The Laird's Willful Lass

by Anna Campbell

  “And you exerted this influence at nine?” Diarmid asked with a hint of disbelief.

  “Aye, I did. I was old enough to know that a woman’s like a horse. A man needs to keep a firm grip on the reins and show her who’s in control, and she’s all the happier for it.”

  “I want a good Scots lass who makes sure nobody ever calls my children Sassenachs,” Hamish said, before he thought to stop himself.

  “And do ye think a good Scots lass will have ye, my wee laird in the making?” Mackinnon asked, looking in his direction, and Hamish went back to hating him. How could such a nasty brute have such a nice dog, when some very nice boys couldn’t have a dog at all?

  “Why not? Glen Lyon is a fine estate, and I’ll treat her well.”

  “When you’re not watching the skies,” Diarmid said.

  Hamish sat up, disturbing Bailey. He was getting ready to punch his cousin for his lack of loyalty, when he looked out the cave mouth. “Does it seem lighter to you?”

  The others turned toward the opening. “By God, I think the mist is clearing,” Diarmid said.

  All three boys scrambled to their feet, and Mackinnon began kicking dirt over the fire. “At last. I’ll have ye both back at the hunting lodge before breakfast.”

  “We can find our own way,” Hamish said ungraciously, wanting this stranger gone and Diarmid to himself again. The dog rose with a groan, had a good shake, and stretched.

  “Maybe. But having saved your necks, I dinna want ye tumbling down the next brae, once I leave ye to your own devices.”

  Diarmid ignored Hamish fuming beside him and extended a hand in Mackinnon’s direction. “Master Mackinnon, I’d like to thank you for saving our lives. I dread to think what would have happened if you hadn’t come along. We’d have frozen to death, if we hadn’t fallen down a cliff first. This adventure will always unite us.”

  Devil take Diarmid, Hamish hoped not.

  A hint of a smile hovered on Mackinnon’s face. “Given I’ve just saved your thin southern skins, ye should call me Fergus.”

  “I think so, too. I’m Diarmid.”

  As the young Scotsman shook his hand, Diarmid cast his younger cousin a disapproving glance. “Hamish?”

  “Oh, aye,” he said in a sullen tone and stuck out one grubby paw. “Thank you for saving us.”

  To his surprise, Mackinnon shook his hand and laughed—not nastily either. “Not as eloquent as your cousin, but, aye, I’ll take it.”

  Hamish felt a pang as Bailey wagged his tail and trotted back to his master. “I like your dog.”

  “Aye, Bailey’s a braw creature, if not the bonniest. He’s just fathered a litter of puppies, if you’d like one.”

  “Would I?” Hamish responded with a rush of enthusiasm, then native caution revived. “Why on earth would you give me a dog?”

  The boy’s expression turned mocking, as if he read the epic battle between pride and yearning in Hamish’s heart. “Every good Scotsman needs a good Scots hound by his side.”

  Diarmid gave Hamish a surreptitious kick. “Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face, cuz,” he whispered.

  Hamish looked at Bailey with a longing that was so sharp, he could taste it. “I’m not allowed to have a dog,” he mumbled. “My sisters don’t like them.”

  Mackinnon clapped him on the shoulder and picked up the lantern. With the sun coming up, he didn’t relight it. “I imagine once I bring the two lost lambs back to the fold, a small request like a home for an unwanted puppy willnae be turned down.”

  “Is he unwanted?” Hamish asked. He tried not to look down the mountainside. The brightening light made it clear that if he or Diarmid had fallen while they picked their way along the path, they would have broken their necks.

  “Well, you want him,” Mackinnon said, striding away with the black dog trotting at his heels. “Come down the brae. I’m ready for something more than hare to eat, even if ye two laddies want to stay up here to enjoy the fresh air.”

  The fresh air was icy. The sun hadn’t had a chance to warm things up yet. Hamish realized that he was hungry, too, and dead tired, despite his nap. When Diarmid set off after Fergus, he didn’t hesitate to follow.

