Highland Hellion

by Mary Wine

  There was a ripple of male agreement around them.

  “Do ye have a husband?”

  Katherine realized where Rolfe gained his sense of authority. Laird McTavish embodied the same, and she found herself shaking her head immediately. Unlike Tyree Gordon, neither Rolfe nor his sire struck her as undeserving of respect.

  “A contract?” Laird McTavish leaned forward as he pressed her.

  Katherine discovered herself hesitating to answer. He didn’t care for it and slapped the arm of the chair.

  “Either ye do, or ye do no’. Speak up.”

  The McTavishes didn’t care for her silence. There were hard looks sent her way as more men arrived. She resisted the urge to squirm. Wearing men’s clothing was something she’d willingly decided to do. There would be no shrinking from it.

  “I have not seen my father in over ten years,” she answered smoothly. “I am bastard born.”

  There was a reaction to that announcement, but it was not as great as it might have been in England. The Scots were a bit more practical when it came to what side of the bedsheet one was born on. To their minds, blood was blood. With or without the church’s blessing, it was still a tie that could never be broken.

  “Who is yer sire?” Laird McTavish asked bluntly.

  “It does not matter. His newest wife was quite clear that I should expect naught from him.”

  Laird McTavish slowly smiled. “The fact that ye are no’ willing to tell me says the man is important.” He considered her for a long moment, sweeping her from head to toe. “Aye, ye have the look of nobility with that fine pale skin. And the MacPhersons have allowed ye to run wild. That tells me no one wants to cross yer blood.”

  “You are simply disappointed,” Katherine spoke softly. “It is understandable, yet I have spoken the truth.”

  Laird McTavish was chuckling. He suddenly slapped the arm of the chair and looked at his son. “When ye brought Helen Grant here, was no’ there some mention of Morton trying to force a bride on Marcus MacPherson?”

  Rolfe shifted, his expression darkening. “Aye. A girl too young for marriage.”

  Laird McTavish contemplated her for a long moment, his lips slowly curling into a grin of victory.

  “Well done!” Laird McTavish declared. “The Earl of Morton may be willing to pay more for her than the MacPhersons. Put her abovestairs.”

  Katherine felt hollow. The security she’d felt in Scotland melted away as easily as sugar in the rain. Someone gripped her bicep, and she didn’t bother to look at who it was. The two towers were on either side of the hall.

  “Oh for Christ’s sake, point the way. I certainly have no wish to go back to your hall,” she groused at her guide as she was smashed next to him in the narrow stairway.

  A thick finger appeared in front of her in response. She forced her feet to move, recalling Marcus’s words that choosing one’s battles was wisest. If there was no clear path to victory, better to bide your time and wait for better circumstances.

  She’d be ready when they arrived.

  * * *

  “Ye should have told me who yer sire was.”

  Katherine wasn’t expecting Rolfe.

  She turned and found him standing behind her in the chamber. His men were outside in the hallway.

  Waiting to bar the door.

  She couldn’t stop the shiver that went down her spine in response.

  He contemplated her for a long moment, looking as though it bothered him to see her upset.

  “Why?” she asked. “So you could celebrate your victory sooner?”

  “I would have risked taking ye back to Marcus.”

  His expression implied that he was serious, but she only saw what she longed for. “I doubt that.”

  His jaw tightened as she questioned his word. Katherine stared straight at him, making it clear she wasn’t going to shirk from his displeasure.

  “I would no’ have risked ye being given back to the Earl of Morton,” Rolfe said softly.

  “It is ever so simple to apologize once deeds are done.” She’d meant to cut him with her words, but all she did was send another chill across her skin as she recognized how dire her circumstances were. She had spent years having nightmares about the Earl of Morton and the way he viewed her as a thing to be traded for what he wished.

  It is better than being burned at the stake…

  She held tight to that thought, yet it was difficult to accept that as a blessing. She turned her back on Rolfe, needing to maintain some sort of poise.

  “Ye know why I did no’ take ye back to Marcus.” Rolfe wasn’t willing to be dismissed. “He allowed ye to act foolishly.”

  “No more so than you.” She turned back to face him.

  Rolfe shook his head, his expression serious. “Yer fate at the hands of the Gordons would have been horrible, but over soon. The repercussions of it, well, they would have claimed lives for years. Marcus could no’ have let it pass, no’ when ye were under his personal protection. It’s becoming clearer why he trained ye. The man is no fool, and he knows the English have few friends in the Highlands. There would have been a feud.”

  He started for the door but stopped before crossing the threshold. “If ye can nae think of the men who would fight to avenge ye, then ye are still a child, Katherine.”

  He sent her a hard look before he let his men close the chamber door.

  He was right.

  She detested the facts and the harsher side of Fate for not making her see the truth in some easier fashion. But life had never taught her any lessons the easy way.

  Today was no exception.

  * * *

  The crack of the whip was a sound every Gordon knew.

  As Colum grew older, whippings had become more frequent. Tyree watched as Diocail took his punishment first. The damned bastard had boldly jerked his shirt off and walked up to the stake without waiting to be ordered to it. He was holding on to it, his back crisscrossed with red stripes.

