Just in Time for a Highlander

by Gwyn Cready

  Duncan stood and the world began to spin. He grabbed the chair back, but it wasn’t enough. He collapsed, crashing into the gilt-legged table as he fell.

  Abby made a long, slow sigh. “We are ruined.”

  Five

  Abby watched the man weave his way past the top of the grand staircase and down the hall in front of her. In what part of Scotland did they wear such odd skirt-like plaids? The ones her men wore stretched from their shoulders to their knees. Had he come from another country? More important, what was she going to do with him? Or with Sir Alan for that matter? She hadn’t even had a chance to wash her hands since she’d been thrown. Undine and her bloody herbs!

  “Stop there,” she commanded. “That will be your room.”

  The man turned, confused, spotted the open door, and grabbed the frame for support. He managed something bow-like to encourage her to enter first. She felt a faint crackle as she passed, like the air after a summer storm. He was taller than she remembered, taller even than Rosston, and the bedchamber seemed suddenly quite small.

  “You can stay here until we figure out what to do with you.”

  He made his way to the cheval mirror, stripped off his sark, and gazed over his shoulder at the reflection of his arm. The cut from her arrow must have reopened because a ribbon of red was visible in the tracks of the darker, clotted blood on his arm. His eyes were a rich sea blue, and she couldn’t help but admire the wide, carved chest, dusted with bronze and gold, and the tautness of his belly. He lifted the red-blond locks at his nape and hissed when his fingers found the egg-sized knob.

  “You’re quite the bowwoman,” he said, meeting her gaze in the mirror.

  “My father wouldna teach me to use a sword. He said women have no use for them.”

  A ruddy brow rose. Had he heard something in her reply? Long ago, she’d learned to remove all emotion when she spoke of her father. She would have to take extra care around this man.

  He crossed his arms. “Would you care to tell me why I’m here?”

  She shifted. Anything she told him might be repeated to Sir Alan. He looked as if he’d managed to get himself under control, but who could judge such a thing? He didn’t seem like the men she knew in the borderlands. He didn’t seem like the men she knew anywhere.

  “My life’s been taken from me,” he said. “I think I deserve an answer.”

  “You have been called here by magic, and I—”

  “Whose? Yours?”

  “No. I had nothing to do with it.”

  He eyed her skeptically.

  “Undine is half naiad—water fairy,” she added, seeing his confusion. “Or so she says. Without a doubt, though, she is a fortune-teller and potion-maker. ’Twas her magic that brought you here. Not mine.” Abby thought of the long columns of household expenses and the dwindling gold in the Kerr accounts. “Were I possessed of magic, I would not have wasted it on you.”

  “And how will I—?”

  “I cannot think about that now,” she said. “I am about to receive a guest whose needs take precedence. For the present, you will have to wait here. Perhaps you can practice swinging your wee sword.”

  He gave her a cool look. “I know how to use a sword.”

  “A wooden one.”

  “I know how to use a steel one too.”

  “I am most glad to hear it. I’ll have someone bring you something to eat.”

  “Rosston is expecting me at supper. Willna my absence appear strange?”

  He was right, dammit. “I’ll tell him you’re unwell.”

  The man rocked on his heels for a moment, then threw his balled-up shirt on the bed. “No. I don’t think so. I want to come.”

  She drew herself up to full height. “Perhaps you’d prefer to be locked into your room?”

  “Perhaps you’d prefer to have me tell Rosston your clan is on the verge of losing everything.”

  He’d overheard what she’d said to Undine! What else had he heard? She considered calling for her guards. She also considered punching him in the nose. Neither, however, seemed calculated to reduce Sir Alan’s anxiety about investing.

  A dangerous incaution simmered in the man’s eyes, and she could almost hear him shouting, “She’s lying, Sir Alan! ’Tis the canal or the poorhouse for the Kerrs!” as her guards dragged him away. What choice did she have, short of having guards posted at his door? Even then she’d still have to worry about what he’d say to them.

