My Rebel Highlander

by Vonda Sinclair

  The three lady's maids followed them to the inn.

  Once they were seated at a table and the solicitous proprietor had taken their orders for lamb stew, bread, and ale, Calla leapt up from the bench. "Blast!"

  "What is it?" Elena's blue eyes widened.

  "I've left my best gloves at the shop. I'll go fetch them."

  "Take one of the maids with you."

  "Nay. 'Twill only take a moment."

  Outside, Calla casually strolled by the guards and toward the dressmaker's. Once she'd passed them, she glanced around, noting the guards had their eyes on the door to the inn, then she rushed to the livery stable where she was to meet the messenger. He had once worked for her late husband and was still loyal, though she was certain he needed the work, too.

  Upon seeing the tall, lanky man with graying hair, she relaxed. His worn brown breeches and doublet were nondescript.

  "There you are, Hobbs. I thank you for agreeing to do this for me."

  He bowed. "Lady Stanbury. Always glad to be of service."

  She drew the small pouch of coins from the pocket she'd sown into her skirts. She opened the drawstring pouch, took out two silver coins and placed them into his hand. "Those are for you." She pulled the string tight again and gave him the whole pouch. "You ken where this is to be delivered."

  He nodded and tipped his hat. "Aye, m'lady. A good day to you, then."

  "Same time next week?" she asked. "Or mayhap a bit earlier in the morn? Wait for me."

  Hobbs nodded and mounted his horse.

  'Twas a shame that she was still paying off her husband's gambling debts five months after his death. But 'twas either give up her meager wages to the fiendish Claybourne or he would make her work off the debt in the worst way possible. She cringed, nausea gripping her stomach.

  ***

  Robert "Rebbie" MacInnis, the Earl of Rebbinglen, rode toward Draughon Castle with his plaid flying. He grinned, wondering what his friend, Lachlan MacGrath-Drummagan, the Earl of Draughon, would say about his fine Highland garb which he'd grown to love. While staying in Durness with their friend, Dirk, Rebbie had taken to wearing a belted plaid more often. He was, after all, a Highlander, though because he'd spent much of his time in the Lowlands, England, or on the continent, he did not always dress as such. When he'd needed new clothing in Durness, plaids were far more plentiful than breeches or trews, and he found he loved the sense of freedom a plaid gave him.

  "Wait, m'laird!"

  Rebbie glanced back along the muddy, rutted coach road, green bushes encroaching on either side, to see his manservant, George Sweeny, trying to keep up on the smaller horse, while he led the pack horse carrying Rebbie's belongings. Rebbie slowed his mount to give George time to catch up. It had taken them a fortnight to travel from Durness to Perth. Fortunately, most of his journey had been by galley.

  Soon, massive iron gates and high stone walls loomed before him, and beyond them, the impressive Draughon Castle with its four round towers. He drew up and his spirited black stallion reared. "Whoa, Devil!"

  "That be you, Laird Rebbinglen?" the guard called down from the gate house.

  "Aye."

  "I hardly recognize you in all that plaid."

  "Ha." Rebbie grinned.

  When the gates opened, Rebbie and George proceeded through. In the stone-paved courtyard, they dismounted. Rebbie handed the reins to George, then sprinted up the keep's front steps. The two guards on either side of the door bowed. "Laird Rebbinglen," they greeted, while one opened the door. Aye, they remembered him from his stay here last autumn.

  Upon entering the two-story great hall, he paused until his eyes adjusted to the dimness, lit here and there by candles.

  "Rebbie?" Lachlan's voice echoed from the other end of the huge room. "Welcome." His fair-haired friend met him in the middle of the great hall, shook his hand and gave him a rough, back-slapping embrace. "'Tis good to see you again, my friend."

  "Likewise. Married life appears to be agreeing with you." Aye, his friend looked as fit and happy as the last time he'd seen him.

  Lachlan's grin widened. "Angelique and I have a wee new daughter. She's the loveliest angel you'll ever set eyes upon."

  Rebbie smiled at his friend's obvious delight. "I'm certain she is. Congratulations."

  Lachlan's gaze dropped to Rebbie's belted plaid, much like his own, and he laughed. "What the devil are you wearing? I've never seen you wear a breacan-an-fheilidh."

  "Does it suit me?"

