Pride and trepidation warred in Caitlin’s heart. She was to become the wife a man who had the makings of a fine laird. However, he was also the brother of Fiona Drummond. Dealing with the harridan on her home territory loomed like a jagged rock in a stormy sea.
Rory could be stubborn, and Shaw had blackened his eye. “Speaking of my brother,” she replied, swallowing the lump in her throat when Nairn rushed into the room and clung to her. “Where is he?”
“He went to Drummond to find ye,” her sister explained.
The worry increased. “So, he doesna ken I am safe.”
Shaw shrugged. “He’ll return as soon as he discovers ye’re nay there. And Major Merryweather is satisfied our marriage will go ahead.”
“Major Merryweather?”
“Commander of the dragoons,” Nairn informed her. “He’s a nice mon.”
Their father growled. “He’s a Sassenach.”
“Nevertheless,” Shaw interjected. “He’s a gentlemon who’ll assure the folks at Drummond all is well. Fiona will be worried.”
A chill stole up Caitlin’s spine. “Rory and Fiona are both at Drummond? Together?”
*
Intent on watching the rise and fall of Caitlin’s breasts as she slept for hours, Shaw had given little thought to anything other than helping her overcome the memory of the terrifying ordeal. He’d studied the wild brown curls framing an angelic face, grateful and humbled to have been granted the chance to marry such a beautiful lass. He couldn’t wait to wake every morn entangled in those long, silken tresses.
Holding her in his arms with only the linen nightshift between them had given rise to far more carnal notions and the inevitable physical reaction.
He’d prayed a lot since her disappearance—more than he ever had in his life—and his prayers had been granted.
Her rescue, unharmed, convinced him their union was meant to be. His responsibility was to put an end to centuries of mayhem and mistrust between the clans.
He was confident he would be a strong enough leader to accomplish such a challenging goal but, the last time he’d come face to face with Rory Blair, they’d exchanged blows. During the melee at Stirling, he’d come close to putting Rory’s eye out.
In the excitement of the rescue, he’d forgotten Caitlin’s brother had gone to Drummond. Rory and Fiona were too much alike. The animosity between them could easily spark a whole new feud.
What’s more, there was no predicting the actions of his volatile father.
“I’ll ask Major Merryweather to proceed to Drummond with all possible haste,” he declared.
*
Neutral Ground
Rory paced the bailey of Drummond Castle. Folks he encountered gave him a wide berth as soon as they saw his Blair plaid, though the angry scowl on his face perhaps had a lot to do with it. More convinced than ever Shaw had hidden his sister away somewhere, he decided it was time to exact revenge. He would hold Fiona as his captive until Shaw freed Caitlin. Tit for tat. An eye for an eye. Wasn’t that the creed of the feud he’d lived by his whole life?
’Twould be difficult. She would put up a fight.
If he could think of a way to get her to Ardblair…although, if Caitlin was near Drummond, what use was that? Gaskell was an ineffectual twit, but the captain and his dragoons camped in the meadows beyond the walls still presented an obstacle.
Furthermore, putting up with Fiona’s tongue-lashings for more than thirty miles loomed like the labors of Hercules, to say nothing of making sure she didn’t escape.
He could claim he’d detected his sister’s perfume in the Drummond cells, and insist she see for herself if she doubted him—which she would. There was no guarantee she’d agree to go down to the cellars without another member of her clan—Jamie probably.
He could hardly manacle her to the wall once he got her there. She infuriated him but he’d never chain her up.
His thoughts wandered. Perhaps, tying her hands to bedposts was a possibility, if she was willing to play games.
By all that’s holy! This was getting him nowhere. The wretched woman was driving him mad. The erotic vision of a smiling Fiona Drummond urging him on while he had his way with her lodged in his brain, resulting in yet another unwelcome arousal. The thirty-year-old Rory who’d learned to control his male urges was suddenly a randy youth.
He tried to turn his thoughts to something less pleasant than romping in bed with Fiona.
Pleasant? ’Twould be akin to bedding a wild woman.
