The Highlander’s Lost Lady: The Lairds Most Likely Book 3

by Anna Campbell

  The next few seconds became an agonizing nightmare of suspense. It seemed to take the older man an hour to get into position. Beside him, Fergus heard the woman’s unsteady breathing and what he thought was a whispered prayer or two.

  He realized she wasn’t quite as unemotional about her parent’s plight as she pretended. He liked her better for the hint of vulnerability, and for her courage in keeping it to herself.

  This time, he didn’t waste his time telling her to stand back, although if the coach went into the burn, it would take half the bank. The mudslide would carry her away with it.

  “That’s it, Papa. Bravo.”

  “Give me room, madam,” Fergus said curtly.

  “Of course.” Before he had an instant to remark on her sudden cooperation, she went on. “I’ll hold you steady while you bring him out.”

  Fergus didn’t have the breath to consign her to Hades, although he wanted to. When she stepped down, the coach gave another alarming wobble. As Coker struggled to keep a grip on the shaft, he swore in some incomprehensible Glaswegian patois.

  “Coraggio, Papa.” Fergus heard how she strove to keep her tone bright. “You won’t be in there much longer.”

  “Try and maneuver yourself out. If I pull you, I might damage your leg.” If only he’d had the luxury of splinting the break before bringing the man out, but the carriage was too close to going over.

  “Don’t let me go, per favore,” the man said shakily, struggling to stand on one foot. The movement set the coach shuddering again.

  “Coker, hold on!” the woman shouted.

  Fergus reached in, trying not to upset the vehicle, then felt surprisingly strong hands grab his waist and ground him from behind. The Italian fellow gave a broken cry of agony as he made a clumsy hop toward Fergus. There was no time for niceties. With every second, the carriage tilted at a steeper angle.

  “I won’t let you fall, sir,” Fergus said.

  “Papa, listen to the man,” the woman said.

  “Let me go, lassie. I need to step back if he’s to get out.”

  “Very well,” the woman said. Despite the fraught circumstances, he noted that for the first time, she did what she was told.

  Praying the carriage wouldn’t tip over without his weight to hold it steady, Fergus retreated backward onto the muddy road, pulling the Italian as he went. Inch by inch, the older man came forward, then with an awkward movement, more stumble than step, he toppled through the door.

  Fergus lurched forward to catch him before he put any weight on his broken leg. As the man popped free of the cabin, the yellow traveling coach pitched to the side, then slid into the flood, taking a great slice of the bank with it.

  “Oof,” Fergus grunted as he took the injured man’s weight in his arms.

  “Hell’s bells,” Coker gasped, jumping back. He only just avoided the shaft knocking him into the water, too.

  The carriage bobbed like a cork on top of the rushing water, then with a loud creak, it sank up to its shattered windows, and the current swept it away. Macushla and Brecon barked and dashed down the bank in pursuit, finding all of this a grand adventure.

  Bracing his booted feet against the slippery ground, Fergus shifted his grip on the groaning Italian. The injured man was as tall as he was and twice as wide. His bulk made it no easy task to keep him upright. Straining to balance under his burden, Fergus hardly looked up as with a bang, the wrecked carriage jammed on a rocky islet about five hundred yards downstream.

  The woman slid her shoulder beneath her father’s arm, mercifully taking some of the weight off Fergus. “Papa, are you all right?”

  Gasping for breath, Fergus shifted to the other side to prop the Italian up. Even with two of them supporting him, the man’s weight was crushing.

  “Porca miseria, my leg hurts.” Under thick gray hair, the man’s face was as white as new snow on the mountains. He, like the woman, was dressed in the height of fashion.

  After much grunting and groaning, and some savage swearing from Papa that Fergus didn’t need translated, they managed to swing the older man onto the grass verge.

  “Can you hold him up?” Fergus asked her.

  “Papa, lean on me and balance on your good leg,” she said calmly. By God, Fergus had to give her credit, she was cool in a crisis.

  He swept his greatcoat from his shoulders and laid it over the grass, then helped the woman lower her father onto the thick wool. That would at least keep the injured man from the worst of the damp.

