The Highlanders: A Smitten Historical Romance Collection

by J'nell Ciesielski

  Bang. Thump.

  “Nay!”

  Rooney sighed. Never a moment’s peace. Stuffing the brooch into the small box of other confiscated treasures, she slid it behind the splintered wardrobe. She swiped the dust from her skirt and flung open the curtain separating the sleeping quarters from the living area. “There better be a reason ye two are waging a kerfuffle instead of filling the baskets as I told ye to.”

  Ruby, her twelve-year-old sister, pointed an accusing finger at their youngest sibling. “She’s skipping around with the rope, and when my back is turned, knots it around me as if I’m some common cow.”

  An impish light glowed in eight-year-old Rose’s eyes. “Not some common cow. A braw hairy coo. Moo!” Rose made horns with her fingers and wiggled them at her sister.

  Red surged across Ruby’s face, highlighting the freckles on her cheeks. Raising her tome of poetry, Ruby chased Rose around the tiny set of table and chairs.

  Rooney grabbed them by the arms on their third pass and held them apart. “Enough of that. If anything, we’re all to be red-pelted deer.” She tugged a lock of russet hair on each of them, identical to her own. “Get the baskets ready before the buying hour is past. Hurry.”

  Stuffing baskets full of their woven wares, they made their way to Druimbeath’s market square where the other villagers plied their goods. Passing a stall of beets, Rooney took her customary place just opposite of the blacksmith shop. The place of lowest prominence.

  Rooney smiled at the woman selling beets. “Good morn, Mistress Kerry. Yer beets look particularly fine this day.”

  Mistress Kerry flipped her pug nose up with an indelicate sniff. “As if ye ken anythin aboot ’em.” She rotated her broad backside to Rooney and smiled sweetly at a potential customer.

  Had the rude woman forgotten so quickly that her prize beets once adorned the Corsen’s table? Of course she had, as did all of Druimbeath when Rooney’s father fell from grace at the gambling tables, forcing her family to sell everything and move from their home to a tiny cottage on the edge of the clan lands. Social outcasts.

  Labeled an outcast was not any easy burden to bear, but it was not as terrible as watching her sisters live hand to mouth on the meager earnings they received from weaving heather rope and rushes to be trod upon by the wealthy. But not for much longer. A few more heists with the added weight of that brooch would set them safe once more. She could pay off the remaining debt and have their home back.

  Snapping out a wool blanket, Rooney arranged their goods in an enticing arrangement then greeted a passerby. “Good morn, sir. Are ye in need of a sturdy rope? Made from the finest heather in the Highlands. No? Rushes for yer floors then. Their sweet smell drifts up with every step ye take. No more dirty floors to tread on after a long day. Well, good day to ye. Ah, good lady! Would ye care—no? Thank ye.”

  The villagers walked by in a wide berth without so much as a glance.

  “Try lying down in front of them next time. They canna ignore ye that way,” Ruby said from behind her book.

  “They’d take more pleasure in walking directly over me.”

  “Who would dare to walk over such a beautiful woman?” The distinguished voice crawled over Rooney’s skin. Dressed in the finely spun silk and wool of his beloved English court, Sir Leslie Milford was a peacock preening among the grouse.

  Rooney dipped into a small curtsy as he stopped before her. “Sir Leslie.”

  He waved a slender hand as if to indicate that she may rise. Which she already had. “My dear Miss Corsen. How lovely you look from last we met. I trust things are … well?” He raised a brow at the coarse ropes.

  Heat climbed Rooney’s neck. She and her sisters had spent days twisting and braiding plants into submission. “Aye. We have plenty to keep our hands from idleness.”

  Taking her elbow, Sir Leslie led her away from the beet stall. Solemn concern darkened his muddy eyes. “You may tell me the truth, my dear.” He lightly squeezed her elbow. “You are not accustomed to a life of pulling weeds on the moor or living in a dirty hut with naught but a smoky peat fire to keep you warm at night. You were born to be lady of a manor.”

  A manor. Her manor, but Father had bet their estate’s deed of sasine in a desperate gambling match. Sir Leslie had won, and the title and property now belonged to him.

