The Highlander Who Loved Me (MacCallan Clan, #2)

by Wilde, Tanya

  “I don’t suppose it’s too late to head for the hills?” Isla whispered in a hushed voice, barely audible above the sound of wind howling through the cracks of the door.

  “Heavens!” A feminine voice chimed from nowhere. “You must be freezing.”

  A short, aging buxom woman suddenly materialized as if from a thick cloud of fog. Drew and Isla jolted back, startled.

  “Oh! Do not be alarmed,” the woman exclaimed, her eyes settling on where they clutched each other’s arms. “I did not mean to startle you.”

  Drew and Isla lurched apart, clearing their throats.

  “You startled us, is all,” Isla breathed before Drew could catch his breath.

  The woman’s face softened. “I am Mrs. Drummond, the proprietor of this establishment. It may seem a bit worse for wear at first, but we are good folk who provide warm food and comfortable beds for travelers to rest their heads on.”

  Mrs. Drummond darted a look over her shoulder and called out, “Mr. Drummond! We have guests!”

  She turned back to them with a warm smile.

  Drew willed his heart back into a steady rhythm and stepped forward. Christ, the woman had shaved ten years off his life. Her sudden appearance, this place, it all reminded him of a book of horrors, and they had stepped right into its pages.

  “We were on our way to London when the storm gathered and our carriage overturned,” Isla said before Drew could answer, relaying the events that had lead them here.

  “Heavens!” Mrs. Drummond exclaimed. “That is grave indeed. How fortunate you happened upon us!”

  “Does that mean you have rooms available?” Drew asked hopefully.

  Mrs. Drummond nodded. “Plenty of rooms,” she murmured, sizing them up and down. “Will you require one or two?”

  “Two,” they both spoke in unison.

  “Aye, Mr.—”

  “Murray,” Drew interrupted Isla before she announced something as foolish as the truth. “And this is my . . .” he skimmed his gaze over her speculatively before announcing, “ward, Miss Ross. We are also traveling with our coachman, who is securing our horses in your stables.”

  “Good, good. Ah, here is Mr. Drummond now,” Mrs. Drummond announced when a wiry man with round spectacles, hands clasped behind his back, appeared. “This is Mr. Murray and his ward, Miss Ross. Their carriage broke down in the snow, Mr. Drummond.”

  “That is most unfortunate indeed,” Mr. Drummond murmured, his bespectacled gaze shifting over them almost lazily. “We shall send men to retrieve your carriage as soon as it’s safe to travel.” He darted a glance to the door, which protested against the wind. “It might be a few days before the weather clears up.”

  “We’d be most grateful for any assistance you can afford us,” Drew said.

  “Have two rooms prepared, Mr. Drummond,” Mrs. Drummond ordered her husband. “And send for a pot of tea to warm the dears up.”

  Mr. Drummond gave a curt nod, bowed, and turned on his heel.

  “Come.” Mrs. Drummond motioned for them to follow her, ushering them into the common room off to their left. “Please settle in. I shall send for you as soon as your rooms are prepared.”

  Then she vanished, leaving Drew and Isla to blink after her.

  “Am I the only one who finds this place utterly strange?” Isla asked slowly.

  Drew shook his head. “Utterly strange. Beyond odd.”

  “Mr. Drummond reminds me of a vampire.”

  “Stiff and controlled,” Drew agreed.

  “Why did you introduce yourself as Murray and me as Ross?” Isla asked of him. “And your ward? Is that not a tad too far-fetched?”

  His brow lifted. “Your brothers will be searching for us soon. How should I have introduced us?”

  “But Murray? Ross?”

  Drew sighed. “My mind went blank. Did that woman not scare you half to death when she appeared from thin air?”

  “Aye, she did. I cannot argue with you there.” She shivered. “Och, well, it’s too late to do anything about our names now. I shall be Ross, and you shall be Murray.”

  Drew stared into her gold-dusted eyes. He’d been living with a false name for so long, it was almost a relief to be a Murray again. Perhaps it was foolish. Perhaps he ought to know better. Perhaps he would be digging a deeper grave.

  He did not care.

