by Amy Jarecki
The man groaned, the wall of his chest unmoving along her spine, his arms firm around her sides—hardly touching, though so secure there was no chance he would allow her to fall. But had her movement hurt him? Did he have more injuries than the cut on his face?
A drop of blood splashed onto her cloak. In fact, a stream of blood soaking into the wool. Twisting, she examined his face. Heavens, Kennan had cut him deeply. “Oh my, you’re bleeding something awful.”
His gaze shifted her way, filled not with hatred, as she would have expected, but with humor. Unable to help herself, she stared into complex, disarming eyes while she pulled a kerchief from her sleeve. Light in color, his eyes reminded her of a polished steel looking glass encircled by a darker shade of blue. “Your brother gave me a good cut, though swords were the chosen weapon, nay daggers or dirks.” He said the latter with a growl.
Janet offered no reply, though she knew there was a strict code of conduct for duels and it was foul play to use anything other than the chosen weapons. Her brother had erred, further damaging the Cameron name in this man’s eyes. For his blunder, she would have a word with Kennan at her earliest opportunity. She dabbed Robert’s gash. It had to be two inches long or more. He hissed, and she jerked the cloth away. “Am I hurting you?”
“Not overmuch,” he said gruffly.
Her tongue slipped to the corner of her mouth as she dabbed more carefully this time. “I believe we’ve established a concord of truthfulness, have we not?”
Those eyes shifted downward again and met her gaze. Good heavens, the intensity of his stare gave her pause. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Aye, then. Your ministration caused a wee modicum of pain—nothing worth mentioning.”
Janet forced herself to shift her gaze lower and examine the wound. “This needs to be seen by a physician.”
“Not likely.”
“But it must be sewn, else you’ll end up deformed.”
“Have you a needle and thread?”
As a matter of fact, she had several, thanks to her trip to the haberdasher’s. “I do.”
“Then you will do the sewing.”
“Me? Why—”
“You are the kin of the man who cut me. At least allow me to enjoy your feminine company whilst I submit to the unpleasantness of the needle.”
Her skin suddenly grew overwarm. Robert Grant expected her to sew his wound…He trusted her with a needle and thread? Why her? Why not Lady Mairi or one of the serving wenches at the alehouse?
“Agreed?” he pressed.
She nodded, returning her attention to the road, not certain if she was glad or regretful to see the shops of Inverlochy come into sight.
Chapter Four
Holding his kerchief against his face, Robert followed Miss Janet into the boardinghouse.
“Mrs. MacNash!” the lass called. “I have a wounded Highlander to tend.”
The matron stepped into the entry, wiping her hands on her apron. “My heavens, why on earth have you brought him through the front door? He’ll drip blood all over my carpeting.” She grabbed Robert by the elbow and wrangled him around the Oriental rug and through the hallway. “Why is it Highlanders turn into savages at these gatherings?”
“Can you sew him?” Janet asked of the matron, following.
“Aye.”
“Nay,” Robert barked. “Miss Cameron’s brother cut me, she will be the one to stitch me.”
The lass groaned from behind. “I’ll fetch a needle and thread.”
Mrs. MacNash gestured to a stool beside a long table and gave him an accusing glare. “What the devil happened? ’Tis not like Mr. Kennan to cause a row. What did you do to him?”
“I overpowered him in a duel of swords—’twas all aboveboard and gentlemanly.”
The woman huffed. “There’s nothing gentlemanly about a duel.”
“So say you, but it has been the accepted method of solving disagreements between men for centuries.”
Moving his hand aside, she leaned in and examined the wound. “Well, I hope your differences were settled.”
Robert frowned. Nothing is settled unless Cameron admits his foul.
Miss Janet returned, needle and silk in her hand. “I daresay, Mr. Grant, Mrs. MacNash may have a bit more experience with these things than I—”
“You will do me the honor, Miss Cameron.” He knit his brows. Bless it, she would own her brother’s folly. “And I expect the work to be your finest.”
