When he lifted Fiona from the saddle and set her down on the grass, her legs folded under her. Only his swift action saved her from hitting the ground. She was sick to the devil of not being able to stand on her own two feet, but there was little she could do about it. It was only a few days since she’d nearly drowned in the shipwreck that had killed Colin.
With grim stoicism, she submitted as he carried her inside and set her on a rough cot against the wall. The interior of the cottage was dim, but she caught an impression of a few simple pieces of furniture and a cold hearth. At this point, she hardly cared, as long as there was a bed and the roof was intact.
She was too tired to talk much, but one thing she had to say. “Thank you.”
“Och, it’s nothing, lassie,” he said gently, kneeling to remove her half-boots. “Sleep now.”
“Aye,” she whispered before she fell asleep, worn out with fear and the long ride, and the day’s turbulent emotions.
Sometime during the day, Fiona stirred to hear heavy rain pounding on the thatch. The laird had been right about the weather. She hardly cared. She was warm and safe—when the weather turned dreich, there were worse places to be than a snug Highland bothy. A fire blazed merrily in the grate, and Diarmid had covered her with his coat. His spicy scent filled her senses once more, helping to calm her fears.
On the far side of the cottage, the laird slept on the packed dirt floor. He used his saddle as a pillow. The sight of him gave her the same reassurance as his scent. She settled back into immediate slumber.
Now Fiona emerged from the deep sleep of exhaustion. She opened blurry eyes on lamplight and a tall, dark-haired man watching her from where he sat among the shadows.
Mr. Mactavish. Diarmid.
She felt no disorientation. She knew exactly where she was.
“Better?” he asked softly.
Gingerly, stiff from the long ride, she slid away his heavy coat and shifted to perch on the side of the bed. She felt like she’d been beaten—and she knew that feeling well enough. Aggravating how weak she still was. She needed to regain her strength soon, or she’d be no use to Christina.
“Aye, thank you.”
“I’m glad. I’m sorry I pushed ye so hard yesterday.”
Her lips turned down in a smile that was close to a grimace. “I’m not, if it means we outrun the Grants.”
“I wouldnae worry about them for the moment.” He shrugged. “I’ll be verra surprised if they track us so far.”
So would she. She ran a hand over her untidy mess of hair. What an absolute fright she must look. Diarmid would wonder if he shared the house with a witch.
Her mind slammed to an appalled standstill. Good Lord, when had she started to worry whether a man approved of her appearance? At Bancavan, she’d tried as hard as she could to avoid masculine notice altogether. “What time is it?”
“About four.”
“In the afternoon?” If it was, she’d slept most of the day away.
“Aye.”
He rose from his spindly chair and crossed to offer his hand. “There’s a bucket of water in the corner, if you’d like to wash.”
“Thank you,” she said, taking his hand. She stumbled as she stood but gestured him away when he made a move to pick her up again.
“No, don’t carry me. I need to stand up for myself.”
His lips twitched. “As long as ye are managing to stand.”
She tottered toward a chair and watched as he tugged his coat over his shoulders. “Are you going out in the rain?”
“I willnae melt, lassie, and the lean-to is only across the way. I’ll go and check on Sigurn to give ye some privacy. Take your time. When I get back, I’ll fix us something to eat. The laird here keeps the bothy stocked, in case travelers are stranded. As you’ve seen, the weather in these braes can turn on a sixpence.”
“Thank you.” She started to feel like a parrot, saying the same thing over and over again.
Only after he’d disappeared out the door did she notice that the water he’d left her was steaming with heat and he’d put a folded handkerchief near the bucket. He’d also put out a small cake of soap and a comb.
More silly tears stung her eyes. Such simple concessions to bring her to the brink of losing control, but for years she’d survived without an ounce of kindness or consideration from people who owed her their care. Diarmid’s thoughtfulness made her feel like sinking down to the ground and howling like a lost bairn.
By the time he returned, she felt much better. Taking a cat bath in hot water had felt almost luxurious. Tidying the birds’ nest of her hair made her feel less like something that same cat had dragged in.