  "Aye. Finally, you're a Highlander, as you've always claimed to be. Do I have Dirk to thank for this?"

  "'Haps. Or maybe 'twas the cold weather up north."

  "'Tis about time you arrived, Robert," someone at the other end of the room called out. He was half hidden behind a screen. The voice was older, urbane, and a bit stodgy.

  "Who is that?" Rebbie muttered low, but he had a sinking feeling he already knew. Not many people called him Robert. Frowning, he strode forward.

  God's teeth. Nay! His father, William MacInnis, the Marquess of Kilverntay, sat near the hearth with another man.

  "Da, what in blazes are you doing here?" Rebbie asked.

  "Ha!" His father got to his feet, looking a wee bit older than the last time Rebbie had seen him. His long dark hair now showed a few strands of gray. "That's a fine way to greet your own da, whom you haven't visited in over a year."

  Well, aye. 'Haps he should feel guilty about that, but he'd stayed away because his father's obsessively controlling nature drove Rebbie mad. "A good day to you, sir," he said, giving in to good manners. He shook his father's hand, then embraced him. He indeed loved his father; he simply had a difficult time living near him.

  His father pulled back and motioned to the man with short gray hair next to him. "This is a good friend of mine, the Earl of Barclay."

  The man stood, casting Rebbie a speculative, distrustful look from his keen blue eyes.

  Rebbie shook his hand. "A pleasure, Barclay."

  "Rebbinglen."

  "Why haven't you been to visit?" his father asked.

  "I was planning to in September." Aye, a very brief visit of a day or two. 'Twas all he could take.

  "Do you think I believe that?" His father raised a dark brow.

  "How are the lasses?" Rebbie asked of his four sisters. He rarely visited them because his stepmother was intolerable. Considering that his father lived on a different estate, he must have found her intolerable, too."

  "Fine, fine. Lily is eighteen summers now and I'll have to start searching out a husband for her… as soon as you're married." His father smiled.

  Damnation, Rebbie shouldn't have sent his father the missive, telling him where he was headed when he'd left Glasgow. But he always tried to keep his father abreast of where he was, since he traveled so much. His father had never followed him before. Why was he here now?

  "If you weren't always trying to force me to marry some aristocrat's daughter, I would visit more often."

  His father sent him a calculating look. "Naught to fash yourself over, Robert. You will find no fault with the bride I've found for you. She is the most beautiful young lady you will ever catch sight of."

  Just like the dozen others he'd introduced Rebbie to in years past. He released a tired breath. "When I'm ready to marry, I'll inform you."

  "Well, you are twenty-eight summers! 'Tis high time you've married and sired me some grandsons. I want to meet the lad who will one day succeed me as the Marquess of Kilverntay."

  "Aye, and at twenty-eight, I'm plenty old enough to choose my own bride. I will only marry a woman to my liking." Rebbie would not back down in this, especially since he'd seen how happy his friends were with their respective brides. Lachlan's marriage had been arranged by the king, but fortunately he and Angelique had quickly discovered they were mad for each other.

  "This lass is not only beautiful, but sweet… and spirited too." His father turned to a nearby female servant. "When are the ladies due back from the dressmaker?"<
br />
  "Any time now, m'laird."

  "She's here?" Rebbie asked, annoyance simmering in his blood. "You've brought some lass here to my friend's home that you wish to leg-shackle me to?"

  "Aye. How else was I going to introduce the two of you?" He motioned to the man next to him. "The Earl of Barclay is her father."

  Rebbie clenched his teeth so tightly he feared they would crack, barely holding his temper in check. Barclay met his glare with one of his own.

  "Da, I would have a word with you in private." Rebbie tilted his head toward the exit door.

  "Very well." His father murmured something to Barclay before following him.

  Ready to throttle someone, Rebbie strode across the great hall, his boot heels striking the smooth stone floor and echoing from the ceiling. He shoved the door open and emerged into the sunshine.

  His father came out and closed the door behind him. They proceeded into the courtyard a short distance from the guards. "Why the devil are you wearing that belted plaid? You look like a wild Scot in that garb."

  "'Tis the dress of Highlanders, which we are rumored to be," Rebbie said dryly.

  "'Tis the dress of peasants and barbarians. Not earls."

