Some Like it Scot

by Suzanne Enoch

  For Saint Andrew’s sake. She had nothing with which to compete against pretty words and refinement and the lovely silk gowns that swished when Elizabeth walked—no, glided—across a room. Aye, Bear had said her man’s attire aroused him, but underneath the clothes she had the same parts as any other female, and far less idea how to do the mysterious things that caused a man to write poetry or pick posies or any of those other things they did when they admired a lass. Or to want to marry a lass and make her a viscountess and expect her to be able to host parties and play the pianoforte and chat about Paris fashions and dance a waltz.

  Bear might not know what he wanted of her, but sooner or later he was bound to realize that whatever it was, another lass, any other lass, would likely be better at providing it than she. She was accustomed to that, to being overlooked and passed over, of course, but he’d bothered to notice her first. That would only make it worse—whether she actually even liked him or not.

  “Where are ye off to, lass?” Bear asked, as she shoved by him.

  She hadn’t even realized she’d stood up from the hearth. “I forgot mushrooms,” she improvised, surprised there was enough air in the hallway for her to draw a breath.

  “Take yer musket, then,” he countered, putting his fingers around her wrist. “And yer coat.”

  Catriona jerked free. “Dunnae tell me what to do,” she snapped, but turned back, slipped on the new wool coat he’d brought for her, grabbed up the weapon, and stalked out into the hallway again. There was pride, and there was foolishness. And she did try not to be foolish, despite what everyone else might think. Despite what she might be thinking at this very moment.

  He hadn’t tried to stop her, at least. Did that mean he knew she could take care of herself? Or that he was relieved to see her go so he could flex his muscles and say charming things to Elizabeth? Catriona shut her eyes for a moment. She knew it was the former. Why, then, had that other question even occurred to her?

  Because she was stupid and mannish and naïve and didn’t have any idea how to tell a lad she liked him. Not without being laughed at, anyway. Not even after he’d more or less said that he liked her. She moved slowly along the floor of the valley, looking for thick patches of trees and fern where the largest mushrooms would have found a dark place to root. She didn’t hold out much hope that the resident animals had left anything edible behind, but at least it had gotten her away from Haldane for the moment.

  Simply avoiding the entire mess of men and courtship was much, much simpler. And smarter, too. She hadn’t ventured into the middle of MacLawry territory to find a man. She’d done it to avoid one. And the—

  Leaves crunched on the old roadway just below and to her right. Immediately she crouched, stilling. It could be deer; they’d been foraging throughout the valley since she and Elizabeth had arrived there. Another crunch. It sounded heavier than a deer, and less tentative—which made it one of three things in the Highlands: a cow, a horse, or a man.

  Very slowly, her heart pounding, she touched the ferns blocking her view and drew them aside. Black, shiny hide, muscles playing beneath. A stirrup, and a man’s boot. And then a gray hound’s head, swiveling in her direction, sniffing as if he recognized her, and then facing forward again. Was it Fergus? The hound that belonged to the MacLawry?

  Catriona took in a slow breath, holding it until the horse and rider passed. Then came a second, and a third. A glimpse of black and white plaid, a thick band of red threaded through it like blood. MacLawry colors, but not Bear or Peter Gilling, because they were still inside Haldane. And so was Elizabeth.

  Willing herself not to shake, she waited motionless until the fifth and last horse passed by. Then she scrambled up the low rise to the far side, cutting across the stream there and heading at a dead run back toward the ruins. No, no, no. This was exactly what wasn’t supposed to happen. Thank God Munro was there, and Elizabeth wasn’t alone. Damnation, she should never have left her sister’s side.

  The horses moved at a walk, but they had the more direct path. She had to circle around toward the collapsed rear half of Haldane, and she had to be quiet about it.

  “Bear!”

  A low baritone voice broke through the quiet, and she skidded to a stop against the backside of the low wall that had once encircled and protected Haldane Abbey. Someone, at least, knew Munro. Had he tricked her after all? Did he know who she and Elizabeth were?