  The woman unfastened her red cloak and placed it over her father. Fergus bit back a protest that she exposed herself to the elements. There was no particular reason for her to heed him, apart from the fact that he was a man and in the right. But every atom of his masculine soul protested at leaving a lady to shiver on a hillside that belonged to him.

  She sank down to cradle her father’s head on her lap. “How is that now, Papa?”

  “Better.” The man’s lips twisted as he attempted to smile. “If I cut back on the spaghetti, it will be easier to haul me about like a bag of wheat.”

  She managed a smile in return. Not a very convincing one. All three of them must be aware that leaving him on the wet, rough grass was a temporary solution.

  Now that the immediate threat to life retreated, Fergus realized how cold he was. He wasn’t wearing a hat—he’d expected to be sitting beside his own fireside by nightfall, with a glass of the local spirit in his hand. His hair was sodden, and icy rain trickled down the back of his neck.

  The woman must be freezing, too. Beneath the cloak, she wore a blue traveling dress that clung close enough to reveal a bonny, if not overly plump bosom, and a hint of curved hips and long legs. Her black hair was tied up in some folderol around her head. Or at least that must have been the plan. The persistent rain weighted her hair and sent tendrils snaking down around that fascinating face.

  “You, coachman, get your bony arse over here and give your coat to the lady before I boot ye into the burn.”

  Sullenly, the man approached and unbuttoned his coat. In the rain, Fergus couldn’t be sure, but the man didn’t smell of drink. Rank incompetence rather than drunkenness must be to blame for this accident.

  With visible reluctance, the woman accepted the coat and fumbled until it covered her shoulders. “Thank you, Coker.”

  “My pleasure, miss.” He couldn’t have sounded less sincere, and Fergus fought the urge to shove him into the water anyway.

  The man trudged back to the horses. By now, the poor beasts were so cowed, they’d forsaken all urge to bolt. They didn’t raise their heads when Macushla and Brecon wove around their legs in a canine game.

  “He’s my servant, not yours,” the woman said.

  “He’s utterly useless is what he is,” Fergus muttered, straightening the coat to offer her better cover from the rain. “I fear his coat’s none too clean, and it might have fleas, but you’ll freeze wearing nothing but that becoming gown.”

  “I’m glad you admire my style,” she said drily.

  Fergus hunkered down and drew a folding knife from his pocket. With a couple of economical movements, he sliced away the older man’s trouser leg. More muttered Italian curses that lacked the earlier vitriol. Pain and exhaustion were taking their toll.

  “Is it broken?” the woman asked, with more of that unfeminine composure. It struck Fergus as almost unnatural. These circumstances would leave the ladies of his acquaintance, including his mother and sisters, completely overcome. He wasn’t sure how to deal with a woman who took calamity in her stride the way a man would.

  “Yes.” The man’s shin was misshapen and swollen, although thank God, the skin remained intact. “At least it seems a clean break.”

  “That’s something.” The rough garment draped around her should lessen that air of cool control, but she still looked like a duchess.

  “There’s a grove of rowans across the bridge. I’ll go and cut a stick to make a splint, then I’ll fetch help.” Fergus cl
osed his knife and slipped it into his pocket again. He passed the lady his hip flask. “Ye might need to give him some of this while I’m gone.”

  Those snapping black eyes settled on him with an unreadable expression. He was surprised when she said, “Thank you. You’ve been very kind.”

  Something about that assessing gaze made him feel as awkward as a boy at his first ball. Ridiculous, really, when he was master of all he surveyed. Because he didn’t know what to say, he nodded, then stood and left in search of a suitable piece of wood.

  Upon his return, he discovered the woman had ripped her petticoat into strips to hold the splint. He gave her credit for initiative, although some devil inside him regretted that he’d missed a glimpse of her ankles.

  Achnasheen was well away from the fashionable world, and the advent of an attractive woman was a nice surprise. While she was a wee bit too willful for his taste, this lady was intriguing and easy to look at. He mightn’t want to deal with her long term, but short term he was man enough to enjoy the view.

