He hugged Dugall tight, then clasped his shoulders and looked him up and down. His gaze veered to her for an instant before traveling back to his brother. “What happened? Your note said you were attacked on your way home, and then minutes ago a barouche comes careening into the bailey, the occupants and driver in a complete dither.”
His speech was refined, more a clipped British accent than Dugall’s rolling brogue. Hadn’t Dugall said his brother was an English viscount too? And their mother was French? Conversations ought to be mighty interesting at Craiglocky.
His attention still fixed on Dugall, the leader rubbed his nape. “You look like you’ve been run over by a team of Adaira’s horses.”
Adaira. She was one of their sisters, wasn’t she?
“I was set upon two nights ago whilst returnin’ home. Miss McClintock was on her way to Suttford House with her family and came upon me. She assisted me. Even stitched my face. What do ye think?” He cocked his brows and pointed to his sutures.
Dugall’s brother scarcely spared the neat seams a glance. “You’re all right? Neither of you has been harmed? We were told shots were fired.”
Dugall patted his brother’s shoulder. “Aye. We be fine, Ewan. I’ve a crackin’ headache. That be all.”
He hadn’t said a word, hadn’t hinted he suffered. Maybe his earlier silence could be attributed to his thrumming head rather than last night’s episode in her chamber.
Nonetheless, she’d have refused to permit him to ride to Craiglocky had she an inkling.
As if you had any such right.
Probably why he’d kept silent on the matter.
He motioned Gwendolyn forward. “Ewan, this is Miss Gwendolyn McClintock, newly of Suttford House. “Gwendolyn, this is my brother, Laird Ewan McTavish, Viscount Sethwick.”
What the hoppin’ John and turnip greens was she to call him? Laird? Mister? My Lord?
Except for the minutest flicker in his keen turquoise gaze, the laird didn’t register his surprise. He dipped his head politely. “Miss McClintock.”
Head bowed, she sank into a graceful curtsy. Now that art, she had perfected. No southern belle’s education was complete until she could curtsy with a stack of books atop her head. And deliver a cutting reposit without raising her voice or resorting to vulgarities.
“Sir. I’m honored to make your acquaintance.”
Spur of the moment, she’d decided upon ‘sir’ until she could ask Dugall how to properly address his brother. Hopefully, she hadn’t insulted the laird with her ignorance.
Actually, she, Aunt Barbara, even Kandie and the children could use a bit of tutelage in that regard.
Mayhap Dugall knew of someone who could help. Her schooling was sorely lacking in that area. But then, in her defense, there hadn’t been a great number of people bearing titles tootling around Raleigh and the surrounding area’s ballrooms and parlors.
In fact, other than one Italian count, she couldn’t recall any. And he’d turned out to be a charlatan. Nothing but a tailor who’d fallen on hard times and assumed a client’s identity before fleeing to the colonies to escape his debtors.
As they spoke, the rest of the McTavish clan gathered near, forming a semi-circle of protection. Not a one of the battle-hardened men had lowered their weapons, nor relaxed their defensive stance.
They were a roughish lot, rugged and craggy. And though they exchanged curious glances, and more than one ill-tamed brow inched upward when Dugall had introduced her, they regarded her politely.
“Sir, did my family arrive safely at Craiglocky Keep?” She couldn’t wait another moment to find out.
The corners of his eyes pleating, the laird gave her a kind smile.
“Yes, Miss McClintock. The children were bustled off to the kitchen for hot chocolate and shortbread, my three practically dancing circles around them.”
Hopefully, Julia made straight for the necessary.
“And when I left, your aunt sat warming herself before a toasty fire while my wife, mother, and aunt plied her with a strong, hot toddy.”
He winked then, reminding her of Dugall. “She might be a trifle foxed by the time we return.”
Under the circumstances, Gwendolyn didn’t blame Aunt Barbara in the least. Right now, she wouldn’t say nae to a toddy liberally dosed with brandy or whisky herself.