  “Hello the abbey! I know ye’re in there, Bear! We found Saturn, and Fergus led us directly here when I put him on yer trail.”

  He hadn’t brought them here at least. Not intentionally. At the moment it shouldn’t have mattered, because a representative of the Marquis of Glengask, if not the MacLawry himself, sat on a horse twenty-five feet from the front of the ruin where she’d hid her sister. But it did matter. Catriona clenched her musket, but she didn’t lift it. Not yet. A few weeks ago she would have fired by now, but since then her already complicated life had become even more muddled. And so first she needed to know what, precisely, the MacLawrys were doing on her doorstep.

  “Bear!”

  “I heard ye,” Munro’s deep, familiar brogue answered, and she risked a glance around the broken section of the wall beside her. The big man stepped out of the open entryway, but remained on the off-kilter top step. “Is someaught amiss, Ranulf?”

  This was the MacLawry, then. Lord Glengask. She wished she could see what the marquis looked like, to see if he resembled his youngest brother, but if she could see him then he might well be able to see her. Instead she held on to her musket and cursed silently. Munro had brought her complications, just as she’d known he would. But until this moment she’d begun to think befriending him, or at least allowing him to befriend her, was worth the risk.

  “Ye ask an interesting question, bràthair,” the marquis returned. “I dunnae suppose ye know anything aboot a good portion of the kitchen pantry supplies going missing, along with a dozen blankets, one of my wool jackets, some of the good silverware, and a storage room door, do ye?”

  “Nae, I dunnae.”

  The bald-faced lie surprised Catriona, and she risked another look at Munro MacLawry. He’d donned his shirt again, but it hung untucked over the top of his kilt, and he held a hammer in one hand. He did not look like someone a sane man would cross.

  “Are ye certain that’s the answer ye care to give me, Munro? I’m here to decipher a puzzle. That’s all. I’ve nae wish to fight with ye, but I will figure oot what’s afoot here.”

  Chapter Eight

  His jaw clenched, Munro took a half step forward. This was not how he’d intended the morning to go. Particularly not after his very interesting conversation with the scarlet-haired wildcat. In fact, for once his family had been the last thing on his mind.

  If Catriona stumbled across this little meeting, someone would get hurt. And given her quick temper and the musket she carried, it might be her. Damnation. If she’d trusted him just a little more, she might have told him the things he’d discovered yesterday when he’d eavesdropped on her. And those things would come in handy just now in a conversation with Ranulf. If he had to use them without her admitting to them first, she would undoubtedly find out. That wouldn’t bode well for him getting her to take those trousers off.

  If she’d been alone in the Highlands, she might have run at the sight of the crowd at her temporary front door. She wouldn’t, though, because Elizabeth remained inside. His best guess about her whereabouts was that she was somewhere very close by. Close enough to hear every word he said. He clenched his jaw, a dozen curses vying to be the first one he let fly. The best he could hope for was that Catriona didn’t shoot anyone before he could solve this little problem.

  “Bear?”

  “I’m trying to decide whether or not I have a disagreement with ye.” Movement to his left caught his attention, and he glanced in that direction. If Ranulf had sent someone to flank him, that changed the equation. Instead, though, he met a furious dark brown gaze, and took
an abrupt breath. “Give me a damned minute, will ye?” he continued aloud, hoping she realized that statement was also meant for her.

  “Aye. Take yer minute,” Ranulf returned.

  The marquis was actually being generous. Glengask didn’t tolerate subterfuge or lies, particularly where his own family was concerned. Like everyone else, though, Ranulf had a healthy respect for his youngest brother’s strength and his temper. Munro could use that to his advantage, but it would be a tricky proposition. And it would require that Catriona trust both him and the clan MacLawry. While he was at it, he might as well wish for a dragon to come by and fly him away.

  Facing the mounted Ranulf again, he subtly gestured with the fingers of his left hand for Cat to stay where she was. Later he could question why he’d just decided to lie to his brother in favor of a wild-hearted MacDonald lass. Now, he just needed to make it believable.

  “I reckon I’ve decided,” he announced, flipping the hammer in his right hand.

