Highland Heat (10 page)

Lady Campbell had disappeared. Desperate to find her, the major rushed to Boodles, the earl's club, with Duncan in tow. Of course, neither the major nor Duncan were members, and they were denied entrance. It took some impressive threatening on the major's part but finally the earl came to the door. The man's haughty gaze brushed over Duncan before settling on the major.

“Where's Claire?” the major growled.

The earl's lips thinned. “Do you really wish to know?”

The major smacked the wall beside the earl's head with the flat of his hand, making the older man jump. “Aye, I do.”

“She's been through enough,” the earl said tiredly. “Why can't the two of you just leave each other in peace?”

Major Campbell ground his teeth. “Nay. That isna going to happen. Not now. She's my wife. She should be with me.”

“You've been married almost three years. You're only now realizing this? You're a fool, boy.”

“Aye, I am. And I'm trying to stop being a fool before it's too late.”

The earl sighed, deflating. He suddenly looked old and tired. “She's in Kent at Norsey House. She wanted to be with your son.”

Duncan blinked. Major Campbell had a son? Why had he never heard?

But when the major staggered backward, stricken and pale, it all came together. Duncan finally understood.

Major and Lady Campbell had lost a child.

Abruptly, the major turned to Duncan, his expression flat. “Let's go.”

They rode to Kent on horseback, exchanging no more than a few words. Duncan thought about the major and his wife as they rode—piecing together the facts of what he'd learned today and coming to the conclusion that the loss of their child must be the cause of the rift between husband and wife. Duncan understood this. The death of a child was the worst thing a parent could endure, and from what he knew of the major, he would handle his grief quite differently than any woman would. In a way that a woman might consider callous and uncaring, even.

After they'd been riding for two hours, Major Campbell suddenly drew his horse to a halt. Duncan pulled up beside him.

“We had a son,” the major told him flatly.

Duncan nodded, massaging the shoulder joint of his broken arm with his good hand.

“His first birthday would be tomorrow.”

Duncan could feel the major's grief, almost tangible in the air between them. “I'm sorry for your loss, Major,” he said quietly.

The older man studied Duncan for a moment, his blue eyes shining, sadness seeming to flow from his very pores. Then he swallowed hard, made a visible effort to pull himself together, and asked, “Your arm?”

“It's fine.”

With a sharp nod, the major turned and guided his horse into a trot.

The last remnants of the sun were streaking pink across the sky when they arrived at Norsey House, a grand estate the likes of which Duncan had rarely seen in all his travels for the army.

As they dismounted, a boy came rushing from the direction of the stables to take care of their horses. Duncan gave his up hesitantly; he was accustomed to brushing down his own horse. But at a stern look from the major, he handed over the reins.

Two additional figures emerged from the massive, thick oak front door. One was a male servant dressed in a fine livery. The other one was Grace.

She strode toward them, skirts lifted in her hands, revealing sturdy leather shoes, and her chin held high. She was magnificent.

She went right up to the major and stared him down. “What are
you
doing here?” Her tone was ripe with disdain.

“Where's Claire?” the major demanded, and Duncan's spine stiffened. He didn't like the tone of voice he was using with Grace.

Grace crossed her arms over her chest. “Why should I tell you?”

The major raised his brows in surprise. Then he frowned. “Is she inside? I must see her right away.”

He began to walk toward the house, but Grace caught his arm. “Why don't you just leave her alone? All she wants is peace.”

It sounded quite a lot like what her father had said to the major. Both of them trying to protect Lady Campbell from further harm.

The major glanced at Duncan, suddenly looking unsure. Duncan gave him a fierce nod. He needed to fight back, needed to prove Lady Campbell's importance to him.

Squaring his shoulders, the major turned back to Grace. “Nay. I dinna believe you. Or her. She may think she needs peace, but that isna so. What she needs is her husband.”

Well done, Duncan thought.

But Grace was having none of it. “Why should I tell you where she is when all you're going to do is leave her again? Break her heart again? Abandon her to misery? You should leave her alone, so she can heal herself once and for all.”

“She canna heal without me.”

“She can't heal
with
you.”

The two of them stared each other down. Lady Campbell was lucky to have two people love her so ferociously.

“She needs both of you to heal,” Duncan said quietly. Both their heads whipped around to him. “Lady Grace, is she inside the house?”