  After the MacCallans beheaded him for running off with their sister, it seemed unlikely he’d ever be able to return to MacCallan Castle. They’d already engaged with two versions of him since the death of their brother. And Drew—well, Drew hardly recognized himself anymore. There would be no more. This all started with him being a Murray. Let it end that way too.

  “There isn’t even a fire lit,” Isla murmured, her voice trailing off.

  Drew followed her gaze to the barren hearth and frowned. “She did mention warm food and comfortable beds.”

  Chapter 5

  Isla covered her heart with the palm of her hand. A warmth that hadn’t been there before burrowed into her breast. Och, well, it had been there in the past, or else she would not have recognized the feeling. Breathlessness, rapid heartbeats, butterflies in her belly—all signs pointed to the sprouting of affection.

  Nay, she told herself, not affection. Affection evoked sentiment, and that was the last thing Isla wanted to blossom for that arrogant Highlander. That impertinent, too handsome by half Highlander.

  What man had such incredibly wide shoulders, in any case? It ought to look out of place with his sinewy, lean body. Only it did not. The exact opposite, in fact. And why did those deep, slashing blue eyes, one covered by a black leather patch, fit so well with his perfectly crooked nose? And why was she referring to the crooked line of his nose as perfect? And what woman found such thick shadows on a man’s jaw attractive?

  Ye gods.

  Indeed not she, Isla MacCallan, whose heart had been picked apart for the last time by Patrick Moray. She recalled the first day she met him. Ewan used to prune roses at her side. After his death, she’d tended the garden alone, until one day a figure had lowered down next to her and started pruning roses with gentle fingers. He hadn’t glanced at her once that day, and Isla had stared at him a full minute before reaching for a rose.

  Theirs had been a quiet friendship that had developed in those precious moments of tending her rose garden. Words were rarely spoken between them. But she had come to rely on the strength of Patrick’s presence. Him leaving had been like losing Ewan all over again. If it hadn’t been for Honoria’s fury at their brothers, Isla might have convinced herself she had dreamed Patrick Moray to life.

  Och, Isla would not blindly stumble down that prickly path again. Her heart had taken about all the beating it could manage.

  And Isla had suffered enough pricks from tending to her rose garden to know that Mr. Ross was a thorn. A giant, prickly thorn. A thorn within a thorn. Best to not think of him in any manner that made her pulse race. Nip that sprout at the stem, so to speak.

  She glanced at the bed and sighed.

  Not that Isla was wont to complain—indeed, she was grateful they found shelter from the battering cold—but this room made her skin crawl. Like the foyer, the walls were littered with fractures and curling wallpaper; a single portrait of a ginger cat served as the only decoration. Old, stained lace curtains had scattered holes in them, the air moldy and smelled of soot.

  Her gaze flicked to each corner of the room.

  No cobwebs. A relief.

  A sharp knock at the door made Isla jump back, rear pressed up against the wall. Lord above! Never mind heartbreak and blue eyes leading down treacherous paths—her heart might not survive this place alone.

  Isla caught the scent of earthy tobacco first as she opened the door to Mr. Ross, standing in the hallway, all dashing and much too manly for his own good. She fought the wave of heat invading her belly.

  Nip the sprout, Isla. This very instant.

  Aye, she would not only nip the sprout—she would y
ank it from the soil, roots and all.

  “Mr. Ross?” she greeted, injecting a question mark into his name.

  His blue gaze traveled over her from head to toe. “You’re still damp.”

  “I’m waiting from my bath,” she replied, squirming beneath his probing stare.

  He nodded. “I came to inspect your knee.”

  “My knee?” Isla asked, bewildered. “Och, that was merely a scrape. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

  He wedged himself past her, forcing her to step aside. “Then you will not mind me alleviating my concern.” He motioned to the battered chair. “Sit.”

  “Can you not take my word for it?” Isla countered with a note of irritability.

  “Nay. Now sit,” he ordered and released an impatient breath. “I mean to examine your knee, not ravish your body. Is that clear enough to understand?”

  “Nothing with you is ever clear,” she declared. “I told you my knee is fine.” She lifted her leg and bent it. “See?”

  He folded his arms over his chest.

