The Highland Rogue

by Amy Jarecki

  “No, sir.”

  “Then I suggest you take Miss Divana to heart, if I understand the undercurrent of her meaning.” He stepped near the stable hand and lowered his lips to the man’s ear. “And if I hear word of foul play, you’ll be heading to the altar at the point of my dirk, ye ken?”

  Passing the riding crop to Divana, Garry did not meet Kennan’s gaze. “Aye, sir.”

  He straightened and gave the lad a wink. “Well then, I’m glad we’ve had this wee chat.”

  Divana waved the small whip. “I’m supposed to tap me pony with this?”

  “Wait until we’re outside.” Kennan slipped a spare bridle onto his arm and grasped the gelding’s lead line. “Is your knee secured over the upper pommel?”

  “The what?”

  As Garry strode away, Kennan stepped around to the “on side” of the horse and patted the pommel. “You hook your right knee here—it will give you balance.” He then slid the iron stirrup over her left foot. “And your toes go in the stirrup like so.”

  “Ah—that feels more secure.”

  He led her out to the round pen and gave her a few pointers before he started the horse walking. “You’re looking fine, but if you relax your seat in harmony with the horse’s motion, both of you will be a mite more comfortable.”

  After a few turns around the ring, Divana’s rigid posture eased a bit too much.

  “Keep your head up as if you’re balancing a book atop.”

  She immediately stiffened, making the horse sidestep. “How am I supposed to relax my seat and keep my head fixed at the same time?”

  “Picture it this way—if you’re nervous and tense, the horse will be nervous and tense. If you relax, then your horse relaxes, but you don’t want to relax so much you lose control of your mount.”

  She snarled, her eyes fierce—good God, he enjoyed her spirit. “Och, ’tis easy for ye to say.”

  “All right then, what was that ditty you were singing about the young smith? Didn’t it have a chorus?”

  “Ye heard that?”

  “I did.”

  She adjusted herself in her seat, tapping her crop while the horse snorted and bobbed his head. “Rum, rum, rum. In and out, fiddly dum.”

  “Good, now sing that over and over as the horse moves.”

  Once Divana’s mind was taken off riding and she shifted to enjoying herself, her posture adjusted itself like magic. “That’s better.”

  Smiling, she wriggled her shoulders. “He seems to like the song.”

  “Aye, and he likes that you’re not tense.” Kennan let out a bit of rope. “Are you ready to try a trot?”

  “Whilst I sing?”

  “Why not?”

  A great many clansmen stopped and watched with amusement on their faces. Divana didn’t seem to notice, her unbound hair flapping from beneath her bonnet as she naturally posted with the rhythm of the horse.

  After Kennan buckled the bridle in place and spent the greater part of an hour teaching her how to control the reins, her heel, and the riding crop, all to the tune of “The Lusty Young Smith,” he gritted his teeth against the tearing pain in his shoulder as he hoisted himself astride his horse.

  “Ye should have used a mounting block,” said Divana, pointing to the bloodstain spreading at his shoulder.

  “Not on your life.”

  Together they rode across the lea and along the River Arkaig trail. He liked Divana’s company—she calmed him like no other. Though the lass was open with her opinions, she didn’t nag. He liked her smile, the healthy glow of her skin, the way she looked at him and listened as if everything he said was remarkable and important.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “I thought we’d take our nooning up yonder in a clearing where my brothers and I used to cast stones and see who could throw the farthest.”

  “Aside from their portraits, I haven’t seen your brothers. Will they come home from university soon?”

  “Mayhap in the summer.”

  “Och, university,” she said dreamily. “What I wouldn’t give to learn to read and write.”

  Kennan nearly offered to teach her, but he wouldn’t be there much longer. He’d only begin lessons and he’d be off—and she’d forget everything while he was away. “Perhaps I can find a book of letters for you. The alphabet is the best place to start.”

  “Oh, would ye? I’d be ever so grateful.” She batted a tree limb with her riding crop. “Did ye attend university as well?”

