He was watching her.
Kate disliked it. In fact, it was primarily his gaze that kept her here, tired and aching after a long day on bad roads in a worse-sprung carriage. He alarmed her.
She darted another quick glance at him. The smoke from his pipe drifted up and was absorbed in the shadows beneath his hat’s brim. The bowl had grown fallow. Darkness obliterated his eyes.
She looked hastily away, struck anew by how far she’d become removed from the sheltered young woman she’d once been. There had been a time when the notion that his path and hers could converge would have struck her as ludicrous. But three years had taught her that her sort, the genteel poor, was constantly “converging” with undesirable types.
And not always to her detriment.
For instance, she’d learned that a drunken maid without references could fix hair quite acceptably and that an accommodating schedule might entice such a maid into overlooking being paid irregularly. Though, Kate thought with a small smile, apparently travel to “hethen parts” constituted an unforgivable rift in the employer-employee relationship.
She must commit that to memory: Never force a hazardous journey on an unpaid maid.
Perhaps she ought to write an instructional book? A pamphlet. Something along the lines of A Necessary Guide for the Well-bred Gentlewoman Anticipating a Life Spent in Reduced Circumstances. Certainly the merchant class devoured instructional books on how to emulate the aristocracy. Why not a book dedicated to maintaining a dignified poverty? If that wasn’t an oxymoron.
Her lips twitched with amusement, and she recalled how once she’d thought she’d never smile again. Thank God, she’d been wrong. Still, she reminded herself, this was no time for levity. Her sense of humor may have saved her from the despair that had so quickly taken her mother’s life, but it could also cause problems. Such as the time she had convinced the butcher that as the Jaspers’ houseguest was a strict vegetarian, they wouldn’t need the roast he’d trimmed up for their Sunday dinner, and she would take it off his hands. At a reduced cost, of course. Mrs. Jasper never had spoken to her after that.
A loud bang announced the arrival of another refugee from the storm. A red-faced youngster stumbled through the doorway, pushed by a curtain of sleet, his hands clamped under his armpits, his face raw and frost-rimed.
“Shut the door, you fool!” bellowed one of the men at the table, pushing to his feet.
The lad didn’t appear to hear. He’d doubled over at the waist as soon as he’d crossed the threshold and was blowing desperately into his cupped hands, wincing as he did so. His fingertips looked white and glassine. The poor lad could lose those fingers—
“I said, shut the bleedin’ door!” The big brute grabbed the boy by the shoulders and shoved him against the wall. The boy’s outstretched hands struck the wood and he screamed. Kate’s heart thundered in sympathetic response.
“Out with you, boy! No one wants to hear yer blubberin’!” As the man grabbed the lad’s collar, preparing to pitch him back through the open door, Kate recognized the man. It was Dougal, her driver. Her driver.
The room had fallen silent. A few faces twisted derisively, one of Dougal’s compatriots sneered in amusement, but most of them simply looked on uncomprehendingly.
With a sick sense of inevitability, Kate realized she had stood up. She was shaking as thoroughly as the boy, yet incapable of retreat. Because, along with that completely fallacious sense of her own worth she’d once had, she’d also had an equally overblown sense of responsibility. And that damned characteristic she never had been able to make tractable. She did not want to speak. She wanted to shut her eyes and turn away like some of the others. But… but Dougal worked for her. He was her responsibility.
Her heart was racing now and she was afraid. Nearly paralyzed with the fear of what would happen if she interfered. Nearly paralyzed.
Her feet dragged her over the threshold into the public room. Dougal gave the howling boy another shake. “Maybe I’ll let you in when you can remember how to close a—”
“Let him go,” Kate heard a calm voice say. Thank God, it was not hers.
Dougal looked about to see who dared interfere with him. It was the tall man in the ancient plaid.
“And,” the Highlander continued mildly, “close the damn door, will you?”
“Who the bloody hell are you to be giving me orders?” Dougal demanded, the cringing boy dangling from one ham-fisted hand.