  “As you wish,” she said. “But only under these conditions: You are to limit your conversation partners to me and Undine. Under no circumstances are you to speak to Rosston or Sir Alan. And you are not to mention the circumstances of your unfortunate arrival to anyone. We will see to your problems tomorrow, but for now I expect you to do as I say, when I say it. Do you understand?”

  A drop of blood fell from his elbow to the rug.

  She let out an aggrieved exhalation. “I’ll have some towels and bandages brought to you. Until then, if you could manage to keep your blood off my rugs, I’d appreciate it. Do you understand?”

  “Is Rosston your husband?”

  The question startled her. “No.”

  “Does he want to be?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps.”

  The man kept his unblinking gaze on her.

  “Aye,” she admitted, annoyed. “If you must know. Though it hardly matters.”

  “To you? Or to him?” He picked up his shirt. “Or to me?”

  “To any of us,” she said, refusing to consider what he might have meant by the last. “I have no time to tend to you like a bairn in clouts. There are clothes that should fit you in the wardrobe here. Can you get yourself clean, dressed, and to the dining hall by seven?”

  “I am not here of my own free will. If you could spare me a modicum of hospitality, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Hospitality!” she cried. “Do ye not realize you’re alive, under the protection of my clan, eating my food, and sleeping in my bed?” Her cheeks warmed as she realized how that last phrase sounded. “On top of that, you’ve just blackmailed me. What additional hospitality should I be offering?”

  Those eyes turned gray, and she saw the tiniest flash of hurt. “Well, you could start by asking my name.”

  Oh.

  She could hear her mother’s voice. Abigail Ailich Kerr, I raised you better than that.

  “I—I beg your pardon.” Abby made an unsteady curtsy. “Today has been a mess”—she forbore naming the reasons why, since they prominently included him—“and dinner promises to offer more of the same. I am Abby Kerr of Clan Kerr.”

  “And I’m Duncan MacHarg.” He offered his hand.

  She hesitated. She had little desire to deepen their friendship. But a handshake was a greeting from a man to a man. She liked that. She took his hand. It was warm and firm—and large enough to make hers look like a small bird nesting in it.

  “Abby Kerr,” he said, the incaution in those eyes replaced by something kinder and a wee bit spellbinding. “I’ll do nothing to harm your relationship with Sir Alan. I know what it is to have a lot riding on a meeting. I may be the last person you wanted to attend tonight, but I promise you may depend on me.”

  Nora, one of the younger kitchen maids, appeared in the doorway, and Abby pulled her hand free. The girl stared at Duncan with wide eyes.

  “What is it?” Abby demanded, inexplicably flustered.

  “Mrs. Michaels needs to know what dishes ye want to serve.”

  Abby exhaled. “Whatever can be salvaged from this afternoon. Tell her to use her best judgment.”

  Nora scampered away.

  “I beg your pardon, MacHarg,” Abby said. “I am needed elsewhere—everywhere, it seems.”

  He followed her to the hall, and they nearly bumped when she stopped to give him a second curtsy. This one was made e
ven more self-conscious by the sight of Rosston peering at them from the doorway to his room.

  “I’ll see you at seven,” Duncan said. “And I shall speak only to you.”

  “No, that’s not what I—” She stopped. She could tell by the gleam in his eyes there was nothing to be gained by trying to correct him. She slipped her still-tingling hand in her pocket and hurried to the staircase.

  Six

  Duncan watched the self-assured bounce of the brown waves as she floated down the stairs. Being tall, Scottish, and reasonably good-looking, he was used to reducing women in America to tongue-tied teenagers. Abby, on the other hand, seemed entirely immune to his charms. He might as well be…well, a swineherd.

  When he finally lifted his gaze, he saw they had not been alone. Rosston stood in the arch of a doorway, partially obscured by a statue. Duncan nodded coolly, a silent acknowledgment that Rosston’s observation had not gone unnoticed, and Rosston turned and disappeared.

  So that’s how it’s to be?

  A servant dropped off a pitcher, ewer, and a roll of cotton wool as promised, and in a few moments Duncan had washed and bandaged himself. He imagined what it might have been like for Abby to do the tending instead.