  “I did—the University of Glasgow. Studied a course on maritime and seafaring. That was where I fell into good standing with the Baronet of Sleat.”

  “And you captained ships for him?”

  “Aye, the very Lady Heather in refitting at the moment.”

  Divana’s expression grew distant at the mention of his ship. She lightly tapped her crop, making the horse trot for a few steps. “Did ye like university?”

  “I’ll say the years were invaluable. I made many allies and met friends who have become great men, but I prefer the sea.”

  “Why? Ye almost lost your life afore ye washed ashore on Hyskeir.”

  “There are a great many risks with sailing, but the rewards are boundless.”

  “Like plundering silver?”

  He chuckled. “A man can earn his fortune if all the stars align. But there’s nothing like a spray of salt water in your face whilst you’re battling a wicked tempest, fighting to keep your ship afloat and your crew alive.”

  “Goodness, that sounds frightening.” She shivered a bit. “Mayhap exciting as well.”

  “It certainly isn’t boring. There’s always something to do aboard a ship, even when there’s no wind.”

  As they reached the clearing, Kennan reined his horse to a halt. “Here we are.”

  Divana stopped beside him, smiling as if she hadn’t a care, her gaze shifting to take in the beauty of the green canopy of weeping willows and the carpet of bluebells. “I already love it here. ’Tis peaceful.”

  He hopped down from his mount, then held up his right hand. “Allow me to help you alight.”

  “But ye’re still injured.”

  “Only one shoulder is sore.” He beckoned with his fingers. “Now come, lass, we haven’t all day.”

  As she placed a hand on his right shoulder, he clutched her waist and slowly let her slide down his body. The curve of Divana’s hip molded to him as though she was meant to be there. The wind picked up her hair, whipping silken tresses around his neck and across his nose, the feminine fragrance enough to tame a wild beast. But what melted his heart was the way she smiled at him—as if he were the only man in the world. He adored her smile, especially when the sun sparkled in her lovely blue eyes.

  “The color of a shallow sea,” he whispered while he lowered her to the ground ever so slowly.

  Her tiny gasp brought with it an internal storm of lust he intensely craved to act upon. Her lids lowered as she shifted her gaze to his lips, and a pink tongue slipped out, tempting him. “I do not suppose me riding lesson will end up like Beltane?”

  “Beltane?”

  She swiped her fingers across her mouth. “Ye ken. Do not make me say it.”

  The kiss. His muscles tensed. She’d been the one to back away. But why? “Of course not.”

  As Kennan released her waist, a flash of disappointment crossed her face. She skittered back and brushed out her skirts. “I’ll fetch the satchel.”

  Confounded, Kennan untied the plaid from the back of his saddle. Did she want to kiss him or not? According to his father, the woman had spent the three days he was unconscious standing over him like a mother hen. What was it between them?

  Obviously they both knew they had no future. She was of marriageable age, more beautiful than any lass he’d seen in the Highlands. And he’d be sailing off to sea for an indeterminate amount of time. Pledging his love and showering her with kisses would be a rakish thing to do—even though he’d acted the rake in the past, he abso
lutely must not act upon his lust with Divana.

  They had developed some inexplicable bond, something entwined their souls. He would give his life for her, and he highly suspected she might do the same for him.

  Though it couldn’t be.

  He absolutely must not—would not—make promises to the lass. Doing so would only cut her to the quick when he ended up breaking those promises.

  Perhaps he shouldn’t encourage her. But then teaching her to ride had been his idea. How the bloody hell was he to stop encouraging himself? Naught but a moment ago she had raised her chin and puckered her lips. He would have kissed her, and out there in the clearing of the river with no one else about, he might have gone further—much further.

  * * *

  Over and over Divana told herself she was not in love with Sir Kennan and there was no chance in Hades he was in love with her. And that meant no kissing. No gazing into each other’s eyes. No moving too close on the blanket they were sharing at the river’s edge.

  Why was it she and this Highlander could be having a wonderful time, and all of a sudden it would grow serious, she’d go as mushy as porridge inside and say something daft, and then they’d end up at odds?

