A Question Worth Asking Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  A Question Worth Asking (Questions for a Highlander, #6)

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Author’s Note

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DEDICATION

  This one is for the fighters.

  The ones who gave their all so we can have ours.

  “Be wicked, be brave, be drunk, be reckless, be dissolute, be an anarchist...be anything you like, but for pity’s sake be it to the top of your bent. Live—live fully, live passionately, live disastrously.” ~ Vita Sackville-West

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Special thanks to my editor Lea Burn for all her help in making Jamie’s story all I know it could be.

  Prologue

  And O there are days in this life, worth life and worth death. And O what a bright song it is, that O ‘tis love, ‘tis love, ‘tis love that makes the world go round.

  ~ Charles Dickens from Our Mutual Friend

  Haddington House

  Carlton Terrace

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  April 1893

  If love made the world go round, it was circling the ballroom with dizzying regularity.

  James MacKintosh settled his hips back against the stone balustrade edging the terrace outside the open ballroom doors. Studying the scene over the rim of his tumbler, he took a healthy swallow rather than the appreciative sip the fine Scotch deserved.

  It was a real shame to treat such a prime, single malt Scotch so badly. The liquid swirled in the glass but settled into a placid calm that he absurdly envied. If only he could force his thoughts to do the same.

  Love was unavoidable these days. Rampant as a bloody plague. Rumor had it that even the new Prince of Wales would soon wed his deceased older brother’s former fiancée. There shouldn’t have been a speck of romance attached to the event, but his sister and sisters-in-law were all agog for the spectacle.

  The confounded emotion was at its most fecund just inside.

  A couple swept by as if to demonstrate all the reasons why James preferred the chilly night air to the festive warmth inside. The blasted besotted affection between his brother Richard and his divine wife, Abby, was clear as they waltzed by, eyes glued to one another. Oblivious to his scrutiny.

  A fine enough example to prove his point, and they’d been wed more than five years already. But the previous year had brought an epidemic of marriage into the MacKintosh clan widespread enough to demonstrate the fact further. Like a disease, it had taken his younger brothers Sean and Colin as well as their eldest brother, Francis, the current Earl of Glenrothes, the previous spring. A man James would have sworn would never fall to Cupid’s bow, felled by a single glance from his elegant Eve.

  His brother Vincent had also fallen to the marital plague a few months before. Even Haddington, a long-time friend of the family, had caught the virus, bringing a hasty demise to his womanizing ways when he had wed Francis’s sister-in-law, Kitty, the previous fall.

  Domesticity took them one by one, leaving them fawning over their women like lovelorn subjects.

  James could hardly fathom the change among them. As he had told Vin—before he, too, fell stricken by Cupid’s arrow, naturally—“Never seen so many men brought low by a woman, but that’s what marriage will serve you when it’s not dishing out other troubles.”

  For years he watched his eldest brother’s lovely but viperous first wife, Vanessa, play Francis for a fool. She’d offered her favors to all and sundry, including Francis’s own brothers Vin, Richard, and even James, who had been barely a man at the time. James took another drink forcing the memory aside with a shudder.

  That catastrophe had molded his early opinions of the institution. He’d looked upon it with nothing more than revulsion, hardly remembering a time when he’d seen a better example.

  Love could fell a man just as handily. He’d seen it happen. Knew it could drag a man into his grave.

  Deep down, James feared for his brothers, expecting heartbreak for them all. For himself, he’d never wanted any part of it.

  But of late...

  With a shake of his head, James upended the glass once more. The liquid burned down his throat, hitting his gut like a fireball, radiating hot tendrils through his limbs that chased at the heels of those that had just begun to fade away. His flesh warmed then dulled to the tingle of intoxication.

  Of late, his opinion of marriage had taken a rather unexpected turn. The thought of panting after a woman like a cock-led fool should have been as sickening as ever. As nauseating as the churn of dancers just inside the terrace doors.

  At least that’s what he kept telling himself.

  Trying to convince himself, more like.

  The simple fact was, Fate hadn’t dealt Francis or any of his brothers the calamitous hand James had been expecting. Indeed, to the last, they were all confoundedly happy. Of late, he’d begun to recall more and more the relationship his parents had shared before they died. Disgust ceased its slow burn of his gut, but something else took its place. Something just as unpleasant.

  One of his younger brothers, Colin, spun past the terrace doors, continuing the unremitting performance of bliss with his wife, Ilona, gazing up at him as if he were some legendary god set upon the earth just for her. Colin appeared neither smug nor self-satisfied by her worship. Nay, he gave the impression that he was—and had vocally proclaimed himself, repeatedly, to be—the luckiest man in the whole of Britain. As Ilona was truly one of the sweetest, merriest, and kindest women James had ever met, perhaps, he was.

  They all were. The five MacKintosh brothers who had thus far found their perfect match.

