The Highlanders: A Smitten Historical Romance Collection

by J'nell Ciesielski

  A smile curved her lips. “A statement that doesna surprise me in the least.”

  Leaving the moor, they walked in silence until coming to a small cottage. The pungent scent of peat smoke rose from a hole in the thatched roof as flickering light slipped through the cracks of waddle and daub walls. A blanket hung in place of a door while a broken fence surrounded a sagging chicken coop. Anger flashed through Deven. The dwelling was common enough among Highlanders, but surely Sir Leslie could have given the lassies a more suitable place. Why had he not seen to the simple repairs?

  Rooney picked at the basket’s handle, averting her gaze from his. “Ye are welcome to come inside, but I’m afraid our hospitality offerings are lacking of late.”

  “I must decline for I need to return home, but I look forward to accepting yer invitation at another time.”

  Relief flitted across her face. Her eyes were not amber as he’d first thought. Here in the last light of day green, gold, and amber swirled together. The perfect complement to the freckles swathing her cheeks and nose. “Then I’ll be saying good night to ye.”

  The parting filled him with regret like a light snuffed out before he was ready for the darkness. “Stay inside. No need to draw the Night Fox’s attention.”

  “Something tells me with all the sneaking about of late, he may be in need of an evening’s rest.”

  “As ye say.” But Deven knew better. He waited until Rooney entered her home before mounting his horse, his hand never leaving his sword.

  Chapter 4

  A BEE BUZZED IN Rooney’s ear. She swatted at it and shifted on the heather-stuffed mattress, her mind drifting back to sleep. A heathered moor. Deven McLendon walking with her in the gloaming.

  The bee buzzed again. “Rooney.”

  Rooney buried her head under the pillow. “Go away.”

  “Wake up.”

  “Nay. Just went to sleep.”

  “There’s a man outside.”

  Sir Leslie. He threatened to come by that day. Rooney groaned. “Tell him to go jump in the loch.”

  “Not that mozie auld poutworm.” Rose flung herself on Rooney’s back. “’Tis that man with the black hair. The one who brought ye home last night.”

  Rooney bolted upright, knocking Rose to the floor. Deven McLendon … here?

  Her little sister rolled around laughing. “Told ye that would get her up!”

  “And I told ye to let her sleep.” Ruby held up the curtain that separated their sleeping pallets from the main area. A stern frown crossed her face. “She was up till nearly cock crow finishing those ropes.”

  “About the same time he arrived.”

  Staggering to her feet, Rooney wiped the bleariness from her eyes and lurched to the window. McLendon stood with his back to her, a linen shirt stretched taut across his broad shoulders as he hammered nails into a flat board. Tools and long-split wood were laid out in neat piles on the ground. The chicken fence no longer sagged. In fact, it appeared to be new. Why was he repairing her things?

  She flung aside the blanket serving as the door and took a step outside. Ruby yanked her back and blocked the entrance. “Ye canna go out there. Ye’re not dressed.”

  Her sister was right. She couldn’t very well confront the lord and master of the land wearing her nightrail. She slipped into her clothes with lightning speed, then marched outside. “May I ask what ye’re doing here?”

  McLendon didn’t bother to turn around as he raised the hammer. Whack. Whack. “Making a door.”

  “We have a door.”

  “Ye have a blanket. I’d wager it doesna keep out the rain.”

  Rooney bristled. “It’s served us well enough.”

  “Well enough when the snow comes?”

  Braw or not, he had no right. She was taking care of her family. “I’ll thank ye for yer concern, but—”

  “Dinna step there!”

  She teetered on one foot, the other mid-step.

  “I’ve nails all about.” He frowned at her bare feet. “Ye’ve not even the sense to put shoes on.”

  Rooney reared back. “And ye’ve not the sense to ask for permission before ye barge in and make repairs where ye think necessary. We’ve gotten along perfectly well on our own.”

  “I didna want to see ye cold when winter comes. ’Tis the responsibility of a laird to see his people cared for.”

  “But I’m not one of yer people.”

  “Nay, but I’ll not ignore a problem that can be righted. Ye deserve such consideration whether ye’re mine or not.”

