A Highlander’s Love: Highlands Ever After

by Adams, Aileen

  “You trained them to kill, then?”

  “When the situation calls for killing,” he assured her, though this was not quite the truth. He was more than glad to let her believe it to be, so long as it meant containing her impulsive ways.

  Though in his heart, he could not deny how much more appealing her fiery nature made her appear. She’d already captured his imagination—he’d asked himself where she’d come from and what had brought her to his land more than once. Where was her family?

  Was there a man somewhere in the highlands, searching for her? An intended, perhaps? It was none of his concern, he knew, but that did not stop him from wondering. She was a mystery to him, and he’d had very little to turn his thoughts toward these last weeks.

  Little to amuse or intrigue him, at any rate.

  A flash of firelight against the metal brought him back to the present moment and reminded him there was little amusement to be had. Like it or not, he’d shot a woman. Accusations would fly and soon he’d find himself at the mercy of the law.

  A lifetime of flaunting the rules was bound to work against him in this situation. Had he not ridden through the village in plain sight of Colin Ramsey and his men, wearing his clan tartan in spite of the Act of Proscription? It was a miracle he’d not been sent off to some hellish plantation long before now.

  He would not escape this if the lass reported what he’d done.

  “Where am I?” she asked, still holding the knife with the blade pointed toward him. “Do not lie to me.”

  “How would ye know whether I lied?”

  “I will know.” There was such certainty in her voice, in her level gaze. Her hand stopped trembling.

  “I will speak the truth, then. Ye found your way to the estate of Dougal Craig.” He performed a slight bow. “I am Dougal Craig.”

  Confusion washed across her face. “I do not know that name.”

  His guess was correct, then. She was foreign. All the better for him. “Perhaps ye ought not venture onto a man’s land without knowledge of him,” he suggested.

  “I was lost. I meant you no harm.”

  “Ye ought to have said as much,” he reminded her, sour. “All of this might have been avoided.”

  “I told you already,” she snapped. “I was frightened. Terribly so. You could never understand how frightened, being a man and… so large. Strong.”

  He could see the truth in this—he was neither cold nor unfeeling. “Ye are fortunate I happen to be a decent sort. Another might have taken advantage of the situation.” Why he felt the need to scold her was a mystery. She was not a child, nor was she anything to him.

  He’d always harbored grudging respect for anyone with the nerve to defend themselves, even when their defense was nothing more than a well-aimed rock or a knife held in a trembling hand. The lass seemed the type he would not mind knowing, were the situation different.

  This was not the time to be forming attachments or even to make friends. Not when he’d nearly killed her. Not when she refused to lower that damned knife.

  She snorted. “Decent? I’ve been told of how different life is in the highlands, but never did I imagine the shooting of a woman to be considered decent.”

  “Damn it all, woman!” His shouting caused even the dogs to cower slightly, ears lowering.

  The lass did not shrink back. “Ah, so that is the way of it? I knew your true nature would show itself before long. You cannot pretend with me. I see through you as if you were made of glass.”

  “Fine thanks for bringing ye here, caring for ye. Sitting up with ye through the night.”

  “Guilt. Nothing more,” she scoffed. “Besides, I should hope you would, as you were the reason—”

  “Enough!” Again, she’d brought out his temper. It was a shameful thing, to be sure, how easily she stirred him. Shame had a great deal to do with it, in fact. The shame of knowing she was correct.

  She looked at the tray, eyeing it with suspicion now. “Why do you bring the food to me? Why does your housekeeper not do it?”

  “I have no housekeeper.”

  “None?” Now her suspicious gaze turned to him again. “You care for yourself? Entirely?”

  “Aye.” Not the complete truth, but the fewer people the lass interacted with, the better. Just why instinct compelled him to remove her from all others, he could not say, but the impulse was strong.

  Besides, the only other person living within those walls would be of no help to her, and the two of them would never meet. Enid had a way of sneaking about without intending to deceive, using the stairs behind the kitchen to move from that room to her attic chambers. She rarely ventured from that part of the house—it would be a simple matter to forget her presence entirely, were it not for the meals she prepared.

  The lass closed her arms over herself, only now understanding the situation in full measure. “You have been caring for me on your own? Without the help of a woman?”

  “Aye,” he grunted, lowering his gaze to the coverlet. “I have. Though if ye believe I took liberties, I assure ye, I was far more concerned with keeping ye alive.”

  Though this, too, was not entirely the truth. Once he’d been certain the lass would not die, his awareness of her as being more than a wounded person—someone he’d wounded, at that—had begun to tease at the corners of his mind. She was a woman. A fine one, at that, strong and well-built.

  To think, after having spent so long away from the presence of a woman’s body, his first contact would be the result of washing blood away from a wound. Of removing a blood-soaked jacket and tunic to reveal bloodied flesh. There was nothing carnal about such an experience.

  Now, watching her and listening to her speak, she intrigued him more than ever. She was the sort who might stir carnal thoughts deep within a man, it was clear. If that man happened to be Dougal Craig.

