by Tarah Scott
“Do not deny you have her, MacPherson,” Kevin said as he neared. “Wallace spoke with your man while we were searching for the criminal. We are not such fools as to think you did not have her. I will take her now.” Kevin’s hand shifted on his sword, bringing the guards behind Iain forward.
“Not such fools as to think I do not have her,” Iain replied, “but fools enough to come into my home with threats.”
A moment passed when Iain wasn’t sure the man understood, but Kevin’s hand dropped from his weapon.
“She was nearly dead when I found her,” Iain said.
“’Tis not your business, MacPherson.”
Iain raised a brow. “Did you come alone?”
Kevin blinked. “Nay.”
“Did you bring enough men to come here without invitation?”
“We never needed one before,” Kevin said, suddenly appearing to notice the warriors who lined the nearby wall.
“True,” Iain agreed. “But then, you never beat a woman half to death before—on my land, that is.”
“She belongs to us,” Kevin responded in genuine amazement.
“That gives you the right to beat her within an inch of her life?”
“She is a murderess.”
Iain caught the defensive note in his voice. “Mayhap,” he replied, “but it is an ungodly way to treat even a murderess.”
“Are you going to return her?” Kevin demanded.
“I will have to think on it.”
“Nay!”
Iain jerked his head in the direction of the familiar female voice. The lass stood in the kitchen doorway, eyes blazing.
“Murderess or not,” her voice rang throughout the room, “he will not return her. You are no better than a murderer yourself for treating her thusly.”
Kevin’s lips curled into a derisive frown. “Be gone woman. You have no place in this.”
Iain shot out of his chair. “Do you think to come into my home and order my women about?”
Kevin looked at the occupants of the room as if he’d entered an insane asylum. “She is a woman, man. You will allow her to interfere?”
“You seem to forget, ’tis not England we live in, but Scotland. Here, at least on MacPherson land, women are treated with respect. Listen carefully. I will hear the accusations and speak with the girl’s
protectors. Who are they?” Kevin hesitated.
“Answer my question or leave.”
“I do not know the details,” Kevin replied.
Iain recognized the lie. “Then bring me someone who does.” He started for the kitchen, indicating the meeting was at an end.
“You have no right to interfere!”
Iain pivoted on his heel, facing Kevin. “I have the right to do anything I please.”
“If you have the power,” Kevin sneered. “The
MacPhersons are not so vast.”
“The Clan Chattan is vast, indeed,” Iain said. “And my comrades will not take lightly to your threats. That is, if there is anything left to find offensive.”
“I warn you, MacPherson, we will have our justice.”
“Justice?” The lass strode to where he stood.
“What sort of man metes out such justice to a woman?
That is not a man, but a coward.”
“Who are you, woman, to interfere in the business of men?” Kevin demanded.
“She is to be my wife,” Iain answered.
“Your wife?” Kevin’s astonished gaze flicked from Iain to Victoria. “She is Sassenach.”
“That is better than being a cruelhearted Scot,” she countered.
“Cruel?” Kevin looked confused. “’Tis not cruel to seek justice.”
“Back to that again are we?” She snorted in contempt. “I wager you would not think it justice were I to beat you in the same manner.”
“Are you daft, woman?” Kevin’s face contorted with scorn and anger. “You could no more beat me than you could a dog.” He turned his attention away from her and focused on Iain. “You will not return
Jillian?”
“Now I think it is you who are daft,” she cut in again. “That is exactly what he said. Or are you too dull to understand simple English?”
Kevin’s hand clenched. Iain shoved her aside and slammed his fist into Kevin’s jaw. The man crumpled to the floor, sending dust motes shooting upward from the dried rushes that lay about him.
“Throw him out,” Iain yelled to the nearby men. He faced the lass, seized her arm, and shoved her into the arms of the closest warrior. “Take her to her cottage and see that she stays there.” He strode across the room and out the postern door.