Grace pressed her lips together mutinously and narrowed her eyes on the major. “You don't even love her,” she said quietly. “Why are you doing this?”

“I dinna…love her? Is that what ye think?”

“No, you don't love her. How could you? Leaving her like you did, in the darkest days of her life. And…that poor babe…” Tears squeezed out of Grace's eyes and she wiped at them furiously with the back of her hand. “You…you didn't love him, either.”

The major froze. He and Grace stared at each other for long moments.

Tell her,
Duncan pleaded in his mind,
tell her the truth about how you feel about your wife and son…

As if he'd heard Duncan's words, the major took a deep breath then stepped up to Grace and put a hand on her shoulder. When he spoke, his voice was low and somber, full of sorrow. “You're wrong, lass—I did love wee Jamie. And I love Claire more than my next breath. She is the wife of my heart. Please. Allow me to see her.”

Another tear leaked from the corner of Grace's eye. But there was something new in her expression, some softening toward her brother-in-law.

“
Please
don't do it again,” she said, her voice rough with emotion.

“Do what?”

“Hurt her.”

“I promise that I'll do everything in my power to ensure her happiness. I…
love
…her.”

“You can't walk away from her like you did…after Jamie.”

“I thought it was the right thing to do, but now I realize 'twas the biggest mistake I ever made. I vow it wilna happen again.”

She gazed at him for a long moment, then whispered, “She's at the cemetery.”

The major sucked in a breath, and Duncan saw it again—that horrible grief rolling from the man in waves. He suffered terribly from the loss of his son—though evidently the women hadn't seen it. Duncan hoped like hell the major would show that part of himself to his wife now. Sometimes being the strong man who solved every problem he was faced with wasn't the solution. Especially when it was the loss of a child—a problem that could never be solved.

“I'll go to her,” the major said gruffly. And he strode away, onto a path that cut between the house and the stables, leaving Duncan alone with Grace.

Immediately he went to her and put his hand on her shoulder. Though he would have been more comfortable drawing her into his arms, the footman was still standing off to the side. “Are you all right, lass?”

“Yes.” She sniffed, wiping the last tear away. “I'm sorry—it is such an emotional time, and it destroys me to see my sister grieving so.”

“Aye, of course it does,” he murmured.

She looked up at him through damp lashes. “I wish he were more like you.”

“He's more like me than you think,” Duncan told her. “He just doesna ken how to express himself in a way that women understand.”

Grace laughed softly. “And I suppose your sisters taught you that skill.”

“Oh, aye. Time and again.”

She straightened her spine, quickly reassuming her role as the earl's elder daughter. “Well, then. Please, come into the house. You must feel tired and dusty after your long ride.”

As they approached the front door, the footman bowed and greeted him. “Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening,” Duncan replied, thinking that not long ago, this man would have thought himself far above Duncan in status. How quickly things had changed.

Grace led him down a carpeted corridor lined with massive paintings of previous earls and their families, then into the most expansive drawing room Duncan had ever seen. It consisted of several separate sitting areas containing gilded furniture upholstered in green silk, Grecian statues strategically placed in gilded alcoves, pillars designed to look like the trunks of golden palm trees, their fronds swooping over the tops of the alcoves.

Suddenly shy, she bit her lip as she sat on the chair across from the settee he'd chosen. He smiled at her. “I didna think we'd meet again so soon.”

“Nor did I. I am so happy to see you here, though.”

“How long will you stay in Kent?” he asked her.

“I've no idea. I suppose the major's arrival will be a factor in the length of time we remain. Do you think he will want to stay on here for a few days? Or do your duties require you to return to London immediately?”

Duncan shrugged. “There are no pressing duties for now. I suppose if one arose, someone would send a message. But I'm thinking that the length of time we stay depends on what happens between the major and his lady.”

A furrow appeared between Grace's brows. “Do you really believe his intentions are good?”

“Aye, I do,” Duncan said with conviction.

Her smile was sweet. “I trust you, and you know him better than I, so your assuredness is a relief.”

Duncan's fingers itched to grab her, to haul her into his arms—or arm, since his blasted broken limb was back to feeling like the fires of hell licked under his skin—and kiss her breath away. Instead he gripped the sleek, gilded armrest of the settee.