  The thought roused a persistent pinch of envy. A pinch that was a tad late in coming as James presently lacked even a woman of his own to waltz around the room.

  The glass touched his lips and he let the spirits fill his mouth for a moment before swallowing them down. Further abuse of the pricey Scotch, but James considered inebriation the quickest path to revive his earlier confidence that he’d made the right choice.

  Bloody hell but his bonny Mrs. Ross had simply expected too much! They’d had an excellent arrangement to James’s mind. His mistress—no, that wasn’t fair. Larena Ross was a wealthy widow not in want or need of funds but only of company. As was he. They’d keep that company discreetly his for nearly two years now. They met frequently, satisfying one another as friends and lovers without strings or commitment. She’d known that James had no interest in marriage. She’d seemed as satisfied as he with the arrangement.

  Until recently, when she’d become increasingly dissatisfied altogether. Wanting to be less of a lover and more of a wife.

  For a woman who hadn’t so much as requested fidelity from him, his Mrs. Ross had abruptly
and irrationally begun demanding so much more.

  Their clandestine relationship, secret for so long, suddenly became scandalously public. He was certain Larena herself ignited the rumor of their liaisons to press him into a more permanent bargain.

  He’d held firm in his resolve to remain a bachelor, and his adamant denial had sent Larena into a fever pitch. She began flirting outrageously with other men only to knock on James’s door by midnight seeking his bed. She’d be a temptress then an icy paragon trying to force his hand, but to no avail.

  Finally, she had come to James and coolly told him that she had been offered marriage to a nobleman who could give her everything that he was unwilling to: a commitment, a family, and a future. She wanted James, but if he wouldn’t marry her, she’d leave him for someone who would.

  Sure that she’d been bluffing, James told Larena to wed the—he’d been certain at the time—fictional noble and wished her well. Confident that once she understood how steadfast his convictions were, they would resume their usual relations.

  Much to his surprise, Larena had become Lady Polwarth just that morning. There was no denying Larena with her lovely body, spirit, and mind was lost to him forever. His Mrs. Ross was his no longer.

  For a man who never thought to experience anything for a woman beyond lust, the realization was surprisingly poignant.

  Tilting back his head, James gulped the remaining contents of the glass until his eyes burned with the effort. It was the alcohol bringing tears to his eyes. Nothing else.

  It wasn’t envy he was feeling at all. Just an inkling of regret that his favorite partner on the dance floor and between the sheets wasn’t present to occupy his thoughts.

  Well, he’d better get used to it.

  James turned up the glass once again but was as disappointed by the result of the action as he was by his handling of the entire situation when no more than a lingering drop of whisky met his tongue.

  His self-flagellating solitude was interrupted when another of his older brothers, Vincent, led his new bride, Moira, onto the terrace. James assumed they came out for a breath of fresh air but shifted uncomfortably when they paused a dozen paces from where he stood at the rail. Vin cupped Moira’s face tenderly between his hands and bent his head to kiss her softly.

  James looked down at his empty glass and then through the glass doors into the ballroom. This was exactly what he had come out here trying to avoid. He abhorred being subjected to such displays of affection every waking moment of his life.

  The newlyweds whispered softly to one another, their words muted by distance, and James sighed with some relief as the awkward moment passed. But then the pair laughed aloud and Vin swept his luscious bride into his arms for a deeper kiss. One that certainly wasn’t meant for display beyond the bedchamber, though James had nearly become inured to such demonstrations over the past year.

  The kiss went on, and before anything more might occur that would embarrass them all, James spoke. “All the love in this house is making me ill.”

  The couple broke apart with none of the mortification James would’ve expected. Instead, they chuckled warmly.

  “You should try it, Jamie.” Vin’s arm was snug around his wife’s waist. “It’s not as bad as you might think.”

  James couldn’t help but snort at that. “Ha! Causes more problems than it’s worth, I say!”

  Moira and Vin shared an amused look. “Women trouble, brother?” Vin winked, slanting a grin at his wife.

  “I don’t have problems with women in general,” James corrected. No, he’d never had difficulties of any sort with women before.

  “Ah, so there is one in particular you have in mind?”

  James turned and looked over the gardens behind the townhouse, the full moon shining above...anywhere to avoid Vin guessing the truth of it all.

  “Aye, one aggravating woman.”

  He instantly regretted verbalizing any sort of discontent, and with an inward scoff, James berated himself soundly.

  Bugger it all, James knew he’d made the right choice. He was considered one of the staunchest bachelors in Edinburgh. Everyone knew it. Larena Ross knew it. And James knew what he wanted from life and marriage to his sweet Mrs. Ross was not it. No matter how much he liked her.

  But for a moment—a fleeting, insane moment—James almost wished he’d accommodated Larena’s wishes. His brothers somehow managed to make marriage seem desirable. So easy. The close bond, a lady to hold his hand and heart in care and warmth, had started to look appealing, enticing even.