“Very well.” Pressing her lips together, she turned to the matron. “I’ll need a bowl of water and a cloth, if you please.”
“Straightaway.” Mrs. MacNash collected the items and placed them on the table. “If you do not need my assistance, I’ve a few more beds to make above stairs.”
The lass held out the needle as if attempting to shirk her duty once again. “It would be better if you—”
“I’m certain Miss Cameron is able,” Robert interrupted. “Thank you, matron.”
Once the woman left, Janet faced him. “I could have used her help.”
“I think not. Four hands would be too many.”
With a pursing of her lips, Janet picked up the cloth and doused it in the bowl, working with her left hand. Robert watched her as she cleansed away the blood.
“How does it look?” he asked, eying her.
“The bleeding has slowed.” She leaned in—disarmingly close. He closed his eyes to block her from his mind, but that served only to strengthen her sweet bouquet. Riding the horse, he’d caught the drift of her essence, part lavender, part sugar, all delivered in a heady perfume that roared woman.
Clearing his throat, he opened his eyes and leaned away. “Good.”
He watched while she threaded the fine bone needle. “I’ll wager a cut of that size will cause a scar.”
“Wonderful. Something to remember your dear brother by.”
Her lips disappeared into a thin line. She was true to her kin, that was obvious. If only she weren’t a Cameron, he might be tempted to court her. But that would never happen. However, he would enjoy making her nervous while she stitched. Nay, he didn’t care a lick about a wee scar on his face. If anything, it would make him appear more menacing to his enemies.
“Are you ready?” she asked, holding the needle with a wee tremor, moreover with the wrong hand. Didn’t her governess insist she learn to use her right?
“You intend to stich me up with your left?”
“Aye, sir…You wouldn’t be much impressed if I tried to use my right.”
He dipped his chin and gave her a half-cocked grin—perhaps he’d made his decision too hastily. Nonetheless, he wasn’t about to make a retraction. “The question is, Are you ready, lass?”
She bit her bottom lip. “Best have it over with.”
Robert endured the first two stitches stoically. Judging by the way Miss Janet trembled, she hadn’t been wrong when she’d suggested Mrs. MacNash might have the steadier hand. “Breathe,” he growled through clenched teeth.
A whoosh of air slipped through her lips. “I didn’t realize I hadn’t been.”
“In my experience, breathing helps steady one’s fingers.”
“Hmm.” She pushed in the needle, more gently this time. “Are you looking forward to the Samhain gathering?”
The lass takes in a bit of air and suddenly she has a yen to chat? “Aye.”
“Is that why you purchased new clothes?” She pushed the needle through again.
Bugger all, that hurts.
“Nay,” he growled curtly.
“Are you heading back to Glenmoriston afterwards?”
He knit his brows. “How many more bloody stitches must you make?”
Janet’s mouth dropped open as Kennan stormed into the kitchen. “What the devil is he doing here? And why in God’s name was your horse left tied at the old castle?”
Robert held up his palm to keep the lass from responding. “I’ll answer. On the first count, since it was you who cheated and lashed out at me
with a dagger—”
“Cheated?” Kennan bellowed. “If it weren’t for your flagrant accusations—”
Janet straightened and threw a pointed finger at her brother. “Hear him out, bless it!”
“Thank you, miss.” Leaning away from the needle, Robert spoke out of the side of his mouth. “Given the circumstances, I felt Miss Cameron was the best candidate to perform the surgery. On the second count, I saved your sister from possibly being arrested and thus humiliated by the queen’s dragoons.”
“She could have ridden back herself. My sister is an accomplished horsewoman.”
“Is she?” Robert glanced aside, gritting his teeth while Janet started another stich. Typical. The lout opted to argue rather than offer thanks—or an apology, for that matter.
“Aye.” Kennan refused to let it rest. “And you hightailed away whilst I was under fire. Ye hauled my sister off like a bloody barbarian.”
