Mail -Order Cousins 1

by Joyce Armor

  “Um, Duncan?”

  He looked up. She appeared nervous, twisting her shirttails, which were tied in a knot at her waist. He just now recognized the shirt as Morgan’s and felt a momentary sadness before getting back on track. What was bothering Sophie now? Och, life was easier before they married.

  “It…uh…occurred to me if we don’t want Ainsley to know this is a marriage of convenience, I cannot sleep in the loft. We need to sleep in the same room.”

  And just that last simple statement made his trousers feel uncomfortably tight. He found it difficult to come up with a response. This woman—oh, Lord, his wife—constantly surprised him. Her face was so noncommittal, he could not tell if she was for the idea or against it.

  Finally, he said, “Aye, I suppose we should. I can make a pallet on the floor and pick it oop ‘ere Ainsley gets oop in the morning.”

  She smiled. “Oh, now that’s just ridiculous. That bed is huge. I’m sure we can both fit in it without touching each other.” And then, almost as an afterthought, she added cheerily, “If that’s what you want.”

  She had no idea what she was asking; that was clear enough. Just the thought of sleeping in the same bed with her made him fairly certain he would not get much sleep. Then he realized she was mending one of his shirts. “Where did ye get that?”

  She looked up, and he noticed how the light of the fireplace made her hair kind of shimmer. “Oh, I went through your bureau and wardrobe while you were out today. I hope you don’t mind. You’re kind of hard on your clothing, and I have to have something to do or I’ll go crazy.”

  “No, I donnae mind.” But he kind of did. It gave him an uncomfortable feeling even as he appreciated the effort. The more domestic she became, the tighter his collar felt.

  She smiled and then stifled a yawn.

  “It’s been a long and eventful day, lassie. Why donnae ye go off to bed? I’ll join ye in a while.”

  She met his gaze. She knew what he was doing. He was hoping she would fall asleep so he could sneak into the room later and either sleep on the floor or grasp onto the edge of the bed for all he was worth. She felt almost wanton in her desire to share the bed with him. Or would it even be wanton behavior if they were married? She honestly did not know. Then she decided she didn’t care either. What was wrong with her? She needed to find out for certain what drove Duncan to resist her, even though she could see that his body was not nearly as resistant as his mind and heart.

  He watched a series of expressions flash across his wife’s face, as if she were debating his suggestion and taking both sides of the argument. Finally, she sighed and rose, placing his shirt in a basket with other items. She picked up the basket, saying, “I believe I will.” Then she walked up to him, bent over and kissed him on the cheek, not a peck but a soft, warm, lingering, sucking kiss that may have even left a mark. “Good night, Duncan.”

  And she ambled off, her hips swaying. Though he didn’t want to watch her, he couldn’t help himself. His wife was a vision of loveliness. This convenient marriage was getting more inconvenient every moment.

  She could almost feel her husband’s eyes watching her backside and had to fight to keep from chuckling out loud. Sophie set the basket on the bureau in their room and took the pale green ribbon off her braid. She ran her fingers through her hair, which came down to the middle of her back in waves. She shook her head. It felt so good to have it loose and free. That’s how she felt, too, unfettered. Oh, she knew she faced a challenge with Ainsley and with Duncan, who was determined to resist her and not have a real marriage. It had to be Catriona. Will Catriona be in the bed with us? Now that was a disconcerting thought.

  She grabbed her shawl and headed out past the kitchen and out the back door to the privy on the side of the house. Duncan was still thinking so hard about the kiss and her shapely..er…shape from behind, he didn’t realize she had left the cabin until he heard a panicked Sophie yell, “Help!”

  This was not a “Help! I stubbed my toe!” yell. She sounded terrified. He leaped up, snatched the rifle from the wall and rushed toward the front door, his heart pounding. As he flew down the steps, Ainsley came barreling out of the barn, her six-gun drawn. They met in the middle and stopped and listened. They both heard it at the same time, a menacing growl. Slowly, they headed toward the side of the cabin, where the outhouse stood about 30 feet away. When Duncan saw Sophie standing stock still with a wolf about three feet from her, growling, he felt a momentary panic.

  “Sophie, donnae move,” he said quietly.

  “Where would I move to?” she whispered.

  He almost smiled. She was right. Her back was against the privy door. It was such an incongruous spot from the bedroom, yet she looked so damn enticing with her golden hair, free from its braid, cascading down her back.

  “The gray wolves around here usually avoid people,” Ainsley said. “This one might be rabid.”

  Duncan could see the fear in Sophie’s eyes at that pronouncement, but still she didn’t lose her pluck. “Thank you, Ainsley. I didn’t have enough to worry about.”

  “Can ye see any foam around its mouth?” Duncan asked.

  He was still using that soft voice that somehow calmed her. She had made a concerted effort not to look into the wolf’s eyes. She remembered from her reading that making direct eye contact with an aggressive animal could be perceived as a challenge. Now she tried to casually glance at its mouth. Uh-oh. “Yes, I see some foam.”

  He could hear the tremor in her voice. Duncan nodded at Ainsley and they both raised their weapons. Sophie barely had time to register that fact before several shots rang out and the wolf collapsed at her feet. For a moment, they all looked at each other. Duncan was ready to fold his wife into his arms as she trembled and cried. Except she turned, opened the door to the privy and went inside, closing the door behind her.

  “I’ll bury it,” Ainsley said, grabbing the dead animal by its tail and starting to haul it away.