  Rooney took a step back, dislodging her elbow. “The only manor I wish to be lady of is my family’s home. I nearly have enough to repay my debt to ye.”

  “Nearly enough? I did not realize ropes and brooms claimed such profit.” He snatched her hand and clasped it between his. “It pained me to watch your father’s gambling sink him into debt. Only out of concern for you, your mother, and your sisters did I extend credit to him. Not even his gambling away the manor could repay what he owed me. A debt, I’m afraid, that fell to you. If I had known the disastrous path all of this would lead to … well, what’s done is done though you must understand the delicate situation it puts me in. Asking a woman to repay her father’s debts is terribly uncouth, but I look forward to the day it’s behind us. Then you and your sisters may reside once more in your family home. With rent, of course.”

  Rooney had wanted to buy back the deed to her family estate, but Sir Leslie had laughed, claiming it was beyond a woman’s limits to preside over property and she was better suited to merely renting the house from him. Thankfully, he required only the amount she sold her goods for at market. She loathed the idea of being a tenant in her own home, but a deal with the devil was worth the risk to keep her sisters from poverty. “I thank ye again for agreeing to an otherwise impossible arrangement.”

  “It needn’t be so impossible. My other offer still stands.”

  Disgust dropped into Rooney’s stomach.

  Marriage. One of the few exchanges of payment offered to women. At least the more respectable of payments. She yanked her hand free. “As I said, all debts will be paid in full at the earliest convenience.”

  The concern dropped from Sir Leslie’s eyes. Running a hand over his sleekly wigged head, he gave a short bow. “Then I shall look forward to our future transactions. Good day, my dear.”

  He disappeared into the market crowd. The air eased back into Rooney’s lungs.

  “Why doesna he return to England where he belongs and leave us alone?” Ruby peeked over her book.

  “Because the king granted the loyal Milfords land here in an attempt to tame the natives generations ago. As if a Sassenach stood a chance of succeeding.”

  “If ye marry him, I’ll run away into the woods and never come back.”

  Rooney wiped her hand against her scratchy skirt, but Sir Leslie’s touch clung like a rotting disease. “I’ll join ye.”

  “Rooney!” Rose crashed through the throng and landed on the blanket, overturning the baskets. Her braid had come undone, and springs of red hair stuck out every which way.

  “Watch where ye’re going. We’ve only the one—”

  “They want us gone!”

  “Who?” Rooney stuffed the spilled ropes into a basket.

  Eyes wide, Rose pointed over her shoulder. “The village.”

  Rooney’s heart leaped in her throat as a mob descended on them.

  “The shame to show their faces.”

  “Thinkin they can mingle with respectable folks.”

  “Taintin our village with immorality.”

  Herding her sisters behind her, Rooney tried to appear serene despite the thudding of her heart. “Might there be a problem?”

  A woman with frizzy brown hair and severe crow’s feet pushed her way to the front of the mob and pointed a gnarled finger in Rooney’s face. “Aye, ’tis ye. Makin a mockery o us. Standin here and takin good folks’ money.”

  “We’ve the right to sell our wares at market same as everyone else.”

  “Takin coin to gamble with.” The woman looked over her shoulder, prodding agreement from her fellow accomplices. She sneered at Rooney. “Black-hearted wagerin be in yer bad bloo
d. Away with ye afore ye taint the rest o us.”

  Rooney gritted her teeth against the unsavory retort burning on her tongue. “My father’s sins are not that of me and my sisters. We desire only to live in peace and to put food on our humble table.”

  The crowd jeered. They surged forward, kicking her baskets over and stomping on the brooms. Bristles splintered and ropes unraveled. Standing far back from the crowd was Sir Leslie with a smirk tilting his thin lips. Fury tumbled through Rooney, curling her hands to fists that could only feel blessed relief by punching him in his aristocratic nose. Foul man.

  Rose and Ruby whimpered as they huddled together. Tears streamed down their faces.

  “Girls, move away.” Rooney lunged for a torn rope. “Stop! Please.” Hands shoved her backward. She hit the ground. Pain shot up her tailbone.

  “Miss, are ye all right?” A tall figure blocked out the weak sun. Arm around her waist, he took her hand and pulled Rooney to her feet. “Are ye hurt?”