Robert’s lips thinned. He had been a bit savage with the lass, though there had been no time for pleasantries. “He did me no harm.” Janet tied off a stitch and mercifully snipped the thread. “That should set you to rights, Mr. Grant.” Crossing her arms, she turned her attention to her brother. “Kennan, we must speak. Come above stairs with me.”
“Thank you, miss,” Robert said while he watched Janet marshal her brother up the back staircase. One thing was for certain. The Camerons might be reivers, but Miss Janet had some decency, unlike her brother.
Such a pity she’s embroiled with that clan.
* * *
Janet calmly set the needle and thread on the sideboard, but when Kennan shut the door, she whipped around and faced him. “How could you have attacked that man with a dagger? I saw the fight. Robert Grant had you on your back in an untenable situation.”
Scowling, Kennan threw up his hands. “The scoundrel fights like a beast.”
“That may be so, but you agreed to the duel, did you not?”
“I did.”
“Good heavens, Brother, you’re no cheat. Why did you do it? The Grant laird already hates us, believes us to be dastards. Using a dagger as you did only serves to confirm his poor opinion of our kin.”
“Do you honestly believe Grant would forgive all and walk away? The man has falsely accused us. He’s the dastard. If the roles had been reversed, he would not have hesitated to use a dagger on me. I have no doubt. He is a deceitful, scheming boar, and I cannot trust him.”
“But he did not err. You did, and you must own to it.”
Kennan’s eyes grew dark as he stammered, his lips twitching until he finally shook his fists. “Damnation!”
Janet stepped forward. “I still cannot believe what I saw. Why? Why did you do it?”
Kennan’s shoulders dropped as he groaned. “I snapped. That braggart was on top of me with his sword at my throat. For a moment I thought he might take my life. When his attention flickered I saw my chance.”
Covering her mouth, Janet turned her back. It had been her shout that had distracted His Lairdship. But if what Kennan said was true, Mr. Grant might have killed him. She paced. On the one hand, it was a wave of relief that her shout had drawn the man’s attention away from the fight. Had Kennan been killed, not only would Mr. Grant be a murderer, all of Clan Cameron would have put his lands to fire and sword. A feud of colossal proportions would have erupted until the hills between their lands turned red with the blood of innocent men.
But Kennan’s actions cannot go unpunished. And the Cameron name must be exonerated.
“We are not cheaters and swindlers.” She faced him. “You may be my elder brother, but I must insist you write a letter of apology to Mr. Grant forthwith. You must name him the victor of the duel.”
Her brother’s expression shifted from angry to enraged. “Good God, whose side are you on? I will do no such thing. In war there are no rules, and you’d best learn that, Sister.” Kennan slammed his fist on the sideboard. “Do you have any idea what I felt when I saw you bent over that miscreant in the kitchen? I cannot believe you tended him.”
“Och, so now you turn the blame to me! What should I have done? Shoved him to the gutter?”
“Hardly, he’s tougher than an oak’s trunk. But Mrs. MacNash could have sewn his ugly face. Not you.”
Janet pursed her lips. It would be a waste of breath to say Mr. Grant had insisted she stitch him. If she did so, Kennan might act out yet again. She crossed her arms and took in a calming breath. “Do not veil the issue with your anger—or talk of rules. You ken you have brought dishonor onto our clan, and I expect you to write that letter. Furthermore, I expect it to be in Mr. Grant’s hands afore he leaves for Glenmoriston on Saturday morn.”
“Christ’s bones, you’re worse than Ma used to be.” With a grumble Kennan raised his chin. “Is there anything else you demand, m’lady?”
“I need your word it will be done.”
“Bloody hell,” he spat. “Och, you have my oath.” The look on his face was hard and icy as he marched out the door.
Pressing her palm to her forehead, Janet sighed. What had Kennan been thinking? She knew her brother to be a man of honor, trusted by not only her father but also the esteemed Baronet of Sleat. And now she’d been forced to stand up to him. Nonetheless, never in all her days had she believed she would take the side of Robert Grant.
I’m not taking his side. I’m righting a wrong, and that will be the end of it.
