Do you know him?”

She’d sensed it all along in her uncle’s evasiveness about her fiancé, in how he’d put aside her questions.

Cameron said, “Personally, we have never met. I know
of
the earl, however.”

From the grim expression on the tall Scotsman’s face, she deduced that her day—horrible enough already—was about to get worse. The warm little room with the cheerful fire felt suddenly cold. “What you have heard is not to his credit, I take it,” she said in dismal resignation, her fingers tightening on her wineglass. “I see it in your expression.”

He didn’t answer for a moment, and then shook his dark head. “I am afraid not. The least of it is that he is old enough to be your grandfather and has buried four wives already.”

That wasn’t completely surprising, for she had guessed he wasn’t young if he was a contemporary of her uncle. It made her feel sick to contemplate lying with an old man, but she wasn’t given a choice in the matter, so she had tried not to think about it.

“If that is the least of it,” Gillian asked hollowly, not certain she even wanted to know, “what is the worst of it?”

“Not for your ears,” Adain Cameron informed her curtly. “And I withdraw my offer. I’ll not take you to him.”

T
he table was sticky with spilled ale, and the sound of drunken laughter echoed in the huge space as his men drank freely and traded bawdy jokes, the meal long since finished. Thomas Graham, Earl of Kleiss, sat in his usual spot at the head, in a massive chair his ancestors had brought from Italy two centuries before. Once, it had been a work of art, but now it was scarred from careless use, the legs scratched by booted feet with spurs, the armrests nicked and worn.

He did not mind the battered appearance, for he liked his possessions to be well used.

Except his women.

If Baron Lorin had told the truth about his English niece . . . Well, he felt a rush of dark pleasure at just the thought of deflowering the pretty young bitch. As his wife, she’d learn her place soon enough. He didn’t want someone to run his household. He had perfectly competent servants for that. If they
were
incompetent in any way, they were punished with prompt and inventive viciousness, which made for a very efficient staff.

Neither did he need to breed more children, for he had three sons already, all of them brawny and capable.

No, what he needed was someone to service him like a whore at his bidding, and who better than a pale Englishwoman? With Scotland’s increasingly urgent bid for independence, the feelings against the English were running high, and though he eschewed politics normally, he hated the arrogant bastards south of the border.

Not that he really cared about her nationality except in an offhand way. She was the same as any other woman, a convenient receptacle for his lust, with all the right places for his cock.

A young man strode into the hall, his booted feet thudding on the hard floor, and his expression apprehensive. He stopped and gave a brief bow. “My lord.”

“Well?” Thomas growled.

“There is still no sign of them, and as the hour is late—”

He eyed the young trooper murderously and reached for his ale. “Are you complaining about your duties?”

“No, my lord.” The young man paled.

“I should hope not.” Irritated, because patience was not at all in his blood, Thomas swore violently. He had need of her at once and a priest standing by. As long as she was everything he’d been told, she could have warmed his bed this very night, but Lorin, the weak fool, was damnably late.

“Ride back out,” he instructed. “I don’t care if you have to go all the way to Northumberland. They are a full day late. Find her.”