Scot on Her Trail

by Lee, Caroline

  It wasn’t until Duncan glanced her way, that Skye realized she was squeezing his hand tightly and had a look of disgust on her face. So she schooled her features and lowered her voice, so only he could hear. “I dislike that man immensely. He makes rude insinuations, and I suspect he’s the root of Allison’s pilfering.”

  Duncan’s frown didn’t ease. “Why would a monk dress so finely, even to visit his sister?”

  “Monk?” He had her full attention now. “Harold is nae monk.” Not even close, based on the lascivious way he’d looked at her on his last visit.

  “Och, aye,” Duncan jerked his chin at the orange-haired couple, who were speaking with their heads together as they walked. “I traveled with him on the road from Eriboll. I’d recognize those eyebrows anywhere, although he’d taken a vow of silence, and I’d had to carry the conversation.”

  Stewart had reached the bottom of the stairs now and waited impatiently for his pregnant wife and brother-in-law. Skye shook her head, as she stepped in front of Duncan, in order to gain his full attention.

  “He is nae monk,” she repeated again, slower. “Mayhap ye saw a man who looks like him?”

  Duncan’s frown grew as he shook his head, although he was beginning to look unconvinced. “I would swear on my life ‘tis the same man.”

  “Mayhap ‘tis Harold, but he didnae want to speak?”

  She scoffed at Fergus’s explanation. “And he wore a monk’s habit? Why would he no’ want to speak?”

  The old man shrugged. “Because of his voice?”

  Harold’s voice had been ruined years before in a childhood injury to his neck, and he often only spoke to Allison during his visits.

  There was a noise like a spat, but also a growl. It dragged everyone’s attention away from Lady MacIan and her brother…to Pierre.

  The Frenchman was staring at Harold, hatred burning intensely in his eyes, as his knuckles went white around the hilt of his sword.

  “Pierre?” Skye asked hesitantly.

  “Raque Harold,” Pierre spat out. “Il a tué mon frère. Je vous ai rejoint pour le trouver,” he growled. “Maintenant j'aurai ma revanche!”

  “Purple,” Bean offered.

  But Duncan’s eyes had gone wide. “Raque Harold! By St. Simon’s nostrils, of course.” He stepped toward the couple, who’d just reached the bottom of the stairs, his hand going to his own sword. “I cannae believe I didnae realize!”

  Skye placed her hand on his arm, ready to do her best to wrench him back if he didn’t explain what in the seven holy hells was going on. “What did ye no’ realize?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice calm.

  Thankfully, Duncan heard her and whirled back around, his dark eyes bright with excitement.

  “Raque is French for ‘hoarse,’ Skye!”

  And suddenly she understood. “Allison’s brother is Hoarse Harold, the notorious highwayman?”

  “Figtart! Honied oatcake! The man’s stayed under our roof more than once,” Fergus hissed, looking ready to do battle himself.

  “Of course,” Skye whispered; her eyes wide. “And just today, Allison mentioned to me she had to check on an order of caltrops with the MacIan blacksmith.”

  The noxious little weapons Hoarse Harold used had been made right here on MacIan land!

  “Remember how his tarting men wore monks’ habits—or were they priests?—last time we met?”

  He had traveled on the road from Eriboll, and Duncan saw him. He wore a disguise and didnae speak, for fear of his voice being recognized.”

  The old man growled, “And then when yon goldsmith stole ye away, the custardy fruitcake and his men attacked us!”

  “Aye, but ye defeated them, remember?” She placed her other hand over Fergus’s, where it rested on his hilt, reminding him to stay calm. “If he is the reason Allison has been stealing our coin, he is here because he is desperate.”

  “Ye were forced to turn highwayman, my love,” Duncan said, with a twinkle in his eyes, “because yon highwayman had his sister stealing MacIan coin for him.”

  Sure enough, Skye watched as—while Stewart’s back was turned—Allison slipped her brother a pouch of something heavy.

  “We cannae let him just walk away,” she whispered.

  Duncan half-pulled his sword from his scabbard. “We willnae.”

  She loved him, aye, but she could not allow him to be hurt over what was definitely her family’s business. So she wrapped both of her hands around his arm and squeezed gently, then increased the pressure until he looked at her.

