The Forbidden Highlands

by Kathryn Le Veque

  She’d taken such unusual pains with her appearance today, too.

  She wore one of her best gowns—a stretch calling the three-year old green and white striped garment such. She’d even dabbed a drop of her precious perfume behind each ear—her last gift from Da before he died.

  Reaching beneath the soft plaid draped across her head, she patted her hair, then checked the pins and curls. Everything still felt in place. This new style—one which Gaira insisted was all the rage in Paris and London—seemed rather more trouble than it was worth.

  And, truth be told, appeared much more bird nest-like than a fashionable coiffeur.

  Mayra had spent hours on her toilette this morning, hence her delay in leaving the keep until afternoon. She feared moving her head too fast lest the whole tangle tumble loose and plop onto her shoulders.

  A sudden gust whisked past, ruffling the cattle’s coats, and Mayra clapped her hand atop her head to hold the arisaid in place.

  If her head became wet, the carefully arranged locks would droop faster than flowers stems jammed into hot tea. She’d toddle into the village resembling one of the scruffy, highland cattle contentedly chewing their cud in the adjacent field.

  Perfectly lovely.

  A cow lifted her head and peered at Mayra between the wavy veil covering her broad forehead. The beast’s pink tongue slid out, and she licked her nose.

  Another stiff breeze blew past, and a shiver pelted down the column of Mayra’s spine faster than a mouse dashing to its hidey-hole. She shuddered again, and drew her plaid tighter around her shoulders.

  Vanity had her freezing her bum off.

  Och, for certain she wouldn’t mind having the cattle’s thick, rain repellent coat right now.

  In the distance, the grouchy chain mall-hued sky grumbled as thunderclouds billowed across the temperamental firmament. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a sudden blue flash.

  Lightening too?

  Why must the weather be so confounded uncooperative today?

  Despite the bitter weather, her spirit remained optimistic, for she made the trip to the village alone, and the new independence was glorious.

  Only yesterday had, Bettie finally felt well enough to leave her bed, so her accompanying Mayra today was out of the question. The boys—bless them for being mischievous whelps—were confined to their rooms for hiding their tutor’s clothing.

  Every last stitch.

  And right before they were to depart the keep, Mama developed one of her wicked megrims. After taking headache powders and a hefty dose of laudanum, she’d taken to her bed.

  Which meant—joy of joys!—after a great deal of finagling and convincing Mama that the poor, hungry souls in Glenliesh expected Mayra today, and she’d be perfectly safe on the short excursion without a clansman along to shadow her every move, she bounced along on the dog cart by herself.

  Not a grand escapade, but she’d cherish it nevertheless.

  Sometimes, she simply needed time alone. Needed to try new things; needed an adventure—to experience more of life outside Dunrangour Tower’s massive walls.

  Especially…

  She heaved an audible sigh and adjusted the reins, giving Horace more slack.

  Especially if, despite all her attempts to the contrary, she wound up mistress of Lockelieth after all.

  In just over a year.

  One, oh, so wretchedly short a year.

  She slumped on the padded seat until her stays pinched and forced her to sit upright again.

  Nothing like ruminating about her neglectful intended, Logan Rutherford, to make a gloomy day even drearier. That albatross had hung round her neck since the first time a village boy winked at her, and she blushed and giggled with youthful pleasure.

  Mama had wrapped an arm about Mayra’s thin shoulders and gently explained she was betrothed and even at seven-years-old, she mustn’t smile at or flirt with boys.

  How does a wee lass flirt?

  For that matter, how does an adult lass?

  Did she dare try her hand today?

  It couldn’t be that difficult, could it?

  Nae, but she’d not make a fool of herself, batting her lashes and puffing out her bosoms, all the while smiling coyly as the village lasses had done that first day as they’d ogled Coburn.

  Surely there were more subtle, less forward means of showing a gentleman he intrigued her.

  In almost nineteen years, Mayra had nae experience in the art. Shielded from male attention and company, almost as if her parents feared she’s bring ruin upon herself, and therefore them, she confessed to a shy, awkwardness around men.