  “And what have ye decided, then?”

  Ranulf was the only one of his party who’d spoken, despite the fact that the more diplomatic Arran and even Lachlan MacTier waited behind him, along with two grooms. They’d come ready to use brute force, Munro realized, even though they had no idea what the brawl might be about.

  “I’ve decided to tell ye what’s afoot here. And I’ve decided the lot of ye are going to be reasonable aboot it.”

  “I’m certain we will be,” Arran put in abruptly, before Ranulf could respond to that.

  Good. “It’s a bit of a story, so ye’ll listen to it all before ye set foot in this hoose.”

  “Bear, I willnae be dicta—”

  “Tell yer story, then.” This time it was Lachlan, one of Glengask’s own chieftains, who interrupted their laird. Munro and Lach had practically grown up in each other’s pockets, which was likely why he wasn’t anxious to begin a brawl he hadn’t won since they’d both turned ten. They all knew something had been troubling him, Munro realized. Had they come out here to help him, though? Or to make certain whatever he was about didn’t cause trouble for the MacLawrys?

  “Thank ye, Lach,” he said aloud. “I will.” He took another breath, mentally crossing his fingers both for luck and against the lies he would tell. “A week or two ago I stumbled across a lass while I was oot hunting.” It took every bit of willpower he possessed not to look over at where Cat was hiding; he could practically hear her teeth grinding.

  “A lass,” Arran repeated, lifting an eyebrow.

  “Aye. A lass. The daughter of Randall MacColl, laird and chieftain of the Isle of Islay, as it turns oot.”

  “Clan MacDonald,” Ranulf bit out, his expression settling into one even grimmer than usual.

  “She was raised English, by her mama. It seems when old Randall died a short time ago, his widow decided to marry their daughter off to a Sassannach duke. Young Elizabeth didnae like this idea, and so she fled to the Highlands. This is as far as she got.”

  “Which Sassannach duke?” the marquis asked flatly.

  “Villferd or Vinfer or someaught. He’s aboot a hundred years old, and he’s already buried a dozen wives.”

  “Visford?” Arran supplied, as Munro had expected.

  “Aye, that’s it. Visford.”

  “If I recall, he’s past sixty, and four times a widower.”

  “To a lass nae yet twenty, I dunnae ken the exact numbers matter.” Munro flipped the hammer again. “I dunnae hold with anyone, lad or lass, being shoved into a match they cannae stomach,” he continued, favoring his oldest brother with a pointed look for effect, “so I gave her my word she’d be safe here. And I gave her some food and blankets and a door to keep the cold oot while I decided on how best to approach ye aboot this.” He paused. “Now, since I reckon ye’ve given me yer word to be polite and nae to hand Lady Elizabeth a single fright, I’ll invite ye in to make her acquaintance.”

  For the first time he realized why he’d grinned and laughed and agreed with his family every time they’d called him thick-skulled and direct and incapable of subtlety. It had been for this exact moment, when he needed them to believe everything he said. And he hoped to God it would be worth it.

  “Where’s Gilling in all this mess?” Ranulf asked, stiff-backed and clearly not amused, but not suspicious over the tale, either.

  “Dunnae blame Peter. Ye told me I couldnae go aboot alone, and I told him to keep his damned gobber shut about the abbey. He’s inside keeping watch over the lass while I’m here flapping my gums with ye. Now are ye going to be civil, or are ye going to turn aboot and leave? Those are yer two choices. I’m nae joking aboot.”

  Slowly Ranulf swung out of the saddle and stepped onto the weed-broken gravel, the rest of the men with him immediately following suit. “I can see that. Introduce me to the MacDonald lass, then.”

  Inside, Munro itched to dive over the wall and grab hold of Cat, so he could explain to her what he planned before she either fled into the wilds again or decided to put a hole in him. Whether she realized it or not, the entire subterfuge had been for her sake. Her sister’s quandary barely qualified as interesting, by clan standards. He knew far less about what troubled Catriona, but her very skittishness told him clan MacDonald figured into it. Until she trusted him with her tale, he would protect her. And at the moment that meant keeping her away from both her clan and his.

