Passion and Plunder

by Cameron, Collette

No surprise that maggot concerned himself with cursing the blacksmith instead of helping the injured.

  Alasdair sprinted toward the wrecked vehicle. “Be yer niece inside?”

  His expression leery, Ross jerked off his plaid tam and gave a short nod. “Aye.”

  Why the hell hadn’t Farnsworth sent other outriders along? That mewling twit Ross couldn’t stand upright against a strong breeze. What if they’d been set upon by rogues or highwaymen?

  “McLeon, ye help me with the travelers. Gregor and Taggart, see to the hurt men, and McKinnely, ride to the Keep. We’ll need a wagon for the luggage and anyone who’s too hurt to ride. Take the stags with ye. Burness, make haste to Craigcutty and collect Doctor Paterson.”

  Bring the doctor here, or should Doctor Paterson make straight for Craiglocky?

  Unless the injuries were life-threatening, Gregor could treat them. Besides, the Keep lay less than three miles away.

  “Have the doctor meet us at the castle.” Alasdair climbed onto the coach.

  Giving a terse jerk of his head, McKinnely accepted the venison-laden mount’s reins.

  Before he and Burness had galloped more than a few yards, the sulky clouds chose to release their burden, and icy raindrops pelted Alasdair as he wrenched open the crested door. Peering into the bottle green interior, he braced himself for what he might see.

  The faint aroma of wild roses and spice wafted upward, mixing with dank earth and sweaty horses.

  Huddled at the shadowy bottom, her bonnet askew and a nasty lump discoloring her forehead, Lydia Farnsworth cradled a weeping woman.

  “Ah, I thought I heard your voice, Alasdair. I must confess to being greatly relieved.”

  She graced him with a breathtaking smile, a droplet of blood trickling from her sweet mouth’s corner. “As you can see,” she swept her hand to indicate the toppled coach, “we’re in a bit of a pickle.”

  Chapter 4

  The ground trembled with the thunder of approaching riders. Recognizing Alasdair McTavish’s rumbling brogue, immediate calm beset Lydia, and she nearly wept with relief.

  He was no stranger to mayhem, and he’d know just what to do. Unlike Uncle Gordon, loudly railing about the blacksmith’s stupidity instead of rushing to help her and Esme.

  A petulant wind blasted giant, chilly raindrops into the door’s opening, and Esme shivered.

  Lydia tightened her embrace, setting her teeth against the tremors also racking her.

  “A pickle, lass?” A honey blond eyebrow launched skyward above his twinkling bluish eyes, and his strong mouth hitched into a practiced grin. “I’d say yer in a mite more trouble than that. But I’ve seen ye in worse.”

  He had. Just once.

  Lydia glanced at her cousin’s reddish-blonde head as she softly wept against Lydia’s bosom. “This is my cousin, Esme Adams. Her leg is hurt, but I don’t know how badly. And I suspect she has other injuries too.”

  Having the starch scared out of their chemises didn’t help either. Lydia’s heart still beat frantically. She’d believed she was about to die a terrifyingly, painful death.

  “And yerself, Miss Farnsworth?” Alasdair leaned farther into the interior, his broad forehead, framed by the same golden hair as his eyebrows, wrinkled in concern as he assessed her. His unique manly scent, combined with sweat and leather, drifted into the opening. “Are ye hurt?”

  “I think I’m fine. A few cuts and bruises, but nothing pains me terribly. Except my head aches like a tippler’s the morn after Hogmanay.” Lydia touched the throbbing above at her hairline. She’d smacked the coach’s side when it piled over, and truth to tell, she couldn’t say which was worse—the waves of dizziness or the nausea assailing her.

  She swallowed and shut her eyes for an instant.

  Lord, she thought for certain they’d perish, and all she could think of was what her death would do to Da.

  What it would mean for the clan.

  Who would be laird?

  Alasdair shifted his position, and angled lower. “The last time I saw ye, Miss Farnsworth, ye’d dispensed of three scurvy Blackhalls.” He switched his attention to Esme. “Never seen a more gifted archer, man or woman. Her shootin’ was somethin’ to behold, I tell ye.”