  “Ye are nae swordsman, Duncan. Ye’ve said so many times.”

  “Och, well…” His smile was slightly lopsided. “I’m no’ all that bad. Come.”

  And with that, he began pulling her toward the little group by the stairs.

  But at least his blade remained in his scabbard, for which she was thankful.

  They must’ve looked a sight, striding across the great hall. Duncan’s legs were long, and she had to pull up her skirts with one hand to keep up—because she wasn’t losing her grip on him. Fergus, Bean and Pierre trailed behind, but she was certain they all looked threatening.

  Allison took a step back, her face paling, and her brother moved off to one side. When Duncan careened to a stop before him, Harold’s unfortunate eyebrows shot straight up.

  They look like a pair of caterpillars kissing atop his forehead.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Laird Stewart MacIan spoke first, obviously determined to maintain the respect due to his rank. “Are ye Finn Oliphant, or his brother?”

  Duncan was still glaring at Harold, but he growled, “His brother.”

  Skye flapped her hand at her brother. “This is Duncan, Stewart. I love him and plan on marrying him.” Before her brother could do aught more than suck in a surprised breath, she continued with, “Now please shut yer mouth and listen to him.”

  Allison squeaked, “Skye! Manners!” but everyone ignored her.

  Pointing one strong, callused finger at Allison’s brother, Duncan pierced the man with a fierce look. “Ye are Hoarse Harold, the infamous highwayman, are ye no’?”

  As Allison suck in another breath—had she sounded offended, or frightened?—Harold drew himself up. “I am no’.”

  “Aye, ye are,” Duncan asserted.

  “Am no’.”

  “Ye are.”

  Harold waggled those remarkable eyebrows. “Prove it.”

  “Je sais qui tu es,” Pierre said in a menacing tone, as he stepped up beside Duncan, “connard d'une chèvre enceinte, et tu paieras pour ce que tu as fait!”

  Allison’s brother paled slightly and swallowed.

  Does everyone around here understand French except me?

  “As Hoarse Harold, you murdered Pierre’s brother.” Duncan’s eyes gleamed with victory. “Even if we cannae prove ye are a notorious highwayman, we can prove ye’ve been stealing from the MacIans!”

  Harold paled even further, and Allison made a little whimpering sound, swaying on her feet and reaching for her brother’s arm. He shook her off, but neither could hide their looks of nervousness.

  Stewart obviously had had enough of being left in the dark. “What is that supposed to mean?” he growled, stepping up beside his brother-in-law and glaring at Duncan. “Ye come into my home and accuse my family of crimes?”

  It was time for Skye to step in.

  With her eyes on Allison, she spoke to her brother. “Have ye no’ noticed how much of our coin yer wife is spending, Stewart? How we’re losing all our income to her whims?”

  As Allison lowered her orange brows and glowered at Skye, Stewart glanced at his wife and shook his head. “I— She is the Lady MacIan, carrying my heir. I indulge her love of finery—”

  “ ’Tis more than that, Stewart, and ye ken it,” Skye snapped. “That is a fine gown she’s wearing, aye, but—”

  “And ye as well!” Allison interrupted, sounding more than a little desperate. “I only want my husband’s fami
ly to appear benefitting their station! And speaking of yer gown, why do ye look as if ye’ve been rolling in the hay?” Her smirk looked forced, as she flicked a glance at Duncan. “As if I need ask.”

  The bitch thought to distract everyone from the current line of questions?

  Ha!

  “ ’Tis nae me we are discussing, Allison.” Skye fought to keep her voice even. “The MacIan family has stood united long before ye arrived. Stewart and I have nae need for finery—never have—or for appearing grander than we really are. Ye are the one with that obsession, but even that does no’ account for the amount of missing coin over the last year.”

  Allison swung around to face her husband, but Stewart—thank the saints—was staring at his wife with a thoughtful look.

  “Stewart! Husband! Ye cannae believe this—this tatterdemalion lass over yer own wife.”

  When she reached for his arm, Stewart didn’t react; he didn’t move closer, but didn’t shrug her off either. “That lass is my sister, and I ken she cares for this clan as much as I do.”