Without a mirror, she didn’t try to do anything elaborate with the style. Once she’d combed out the knots, she braided it into one long plait and tied it with the pale blue ribbon threaded through the neck of her chemise.
How she wished she had some fresh clothes to put on. After yesterday’s travel, her plain gray frock was stained and creased, and she’d love a change of linen.
Diarmid appeared in the doorway and flung off his coat. Fiona was used to seeing him dressed comme il faut. The man before her was no longer the elegant Laird of Invertavey. His thick dark hair was wet and windswept, and after the long ride and sleeping rough, his shirt was in worse state than her dress. Dark stubble shadowed that determined jaw and lent him a disreputable air. Even a frightened mouse of a woman like her found this rough-hewn version of her rescuer intriguing.
“Sigurn is all tucked up and enjoying her oats.” That sharp black gaze ran over Fiona with more concern than covetousness. Still, an instinct of self-protection had her folding her arms in front of her breasts.
“I’m sure,” she said, and heard a trace of nervousness in her voice. “I hope you gave her an extra pat for me.”
“Aye, I did.”
“Thank you…Diarmid,” she said. Shaping his name with her lips felt like a forbidden thrill. “I feel considerably more human after my wash.”
Another expression of gratitude, although at least this time she managed to stand firm on her feet while she made it. She was sick and tired of drooping around like a cut rose left too long in a dry vase.
His smile of approval shouldn’t make her feel like he’d just given her a wonderful present. But the flash of straight white teeth against the darkness of his beard set her heart leaping about in a most disconcerting manner.
“Sit down while I make us a meal.” He pulled one of the chairs out from the table. “There’s some of Rose’s food left, enough for a bit of supper, anyway.”
“Let me help.”
He made a dismissive gesture. “Och, you’ll just get in the way, lassie. Take the chance to rest while ye can.”
“What about you?”
“Dinna worry your head about me. I’m as tough as old boots, no’ a delicate wee bluebell like ye.”
A delicate bluebell? Nobody named Grant would call her that. More of those silly tears pricked at her eyes as she watched the laird bustling about. He treated her like a lady. He always had, but something about his courtesy now, when they were alone together in this hidden glen, sliced at her heart.
“What if it keeps raining?” she asked as he sat opposite her.
On the table, he’d set out two wooden plates with a couple of wizened apples from last year, some hard yellow cheese, and half a small loaf of bread. Wooden cups held more ale.
“There’s a stock of basic food in the cottage. We willnae go hungry if we’re trapped here. In any case, the rain will only last a few more hours.”
This time, she didn’t waste time questioning his prediction. Instead, she turned her attention to their makeshift meal. It was a long time since they’d stopped and eaten. She was starving. Only with difficulty did she stop herself falling on the food like a hungry dog on a bone. The bread from the Thistle was a day old, but she didn’t care. The cheese was deliciously sharp, and the apples had a rich sweetness.
“Where
are we heading?” She knew enough of Diarmid to guess that he wasn’t wandering around the wilds with no idea where he wanted to go. More of that appealing competence.
“My friend Fergus Mackinnon is Laird of Achnasheen. He’ll offer us a safe place to stay, while we decide what happens next. I cannae take ye back to Invertavey. That’s the first place the Grants will look.”
“Is it far?”
“We’ll stay here tonight, until the weather clears. If we leave early tomorrow, we should make Achnasheen by nightfall.”
She was surprised to look down and find her plate empty. When she glanced up again, she caught Diarmid watching her with a steady gaze. His expression was grave, almost austere.
“Now, Fiona, it’s time ye told me exactly what’s going on,” he said in a voice that invited no argument. “And nae more lies.”
She’d felt better after some food. Now her dinner coagulated into a cold, bitter lump in her stomach. Her hand shaking, she set her cup on the table. After all he’d done for her, she owed this man the truth. But telling him everything exposed her as a liar and a thief.