  Warmth infused Lydia at his praise, even though she’d tried to block that day from her mind.

  Attacked by rogue Scots, she’d done what needed to be done. Nevertheless, she couldn’t summon a morsel of pride for her actions. No one should be proud or boastful of killing another human.

  “Lydia, you killed three men?” Shock rounded Esme’s treacle-brown eyes and left her delicate jaw slack.

  “She did indeed. Her bravery saved lives that day.” The admiration in Alasdair’s gaze launched another rush of scouring heat up Lydia’s cheeks.

  “My side hurts,” Esme whispered, pressing a palm to her ribs.

  “Aye, lass,” Alasdair assured her. “We’ll be gettin’ ye out of there, straightaway.”

  The coach wobbled again, and another giant Scot appeared at the opening—one Lydia had seen at Craiglocky but had never spoken to.

  “I be Douglas McLeon, ladies.” He gave them a rakish grin. “I didna ken I’d be privileged with rescuin’ fair damsels today.”

  As dark as Alasdair was fair, the handsome Highlander winked.

  “Likely a brounie caught sight of ye two bonnie lasses, and he be so captivated, the wee fellow risked bein’ seen in the daylight and tried to climb inside the coach. Broke the wheel right off in his eagerness, he did.”

  Esme raised her head and smiled feebly. “Plumb rotten manners if you ask me.”

  “Och, he be smitten, so ye canna blame him, lass.” Mr. McLeon winked and grinned again.

  Charming behemoth.

  And from Esme’s dazed countenance, she was fast on her way to succumbing to his charm. Either that or she’d suffered a far more severe blow to her head than Lydia realized.

  “McLeon, enough of yer twaddle. One of us needs to climb inside and lift the women out.” Alasdair straightened and curtly motioned with his hand. “Ross and Taggart. Get over here. We need yer help.”

  A few moments later, amidst Esme’s soft cries, the men’s smothered oaths, and Lydia’s tattered dignity—her bosom had been brushed and her leg exposed to her knee—the women had been safely extricated.

  She wanted to throw her arms around Alasdair’s neck and give into the urge to cry and be comforted by the gentle man, but Uncle Gordon would tell Da her weakness.

  Lairds didn’t cry.

  Ladies scared spitless do. Even ones determined to be as strong as men.

  She’d never really believed in curses before, but after this . . .? No family had a streak of bad luck this long.

  Taking a deep breath, she attempted to straighten her bonnet and surveyed the scene. One of the men had unhitched the team, and someone else had moved their trunks to the roadside. The other luggage had been removed, too, and was now stacked neatly beside the crippled coach.

  Gregor tended Esme, while George, the postilion, held a reddened cloth to his head.

  “Miss Farnsworth.” The coachman, his face pale as death, limped her way, one hand wrapped protectively around his upper arm. He scowled at the wrecked carriage before meeting her gaze. “Forgive me, but there was nothin’ I could do. The wheel shouldnae have shattered like that.”

  He swayed and Alasdair steadied him. “Sit down, mon. There be no shame in restin’. Yer shoulder be dislocated.”

  He managed a grateful smile as Alasdair eased him to the ground.

  What a woeful and filthy lot would present themselves at Craiglocky.

  Lydia almost smiled at the mental image of the bedraggled, mud-caked, injured entourage’s arrival, more closely resembling gypsies than house guests.r />
  Driving rain deluged the miserable travelers, and she hugged her shoulders and clenched her chattering teeth. Couldn’t the storm have held off another hour? To her pounding head, the pattering raindrops echoed like miniature explosions.

  The coachman peered up at her, worry lining his haggard face. “Be ye and Miss Adams all right?”

  “We’ll be fine, and I don’t blame you at all. I’m just grateful none of us is hurt worse than we are.” Lydia quirked her mouth upward on one side, and pain instantly lanced her face. Salty warmth trickled from her mouth, and she dabbed where it stung worse. Her fingertips came away tinted red. What a sight she must be.

  Where was her reticule? She needed her handkerchief.

  Drat it all. Had she left it in the coach? It also contained Da’s letter to Ewan McTavish, Laird of Craiglochy.