The front legs of the chair settled gently on the floor, and with an eerie, silky grace the ragged figure rose, his face still obscured by his hat. “A fellow who’s gettin’ cold—and,” the man reminded Dougal, “you still haven’t let the lad go or closed the door.” Something dangerous slipped beneath his tranquil tone.
“Go to hell!” Dougal said. “I’ll shut the door after I throw out this—”
The lad was plucked as neatly as a ripe pear from a low-hanging branch, one moment cowering in Dougal’s clasp, the next being pushed toward a pair of young men, crofters by the look of them, who had been watching in silent but obvious distress. Then, just as smoothly as he’d appropriated the boy, the Highlander reached past Dougal and slammed the door shut.
“There. Sooner begun, sooner done, as my old mater would have said.” The man cocked his head and continued ruefully. “Well, if I’d had a mater, I’m sure she would have said some such thing.”
A few of the other men in the room chuckled nervously, but Dougal was not to be cajoled. His face had turned beet red.
“I don’t like meddlers, mister. And that’s what you are. Ain’t he?” Dougal turned to his companions. They nodded, regarding the boy’s deliverer narrowly. Worse than snatching Dougal’s prey from him, they’d been deprived of their night’s entertainment.
The Highlander didn’t appear overly concerned. But Kate was. The fear that had begun slowly loosening its clamp around her chest began constricting again.
“I suspect you’re right,” the tall man allowed. “A failing more than one has tried to beat out of me.”
“Yeah? Well, we’ll just see if this time we can make the lesson stick, eh, lads?” Dougal promised.
The men growled their assent. At the same time, the two young men who had been given custody of Dougal’s intended victim stepped forward.
“See now,” the stockier one addressed Dougal. “We don’t much like the odds of what you’re proposing—”
“Back away, friend,” the Highlander cut in. “I appreciate your gesture, but what with four such braw warriors planning me demise, I don’t have time to spare fretting over your welfare.”
The two young crofters exchanged startled glances.
“Sit down, lads, and I’ll stand you a pint.” The Highlander turned toward the innkeeper, stripping off his faded green jacket, and Dougal, like a jackal that sees an exposed piece of flesh, charged.
“Watch out!” Kate cried, but the Highlander had already ducked beneath Dougal’s two-fisted blow, pivoting, his fist exploding up into Dougal’s thick gut. With an Uff! Dougal doubled up and fell to the floor.
Dougal’s friends launched themselves forward as the other men in the tavern surged to their feet to better see the unfolding spectacle. One of Dougal’s cohorts grabbed a heavy metal platter and began swinging its edge forward like a hatchet. The tall Scot jerked back, his hat falling off, freeing a tangle of overlong red-gold hair.
Kate had an impression of a sharp jaw and a lean face streaked with the grime of hard travel, and then he was backing away, Dougal’s largest companion following his retreat. The other two flanked him, herding him toward the wall, and… and the ring of spectators closed in front of her, leaving her outside, Dougal still gasping at her feet.
The crowd erupted in shouts. Hats waved, arms windmilled in the air. Some of the watchers winced at what they saw, others bellowed louder. She could see little; a flurry of fists, a dark red-gold head, a blurred glimpse of taut, sweat-streaked faces. Curses and invectives rose from the mill
along with the thud of fist on flesh.
Someone let out a warning cry, and abruptly the circle of men split open in front of her. She saw two of Dougal’s drinking companions, one lying in an insensate heap, the other trying to drag himself to his knees. And then, suddenly, there he was, directly in front of her.
He’d shed his tartan, and his linen shirt had been yanked from the waist of his trousers, one sleeve torn across the shoulder, exposing a glimpse of a broad, muscled back. His hair clung in dark, damp strands to his neck as he fought Dougal’s most fearsome-looking cohort. He was winning, slapping away the man’s swings as if they were inconsequential.
He fought like some sort of diabolical machine, methodical, his movements concentrated, invested with a terrible, economical beauty. He parried each of the other man’s punches precisely, taking advantage of the smallest opening with immediate and savage dispatch. Finally, an upward blow caught his opponent beneath the jaw, lifting him from his feet and sending him careening across the floor and sliding to a stop at Kate’s feet.
