Page 11
Chapter Three
Emeline puttered around the cottage, casting frequent glances out the dusty window. She had awoken a couple of hours ago to golden sunlight streaming into the cottage. After summoning her courage, she’d ventured outdoors and used the necessary. She didn’t like the fear that has shrouded her since yesterday.
Upon returning indoors, she’d rinsed her mouth and added a log to the fire. Shivering, despite the crackling blaze in the hearth, she’d quickly bathed with cold water from the bucket and soft citrus-scented soap she’d found in a jar before hastily dressing.
Grimacing, she’d donned her bloodstained traveling gown, but there’d been no help for it. Her trunk had been lost in the flood.
Drawing in a ragged sigh, she placed a palm to her forehead, as if the gesture would help steady her rioting thoughts and emotions.
She’d brought her best clothes to the gathering at Killeaggian Tower, and everything else she owned was in Edinburgh. The minute they arrived at Liam’s home, she’d borrow a gown and have this one burned.
Once again peering outdoors, she combed her fingers through her thick, unruly hair. Encountering a snarl, she winced. Heavens. She didn’t even own a hairbrush anymore, and her hair pins had come out while she struggled against the curs hauling her and her aunt from the coach yesterday.
Continuing to work the tangles free with her fingers, she let her mind wander.
She wasn’t exactly impoverished, but neither was she in an ideal position. Everything—her very future—hung upon Aunt Jeneva’s will. If she had one. If not…
Emeline gave herself a mental shake. No sense fretting about something she couldn’t do anything about. Satisfied she’d smoothed the worst of the knots from her hair, she searched for a length of string to tie the fly-away mass back with. Finding none, she ripped a strip from her petticoat and then proceeded to gather her hair into a simple queue at her nape.
Time enough to worry about the will, or lack thereof, later. For now, she’d concentrate on the simple fare she’d prepared to break their fast while waiting for Liam to return. Thank goodness, she knew how to cook, having prepared most of the meals for her and Aunt Jeneva.
While rummaging through the supplies on the shelf, she’d found dried apples and had added them to the oat porridge staying warm in a pot before the hearth along with a kettle of tea. Grinning in delight upon discovering a tin of yeast, she’d even managed to set bread to rise. It mightn’t turn out as she’d anticipated since she didn’t have eggs or milk.
Nevertheless, if as Liam had said, they’d be stuck here for at least a day, they’d not go hungry. Why, she might even try her hand at an apple tart.
Truthfully, she couldn’t imagine any of the men Liam had mentioned—any man, honestly—making bread or porridge. She’d expected they’d just roasted whatever they’d killed over the fire and survived on meat while they stayed here. Nevertheless, whoever had been appointed to stock the cottage last had done an admirable job.
Resting a hip against the table beneath the window, she searched the landscape beyond and sipped the surprisingly strong and robust tea. Evidence of the storm’s ravages met her scrutiny. Branches and limbs littered the ground. In the distance, several felled and uprooted trees lay at awkward angles. She could only imagine the damage from the rampaging river.
When she’d seen that frothing water bearing down upon them—her heart lurched in remembered terror—she thought she’d exchanged one hell for another. It occurred to her then, since the assassins had stopped where they did, she’d have died from the flood, as would they all have. Fate had spared her life in the form of the bear of a Highlander.
As she took another sip, Liam strode toward the cottage, carrying two hares, his hair brushing his shoulders.
His plaid swished about his knees, the tartan’s striking pine green and bold blue one of the loveliest she’d ever seen. His deep blue woolen coat emphasized his broad shoulders and from the distance, made his eyes appear slate-blue rather than the flinty gray of the ocean before a storm. With each wide stride, his long hair caressed his shoulders, and his dark brown leather sporran bounced slightly.
He paused at a lean-to, lowering the hares to the damp earth. His mouth turned upward affectionately, he brushed his palm over his horse’s withers, speaking to the magnificent beast all the while. The massive gelding, an unusual steely-silvery gray color, nudged his master’s chest, and Liam chuckled.
Teacup halfway to her mouth, Emeline gasped, sloshing a splash of the warm brew onto the bodice of her gown. Och, my goodness. She hastily dabbed at the spill with a cloth.
When Liam laughed unrestrainedly, his entire countenance lit up, transforming him from a brusque, harsh man to an irresistible Grecian god. Well, if she’d ever seen a statue of Grecian or Roman god, she imagined Liam resembled one.
What would he look like, shaved and his hair shorn?
She canted her head, considering him. A strong nose divided his face, and given the chiseled planes of the rest of him, he likely possessed an angular jaw and chin beneath that nest of a beard.
He’d be one of those men too handsome for words, she suspected. But there was a guardedness about him, an aloofness. A stay-at-arms-length reserve even while he’d held her in his embrace, comforting her last night.
She’d noticed it before, too.
At Killeaggian Tower, he’d kept to himself during the celebration.
No, that wasn’t entirely true.
He’d mingled with the men, laughing and joking, quaffing back pints of ale. But whenever an unwed woman approached, except for his spirited sister, he’d all but pelted in the other direction, sword drawn.
The table’s edge biting into the flesh of her hip, she shifted her position and narrowed her eyes. There was much about the enigmatic Baron Penderhaven she didn’t know or understand, but she was honest enough to admit he’d stirred her curiosity and heretofore, undecipherable longings. Illicit and immoral longings, given he was a married man.
“That was my bairn’s name.”