  She touched Alasdair’s arm. “I’m sorry, but I think I left my reticule in the coach. There’s an important epistle inside for your laird.”

  Uncle Gordon’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll fetch it.”

  No.

  Lydia clenched Alasdair’s forearm in silent entreaty.

  “Nae, we’d have to lift yer skinny arse out too. Why dinna ye make yerself useful and help with the horses?” He pushed past Gordon who turned an accusing stare on Lydia.

  She lifted her chin.

  Da had commissioned her with this task, and Uncle Gordon wasn’t going to jack the mission. He’d been peevish and distant since Da announced his intention to possibly name her laird.

  More than once, she’d caught Gordon staring at her with an odd expression on his face. Part envy, part irritation, and something which appeared disturbingly like cunningness. Gone was the concerned uncle, and the stranger in his place unnerved her.

  After examining Esme, Gregor stood and pushed sodden blond strands off his forehead. “The lass got pummeled mightily, but nothin’ be broken. She’ll be sore for a few days though.”

  “I hope nae too sore to grant a humble Highlander a dance at the ball.” McLeon extended a hand and helped her to stand.

  Despite the pouring rain and her obvious pain, Esme blushed and smiled. “If it’s permissible.”

  He cocked his head. “Yer American?”

  Her expression guarded, Esme nodded. “Yes, I was born in Salem.”

  “Hmph.” His grunt could be taken as displeasure or approval.

  Confusion flitted across Esme’s bruised face, and she slid Lydia a questioning glance.

  She lifted a shoulder to indicate she hadn’t a clue what caused McLeon’s stilted behavior.

  In the distance, a wagon accompanied by several riders barreled in their direction.

  “Here ye be.” Alasdair appeared by Lydia’s side and passed her the reticule. He nodded toward those approaching. “I suppose I should’ve asked fer a coach too, except I nae be certain of yer condition when I sent the men fer help.”

  Lydia smiled as she slipped the bag’s cords over her wrist. “The Keep isn’t far. We should manage it.”

  “I’m afraid ye ladies will have to ride before us. We’ll make better time, and this tempest has only begun to release her fury.” He shot a wary glance skyward indicating the churlish, steely clouds. “Besides, neither of yer drivers is capable of sittin’ a horse, and ye’ve so much luggage, there isnae room for ye in the cart. Are ye sure ye only meant to stay a week?”

  Humor crinkled the corners of his blue eyes.

  Da had insisted on a wardrobe worthy of a British lady, though why Scots always felt they had to prove their worth to the English peeved a mite.

  “Aye. Atop a horse will do.” She didn’t relish a bone-jarring journey in the wagon bed in any event.

  In short order, the luggage was loaded and the postilion and coachman settled somewhat comfortably in the wagon beneath a blanket and tarpaulin.

  “We’ll send a crew to repair the wheel and retrieve the coach.” Alasdair mounted his impressive horse. “Miss Farnsworth, I’d be pleased if ye’d ride with me.”

  She’d be pleased too.

  Well, either him or Gregor. Amongst the men, she knew those two the best.

  “I’ll take Miss Adams,” McLeon quickly volunteered, earning him a teasing grin from Gregor and another of Uncle Gordon’s habitual scowls.

  He didn’t volunteer to take either woman, however.

  Color lined Esme’s face again.

  Hmm, was a romance blooming between her and McLeon already? Esme could do far worse than the burly Scot, but she intended to return to America once she became of age. She’d a vast estate and a considerable fortune at her disposal.

  Perhaps a word with her later was in order. At seventeen, Esme was naive and impressionable, and though Mr. McLeon seemed like a decent enough chap, Lydia didn’t see him scampering off to Massachusetts, trading his trews for buckskins, or his whisky for ale.

  Gregor helped the women onto their respective horses, and then wearing a silly grin and shaking his head, leapt into his saddle. “Seems to me, somethin’ more than a storm be brewin’, bairn brother.”

  “Ye only beat me into this world by four minutes, and that be because ye elbowed yer way out first, ye codshead.” Alasdair wrapped one oak-like arm around Lydia’s waist and clicked his tongue. “It be the only thin’ ye’ve ever done first.”

