Reckless Scotland

by Vane, Victoria

  It took everything in him not to haul the lass against his chest. Rather than grab her, he seized hold of anger. Baring his teeth, he ground out, “’Tis hardly any of your concern.”

  The words merely riled the fiery woman. She jabbed a finger beneath his nose, and he jerked his head away to prevent a direct hit.

  “Between you, your brother, and your blasted clan, you’ve all made it my concern.”

  The soundness of her admonishment swept the legs from beneath his ire. Saints, why did the woman have to be right? She had been dragged into a tangled mess not of her own choosing.

  Grudgingly, he admitted with a low mutter, “Mayhap, you’ve made your point.”

  Raising her brows, she leaned an ear toward him. “I beg your pardon, but what did you say?”

  “I said you’re right, damn it,” he growled out.

  “Good of you to notice,” she snapped with a tart reply.

  Satisfied with his admission, she lifted her chin and spun on her heel, near to prancing to the hearth. Cooing her farewell, she stroked Ash’s furry head. Afterward, she flounced to the entrance, pausing long enough toss him a vexed glance over her shoulder.

  “I shall await the moment you’re ready to speak to me.”

  Then, the whirlwind of a woman promptly left him to frown after her. Saints, what had he inadvertently agreed to now?

  *

  Once Aaron was certain most of the clan had sought their beds for the eve, he crept down the dim corridor toward his bedchamber. As he drew closer, he muttered a litany of curses. Christ, was he losing what was left of his damned mind?

  Hours after Mairi stormed from his solar, he’d merely sat in silence while her words swirled in his head. Hell, every aspect of the woman—her words, her comely, angered features, every slight movement she made—drifted in and out of his mind, over and over again. A constant, tortuous loop that nearly drove him to madness. The only way to quiet his thoughts was to feed the urge compelling him to seek her out.

  So, there he stood in a darkened hallway outside his own damned chamber, like the blasted lecher that he probably was.

  After a quick glance down the corridor to ensure no one lurked nearby, he tested the latch, surprised to find the door unbarred. Slipping inside, he shut the door with a soft click and pressed his forehead against the grains of wood.

  Saints guard his soul. What the devil was he doing?

  Damn the woman.

  His resolve to remain unaffected and distance himself all but crumbled once she shrieked her way into his solar bearing gifts of fare. Any time she offered him the slighted smile or a peek of the fiery passion residing within her, his good sense and grip on restraint fled altogether. Try as he might, Aaron struggled to dismiss his pull to the lass, but to no avail. Mairi MacGregor had burrowed her way deep beneath his skin.

  With a shaky breath, he turned toward the bed, his gaze soaking in the sight of her slumbering form at once. Wary, he moved closer until his thighs bumped the edge. He eased down to sit, while she slept on unaware of his presence.

  The faint glow of firelight from the hearth illuminated her smooth skin. He itched to run his hand over her soft cheek. Long, raven tresses flowed over his pillow in a sweeping, silken cascade.

  With a soft snort, he shook his head. What a riddle the woman was. Never had he encountered another woman with such utterly feminine charm and appeal, yet encompassed a boldness of character and honor that would rival any seasoned warrior. Though, he considered her a warrior in her own right—eager to remedy the wrongs around her.

  Was it any wonder he could not stay away from her?

  At times, ’twas hard to imagine that she was real at all. As if he’d somehow conjured her in his mind. Mayhap, if he reached out to touch her, she might vanish entirely. He raised a hand, intent to test the notion.

  “What are you doing?”

  The muffled, male voice startled the hell out of Aaron. Jerking his hand back, he bolted from the bed and spun to the origin of the sound. Bundled in furs on a pallet laid out before the fire, Connor squinted at him through the dimness.

  For a suspended moment, Aaron gawked at the sight of brother. Several heartbeats passed before he managed to shake off his disbelief. Stalking toward the hearth, he leaned closer to the fool.

  “What the devil are you doing?”

  Connor rubbed his bleary eyes. “I asked you the same.”

  “Why, you—”

  A shift of movement from the bed choked the words in his throat. Grabbing hold of the furs swathed around Connor, he whispered in a furious rush. “Get out of here this instant. ’Tis unseemly for you to be here.”