  "You're insulting your host. Lachlan is certainly no peasant or barbarian."

  "Never mind that. You'll be lucky if you haven't insulted the lady's father."

  "I don't give a damn," Rebbie grumbled, low.

  "Well, you'd best because the contract has been signed."

  "What! Are you mad?" Rebbie demanded. "Last time I saw you, you agreed that we would talk before you signed any contract, and I would choose my own bride."

  "You will never choose," his father said in a calm, wise manner that only grated on Rebbie's nerves.

  "I will. When I meet the right lady, I will know. Then, I will choose."

  His father shook his head doubtfully and gave a faint grin.

  Rebbie ground his teeth.

  "You haven't even met Lady Elena yet. She may be the one you wish to choose."

  Rebbie narrowed his eyes. "And if she isn't? What if we don't suit at all and you've already signed a damnable contract?"

  "Worry about that when the time comes. As for now, why don't you simply meet her, then we can discuss how you feel about her."

  Rebbie frowned, not liking in the least how his father had said that, as if Rebbie were a sensitive milksop. He might have been raised to privilege, but naught about him was soft. He'd survived plenty of battles and endured the hardships of war. But there was no way in hades he was marrying just any lady.

  He was not overly choosy. 'Twas simply that he'd watched three of his friends wed the ideal women for them, and he wasn't prepared to settle for anything less. He knew marriage for an earl was a business arrangement, but did it have to be wholly business? He had to be attracted to the lass and be partial to some of her qualities. And, of course, he wanted her to like him, too. What if the young lady couldn't stand the sight of him? What a miserable life that would be for both of them.

  "Come inside and we'll await her return. Meet her and you will see she is perfect for you. I promise you, son." His father went up the steps and opened the door.

  "Contract or nay, I make the final decision," Rebbie said.

  The marquess released a long breath. "Very well. God's bones. I should not have spoiled you when you were a lad."

  "You didn't, believe me."

  "Ha! When did you ever want for anything?"

  What he wanted was to live his life in peace and to make his own decisions.

  A few minutes after they rejoined Barclay near the fireplace, the guards opened the entry door and several women entered, five to be exact. Rebbie stood with Lachlan off to the side.

  Rebbie's stomach knotted. "Damnation," he muttered. He did not want to meet any prospective brides today.

  Lachlan let loose a soft chuckle. "Remember the hell you gave me when I first married Angelique?" he asked too low for anyone else to hear. "I'm going to enjoy this greatly."

  Rebbie glared at him. "I appreciate the support," he said dryly.

  Lachlan snorted.

  A young lady with pale, flaxen hair broke away from the group of women, most of them wearing cloaks, and came forward.

  "Elena!" Barclay strode to her and took his daughter's hands. "I'm so glad you're back, my dear. Your betrothed has arrived."

  "Indeed?" Her naïve gaze darted around the hall, sliding past Rebbie and returned to her father. "Where is he?"

  God's teeth. She was barely past the childhood stage, Rebbie realized.

  Standing between them, Rebbie's father cleared his throat. "Lady Elena, I would like for you to meet my son, Robert MacInnis, the Earl of Rebbinglen." He motioned to Rebbie.

  When her wide blue eyes lit on him, her face blanched white as snow. She glanced down over his Highland attire, belted plaid, sword and dirk. Her terrified gaze flew to her father. "This is who you wish me to marry, Father? A Highlander? A barbarian? Nay!" She ran toward the stairwell and disappeared inside.

  "Well," Rebbie murmured, smiling as a thrill shot through him. "Problem solved."

  ***

  Calla stood frozen in the shadows with the three maids. In shock, she stared from beneath her cowl at the dark-eyed Highlander Elena had just been introduced to. How could the nameless man she'd met years ago be the Laird Rebbinglen Elena was to marry? Calla had not even imagined he was an earl, for heaven's sake. When he saw her face, he would remember her, surely. But nay, it had been many years. 'Haps he had forgotten her… please, God in Heaven, let it be so. She tugged the cowl more securely over her head.

  When Laird Rebbinglen turned his back to talk with his father, she slipped along the wall and up the steps, following her cousin.