  Seeing it everyday. Everywhere...had become blatant reminders of what was lacking in his own life.

  No, the female in question wasn’t the problem. It was James himself.

  His flash of introspection was cut short when his young sister, Fiona, came storming out of the gardens.

  At eighteen, Fiona recently blossomed from mischievous sprite into young woman. A fact all ten of her older brothers conveniently chose to ignore. In moments like this, however, when her color was heightened and her green eyes snapped with fury while she hiked her skirt high to run past them into the house, there was no denying that the wee lass the MacKintosh men raised had recently become a fair lady.

  A lady with a temper.

  If Larena had ever laid into James with a fierce Scottish temper like Fiona’s and simply set down her terms ready for battle, things might’ve been different for them, he thought.

  He wouldn’t be left to wallow in the melancholy of having no partner of his own to dance with.

  Gads, but he was an utterly moribund chump when the only company he had was his own.

  However, he hadn’t more than a moment to rebuke himself further when Fiona paused at the door and whipped around, yelling into the night, “You’ll be sorry, Harry Brudenall! You’ve had your chance. I’m done with you now!”

  Blinking in surprise, James turned back to the gardens as the Marquis of Aylesbury emerged from the densely planted gardens with a look of irritation and a stark white handprint marring his red face. He appeared to be as fed up with the feminine population as James was.

  “Harry!” Moira exclaimed. “Did you...?”

  “No,” Aylesbury growled. “She did!”

  “Ha!” James laughed without humor and the marquis turned to meet his gaze, seeing something he could apparently relate to, just as James could.

  They nodded in unison. “Women!”

  “Men!” Moira retorted and ran after Fiona. Vin merely shrugged and followed behind the ladies at a more leisurely pace.

  Turning back to the marquis, James shook his head in sympathy and held up his empty glass. “I could use another drink and I imagine you could as well. Care to join me?”

  “Don’t you want to know what happened between your sister and myself?” Aylesbury asked warily.

  James vehemently shook his head. “Good God, no. There’s not even a wee part of me that wants to know what happened. I know my sister well enough to figure it out.”

  “Very well then. I will join you, but make mine a double.”

  James snorted at that. “Mine will be a triple.”

  Chapter 1

  It is so easy to love.

  The only hard thing is to be loved.

  ~ Vincent Van Gogh

  The residence of Mrs. Margaret Preston

  The Upper 700s of 5th Ave.

  Manhattan, New York

  Early December 1895

  “James, dear! There you are. I feared we were going to be late.”

  “Mrs. Preston.” James bowed politely enough, but her pleasant expression fell into a scowl and he relented with a sigh. “Maggie.”

  A satisfied smile curved her lips then as she met him at the bottom of the stairs. With a cluck of her tongue, she set about straightening his tie.

  Not that it needed the attention. Though he hadn’t had a valet in years, he’d long ago mastered the art of tying it by touch alone. Too often in the dark.

  “You look dashin
g tonight. All the ladies will swoon at the sight of you.”

  The thought soured his already grim view of the evening ahead. Swooning ladies—and he’d come across more than a few in the past couple of years—were not at all his cup of tea.

  “I don’t know what you expect to come of this.”

  Her brow cocked. “Of course, you do.”

  Conceived over three bottles of Scotch and hours of slurred conversation with Harry Brudenall—who was now his brother-in-law since his marriage to Fiona, bloody hell!—the idea had been a simple one.

  Just get away from it all.

  Get away from his moony-eyed brothers, away from the constant cooing of adults and the increasing number of children that were resulting from said moony-eyed cooing.

  Away from any reminder he might not have done quite the right thing in letting his Mrs. Ross slip away. Perhaps set his mind to being a wee bit moony-eyed himself.

  It had taken but a moment for the idea to evolve from inkling to action. All he’d needed to do was acknowledge marriage might not be as horrific an institution as he’d previously believed.

  And prepare to be gobsmacked at any moment by a lovely lady. One who would lead him into the sweet oblivion his brothers all currently resided in.

  But in the two intervening years, he’d met with no great success.

  Having already waded through the available ladies of Edinburgh, he took in the Season that spring in London, covertly searching for a wife. Bearing the gibes and teasing of those few who guessed his purpose and knew well his previous disinclination for marriage with ill humor, he’d been stalwart in his mission, determined not to return home without a wife on his arm. A loving wife, that was.

  His endeavor had proven more difficult than he’d anticipated. The crop of debutantes that spring were the same as they’d always been. A flock of pasty, pasteled pigeons unable to rouse even the faintest iota of interest in a man searching for a woman of spirit and passion.

  So James left Britain, left his family behind without any hint of his intentions. Certain a land that had produced such extraordinary ladies as his American sister-in-law, Eve, and her sister, Kitty, would have more of the same to offer, he’d extended his quest to the Americas. He’d expected to encounter an ample number of fascinating, eligible ladies capable of providing him with a charming dance partner for life.