“Fyke,” he swore as naked bodies writhed in his imagination. “Get a grip!”
Cold water. Aye. Thinking of cold water should do the trick. Jamie Drummond had chattered on about wading into icy river water up to his waist. The mon must be mad.
Just to hook a fish on the end of a line.
Daft.
However, Fiona trusted Jamie, the tanist who lived in a cottage outside the castle walls.
*
Fiona was conflicted as she paced her solar. She had a talent for mathematics—everyone acknowledged it, even her father. Showing off her abilities to Rory Blair held a definite appeal.
However, she couldn’t allow him to be privy to Clan Drummond’s financial standing. He was a Blair, after all. Shaw might be taking Caitlin to wife, but that didn’t mean long-held resentments between the clans would go away overnight.
It wouldn’t be proper to invite him to her solar to discuss accounting. Unless, she also asked Jamie, who was supposed to be taking over responsibility for the ledgers.
As if!
Jamie would be reliable as Shaw’s second-in-command, but he had no head for figures, except when he was explaining why the numbers of trout in the Earn fluctuated from year to year.
Still, the ledgers were stored in her solar. Rory might wonder why she didn’t simply show him entries as examples. Or, arrogant sod that he was, he might just pick one off the shelf and peruse it.
The meeting should be held on neutral ground. Jamie would most likely be open to holding it in his cottage, and he’d feel more comfortable there.
It would be good to have Jamie present. She tended to get flustered in Rory Blair’s presence.
She left the solar in search of her uncle, winged creatures fluttering in her belly.
*
Rory tried to keep the grin off his face when Jamie sought him out in the hall and informed him Fiona had commanded the three of them meet in the tanist’s cottage to discuss accounting and the keeping of accurate ledgers.
“I dinna ken if I’ll have time,” he protested, not wishing to appear overly eager to see Fiona again.
What?
Nay, what he meant was, “I must be on my way back to Ardblair.”
“She was most anxious to meet with ye,” Jamie countered. “And ’twould be an opportunity for me to learn as well as to get to ken ye better, since we’ll soon be related, so to speak.”
Rory preened. Fiona was most anxious to see him, was she? Hah! “Weel,” he conceded. “I suppose I can delay my departure.”
Jamie rubbed his hands together. “Excellent. She’s on her way there now, if ye’d like to accompany me.”
As they passed through the gate, Jamie exhorted him to overlook the spartan nature of his cottage. He was simply too busy to worry about it, what with his hobby taking up most of his mornings.
Rory only half-listened, regretting the necessity of deceiving this jovial fellow who clearly didn’t have a mean-spirited bone in his body. “Do ye nay have a wife?”
He was sorry he’d posed the question when Jamie’s smile fled. “Nay.”
Rory suspected he’d touched a nerve, but couldn’t seem to hold his tongue. “And ye ne’er married?”
Jamie stopped abruptly and studied his feet. “There was a lass once. I should have wed her.”
Rory had chosen to live a bachelor life, but got the feeling Jamie hadn’t. “She’s the one that got away, eh?” he asked, thinking the fisherman might appreciate the jest.
The bleak despair in the mon’s eyes shocked Rory, but he recognized Jamie’s path in life had been dominated by an overbearing laird, just like his own.
Still, he wasn’t prepared for the heartfelt warning that came next. “If ye ever find a woman ye love, dinna let her go, no matter what anyone says.”
Rory mumbled some flippant reply, bothered by the prickly sensation creeping up his spine. He’d stopped looking for a wife long ago, but had never really admitted the reason—even to himself. He’d been unwilling to bring bairns into the world, afraid he might turn into his father and make their lives difficult.
Suddenly, walking away from Drummond Castle, he keenly regretted not having children of his own. In some ways, he was like a father to Caitlin and Nairn, but imagine having a son with his eyes and brown hair, or a daughter with Fiona’s…
Fyke!
He clenched his jaw, patted the dagger concealed beneath his plaid and followed Jamie into his cottage.