  The promise of a dog of his own was so exciting that he almost didn’t mind the admiration in Diarmid’s eyes when he looked at Fergus. The kind of admiration, Hamish couldn’t help noting with some mortification, that he was in the habit of directing at his older cousin.

  The three boys and the dog left the cave and followed the path over the ridge.

  Chapter One

  Achnasheen, Western Highlands of Scotland, September 1817

  The smart yellow carriage careered wildly along the steep, rutted track that snaked down into the glen. Fergus hauled Banshee to a stop on the bend of the road. Horror churned in his gut, as he watched the vehicle speeding toward the burn, swollen to river size after the rainy summer.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered, digging his heels into Banshee’s sides. The mare set off through the twilight at a gallop, while his dogs Macushla and Brecon ran barking at her heels.

  The coach horses were running in a blind panic, out of control. As the carriage veered closer, he saw that the coachman had lost his grip on the reins. There was no way that the driver would negotiate the sharp corner at the base of the mountainside to keep the vehicle on the bridge and clear of the water.

  Fergus had reached the stone bridge when the inevitable happened. The horses swerved at the sudden appearance of the burn in front of them. There was a crack as an axle broke, then another louder crack followed by the tinkle of shattered glass as the carriage rammed into the sturdy pillar supporting the end of the bridge.

  The coachman screamed as he hurtled through the air to land on the grassy verge of the road. For a sickening moment, Fergus was sure not only that the driver was dead, but that the carriage must overturn into the burn. His heart lodged in his throat, as the vehicle teetered on the crumbling bank above the rushing brown water.

  Fergus flung himself from the saddle and rushed over to the prostrate man. Banshee shifted uneasily, agitated by the other horses’ terrified whinnying, but bless her, she stayed put. As if things weren’t bad enough already, it started to rain.

  “Are ye all right, laddie?”

  Praise heaven, the man already started to stir. By the time Fergus got to him, he was sitting up and groggily rubbing his skull. His high-crowned hat lay upside down on the wet grass beside him. “Ma heed, ma heed.”

  Even through the shrill neighs of the carriage horses and the thunder of the rushing burn, Fergus noted the Glasgow accent. “Can you move?”

  The man’s resentful look told Fergus that any injuries he’d sustained weren’t too serious. What a miracle. “Aye, if I must.”

  “Then do something about the horses.” They’d both broken free and shied all over the bridge, trailing tack on the ground and showing the whites of their eyes. “Before they kill themselves or someone else.”

  Fergus helped the man up, made sure he was in fact unhurt, then turned his attention to the wrecked carriage. With each second, it appeared more unstable, Fergus guessed because the passengers moved around inside it.

  “For God’s sake, stay still,” he called out, as he dashed toward the vehicle. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the coachman stagger across to the jittery horses.

  When Fergus reached to tug the door, a woman in a rich crimson cape poked her head out of the shattered window. “Good. You can help.”

  Could he indeed? He bristled at her imperious tone, while common sense insisted that he had no time for pique, if he meant to save these travelers from a dousing. “Are you hurt?”

  She raised one slender, gloved hand and pushed back the hood on her stylish cape. He found himself under the regard of calm, dark eyes in a face that was striking for its hauteur.

  Not at all his sort of woman, he could already tell. Too high-handed by far. Nonetheless, despite the urgent circumstances, he couldn’t help tak
ing a split second to admire her. While the lassie mightn’t be to his taste, she was a prime article.

  And by heaven, she was brave. Most women he knew would be in hysterics after that crash.

  “No. Just a little shaken,” she said steadily. “But I fear Papa has broken his leg.”

  To confirm this, a groan and a stream of curses in Italian emanated from the coach’s shadowy interior.

  “He’ll end up in the drink if we don’t get him out. So will you. Is there anyone else in the carriage?”

  “No, only the two of us.”

  For a brief moment, Fergus wondered why she wasn’t traveling with a maid. The carriage was expensive, and so was that cape. Discreet jewels sparkled at her ears and throat. Whoever the lady was, someone had spent money on her appearance and comfort.

  After months of rain, the bank was all mud and not the most reliable foundation. To anchor the carriage, he stood on the step. “Can you get out alone, or should I lift you?”