  Her bluster evaporated on an extinguished puff of pride. No one had ever thought to provide for her like that, at least not without something in return. She met his eye squarely. “I’ll repay yer services as soon as I’ve sold enough at market.”

  His unblinking silver gaze swept from her toes peeking out from under the homespun skirt to her head. Rooney self-consciously touched the wild hairs springing out in every direction. Why had she not bothered to comb it? Why did he suddenly make her think about such things? Too often she’d found pity or disgust in other’s assessments. He had a way of looking without reproach. A way of making her feel worthy of his attention. It was an unusual sensation, but not altogether unpleasant. Aside from the twinge of guilt over stealing his brooch.

  At last, he turned back to the door. “I dinna want payment, but I could use a hand.” He glanced over his shoulder, a quick smile tugging his lips. “And shod feet.”

  “Oh.” Cheeks flaming, Rooney dashed inside and tugged on her hose and shoes. She tied a kerchief over her hair, pinched her cheeks for a spot of color, and raced back out. Ruby and Rose stood on either side of McLendon.

  “A door will be lovely.” Ruby sighed.

  “Look at the fence. We willna have to chase the chickens when they’ve gone too far in the woods again.” Rose pranced around flapping her hands.

  “This is no work for bairns. Back inside with ye.” Rooney shooed them away. “Make a tray of bannocks, cream, eggs, and figs for Lord Glèidh. Skedaddle.”

  “Dinna say anything interesting until we get back,” Rose called as the girls scurried away.

  Rooney shook her head. No matter the circumstances, they were a bright spot amidst the world’s gloom. “Apologies. My sisters have forgotten how to behave in front of guests.”

  “They came out earlier when I startled the chickens. I told them not to wake ye.” McLendon bent over several of the shorter boards before selecting one. “Did ye finish the ropes?”

  “I completed what I had, but several more will need to be made if I’m to turn a profit. The last batch of heather honey didna set right. Honestly, I think those bees despise me.”

  “Never have I tasted heather honey. Heather ale, aye. The brewmaster must’ve left clumps of dirt in it.” He shuddered. “Hold the board there. Aye, keep it even.”

  Rooney held the cross board that lashed the planks together at the top as he hammered in nails. He’d rolled back his shirt sleeves to expose forearms covered in thick, dark hair. Corded muscles rippled beneath the tanned skin. No landowner she knew boasted such a physique with their rounded bellies and sallow complexions. McLendon had not an ounce of fat. Nor did he surround himself with pretensions. He was honest and straightforward. Traits she longed to find in a man, but a luxury she could no longer afford for herself. Soon she could put away the mask of the Night Fox. Until then, the weight of deception weighed on her. No more so than when she looked into his clear eyes.

  Rooney cleared her throat as nonchalantly as possible. “Has the Night Fox dared to poke his nose into any new windows, or did he keep safely to his den last evening?”

  “The people slept in peace. I’m grateful to report. If the Fox is wise, he’ll remain in hiding for a time now that word has spread of my searching for him. If, however, he is as foolish as I think him to be, he’ll not resist the thrill of the hunt.”

  “Mayhap ’tis not foolishness. The Fox is canny, aye? Who’s to say he’s not sporting wit
h ye?”

  “I’m betting on that.”

  Rooney’s breath caught. “Does that mean ye have a plan to capture him?”

  He looked at her, confidence in his eyes. “Beag air beag.”

  Little by little. So he would like to think, but Rooney had promised him a chase, and a chase was precisely what Lord Deven McLendon would get.

  “I’m carrying it.” Ruby charged from the cottage with Rose clipping at her heels.

  “Nay, me!”

  “Ye’ll drop it, and there willna be anything to eat. Bring the jug.”

  Rose raced around Ruby and plonked a stoneware jug in front of McLendon. “Drink up.” She stuck her tongue out at Ruby who carefully placed her tray on the door that served as an impromptu table.

  He raised the jug to his lips. Eyes widening, he sputtered and swallowed. He held the bottle away from him as if poisoned. “That’s … I’ve never tasted anything of its kind.”

  Rose beamed. “Sgathach.”