“They love each other,” he said quietly. “I've watched them together over the past days, and I can say it without doubt. But men face tragedy in a different way than women do. My sisters made certain to give me an excellent education in that.”

The tea came, and Duncan took his black, wolfing down three cakes in rapid succession, prompting Grace to laugh at him. “You're hungry, I take it?”

“Famished. Havena eaten since breakin' my fast this morning.”

“Dinner will be served in an hour,” she told him. “Or when my sister and brother-in-law return from the cemetery.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, then Duncan patted the empty space beside him. “Sit with me, lass.”

She stared at the settee for a moment, glanced over her shoulder at the door, then opened and closed her hands into fists before rising and walking slowly over. She sat beside him, and he placed his arm on her shoulder and drew her tightly against him.

They both sighed, as if the contact released all the tension of the day from their bodies.

He turned and pressed his lips to her head and inhaled her fresh lilac scent.

“It feels so good to be close to you like this,” she whispered, as if in awe of the sensation.

He felt the same way. “Aye,” he agreed, his lips moving in her hair. He stayed there, resting his chin on her head, his eyes closed, as she snuggled closer.

They remained that way for a long while, until it was dark outside and the fire in the hearth the only source of light in the room, and a footman knocked on the door to let them know that the major and Lady Campbell had returned.

Grace lay in bed wide awake, even though the sounds of Norsey House had died down about an hour ago. Duncan and the major had been here for a week. Dinner that first night, though planned at the very last minute, had been a lovely success.

Her sister and brother-in-law had reconciled once and for all. Grace didn't know exactly what had happened at the cemetery, and she'd never ask, but both of them had returned with reddened eyes and tear-streaked faces. They'd retired to the same room to bathe and had come down to dinner together, both of them looking clean and scrubbed, yet tired, while at the same time radiant.

Now, whenever Claire and the major looked at each other, Grace could feel their connection like a tangible thing, even more so than when they'd first courted and Claire had thought their love exciting and adventurous. Their bond now felt deeper, more firmly rooted, and throughout the week all of Grace's worries over her sister's happiness had drifted away like dandelion seeds on a light breeze.

Which allowed new thoughts to insinuate themselves into Grace's mind.

Duncan Mackenzie. Tall and broad and strong. So expressive and kind. The way he'd held her that first afternoon, the way just sitting beside him made her feel. He brought out a serenity in her the likes of which she'd never known before.

They hadn't touched since that first day. They had talked, of course, but always in the company of Claire and the major. They had gone on walks and had even had a picnic under a tree near the river.

As the days passed, her desire for him grew. Every time she was near him, her fingers itched to touch him. Her body grew warm. She couldn't erase the thoughts of the pleasure he'd brought her in her father's London drawing room. And she loved the way he looked at her. With such admiration in his eyes. Such…
desire
. Men never looked at her like that.

And tonight all she could think about was him lying on the bed in one of the guest bedrooms at the opposite end of the corridor.

Grace felt like Ariadne, the desire to follow the thread lain by Theseus pulsing through her veins. It was as if the thread would lead her out of the maze that was her life and into the pleasure and peace that she could find in Duncan's arms.

Why had she fought it for so long? She'd known from the beginning that she wanted him. It wasn't as if she were saving herself for a husband. And if she was never to be married, why deprive herself of possibly the only opportunity she'd ever have to lie with a man? To know what it was like? To understand all the pleasures her sister and other married ladies spoke of?

She had always been curious on an academic level about carnal relations, about the congress of a man and a woman. But Duncan had brought her body to life. He'd taught it desire. And now she craved him, longed to follow that thread to his room and discover the mysteries of his bed.

Grace rose and slipped on her robe and slippers before padding out of her room, taking several moments to carefully close her door without making any telltale noises that might rouse the curiosity of Claire or the major.

The corridor was dark, but she'd been born in this house, and it was easy to find her way by trailing her fingers along the wall. She counted doors as she went, and at the fourth door, she stopped.

Should she knock? Probably. But knocking would make noise, and the house was so silent right now that even the pad of her bare feet on the wooden floors sounded excruciatingly loud to her ears.

She turned the handle slowly, opened the door, and slipped into the dark room. She stood for a moment, considering the layout of the furniture, then took tentative steps toward the bed, which she could see only as a dark square in the deep shadows of the night.

