Highland Heartbreakers: Highlander Series Starters, Volume One

by Paula Quinn

  Irritated when his confederate didn’t correct the error, Ewan was forced to do so. “Nay,” he explained, gesturing to Fynn. “This gentleman is the Mackinloch.”

  The lad recoiled at the sight of Fynn’s stump. “I’ll see to yer mount, er…” He hesitated, clearly uncertain how to take reins from a man with one hand.

  Fynn dismounted and let the leather dangle. “Yer laird is in bad fettle?”

  Ewan cringed as he slid from Liath’s back. He hadn’t factored Fynn’s brogue into the plan.

  “Aye,” the lad replied, taking the reins of the three horses. “’Oss throwed him. Shattered ’is leg and they think there’s summat wrong wi’ ’is back an all.”

  “Hee…hee…he must…bee…bee…in bed then,” David said.

  The youth’s puzzled stare was predictable.

  Fynn shifted his weight, plainly unsure what to say or do next. Ewan inhaled deeply. So far the only thing to go right was the horror on the boy’s face when he realized the MacCarron lass had been betrothed to a man with one hand. “Mayhap ye’ll inform someone my laird has arrived,” he said to the gaping boy.

  “Reet away, soon as I’ve seen to yer ’osses.”

  He left them standing in the bailey.

  “Wha…wha…what…”

  “Apparently, we wait,” Ewan muttered, gripping the hilt of his claymore, ready to scythe down any MacCarron who dared cross their paths.

  “Here comes someone now,” Fynn growled, nodding to the door of the keep.

  Ewan’s fury fled when he espied a tall lass approaching from the castle. The stiff breeze that lent a healthy glow to her cheeks also threatened to lift her skirts, but it was powerless to dislodge even a hair of the long, long golden glory that crowned her head.

  He braced his legs, momentarily dizzied by a vision of wrapping himself in those incredible tresses, her shapely breasts filling his hands. If this was the lass he was to wed, all was well with the world.

  But she was too fair of face to be a MacCarron.

  She frowned. “Ye’re the Mackinloch?” she asked Ewan.

  “We’re all…all…Mac…Mac­kin­lochs,” David said with a grin, looking too pleased with himself for Ewan’s liking.

  Evidently as smitten with the golden-haired beauty as he was, Fynn chose that moment to extend his good hand and play his role. “Nay, I’m the son o’ the Mackinloch laird.”

  Did the idiot nay ken a mon doesna shake a lady’s hand?

  The color drained from the lass’s face as her eyes traveled from the stump to the grey hair and wrinkled features. Holding her breath, she touched her fingertips to Fynn’s then snatched her hand away as if she’d been bitten by a snake.

  Ewan was about to come clean about the ridiculous ruse, but she spoke to Fynn. “Welcome,” she said hoarsely. “I’m Lady Jeannie, sister to The Camron, our chief. ’Tis my niece ye’ve come to wed. Follow me and I’ll show ye to yer chamber. The castle is full of kin who’ve gathered to keep vigil with my brother. Yer men will have to sleep in the stable.”

  “Near to deeth is he?” Fynn asked.

  Ewan rolled his eyes.

  The laird’s sister gasped. “We pray he’ll recover, but his injuries are serious right enough.”

  He watched her lead Fynn into the keep, his eyes fixed on the tempting bottom that would never be his to touch. ’Twas incredible that the MacCarron laird had such a bonnie sister—and feisty. There’d been no apology for expecting the Mackinloch escorts to sleep in the stable. The notion of getting to know such a proud and comely lass was appealing. However, pursuing her would complicate matters further.

  More disconcerting was the news the MacCarron laird lay gravely injured. From what little Ewan knew of the clan, the man had only recently inherited the lairdship from his older brother. Apparently not expecting to be laird, he’d never married and had no sons. It was possible there’d be a dispute over the succession.

  Ewan hadn’t slept in a stable since he was a lad when he’d hidden from the licking Da intended to give him for some youthful prank.

  “Mac…Mac…MacCarron lasses are bonn…bonn…”

  “Aye, bonnie,” he muttered, clinging to a faint hope his intended was perhaps even more lovely than the lass with blonde hair. But she was about to meet a man with one hand who was probably old enough to be her father.

