The Highland Renegade

by Amy Jarecki

  “Please. Let us simply enjoy the evening without broadcasting that I’m desperate to find a suitor.”

  Stuffing her fan up her sleeve, Her Ladyship huffed. “You are no fun at all.”

  “On the contrary. The eve will be fun even if I sit along the wall and watch. As you said, ’tis Samhain.”

  “Och, mark me, if I see you sitting along the wall, I will take things into my own hands. And I will meddle.”

  “All done,” said Lena, giving her work a pat.

  Relieved at the change in subject, Janet issued Mairi a stern frown before she inspected the ribbon. It laced through the base of the coiffure piled atop her head and tied in a tidy bow at the side. “I believe you were right, Lady Mairi. It does look better woven through.”

  “I am seldom wrong about such matters. You will be the belle of the ball.”

  Janet sighed. “’Tis but a Highland country dance, not a ball.”

  “’Tis what you make of it, my dearest.”

  * * *

  “What do you say we head for the hall?” asked Lewis, Robert’s henchman.

  “In a hurry, are you?” Standing at the alehouse bar, Robert sipped his whisky. He was dressed in his finery for the Samhain celebration, but would rather stay put and bend his arm. He’d even considered heading for home, but by the time the livestock sale was over, it was too late to ride. Moreover, the weather had taken a turn for the worse, and a raging storm was making the alehouse timbers creak.

  Lewis finished his dram and pushed his cup to the back of the bar. “I might be. Besides, the music’s been playing for a good half hour.”

  “Have your eye on a woman, aye?”

  “I’ll admit, there’s a lass I’d like to see.”

  “At least one of us has had a bit of luck this Samhain.” Robert tossed back his whisky and slammed his cup on the bar. “Just remember we’re leaving at dawn.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “The men are ready?”

  “Of course, though I reckon they’re already kicking up their heels.”

  “Very well. Let us not tarry.”

  If it weren’t Samhain, Robert might have avoided the gathering altogether, but there was something about the festival that always lowered people’s inhibitions, especially the lassies, and that he couldn’t miss.

  Together the men walked across the road, wind and sleet stinging their faces. Lewis quickened his step. “I think we’re in for an early snow.”

  “Mayhap in the mountains—it has most likely started to accumulate up there.” Robert opened the door and gestured with an upturned palm. “After you.”

  The hall swarmed with activity and warmth. Unfortunately, it also swarmed with redcoats. Too many of them mingled with the local lassies. Wolves in fancy doublets and breeches.

  On the tables, turnips had been carved into ghoulishno faces. The candles flickering inside the hollowed-out cores made them come alive. Dancers lined the center of the floor while drummers tapped a rhythm for the piper and fiddlers.

  Lewis gave Robert’s arm a nudge. “There she is.” He pointed to a comely lass standing among a circle of females.

  “Go on,” said Robert. “Ask her to dance afore someone else stakes his claim.”

  He made his way to the refreshment table, where Ciar MacDougall held out his hand. With his black hair and dark eyes, the man looked like a pirate. “Good evening, Grant. Can I pour you a cup of mulled wine?”

  “There’s nothing stronger?”

  Ciar produced a flask from his sporran. “I bring my own kick.”

  “Then I don’t mind if I do.”

  The MacDougall heir charged the cups and handed one to Robert. “How’s your face mending? It looks angry.”

  “Och.” Robert held up his drink. “After a few of these, I’m hoping to not feel a thing.”

  “Has Kennan apologized?”

  Robert snorted. “I don’t expect him to. ’Tis the nature of the beast.”

  Ciar shook his head. “I ken the man, and his behavior baffles me.”

  “Mayhap his da’s lifelong hatred of Clan Grant runs so deep the son cannot see reason. Nonetheless, he’s proved his character, and I shall not forget.” Robert sipped. Over the top of his cup he spotted Miss Janet dancing with Dunn MacRae. She threw back her head and laughed unabashedly as if the laird had said something incredibly funny. Odd, but it was refreshing to see a well-bred woman laugh as if she hadn’t a care. Without realizing it, Robert took a step toward her. A picture of feminine beauty, the lady wore a pale-blue gown trimmed with pink that matched the color in her cheeks, accentuated the blue of her eyes, and made her tresses more golden. No other woman in the room compared to Janet. They might as well all go home, for every eye was fixed on the Cameron lass.