And an ingrate. Even before he risked his life to save her, she’d given him poor return for his hospitality.
“Diarmid…” she said, still not used to saying his name, even less used to hearing him call her Fiona. It shouldn’t sound like an endearment, especially when his tone was so stern. But it did. God help her, it did.
He slammed one palm flat on the table. The sudden display of anger startled her and made her regard him with wary eyes.
“Enough,” he snapped. “Nae more evasions. Nae more prevarications. By God, you’ve put me on the wrong side of the law, Fiona. The least ye owe me in return is to tell me why.”
Chapter 12
Diarmid battled his unaccustomed surge of temper. He didn’t want to frighten her, when he could tell she’d been frightened too often already, but he’d been seething since he’d discovered Fiona tethered to that bed in the Thistle.
“The law?” Her eyes widened and a puzzled crease appeared between her fine eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“For heaven’s sake, stop lying to me,” he said in frustration, running one hand through his still-damp hair. The crossing from the lean-to to the bothy had been dreich in the extreme. “Ye cannae trust me even now?”
After nearly a week of her deceit, he should be proof against the palpable innocence in her expression. But despite knowing that every second word out of that rose-pink mouth had been false, he still wanted to believe her.
As he’d grown up, a reluctant hint of contempt had tinged his sympathy for his father. When it came to forgiving his faithless wife, the man’s gullibility had begun to seem like willful stupidity. After a few days with Fiona Grant, Diarmid understood his father much better.
“I’m not lying.” She must have read the way his expression closed against her, and she went on more urgently. “Not now. I know I’ve lied to you in the past, and I’m sorry. I had no choice in what I did. I hope you’ll see that when I explain. But I truly don’t understand what you mean when you talk about breaking the law. I…stole from you, but that’s me, not you. And while it’s no excuse for taking your money, I can’t tell you how much I loathed doing it.”
That he believed. When the purloined coins had hit the floor, she’d looked sick with shame.
“That’s no’ what I mean,” he said, although he’d been appalled to discover that she was a thief as well as a liar, and probably an adulteress as well. Why else did a woman leave her marriage, if not to run to a lover? His mother had never had any other reason. “The Grants could bring a case against me for kidnapping.”
“Kidnapping?” she echoed, as if the word made no sense.
He got up. He was rarely angry. In the week since meeting Fiona Grant, he’d been angry more often than he’d been in the previous ten years. Now he was too furious to sit still. He stalked across to the fire and stoked it until its heat rivaled the blaze inside him. Although he kept his back turned, Diarmid felt her watching as the poker stabbed at the burning peat.
Impatience sharpened his voice. “You’re a man’s wife, and I’ve stolen ye away.”
When he turned to face her, shock had made those already wide eyes impossibly wider. “Mr. Mactavish—Diarmid—I’m nobody’s wife.”
A flush marked her slanted cheekbones, but her eyes didn’t waver. She was so beautiful. Why did she have to be so bloody beautiful? If anyone should be proof against a pretty face that concealed a false heart, it should be him. But each time he looked at Fiona, every muscle clenched with helpless longing.
“Your finger shows the mark where ye wore a wedding ring.” Stinging bitterness edged his answer. He still didn’t like a liar, even if it seemed he’d thrown in his lot with one. “John says you’ve borne a child. Ye answer to Mrs. Grant. Allan Grant says you’re Thomas’s wife.”
The cynicism hardening her expression sat oddly with her elegant prettiness. “And you believed him without question?”
“I had nae reason no’ to.”
“No, I suppose you didn’t,” she said grimly.
Diarmid made an irritated sound in his throat. How the devil did she manage to make him feel like he was in the wrong?
“I always knew ye were lying. Right from the first. When the Grants turned up looking for their lost kinswoman, at least I knew why. You’re a wife on the run from a husband she doesnae overmuch like.”
She stood to face him. “No, that’s one thing I’m not. I was married for nine years to Allan and Thomas’s brother. Ian Grant died a year ago, and I’m his widow.”