  Groaning inwardly, Rooney took the bottle and smelled the sweet pungency. “Thickened sour milk under cream that’s been churned to froth. A common drink among the crofters to cool a parched throat.” She offered him an apologetic smile as shame burned her inside. He would be accustomed to fine wine, not a poor man’s swill. “Ye needn’t drink it. Ruby will fetch fresh water from the creek.”

  McLendon grabbed the jug from Rooney and tipped it back. He took several deep swallows before coming up for air. His face only twitched once. “The crofters ken what they’re about. Keeps the dust from collecting on yer tongue.” Setting the bottle down, he looked over Ruby’s tray. “Bannocks, fried herring, and what’s this here? Crowdie. Haven’t had that cheese since I was a lad.” Taking a bannock, he scooped the soft white cheese and shoveled it into his mouth. And smiled.

  The pent-up breath eased from Rooney’s lungs. At least there was one thing they could offer that didn’t taste vile.

  “Ye’re Ruby which makes ye Rose.” He pointed to each sister then slid his gaze to Rooney. “Yer parents enjoyed the letter R, did they?”

  “Aye, well, when ye’re born the color of a red deer pelt ’tis best to make the most of it.” Rooney tugged a spring of hair that had slipped from her kerchief’s confines.

  “A deer, no. More like red squirrels. Because they’re so wee.” Catching her loosened hair, he tugged it straight before realizing it, his fingers brushing the bottom of her ear. Delight fluttered in Rooney’s stomach, like butterflies stretching their wings for the first time. If she were to linger in this moment, would he wish to also?

  Clip clop. Clip clop.

  All cheerfulness scattered at the sight of Sir Leslie perched atop his dappled gray horse.

  Squinting from under his fashionable hat, he trotted his horse forward. “My dear, I came to discuss unresolved matters from yesterday, but I see I’ve waited too long to call on you at a proper time. Your guest has me at a disadvantage.”

  Why did he insist on showing up where he was least wanted? And calling her that ridiculous name. As if she would ever consent to becoming his dear. “The rent was paid on time, and I saw no reason to prolong my visit. Surely ye have more important things than to tally accounts with tenants.”

  Sir Leslie flicked the lacy jabot tied about his scrawny neck and narrowed his stare on McLendon. “I might inquire the same for Lord Glèidh. Yet here I find you. You certainly are a man who gets about. The other day at market, yesterday at my home, and now here. Wherever shall I find you next? His majesty’s court?”

  “I doubt the palace doors are in need of repair, but the Misses Corsens’ did. Were ye unaware they have nothing to keep the weather out?” McLendon picked up the hammer. “I ken ye’ve spent much time in England, but have ye no pride in keeping yer land from ruin?”

  “I have numerous tenants, each with a list of complaints the length of my arm. My man has fallen behind in reaching them all. If I’d known the state of affairs, I would have sent him post haste.”

  Rooney held back a bark of laughter. There was no man as there was no list. The tenants had learned to do for themselves or go without. Sir Leslie never lifted a finger unless it was in his own interest. He was all too aware that the people living on his land had no place else to go and weren’t about to complain for the dreary accommodations least they be turned out on their ears.

  “Ye need not worry, sir. Lord Glèidh has things well in hand,” Rooney said.

  McLendon stepped forward, arms braced across his chest that finely put on display the wealth of muscle beneath his shirt. “Since yer man finds himself overworked, there are plenty of strong backs in the village in need of work.”

  “Yes, well. I trust my man and not unknown villagers.” Sir Leslie sniffed. “I’m putting together a dinner party for the local gentry next week. Lords and ladies, a fellow baron or two, and a visiting acquaintance while the House of Lords is in recess. A proper covey of associates for you to mingle with as befitting your status, McLendon.”

  “My status is as servant to my people.”

  “Even so, surely you wish to visit with other land owners. After all, ’tis easy to succeed all together. Helping one another in common interests.”

  “I doubt my interests are the same as the other lords and lairds. Too many believe the crofters are there to serve their laird’s whims when ’tis we who serve them.”

  “The Night Fox is of interest to us all. His capture is a task that should be left to local authorities and the Kiliwhimin garrison soldiers.”

  McLendon shook his head. “The Fox trespasses on my land. I willna leave such an interference in the hands of others. ’Tis my duty as laird to protect my people.”