  His brother’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I could say the same for you.”

  “Oh, Sweet Mother, Connor. Go to sleep or get out.” Mairi’s sleepy voice rose from the pile of coverlets on the bed as she rolled on her side.

  Unsure if they’d woken her or she lingered in sleep, Aaron grabbed his brother’s arm and hauled the young man to his feet. What in God’s name was the daft lad thinking, bedding down in Mairi’s chamber?

  “Wait.”

  “Nay. Go, now.” He shoved at Connor, hustling him from the chamber with a swiftness that should’ve made the boy’s head spin.

  Apparently, his brother could not stay away from the lass any more than he could.

  Easing the chamber door closed after them, he gripped Connor’s arm and spun the lad to face him. Lines of sleep creased his brother’s cheek while weariness hung beneath his eyes.

  “Have you taken leave of your senses? Why were you in her chamber?”

  “Nay, have you?” Connor scrubbed a hand over his face. “’Tis warmer than the great hall. She allowed me to build a pallet before the fire. Why were you there?”

  Aaron sifted through his mind for a convincing excuse but naught sprang to mind. “’Tis none of your damned concern. Seek your own bed in your chamber. I’ll bed down in the solar. We’ll speak on the morrow about this.”

  Shuffling down the opposite end of the passage, Connor muttered over his shoulder. “Count on it, Brother.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The needle pricked Mairi’s finger for the hundredth time, drawing a scathing curse from her. She darted a quick peek at the occupants seated around the trestle table in the hall. Of course, each woman’s wide stare was trained on her.

  “Forgive me,” she mumbled with a sheepish smile.

  Rhona, a lean, middle-aged MacRae, chuckled. “Do not fret, lass. We’ve heard worse.”

  Snorting, Gertie barked out, “Or spoken it.”

  The cluster of clanswomen gathered around the trestle table grinned at the pair while they continued to work, stuffing and sewing lengths of cushions and padding.

  At ease in the women’s presence, Mairi beamed her approval at their work. “You’re all doing a fine job. I cannot thank you enough for offering your aid.”

  Innis, another MacRae closer to Gertie’s age, placed her stitching aside to flex her fingers. “With the weather keeping us indoors, ’tis pleasant to have something to occupy our time.”

  Mairi could not agree more.

  Once most of the MacRaes filled their bellies with the sweetened porridge and warm breads Glinda prepared that morn, Mairi had dared to ask if any of the clan’s women might wish to help her with a task. When she’d strode into the hall much earlier, her gaze immediately landed on the newly-crafted benches that Aaron had placed in the hall at some point during the night. While breaking her fast, she stumbled upon the notion of affixing padded cushions to the seats.

  Why? She could not say. Mayhap, because she hoped the touch of extravagance might please the MacRaes and Aaron. Not to mention, with little else to do, ’twas a good way to while away a few hours of the day. Either way, more than a dozen or so of the clan’s women agreed without the slightest hesitation, more than happy to lend a helping hand.

  To Mairi’s utter delight, she’d fallen into easy conversation with the others, listening t
o their good-natured jests and readily answering any of their questions concerning her own clan.

  “Well, I, for one, cannot believe the laird crafted such fine pieces of furniture.” Rhona tied off the end of her thread in one corner and snipped away the excess. “I’d no notion the lad had such an ability.”

  “Nor I,” Mairi confessed.

  ’Twas odd, but the fact that Rhona referred to Aaron as laird brought a smile to her lips. Despite Aaron’s misgivings where his clan was concerned, ’twas heartening the MacRaes considered him laird. Now, if only he would honor the respect they willingly offered.

  “My lady?” Leaning closer, Innis propped her elbows on the edge of the table. Worry was etched across her wrinkled features. “Forgive my frankness. ’Tis not my place to ask, after all, but is the laird in trouble?”

  Surprised by the query, Mairi clutched the half-finished, embroidered panel in her hand. “What? Nay, why would you think such a thing?”

  Rhona lifted a dubious brow. “Well, the last time you were in residence, ’twas not under the most auspicious of circumstances.”

  “We’ve heard Aaron and his brother arguing,” Innis added. “There’s talk amongst the clan your brother shall attack once the weather permits.”