  When she shoved uselessly at the door handle, the coach gave an ominous creak and tipped closer to the rushing brown water. “I think—”

  “For pity’s sake.” Fergus wrenched open the jammed door with a grunt of effort, and hoisted her free.

  He had a brief impression of lily fragrance and a tall, nicely curved body, before he set her on her feet on the road. She clutched a worn leather satchel that seemed too big for a lady.

  “Well, that was decisive.” In the rain, she looked as ruffled as a wet hen, but he didn’t have time for politeness.

  “Stay there and don’t move.”

  He turned to shout at the coachman who was hauling the horses up the bank, away from the bridge. “Are the horses hurt?”

  “No, my lord, only frighted.” The man edged away from Macushla and Brecon who approached him, more out of canine curiosity than aggression, Fergus knew.

  “Then get down here and help me,” he said, blinking the rain away from his eyes.

  “But the horses, my lord—”

  “They willnae wander far, if they wander at all.”

  Fergus returned to the step and stuck his head into the carriage. The lady’s father turned out to be a portly gentleman huddled in the far corner, just where he was most likely to tip the vehicle. The light inside was dim, but not too dim to hide the unnatural angle of the man’s left leg as it dangled in the well between the seats.

  “Maledizione. I told Marina this viaggio was cursed, but does she ever listen to her papa?” the man said in a thick Italian accent. “No, not that one. She always knows best.”

  “Papa, stop complaining and come forward so we can pull you free,” the woman—she was no ingénue, but at least in her middle twenties—said from beside Fergus’s shoulder.

  He stifled a growl of annoyance. No wonder she hadn’t objected to his orders. She’d decided to ignore them instead. At least when she added her weight to his on the step, it helped counterbalance the tilting carriage. Even if things were a wee bit cozy for strangers, with the two of them sharing the narrow metal platform.

  “My leg, she hurts,” her father groaned, shifting further away.

  Fergus bit back a curse. If the coach slipped now, all three of them would end up in the burn.

  “The rest of you will hurt if you fall into the river,” the woman said, edging closer to Fergus. The scent of lilies mixed with the fresh smell of the rain. When she reached inside for her father, the carriage gave another alarming creak.

  “Get out of the way, lassie. This is no place for a woman,” Fergus snapped, catching her by the waist again. He’d already rescued her once. He shouldn’t have to do it twice. “And mind the broken glass.” Jagged shards littered the seats and floor.

  “Oofff,” she gasped as, with little ceremony, he hauled her off the step.

  “And stay there, ye wee besom,” he said, plopping her back on the road with no great expectation she’d heed him. She hadn’t yet.

  If he had time, he might call her unwomanly. If he had time, his appreciation for those fine eyes might convince him she was very much a woman after all. “You’re getting in the way.”

  “My father isn’t a small man,” the woman said breathlessly, as she staggered to keep her feet. He noted that, unlike her father, she spoke English with the clipped accents of the upper classes. Perhaps once they were out of this blasted mess, he’d find out why. “You’ll need help.”

  “I’m sure I can manage, madam.” He didn’t delay to make sure she was all right. Using his sleeve to brush the glass shards from the seat, he leaned in to assess what he needed to do. “Can you slide across to the door, signore? It will be easier on your leg that way.”

  “I can’t move,” the man moaned, pressing against the far door. When the shift in weight set the carriage rocking, Fergus’s stomach twisted in dread.

  “Si, you can,” the lady said. She was back peering over Fergus’s shoulder. Just his luck to be stuck with a woman unable to recognize the voice of authority, not to mention good sense. “I know it hurts, Papa, but if you use your good leg, you can do it.”

  The man’s terrified eyes sought out his daughter, and Fergus recognized paralyzing fear. So far, the older man showed considerably less fortitude than his daughter. “You’re una ragazza crudele, and the angels despair of you.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” Fergus said between his teeth.

  “Papa, if you don’t come out, I’m coming in to get you. Then it will be your fault if we both drown.”

  “Per pietà, this won’t work.”