  “I take it your opinion of Kennan’s sister is a wee bit different.” Ciar tipped a bit more spirit into their cups.

  “Perhaps. She has some scruples—must have been inherited from her mother.”

  “Aye, though with three brothers, she can hold her own.”

  Robert tipped up his chin while his gut twisted. “You ken the lass well?”

  “Our clans are close.” Ciar shrugged. “She’s never shown much interest in me, however.”

  “Oh? I cannot see why. I’d reckon you’d be at the top of Lochiel’s list of suitors.”

  “Nay, we are like kin.” He chuckled. “She once told me I was too much like a brother to her. And I must agree. No man needs to have his future bride look upon him with brotherly love.”

  Robert grinned behind his cup. He didn’t know why, but the news lightened his mood. Perhaps Ciar’s whisky was potent.

  Ciar inclined his head toward the merrymakers. “Most of the women in the hall are dancing with miserable dragoons at the moment.”

  “Bastards. Who invited them, anyway?”

  “Are you jesting? The bloody troops invited themselves.”

  Robert downed the rest of his fortified wine. “Then we’d best rescue the lassies for the next set.”

  “Agreed.”

  Robert’s palms grew moist as he moved behind Miss Janet and tapped her on the shoulder. When she turned, a wee gasp slipped through her lips, her eyes changing from cornflower blue to midnight. He bowed. “My I have the pleasure of the next dance, miss?”

  She curtsied, and a cool façade erased her initial surprise. “You may.”

  He took his place in the men’s line across from her. Before the music started, she clasped her hands, looking anywhere but at him. Robert glanced down the line. With a daft grin, Ciar stood across from Miss MacDonald.

  After a brief introduction, the dance began, demanding he take Janet’s hands. He tightened his grip on her delicate fingers as if needing to protect the lass from all the wolves in the hall.

  “How is your wound?” she asked, her curls bouncing with the reel’s tempo.

  “”Tis fine. As long as I don’t smile, it doesn’t hurt overmuch.”

  She cringed. “I am sorry.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for.” As they promenaded in a circle, her skirts skimmed his calves. The light brush combined with the rustle of taffeta charged his protective instincts all the more. With a turn, he regretted having to leave her in the women’s line while he hooked the elbow of the next lassie. Robert glanced back to see the golden highlights of Janet’s hair catch the flicker of the candlelight from the chandelier above. Were those curls as soft as they looked?

  They joined hands and sashayed down the tunnel of dancers. “Will you be riding for home on the morrow?” she asked, seeming to enjoy chatting while dancing with the grace of a swan.

  “I will. And you?”

  “At first light.” Her tongue slipped to the corner of her mouth while she met his gaze. “And you’re staying at the alehouse?”

  Good God, did she have any idea how alluring she looked? Och, that pink tongue licked the rose of her lips while she watched him. Her eyes—vibrant cornflower blue—made his heart melt agai
n. “No reason to stay elsewhere, I suppose.”

  Her shoulder brushed his. Gooseflesh arose on his arms. “Do you find it comfortable?”

  As she passed his side, he tilted his nose toward her hair and inhaled. Aye, lavender eau de toilette for certain. “My room has a bed and a hearth,” he replied. “They offer three meals a day. I reckon I do not need much more than that.”

  “How did your coos fare at today’s sale?”

  “Sold the lot.” Though the profits could have been better.

  She nodded, looking away as if she were trying to think of more questions to ask. Robert did nothing to make it easy for her. He rather enjoyed watching and waiting to see what she might come up with next.

  Unfortunately, the music ended.

  “There you are,” Kennan grumbled as he pushed through the crowd. Spotting Robert, he curled his lip in disgust as he grabbed his sister’s wrist. “Your next dance will be with me.”

  A fierce rebuttal flashed in her eyes while she pulled away, turned to Robert, and curtsied. “Thank you, Mr. Grant.”

  He bowed respectfully. “’Twas my pleasure, miss.”

  “One you will not enjoy again,” Kennan said.

