Seductive Surrender (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 6) Page 2
Mr. Murray pulled on his earlobe, prudently avoiding the austere look she pinned him with, as sharply as a beetle tacked to a specimen board.
Worry curled Gwendolyn’s middle tighter than a happy hog’s tail. “I’m positive you’re mistaken, sirrah. Why wouldn’t Suttford House’s heir be welcome?”
Truth to tell, she’d fretted about that very thing.
Each and every day since they learned of Jeremiah’s new status. Each and every day since the plantation Grandpapa had built with his own hands had been sold, and they sailed to England, leaving behind everything any of them had ever known. And each day since arriving in Scotland and with every passing mile that brought them nearer Suttford House.
Despite all the smoldering qualms and misgivings, including Mr. Christie’s not so subtle hints about his reservations regarding a female custodian, what choice had she but to plow forward into the unknown, dragging her small, reluctant, and wary retinue with her?
The one thing she’d done with utmost confidence had been to free the slaves. A gratified half-smile quirked her mouth upward at the corners.
Lance Eggleston’s jaw had unhinged, practically banging his knees in disbelief when Gwendolyn handed her former betrothed the keys to Thistle Glen and announced the former slaves had departed two days hence.
Adding a, “By the by, Lance, I permitted them to strip the house, barns, and stables bare before they left.”
Lance’s new, entirely lovely, peak-of-fashion French wife, had fairly gnashed her perfect, pearly teeth in vexation.
Her eyes sinking into irate slits and her cinched smile dimming, she’d cried, “Non, vous n’oserize pas!”
But Gwendolyn had dared.
As Jeremey’s guardian and executor of her father’s will, she had the legal right to free them. Unlike her choice to uproot her family, she didn’t doubt that decision. She rested easily each night confident revenge hadn’t motivated her decision, but rather the slaves’ wellbeing had.
Besides, she’d never loved Lance beyond brotherly fondness. He was a comfortable, longtime friend she’d finally agreed to marry so as not to be a burden to her family, yet remain near them.
When Sabine had set her lacy, perfume-scented handkerchief for him, he’d been woefully ill-prepared for her heavy-lidded, exotic allure, petite blond beauty, and sultry French accent.
He’d tossed Gwendolyn aside faster than the contents of a sickroom chamber pot.
That had smarted more than a mite. Not being jilted, but how swiftly and effortlessly she’d been replaced in Lance’s fickle regard.
Despite her stinging pride, she supposed she ought to be grateful. In the months since being rejected, she’d come to realize, she and Lance never would’ve suited. Nor would she have been free to escort Jeremiah to Suttford House, and nothing this side of heaven would’ve permitted her to send him without her.
Which brought Gwendolyn’s rambling musings back to the point at hand.
Framing her lips between her forefinger and thumb, she regarded the scruffy Scot’s wrinkle-scored face as he twitched from one foot to the other.
“What makes you think we’ll not be wanted, Mr. Murray?”
He hitched a bony shoulder while tormenting a rock on the dusty road with his boot. “Jist do. Tha’s all.”
She’d learned early on that though he, Mr. Dodd, and Mr. Todt—the other driver—grumbled aplenty beneath their breath and to one another, they avoided direct confrontation.
Wincing slightly, Gwendolyn folded to her knees.
Ah, much better.
Kandie, her old nurse and now her lady’s maid and also nanny to the children, would scold her for soiling her traveling gown. However, unlike the unusual black and white crow balanced in a nearby pine keenly regarding them, Gwendolyn wasn’t accustomed to perching for long periods, and her aching legs thanked her.
Her attention sank to the motionless man once more.
The longer he remained unconscious, the more concerned she became.
What if he did die?
What a horrid way to start their life in this foreign place. Death and bereavement had driven them from America, and by peaches and pralines, Gwendolyn wasn’t letting it ruin their new beginning in Scotland.
“Gwendolyn, Sugah . . .?” Cultured censure edged Aunt Barbara’s verbal prod.