  He had to assume she was the de facto chief of Clan Kerr, but what sort of woman runs a clan? The last time there were working clan chiefs of any gender in Scotland, not to mention clashes between English soldiers and Scots clansmen, George II was king. The thought made Duncan dizzy.

  How had Abby succeeded to the title? Had she no brothers? Duncan thought of the room full of aggressive, determined traders he managed, hardly more civilized than a regiment of bloody-minded clansmen. How did a lass of twenty-three or twenty-four command them? And how had the clan’s coffers been mismanaged?

  He looked around the room. A brocade-covered bed stood between carved tables. A tapestry of some ancient battle hung on the wall. A candle stood in a holder shaped to look like a lion rampant. He’d been in a dozen centuries-old castles like this on school trips or dragged by his mum on holidays to see “our history,” but never had he stood in the middle of one, knowing that the furniture and decorations at which he looked were not part of Scotland’s past but its present. A shiver went through him.

  He didn’t have to be a denizen of this century to know his torn and bloodstained sark was a no-go for dinner. He opened the wardrobe and looked at the array of linen and coats. Whoever owned them was tall and broad shouldered. He hoped it wasn’t Rosston. He didn’t want to spend a moment in that man’s debt.

  He found a sark embroidered with a tiny vine around the neck and down the front. Had Abby’s hand done the work? He traced a finger along the twining leaves.

  He heard a sound and turned. Grendel had appeared and was turning in circles to make a place for himself on the empty hearth.

  “Oh, I see. You’re here to keep an eye on me, are you? As if I had anywhere to run. Perhaps you can tell me a bit about your mistress.”

  Grendel laid his head on his paws and looked at Duncan ruefully.

  “Sworn to secrecy. I understand.” Duncan bent to scratch the dog’s ears. “There are no pets allowed in my building at home, I’m afraid. I have to get all my dog needs filled at the park.”

  Grendel rolled on his back and offered his belly.

  A boy flew by the open door, firewood in his arms, and Grendel barked. Duncan recognized him as the boy who’d been attacked at the battle.

  Duncan jogged to the door. “Hey.” The boy spun around. He was twelve or thirteen, with a shock of brown hair that hung over his forehead. “Where are you going?”

  “Firewood for Sir Alan’s room.”

  “Come back here when you finish, will you?”

  The boy shrugged, flipping the hair from his eyes.

  By the time Duncan had tucked in his tails, the boy was back, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “What is it?”

  “Do you remember me?”

  The boy nodded, hesitant.

  “My name’s Duncan. Is your arm all right?”

  “It is, sir. Thank you.” The boy stooped by Grendel and patted the dog’s head. His hands were filthy and the shirt he wore looked as if it was a size too small.

  “Grendel is Abby’s dog, is he?”

  “Abby?”

  “Er, Abby Kerr?”

  “Oh, Lady Kerr. Aye, he is. He’s verra good with sticks. I can throw them as far down the river as you can imagine, and he just jumps in and brings them back.”

  “Lady Kerr is, er, the chief of Clan Kerr? I’m not from around here.”

  “She is. My ma says Lady Kerr is too big for her saddle. I don’t know as I agree, though. I’ve seen her in her saddle. She looks quite handsome.”

  Duncan coughed to hide a laugh. “What about you? Do you like her? Do you think she does a good job? Lady Kerr, I mean, not your mum. I’m sure your mum does a very fine job.”

  The boy shrugged. “I guess. She negotiated with an officer in the English army, and there haven’t been any battles since last year at Hogmany—well, until today.”

  “Does Rosston help her? Rosston is the man with arms like small hams.”

  “I know Rosston. He was a hero at the Battle of Dunkeld. Everyone knows him.”

  “So, does he help her with the planning of attacks or anything else with the clan?”

  “Lady Kerr does not plan attacks,” the boy said. “I don’t think she likes them at all. She certainly doesn’t plan them with anybody.”

  “Perhaps they share a different relationship?”

  The boy made a thoughtful frown. “They are related. Rosston’s her cousin, though their families don’t speak.”