  She mirrored his action.

  “Shall I become a tree?” He flashed a crafty smile. “Grow roots until you give me what I want?”

  Isla narrowed her eyes at the arrogant beast. The road to damnation was made up of many insidious paths, and that smile was perched right at the top.

  “Stop being so incorrigible.”

  He pointed a finger to the chair.

  To stand firm or not to stand firm? To take a step forward or to fall a step back? Her life did not depend on that step, but it felt as if her heart relied on the very shift of her feet.

  However, retreating was out of the question. That would imply she was affected. And she was not. She had nipped the sprout. It would never age and grow into a tree with strong, anchoring roots.

  Isla marched over to the infernal chair and dropped down. “Are you pleased with yourself?”

  “Delighted.” He lowered himself to kneel before her. “Lift your skirts.”

  “Words spoken to all the girls you meet, I presume?”

  “Would you be jealous if I said aye?”

  Isla snorted and bent over to partially raise her skirt and present him with the scraped knee. Her stocking had torn at the joint, and there appeared to be some minor swelling. A light bruise colored her exposed skin.

  “As you can see for yourself, there’s nothing to be concerned about.”

  “No bump or welt on you is insignificant.”

  Isla’s heart slammed against her ribs when he placed both of his hands on either side of her knee. His thumb gently stroked over the bruise. Goosebumps spread across her skin at that hypnotic touch. It was impossible to look away from where his head bent to inspect the swelling. Sunlight perfused her heart once more.

  Ye gods, the more she looked at him, the more convinced she became that he was the most dangerous, devastatingly compelling man she’d ever laid eyes on.

  “It’s just a bruise,” she muttered, suddenly uncomfortable. “No blood was drawn.”

  “Your skin is delicate, lass. Better to be certain.”

  “Me? Delicate?” She yanked her leg back, offended. “I’m not so delicate that I cannot withstand a bruise.”

  “You shouldn’t be bruised in the first place.”

  “I wouldn’t have suggested you accompany me if I knew you were going to be such a nag.”

  “A nag?” He rose to his full height, towering over her. “Are you calling me a nag?”

  “You find fault with everything I do.” She leaped from the chair. “Nit-picking seems to be what you are best at, a supreme talent.”

  “That’s because you . . .” his words trailed off as he dragged a hand through his hair. Shooting her a glare, he growled. “I do not need this kind of torment in my life.”

  Torment? Torment! He was the tormentor of this plot! “If I am such an inconvenience, why do you not go back to MacCallan Castle?”

  His eyes darkened, displeasure flashing in his gaze. “See if I don’t.”

  Isla blinked when he turned and strode out the room. “Wait!” she called after him. “Where are you going? Are you leaving?”

  “Aye, I’m leaving.”

  “But what of the storm?”

  “Dinner will be served in a few hours,” he answered without looking back. “Get some rest.”

  Rest? How could she rest at a moment such as this? Her gaze flicked across the room. In such a ghostly place? Would he truly abandon her?

  She started after him, grimacing when the door slammed shut in her face. Jerking it open, she stormed into the hallway, whirling around in every direction.

  But Mr. Ross had vanished.

  ANGER PULSED WITH EACH tick of his jaw. By the time Drew reached the taproom and seated himself near the warm glow of a hissing fire, his blood was boiling hotter than any flame. A nag? Him? Of all the insults he had received in his life, this one offended him the most. Partly because—nay, absolutely because—it had come from her. From anyone else, he would have laughed. From her, he felt like a damn fool—a nagging damn fool. If his brother caught sight of him now, Alasdair would laugh himself into an early grave.

  A maid appeared at his table, a saucy grin on her face. “What can I get ye, sir?”

  “A pint of ale,” Drew ordered, sparing her the briefest of glances.

  “Anythin’ else ye’ll be needing?”

  “Nay.”

  Damn Isla MacCallan. Only with her did his temper run hot and cold. His blood sizzled then chilled. His heart raced then came to a complete halt. That was what she did to him—the lass had thoroughly stolen his composure.

  Drew had not noticed the maid had bounded off until she reappeared with ale in hand, placing it before him and bouncing off again in a flash.