A Tall Order
Shaw was restless. He’d wrenched the chieftaincy of his clan away from his father, yet here he was, miles away in Ardblair. His first duty was to Drummond, but Caitlin hadn’t recovered sufficiently to travel and he didn’t want to upset her by insisting they depart.
Nor could he bring himself to leave. As long as he was there, she was safe. He spent as much time with her as he could, though her father had laid down the law and decreed Moira and Nairn always be present.
When his bride felt up to it, they strolled along the shore of the loch. He was glad to see the stiff breeze bring color back into her cheeks.
“I’m worried about Rory,” she confided when he told her Merryweather’s horse going lame had delayed his departure.
He also wondered why her brother hadn’t yet returned, but wanted to erase the frown from her lovely face. “Perhaps he canna tear himself away from Fiona’s charms.”
She snorted, tightening her grip on his arm. “Unlikely.”
The press of her breast against his bicep sent his thoughts off in another direction. “We should discuss our wedding,” he suggested. “I’m anxious to make ye my wife in every way.”
She remained silent for long minutes, prompting him to assure her, “Ye needna be afraid.”
“I’ll never fear ye, Shaw. I’m confident I will be a good chatelaine, but I dinna ken anything about being a wife.”
“If Fiona will let ye be mistress of the clan,” he quipped.
“Aye,” she replied, smiling weakly, “but what I mean is, ye’re the only mon I’ve ever kissed.”
He glanced back at Nairn and Moira trailing behind them and decided to kiss her anyway.
*
The warmth of Shaw’s lips chased away the chill from Caitlin’s heart. There were many reasons to be worried about the future, but she couldn’t deny his nearness was reassuring, his touch exciting.
She’d been afraid he might return to Drummond Castle without her. His duty lay there and she knew he was concerned his father might undermine his authority.
Allowing his tongue entry when he coaxed open her lips was daring, given that Nairn and Moira were close by, though both thoughtfully turned to gaze out at the rippling water.
She savored his unique taste and inhaled the intoxicating male scent that was purely Shaw Drummond. She saw nothing amiss with his hand wandering under her plaid and cupping her breast. Her moan of pure delight echoed his growl when his thumb teased the nipple. It seemed natural to press her restless mons to his hard maleness.
“Lass,” he rasped, resting his forehead against hers when they broke apart. “Ye’ll be a fine wife. A mon senses these things.”
His words brought reassurance. “I’m consumed by wanton desires when I’m with ye,” she confessed.
“Exactly what I mean,” he replied, kissing her cold nose. “A passionate woman is meant to have wanton feelings.”
She suddenly felt reborn. Caitlin Blair—a passionate woman! Aye, she knew she could be with this man who’d captured her heart. “So, shall we wed at Ardblair?”
Her newfound confidence wavered when he shook his head.
*
For the first time, the difficulties of settling on a location for their wedding dawned on Shaw. He hated hurting Caitlin’s feelings, but facts were facts. “If we wed at Ardblair, the folks at Drummond will be up in arms. Fiona will never speak to me again.”
“But if we are married at Drummond, Rory will be furious, and Nairn disappointed. Also, do ye really want my father to come to yer castle?”
Shaw tried and failed to imagine his own sire agreeing to travel to Ardblair. “We could always run off and get married in a little church of our own choosing.”
“But I want to share my happiness with my family, and yers. Then they will ken for certain the feud must be considered over and done.”
Shaw realized she was right. Their marriage represented a turning point for both families, therefore everyone had to be happy with the arrangements. “’Tis a tall order,” he lamented.
I Ne’er Kent That
When Jamie showed Rory into his cottage, Fiona stood and began shuffling the papers she’d brought, anxious to avoid looking at the irritating man.
“Ye needna stand on my account, Mistress Drummond,” he said, drawing her eye to his annoying smirk.
She sat, upset she’d led him to believe she was standing out of respect. As if women came to their feet for men! It was supposed to be the other way around—unless ’twas a king who entered. Rory Blair was no king. However, he did show good manners by removing his eagle-feathered bonnet.