Dark clouds scudded beyond the castle towers as he scanned the battlements for Thomas. His cousin stood talking with two men on the west ramparts and Iain motioned him down.
“I want you to deliver a message,” Iain said as Thomas took the last steps down the narrow staircase.
“Make sure the Robertsons understand that, while they may mistreat their women, they do not enjoy the same perverse privilege with MacPherson women.”
“Mon Dieu. What happened?”
Iain couldn’t halt the working of his fists at his side. “He thought to strike the lass.”
Thomas stared. “Why?”
The hard lines around Iain’s mouth softened. “I suppose you could say he does not care for outspoken women.”
* * *
Iain’s even strides didn’t falter until he stood outside the lass’s cottage. He halted, hand against the thick wood of the door and listened for any sounds.
No noises filtered through.
Perhaps his long-time friend and kinsmen Johannas wasn’t sequestered in the lady’s cottage as he’d been told. It wouldn’t be the first time gossip was in error. The possibility that Johannas would betray him had seemed inconceivable even while Iain had listened to the tale of how the two had been alone the entire afternoon. Still, the lack of sound was no proof of anything. With a hard push, he shoved the door open.
With the resounding bang of the door as it hit the wall the lass gave a small cry. Iain narrowed his eyes on Johannas, who was sitting far too close to her. Johannas’s gaze moved from Iain, to her, then back to Iain again. Understanding formed on his friend’s face, and Johannas stood as Iain advanced.
A wary look crept into her eyes, and Iain feared that the gossip was on the mark this time.
“Is there something you want, my lord,” she asked when he stopped beside them.
“What are you up to?” He looked at Johannas.
“I am working,” the lass replied.
The short response wasn’t what he’d expected, but a quick assessment of the document she held confirmed she was, indeed, immersed in something. Iain took the document, startled to see the plans for the waterwheel Johannas had left on his desk two days ago.
Though curious when they’d mysteriously disappeared that same day, recent events had forced the mystery to the back of his mind. His attention snagged on the notations, and he realized he was looking at the final stage of the plans. A quick total of a few of the calculations that outlined the placement of the wheel in the water told him the mind that had created them was keen indeed, far keener than the one that had dabbled in the earlier version.
“Please.” She tried snatching the document from him.
When Iain dodged her efforts, he was well aware her wariness increased, but his own curiosity drove him. He turned a questioning eye on Johannas, who shrugged, saying, “You might want to let the lass finish, Iain.”
Iain shoved the paper back into her hands and motioned Johannas toward the door.
“What is going on here?” he demanded once they were outside.
Iain listened to the story of Johannas discovering her in the library already well on her way to correcting the problems in the original plans. In his mind’s eye, Iain saw her bent over the large desk in his library, Johannas leaning over her much in the same manner he had been when Iain discov
ered them. Iain broke from the mental picture when Johannas’s voice grew insistent.
“What?” Iain asked.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Aye,” he replied. “You found her in the library.” Johannas gave him an odd look. “You know
Rory’s death left us without an engineer?” Iain nodded.
“Franklin had not studied enough to know a cursed thing. To tell the truth, I did not think the lad is worth a pile of horse dung. Although,” Johannas made a clicking sound with his tongue, “he did draw the second set of plans a might better than the first.” “So, you now have the lass acting as engineer?” Iain asked.
Johannas cocked his head, his expression a mixture of amazement and admiration. “I never saw the likes of it. Even Rory could not have done better.
Why did you not tell me she was your engineer? Granted, ’tis a bit strange.” He laughed. “Where did you find a Sassenach wench willing to leave the comforts of her English home?”
“Montrose Abbey,” Iain grunted. “And she was not so willing.”
* * *
Too much ale, Iain thought. Then again, his mind countered, as he reached for the mug in front of him, mayhap not enough. His eyelids felt heavy as he tried to focus on the postern door when it opened. Afternoon had given way to night. His mouth tightened. No sign of the lass. Christ, he’d have to go in search of her again. He looked across the table at Johannas, who still wore a wide grin. Iain knew the wine had contributed to his clansman’s good mood, but also knew the tale of kidnapping an unwilling woman was at the heart of his delight.