  But, she was betrothed and therefore, she needn’t acquire the skill.

  If Da hadn’t stipulated she wait until her twentieth birthday to wed, she might already call Lockelieth Keep home and Rutherford husband.

  Utterly appalling.

  Glee and excitement didna cause her capering stomach’s rolling this time or the shudder rippling from shoulder to waist, like dragon’s giant, razor-tipped claws scraping her spine.

  How many times had she begged her parents to end the troth?

  However, until her strapping Da died from pneumonia, of all things, they’d adamantly maintained Rutherford must be the one to seek King George’s permission to terminate the contract. And—curse him for being an uncaring, selfish cull—Logan Rutherford remained exasperatingly, annoyingly, infuriatingly silent on the matter.

  Bah.

  Why, for all the oats in Scotland, didna he respond to their letters?

  King William died six months after he’d insisted on the match between them. Surely King George would grant Rutherford’s request if the obstinate man would only ask.

  And toward that end, Mayra had brazenly sent off another missive asking not only that Rutherford do so at his earliest convenience, but she’d also sent an epistle to King George, ever-so-politely requesting His Majesty to consider voiding the contract as well.

  What harm could come of it?

  If the king denied her appeal, at least she’d have tried everything at her disposal, short of capering off to the colonies.

  Chin tucked to her chest to block the stinging wind, she gave an impish chuckle.

  Horace flicked his ears and half turned his head.

  “I’m nae laughing at you. Just my foppish intended.”

  Wouldn’t she have liked to see Logan Rutherford’s arrogant face when he read that last part of her letter? Probably sent the popinjay into a conniption.

  She also may have hinted to Rutherford that she’d prefer to wed someone who actually showed an interest in her.

  A mon who wasn’t just taken with her dowry and land—a dowry that would’ve gone far to help support Dunrangour had Da permitted them to touch it.

  He’d refused, saying Findlay honor forbade it.

  Still, she’d prefer a mon she could love. One who demonstrated common courtesy; for instance answering letters or preventing lasses from potentially nasty tumbles.

  A particular dashing auburn-haired highlander with a rogue’s smile and a rakish glint in his captivating eyes?

  Eyes that one moment glowed like warm, dark honey edged with forest green, and the next, the browns and greens spiraled together. But eyes that always danced with a faintly seductive glint around the edges.

  What color were Rutherford’s eyes?

  Squinting at Horace’s wide, swaying behind, Mayra tried to recall.

  Blue? Brown?

  Devil red?

  She hadn’t seen him since she was seven, and all she recalled from that painful encounter as she peeked from behind Mama’s skirts, was dark coppery hair above a benign, albeit bored countenance.

  Mayra drew in a cleansing breath.

  Nae sense stewing on her betrothal unpleasantness right now, for she fully intended to make the most of every single moment of freedom she had left.

  If, the king and Rutherford proved uncooperative.

  Heaven help her if they did. />
  She wriggled the reins the teeniest bit.

  “Come on, Horace. Please. I cannae arrive looking like a selkie. Not today.” Leaning forward a few inches, she confessed to the horse’s broad back. “Coburn might be in the village again.”

  He simply must be.

  Wicked of her to entertain such thoughts, but fanciful imaginations weren’t actions. She kent her current status made her ineligible, but conversation was harmless, was it not? And she did so want to further her acquaintance with him even if naught could come of it.

  Nothing outrageous or reproachful—

  Wait a devilish moment…

  She’d harbored this thought before too.

  Why, a scandal might be just the thing to make Logan Rutherford call off the betrothal.

  Mama had emphasized over and over—and over—that he loathed any hint of impropriety.

  Eyes slightly narrowed, her mind churning, Myra contemplated the feasibility.

  Aye, it just might just work.

  Of course, she’d have to be cunning and cautious.

  Verra, verra careful.

  Her goal wasn’t ruination, but simply to rid herself of an unwanted intended.