Dugall mounted Bran then scooted backward in the saddle. “Gwenny, you’ll have to ride before me.”
She flushed as his brother’s astute gaze vacillated between them. Dugall really must leave off calling her by her pet name. He sounded far too familiar and possessive, and others might get the wrong impression about their relationship.
Still, she’d no choice but to comply, else she’d have to walk to Craiglocky.
In short order, Gwendolyn had been assisted onto Bran. One hand fisted in the horse’s mane, she attempted to ignore the speculative looks and sideways slanted mouths directed toward her and Dugall.
Nonetheless, she was woman enough to admit, she quite liked Dugall’s solid-as-oak arms cradling her. Liked the firm wall of his chest to rest against. Liked the way his breath warmed her scalp and tickled her ear when he dipped his head to speak to her.
“Lass, when the time comes, let me be the one to explain to my kin our agreement for me to aid ye at Suttford.”
She angled her head, searching his face. It wasn’t exactly unease framing his eyes, but by no stretch of her imagination could she claim he was excited about the telling.
“All right,” she murmured just as quietly. “Do you think your family will object?”
“They mightn’t be thrilled at the notion, but . . .” He hesitated and pulled his mouth into a stern ribbon-like line.
“But?” She flattened her palm on his chest and raised up to speak into his ear. “You’ve obviously something on your mind. You might as well tell me now. I’ll hear it soon enough in any event, won’t I?”
She sank back onto her bum.
Tenderness filled his eyes, and it warmed her to her chilled toes. “Aye. Ye should ken, though I dinna want ye to fash yerself.”
She was past getting worked up or annoyed, and she wouldn’t kick up a ruckus. What good would that do?
“I fear the ball that hit Marigold may have been meant for ye, leannan.”
Chapter 14
Dugall hadn’t intended to reveal his suspicion yet, but after further deliberation, prudence decreed Gwendolyn ought to know. Especially since he intended to insist that when she or the rest of her family left Suttford House, armed guards should accompany them.
Until the shooter had been apprehended and questioned, they must tread warily.
Not a typical hospitable Scots welcome, for certain, but this situation had been irregular from the onset.
He glanced down at her burnished head. She had the most glorious, thick, curly hair. How long was it? He itched to run his hands through its shiny length.
Gwendolyn stared at the ground, her expression thoughtful and perhaps a mite melancholic. Was she further regretting her decision to come to Scotland?
She’d not like her comings and goings restricted. Not at all.
He might not know her well, but he’d already discerned her independent spirit and the importance of being considered capable.
“The thought crossed my mind, actually.” Instead of denying the suggestion, she slowly nodded, one naughty curl teasing her ear with the motion.
He longed to grasp the strand between his thumb and forefinger and see if it was as silky as it appeared.
They both knew who stood to gain the most if she were disposed of.
She took the news far calmer than he’d expected. If what he suspected was true, someone had tried to kill her today. Or at the very least, frighten her into leaving Scotland.
He wouldn’t blame her if she did precisely that. Yet he’d do his utmost to convince her otherwise. Not just because she intrigued him like no female ever had, but Jeremiah mustn’t be denied his birthright.
They rode without speaking for a few moments, the gentle rocking of Bran’s gait causing her to rhythmically sway into Dugall. With each slight nudge, her perfume wafted upwards, a subtle tantalizing scent, teasing his already aroused senses.
How she’d managed to burrow beneath his skin so swiftly was as disturbing as it was provocative. This feeling, this whatever-the-devil plagued him, was more than the urge to bed her.
Only the quiet murmurs of the other Scots and an occasional bird tweet rent the air. Had she noticed that the others had strategically surrounded Bran, forming a moving wall of plaid, leather, and horseflesh?
He surreptitiously watched her from beneath half-closed eyes.
As she stared at the passing landscape, a concert of emotions played across her smooth face, as readable as the pages of a newly bound book.