The Highlander followed, the attitude of his shoulders, the look in his face, frightening her. The man at her feet flopped over on his belly and began crawling away. The Scot leaned down and grabbed the fallen man’s collar. His teeth, startlingly white in his dark face, flashed in a grin.
With a grunt, he heaved the big-bellied brute to his feet. “You wouldn’t be thinking of deprivin’ me of your company so soon, would you, me friend? Well, if go you must, so be it. But first I’ll be takin’ that dagger from you, the one you nicked me with, since I’ve no mind to feel it in me back.”
He had forgotten about Dougal.
So had she.
Dougal roared a challenge and launched himself up from the ground straight for the Highlander, heedless of Kate standing between them. The Scot let go of the man he held, sweeping his foot beneath his heels and felling him like an oak. With lightning reflexes, he dropped to a knee, reached out, grabbed Kate’s wrist, and jerked her out of Dougal’s path, pitching her into the wall of spectators. The young crofters caught her before she fell.
She scrambled around just in time to see Dougal raise his dirk and plunge it downward. Still braced on one knee, the Highlander grabbed Dougal’s wrist, arresting it in midflight. His shoulders bunched and strained. His throat corded in his effort to keep the blade from its lethal descent.
Dougal ground his teeth together, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth as slowly, laboriously, the Highlander rose to his feet against all sixteen stone of the massive body Dougal brought to bear.
The crowd hushed.
“Leave off now and save yerself a fair bit of pain,” the Highlander advised grimly.
“Go to hell, you bastard!”
“Ah, grand! I admit I would have been sorely disappointed if you’d chosen otherwise.”
With a sudden twist, the Highlander pivoted, jerking Dougal’s arm straight out. At the same time, he dropped his shoulder beneath Dougal’s elbow and wrenched down. The muffled crunch of breaking bone filled the room.
Kate’s stomach roiled at the sound. Dougal’s face drained of color. His blade dropped from nerveless fingers and clattered to the floor. He opened his mouth and howled.
With a look of disgust, the Highlander pushed the gibbering Dougal toward his friends. He spied the innkeeper. “You best get a splint on his arm, or he’ll no be driving a team agin.”
His words penetrated Kate’s frightened thoughts. She stared, no longer seeing the Scotsman, but only hearing his prophetic words, suddenly comprehending what had happened: she no longer had a driver.
Leaden feet carried her to the innkeeper’s side. With numb fingers she reached into her pocket and withdrew a few of the precious coins she’d sewn into her cloak’s hem. “Find someone to set his arm,” she said woodenly and turned to leave, uncertain of her destination.
Unless she could hire another driver, she would have to take the mail coach back to York. What with the increasing number of highwaymen, thieves, and brigands on the roads, and the early onset of what promised to be a fierce winter, few private agencies risked sending their cattle—or their men—to northern Scotland. She’d been surprised that the marquis had found a company willing to do so this late in the year. If she went back to York, there would be no second chance to make it to Clyth this winter.
She had to make it to Clyth. It seemed to her she’d been given one final chance to regain what they’d lost. And now that was being lost, too.
Her head swam, and for the first time in her life she felt faint. Too little food, too little hope. She swayed. Closed her eyes. Reached out for something to hold on to. Failed to find anything.
On the other hand, it might be a relief to give in, to finally just stop trying…
Strong arms gripped her elbows, steadying her. He smelled of leather and sweat and an odd metallic tang. She opened her eyes.
His back was to the hearth, and the light from behind created a nimbus of fire about his red-gold hair. She could see little of his features except for the stubble of his beard glinting along the edge of a hard jaw.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Me?” the rich voice purred, “Why, I’d be yer guardian angel, love.”
The sense that something momentous was about to happen crawled up Kate’s spine. She stumbled back, and to keep her from falling, the Highlander shifted, pulling her lightly against his side. The movement brought him around so that the light fell fully on his face. For the first time that evening she got a good, clear look at him: ruthless, icy green eyes, the lips of a rake, and the jaw of a Celtic warrior.