  For the love of Saint Columba, she didn’t want to make him angry. They had but a few sennights together and then he’d be gone—off on a sea voyage to chase after Britain’s most vile pirate. Worse, he might never return. He’d nearly been killed the last time he had an altercation with the brigand. Moreover, it didn’t take a scholar to know how dangerous it was to sail the high seas, what with sea monsters and reefs that tore gargantuan holes through ships’ hulls. She’d heard the tales.

  Divana choked on a bit of cheese. Clutching her throat, her face grew warm as she coughed.

  Kennan immediately reached for the cup of wine and held it to her. “Are you unwell?”

  Divana patted her chest, her eyes watering. She took the cup and drank greedily, swallowing down the cheese. “Thank you,” she managed in a strained voice. “I’m fine.”

  He gave her a look while he tore off a bit of bread with his teeth. “You’ve grown quiet all of a sudden.”

  Above, a flock of swallows had taken to flight. If only she had wings, she’d fly away with them—find her prince in a warm country on the Continent. “Och, I reckon my coughing was enough to scare away all the birds within fifty paces.”

  “Nay.” He took the cup from her fingers and drank even though he had a cup of his own. “Before then you seemed withdrawn.”

  Who wouldn’t grow silent when faced with a man she desperately wanted and could never have? A man who intended to leave her without a backward glance. Withdrawn? She ought to push him away and tell him not to come near.

  The drastic thought made her pick up the bottle and pour more wine. She’d been elated when Kennan suggested riding. Of course, she’d suggested bringing the food, but the outing had been his idea. If she’d said no, perhaps he might have found another lass to ride with, and that simply wouldn’t do. Bless it, if all she had was a handful of days to enjoy his company, then she’d spend every moment with him—even if he was shredding her heart to bits.

  “Take me with ye,” she blurted before she thought the better of it.

  He gestured toward the river with a sweep of his hand. “I have brought you with me.”

  “Ye ken that’s not what I mean. Take me on your voyage.”

  He rocked back and tossed the wine bottle’s cork, easily catching it. “Och, ye ken I cannot.”

  “Why? Once ye’re away, there’ll be naught for me here.”

  “There’s plenty for you. Mistress Barton tells me you’re a hard laborer—that you accomplish far more in a day than Fiona.”

  “Too right, I work hard and I’d work even harder on your ship. I can clean and cook. I even learned some of the healing arts from Mistress Ava.” Divana clasped her hands. Aye, she’d plead if she must. “Please. I’ll earn me keep, I will.”

  He brushed a knuckle across her cheek. “I ken you’d work your fingers to the bone, but a ship is no place for a woman.”

  “So ye aim to leave me here with nothing but a mob of Camerons.”

  He threw the cork into the grass. “Wait a moment, those are my kin you’re grumbling about.”

  “Aye, but they’re not me kin.”

  “Are you saying you want to go back to Connel?”

  She stared, her mouth agape. How could she make him understand? “Nay. Me place is wherever ye are. If I do not go with ye, I cannot tend ye when ye’re hurt or sick. Why can ye not see how I feel?”

  “Och, lass.” He looked out toward the river. “You must realize I’ve been sailing for eight years and I haven’t needed a woman to tend me in all that time.”

  “Obviously not.” Divana stood and began shoving the remains of their meal into the satchel. “Ye nay need anyone, do ye?”

  “What have I said to make you so upset?”

  She threw the blasted bag at him. “If ye do not ken, then ye are as daft as a cock with his head cut off!”

  She marched to her horse and untied the reins from the tree.

  “Wait.” Kennan wadded up the blanket. “I’ll help you mount.”

  No! The last thing she wanted was for him to come near—to put his hands on her once again. Divana led the pony to a fallen tree and climbed up. Slipping her foot in the stirrup, she hoisted herself into the saddle and slipped her knee over the upper pommel.