  While his fists clenched, Robert stared the brother in the eye. No, he would not be the first to blows, though it wouldn’t take much goading for him to snap and feed the man a fistful of knuckles. “Well then, safe travels home, Miss Janet. If your brother can manage it.” Aye, he couldn’t help but prod the backbiter a bit. One day he’d face off with Cameron again, but not tonight. Not with the place crawling with redcoats, and not on Samhain. Before the musicians started the next set, he turned to head for another cup of mulled wine.

  “You should have given him the letter and it all would have been done.” Janet’s whisper was barely audible while Robert strolled away, turning his ear.

  “Wheesht, Sister. I made my decision and I’ve had enough of your badgering.”

  Robert could only shake his head. He wouldn’t bother asking the lass to dance again. There was no use baiting her bull-brained brother, no matter how bonny she looked. He’d been right on the first day of the gathering. Janet Cameron was not a woman with whom he wanted to grow friendly. Pulling his own flask from his sporran, he fortified one last cup of mulled wine with whisky. He’d come to Inverlochy to sell his cattle, and that’s exactly what he’d done. Profits might not have been what he’d wished for, but they were enough. And aye, the lassies at the alehouse mightn’t have looked as alluring as he’d once remembered. Perhaps the luck of the fairy folk hadn’t favored him this trip.

  Undaunted, he spotted his men and joined them. “Have any of you seen Lewis?”

  “Slipped out with his new sweetheart,” said Tormond, one of Clan Grant’s finest.

  “Aye, his latest conquest,” said Jimmy, the youngest of the group.

  “He’d best be ready to ride come dawn. I have a yen for home.”

  * * *

  Janet finally got a chance to enjoy a cup of delicious mulled wine when the musicians took a recess. Her feet sore and feeling as if she’d been dancing for days, she swept her gaze across the faces, searching for Mairi.

  Ciar MacDougall moved beside her. “Are you looking for someone, Miss Janet?”

  “I’d hoped to have a chat with Lady Mairi.”

  “She and Dunn left ages ago.”

  “That’s unfortunate. Her Ladyship is always so amusing.”

  “Aye, she is. Are you enjoying Samhain?”

  “Indeed, though I think I, too, am ready to turn in for the night. Have you seen Kennan?”

  “He’s in the side room, embroiled in a game of cards.”

  “Cards? Oh dear, he could be at it for hours yet.”

  “MacDougall,” someone hollered from the next room. “Bring your wee flask.”

  The future laird of Dunollie bowed his head. “I’ve been summoned—but I’ll see if I cannot convince your brother to escort you to the guesthouse.”

  “Thank you.” Janet sipped her wine and moved toward the wall.

  Winfred Cummins caught her eye, and she sharply changed direction, looking for any familiar face among the crowd. Unfortunately, the only person she recognized was Robert Grant, and she wasn’t about to slide in beside her father’s nemesis for another bout of idle chat. Besides, she’d already exhausted her arsenal of pleasantries when they were dancing.

  The lieutenant cleared his throat behind her. “Mizz Janet,” he slurred. “The minstrels are ’bout to begin the next set and you havn’ danced with me yet.” The man’s breath smelled pickled.

  She turned her head away from the stench. “Are you on duty, sir?”

  “Always on duty, more or less. Here to serve queen and country.” He grasped her hand and pulled. “C’on.”

  Janet glanced over her shoulder toward the card room, praying Ciar MacDougall had returned, but the only face she saw was Laird Grant’s. The lieutenant tightened his grip and pulled harder. She yanked her hand away as the musicians began an introduction to a strathspey—curses, it would be terribly impolite to refuse him, but he was in his cups. Was that not grounds enough to decline his request? Mayhap if I put it succinctly? “Sir, you have clearly had too much to drink. Perhaps it is time for you to retire for the eve.”

  He stopped and glared at her—his eyes menacing. “I beg y’pardon? Do you think to tell me I am ine-ine-inebriated? I am an officer in the queen’s dragoons, an’ will tole-rate no chiding from a maid.”

  No trollop to be ordered about, Janet stood by her conviction. “Please, sir. I’m tired and I wish to go home.” There. She had not only refused, she had agreed to refrain from dancing for the rest of the eve.