She crumpled in a dead faint into Christian MacNeill’s arms.
TWO
OVERNIGHTING AT TAVERNS, INNS, HOSTELRIES, AND OTHER LOW PLACES
KATE FLOATED BETWEEN consciousness and dream. A warm, masculine scent penetrated the darkness, rising from the dense surface against which she lay. She felt safe, utterly relaxed… slightly… blowsy. Blowsy?
She came more fully awake, her eyes opening upon a hard jaw and a strong, masculine throat. The gilt-haired Highlander looked down with eyes like chalcedony: pale green, silvery, and unreadable.
“Do you remember me, Mrs. Blackburn?” he asked. “Kit MacNeill?”
“Christian.”
The corner of his generous mouth twitched into a brief smile. “More Kit than Christian, I’m afraid. So, you do remember.”
Oh, yes. She remembered. She remembered sitting shivering in a room stripped of every ornamentation, staring into the wounded, fierce gray-green eyes of a young man who prowled the room like a wild beast, a man so outside her sphere of experience that she’d felt able to reveal to him things she hadn’t even told her own family—bitter things, angry things—because she’d been certain that their worlds, having collided for one brief hour, would never again overlap. She should have known better.
“Yes, I remember.” Heat piled into her cheeks and throat. “How—why are you here?”
A dark-winged brow split by a deep scar rose sardonically. “You don’t believe in guardian angels?”
“No.” If there were such things, hers had been so derelict in his duties he’d probably been drummed from the ranks years ago. She shifted, and he jounced her in his arms, settling her more comfortably and forcibly reminding her that she was being carried by a man who was for all purposes a stranger to her. “Please. I can stand.”
Without comment, he set her down and she swayed, light-headed. He reached out, but she drew back. “I’m fine.”
His well-shaped mouth flattened into an enigmatic smile. The young man who’d brought her family the glorious golden roses had been fierce, but there had been something about him that had touched a kindred spark in her. In some odd manner, she’d felt she’d known that Christian MacNeill. She did not feel that way about this hard, lean “Kit” MacNeill. What was he doing here?
“Which room is yours?”
She indicated the nearest door, and he pushed
it open, stepping aside so she could enter. She turned, and the light spilling out of her doorway revealed what the shadowed corridor had concealed: blood clotted the gilt hair at his temple. Wounds from a tavern brawl. Her gaze slipped to his hands. The knuckles were raw and bleeding, broken on another man. She shivered at this evidence of brute violence.
“You’ve been hurt.”
“It doubtless looks worse than it is. ‘Tis often the way of head wounds.”
She hesitated. Perhaps it was his familiarity with wounds, perhaps another vestige of her sense of duty; for whatever reason, she held the door open. “At least avail yourself of the washbasin. It’s better than the horse trough.”
“And that is my only option?” he asked with a wry smile.
“I took the last room, and unless one has since been vacated, yes, it is,” she answered coolly, refusing to be baited. She gestured toward the chipped china bowl. “Please.”
He snorted and then, with the air of one indulging another’s incomprehensible whim, came in, shutting the door behind him. He went to the bowl and bent over it, splashing water on his face, leaving her to study him.
It was no wonder she hadn’t recognized him at first. The gaunt lines of his face had fleshed out, developing hard angles and planes. More marks had been added to the scar on his brow that she had noted earlier. Three years ago he’d already had too many scars.
He was bigger than she remembered, too. Broader. His back flexed as he scrubbed his face, stretching the torn linen shirt, revealing glimpses of heavy muscles bunching and shifting. Everything about him was masculine. Too masculine.
Why had he shut the door? He should have left it open. A gentleman would have found another woman to act as chaperone—God! What was she thinking? A tavern girl was hardly an adequate doyenne. And he was hardly a gentleman—despite his educated accent. And that accent hadn’t been so refined in the tavern room. What was going on?
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