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And even in her distress, something undefinable burgeoned deep within her.
If she hadn’t been overcome with sorrow, she might’ve taken the time to appreciate the wonderfulness. As it was, however, she wept brokenheartedly for the aunt who’d sacrificed her life to protect her.
Up until today, Emeline had always felt an imposition thrust upon her mother’s spinster sister and had doubted Aunt Jeneva cared for her. What an unbearable way to discover just how much she’d been loved, after all.
After several long moments of Liam murmuring soothing things in Gaelic into her hair while platonically skimming his palms over her shoulders and spine, she snuffled indelicately and stepped away.
Chagrined and self-conscious, she murmured, “Thank ye. Ye’ve been most kind, and I ken that I have inconvenienced ye greatly. I owe ye my life, and I am truly grateful to ye.”
Sniffing again, she dabbed at her damp face with the scratchy blanket.
As if uncomfortable with her appreciation, he inclined his head minutely and clasped his nape with a hand. “I washed yer gown and cloak as best I could, but they’re still stained.” He looked pointedly at her chest covered by the plain blanket.
Mouth turned down, she lowered her gaze to her bosoms. She hadn’t even noticed if her chemise bore evidence of her aunt’s blood. Nausea swirled in her belly at the thought. “Thank ye.”
What other man would’ve been so considerate? So chivalrous?
He lifted a flask from beside the bucket and removed the cap. After taking a healthy swig, he offered, “Whisky?”
“Nae, thank ye.” On her empty stomach, she feared she’d become ill. She’d never sampled anything stronger than port before, and that only rarely.
He replaced the flask on the table then rested his hip against the edge. Arms folded, emphasizing his bulging pectoral muscles—how does a man acquire muscles that big?—and seemingly totally at ease in his undressed state, he canted his head slightly. Expression solemn, his eyes the same shade as the petulant sky during the tempest, he regarded her.
She quelled the child-like urge to shuffle from one foot to the other.
“The storm finally ceased about two hours ago,” he said. “But there are many downed trees and mudslides. And I’m sure other waterways are flooded as well. When the roads are unencumbered, my home is less than a quarter day’s journey from here.”
She scrunched her nose as she adjusted the blanket around her shoulders and shifted her feet, suppressing a shiver. She’d grown cold once more.
Had he mentioned where his home was? Had Berget?
“However, with Deri obliged to carry us both, and the likelihood we’ll encounter hazardous roadways, I’ve nae doubt it will take us considerably longer.” He cut a short, almost impatient glance out the window. “I dinna think we can safely leave here for at least a day, perhaps more. The ground is saturated and unstable.”
Emeline made an inarticulate sound and touched her fingers to her throat as disappointment crested up her chest. She’d hoped—believed—they’d leave first thing in the morn.
“I ken that’s no’ what ye want to hear, but there’s nae help for it, Miss LeClaire.” Eyes hooded, he observed her guardedly, as if he expected her to dissolve into hysterics. An enigmatic expression flashed across his face then was gone. “I always error on the side of prudence and safety.”
And that’s why he tore across the road, a gun pointed directly at him, to protect a woman he dinna ken? And why he plowed full-on into the other crazed driver wieldin’ a knife?
Summoning her own prudence, she held her tongue and wandered to the fireplace to stare into the dying blaze. God help her.
Shutting her eyes, Emeline strove for equanimity.
She was alone in some sort of a hunting lodge. In the middle of the woods. Somewhere in the Scottish Highlands. With a striking, rather intimidating stranger.
It wasn’t that she feared Liam MacKay. She didn’t. Opening her eyes, she accepted that truth. If he’d meant her harm, he’d had plenty of opportunity already.
Still, she couldn’t deny their forced situation unnerved her. Not a soul knew where she was. Not that anyone would care, other than her friends, Berget Jonston—soon to be Berget Kennedy—and Arieen Wallace.
A few flames valiantly flickered in the fireplace, greedily consuming the single charred log remaining. Did she dare ask to add another to the fire?
No, he might think her a demanding female, and she’d already been trial enough for him. Besides, she was accustomed to cool chambers. Their apartments in Edinburgh only had coal stoves in the modiste shop’s main room and the upstairs kitchen.
Naturally, Emeline’s reputation already teetered on the fringe of ruin. But that didn’t bother her as much as it might have another. A woman in her position—illegitimate and without a dowry—didn’t have to fret about marriage offers. Or the lack thereof.
In fact, until recently when Aunt Jeneva had suggested Emeline might consider a union with a distant cousin, marriage had never been mentioned.
She’d assumed her spinster aunt expected her to follow in her footsteps and remain unwed. That wasn’t what she wanted but, if nothing else, Emeline faced facts straight on. A husband and children weren’t things she’d likely ever have.