Helplessness. Apprehension. Bewilderment. Frustration. Shrewdness. And then resolve.
A determined expression settled on her face, and her eyes pinched together the merest bit as she notched her chin upward in a silent challenge.
Brave lass.
“Well, no one’s going to paint me green and call me a cucumber. I’m not tucking my tail and running,” she declared. “I’ll beat Hollingsworth at his own game, the no-good, pea-picking assling.”
At her curse, momentary surprise widened his eyes, but she’d leaned over to stroke Bran’s wither and murmur sweet compliments to the stallion and didn’t notice.
Had she really just said assling?
As casually as if she’d called Hollingsworth a rapscallion or scallywag? Adaira was the only other woman, besides trulls, Dugall had ever heard swear.
He’d a hunch Gwendolyn would get on famously with his eldest sister. They both had a tendency to use colorful language and speak their minds.
“Paint ye green?” Dugall chuckled in remembrance.
A giggle escaped her. “Better than butter my bu—erm, behind and call me a biscuit.”
His guffaw drew the inquisitive glances of the clansmen accompanying them. “I’d love to visit South Carolina just to listen to the people talk.”
“That’s oft’ said of the Scots too, ye ken.” Eyes sparkling, the dimple in her right cheek made an appearance. “Though I don’t understand half of what they’re saying.”
She twitched a finger, indicating the other riders.
Because they were discussing her and her considerable attributes and beauty in Gaelic.
Mither vowed it was rude to speak another language when in the presence of someone who didn’t understand it. Though, even she slipped into her native French on occasion when vexed with Father.
“I’m glad we are of the same mind about the incident.” He made sure to keep his voice low. He wasn’t keen on being overheard, yet with their heads so close together, Ewan was sure to get suspicious. “Ye won’t object to me askin’ Ewan to permit a dozen clansmen to accompany us back to Suttford House and stay until I deem the threat has passed?”
He slid her a questioning look, but she stared at the passing landscape, her profile grave.
“Gwenny?”
“Hmm?”
“The clansmen?” He jerked his head toward the Scots surrounding them. “Returnin’ to Suttford with us?”
She shielded her eyes from the sun and twisted to look at him fully. “Surely there are servants, staff, and others there enough to keep a watchful eye.”
“Aye.” He arched a brow and slanted his head to indicate his doubt. “But can ye trust them? Ye dinna ken them, and ye dinna ken who they’re loyal to yet.”
She didn’t know him either, and yet she’d trusted him.
“Fenella said the staff was happy that Jeremiah had inherited.” Toying with the lace edging her glove, she wrinkled her nose adorably. “And won’t having McTavish clansmen lingering about stir old animosities?”
“I dinna doubt some of the staff are pleased to have ye there, but ye haven’t had time to get to ken them.” He gave her a slight nudge in the ribs with his left arm. “Do ye worry it will make ye look weak and incompetent?”
She flashed him a startled look. “You practically read my mind. That’s precisely my worry.”
“Understandable, but no one will fault ye once they learn what happened. If havin’ a few extra swords at Suttford keeps ye and yer family safer, isnae it wise?”
He could almost hear the cogs grinding and churning away in her head. No one could accuse her of impulsive, rash decisions. She’d carefully, and logically considered everything he’d put to her.
“What of you, Dugall? Gratitude for a few sutures doesn’t compel you to become a bodyguard. This is far more than you bargained for. I shan’t hold you to the agreement if you—”
He tightened his arms about her and gave her a firm squeeze. “Wheesht. I dinna want to hear any more of that prattle. The shootin’ be all the more reason I need to be with ye.”
~ ~ ~
Gwendolyn would eat fried okra—and she loathed okra—before she admitted it, but something more than relief and appreciation sang along her veins.
A handful of minutes later, they clattered across Craiglocky Keep’s drawbridge. Trying not to gape, she took in the medieval castle’s gatehouse and bailey.