She reached the bottom corner of the bed and glided her fingers over the velvet bed curtain, which was tied back to the post. Her hand skimmed over the counterpane as she slowly made her way to the head of the bed, wishing she could see better. The counterpane was smooth, untouched, the pillows at the top arranged in an inviting pattern, but no warm body lay upon them.

No one had slept in this bed.

Where was he?

Just as she turned, a steely arm wrapped around her chest, jerking her backward, and something cold pressed against her neck. She yelped in fear, and the pressure on her chest and her neck instantly fell away. Something gave a muffled
clunk
on the carpeted floor.

“Christ!” It was Duncan's voice.

Gasping, Grace spun around to face him.

“For Christ's sake, lass, what're you doin' here?”

“I…I…”

He grabbed her hands in his big, warm ones. “You're shaking. I'm sorry. I thought you were…”

“What?” she asked breathlessly.

“An…enemy.”

She closed her eyes. She'd been skulking in the dark, and he'd been in the army since he was a lad. Of course he'd think it was an enemy.

“I'm sorry,” she said in a rush. “That was so stupid. I shouldn't have done that. I should go—”

“Nay.” He rubbed her arms up and down, soothing the gooseflesh. “Come. Sit. I'll stoke the fire.”

He led her to the comfortable upholstered chair near the hearth and pressed her into it. Then he knelt by the fireplace and had a fire going in just a few minutes.

When he turned to her, the glow of the coals washed over his handsome face. He rose and came to her, kneeling in front of the chair.

“Where were you?” she asked. “You weren't in bed—”

His lips quirked into a smile as he gestured to the other side of the bed from where she'd been looking for him. “I was over there.”

She looked back and saw a rough-looking brown blanket on the carpet. “Goodness! Were you sleeping on the floor?”

“Aye,” he said, somewhat sheepishly. “The bed…it's verra soft, ye ken? I'm accustomed to sleeping on the ground.”

She gazed at him wide-eyed, thinking of how very different their lives had been to this point. It was a wonder they got on so very well. Perhaps it was a miracle. And for some reason, this made her feel even closer to him.

“When I heard you I was asleep and dreaming.”

“About the war?”

“Aye. And I thought…” He shook his head. “Are you well? You're shaking.”

“I am?” She looked down at her hands, which were indeed trembling. Curious. She raised her fingers to feel her neck where the coldness had pressed against it.

“Thank God I used the flat of the blade,” he murmured.

“The…blade?”

“I keep my dirk with me when I sleep.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Habit, I suppose. My blade is never farther than an arm's length away. I carry it with me always.”

“But you don't need it here.” She raised her hand and stroked his cheek, which was rough with a day's growth of beard. “You're safe here.”

He nodded. “Aye, I ken. But I canna seem to sleep without knowin' it's near.” He rose and went to the side of the bed, where he picked up the dagger before returning. He held it out to her. “Careful. It's sharp.”

She took it by the leather grip, which was studded with metal pins and topped with an orange gem. Intricate etchings covered the silver blade. “It's beautiful,” she said, turning it over.

“Captain Stirling gave it to me after the battle of Salamanca.”

“You must have done something very brave to receive such a gift.”

He shrugged modestly. “The captain thought so. I was just doing as my training dictated.”

“And what was that?” She gave the dirk back to him, and he laid it on the round table beside her chair.

“I took the death blow that was meant for the captain.”

She blinked. “But you're alive.”

“Aye. The blade was headed straight for Captain Stirling's heart, but when I jumped in front of him, it just nicked my shoulder. Such a small scratch, it hardly bled at all.”

“You saved his life.”

He shrugged again.

“Can I see it?” she asked.

“See it?”

“Where you were stabbed.” Her heart began to beat hard and heavy against her breastbone.

He blinked at her. “Is that what you want, lass?” he asked softly. “There's nothing to see. Not even a scar to show for it.”

“That's not what I want to see,” she admitted. “Not really.”

“Are ye certain?”

She nodded solemnly, but her heart continued its heavy, solid thrum.

He was fully dressed, not in a kilt but in a plaid and shirt. He moved the plaid from his shoulder and pulled out his shirt, then slowly lifted it over his head, revealing his skin inch by inch.