  “Is this true?” Mairi asked of Gertie and Kate.

  Neither woman had muttered a word of such to her.

  Continuing with her section of stitching, Gertie shrugged but held her tongue which was out of character for the brazen-spoken healer.

  “Aye, my lady. ’Tis true,” Kate admitted with reluctance. “Your return has worried some in the clan. Though, many of us know of the laird’s feelings for you.” A blush stained her cheeks. “A few even wondered if your appearance might mean a wedding in our clan’s future.”

  The word wedding jolted Mairi to attention. The stitching fell from her limp fingers while her mouth flapped open.

  “Oh Saints, nay. ’Twas simply a misunderstanding.” She swallowed against her racing heart lodged in her throat. “Please, assure your clan that my brother shall not attack under any circumstances. I give you my word.” That, she could guarantee. “You may also assure them, there shall not be a wedding. At least, not my own.”

  “Hmph.” Gertie grunted and raised an inquiring gray brow. “But you care for the laird, do you not?”

  Mairi sighed in exasperation. Why did everyone arrive at that conclusion? What the devil had Connor told them? Or was she simply more transparent than she believed?

  Her kin had little trouble divining her true feelings for Aaron. Arabella, more so than anyone. As soon as they’d returned home the prior year, the woman hounded her for the truth. Apparently, her friend had embraced Liam’s unrelenting tenacity when it came to badgering answers out of someone.

  “Aaron and I are friends of a sort,” she explained, grabbing her stitching from the table. “Naught more.”

  Gertie’s unwavering gaze speared her in place. “I do not recall any other lass who’s been taken from her home and stranded amongst her supposed enemy, yet still seeks to help the very same clan. If you do not care a speck for Aaron or Connor, then you would not sit among us sewing wee, silly flowers on that cushion in your hands.”

  Ah, and there was the woman’s brazen tongue. Gertie never failed to cut straight to the heart of the matter. In truth, the elder’s forthrightness reminded Mairi of her kin. Especially her Aunt Elena.

  “Well, what else would you have me do, Gertie?” She lifted her chin. “’Tis not as if I can simply return home at any given moment. I merely had no wish to spend my days sitting in Aaron’s chamber, staring at the four stone walls. Why should I, when I might be of use in other ways?”

  “Calm your ruffled feathers, lass,” Gertie soothed. “I meant no offense in the least. Just making a reasonable observation, ’tis all.” The corners of her mouth lifted with a grin as she inspected the cushion in her hands. “’Tis been many years since we’ve had a bit of finery in this hall.”

  “Aye, that’s the truth,” Rhona agreed. “’Tis a good thing you’re doing, Lady Mairi. Mayhap, you might even bring a few welcome changes to our laird.”

  Mairi ignored the thinly-veiled statement, choosing to change the topic of discussion. “I notice many of the clan refer to Aaron as laird.”

  Kate’s bemused gaze shifted to hers. “Well, he is.”

  “Trust when I say, we’ve not given up on the lad just yet, my lady,” Innis assured her with an encouraging smile. “I still have fond memories of Aaron and Connor’s mother, Catriona. She was such a warm, loving spirit. Both lads have her dark looks and soft hearts. ’Tis a pity she wed their father, Brodie. The man was naught like his own father, Connall. Now, he was an honorable, decent man who cared for this clan with his dying breath.”

  The wee, silly flowers on her embroidery forgotten, Mairi leaned in closer, intent to learn more of the MacRae brothers’ pasts. Mayhap, she might divine a better understanding of Aaron. “What was amiss with Aaron and Connor’s father?”

  “Brodie was a wretched man,” Rhona spat out. “Even in his youth, he was cruel, lazy and uncaring. How the fool ever secured a match with Catriona astounds me. Most likely Connall’s doing, if I wagered a guess. He must’ve thought the love of a good woman might temper his son. Alas, he was mistaken.”

  Innis cut in, “Once Connall passed, God rest his soul, Brodie’s greed stretched beyond his means. In no time, he ran through Catriona’s bride price, and then drained the coffers his father amassed over the years to care for his clan. After that, he began selling off anything not bolted to the floors for a bit of coin.”