  Feuding cousins. Very interesting. “She appears to be a little cool toward him.”

  “I dunno about that. He’s the one who gave her Grendel.”

  Hearing his name, Grendel thumped his tail.

  “Hm.” The giving of a dog was not generally the act of a mere acquaintance, though perhaps in this case it was a gift to mend the rift between the two sides of the family.

  The boy had pulled a sausage from his pocket and the dog was running in circles, trying to earn a treat. The boy threw a piece, and the dog caught it in midair.

  “What do you know about the canal?” Duncan asked.

  “It’s a big empty hole. The men started digging it three years ago. But they stopped.”

  “Why? Do you know?”

  “My cousin Jack worked on it, and he says they ran out of money. But my ma says Lady Kerr pissed it away with trips to London and Paris to see her lovers.”

  Duncan’s brows went up. “That’s quite an accusation.” Carnal appetites, fiscal irresponsibility, and consorting with, or at least spending time in the lands of, one’s enemy—no wonder Abby was finding things hard going. “What do you think?”

  Again, the boy shrugged. “I like her. She’s always kind to me. And she’s very good to Grendel.”

  Duncan smiled. Could a truer gauge of worthiness be found? “I take it you spend a lot of time here?”

  “I help the cook when she asks,” the boy said, “and I sometimes sleep in the barn. But I don’t live here.”

  “What’s your name?” Duncan said.

  “Nab.”

  “Nab, I am in need of an assistant.”

  “A what?”

  “A man to run my errands, do my bidding, carry my notes—”

  “Answer your questions about Lady Kerr?”

  Duncan searched the boy’s face for the hint of a tease and had no trouble finding it. Duncan’s ears warmed. “Er, aye.”

  “Am I to be a spy, then?”

  Duncan blinked. “Let’s see where assistant takes us first, shall we? How much does the cook pay you?”

  “A shilling a week and breakfast.”

  Pursing his li
ps, Duncan considered what he should offer. He had a twenty in his sporran—useless here—and his wallet was in his hotel room in Pittsburgh. He had no idea where he’d get the money to pay the boy, but then again, Duncan had never had a problem making money, no matter where he was. “Let’s make it two then.”

  “Three,” the boy said stoutly. “Rosston offered me two to keep my eye on you.”

  Interesting. Duncan’s investment in the boy was already paying off. “If I offer to pay you four, will you turn him down?”

  Through the cascade of hair, Nab gave Duncan a careful look. “Do you want me to turn him down?”

  Duncan wished every man in his employ possessed the same cold-blooded cunning. “Now that you mention it, no.”

  A pleased smile rose on Nab’s face. “When do we start?”

  “Well, the first thing I need is some valeting. I don’t know your customs as well as I ought. It’s very important to Lady Kerr that I look acceptable at dinner tonight. Can you take a look and tell me if anything looks odd?”

  Nab grinned. “Your hair is a very bright shade of red.”

  “Och, a comedian. Those three shillings are starting to look like two again to me.”

  The boy laughed. “You’ll need a different plaid. Those are too close to the Campbell colors. You can’t wear that here.”

  “There we go. That’s the sort of advice I need.” Duncan waved at the wardrobe. “Choose carefully. I should very much like to outshine our friend Rosston tonight.”

  Nab’s eyes came alive. “In that case, there’s a really big sword and sheath in the Hunting Room. It’s got a dragon on it, and jewels too. But it’s too high for me to reach.”

  “A dragon? Well, we dinna want to miss that.” Duncan stuck out his hand. “Nab, I think this is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

  Seven

  Abby nodded discreetly to her servant. Sir Alan’s goblet was perilously low on wine, and she wanted him to be well lubricated before they moved into the Great Hall to start dinner. The library was sparkling, and she and the heads of the most important families stood admiring the pink-hued sunset through the western windows. Abby had no intention of mentioning the canal to Sir Alan tonight. Business is best done with breakfast in your belly, her father had always said. She wanted Sir Alan’s first evening in the bosom of Clan Kerr to be one of pleasant and unexceptional repose.