  Putting himself between Ranulf and where Cat remained crouched, Munro gestured his brother through the open entryway. Once they were all safely inside, he angled his head toward the low wall. “Stay there,” he murmured. “I gave ye both my word. I mean to keep it.”

  “Ye’d better, giant,” drifted back to him almost soundlessly. “I’m watching the lot of ye.”

  Before he could convince himself it would absolutely not be suspicious for him to linger outside, he turned around and walked down the wrecked hallway toward the old kitchen. With less than a minute’s warning, he had more hope than confidence that his hastily thrown-together plan would satisfy his crafty brothers. “Trust me” and “we’ve nae heard of Cat” had sounded like bold enough instructions, but now he needed a nineteen-year-old wide-eyed lass and a stubborn, set-in-his-ways footman to stand straight before the chief of clan MacLawry and lie. It was a feat few attempted and even fewer managed.

  He pushed his way to the front of the Highlanders as they reached the half-finished kitchen doorway. “We’re coming in, Peter,” he called out. “Dunnae blast a hole in anyone.”

  “As ye say, m’laird,” the former soldier returned in his heavy, gruff brogue.

  “This isnae a war,” Ranulf stated. “Stop yer growling and stomping.” With that the marquis stepped around him and into the kitchen.

  Damnation. Munro followed; he needed to keep control of the situation, keep Glengask from asking too many questions and discovering that a second, more troublesome sister lurked just outside.

  The young, honey-haired lass stood halfway behind Gilling, her hazel-eyed gaze fixed on Ranulf as if she expected the man to spew fire from his fingertips. Evidently even the Sassannach feared the MacLawry now, though given the mayhem that had transpired during Ranulf and Arran’s visit to London, it wasn’t that surprising.

  “Elizabeth,” he drawled, moving to a point where he could intercept either her or his brother, “this is the Marquis of Glengask, my oldest brother. Ranulf, Lady Elizabeth MacColl. My guest.”

  He said that last bit very deliberately, and caught Ranulf’s responding sideways glance. As his guest, Elizabeth was under his protection. She clearly meant a great deal to Cat, and for no other reason than that he would see that the wild lass’s sister remained safe.

  She curtsied prettily. “My lord. Thank you for letting … me stay here.”

  Munro heard the hesitation, but hopefully Ranulf had not. With the blankets folded up and stacked in a dry corner and cups and plates scattered across the table and hearth, determining how many people were residing there wouldn’t be simple, an
d they had to give Ranulf no reason to suspect there might be more than one lass at Haldane Abbey.

  The marquis inclined his head. “Lady Elizabeth. Ye claim clan MacDonald, aye?”

  “Clan … Yes. I suppose I do, anyway. My father was a MacDonald chieftain. My mother … didn’t care for clan politics or the Isle of Islay. This is the first time I’ve seen Scotland in eleven years.”

  “And why are ye here now, lass?”

  Munro frowned. “I told ye why she was here. Because she didnae want to marry a man forty years—”

  “I asked the lass, Bear,” Ranulf snapped, cutting him off. “I’d appreciate if she answered me, herself.”

  He would have to hope that she’d heard enough to realize she should tell the truth. Munro gave her a slight smile and an encouraging nod. “Tell him aboot yer mother’s plan fer ye then, lass.”

  She swallowed, taking a moment to look at the group of tall, formidable men now ranged in front of her. “Of course. I assume my father always hoped I would marry a Highlander,” she said in her cultured English tones. “He died nearly two years ago before anything came of it, and that was when my mother decided we—she and I—would be better served if I married a wealthy English lord.”

  As she spoke her voice flattened, as if she’d become so accustomed to feeling angry and frustrated that it infused all the parts of the tale even now that it had been more or less resolved to her satisfaction. A lass more than likely raised to disdain her Scots relations and who’d still turned to one of those relations for help. Except that Elizabeth couldn’t tell that part of the story. Munro readied himself to interrupt again if need be, before she could let the actual Cat out of the proverbial bag.