A widow…
Although she’d spoken softly, the words resounded in his ears like the toll of a huge bell. Diarmid stared at her in shock and sagged as his self-righteousness flowed away, taking all his breath with it.
It was the obvious answer. Why didn’t he think of it before? More proof that this girl turned his usually reliable brain to porridge.
“I…see.”
That clear blue gaze sliced at his heart like a razor. “If you believed I was an adulteress on top of all my other sins, why on earth did you come to get me?”
“Devil if I ken,” he snapped, suffering a shame of his own. He wanted her, he always had. While he had no intention of doing anything about it, he was still uncomfortably aware that he wasn’t as white as snow when it came to mixed motives. “I didnae trust the Grants.”
A crooked smile twisted that lush mouth. “That speaks well of your instincts.”
“And Allan and Thomas werenae kind.”
Her slender throat moved as she swallowed. “No, they’re not.”
“And on top of all that, I’m a blasted fool.”
She shook her head. “No, a good man, but one who perhaps suffers from an excess of chivalry.” She paused. “I’d think after what your mother did, you’d have no sympathy for a woman who abandoned her family.”
Shock clouted him on the head, hard as a lump of wood. “You ken about that?” Before she could answer, he went on, his voice heavy with weariness. “Why would ye no’? My mother’s adventures were the most exciting things to happen at Invertavey until…well, until you arrived, frankly. I assume Mags told ye.”
“Not Mags. She was the soul of discretion. But the younger lassies were a wee bit more forthcoming when I asked about you.”
“I suppose ye wanted to know what manner of man had taken you in,” he said with a hint of grimness. Diarmid wasn’t used to people questioning his character.
“I knew what manner of man you were,” she said in a level voice. “Or at least I soon did.”
“Then why didnae ye trust me enough to tell me the truth?”
Her lips turned down. “I’d learned the hard way that I was better off relying only on myself.”
He hid a wince at “the hard way.” He’d seen and heard enough since he’d met the Grants to guess what that meant. Hell, what he’d give for a chance to smash Allan Grant’s smug smil
e back behind his yellow teeth. “If you’d told me ye were in trouble, I’d have offered to help, instead of handed ye over to those bastards.”
“By the time I’d worked that out, I was too deeply mired in deception to fight my way out.” Her gaze settled on his face. “I owe you my gratitude and an apology.”
He made a dismissive gesture. “I dinna want either. What I want is the full story.”
Diarmid crossed to pull her chair out for her. What he really wanted to do was take her hand and offer some physical comfort. He knew better than to risk the contact. Not with only the two of them in this cottage and a bed waiting against the wall behind him.
The last thing she needed was his desire. Now he looked more closely, he saw the marks of a hunted animal in her demeanor. Vulnerability flashed in those winter blue eyes and as she faced him down, she looked both alone and lonely.
“Thank you,” she whispered, sitting with that instinctive grace that always made his heart lurch. “After all my lies, I can’t blame you for being suspicious of me.”
“Och, the time for keeping secrets is well and truly past. Tell me everything, Fiona.” Wanting to reassure her, he dredged up a smile as he took his seat. “I cannae help ye, until I ken just what we’re up against.”
***
We …
Fiona stared at this remarkable man who proclaimed himself so unconditionally her defender. Since her father’s death ten years ago, nobody had championed her. Hearing someone declare they were on her side was overwhelming. After being alone and powerless for so long, the change was too much to take in.
As she stared into that dark, intense face, something told her that she was safe to trust Diarmid Mactavish. Her gaze dwelled on the strong bones of his face. The wide forehead. The marked black brows, currently drawn together in a frown of concern—for her. The high Celtic cheekbones. The lordly nose. The determined jaw.
He’d taken her in and asked nothing in return for his kindness. Even after she’d repaid his hospitality with lies and theft, he’d defied the Grants to save her. And believed he was risking arrest by doing so.
The Highlander’s Lost Lady: The Lairds Most Likely Book 3 Page 10