“Of course we must help him, Aunt.”
But to take a complete stranger into their coach? One that might very well be a varmint?
Scallywag? Criminal? Satan’s spawn?
Gwendolyn must consider the children’s safety, too.
Yet her ever diligent, absurdly fair conscience needled her.
The injured man’s fresh wound could be laid squarely at Mr. Dodd’s dusty feet. Well, his and Mr. Murray’s.
Curse her sense of justice and responsibility. Couldn’t she, just for once, be selfish?
Illogical? Impractical? Unreasonable?
No, not in this instance. Because instead of slowing when the Scot stumbled from the woods, clutching his ribs, Mr. Dodd had panicked and cracked his whip as he and Mr. Murray shouted the team onward.
The horses had plowed right into the befuddled chap.
A wonder he wasn’t dead.
A smaller person would’ve been killed, for certain. Nevertheless, how were they to know the man was already injured and not in his cups or intent on robbing them?
Or worse?
Hadn’t Mr. Murray warned her repeatedly that knights of the road frequented this stretch of desolate country of late? And this hapless fellow’s battered face and disheveled appearance suggested he’d encountered them.
“If we leave him,” Gwendolyn said, glancing up and down the roadway, “he might be set upon by ruffians again.”
Mr. Todt, holding the lead horse’s harness, patted the pistol and a wicked looking blade tucked into his waistband below his considerable paunch. “Aye, even armed I dinnae want to run into road agents.”
Mr. Murray nodded. “Nae robberies fer years, and in recent months a whole slew. Makes me nervous as a frog on a hot skillet, it does. The missus be beggin’ me to find other work, but jobs be scarce.”
Likely that explained the increase in highwaymen and robberies. Desperate men, especially those with a family, did all manner of things they wouldn’t otherwise consider.
Nonetheless, the many layers of petticoats hidden beneath Kandie’s gown contained more starch than either man’s backbone.
Shutting her eyes, Gwendolyn pinched the bridge of her nose. Papa’s loaded dueling pistols lay tucked in their walnut case inside the coach. She knew how to use them, and Murray and Dodd were also armed.
That was all very well and good, but what if the prone man before her was indeed a blackguard? A knave of the worst sort and had been injured while trying to rob another vehicle?
Cornbread muffins.
The gravity of their situation didn’t escape her.
“Give him a good poke in the belly with your parasol, Aunt Barbara.” Freckled nose crinkled, Jeremiah rested his chin on his elbows, obviously loving every minute of this unexpected adventure.
And have the mammoth suddenly awaken? I think not.
“I’m sure that’s not necessary.” Gwendolyn considered the second conveyance, a smaller tarp-covered wagon.
Perhaps—
“Let me see, Jeremiah. Stop hoggin’ the window.”
Five-year-old Julia had awoken.
Perfectly inconvenient timing.
“Move over, you big stink turd.” Another mop of unruly, burnished hazelnut-hued hair—much browner than Gwendolyn’s fiery mane—thrust from the conveyance as Julia shoved her brother aside. Her green eyes, wide and wary, rounded as she breathed in awe, “Is he a heathen Scots?”
Poor, dear Aunt. She’d been most vocal in not wanting to leave America but had also refused to be parted from her only kin. Terrified the entire journey, no rational talk or repeated reassurance convinced her they wouldn’t be ravished or murdered in their sleep.
Gwendolyn wiped her brow with the back of her gloveless hand. “Julia, we do not ever, ever say ‘turd.’”
“You just said it.” Sniggering, his pale sage-toned eyes practically capering in naughty glee, Jeremiah clapped his hand over his mouth.
Gwendolyn’s severe look and sternly arched brow quelled his giggling.
Almost.
“And yes, Julia, I believe he’s Scottish. His waistcoat’s plaid.” Was the royal blue and emerald green tartan his clan’s pattern?
What the blue devil to do with him, though?
Her British drivers wouldn’t know the plaid, but perhaps the Scottish guide would. She pointed at the waistcoat.