  Even in this deplorable situation.

  “Give me the splint,” she said. “I can look after that while you get help. It’s too cold to keep Papa out here long. It’s better you go straightaway.”

  Fergus struggled to ignore her managing tone. “Are ye no’ coming back to the castle with me?”

  “Someone has to remain with Papa.”

  Her father’s eyes were closed, and his lips were starting to turn blue. Fergus hoped to hell that the man was all right.

  “There’s no need for you to stay. Let the coachman freeze out here.”

  She shot a dismissive glance at the fellow who stood a few feet away, huddling miserably in his sodden shirtsleeves and holding the two coach horses. “I wouldn’t trust him with my worst enemy.”

  Then why the devil did you hire him? Fergus bit back the question. Something in him hankered to put this outspoken female in her place, but not when the weather was closing in and they had an injured man to get to safety.

  “I’ll no’ be leaving a lady out in the rain.”

  Her lips tightened. In the circumstances, it was perverse to notice that they were the color of crushed cherries and just as luscious. “I’m not made of icing sugar. A little water won’t kill me.”

  Fergus had already decided she was more spice than sugar. “Very well, then, if you insist.”

  “Thank you.”

  Fergus turned to the coachman. “Take the horses along this road to the gatehouse. I’ll be ahead of you, and I’ll give them instructions about what to do when you arrive.”

  “Aye, my lord,” the man mumbled.

  Fergus waited for the woman to complain about him appropriating her authority again, but she was busy wrapping her father more securely in her cape and helping him to sit up. The man gave a groggy moan, and his eyes no longer seemed to be focusing as his head lolled against her shoulder.

  “I’ll be as quick as I can,” Fergus said. “Dinna be frightened.”

  The minute he spoke, he wanted to wince. Frightened? This lassie didn’t look like she’d tremble at the crack of doom.

  “I willnae be long.” He caught Banshee’s bridle. The mare whinnied and sidled away, but settled at a quiet word. Further along the road, the coachman led the horses toward Achnasheen.

  “That’s good,” the woman said. “Here, Papa. You’ll need this before I’m done.”

  The injured man curled his shaking hand around hers as she held the flask to his lips. He jerked away. “Basta! This is vile stuff.”

  Despite their plight, Fergus hid a smile. “It’s Bruce Mackenzie’s finest.”

  “Not brandy?”

  “No. Uisge-beatha. We call it the water of life.” Not quite legal in the eyes of a Sassenach exciseman, but the best drop of whisky produced across ten glens.

  “Dio, I’d rather be dead.”

  The man had more courage than Fergus had credited. Perhaps he and his daughter were more alike than he’d thought. “Aye, you’ll do,” he murmured.

  Fergus whistled up his dogs and mounted Banshee. He wheeled the mare in the direction of the castle and set off through the rain at a gallop.

  Read the rest of the story here!

  Excerpt from The Laird's Christmas Kiss

  Down with love!

  Ever since she was fifteen, shy wallflower Elspeth Douglas has pined in vain for the attentions of dashing Brody Girvan, Laird of Invermackie. But the rakish Highlander doesn’t even know she’s alive. Now she’s twenty, she realizes that she’ll never be happy until she stops loving her brother’s handsome friend. When family and friends gather at Achnasheen Castle for Christmas, she intends to show the world that’s she’s all grown up, and grown out of silly crushes on gorgeous Scotsmen. So take that, my gallant laddie!

  Girls just want to have fun…

  Except it turns out that Brody isn’t singing from the same Christmas carol sheet. Elspeth decides she’s not interested in him anymore, just as he decides he’s very interested indeed. In fact, now he looks more closely, his friend Hamish’s sister is pretty and funny and forthright – and just the lassie to share his Highland estate. Convincing his little wren of his romantic intentions is difficult enough, even before she undergoes a makeover and becomes the belle of Achnasheen. For once in his life, dissolute Brody is burdened with honorable intentions, while the lady he pursues is set on flirtation with no strings attached.

  Deck the halls with mistletoe!