  He shook his head, took a swig of his beer, and almost spit it back out. What vile wretchedness was this? His lips curled in disgust. Deuced bitter. And bloody strong. He pushed the tankard aside. He could not even enjoy a pint of ale in this godforsaken place.

  He shifted in his chair. And Isla. The lass had actually told him—spoken the words—to return to MacCallan Castle. Madness must have befallen her to suggest such a thing. A storm blazed outside. And even if he were able, he’d never leave without her.

  Where were the days when the exhilaration of the next boxing match governed his time? Life had been simple back then. He fought. He won or he lost. These days, his sparring consisted of an endless fight to stay in Isla’s life.

  And he would fight to stay in her life to the very end, no matter the obstacle. But none of that mattered if she ran off and married someone else or, God forbid, never returned to Scotland. Drew grimaced and moved his thoughts on to other, less painful topics. Dwelling on the past had never done him any good.

  A man cleared his throat, and Drew looked up to find Mr. Drummond, the inn’s wiry, bespectacled proprietor, standing off to his side, hands folded behind his back.

  “Mr. Drummond,” Drew greeted him, eyeing the man with curiosity. His face was as blank as a sheet of paper; not an ounce of emotion betrayed itself on Mr. Drummond’s features.

  “Mr. Murray.” The proprietor inclined his head. “Have you settled in comfortably?”

  “Aye, your establishment is a welcome find.” Outright spine-chilling.

  Mr. Drummond gave a slow nod. “We are not large and don’t receive many guests, but we pride ourselves on being homely.”

  Drew’s response was interrupted by an overexcited, high-pitched drawl. “Mr. Drummond! You must introduce us to your newest guest.”

  Drew winced at the ear-splitting ring, turning to see who would next invade his sanctuary. A tall, shapely woman, with hair as black as night and lips as red as berries, flounced toward them. At her side trailed an older woman with sharp, distinguished features, salt and pepper dusting her hair. A great beauty once. But no similarities seemed to link these two.

  “Ah, Miss Walker and Mrs. Cooper,” Mr. Drummond greeted. “This is Mr. Murra
y. He arrived with his ward, Miss Ross, early this morning.”

  “Ladies,” Drew acknowledged. In no mood to invite conversation, good manners demanded he at least rise from his chair.

  “The pleasure is all ours,” Miss Walker gushed, a self-satisfied smile on her lips. She fluttered her lashes prettily at him. “We could use some new blood in this place.”

  Drew barely refrained from lowering his head to bash it against the table, in no mood for that, either.

  “Mr. Drummond!” Mrs. Drummond’s voice cut through the air. “We are in dire need of your fire-stoking capabilities in the library!”

  “Yes, dear,” Mr. Drummond murmured and departed, leaving Drew alone with the women.

  “Fire-stoking capabilities?” Mrs. Cooper questioned. “The man has the muscle mass of an infant.”

  Drew arched a brow at the comment. Against his better judgment, amusement settled alongside his annoyance. Mrs. Cooper made a good point, but the last thing he wanted was to be left alone in their company. A wish that would not be granted, as Miss Walker promptly lowered herself into a chair, Mrs. Cooper following suit.

  Annoyance won.

  Drew dropped back down in his seat; he did not have much of a choice. Declining their company would be rude—he didn’t want to be rude. Who knew how long they’d be stranded here. So, he took a second long swig of his bitter ale.

  “Mr. Murray, are you traveling to Edinburgh, by any chance?” Miss Walker asked, twirling a stray lock of hair between her fingers.

  “Nay.” Another swig.

  Mrs. Cooper cackled. “This one is immune to your American charms, Miss Walker.”

  “How silly. I’m not even attempting to be charming.” A pink blush belied this statement.

  Drew cocked his head. If not charming, then certainly obtrusive. He glanced toward the hallway. She should have burst into the dining room by now and tried to stop him from taking his leave, regretting her earlier words.

  Marvelous logic, Drew.

  He was not a man that suffered from wishful thinking. The lass must know he would not abandon her. Still, she ought to regret her words and rush out in search of him. More fantastic logic. But damn it all to hell, her callous words bothered him.