  “No. Dance with me.” He again grabbed her wrist, his grip hard and bruising.

  “I will not!” Janet dug in her heels and tried to jerk her arm free, but he held fast.

  He rounded and jutted his face into hers. “The lot of you Highland folk think y’re above soldiers?” His voice grew louder. “You live in a luxurious castle, sneerin’ and lookin’ down your noses at those poor sops who try to maintain order in these savage lands.”

  At each word Janet’s face grew hotter, her hands shaking like willow leaves. Good heavens, not only was he in his cups, the lieutenant was the vilest man she had ever had the misfortune of encountering. Well, officer or not, she wasn’t about to withstand any more of his abuse. “You, sir, are being obnoxious and rude, and I insist you apologize this instant.”

  “Rude, am I?” He grappled for her arms.

  Backing away, Janet lashed out with a quick slap across his face.

  The noise in the hall ebbed to a low hum.

  The scoundrel’s eyes narrowed as he snarled. “You dare strike an off-cer? You will pay for your impertinence.” He whipped around. “Men! Take this wo—” Lieutenant Cummins’s head snapped back, his words cut off by the fist of Robert Grant.

  The big man lunged forward and followed with a jab to the jaw, making the lieutenant trip over his feet and fall onto his backside.

  In a heartbeat the hall erupted into a tumult of swinging fists and shrieking women. Chairs scraped the floorboards and sailed through the air. Janet flung her arms over her head, peering toward the card room. If she could make it there, she might find Kennan.

  A strong arm encircled her shoulders while a deep voice whispered in her ear. “Come. Your brother needs to spirit you away before the dragoons gain the upper hand.”

  Tingles skittered down her spine at the sound of the big laird’s voice. “You would help me escape this mayhem?” she asked.

  “I will yet again, miss.” He shielded her with his body as he pushed through the throng. “Where’s your cloak?” he demanded.

  “On a peg with the others.”

  “Color?”

  “Green. Sealskin collar.”

  A corporal stumbled out of the card room with Kennan on his heels. Her brother took one look at Janet and Mr. Grant before his face reddened with rage. �
��Get your bloody hands off my sister.”

  “With pleasure, ye spineless weasel.” The laird grasped Janet’s shoulders and backed her toward Kennan, shifting his focus to her face. “Green did you say?” he asked in a much pleasanter tone.

  “Aye,” she said as her brother grabbed her wrist and tugged her behind him.

  Across the hall, Winfred Cummins bellowed like a fevered bull and was fighting his way toward them. “Stop that woman! She ’costed an officer of the queen. And I want Robert Grant’s head!”

  Mr. Grant snatched her cloak from a peg and held it up, giving Kennan a pointed stare—the meaning of which even the queen wouldn’t doubt. “I tell ye true, Cameron, Miss Janet slapped the lieutenant. The man’s in his cups and out for blood. Make haste and ride, else she’ll be locked in the stocks come morn.”

  Janet slipped under her cloak, and Kennan reached for his. “Jesus Christ, what have you done?”

  She shook her head. “I only—”

  “No more talk. Go!” Mr. Grant escorted them out the door as he hollered for his men to follow.

  * * *

  Clan Grant men fell into step behind Robert as he sped toward the alehouse. “Jimmy, haste to the stables and saddle the horses. Tormond, find Lewis. Tell him we’re leaving in two minutes.” Before he reached for the latch, he watched the redcoats run for their horses, stabled at the south end of town. They had ten minutes tops, and Robert preferred not to cut things so close.

  “Good God, the town’s rife with havoc,” said MacDougall, shaking Robert’s hand. “I saw it all, and I’ll stand witness. The lieutenant was in his cups and pestering Miss Janet. You did what you must to keep the lady from harm.”

  “Aye?” MacDougall followed while Robert ran to his room and nabbed his gear. “I’m not about to stay around and let them haul me to the bowels of Fort William’s prison, only to await a pardon.”

  Ciar stopped in the doorway. “Bloody bastards, I kent something like this would happen. And they’ve been licking their chops, waiting for it all week.”

  After grabbing his satchel, Robert shouldered past his friend. “And here I’ve been trying to behave. Mayhap I should have given Cummins a fist to the snout when I first arrived and had it over with.”