  Somehow, he’d managed to transform a punishment into a reason to gain respect.

  Colum sat in his chair, which had been moved outside for the spectacle.

  He needed to die…

  Laird or not, it was time for Colum Gordon to join the son he couldn’t seem to forget. The Gordons needed a strong laird, and Tyree planned to be that man.

  “Fifty.”

  Diocail let go of the stake and turned to face the men watching. His face was red, but he growled before striding off as though nothing pained him. The blood dripping down his back should have made a liar of him, but the men who watched him leave all wore expressions of respect for his stamina.

  An idea started to form in Tyree’s head. Fortune favored the bold, and the Lord helped those who helped themselves. So maybe it was time to plan Colum’s death and make certain Diocail was the one blamed for it. Without a clear successor, the matter of choosing the next laird would come down to a vote, and the Gordons would not vote for a murderer.

  Yes, it was time to plan his future.

  Which would begin with Colum’s death.

  * * *

  “Ye’re no’ pleased with me.”

  Rolfe considered his father and nodded. “The Earl of Morton is a bastard. Ye know it. I would no’ have brought the lass here if I’d thought ye’d be doing business with him.”

  Inside his father’s study, Rolfe could speak his mind. His father eyed him, torn between admiring Rolfe’s courage and being annoyed with his son for questioning him.

  It was a look Rolfe saw more often than not.

  “Look around ye.” His father opened his fingers and fanned them around the room. “Ye have a fine inheritance, and make no mistake, it came from yer kin making choices with their business sense.” His father tapped the top of his desk with his forefinger. “But that is no’ what
is eating at ye, boy.”

  Rolfe stiffened, earning a chuckle from his sire.

  “That’s what I thought,” William McTavish declared. “Ye’ve got a whiff of her in yer nostrils.”

  “Father—”

  “Do nae deny it.” William snorted at him with a grin. “Truth be told, she stirred me member as well. What with her in naught but a shirt so that every man among us might glimpse those tempting tits.”

  “That is no’ what we are discussing,” Rolfe insisted.

  His father roared with laughter, throwing his head back and letting his voice hit the ceiling. Rolfe made a sound under his breath that was less than respectful.

  His father sobered. “Aye, back to the business. She is that, my son—business. Do nae go soft on me.”

  “Ransom her to the MacPhersons, and ye’ll have yer gain.”

  “And what will ye get from that bargain?”

  Rolfe was caught off guard by the question. His father was serious.

  “Ye brought her here, and I’m grateful for the respect ye show me beyond that door, but she’s yer prize. The clan will expect ye to get as much as ye can for her.”

  “I’ve told ye what I want done with her.” Rolfe knew better than to answer quickly. His father had a razor-sharp mind.

  “But no’ why ye argue with me,” William responded quickly, a suspicious look in his eyes. “If she did step between yer men and the Gordons, why did ye no’ allow her to go free? I can see that ye would have decided it was an even exchange. Yet she is here.”

  His father knew him well. Rolfe stared back at the gleam in his sire’s face.

  “The foolish chit almost started a feud,” Rolfe replied. “She needed to be taught a lesson.”

  “Ye’re no’ her kin or her husband to be thinking of her education. Here, she is a prize.”

  Rolfe drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “She did put herself between the Gordons and me men. We were outnumbered, and that’s a fact.”

  His father absorbed the knowledge and held silent as he contemplated what it meant.

  “So,” Rolfe continued, “I would appreciate it if ye did nae contact the Earl of Morton. Katherine needs a lesson, but I owe her a measure of gratitude.”

  His father nodded. “Off with ye, then.”

  Rolfe tugged on the corner of his bonnet before he left the study. William McTavish waited until his son was gone before he looked up to see his half brother emerging from the shadows.

  “What say ye?” William asked.

  “I think ye needs be careful how ye go,” Niul responded. “Rolfe will nae forgive ye for forcing this issue easily.”

  William snorted. “He barely knows her.”

  “Does nae matter,” Niul replied. “Ye know Rolfe has a sense of honor that is no’ going to be pushed aside.”

  His half brother sent him a knowing look that made William shift in his seat. William remembered well his desolation after losing his leg. His pride has been damaged as well as his body. His son had been the one to force him to emerge from his chambers.

  “Aye, and yet Morton is the regent. The man rules Scotland in all but name. We have more to lose than the MacPhersons if the man is angry with us. The march from Edinburgh to McTavish land is much shorter.”

  “James is growing up,” Niul replied.

  “But he’s been raised by Morton,” William cut back. “And do nae forget that Morton is a Douglas. Even if the man loses his head, there will be plenty of his kin to remember who their enemies are. And before ye tell me that Morton knows naught of the girl, remember that secrets never stay hidden for long. Rolfe snatched her from under the Gordons’ noses.”

  Niul nodded. “Aye, that tale will spread far and fast. So discover who her sire is. He must be important, or Morton would no’ have tried to force her on Marcus.”

  William’s face suddenly lit. “Brenda Grant would know. She was there. Go up to Grant land and see what that woman has to say.”