  With interfering friends and a crate of imported mistletoe thrown into the mix, the stage is set for a house party rife with secrets, clandestine kisses, misunderstandings, heartache, scandal, and love triumphant.

  Chapter One

  Achnasheen Castle, Western Highlands of Scotland, December 1818

  Elspeth Douglas loved many things. Her family; her horse Chester; her home in beautiful Glen Lyon; daffodils; shortbread; the novels of Walter Scott; days curled up on the sofa in front of the fire.

  And Brody Girvan, Laird of Invermackie.

  Nearly everything on that list loved her back—although perhaps not the luscious, buttery shortbread. She’d needed to let out her favorite frock an extra inch for this Christmas house party. But Brody Girvan, to her infinite regret, didn’t know she was alive.

  Now she sat in front of her dressing table mirror in her pretty bedroom in Achnasheen Castle and recognized the bitter truth. When it came to love, she’d set her sights too high. The dashing Laird of Invermackie was never going to view her as anything but a distant acquaintance, one of a crowd, nobody special.

  Accepting this unpalatable fact ripped her heart to shreds because, ever since her first encounter with charming, disreputable Brody Girvan five years ago, she’d been under his spell. She hadn’t been quite sixteen. That was an impressionable age for a girl, when she was prone to infatuations with unattainable objects of desire.

  Elspeth, with her dreamy, romantic soul, was more prone than most to powerful adolescent passions. Brodie with his wild, dark eyes, and wild, dark curls, and penchant for riding the most unmanageable horse in the stables, was sure to set her innocent heart fluttering. Of course, back then, when she was a spotty, plump, bookish fifteen and her beloved was a worldly twenty, she’d barely entered his consciousness. He hadn’t noticed her mooning around Glen Lyon all summer, frantic for a mere glimpse of him.

  Most girls left their youthful fancies behind as they matured. But while Elspeth had grown out of her spots, and during this last year, her figure had gained some shape—despite the shortbread’s machinations—her heart had never wavered. It was Brody’s from the moment she saw him take a reputedly unrideable stallion over a high fence, then race across the hills with a careless élan that stole her breath away.

  To her regret, in the years since that momentous day, Brody’s heart hadn’t shifted either. He remained happy to flirt with any attractive woman in sight, and get up to unknown wickedness in Edinburgh, and ignore the quiet girl who worshiped him from afar.


  Now Elspeth surveyed her unimpressive reflection and decided she really couldn’t blame her idol for failing to fall at her feet and declare his love. The Laird of Invermackie was everything exciting.

  While she…wasn’t.

  Elspeth was the cuckoo in a family of peacocks. Or rather the humble sparrow. Cuckoos made their presence felt more than she ever had.

  Her mother was one of the two famous Macgrath sisters, notable beauties who had dazzled London society before making brilliant marriages to rich Scotsmen. Elspeth’s mother had since become a powerful political hostess, and her influence had helped her husband rise high in the War Office. On the way, she’d borne five children: Elspeth’s older sisters Grace, Charity and Prudence, then the longed-for heir, Hamish. Eight years later, her mother’s “afterthought” arrived.

  Elspeth had been an afterthought in her family ever since.

  Most of the time, she didn’t mind. Life as the sole quiet member of her noisy, brilliant, opinionated, physically splendid family had its compensations. It allowed her to sit back and observe. It let her do what she wished, because nobody paid her a scrap of attention.

  But when she came to attracting the man she wanted, her self-effacement was a complete disaster.

  Discontentedly she counted off her mediocre physical attributes. Brown eyes. Brown hair. Unremarkable features. She wasn’t hideous, her face was quite pleasant, but as memorable as a potato. She sighed and bit her lip, and told herself she’d cried enough over Brody Girvan. Tears had never done her an ounce of good.

  She and her mother lived with Hamish in Glen Lyon near Oban. Her brother had scorned the idea of following his father into civil service and spent his time being frightfully Scottish on his rich estates. A couple of times a year, he and his cousin Diarmid got together with their great friend Fergus Mackinnon, Laird of Achnasheen. Various family members often turned up to share the fun.