  The air stuck in Rooney’s throat.

  Deven McLendon. Coming to her defense.

  Rooney shook her head as she gazed up at him. “Only my pride.” Her gaze fell to the crushed baskets. “And my things.”

  He released her and rounded on the crowd. “What is the meaning of this?” His voice rocked over the market square, stilling everything in its authoritative path. “Have ye no shame for attacking lassies?”

  “’Tis Lord Glèidh.” The acknowledgement rumbled through the crowd, and they backed away, giving wide berth to Rooney and her weeping sisters. McLendon stood in the center of the wreckage with legs braced far apart and staring down each villager with the ferocity of a hawk.

  At last, he pivoted to Rooney. The gray eyes pierced her like the edge of a sword. “Why was this done?”

  Rooney slipped her arms around her sisters and bent to check them over. No injuries, praise be, but the day would linger in their fears for a time to come. She looked up at McLendon. “My sisters and I come weekly to sell our things. We never seek to cause trouble.”

  The frizzy-haired woman scowled at her. “Seek it or not, ye bring it with ye.” Glancing at the laird, her face melted to contrition. “We’re no but simple, good folk here, m’laird. Ye ken us all yer life, but immorality snaps at the lassies’ heels, and we dinna care to have it.”

  Rooney returned the harpy’s scowl. “Our father’s doings were not ours. Or mayhap ye care to have yer ancestors’ wrongdoings heaped upon yer head for judgment.”

  “At least I dinna have the likes o Richard Corsen in my blood.”

  “Aye, ye’ve only hooked-nose old sheep.”

  The woman jumped at Rooney with hand raised. McLendon stepped between them, the wide expanse of his chest a cordoning wall. “Enough. If no laws have been broken and every transaction remains respectable, anyone is free to trade here. Good day to ye all.” The crowd grumbled with indecision. He skewered them with another look of steel. “I said good day.”

  The mob drifted back to their own stalls, the frizzy woman grumbling over her shoulder. Sir Leslie had disappeared.

  McLendon’s rigid stance didn’t ease. “What is this they accuse ye of?”

  “My father’s gambling debts. It ruined my family.” Rooney knelt and gathered the fragmented remains of their wares into a basket. Another day without a coin. Sleep would evade her this night as she stayed awake to make new ropes.

  McLendon squatted beside her and scooped the silver birch broom handles into a pile. “Corsen. I’ve heard the name.”

  Rooney’s fingers fumbled. She’d been more than careful to keep hidden the Night Fox’s true identity. Billowy black clothes to disguise more than her figure, flipping about like a boneless fish so her gait would not be recognized, even changing her speech. One slip could give her away. Secrecy was absolute to survival, not only for her but for her sisters.

  She chanced a glance at the man beside her, his hair darker than revealed in last evening’s candle glow. Black as a starless night, it waved away from his face tied back with a black ribbon. His nose was long with a slight dent at the bridge as if it had been broken. A shadow of beard dusted his jaw though it was clear he’d shaved recently. Perhaps it was the thrill of adventure speaking, but she preferred the growth of dark whiskers he’d sported last night.

  “Mayhap ye’ve heard my name because scandal travels faster than goodwill,” she said at last.

  “So it does, but I have heard it. A time before I left.”

  “Ye left a long time ago. I was but a girl when ye shook off the dust of Scotland to enter Oxford. My father was the neighboring laird then.”

  “Was.”

  The word was a single arrow shot straight to her heart. Its poisoned tip seeped deep into wounds that refused to heal. Gathering her basket, Rooney stood. “He died seven years ago.” From shame. Her mother followed a year later from a broken heart, leaving Rooney as sole caregiver to Ruby and Rose, wee bairns then.

  McLendon stood. His black eyebrows drew together over smoky gray eyes. “I’m sorry for yer hardships, Miss Corsen, and sincerely hope ye’re not placed in a situation such as this again.” He swept his hand over the jumble of broken heather bits. “Ignorance of the law will not be tolerated. Nor will those who openly taunt justice.”

  Mere hours ago, she’d teased him about dancing across such lines. His countenance was much more serious in broad daylight. And handsome. “Do ye know of any such taunters, sir?”