  *

  Shona clenched her fists in the fabric of her skirts, wrinkling her nose at the odor of horse and leather emanating from the Mackinloch following her. What was her uncle thinking, wedding her to a man with one hand who was old enough to be her father? If Kendric wasn’t dead by the time she next visited his chamber, she’d be mightily tempted to throttle him.

  To make matters worse, she’d almost thrown herself at his kinsman whose commanding presence and rich attire had persuaded her he was the intended groom.

  Now there was a bonnie man. Tall, broad-shouldered, well muscled, and hair of a color she couldn’t quite describe—shiny and brown like the shell of a chestnut.

  She had no time for any of the MacCarron clansmen who pursued her, but one look at the newcomer filled her head with carnal images involving the removal of all clothing. In a few brief moments he’d roused wanton emotions and needs she was unaware she harbored. Foolish to be gobsmacked by a man whose name she hadn’t yet learned and whose station was far beneath hers.

  She conjured a vision of dimples if he smiled, though she’d only seen him scowl.

  “Mayhap we should come another time,” the one-handed man suggested, jolting her back to reality.

  A hundred years from now.

  Outside the door to the guest chamber, she hesitated, torn between grasping the lifeline he offered and possibly plunging the clan into more conflict with the Mackinlochs. If Kendric died, there’d be trouble. She sensed intrigue already brewing among the kin who’d gathered like buzzards to pick apart the corpse.

  She had to convince her aunt to go along with the ruse.

  “I must tend my brother,” she said coldly. “Ye’re welcome to eat in the hall later, but my niece and I willna be there. Ye understand.”

  “Aye,” he replied, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Dinna fash. I’ll sup wi’ ma men.”

  Fuming, she shoved open the door and withdrew without extending the customary hospitality of asking if the chamber was to his satisfaction. She’d always thought the Mackinlochs a wealthy clan, yet their laird’s son spoke like an uneducated peasant.

  She’d be damned if she’d allow herself to be shackled to such a man.

  Anger gave her feet wings as she hastened down the hallway to her uncle’s chamber.

  Her aunt startled when she burst through the door. “Hush, child,” she admonished. “He needs sleep.”

  Shona approached the bed, hands fisted at her sides, and stared at the wretch who’d ruined her life. “I’m going to kill him anyway.”

  Jeannie sighed. “I take it ye’ve met yer intended husband?”

  Shona inhaled deeply and pulled her aunt away from the sickbed. “Aye,” she hissed. “He’s old enough to be my father.”

  “Nay,” Jeannie replied. “How can that be? Laird Mackinloch isna in his dotage.”

  “I dinna ken, but that isna the worst of it.”

  She swallowed hard, not certain she could explain the rest without weeping.

  Jeannie put an arm around her shoulders and drew her close. “Tell me,” she whispered sympathetically.

  “I shouldna fault a warrior for it, but he’s missing a hand,” she murmured into her aunt’s breast.

  He Thinks I’m Ye

  Shona wiped away tears as Jeannie gently stroked her back.

  “I ne’er heard anything o’ the sort about the Mackinloch laird’s sons,” her aunt said. “I thought he had just two boys. This must be an older brother, but if that were true he’d be the next laird.”

  Shona hiccupped. “His name is Fynn. Mayhap he’s a bastard.”

  “Saints preserve us,”
Jeannie exclaimed. “Kendric will have a fit if that’s the case.”

  They glanced at the stricken man in the bed. Jeannie’s face paled. “When he’s better, that is.”

  Shona prayed her uncle would indeed recover, but she’d never been one to shy away from confronting a problem. “What if he doesna get better? There’s already speculation among the visitors about who will take over as laird.”

  Jeannie clenched her jaw. “All the more reason for ye to wed the Mackinloch quickly. I hate to admit it but a laird with ties to that clan would be the best for the MacCarrons. This Fynn would have a strong claim married to ye, blood kin to the former and current laird.”

  “But if he’s a bastard…”

  “Ye must ask him, directly,” Jeannie replied. “There’s too much at stake.”

  Shona hesitated only a moment before charging ahead. “I canna. He thinks I’m ye.”

  *

  Fynn perched on a bale of hay in the stables. “’Twouldna be proper,” he muttered.