“By heaven,” Johannas said, “but I would have given a week’s harvest just to have seen you take her.” He allowed the boy who passed the table with a pitcher of ale to refill his mug. One of the large hounds bound into the hall and made for Johannas. “Surry, laddie.” He gave the dog several affectionate scratches before throwing a bone some distance from the table. Once free of the animal, he finished off the contents of his mug and motioned for more.
The night wore on and even the large quantities of ale Iain consumed didn’t lighten his mood when the lass failed to appear. It struck him that she would likely use the excuse that her patient needed her more than he did. Iain gave a word of command to one of the serving girls to fetch her and, as expected, she soon emerged from the staircase.
Her expression said she didn’t appreciate being summoned, but Iain was having none of that. With a jerk of his head, he indicated she take the vacant seat to his left. Once she lowered herself into the chair, he set a goblet of wine in front of her.
Iain reached for his ale. “Do not to try my patience further by moving from that chair until I give you leave.”
“Evening, lass.” Johannas raised his mug in salutation.
Iain kept his gaze fixed on Johannas as she answered in a soft tone. The two huddled together in her cottage flashed in memory. How much Johannas was to blame was yet to be seen, but Iain felt sure the lady had declined to advise him she belonged to another. No doubt due to the fact that she refused to acknowledge it herself. Seizing the mug in front of him, Iain ignored the ale that sloshed onto his hand as he again drained the contents.
* * *
The merriment seemed as if it would go on all night. Victoria had been surprised to enter the great hall and find what appeared to be a celebration in full swing. As it turned out, the men had simply decided the night was made for drinking. She cast a cautious glance in her keeper’s direction, then at the kitchen door. Her gaze came back on Iain, and she read the warning in his eyes.
“’Tis a busy night,” Victoria muttered. “Maude would be glad of my help in the kitchen.”
“Now, lassie,” Johannas laughed good-naturedly in response to the scowl Iain dispatched in her direction, “why would you want to trouble yourself in the kitchen with fine lads like us here in the hall?” “Fine lads.” She snorted.
“What did you say?” Johannas asked before making an exaggerated show of understanding her words. “See there, Iain,” he lounged sideways in his chair, “’tis a fine lass who can appreciate a good Highland man, even if she is Sassenach.” He gave Victoria a broad wink.
Victoria felt a rush of blood to her face and cursed the knowledge that it was more the curious regard of her keeper that flustered her, rather than the actions of his foolhardy guest.
At last, it seemed the men had forgotten her. They had left the table and were standing at the hearth where a modest fire burned. Iain leaned against the mantle, his expression lending the appearance of being engrossed in conversation with his companion. Johannas laughed at something Iain said, and Victoria glanced in the direction of freedom. Up and out of her chair before circumstances could go against her, she cast a quick look over her shoulder as she entered the kitchen. Johannas’s attention flickered onto her, but thankfully, another round of laughter kept Iain from realizing her flight.
Greetings were made around the kitchen. “Where are you going?” Maude asked when Victoria didn’t linger.
“I want to look in on Jillian before I retire.”
Maude made a clicking sound with her tongue.
“How does the lass fare?”
A warmth softened Victoria’s weary heart. Say what one might, Highland women couldn’t be accused of being inhospitable. So long as the guests weren’t English, she reminded herself. “She will need time to recover. Rachel has been seeing to her.”
“She is a healer, that one.” Maude nodded. “Just like her mother. No need to worry with Rachel
looking after her.”
“I know, but she asked me to say good night. Though I wager she sleeps so soundly she will never know I was there.”
Maude gave a knowing, ‘ah,’ and Victoria turned to leave.
“Why leave by the back door?” Maude asked to her back.
Victoria turned. Her excuse died at sight of the shrewd look on the housekeeper’s face.