  “I hunt a criminal calling himself the Night Fox.”

  “The Night Fox.” Rooney strung the words out as if uncertain. “Does he reive chickens?”

  McLendon’s eyes hardened to steel once more as he drew up to his full height. Rooney had to crane her neck to meet his gaze. “A blackguard highwayman that swoops into carriages and windows to steal items of considerable worth.”

  “Carriages and glass windows. Not likely I’ll cross his path when he seeks such wealthy accommodations.”

  “How do ye know they were glass?” That stare. It was as unrelenting as a tempered blade.

  Rooney took a tiny step back, her pulse racing. “Oh, well … what else would they be? When ye’re as poor as we are, we improvise with cracks in the wattle and daub.” She offered a smile that dashed like rain on his thorny expression.

  “Whatever his tastes, the fool’s days are numbered. ’Tis my duty to protect my people. The criminal will be caught. May God have mercy on his soul.” Deven held out the other basket. Rooney took it, brushing his fingers. They were large and calloused, no doubt strong enough to tie a noose around her neck if he ever caught her.

  She tucked the basket to her chest. “Mayhap mercy is what’s called for, to begin with.”

  “There can be no mercy for a lawbreaker. Our laws are clear. Without them, we have no order.”

  Crivens! Why did the attractiveness generously applied to his physical appearance not extend to his narrow manner of thinking? Never had she met a man so unbending. “Not every situation can be judged right or wrong.”

  “A man’s actions show his true character.”

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this world, ’tis that things are not always as they seem. We need only to look past the surface to find the truth.”

  “And if there is anything I have learned, ’tis that human nature canna be suppressed.”

  “Ye have a rather bleak outlook on people.”

  “Nay, I simply do not fall for their façades. No matter how charming and well-meaning.” Extracting a pocket watch from his simple yet well-made waistcoat, he frowned at the hour. “If ye’ll excuse me, Miss Corsen. I have more inquires to see to.”

  “I wish ye luck on finding yer fox.”

  “Luck is not required. Merely patience.” With a short bow, McLendon strode away, the crowds parting before him like the staff of Moses and the Red Sea.

  Rooney grinned. The first steps of their dance were proving delightful, and a more remarkable partner she couldn’t ask for. Now to s
ee if he could reel.

  Chapter 3

  THE WOOD CRACKED UNDER the ax’s blade. Two even halves tumbled to Deven’s feet. His muscles ached in satisfaction. Months of leading charges with broadsword and shield, slogging from one muddy battlefield to the next, and hiding had left him bereft of an honest day’s work. There was nothing pretentious about wood, no hidden agendas, no side to choose. It was simple and straightforward. Unlike people and their mysterious facets.

  None more so than Rooney Corsen. Try as he might, Deven couldn’t forget the image of her standing in the market square defiant to all of Druimbeath. Those old corbies descended on her as a feast for their vile craving of humiliation, uncaring if she was in the wrong or not. He couldn’t allow the lass to suffer such treatment.

  Wiping the sweat from his face, Deven gathered an armful of wood and marched into the kitchen.

  His cook kneaded dough and eyed the wood in his arms. “Och, master. Ye dinna need to fash yerself with such work.”

  “Gets me outdoors instead of under yer foot.” Deven unloaded his burden near the fireplace and dusted the splinters from his palms. “Smells good.”

  “Aye, venison stew for the midday. I’ve pheasant and roasted quail eggs for supper along with a thick puddin. Ye need fattenin after all that army marchin.”

  “I look forward to yer efforts.”

  Leaving the fragrant warmth of the kitchen, Deven made his way to the main part of the house. A quick change from his dirty clothes and then he’d settle in with the accounts. Rent day for the tenants was fast approaching. From the brief glance he’d given the ledger, Father had recorded more credit in the tallies than actual payment. It wasn’t easy earning a farmer’s wage, but Strathmoore couldn’t exist on charity alone. If Deven didn’t pay the estate’s rent on time, their chieftain would turn the land over to someone who could. He would never allow such ruin to befall his people.

  Feminine voices drifted down the corridor. Jean, his sister, and—nay. Anyone but her. Pumping with dread, Deven bounded for the stairs.