  “Ye see? I can do it meself.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  As time passed, Kennan’s unrest grew. Though, with every new day, he gained mobility in his left arm. He spent most of his time working to regain his strength, stretching and running. He chopped wood with the lads and spent afternoons in the smithy shack swinging a heavy hammer, molding red-hot iron into hooks and stirrups and horseshoes.

  Today he carried his sword out to the practice field, which also was used for clan gatherings. He headed for a sparring post, but movement at the far end by the shooting targets caught his eye.

  Divana.

  After their riding lesson, she’d returned to her duties of the household and steered clear of him. And Mistress Barton had promoted her to Cook’s assistant, which Kennan had nothing to do with. Indeed, the lass earned the promotion on her own. Of course, he missed their daily interactions, though he’d done nothing to seek her out. He was a damned heel in so many ways.

  She was right to push him away. The lass could never be serious about traveling with him. The ship of a privateer was no place for a lady, even a woman as independent and robust as Divana. Though, in truth, she might be heartier than a few sailors he knew. Still, a woman aboard was never advisable among a crew of randy men, especially when at sea for months at a time. No matter how much he’d enjoy her company, he could not allow it.

  He watched as she loaded her slingshot and whipped it above her head three times. Lunging forward with a graceful release, she held her pose while the rock smashed into the bull’s-eye of the straw target.

  Kennan chuckled to himself. He probably didn’t know one other person in all of Scotland able to wield a slingshot as accurately as Divana Campbell.

  Bloody oath, I envy the man who wins that woman’s heart.

  The thought brought a scowl to his lips.

  He removed his shirt and slung it over the fence. Then, drawing his sword, he addressed an oak sparring post with both hands on the hilt. The movement burned a bit, but the work he’d done chopping wood had helped loosen up the sinews some.

  He eyed his target and took three breaths through his teeth, willing his inner strength to surface. Bellowing his Gaelic war cry, “Aonaibh Ri Chéile!” Kennan attacked, his blade hissing through the air as he spun in place and struck the solid wood, demanding every thread of power, bone, and sinew he could muster. With the impact, searing pain shot from his hands, up his arms, across his shoulders and neck, reverberating in his head until his skull rattled.

  “Ugh!” Kennan grunted
as if he’d been punched in the gut.

  He glanced over his shoulder at Divana. She released another rock, hitting her target as if her arm were a cannon. Thank God she hadn’t stopped to watch him. The damned oak post was two hands thick and solid as petrified wood. He knew better than to unleash all his strength on a sparring pole hewn of oak. But just thinking about Divana with any other man made him want to unleash his ire on someone or something.

  Leveling his blade, he addressed the post again. “I’m a patient man.”

  Lunging right, he struck with a side slice, then spun to the left, his sword singing as he cut into the oak—his target a man’s flank. Over his head, he attacked with a death strike to the head. A jab to the gut, driving his blade upward to slice through vitals that would end a man’s life before he hit the deck.

  On and on, Kennan fought his demons—his mind racing back to the battle aboard the Highland Reel. No doubt he’d face the same pirates again, and this time he’d fight them to the end. As soon as his crew set sail, they’d practice for hours, honing their strength and their endurance. No army would match them, and no ambush would send him into the sea, fighting bloodthirsty sharks.

  “Ye’ve healed a great deal, have ye not?”

  Kennan’s gut clenched as he heard Divana’s voice come from behind. He spun and faced her, his weapon high in on guard, out of habit. She took a step away, her hands entwined with the leather slingshot. “Ye look as if ye are about to attack me with your mammoth sword.”

  He immediately lowered the weapon. “Forgive me. ’Tis the training. When faced with the need to turn, the swordsman raises his blade—both for safety and to ready himself for an attack.”

  “I see.” Her gaze meandered down to his chest, then to the waistband of his kilt, then up to the angry scar on his shoulder. “Is it hurting?”

  “Less every day.”

  “I’m glad.” Sidestepping, she picked up a wooden sword—one the men usually used for sparring. She brandished it with a flick of her wrist, making it whirl in a circle as an experienced swordsman might do. “I’ve always wanted to learn to wield one of these.”

  “Have you ever done so?”