  Ewan clenched his jaw, trying to hold on to his patience. “If my betrothed refuses to leave her uncle’s bedside then the only way to meet her is to visit the laird. His chamber canna be far from yers.”

  “Aye,” David agreed, earning a scowl from Fynn.

  “They’ll think it mighty peculiar if ye dinna ask to pay yer respects. ’Twill be considered an insult.”

  Fynn folded his arms.

  Ewan sensed he was wavering. “I’ll announce yer intention.”

  “Seems forward,” Fynn remarked.

  Ewan rolled his eyes. “We’re Mackinlochs, mon. They expect us to be pushy.”

  “I’m a Macintyre,” Fynn grumbled as he followed Ewan out of the stable and into the keep.

  It was an irritating reminder.

  Entering the main hall, they encountered two groups of scowling men huddled around separate trestle tables. The murmur of conversation ceased abruptly. Ewan sensed tension between the factions who soon resumed exchanging hostile glances over the rims of tankards raised to their lips.

  One swarthy giant with a scraggly red beard and unruly hair got to his feet and came to confront Fynn. “What the fyke are the Mackinlochs playing at? Yer laird sends an owd cripple to wed our Shona?”

  Ewan fought the urge to laugh at the man’s wheedling voice. He wondered if the fellow was deliberately trying to sound like a fool.

  However, it seemed news traveled fast.

  To his credit, Fynn didn’t back away. He stuck out his chin and looked the man in the eye—no mean feat since the bully was a foot taller. “I’ll wager I can gi’ a lassie more pleasure wi’ one hand than ye can wi’ them two beefy mitts ye’ve got.”

  A strange silence reigned as the giant faltered and looked at his hands.

  David studied the banners wafting in the rafters.

  Ewan gawked as the man’s face turned as red as his unkempt beard.

  Another man from the second table stood. “Seems yon Mackinloch has heard o’ Mungo’s clumsy reputation wi’ the lasses,” he shouted.

  Guffaws accompanied the racket of tankards banging on wood.

  Ewan might have known. For all they were the age-old enemy, the MacCarrons were like any other clan—teeming with rival factions. He had little doubt they’d happened upon a gathering of power-seekers plotting their next moves should Kendric die.

  He pitied the clan if this Mungo became their laird. The brute probably wanted Shona for himself. At least now Ewan knew her name. He hadn’t even met the woman but felt sorry for any lass married to such a bully. Like most of his ilk, he’d backed down, seemingly too dimwitted to come up with a retort to Fynn’s insult.

  A peculiar pang of something too much like righteous anger twisted Ewan’s innards. He had the makings of a chief; his father had sensibly groomed both his sons for the role—much to Colin’s chagrin—and better he become The Camron than the weaselly redhead. If he was to marry this Shona…

  He shrugged off the notion and touched Fynn’s arm. “The MacCarron laird awaits, my lord,” he said.

  The rumble of plotting resumed as they strode out of the hall. Once they were in the passageway leading to the private chambers, Ewan elbowed Fynn. “That was risky. I’m proud o’ ye.”

  “Me…me…me…too,” David said.

  Fynn shrugged. “When a mon has just the one hand, he learns o’er the years how to deal wi’ bullies.”

  Two MacCarron clansmen leaning against the frame of a heavy planked door suddenly stood up straight, folded corded arms across broad chests, and eyed them suspiciously.

  “The Mackinloch, come to pay his respects to The Camron,” Ewan announced, stepping back to allow Fynn to enter first.

  The guards exchanged a brief glance before one rapped and requested entry.

  Ewan was taken aback when the golden-haired beauty he’d met in the bailey opened the door. His unruly cock saluted.

  She gritted her teeth and barely glanced at Fynn. “Ye can only stay a few moments. My brother is very ill.”

  “We’ll be quiet as mice,” Fynn replied.

  “Mm…m…mice,” David confirmed.

  Ewan clenched his fists.

  A second woman appeared at the door.

  “May I present my niece, Shona, yer intended,” the beauty explained to Fynn.

  The newcomer glanced at the stump, hesitated only a moment, then smiled. “Come in. We canna keep the door open overlong,” she said.

  It registered in Ewan’s befuddled brain that the two women looked more like sisters than niece and aunt, but his arousal fled when his body had no trouble realizing he’d been promised to the one with a lazy eye.