  Which was wrong. He turned his back to her, both for the sake of her modesty and his conflicting feelings. “Eat,” he muttered while gesturing for the dogs to leave her alone. They’d frightened her enough for the evening.

  Before swinging the door closed, he added, “And do not raise a knife to me again unless ye intend to fight a battle ye will never win.” Yes, let her think about that. Let her remember who held the power here.

  6

  Never had the days passed so slowly.

  Never had Tyra known such confusion. So many questions. So few answers.

  It seemed each passing hour brought with it new questions to ponder. New mysteries.

  Why did the man live alone in what was surely a large house?

  Why did he avoid seeing her? Speaking with her? Never did he linger more than the length of time it took to leave a tray of food at her door, morning and night. He’d brought hot water from the kitchen once, that she might bathe herself once the swelling of her ankle reduced and allowed her to walk.

  In an extremely surprising act, he’d even found her lost pack and left it outside her door. She’d imagined it gone for always, lost inside a crevasse, yet it had appeared—worn, filthy, but hers. Inside were a fresh tunic, a dress, a shift. The importance of this simple gesture had brought tears to her eyes.

  Yet that was the entirety of their time together. The knowledge that he’d been thoughtful enough to search for her pack. The sound of his footfalls in the corridor. Even that sound sometimes changed, something she’d come to realize within the first few days of her convalescence. At times, he walked with a heavy tread, accompanied by the sound of tapping over the stone floor.

  The dogs, no doubt, following their master with unbreaking devotion.

  Other times, however, there was no such tapping, and the footfalls were softer. Slower, even. Yet until she was able to rise from her bed without taking time to catch her breath—her shoulder still pained her terribly, the slightest movement enough to sweep aside awareness of anything else—there would be no chance of catching this mysterious person, for the corridor was always empty by the time Tyra opened the door.
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  Had Dougal lied about living alone? Why would he do so? If there were someone else living beneath his roof, someone aware of her and able to bring trays of food to her door, why did they not think to enter? To introduce themselves, to ask after her health?

  Such questions were like a knot in Tyra’s stomach, tightening to the point of making her feel ill. What if he’d forbidden this person to speak to her? As if she were a prisoner?

  Was she?

  On the other hand, no one had harmed her. There were no cross words, no shouts, no threats aside from that which had been delivered during her first and only conversation with Dougal Craig—to be fair, she’d fully intended to use the knife had he laid a finger on her.

  Then again, he’d laid them upon her while she was unaware, had he not? And she was none the worse for it.

  She’d been well-fed and was as comfortable as she could imagine being in her condition. He’d not been cruel. Merely absent. Why, then, was she still anxious and troubled? Why was there a sense of dread hanging over waking moments, of which there were more now that she’d stopped sleeping so much as her healing progressed?

  By her count, it had been seven days since she’d woken in the grand bed, and she’d seen nothing more than the empty corridor. Curiosity compelled her to explore, even if she feared her host’s reaction. There had to be a reason why he wished to keep her contained, did there not?

  The man did not know her if he believed she would remain locked away for long.

  As such, she crept to the door and opened it slowly, holding her breath as if that would make it simpler to go unnoticed. Had Dougal taken the dogs with him, wherever he went?

  A low snarl told her he had not.

  The moment the door was open more than the smallest crack, a wet nose inserted itself into the bedchamber. So he’d left one of the dogs to bar her exit from the chamber, the devil. Did he wish to drive her mad?

  “Be gone with you,” she whispered, holding the door in place and hoping the beast was not strong enough to push further into the room. “Back to the fires of hell with you.”

  This did nothing to dissuade the beast, though a few moments of sniffing and soft whimpering told Tyra the creature was perhaps more curious than vicious. Was the possibility of exploration worth taking her life into her hands and opening the door further? Should she test the beast’s intentions?

  “Do not make me regret this,” she whispered once her mind was made up, holding a trembling hand near the dog’s nose. “Please, I beg you.” All she received in response was a tentative lick to the back of her fingers, which she supposed was better than losing those fingers entirely.

  She eased the door open further and found an eager companion awaiting her, ears perked up. So the dogs were not entirely terrible—or was it this dog in particular? “Tell your brothers I am not a threat to them,” she murmured, tiptoeing out into the corridor. The dog merely tipped his dark, sleek head to the side as if trying to understand.

  The corridor was silent, as ever, lined on both sides by wooden doors which resembled the one in her chamber. She’d studied the carvings: mountains, men in battle, horses and hounds. The sort of thing triumphant, proud men would wish to view each time they entered or left their bedchamber.

  She supposed.

  The doors were all closed. She tested one of them, easing it open, and found a bed and hearth similar to the ones she’d become accustomed to these last days. They looked unused.

  When was the last time there’d been more than Dougal living here? It struck her as a sad thing, this large house going nearly empty for so long. It ought to be filled with voices, laughter, life. Certainly it had been built with such things in mind, and outfitted with grand furnishings and tapestries and every comfort a person could ask for.

  Yet another mystery. What had become of the household? Where had they gone?