  “So ye think I…what?” Allison gasped. “I’ve been stealing from ye?”

  “Have ye?”

  The pregnant woman began to sway, then lifted the back of one wrist to her forehead and moaned theatrically.

  “Ye can faint later, Allison. I want to ken if ye’ve been wasting my coin.”

  Skye loosened her grip on Duncan’s arm and stepped up beside her brother, proudly. “She’s no’ just been wasting coin, brother, but funneling it to her brother, a highwayman. Even now, I suspect ye’ll find a pouch from the MacIan coffers on his person.”

  Stewart’s hands curled into fists as he shook off his wife’s hand. “For a year, ye’ve sat and listened to me speak of my clan’s financial woes, as a good wife would, but never once thought to speak up and tell me where my coin was going? Ye stole from me, Allison?”

  Weakly, Allison stumbled toward one of the benches against the wall, her face pale, moaning Stewart’s name.

  And Skye smiled proudly at her brother. No matter what else came out of this confrontation, at least she knew Laird MacIan would no doubt have his wife well under control from that day forward.

  Which meant she could leave the MacIans in capable hands.

  Since Stewart was obviously still reeling from the revelation of his wife’s betrayal, it was Duncan who shoved a finger in Harold’s face. “If ye ken what is good for ye, ye’ll return the pouch of MacIan coin yer sister just passed to ye!”

  And Harold stepped closer. “Oh, I ken what is good for me: Exercise, leafy green vegetables, regular digestive intervals, and thrice-daily prayer. But I doubt ‘tis what ye had in mind.”

  Duncan’s hand dropped to his hilt. “Return the coin,” he growled.

  In one smooth motion, Harold drew his blade, stepping to the side to allow himself enough room to maneuver.

  In a mocking voice, he waggled the tip at Duncan’s chest. “Make me,” he taunted.

  Skye was already reaching for the dagger always strapped to her belt, but when Duncan ripped his own sword from the scabbard, she felt her stomach drop into her knees.

  He is nae swordsman!

  Chapter 11

  Duncan forced himself to keep his breathing even as he lifted his blade to protect Skye. Harold hadn’t actually threatened her, but there was no way Duncan could allow the highwayman to brandish a sword anywhere near Duncan’s beloved.

  “Drop yer sword,” he growled. “Return the coin yer sister passed ye, and ye might be allowed to leave here alive.”

  He had no interest in killing Harold, although he was fairly confident in his ability to hold his own in a battle.

  For years, his father and Rocque—the Oliphant commander—had trained him. And for years, Duncan had somewhat begrudgingly listened. He didn’t believe there was much reason for him to know how to thrust and parry, since he planned to spend his life behind a forge, creating beautiful, delicate pieces of art.

  But he’d acknowledged years ago, if the Oliphant Laird ever called his men to battle, Duncan needed to be prepared. Besides, his stepfather Edward had always said, in order to forge well-balanced weapons, a smith had to understand how to wield them as well.

  And that’s why Duncan hadn’t hesitated to pull his sword and to step toward Harold—who was sneering and had a bloodthirsty look in his eyes—and stand between Skye and danger.

  However, Harold didn’t seem impressed.

  “I think, instead, I’ll stroll from this keep, get on my horse, and spend the coin as I like.”

  Stewart’s sharp intake of breath told all of those present he’d heard the admission of guilt, and now, finally understood what his wife and brother-in-law were capable of.

  Thank fook! Now I can marry Skye and get her away from this nonsense.

  But it was Fergus who spoke up. “Have yer tarting custards recovered from the berries-and-cream whooping we gave them the last time we met?”

  Harold narrowed his eyes, his attention pulled from Duncan. “What?”

  “Yer henchmen,” the old man clarified. “Ye might’ve been dressed as monks, but we kicked yer bloody—excuse me, figtarty—arses, we did!”

  “I hit one on the head,” Bean rumbled happily.

  “Oui! Maudits laches!”

  Duncan watched Harold’s expression as the other man glanced from Fergus to Pierre to Bean, and saw the exact moment he realized these men were part of another group of highwaymen.

  “Ye’re—”

  But Duncan wasn’t going to allow the bastard to accuse Skye’s men of banditry, not where her brother could hear anyway. With a bellow, he raised his sword and charged the other man.