“Mr. Murray, do you recognize his tartan?”
Chapter 3
“Nae, lass.”
Pulling at his tam, Mr. Murray shook his grizzled head as Julia and Jeremiah continued to squabble and jostle each other in the window’s small opening.
“Oft’n clans have multiple plaids, and I canna say I ken his. He might just be a cove who fancies a checked waistcoat.”
“Kandie,” Gwendolyn said, after searching the road in both directions again. “Please take the children for a short walk behind the conveyances. It’s as good a time as any to see to their personal needs as well.”
Heaven knew they could stand to stretch their little legs. Since leaving London’s West Indie Docks nine days ago, they’d traveled from dawn to dusk, stopping only long enough during the day to change teams and to collect Mr. Murray after the first week of travel.
Gwendolyn, too, longed for physical exertion and couldn’t wait to be done with the coach once and for all.
However, dawdling here was foolhardy.
“Yes’m, Miss Gwen.” With some effort, the elderly Negress climbed from the conveyance. Grinning—Kandie always sported a broad smile upon her beautiful, time-creased face—she held her palms out beside her wide hips and wiggled her fingers. “Come on, young’uns.”
Jeremiah and Julia promptly hopped from the coach and after grasping Kandie’s hands, pulled her along, jumping up and down in their eagerness.
“Mercy me, slows down. Dis ol’ body don’ move so fast,” Kandie chuckled good-naturedly. “Looky at that odd bird, chil’ren.”
The crow cocked his head and marked their progress before turning his beady-eyed attention back to Gwendolyn.
What a peculiar bird.
A whuffle echoed again, but this time, a glorious black-as-night Friesian stallion cautiously advanced from the forest. Pawing the ground, he shook his great head, his raven mane and the reins hanging from his halter, flying about his neck.
Dodd and Murray beat a hasty retreat, and Aunt Barbara sensibly backed a safe distance away, too.
One hand resting on the Scot’s slowly rising and falling chest, Gwendolyn remained immobile, mesmerized by the stunning creature.
Dropping her gaze so the horse wouldn’t feel threatened, she studied him from the corner of her eye. He was every bit as massive and magnificent as his owner.
The stallion’s nostrils flared as he nervously eyed her, then he dipped his large head and nuzzled the wounded man’s neck.
No doubt as to whom the horse belonged, or that the creature loved him. That raised the man a notch higher in her estimation. A horse didn’t show such devotion to an irascible scoundrel.
The crow cawed, and the stallion shook his head, almost as if they communicated with each other.
What utter drivel. Exhaustion and worry had her imagining fanciful things.
A moment later, the horse ever-so-gently nudged Gwendolyn’s shoulder, and her heart leapt. She swore his big, chocolate eyes pleaded with her to help his master.
“I know, handsome boy,” she murmured, wishing she dared to run a hand down his neck. Unwise, though. He didn’t know her.
“Gentleman, have you any rope to spare?” She asked the question without taking her covert attention from the great beast. “We can bind the Scot, and settle him in the cart afterward. Make room by stowing some of the luggage inside the coach while I tend his head.”
Aunt Barbara gave a dubious nod. “That will do, but we’ll be awfully crowded then, Sugah.”
“I’ll ride the horse, and Jeremiah can sit behind me.” Gwendolyn elevated a hand and let the horse sniff her. “Rope, Mr. Murray?”
“Aye, miss.” He shuffled to the luggage wagon, jabbering heatedly to Todt and Dodd beneath his breath.
Were all Scots so insolent and disagreeable? Or was it because theirs was a party of women and children and the drivers thought to abuse their positions?
“Gwendolyn, I don’t think the boy should get on that enormous creature. Kandie can hold Julia, and Jeremiah may sit between us. We’ll be snug as caterpillars in cocoons, but at least the child will be safe.” With that pronouncement, Aunt Barbara closed her parasol before gracefully stepping into the coach.