  She crept along with the dog at her side—strange, but she felt a great deal safer thanks to its presence, when she’d been all but terror-stricken by the thought of Dougal’s dogs before now—until she came to a set of wide stairs. “What do you think?” she whispered, glancing down at her new guardian. “Ought I look about?”

  Another tilt of the head. “I suppose I should,” she decided with a lift of her uninjured shoulder while holding her left elbow in her right hand. A sling would be helpful, but all Tyra had at her disposal was her clothing and the linens in the bedchamber. Tearing her host’s bedclothes might have been considered a step too far.

  One careful step after the other, always looking about to be certain Dougal wasn’t lurking about, watching for her. Yet not a sound other than her own breathing and the dog’s tapping on the stone could be heard.

  By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs and found herself standing in a grand entry hall which extended far above her head, she was too overcome by the sheer size of the place to care much for anything else. A monstrously large, heavy iron chandelier hung overhead, candles unlit, wax which had long since hardened spattered over the stone below.

  How long had it taken to craft something so grand? How would one go about lighting the candles, so far overhead? When was the last time such an endeavor had been attempted?

  The dog nudged her thigh with its nose as if urging her to continue. She shook herself from her reverie and moved on, head swinging back and forth as she took in her surroundings. What she could see of the outside of the house after craning her neck and looking out the window of her bedchamber told her the outer walls were of stone, yet the inside featured great wooden archways, walls paneled in pine that would have glowed warm and welcoming in earlier days when the braziers positioned along the walls were lit.

  Now, there was nothing but a sense of decay about the place. The notion of what might have been in earlier times. “Are there spirits wandering the rooms and halls?” she asked the dog as they continued on. Perhaps that was who she’d heard outside her bedchamber—though the notion of a wandering spirit leaving food at her door struck her as unlikely.

  It was not long before Tyra discovered the answer to that particular mystery. At the far end of yet another long, door-lined corridor sat a large, open room which she knew at first glance was the kitchen. A trio of enormous hearths were carved into the stone wall at the far end, large enough to hold what she’d imagine would be a banquet’s worth of roasting meat, baking bread.

  There was a small fire in one of them, and before it stood a small, grey-haired woman wearing a simple dress and cap. She added additional wood to the blaze, then placed a hand against her lower back when she straightened up.

  There was someone else here, after all! Why had Dougal lied? “Hello,” Tyra murmured, wishing to avoid startling the woman. She appeared rather frail. When there was no response or even a hint of recognition of no longer being alone, Tyra cleared her throat. “I said, hello. Who are you? Why have you not shown yourself to me before now?”

  The woman remained with her back to the doorway, not a single twitch of a muscle revealing that she cared much for Tyra’s presence or even acknowledged it. Perhaps she resented this new, unwelcome presence in the otherwise empty house and would fly into a rage if provoked. The thought of this sent Tyra backstepping out of the room before such an event could take place.

  What a strange house this was. What was Dougal Craig about if he would not even admit to having a cook in the kitchen? Why so many secrets?

  Another nudge from her new companion. “What to do?” she whispered once she was far enough from the kitchen to feel comfortable giving voice to her concerns. “Where should I go?”

  The dog surely could not understand, yet he turned and led her to one of the closed doors along the corridor, coming to a stop before one of them. “You think I should go inside?” she asked. Who was she to argue?

  Besides, the dog lived there. His permission was as good as any to someone who’d spent seven days wondering what else there was to know about her surroundings.

  She pushed the door op
en, taking her time. What if Dougal was inside, or some other secret resident he’d seen fit to pretend did not live there?

  The only thing which greeted her upon fully opening the heavy door—carved just as those on the second floor—was a room containing a table piled high with papers, books scattered about and stacked on the floor, the chairs, everywhere the man who claimed it as his own could find space for them.

  A woman’s touch was needed in a room such as this. It had not been aired in some time, either, and Tyra stifled a cough as dust swirled up upon her inspecting one book, then another. If she were allowed to do so, she would have opened a window and allowed freshness inside.

  As it was, she ought not have trespassed at all. Dougal would be furious if he knew she’d entered his private study, which this appeared to be. Her conscience reminded her of this, along with her sense of self-preservation.

  Curiosity won out over them, curiosity which had grown to startling proportions over her convalescence until she could scarcely sleep for wondering about the man who all but held her captive. She simply had to know who he was, what he was about.

  With one eye always on the door, then, she inspected some of what she found on the work table. A ledger book, surely, laid open with its columns of figures plainly visible.

  Could this be true? Her mouth fell open at the sheer amount of wealth referenced in these figures. Why, if this was true and these were accounts of the Craig estate, there was a fortune to be had.

  Yet Dougal lived so simply, the way she would imagine a miser living if given his way. The furnishings and tapestries were not new, having been acquired many years earlier. There was no household staff to account for aside from the cook, no one to feed but himself and his dogs. What did he intend to do with this wealth of his?

  It was none of her concern, and she knew it, but this did not stop her natural curiosity from blooming anew. It was one matter to believe the man the last of a dying family, barely keeping body and soul together. This was another matter entirely.