Chapter Five
Friday came without another incident. Even the auction proceeded peaceably, and at last the evening of the Samhain dance had arrived. Janet perched on the stool in front of the mirror while Lena, her lady’s maid, curled, pulled, and pinned her hair. Already dressed, Mairi sat on the settee near the hearth. “Was Kennan happy with the livestock sale?” asked Her Ladyship.
“I believe so. Afterward, he was grinning for the first time since before the duel.”
“Good.” Mairi fanned herself. “And the apology—has he delivered the missive?”
“He’s written it, aye. I read the letter this morn. But he has decided to leave it with the barman to give Mr. Grant as he leaves town on the morrow.”
“Unfortunate Kennan doesn’t just give it to the man now and have done with it.”
“Agreed. I told him the same myself.” Janet winced as Lena pushed a pin into her scalp. “Ow.”
“Apologies, miss. The ribbon doesn’t want to stay put.”
Janet turned her head to better see it in the mirror. The lass had done a fine job twisting her hair atop her head, but the pink ribbon sat a bit cockeyed.
“I think you should weave it through her tresses rather than pin it in place,” said Her Ladyship.
“Yes, m’lady.”
Janet sighed as the maid pulled off the ribbon and started anew.
“In this light I am even more certain your choice of the blue taffeta is perfect,” Mairi said.
“Are you now?” Janet rather liked it as well. “Though I’m not certain about the pink bows.”
Lena stood back, eyeing her attack. “I’m afraid ’tis a bit late to change your mind.”
“Aye, but should I ever wear this gown again, I think I’ll replace the pink with ivory.”
“The pink makes your cheeks glow, miss,” said the maid.
Mairi stood and moved closer with a discerning eye. “I believe she is right. You are a picture of a delicate flower.”
Janet twisted her lips. Delicate flower wasn’t exactly the image she had been hoping for. Enticing maid. Alluring lass. Something a wee bit more daring would suit.
Mairi plucked the rouge pot from the dressing table. “Tell me, have any braw Highlanders caught your fancy?” She lightly dabbed Janet’s cheek with a puff.
“Let’s see…” Janet hummed. She hadn’t met a soul to whom she would consider pledging undying love. “There’s a stable hand who has a pleasant smile.”
“Stable hand?” Mairi tossed the pot on the table. “That simply will not do for a daughter
of a laird.”
“But you—”
“Don’t say it.” Her Ladyship thrust up her palm. “Aye, I agree you must marry for love, but I’ve been to Achnacarry. You are accustomed to a great deal of comfort, my dearest, and I daresay you would not be content living out your days raising a family in a one-room shieling where you have naught but a firepit where you must do the cooking yourself.”
Janet’s shoulders shook with her chuckle. “I do believe the lad from the stables is a bit young anyway, and shorter than me by a hand.”
“Shorter than you?” asked Lena, who was tall and lean. “It sounds as if he’s but a child.”
“Aye—I’d guess him at no older than eleven.”
Mairi smacked Janet’s arm with her fan. “You are a jester.”
“I am without hope, is more apt. My stepmother will have me wed to some crusty old baron by Easter for certain.”
“What say you? This is Samhain.” Mairi twirled her fan. “Anything can happen. Leave it to me.”
“Oh no. I do not want you meddling, even if you are the daughter of an earl.”
“I’m not meddling. I’ll just have a word with Mr. MacRae and, by the time everyone has been introduced, all the eligible gentry will be queued up to ensure you do not miss a single opportunity to dance.”
“Oh dear.” Janet leaned her forehead into her palm.
“I ken of Lairds Chisholm and Stuart.” Her Ladyship refused to let matters rest. “They are bachelors. And you must have a turn with Ciar MacDougall—”
“I’m certain all of those gentlemen are capable of inviting me to dance if they so choose.” Janet shook her finger. “There is no need to goad them.”
Mairi frowned pointedly. “Aye, but sometimes a lad needs a wee prod up the backside.”