  If he didn’t speak of her as a common miscreant, Rooney could almost admire his tenacity. It was an odd sensation, and one she wasn’t quite ready to sort out. Finding safety with McLendon on watch yet prickled with dread knowing it was she he hunted.

  “You are hardly the only laird dealing with this nuisance,” Sir Leslie said. “Lord Dalryple informs me that the Fox’s reach extends past Lochaber and Inverness-shire to Argyllshire and Perthshire. A few believe reports that he’s gone as far as Edinburgh.”

  Rooney snorted, quickly covering it with a cough. Argyllshire? She’d never stepped foot off of Logan clan lands much less trekked all the way to Auld Reekie. If she wasn’t careful, her reputation could leak to London. The Hanovarian Elector George would be quivering in his kingly bed. Because of her! What a wee coupe that would be to steal the crown jewels.

  “My, my. He must sprout wings to cover such ground.” Rooney held back a laugh. “Not one of us can hope for escape.”

  “Precisely what Helen Logan was saying when she informed me that Lord Glèidh has accepted an invitation to dine with her tomorrow evening. I felt it only right to have her and the fiscal to my dinner party. She’ll make an excellent dinner companion for you, McLendon. Among other things.” Sir Leslie’s lips tilted with meaning before he looked at Rooney. “My dear, I would be the happiest of men if you would sit as my companion.”

  An immediate and resounding no leapt to Rooney’s lips. Not only would she be forced to suffer Sir Leslie’s presence, but all the other preening peacocks as well. She being no more than a bland field mouse amidst all their gowned finery. And jewels. That crowd never left home without a diamond or two strung about their fleshy necks. One priceless necklace would fill the pantry for years to come. Her sisters would never go without again. She bit back the no.

  “I accept,” Rooney said.

  “I know you don’t think—I beg your pardon?” Sir Leslie stared at her as if she’d spoken from another head.

  “I should be delighted to join yer party.”

  Blinking several times as if to understand her meaning, a smile slicked across his face. “Wonderful.”

  “Can we go?” Rose clasped her hands under her chin. “Please, oh, please! I’ve always wanted to sit at a long table with lots of food. Will ye serve swan?”

/>   Ruby smacked her on the back of the head. “Swans are difficult to come by this far north. If ye read more, ye’d know that.”

  “I dinna need yer musty books.” Rose pinched Ruby’s arm, eliciting a howl of pain.

  Rooney should’ve sent them inside, but there was a chance the squabbling would frighten Sir Leslie away. “Girls. Wheesht yerselves.”

  Sir Leslie’s lip curled in disdain. “There isn’t room for children, I’m afraid. Perhaps another time.”

  Rose’s eyes widened in eagerness. “Next month then?”

  His mouth opened and closed like a trout on the line, desperate to free himself from the hook.

  “I accept yer invitation as well,” McLendon said.

  Sir Leslie sighed in relief as he slipped from Rose’s expertly cast hook. “Then I shall send round the formal letter soon. Rooney, dear, my man will come by tomorrow to inspect for other problems in need of repair.” Touching a boney finger to his plumed hat, he spurred his horse away.

  Shaking off his departing presence, Rooney stared at the cottage. The sagging angles, the wall cracks, the warped timber. “Do ye think we can finish today?” She looked at McLendon. “If we dinna, some poor man will be forced to come here and serve as Sir Leslie’s spy.”

  “A fate I would wish on no man.” He held up his hammer. “Ye get the nails, and I’ll hammer.”

  A few more hours spent with Lord Deven McLendon. Rooney couldn’t stop her smile as she retrieved the bag of nails from the grass and plopped them atop the door. She handed him one. “Helen Logan, eh?”

  Whack. His gaze shifted to her then back to the nail. Whack. “She talks too much.”

  “Apparently about ye.”

  He grunted. Whack.

  Jealousy flashed through Rooney. She tamped it down. Or tried to. “Sure’n she’ll make a lovely dinner companion.”

  “As lovely as Sir Leslie.”

  Rooney rolled her eyes. “They should pair up.”

  A muscle ticked along his jaw. “Then why did ye accept his invitation?”

  “Why did ye?”

  “I think it best to discover what these lords and ladies have to offer.”