  “Try, Papa. Per favore. You don’t want to be buried in Scotland.”

  “Certo, I do not! Even for a dead man, this country is too cold.”

  “In that case, you have to move.”

  Fergus was about to tell the woman to be a bit gentler with her father’s fears, when to his surprise, he saw determination seep into the plump features. “For you, then, figlia mia.”

  “Take my hand,” Fergus said on a surge of hope, reaching in, while still trying to use his weight to keep the carriage level.

  “You, Coker, come and hold the broken shaft to keep the coach steady,” the woman said sharply behind Fergus. Coker must be the blockhead of a coachman.

  Grunting in pain, the Italian began to shift gingerly in Fergus’s direction. Halfway along the leather seat, he stretched out a shaking hand. Fergus lurched forward to grab the man’s wrist as he felt the carriage settle further into the mud. Coker must have at last decided to lend his aid.

  The next few seconds became an agonizing nightmare of suspense. It seemed to take the older man an hour to get into position. Beside him, Fergus heard the woman’s unsteady breathing and what he thought was a whispered prayer or two.

  He realized she wasn’t quite as unemotional about her parent’s plight as she pretended. He liked her better for the hint of vulnerability, and for her courage in keeping it to herself.

  This time, he didn’t waste his time telling her to stand back, although if the coach went into the burn, it would take half the bank. The mudslide would carry her away with it.

  “That’s it, Papa. Bravo.”

  “Give me room, madam,” Fergus said curtly.

  “Of course.” Before he had an instant to remark on her sudden cooperation, she went on. “I’ll hold you steady while you bring him out.”

  Fergus didn’t have the breath to consign her to Hades, although he wanted to. When she stepped down, the coach gave another alarming wobble. As Coker struggled to keep a grip on the shaft, he swore in some incomprehensible Glaswegian patois.

  “Coraggio, Papa.” Fergus heard how she strove to keep her tone bright. “You won’t be in there much longer.”

  “Try and maneuver yourself out. If I pull you, I might damage your leg.” If only he’d had the luxury of splinting the break before bringing the man out, but the carriage was too close to going over.

  “Don’t let me go, per favore,” the man said shakily, struggling to stand on one foot. The
movement set the coach shuddering again.

  “Coker, hold on!” the woman shouted.

  Fergus reached in, trying not to upset the vehicle, then felt surprisingly strong hands grab his waist and ground him from behind. The Italian fellow gave a broken cry of agony as he made a clumsy hop toward Fergus. There was no time for niceties. With every second, the carriage tilted at a steeper angle.

  “I won’t let you fall, sir,” Fergus said.

  “Papa, listen to the man,” the woman said.

  “Let me go, lassie. I need to step back if he’s to get out.”

  “Very well,” the woman said. Despite the fraught circumstances, he noted that for the first time, she did what she was told.

  Praying the carriage wouldn’t tip over without his weight to hold it steady, Fergus retreated backward onto the muddy road, pulling the Italian as he went. Inch by inch, the older man came forward, then with an awkward movement, more stumble than step, he toppled through the door.

  Fergus lurched forward to catch him before he put any weight on his broken leg. As the man popped free of the cabin, the yellow traveling coach pitched to the side, then slid into the flood, taking a great slice of the bank with it.

  “Oof,” Fergus grunted as he took the injured man’s weight in his arms.

  “Hell’s bells,” Coker gasped, jumping back. He only just avoided the shaft knocking him into the water, too.

  The carriage bobbed like a cork on top of the rushing water, then with a loud creak, it sank up to its shattered windows, and the current swept it away. Macushla and Brecon barked and dashed down the bank in pursuit, finding all of this a grand adventure.

  Bracing his booted feet against the slippery ground, Fergus shifted his grip on the groaning Italian. The injured man was as tall as he was and twice as wide. His bulk made it no easy task to keep him upright. Straining to balance under his burden, Fergus hardly looked up as with a bang, the wrecked carriage jammed on a rocky islet about five hundred yards downstream.

  The woman slid her shoulder beneath her father’s arm, mercifully taking some of the weight off Fergus. “Papa, are you all right?”