A low, muffled moan yanked Gwendolyn’s attention to the man before her. Upon his pale cheeks, his black-as-sin, wickedly lush eyelashes quivered.
Her own auburn-tipped lashes paled in comparison.
A typical woman would be envious of the thick, sooty arcs edging his eyes.
Gwendolyn wasn’t a typical woman.
She liked her red hair and her eyelashes’ coppery ends. Her freckles smattering her nose and cheeks, not so much.
A grimace contorted his face, and he groaned again, rolling his head from side to side. His pain couldn’t conceal the musical hum of his deep voice.
Bending near, she gingerly cupped his face on the unharmed side. She offered him a small, uncertain, yet reassuring smile. “Hush. Stop your thrashing. We’re going to help you.”
Gradually, as if the effort were monumentally difficult, he opened his eyelids, and Gwendolyn gasped as his gaze meshed with hers.
Mind-rattling, startling blue-green eyes, the color of a tropical ocean under a clear sky, held hers hostage.
A jolt of scorching electricity pelted to every pore, every nerve from knees to neck.
Even her nape hairs stood on end, twitching like an insect’s antennas, as if in anticipation.
Expectation. Recognition.
Of what, she couldn’t begin to venture.
“I didna ken angels had flames in their hair.” A melodic brogue framed his thickly whispered words.
A shuddery sigh shook him as his eyelids fluttered closed once more. A rueful half-smile hitched his mouth.
“Och. Shite. I’ve died an’ gone to hell.”
~ ~ ~
Sluggishly clawing his way to alertness from the dense fug shrouding his wooly mind, Dugall swallowed against a guttural moan. He lifted his neck an inch and double-sided jagged swords speared his head and ribs.
Faugh!
A rhythmic, bone-jarring rocking had bile rising high and burning the back of his throat. His stomach growled and roiled as much from hunger as the eye-crossing, thundering ache hammering his skull.
Not dead then, but probably concussed.
How badly?
He took a quick mental inventory.
I’m Dugall Kester Hugh Ferguson of Craiglocky Keep.
I’m four-and-twenty years old, and the youngest child of Hugh and Giselle Ferguson.
My brother is Laird Ewan McTavish, and I’m his solicitor and steward.
And—
Bloody damned maggoty hell . . .
He’d been robbed on his wa
y to Edinburgh.
Stupid as turnips, thieves.
Did they really think he’d carry Craiglocky’s monthly receipts on his person? All they’d absconded with was a pocket watch, his dirk, and a few bank notes.
And he knew at least one of their names.
Bowie.
With Ewan’s vast connections, they’d almost certainly be apprehended and count themselves lucky if only deported to Australia.
He’d bet his beloved stallion, Bran, he’d broken a knuckle or two—likely all—fighting off the three ambushing scunners last night.
Had they only used fists, Dugall might’ve prevailed, but they’d carried clubs and daggers, too. He’d readily dispatched one, but a blow to the back of his head ended his fight.
He dared to slit one swollen lid open and tentatively stretched his legs, seeking other injuries.
What the hell?
Eyes flying open, he jerked upright. At the abrupt movement, discordant agony speared his pounding skull again with the ferociousness of a battering ram.
Holy God in heaven.
Clutching his head lest it topple from his neck, he gulped against a crushing wave of nausea and blinked away the gray closing in, dusty black specks flitting before his eyes.
I willna pass out again.
Inhaling a restorative breath, he shut his eyes until the dervish in his head stopped spinning. His movements tentative and controlled, he again assessed his situation.
Stout rope secured his ankles and wrists, and he lay stuffed into the corner of a wagon loaded with several chests, boxes, burlap bags, and oddly shaped cloth-wrapped bundles. What looked like a carriage lap robe covered him from waist to calves.
Given his missing neckcloth, the robe and the padding behind him, someone had attempted to make him somewhat comfortable as the wagon bumped along, threatening to dislodge his head from his shoulder with each new divot in the road.
He lifted his bound hands and, jaw braced, gingerly touched his forehead. Encountering a bandage, he frowned.