“It is safer to go up the stairs in the great hall,” Maude said.
Victoria laughed. To her way of thinking, going around was safer, but to admit that was treachery in itself. Instead, she said, “The fresh air will do me good.”
“Have you noticed the band of rowdy men prowling the castle tonight?” Maude asked, going back to carving the roasted pig laying on the large chopping block in front of her. “The fresh air is not all you are likely to get.”
Victoria plucked a piece of chicken off a passing tray. “I have had no trouble in the past.”
“I would imagine not,” Maude agreed. “MacPherson men know Iain does not hold with force.”
Victoria choked on the chicken she had just swallowed.
Maude bustled over and gave her a couple of hearty slaps on the back. “Are you all right?”
Victoria nodded while motioning for water from the pitcher sitting on the counter. Maude poured it and shoved the cup into her hand. Victoria drank it in large gulps, then cleared her throat.
“Thank you,” she said in a cracked voice.
“You should be careful,” Maude admonished.
“Talking and eating do not always mix.”
Further comment on Victoria’s part was forestalled by another fit of coughing. When she regained her composure she said good night.
“Barry,” Maude called through the kitchen door to one of the men passing by. Sticking his head through the door, the giant of a man ducked in order to miss the doorframe.
“See V—er, the lassie here to the castle door.”
He started to move out of the doorway and into the great hall, but Maude halted him. “Nay,” she said. “Take her through the kitchen door and around to the front entrance.”
Barry gave her a curious look and opened his mouth as though to say something, but Maude was ready for him. “Never mind the questions, just do as I say.” She shook the knife at him that she’d been using on the pig and his brows rose in amusement. “Off with you,” she added before returning to work.
Shru
gging, he ambled toward the door with Victoria close behind.
“When you are ready to go back to your cottage, get one of the lads to take you,” Maude called over her shoulder as they left the warmth of the kitchen behind.
As expected, Jillian slept peacefully. Victoria brushed back the hair that had fallen in the girl’s face. “Sleep well, lass. ’Tis a far sweeter world where you are now than the one you will face tomorrow.” Victoria pulled the covers closer around Jillian’s shoulders, then set out to make her way through the labyrinth of corridors leading to the main entrance.
Victoria stepped from the castle into the cloudy night. She shivered, not from the cold, but from the memory of violence. Her attempted escape had been a close call. Iain had driven that point home after Kevin Robertson left. Still, the decree that she should not again leave the castle came as a hard blow. Iain no longer called it a punishment, instead saying it was for her safety. His enthusiasm on the point was so thinly veiled Victoria didn’t believe he thought her gullible enough to believe it.
“’Tis a harsh world outside these walls,” he had said, “and there is no mercy for the ignorant.”
No amount of reasoning had moved him. “Impossible to reason with a barbarian,” she muttered, even as the argument fell flat in her own mind.
The whoops and indistinguishable Gaelic coming from a group of passing men drew Victoria from her thoughts. She felt their eyes following her progress across the compound and Maude’s warning sprang to mind. She slowed in the darkness and realized serious misgivings through what now felt like a vast forest instead of the small grove she had grown accustomed to.
Her heart pounded at the sounds of rustling leaves. She stumbled over a small branch, lurched forward, then caught herself. Victoria looked over her shoulder, but seeing nothing in the shadows, faced forward again. The abrupt appearance of a large form loosed the scream lodged in the back of her throat. Footsteps sounded behind her, and she whirled to face the new phantom. The sight of yet another apparition sent her back a couple of steps. The muttered oath behind her confirmed that the wall she had collided with was indeed human, if she could consider Iain MacPherson human.
Her attention focused on the approaching figure as his hand shot out in the darkness to grope for her. Left with little choice, Victoria pressed herself against him. His arm slid around her waist, and a familiar sense of reassurance emanated from the heat of his body. Iain growled a few Gaelic words only to have his opponent snarl a vicious response.