  Saints! Calla leaned against the wall in the upper corridor, catching her breath. Her heart near galloped from her chest. The spoiled Elena was betrothed to him? Robert, they'd said his name was. A Highland earl. But clearly Elena did not wish to marry him. The lass was terrified of the sort of Highlanders who wore belted plaids and armed themselves heavily.

  When Calla had first encountered him, he dressed as any other Lowlander. Of course, she'd assumed he was a laird, mayhap a baron, considering his expensive clothing. His charming accent had been a bit more northern than she was accustomed to, but that had been a good thing at the time, for she'd assumed he lived far from Stirling or Kinross.

  Since they hadn't exchanged names, their identities had remained secret.

  She wished she could slip out before supper so he wouldn't see her. But she couldn't leave. She was Elena's paid companion, and since Stanbury had died and left her destitute, she needed the money. Maybe she could claim a headache or stomachache to avoid supper. She didn't have to be by Elena's side every moment, especially while her parents were present.

  Calla entered the chamber she and Elena shared and closed the door. "What on earth were you thinking, throwing such a tantrum in front of the earl?"

  Elena placed her hands upon her narrow hips. "I don't care if he's a bloody prince, I'll not be marrying a barbarian!"

  Good.

  What? Nay, Calla didn't care either way. 'Twas none of her concern. She had far bigger problems, anyway. Namely her late husband's debtor who wanted to take what was owed him out of her flesh in the most lascivious way possible. She swallowed her disgust and focused on the issue at hand.

  "Rebbinglen isn't a barbarian." Calla took a seat on the settle by the fire and used the poker to stir the coals before adding a stick of wood.

  "How do you know? He certainly looks like one, wearing a kilt and all that plaid." She grimaced.

  "'Tis doubtful he dresses that way all the time. His father doesn't. Rebbinglen is a wealthy earl; he can afford to wear what he likes."

  "Indeed. So, why would he choose such an uncouth and coarse way of dressing?"

  "You will have to ask him."

  Elena turned up her nose and gazed out the narrow window. "Nay. I don'
t wish to speak to him."

  "And if he wears conventional clothing to supper, what would you say?"

  "I know not."

  "You might fall in love with him, then, aye?" Fickle lass! Calla couldn't avoid the dark-eyed earl forever. Eventually, he would see her face, and perhaps recognize her. Then what? Her stomach knotted, and she caught herself chewing on her fingernail. Forcing herself to stop, she smoothed her dress down.

  "'Tis doubtful." Elena pouted. "Besides, he's too old."

  Calla snorted. "Nay, he's quite young. I didn't see a gray hair on his head. You saw my former husband, did you not?"

  "Well, aye, he was ancient. I don't ken how you tolerated him."

  "Nor do I." Of course, his age was not the worst thing about him, but his disposition. His threatening manner. His obsession with gambling. She didn't want to think of Stanbury at the moment. She wanted to visualize Laird Rebbinglen, with his broad shoulders, muscular physique and wicked midnight gaze.... "Laird Rebbinglen is very handsome," Calla blurted. Blast! Had she truly said that aloud? She pressed her lips between her teeth.

  "I suppose, though he is no Hardwick," Elena said.

  Calla released a breath, glad Elena hadn't noticed her interest in him. Not that she was interested in him. Nay, she was but making an observation of truth. Anyone could see he was an attractive man, no matter what he wore… or didn't wear. An image of his naked body flashed in her mind—bronzed skin over sleek, powerful muscles, a fine dusting of dark hair on his chest that tapered to… Nay, do not remember.

  Scorching heat rushed over her.

  "Did you hear what I said?" Elena asked.

  "Pray pardon. What?" Calla turned to stir the fire again, hoping her cousin didn't notice the blush burning over her face.

  "I said I wish Father would allow me to marry Hardwick."

  "Aye. Have you spoken to him about it?"

  "Of course. He doesn't care what I want."

  Elena was smitten with the young blond Hardwick. He was barely twenty summers, a future baron with no title as of yet. And given that Elena was two years his junior, 'twas understandable she was drawn to someone near her own age.

  But in truth, Hardwick was naught as compared to the Earl of Rebbinglen, who appeared a strong and fierce Highland warrior. 'Haps a bit barbaric-looking—but in an exciting way—in that belted plaid, with his long dark hair loose about his shoulders. His body appeared not to have changed much in the years since she'd last seen him, except he was perhaps even more muscular than before.