  New Plans

  When Fynn dithered on the threshold, Ewan came up right behind him and gave him a nudge, leaving his kinsman no choice but to enter the chamber. David followed.

  Both lasses took a step backward.

  Fynn reached for Lady Lazy-Eye’s hand and, to Ewan’s astonishment, bestowed a courtly kiss upon it.

  She blushed prettily and smiled. She’d have been a beauty but for the eye defect.

  “My…my…lady,” Fynn gushed, still holding her hand.

  David scowled, then bowed. “My…my…la..la…la…ladies,” he offered.

  The MacCarron women stared open-mouthed, probably thinking the mighty Mackinlochs had turned out to be a clan of stammerers.

  Ewan affected a perfunctory bow. “Forgive my lord Fynn. He is overcome by…”

  He was about to say yer beauty, but sensed both women would recognize it for the empty compliment it was.

  “…news of yer uncle’s accident,” he amended quickly.

  “Aye,” the golden-haired auntie agreed, ignoring Fynn and addressing her comment to Ewan. “He is very ill.”

  His inclination was to invite the lass to join him outside the chamber where they might continue a more intimate conversation. He struggled to remind himself he was supposed to be a lowly member of Fynn’s escort. A dalliance with the aunt of his intended bride was likely to cause more problems.

  He glanced across the dimly lit chamber to the mound of furs and blankets on the bed, anxious to get a glimpse of a laird who had a beautiful young sister and an older niece. “I dinna suppose we can speak with The Camron today, about…”

  He lost his train of thought as he stared into green eyes welling with tears. “My apologies, ye’re upset about yer brother. I shouldna have mentioned it.”

  The lasses exchanged a strange glance which hinted at a shared secret. Ewan couldn’t imagine what it might be, unless the accident was a ruse, and the laird wasn’t injured at all. That seemed unlikely given the factions plotting in the hall.

  The five hovered near the doorway in silence, avoiding looking at each other for what seemed like long awkward minutes, until Lazy-Eye extracted her hand from Fynn’s grip and walked over to the bed.

  Ewan again had to prod Fynn to follow. “Go on, mon,” he whispered. “Pay yer respects.”

  “He seems
shy,” the beauty said when only she, Ewan and David remained by the door.

  “Aye,” he agreed, wishing he’d put more forethought into trying to turn a farmer into the son of a nobleman in the blink of an eye.

  “I’m Ewan Mackinloch, by the way,” he explained, hoping she would repeat his name. But she merely nodded and walked to her brother’s bedside. The aroma of lavender tickled his nostrils. “Not only beautiful, but sweet-smelling,” he sighed.

  David’s echoing sigh of agreement jolted him back to reality. Lowly escorts had no reason to remain in the chamber, but he was hesitant to leave Fynn to his own devices. He couldn’t hear the conversation, but his man seemed to be taking more of an interest in Lady Lazy-Eye than was warranted. She was Ewan’s intended for pity’s sake.

  He mocked his own stupidity. Now he was jealous of a one-armed man paying attention to a woman he didn’t want to marry anyway.

  And if the laird’s sister would cease staring at him, he might get his thoughts off bedding her at the earliest opportunity.

  He sauntered over to the end of the huge bed, hoping his actions wouldn’t be deemed rude. He swallowed hard when he set eyes on the injured man. There was no doubt Kendric MacCarron had met with a catastrophic accident. One leg was encased in a parchment and wax cast from ankle to hip. Though he slept the sleep of a man heavily drugged, agony was etched on his pale features.

  Shame prickled Ewan’s nape. He shouldn’t be relieved the man was indeed very ill, but at least the MacCarrons weren’t trying to pull the wool over their eyes. Another emotion plagued him. He’d been raised to hate the lairds of this enemy clan, yet he felt nothing but pity for the stricken chief.

  “Ye see the state he’s in,” Lazy-Eye whispered to Fynn, as if she sensed they had doubts.

  Did she also harbor suspicions about the deception the Mackinlochs were perpetrating?

  He risked a glance across at the beauty who still stared at him with unmistakable longing. She perhaps thought him free to pursue her, and he surely would if only he could. He half-wished he’d never left Roigh, but then he wouldn’t have met the woman who’d bewitched him.