  Niul scoffed at his sibling. “The way I hear, Brenda Grant answers to no man since her escape from Morton and court.”

  William waved his hand. “Use that handsome face of yers. Let her think ye’ve arrived to pay her court. Her damned cousin will no’ make a match for her that she does nae approve of. For all that I hear, Symon Grant is a man to be reckoned with. I wonder why the man is soft concerning the women of his house. And if she’s fool enough to be completely taken with ye, bed her quick.”

  Niul grinned. “Ye can be sure I will. Wedding her, on the other hand… I’ll leave the business decisions to you.”

  William chuckled at his brother’s humor. Niul liked women, and he had the devil’s luck when it came to his features. The lasses flocked to him. Niul enjoyed it full well, as any man should. William was forever having to deal with Niul’s cast-off lovers trying to gain recompense and acknowledgment of his bastards. None of them had succeeded so far, because William would protect his bloodline for Rolfe. Recognizing bastards would only lead to splits in the clan.

  And he would do what was best to ensure his son inherited more than William had. It was the truest test of a laird: to increase his holdings and make certain his son inherited.

  But there was one thing William didn’t have, and that was a noble title. Indeed, it was fine to be a laird in the Highlands, but in the more modern world, noble titles carried weight. Morton might bestow one of those, and that would be worth a great deal.

  Even worth a fight with his son.

  Anger faded, but a noble title… Well, that was something that stayed. William rang the small bell sitting next to his desk. A few moments later, there was a shuffle of feet as his secretary came into the study.

  “I need a letter written to the Earl of Morton.”

  Three

  Clean.

  Katherine sighed and stood in front of the hearth in naught but her skin while she looked at her fingernails. They were chipped and broken—unlike her stepmother’s, which had always been carefully shaped and buffed.

  But for the moment, Katherine was absorbed by the fact that there wasn’t a bit of dirt left under her nails or on any other part of her body. She sighed and turned so the fire could dry her hair. She had distant memories of bathing in a shift, but those habits had fallen away in Scotland.

  The Scots were far more practical. The purpose of a bath was to get your skin clean, and cloth was expensive, greatly so. No coin was spent on a garment whose only use was to shield modesty while sitting in a bathing tub. She’d gladly discarded the often-tedious ceremonies of England as she’d settled into the Highlands.

  Katherine smiled as she felt the warmth from the fire drying her bare skin. In England, the Highlanders were labeled savages and wicked.

  Well, that suited her rather well.

  Thanks to Marcus.

  Her thoughts darkened. He’d been more of a brother to her than any kin she had ever known. He’d made certain she grew strong, and that was a gift she treasured. It pained her to know she would cost him.

  Rolfe was correct; she’d been acting like a child who didn’t consider what her actions wrought.

  Well, no more.

  She moved across the chamber and picked up a shift that had been laid out for her. She couldn’t fault the McTavishes, because they had provided her with good clothing to wear. The shift was made of soft linen that felt good against her skin. There were stockings for her, too. She pulled them up her legs and secured them with garters before putting on her boots.

  She really had been thinking like a child to believe the cobbler hadn’t sought payment for the fine footwear, or that the man hadn’t noticed they were men’s boots. They closed all the way up to just below her knees with the aid of antler-horn buttons that she wound a leather lace around. She’d certainly been grateful for them in the Gordon stronghold.

  Well, n
ow she had another place to escape from. Marcus had taught her to be strong, and the best way to repay that was to take care of herself.

  There were two sets of skirts for her to choose from, both made of sturdy wool. She chose one that looked as if it was hemmed correctly for her height and slipped it up and over her head. The waistband was worked with several eyelets that she threaded a lace through. Next, there were bodices. Her McTavish guards had been unwilling to allow any of the maids to stay and help her dress.

  Katherine smiled as she recalled how the men had stood guard over her while the tub was filled. In the past, she’d taken pleasure in revealing her strength and ability. Now, she realized it would have been far better if the McTavishes had believed her to be helpless. So she’d bitten her lip and stood quietly, trying her best to appear meek. Perhaps they thought their clansmen were exaggerating the tales about her abilities.

  The bodices had boning in them so that once she laced one up, her breasts were supported. It had become harder over the last year to bind herself. She’d hoped that her breasts simply wouldn’t grow because of the wide strip of cloth she used to flatten them. But nature seemed to be determined to have her way, and the bodice cupped two rather large mounds.

  Katherine looked at herself in a mirror, enjoying the sight of herself in a dress. Sometimes, she longed for a life that didn’t make her choose to discard her gender. It was just that a woman’s place was so very difficult to stomach. Such as her current circumstances. She was expected to be submissive and accept that she would just have to wait to be ransomed.

  Perhaps that might have been acceptable if the idea of being returned to the Earl of Morton wasn’t a possibility. Or to England, for that matter. It had been a long time since she’d been under her father’s roof, and she would be an unwanted mouth to feed.

  So she had to use her wits and her skills to escape.

  The chamber was on the second floor. She looked out of the window, but it was too high to descend from, even if she knotted the sheets. The knot might give or her hands fail to hold her.