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She’d ceased mourning for what would never be years ago.
Yes, she claimed a disgraced French count as her maternal grandfather, but she wasn’t respectable according to Society’s strictures. Neither was she of the lower orders. What she was—and would always be—was a woman suspended between two worlds and fitting into neither. Unwanted by both. An outcast.
He shifted impatiently, and she realized, absorbed in her ruminations, she hadn’t responded. “I’m sure ye ken best, Baron.” In this, she’d have to trust him. Odd that she did, but did she have any choice?
A rough noise echoed in the back of his throat as he swept his hand in a dismissive gesture, his mouth skewing into a slightly mocking smile. “Call me Liam.”
Nae.That would be highly improper.
He twisted to look out the window again, his demeanor pensive as he scraped a hand through his glossy, ink-black hair. What did he seek or expect to see in the impenetrable blackness?
Mentally shrugging, she directed her focus to the struggling fire once more. The flames calmed and relaxed her, and she blinked sleepily.
“I ken ye’d prefer to return to Killeaggian Tower,” he said, a trace of regret in his burr. “But ’tis a full day’s journey on ideal roads. My home is closer, so we’ll travel there. Once we arrive, ye can pen a letter to whoever ye need to contact and let them ken what has occurred.”
“There isna anyone.” Mouth pulled into firm line, absent of self-pity, Emeline glanced over her shoulder. “I suppose I should let Berget and Arieen ken, but I ken verra little about my aunt and mother’s French relatives.”
She turned to face him fully and adjusted the blanket around her shoulders again, enjoying the meager fire’s heat warming her back. A distinct pre-dawn chill had invaded the cottage.
As if sensing her need, he crossed to the hearth and knelt, placing two more logs on the fire. At once, the flames greedily licked up the sides of the additional wood.
His back muscles bunched and flexed as he stoked the blaze, and she had the oddest desire to run her hands over the taut, suntanned flesh. He bore another six-inch scar under his right arm and two smaller jagged lines stood out starkly; one on his left shoulder and the other just above his left hip.
This was man accustomed to physical exertion and, evidently, defending himself.
“I’ll need to return to Edinburgh and go through my aunt’s possessions and papers. Perhaps there’s an address or a letter…or somethin’.” She pulled her eyebrows together as another thought intruded. “I suppose I’ll need to speak to a solicitor as well.”
How much would that cost?
Aunt Jeneva had money hidden in a leather bag beneath a floorboard in the shop. She’d believed it safer there than in their apartments above the business or a bank. “I dinna even ken if my aunt had a will or who inherits. I always assumed that I would, but I dinna ken for certain.”
She really shouldn’t be speaking so freely to him.
Normally, shyness had her stumbling over her words. Honestly, this was the longest conversation she’d ever had with a man, thanks to Aunt Jeneva’s hawk-like watchfulness. Emeline had secretly assumed her aunt feared she’d make the same colossal mistake her mother had.
He gave a sympathetic nod, his shoulder-length hair swinging from the motion. Bright strands of silver glittered throughout his hair, giving him a rakish, swashbuckler air.
Wasn’t he a bit young to be graying already?
How old was he anyway?
Berget hadn’t mentioned his age. Studying his face, noting the subtle creases, Emeline judged him to be early in his fourth decade.
“Dinna fash yerself. There will be time to work out all the details later.” Fine lines framed his kind steel-gray eyes beneath straight ebony brows. He curved his molded mouth upward, and her stomach flip-flopped.
When he smiled…
Lord help her. It was as if the sun dropped from the heavens and lit the room. He transformed from wildly rugged to downright beautiful. It was all she could do not to gawk like a green schoolgirl.
“Emeline?”
She closed her eyes, savoring her name spoken in his melodic baritone. How could he make the word sound so lovely? She’d never been particularly fond of her given name, but uttered from his lips, it became quite wonderful. Even if he did overstep addressing her by her given name without her consent.
“Do ye have any idea why those men wanted to kill ye?” he gently probed.
Lifting her eyelids, she shook her head.
He shrewdly observed her, and although he remained outwardly relaxed, she didn’t miss the intensity in his gaze or the edge of tension in his shoulders. She’d wager his jaw had hardened beneath that bushy beard, too.