His pale skin was perfect, rippling with muscles she hadn't ever seen, even in statues. There were two indentations above his hips, and each muscle in his stomach was well defined. His chest was massive, thick with heavy muscles. As the shirt came off, his uninjured arm was revealed, bulging shoulders and biceps. The shirt had been cut to easily fit over his sling, and he didn't even wince as he pulled the fabric over it. She remembered how the steely strong arm had come across her chest—that must have been his injured arm holding her.

“Your arm is better, isn't it?”

He glanced down at it. “I felt it during the ride here from London, but now the most bothersome part of it is the sling.”

“The arm itself doesn't hurt anymore?”

“Nay. It just feels stiff sometimes. Otherwise, I forget it's even been injured.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “We'll have the doctor look at it tomorrow. Maybe he'll say it's time to remove the sling.”

He gave her a smile that made her heart melt as if it were made of butter.

“Where were you cut by that sword in Salamanca?” she asked.

He gestured with his chin toward the shoulder of his uninjured arm, and she ran her fingers over the area, searching for the upraised skin of a scar. She felt nothing. “You're right,” she murmured. “It hardly nicked you. You were so lucky.”

“After that was when they started to call me Unbreakable Mackenzie.”

She laughed out loud. “Is that what they call you?”

“They did. Not much anymore, though, not since Waterloo. I suppose that was the battle that finally broke me.” He touched his fingers to his broken arm.

“I disagree. I think you're still Unbreakable Mackenzie. Waterloo didn't kill you, nor did it break your spirit.”

A darkness flashed across his eyes. “I fear it did break some men's spirits, though.”

“No doubt,” she murmured, thinking of Captain Stirling. “I hope spirits can be healed.”

“I ken they can.”

Duncan was ever the optimist. She loved that about him.

She glided her fingers over his chest, then pressed her palm to it and moved it over the contours of his smooth, warm skin, working around the sling. He held very still, his free hand clenched at his side, as she explored him.

The firelight danced gold and orange over his skin. He was beautiful. Perfect. More so than any statue she'd ever seen.

As she ran her fingertips over his collarbone, he reached down to her ankle—her
bare
ankle, as she wore no stockings—and slowly moved upward, over her shin. She shuddered. When he reached her knee, he leaned forward and gave her a searing kiss.

She fell into it, sliding her hands up to grip his shoulders. God, he was…he was…
everything
.

He moved his hand up to the top of her thigh and stopped there. She gasped. She was wearing only her nightgown beneath her robe. No undergarments.

“Och, Grace,” he said gruffly against her lips, rolling the R in her name in that erotic Scottish brogue of his. “You're so damned perfect.”

“No I'm not,” she said truthfully.

He kissed her, hard, then pulled away. “Aye, you're right. That's your imperfection. You've no confidence in your own appeal.”

She laughed softly. “I know what will help my confidence.”

“What's that?”

“Kiss me again.”

So he did. He ravished her mouth, sucking her tongue, licking and nipping her lips, gently squeezing her thigh. She moved to the edge of the chair, wrapping her hands around his neck and pulling him closer to her.

His lips traveled to the edge of her mouth then over her cheek and down, until they were traveling along her jaw. “I want to take you to bed, lass,” he murmured.

She closed her eyes, swallowing hard. “I want that, too,” she said.

“Are ye certain?”

“Yes,” she said. It was what she wanted. It was why she'd come.

He pulled back slightly. “I dinna wish to hurt you.”

She cupped his cheek in her hand and smiled at him. “I know.”

“And if there's a bairn…I'll pull out before…but it's no' sure. It's never sure. Once we're together, it could happen.”

“I know that too.” She took a shaky breath.

“If there is a child, we will marry,” he said firmly. “We will exile ourselves to Scotland.”

She closed her eyes, then opened them and looked directly at him. “The chances of that are small, though, yes?”

“Aye.”

She nodded. “It's worth the risk.”

He searched her face, still hesitating.

“Don't you see?” she whispered. “Duncan, you are all I've ever dreamed of in a man. You are everything I want. But I can't have you.”

He bowed his head.

“We can have this night, though. Maybe more, for as long as you stay at Norsey House. It might be my only chance…”

“You will marry one day.”

“I've already told you I won't.”

He shook his head, looking at her with shining eyes. “Oh, aye.” His fingers squeezed her thigh. “There ye go again with your lack of confidence. But you're wrong, lass. Some man—some lord—will find you someday. He'll fall in love with you and marry you and be the happiest man alive.”