Laughing children and panting dogs played amongst the wagons. Speckled chickens inspecting the cobblestones for tasty insects clucked their disapproval when they had to flee the small feet frolicking nearby.
The clang of metal striking metal identified the smithy, and through open dual gates on the bailey’s far side, she spied stables and pastures where more of those unusual long-haired cattle, several enormous horses, and dozens of sheep milled about.
She grinned at Dugall. Stubble shadowed his granite jaw. She rather liked the scruffy look. Rather liked his whiskers scraping her face when they kissed, too.
“Would it be impolite to ask for a tour? Inside and out?” She gazed around again. “It’s so different from Suttford House.”
Dugall handed Bran’s reins over to a footman. “Maybe a short one inside today. To do Craiglocky justice we’d need several hours, and I dinna want to return to Suttford after dark. And until Ewan’s men have searched the estate, ye shouldn’t be wanderin’ about.”
He slid off his horse, then lifted his arms for her.
Aware she’d drawn the curious regard of many of the Scots in the bailey as well, she stepped away as soon as he’d set her on the ground.
As she passed Bran, he stretched his neck and bumped her shoulder. She paused to lean into him and give him a hug. “Thank you, my friend. You were superb, even with my extra weight.”
Dugall chuckled and swiped the stallion’s neck. “Fickle beast. And here I thought I held his affections.”
Gwendolyn eyed him uncertainly. He didn’t sound jealous, but a man’s relationship with his horse was a very personal thing and one such as that which Dugall had with Bran, precious too.
Easing away from the stallion, she sent Dugall an apologetic smile. “Forgive me if I’ve overstepped with him. I’ve missed my horses far more than I’d realized.”
“No’ a bit of it.” He cupped her elbow and whispered for her ears alone. “I can only admire his excellent taste.”
A delighted flush infused her, but she refused to give in to the smile tugging the corners of her mouth. She must resist his charms, her logic admonished sternly.
Deuced hard when her womanly self hovered on the precipice of yielding.
“Are you coming? I’m sure your family is worried for you, Miss McClintock.”
With a sta
rt, Gwendolyn realized Laird McTavish stood at the top of the gatehouse steps, awaiting them. His expression inscrutable, his astute gaze traveled between her and Dugall as it had numerous times since rescuing them.
Crayfish and chicken dumplings. He knows I’m taken with his brother.
Just a silly infatuation at being shown kindness and attention by a handsome man. That was all. Nothing more could come of it.
More’s the pity.
Yes, well, be that as it may, if Gwendolyn didn’t rein in her lustful musings and take her feminine responses in hand, she might very well forfeit everything. And it wasn’t just her life that would be sorely impacted.
That thought served to sober her.
A flirtation, no matter how mild, wasn’t worth the risk.
“Yes, of course.” She grabbed her skirt in one hand as Dugall guided her to the risers, giving his brother a rather sardonic look.
“Dugall?” she whispered. “How do I address your brother and the rest of your family?”
He dipped his head slightly. “Ewan prefers his Scot’s title, McTavish. Yvette be Lady McTavish. My father’s a knight, so he’s Sir Hugh. Mither be Lady Ferguson.” He rubbed a hand across his bristly face. “Do ye want to ken the rest?”
“The rest?” A groan escaped her as she climbed the weathered stone steps. “I’m never going to remember. Why can’t they simply be Mister and Missus?”
He squeezed her elbow. “Dinna fash yerself. They’re no’ like the snooty haut ton. Ye’ll no’ get cut for makin’ a mistake.”
Gwendolyn had scarcely stepped over the threshold when Jeremiah and Julia came tearing out of a carved set of double doors, each wearing a chocolaty mustache.
“Auntie Gwenny!”
Chattering elatedly and talking over each other, they launched themselves at her. She might’ve toppled, had Dugall not swiftly snaked his arm about her waist and pulled her to his side.
Seductive Surrender (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 6) Page 12