Jamie invited Rory to be seated across the small kitchen table from her.
He arched a brow, eyeing the chair, then her. Having apparently decided she posed no threat, he sat.
It was amusing. If anyone posed a threat in the cozy cottage, it was the broad-shoulder Highland chieftain who dwarfed the chair on which he sat.
A shiver stole up her spine. He really was an imposing man—chiseled features, curly brown hair, neatly trimmed beard, intriguing amethyst eyes. She wondered why he’d never married. He was a prized catch for any woman, especially considering he was the son of a laird.
Jamie’s voice jolted her out of her reverie. “Aye. If it hadna got away, ’twould have been a prized catch.”
Suddenly, she was sweating. Surely, she hadn’t spoken out loud? Nay, Jamie’s outstretched arms indicated he was referring to a trout, but Rory was staring at her and she felt like a fish wriggling on the end of the line. She opened her mouth but no words emerged.
“Do ye fish, Fiona?” Rory asked.
She came close to laughing out loud, but the arrogant mon had used her given name without permission. However, a rude reply would upset Jamie who was clearly delighted to be playing host. “Nay. Keeping the ledgers is my hobby.”
“An unusual pastime for a woman,” he replied.
“And one she excels in,” Jamie interjected, pouring ale from a pitcher into three tumblers sitting ready on the table. “We have much to learn from my niece.”
Rory shrugged, as if to say he doubted such was true.
Fiona should have refused the ale. She got the distinct feeling from the wary look in those amethyst eyes that Rory had some ulterior motive for attending the meeting. She needed to keep her wits about her for this interview. However, a sip or two might settle her nerves. It was silly to be nervous just because a rival laird sat across from her, but she’d best be careful what she revealed about the clan.
“I see ye didna bring the ledgers,” Rory said, his unsettling eyes still fixed on her face.
She took a gulp of ale. “Nay. I can explain the process on paper. I was afraid ye’d be overwhelmed by all the detail in the actual ledgers.”
When he clenched his jaw, she congratulated herself on successfully annoying him, but then a trace of a smile replaced the scowl and he brushed a fi
nger along his upper lip.
He had a fascinating mouth, she decided, but her preoccupation with his full lips fled when she realized he was indicating she had froth on her upper lip.
A lady would request a napkin, but she knew from experience her bachelor uncle possessed no such refinement. Besides, what did she care if Rory Blair found her uncouth? She swiped her sleeve across her mouth, unsure if his eyes widened with shock or amusement.
“So,” she began, dragging her eyes back to the papers. “Do ye ken the difference between debits and credits?”
Rory shifted his weight, causing his plaid to slip from his shoulder. “The first recorded use of the terms is Luca Pacioli’s 1494 work, Everything That Is Known About Arithmetic, Geometry, Proportions and Proportionality,” he intoned, clearly showing off. “He was a Venetian involved in trade.”
Preoccupied with the plaid now draped across Rory’s bicep thus causing his shirt to fall open just enough to…
She startled when Jamie brought his fist down on the table. “Fascinating! Where did ye learn that?”
“At university. In Edinburgh.”
Fiona fumed. Her gaping uncle had been too easily impressed. Rory wasn’t the only educated and well-read person in the cottage. She may not have gone to university but the Drummond library held a wealth of knowledge. She decided this was the moment to show off. “Aye. Pacioli devoted one section of his book to documenting and describing the double-entry bookkeeping system in use during the Renaissance by Venetian merchants, traders and bankers.”
A broad grin lit Rory’s face. “I’m impressed,” he allowed.
She should have been elated, but the goal had been to put him in his place, not elicit his praise or be gobsmacked by how handsome he was when he smiled.
*
Rory had underestimated Fiona. The woman was well-read. However, he felt it necessary to best her. He leaned his forearm on the table and deliberately addressed his next words to Jamie. “In the original Latin, Pacioli’s work used the Latin words debere, which means to owe, and credere, to entrust, to describe the two sides of a closed accounting transaction.”
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