Emeline’s heart leaped with excitement and pleasure. “Of course. Please excuse me, Kendra, Skye.”
The cousins linked arms and continued on their way, their heads bent near.
Liam reached Emeline, and she offered a tentative smile. “Have ye learned somethin’?”
“I prefer we spoke in the privacy of my study.” Taking her elbow, he glanced over her head, and she turned to look in the direction he peered.
Kendra and Skye had given up any pretense of subtlety and stared boldly at them, their expressions speculative.
“Och, dear. Do ye suppose…?” Heat suffused her that couldn’t be blamed on the mild day. She jutted her chin in his sister’s direction. “Ye dinna suppose they think there’s somethin’ between us?”
“I havena a clue what occurs in the heads of young women. Particularly that of my sister and cousin. Neither do I want to ken. The notion fairly terrifies me.” He steered her toward the house, his manner brusque and businesslike, once more.
Where had the caring, concerned man in the cottage gone? This man was a stranger.
“Thank God, ye’re a woman with a sensible head upon her shoulders,” he muttered.
Aye, sensible. Practical. Ordinary.
A few minutes later and unexpectedly nervous, she sat in a comfortable green and gold brocade armchair in front of his impressive mahogany desk. She hadn’t been in the study before, and the chamber bore Liam’s presence like a mantle.
Attired in a tobacco-brown jacket, a plaid waistcoat, and breeches, rather than trews or a kilt, he presented a striking feature. His hair and beard had been trimmed, creating a rather dashing, swashbuckler’s mien. The man fairly left her breathless with a single glance, and she distracted herself by examining his male dominion.
Dark wood paneling covered the walls and matching shelves paralleled the green marble fireplace. Ancient Scottish weaponry, targes, and two full suits of armor adorned the masculine room. No fire crackled in the hearth, but thick, gold cords tied back the deep forest green draperies festooning the two tall windows. Sunlight spilled into the austere chamber, adding a degree of welcome and warmth he hadn’t offered.
“I wanted ye to see this straightaway.” He pushed a newssheet across the desk and pointed to an article.
The headline read: POPULAR FRENCH MODISTE FLASH FLOOD VICTIM
Emeline inhaled sharply and clasped her throat. She pulled the sheet closer, swiftly reading the first paragraph. “Och, they found Aunt Jeneva’s body.” Brows drawn together, she glanced up. “How did they ken who she was?”
“I dinna ken.”
Something in his voice raised an alarm, and trepidation skittered down her spine.
“Read the rest, lass,” he encouraged.
Heiress Emeline LeClaire is still missing and feared dead.
“There’s been a mistake.” She sagged back into the chair, and pointed at the newspaper. “I’m no’ an heiress. I’m illegitimate.”
Liam skirted his desk and sank into the chair beside her. He took her icy hand between his warm palms, and she wanted to crawl into his lap and beg him to help her make sense of this.
“Em, what if ye’re an heiress? Perhaps yer aunt didna ken. Perhaps she did. But if ye are, that would explain why someone targeted ye. And this…” He tapped the paper with his fingertip, “might well be a ruse to flush ye out.”
She gulped, fear burrowing into her stomach. Would a killer go to such an extreme?
He scowled, his handsome features transforming to a seasoned warrior’s fierceness. “There’s even a reward for news of ye. I’d say someone grows desperate or is runnin’ out of time.”
Time for what?
She shook her head, unable to comprehend what the newspaper claimed. Mouth pursed and jaw set, she lifted the newssheet and read the entire article. Three times.
“It says here, they continue to look for me. Just precisely who are they?” She met his concerned gaze, fear pulsing through her. “Liam, I need to ken the truth. I need to ken what this is all about. To find out who these people are.” She shoved the newssheet away. “Perhaps…” She glanced out the window panes to the terrace dotted with pots filled with greenery, feeling more alone than she ever had in her entire isolated life. “I’ll even need to travel to France.”
The notion terrified rather than excited her.
“I dinna want to mention it in front of Skye, but France isna a safe place to visit right now. There’s plague there,” he informed her gently.
God above. Plague? Poor Skye. If her father…
“Perchance, ye had kin that succumbed, and that’s why ye inherited,” he offered.
Could that be true?
Aunt Jeneva had been utterly ashamed of Emeline’s bastardry. But she had mentioned that distant cousin and hinted Emeline should consider marrying him. It had struck her as odd then, and even more so now.
Surely that meant her aunt had corresponded with family recently.
Mayhap she could hire a companion to accompany her on the journey.
How could she without sufficient funds?
The paltry amount in Aunt Jeneva’s purse wouldn’t begin to cover the expense. But her aunt had money hidden in Edinburgh. Straightening her spine and lifting her chin, she made a decision.
“Liam, I’m returnin’ to Edinburgh. The answers are there. I’m certain of it.” She tapped her chin with her forefinger. “My aunt hid money in her shop, and any important documents will be there as well. However, I believe it prudent to travel under an assumed name. I shall be Margaret Wilson.”
He scratched his forehead then ran his hands over his beard. His gorgeous gray eyes narrowing to shrewd slits, he gave a thoughtful nod. “I think ye’re right. We can leave in two days’ time.”
“Ye mean it?” Relief flooded her and grateful tears stung her eyes. “Ye’ll go with me?”
She hadn’t dared hoped, and pride prevented her from asking. He’d done so much already. Truthfully, she didn’t want to leave him, dreaded returning to Edinburgh and all the memories awaiting her there. Nevertheless, she must get to the bottom of whatever was going on. It was impossible to go on with her life until she did.
“Jo, I told ye I wouldna abandon ye.”
A tear dribbled from the corner of her eye.
“Dinna cry.” His voice grew rough, and he brushed her cheek with his finger. “I canna bear to see ye distressed.”
A frisson spiraled outward from his touch, and another coiled low in Emeline’s belly. She fought the urge to close her eyes and rub her face against his hand.
Why did he have this power over her?
Why must her heart yearn for a broken, wounded man, incapable of loving anymore?
No, not incapable—unwilling. His wife had ruined him. Such ire heated her blood at the injustice, she bit down hard on her lip.
He cleared his throat and dropped his hand to his knee. His expression became meditative again. “I’ll open up the house in Edinburgh. I think we should ask Kendra, Skye, Quinn, and Broden as well as Mother, too, come along. She can act as chaperone, and she’ll want to oversee the servants, in any event. It will be safer for ye there, and nae one will notice one more person if we arrive en masse. Ye can travel as one of the housemaids.”