  Harold got his own blade up just in time to block, and the two men spun around one another. This time, Harold went on the offensive, raising his sword high over his own head, then hacking down toward Duncan’s head, while Duncan did his best to deflect and turn his opponents attack against him.

  Duncan drew first blood when the tip of his blade slid across the orange-haired highwayman’s upper arm.

  Harold fell back with a hiss, but forgot to consider his surroundings. He was facing Duncan, aye, and the others had fallen back, aye.

  All but Skye, who—St. Simon’s kidney stones, she’d pulled out her dagger?—was advancing from Harold’s rear.

  Duncan’s blood ran cold. He was suddenly terrified Harold would turn and see Skye as a threat.

  Lifting his blade again, Duncan did his best to hold the other man’s attention. “Ye are outnumbered and outmatched, ye ox-brained son of a diseased pig.” He couldn’t attack Harold, because that would drive the man backward, toward Skye. “Come show me what ye’re made of.”

  Mayhap the bloodying had made the highwayman cautious though, because he was breathing heavily when he lifted his own blade and stood firm. “Nay, ye bastard. Come show me what ye’re made of.”

  How had he known Duncan was a bast—Oh, ‘twas an insult.

  “Nay, I want to ken what ye’re made of!”

  Harold snorted. “Come show me, then.”

  Dunc shook his head. “Nay, ye show me.”

  “I am right here. Ye show me.”

  ‘Twas getting ridiculous.

  Stewart was the one who finally broke their stalemate. “Ye are my wife’s brother, Harold, but if ye value the laws of hospitality, ye’ll—”

  None of them ever found out what the MacIan Laird intended to say, because at that moment, Skye reached Harold.

  Honestly, Duncan hadn’t been completely certain she wasn’t going to plunge her dagger into the man’s back. His Skye was wild, impetuous, and difficult to predict sometimes.

  But instead, in one swift movement, she reached out, grabbed the pouch of coins dangling from the man’s belt, and sliced through the leather thong.

  As the heavy pouch fell into her grasp, she stepped back, at the same moment Harold realized what had happened.

  He began to turn, his face turning even redder, a
nd Skye—obviously desperate to be out of his reach—scrambled back quickly, then tripped over her gown and went sprawling on her delectable arse, leaving her completely exposed to the evil man’s attack.

  Duncan wasn’t going to let that happen.

  With a roar, he lifted his blade and charged.

  The action had Harold’s attention whipping back around, and he clambered to turn, trying to get his blade up to block the attack.

  Pierre yelled, Fergus cursed—“Figtart!”—and Bean stepped forward with his fists raised menacingly.

  Why in damnation did the man refuse to use a perfectly good sword?

  The question flitted through Duncan’s mind in the split second it took for his own blade to crash down upon Harold’s.

  The other man dropped his sword on impact.

  Just like a lad on the first day of training. Harold dropped his sword.

  Mayhap he was as embarrassed as he should’ve been, because with a panicked gasp, Hoarse Harold, the MacIan Laird’s brother-by-marriage, turned and ran from the keep.

  “Il n'ira pas loin!” Pierre hollered, rushing out after him, his blade raised. “Renez le vagin meurtrier d'un âne malade!”

  Fergus and Bean followed him, calling out for support among the MacIan warriors. For a moment, Duncan was afraid Skye would follow. He hurried to slide his sword back into the scabbard, his hands shaking with fear over how close she’d come to harm.

  By the time he reached her, Skye was pushing herself to her feet, and Duncan quickly pulled her into his arms, tucking her head under his chin. He was gratified by the way her arms snaked around his middle, and he could feel the hilt of the dagger she still carried press into his lower back.

  She was shaking, but so was he.

  “Shh, love. I have ye,” he murmured, inhaling her leather-and-pear scent.

  St. Simon’s foot, he loved this woman!

  In the moment he thought Harold might harm her, Duncan had never known such terror.

  If there’d been any doubt in his mind, this incident would’ve alleviated it immediately.

  “I love ye,” she whispered against his chest.

  And he thanked the saints above she was his, and was safe and sound in his arms.