  Gregor chuckled and after yanking his tam lower, trotted his horse away.

  Lydia clutched the huge gray’s mane as the animal heeded his master’s kick to his sides. Spine straight, she tried to keep from sinking into Alasdair with each gentle bump of the horse’s gait.

  “Be at ease, Lydia. Yer goin’ to be sore from bein’ tossed around in the coach, and ye dinna need to add overworked muscles to yer discomfort.”

  Her muscles did, indeed, object to the awkward posture.

  He leaned down and whispered in her ear, sending a most inappropriate, but utterly delicious, tremor coursing through her. “I promise I’ll be a gentleman.”

  Most disappointing.

  At the unprompted thought, she lurched straight up.

  “Relax.” Alasdair pressed her against him.

  Sighing, she slouched against his chest’s hard, wide planes and closed her eyes. For these few moments, she’d let someone else take care of her, pretend that her whole life hadn’t been upended. That if she hadn’t already given her heart to another, this enormous, kind, and considerate man might have tempted her to set her cap for him.

  “I’m surprised ye are attendin’ the house party, Lydia. Especially accompanied only by Ross. Yer the first guest to arrive, too.”

  “Originally, two other clansmen were assigned to accompany us, but just as we were to leave, Uncle Gordon got word of an issue that needed immediate attention. He sent the men to oversee the situation.” She snorted and snuggled a mite nearer to escape the pelting rain and intrusive wind. “He’s always smugly confident he can handle everything, and the journey between Tornbury and Craiglocky isn’t terribly long. Plus the road is well-traveled.”

  “That be true, but Ross nae be exactly a robust, brave sort.”

  A cowardly, knock-kneed, craven better described her uncle.

  “I suppose I should’ve insisted on waiting for a new guard, but I didn’t want Da to catch wind and worry. I have business with McTavish of Craiglocky and wanted to arrive before the other guests.” Even to her ears, she sounded utterly worn out.

  Alasdair nudged her head with his chin. “I heard about yer mother. Ye’ve suffered much of late, lass.”

  “Yes, and I fear there’s more grief to come. That’s my real purpose for journeying here.” She hadn’t meant to tell him that yet. Certainly not looking like a half-drowned puppy, and amid an ugly winter storm.

  “Humph.” He made the rough sound in the back of his
throat. “Can I help?”

  Lydia turned her head, meeting his gentle gaze. “Yes. You can agree to return with me to Tornbury and act as our war chief.”

  Chapter 5

  Alasdair choked on a strangled curse.

  Tornbury’s situation was that precarious then?

  Of any number of things Lydia might have requested, he wouldn’t have ever guessed she’d ask him to return to Tornbury Fortress with her.

  And certainly not as the acting war chief.

  Farnsworth must be truly desperate, or something else went on that he’d not revealed to his daughter.

  With the deaths of her brothers and mother, and having been the target of a deranged Scot’s intent on abducting Lydia to acquire the gold discovered on Tornbury’s lands, she’d endured enough already.

  Devil take it and dance a hellish jig.

  Alasdair silently ground his teeth. He’d wager his coveted whisky, Cousin Ewan would agree to the request. At least temporarily.

  Had Farnsworth specifically asked for Alasdair?

  Probably.

  As Craiglocky’s war chief’s son, he possessed the skill and knowledge to train the allied tribe, and he boasted unusual size and strength for a Scot. So did his twin, but as a gifted healer, Gregor was needed at the Keep, unlike the more dispensable Alasdair.

  Exceeding six feet herself, Mother’s Norse heritage had contributed to his and Gregor’s immenseness.

  Alasdair skewed his mouth sideways. Rather convenient when engaged in hand-to-hand combat or other tests of power. Few men, except perhaps McLeon and a handful of others, could hold their own against him and his brother.

  Alasdair dropped his focus to the petite, exhausted bundle slumped in his arms.

  Lydia shivered, and he drew her closer, offering her his body’s warmth. He dared imagine the delicate ribs he cradled beneath her plaid mantle and traveling costume, as well as the slope of her waist and hips and the curves of her small breasts.