  Still, her interest in Coburn was real. Disturbingly so. She’d best be vigilant in that regard too. He might prove to be a rapscallion or rake. A knave or reprobate, despite his overwhelming charm.

  Mama and Bettie avowed men of that ilk were the hardest to trust, and a prudent woman wouldn’t be so unwise. But how might Mayra discern the truth? She had pitiful, limited experience with men, and she couldn’t exactly ask anyone outright.

  Pardon me, but can you tell me what you ken of debonair Mr. Coburn Wallace?

  Is he a womanizer, tippler, or given to gambling?

  That would surely arch knowing, judgmental brows and send tongues to flapping faster than leaves during a spring storm, much like the one that threatened today. And of course it had to be during the one trip in weeks where nae pressing errands demanded Mayra’s attention.

  Except for the usual food deliveries and collecting a new length of ribbon for her hat, she was free to do what she wished for the afternoon. Mama insisted on the new hat trim, claiming Mayra was soon to be Lady Rutherford, and she couldn’t go about looking beggarly.

  If beggarly put off Logan Rutherford, Mayra would take to wearing her oldest gown and shoes. Nae, she’d go about barefoot with dirt between her toes.

  Wasn’t there a frayed cap in the rag bag? And a moth-eaten shawl too?

  Mayhap, she’d even smear a bit of earth or ashes on her chin and beneath her nails.

  A grin split her face until Mama’s and Bettie’s horrified expressions intruded upon her humorous imaginings. They’d have apoplexy if she ambled about with a smudged faced and soiled hands. Hard enough to explain wearing rags without having to justify a grimy countenance.

  Nevertheless, the idea had merit.

  A blustery gust slammed into her, and Horace’s swishing tail indicated he found the weather as objectionable as she. A downpour would have him in a full on sulk, and he might verra well decline to tramp home.

  It wouldn’t be the first time the pigheaded beast refused to move his plump posterior, which is why he was one of the few remaining horses at Dunrangour.

  Mayra quite anticipated a cup of steaming tea, a cozy midday meal, and a long visit with Maggi MacPherson. She might spare an entire two, or even three hours, in the village if Coburn put in his usual appearance.

  Everything depended on the feckless weather, of course.

  The air had gradually grown thicker and damper, and the sky had developed a peculiar, greenish cast, as the increasing wind tormented everything within its path.

  Shivering, Mayra entreated Horace once more, appealing to the horse’s preference for comfort.

  “You do ken you’ll get soaked, and you’ll remain cold and wet ’til we get home?”

  If they made it back to the keep this afternoon.

  What she’d thought to be a typical bout of foul March weather looked to have developed into something much more serious.

  To her delight, as if he understood he’d be subjected to a degree of discomfort, Horace broke into a slow trot.

  Five minutes later, the heavens having been merciful and refraining from dumping their contents on the already soggy Highlands, she tooled the vehicle along the village’s main street. Upon spying a broad-shouldered, bronze-haired man striding into the lodging house, her heart beat faster, and she gave a tiny whoop of excitement.

  Coburn.

  Chapter Five

  Logan entered The Dozing Stag, sorely tempted to seek his chamber and indulge in a long nap. After another sleepless night and rising before dawn again today, sand scraped across his eyes each time he blinked his millstone weighted eyelids.

  Later returning to the village than he’d intended, his hours exploring the acreage Findlay dowered Mayra had proved most satisfying. He’d found prime grazing lands, as well as several acres suitable for crops. A rocky crag tunneling along the property’s northern perimeter separating the dowered lands from the rest of Dunrangour’s needed further exploring too.

  Da swore that piece contained copper and silver ores, though he never revealed how he’d come by the information.

  Logan blinked drowsily, the movement sluggish and forced as he plowed his fingers through his thick hair in an effort to calm the wind-blown strands.

  Head wooly from lack of sleep, he inclined his head at the smattering of patrons gawking to see who entered on such a blustery afternoon. A yawn escaped him as he scanned the common room.