  Mairi wrinkled her nose in disdain. She wholeheartedly agreed with Rhona. What a wretched man!

  Gertie leaned her elbows on the table. “After Catriona’s passing, Brodie’s behavior only worsened. ’Twas such a trying time that several of the clan left to seek a better life for themselves. Too many seasons we MacRaes had to band together, sharing our meager food stores to survive the winter. And yet, Brodie cared naught for us. He hardly cared a twig for his own sons.”

  “’Tis true,” Rhona agreed. “Several times Brodie took out his anger on Aaron and Connor. Bless Aaron, the lad tried his best to shield his younger brother from their father’s wrath. As a result, he bore the burden of Brodie’s anger despite trying to appease his father at every turn. Once, he beat Aaron so savagely that the boy could scarcely stand for days. ’Twas utterly appalling. Brodie was the vilest of men, Lady Mairi. There’s no question of that. He cared little for anyone or anything in his life.”

  Mairi’s heart ached for Aaron and Connor and the life the pair endured with their father—the one person who should’ve protected them at all costs. She could not imagine a life without the love and support of her family.

  “Except coin.” Gertie jabbed a finger toward a trestle table at the other end of the hall. “By the Saints, I sat in that very place the day Brodie invited that accursed English snake into our hall. Aaron tried to warn his father, but Brodie merely sought the promise of riches the cur offered him.” Shaking her head in disgust, the old healer snorted. “Greed—’twas how the old fool lost his head.”

  “Good riddance, I say,” Rhona mumbled beneath her breath. In the next breath, her head snapped up, aiming her wide-eyed stare at Mairi. “Forgive me, ’twas unkind to speak ill of the dead.”

  “If what you’ve said is true, then nay, ’tis not unkind in the least. How could anyone treat his clan, much less his own blood in such a manner?” Mairi practically burned from the inside out with the knowledge she’d gained from the women.

  Gertie lifted her cushion to her mouth and snapped the thread with her teeth. “’Tis truth, I do not have an answer for that, lass.”

  How could anyone knowingly inflict such harm to his own people? Clan was the way of life for any true Highlander. Regardless of hardships or good fortunes, the clan stood together, always taking care of its own. Every member, from the laird in the hall, to the farmer in the fi
elds, had an unspoken, lasting duty to their kin. Living without the love and support of her clan was unfathomable to her.

  Even worse, how could any father mistreat his own sons? To harm any child was unthinkable, but a father’s betrayal of his sons’ love infuriated Mairi. ’Twas a parent’s God-given duty to protect his children from harm, to show them unconditional love. Appalling was too tame a word for the pain and suffering Brodie MacRae inflicted upon his children.

  Wholly affected by the discussion, Mairi recalled Connor’s words in the stables. After listening to the women, she fully grasped Aaron’s desire for isolation. His off-putting disposition made far more sense.

  “Connor has shared only a little with me. He says that Aaron does not feel he deserves to lead the MacRaes. That he blames himself for not stopping their father.” She ventured to ask, “Does the clan hold him responsible?”

  “Saints, nay. Not that I am aware of.” Rhona frowned at the notion. She glanced at her kinswomen seated around the table. “Has anyone spoken of such nonsense to any of you?”

  The ladies shook their heads or affirmed with nays.

  “’Tis not the case at all.” Gertie leaned forward, perched on the edge of the bench. “As far as I know, no one has ever blamed Aaron or Connor for Brodie’s failings. The boys are naught like their father. They’ve never been. As you’ve witnessed with my sister, what distresses many of us is the fact that the lad’s not taken control of his clan in more than a year. I cannot fathom why the boy’s reluctant to accept his rightful place. None of us understand, and ’tis not without our urging. I’m not even certain Connor comprehends his brother’s motives any more than we do.”

  “Connor grasps more than you’d imagine. From what he’s told me, Aaron toils tirelessly with repairs throughout the holding.” Mairi waved at hand at the far end of the hall where the new seats sat in tidy rows. “The benches, for instance. With the weather hardly permissible, he’s spent his days in the solar, crafting pieces of furniture to replace what the keep lacks. Surely, he must care, or he would not waste his time.”