  Nae striking lass with moonlight gleaming in her silken hair, peaches tinting her cheeks or summer’s sky reflected in her winsome eyes sipped tea and nibbled shortbread.

  Christ, Mayra even had his musings waxing poetic.

  Must be the exhaustion causing the whimsical ramblings.

  Had she come and gone already?

  Disappointment, leaden and bitter, left a sour taste in his mouth.

  He couldn’t ask someone.

  Too obvious.

  Coburn was bloody right about him—he usually was, the irritating, confident arse.

  Logan was an imbecile, caught neatly in his own trap.

  This skulking around was unworthy of him and Mayra. Rash and stupid to not tell her his real identity. And his ill-conceived impulse would make winning her more difficult. And each time they met and he continued the charade, it became harder to reveal he truth.

  For God’s sake, she was his betrothed.

  He ought to ride straight to the keep and claim her this instant. Except, his innocent boyhood vow yet echoed in his guilty conscience, and her repeated requests to have their betrothal ended intrigued as much as puzzled.

  Mayra’s last troublesome letter raised the stakes treacherously high.

  Perfectly impersonal politesse, nonetheless, her missive held a distinct accusatory tone and suggested his constant neglect surely indicated a lack of interest in pursuing their union. And therefore, it would behoove—her word—them to end the farce—again, her word—with the greatest of alacrity.

  Where did she come up with her expansive vocabulary?

  Exceptionally well-read for a female, it seemed.

  And then, by Odin’s gnarly pointed teeth, she’d neatly—he imagined the clever smile twitching her lovely, kissable mouth—dropped the load stone.

  Square on Logan’s unsuspecting head.

  Mayra had written King George, too.

  Saucy, brazen, unpredictable, vixen.

  Could things get any more complicated?

  Why was she so frantic? So determined?

  Arranged marriages were common enough, and this union strengthened both clans.

  Not that he was altogether keen on the concept of marrying a woman he didna ken. But since he’d been backed into a corner, he might as well look on the favorable aspects.

  Truth to tell, since encountering her, his opinion toward the ma
tch had warmed several degrees.

  And her beauty and wit haven’t at all influenced you?

  Not to mention the swell of satiny breasts he’d glimpsed above her bodice when he’d held her that first day. Aye, any mon still breathing—dead too—would count himself fortunate to take such a bonnie lass to wife.

  Nevertheless, Logan couldn’t quite reconcile the amiable woman he saved to the resolute lass who’d presumed to write the king. Some might even accuse her of imprudence or impertinence.

  Shaking his head once, he skewed his mouth into a half-appreciative, half-cynical grin.

  Suggesting to Logan he find a more suitable bride.

  Damn, Mayra had a true Scotswoman’s pluck and initiative. They were well-matched in that regard.

  In other ways as well.

  Namely, their mutual physical attraction which multiplied each time he saw her.

  His attention strayed outside—to the villagers rushing about spearing fretful glances to the ominous sky before he casually examined the men within the cozy taproom.

  Had one of these men been Mayra’s beau before he arrived in the village?

  Something queer occurred behind his ribs; almost like the time he’d fallen from a branch as a child. He couldn’t find his breath as an excruciating vice squeezed his chest. All he could do was wait for the terrifying sensation to pass.

  Only this feeling wasn’t altogether terrifying—just unfamiliar and gut-wrenchingly uncomfortable. It spread thick, dark, and choking, like smoke, filling his lungs, stealing his breath, and muddling his reasoning.

  He sucked in a long, stabilizing expanse of air.

  His imagination was getting the better of him.

  Surely the sensation couldn’t be possessiveness or jealousy.

  Most assuredly not.

  He wasn’t the jealous sort. At least… he hadn’t been until now.

  His eyelids half-lowered, Logan, nonetheless, examined each patron in turn.

  Not a mon present that he deemed worthy of his Mayra, and if any of these Scots was shy of their fortieth birthday, he’d gnaw his muddy, possibly manure caked, boots.