  “Be careful not to break any skin or let it come in contact with any cuts or scrapes.”

  “I’m not a tenderfoot,” she hissed, and then continued hauling the wolf away.

  Duncan was not sure what to do. Sophie probably needed some time to get control of her fear. He wanted to allow her that, yet didn’t want to leave her too alone. So he sat down about 15 feet from the outhouse and waited for the vexing woman to come out. And waited. And waited. Finally, starting to worry, he walked up to the shed door and knocked.

  “Sophie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are ye all right?”

  “Yes, Duncan.”

  “Are ye planning to spend the night there then?”

  “No.”

  “Will ye come oot then?”

  “Yes.”

  He waited. Nothing.

  “Now?”

  She didn’t answer. He seriously thought about kicking in the door. Then, at last, it opened and Sophie walked out. She walked right up to him and hugged him soundly. He put his arms around her and hugged her back. She was not trembling, but she was plastered against him, gripping him like she would never let go.

  “You were verra brave,” he said to the top of her head, which fit perfectly under his chin.

  “I like the West.” Her voice was muffled and barely audible in his chest, yet he was certain he heard her accurately.

  It was such an incongruous comment, he smiled. “Ye need to carry a pistol with ye when ye’re outside. Do ye know how to shoot?”

  She stepped back. “In theory I do.”

  He almost laughed. “You read aboot it?”

  She nodded. “Will you teach me?”

  “Aye.”

  Her survival could depend on it.

  * * *

  Sophie had been abed for at least an hour when Duncan at last came skulking in. She hadn’t even had to try to stay awake. Her mind would not stop racing with thoughts of her brawny husband, rabid wolves, Ainsley’s animosity, Charles Shanley, whores, children. Chi
ldren? Yes, she really did want children, she realized. Specifically, she wanted Duncan MacGibbon’s children. Several of them, in fact. She wore the sheer nightgown she had donned a disguise to purchase in preparation for her wedding night with Charles Shanley. Oh! She willed any more thoughts of that odious man out of her head. He was the last person she wanted in the bedroom with Duncan. Catriona might be there with them, but Charles Shanley would not be.

  Pretending to be asleep, she watched Duncan through nearly close eyes as he poured some water into the bowl on the bureau and washed his face and neck. Then he took off his shirt and her mouth went dry. His upper arms were muscular and taut, as was his abdomen. His chest was covered, but not gorilla-like, with auburn hair. She could picture him in a kilt and tartan, holding a claymore. When he took off his trousers, she actually found her skin tingling. He started to turn around then and she quickly closed her eyes. A moment later he blew out the lantern and not long after that she felt him climb into bed. She couldn’t help wondering if he had taken off his drawers. That had her nerves jangling.

  She had to smile when she surreptitiously moved her hand and didn’t feel him. He was hugging the side of the mattress, all right. Sophie gave him a minute to relax and then said, “Duncan?”

  She could feel him turn toward her.

  “Aye?”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-eight. Ye’re nearly twenty-two, aye?”

  “How did you…”

  “Ye told the young mother on the stagecoach.”

  After a minute or two of silence, Sophie spoke again, quietly, almost reverently. “Tell me about Catriona.”

  She had never understood what it meant to hear silence. Until now. She thought he had fallen asleep and was prepared to let it go for now, tempted to castigate herself for being so pushy. And then he began to speak.

  “Her father was the MacDuggan, and we grew up together, roaming the heaths. The MacDuggan property bordered Kinhawlie, and she was always around, so fair and somehow fragile. I donnae remember e’er not loving her.”

  Although Sophie felt a painful twinge at that comment, she didn’t, couldn’t say anything.

  “She wasnae sickly but just thin and delicate. And beautiful. So beautiful, her eyes crystal blue like Loch Gilney on a clear spring day, her hair shiny and black as coal. ’Twas always understood we would marry to unite the clans. She wanted to marry me when she turned 18. I was in me studies at the University of St. Andrews School of Medicine in St. Andrews. I was a third son and thought I could nae offer her anything until I had earned me degree and was practicing medicine.”

  Sophie started to get a bad feeling in her gut. She knew she would not like where the story was going.

  “’Twas the winter of me third year. Catriona somehow got it in her head to visit me at the school. She knew the MacDuggan wouldnae approve, so she took off in the night, alone, riding her mare. She was lost in a blizzard. Her father found her the next day after her horse returned to his stable. She had fallen and frozen to death.”

  A tear made its way down Sophie’s cheek. She reached out and found Duncan’s hand, squeezing it. “I’m so sorry, Duncan. I know how hard it is to lose someone you love. It was not your fault, though.”

  “I should have married her when she wanted me to. She would still be alive. I should have protected her. I failed her.”

  “We have no way of knowing what fate has planned. She may have succumbed to a disease or an accident. You were thinking of her when you made your choice to get your medical license so you could support her. And she made her choice to go visit you in bad weather. You both acted from love.”

  He couldn’t help it. He pulled Sophie to him and just held her, her back to his front. A highlander dinnae cry, yet he could feel his eyes water up. His failure to protect Catriona had haunted him for years, leading to his vow to never marry. Sophie’s simple yet profound reasoning gave him a frisson of hope that he someday could come to terms with Catriona’s death.

  At that point Sophie wiggled, adjusting her position, and Duncan’s man parts came to attention. “Och, Sophie, donnae move.”

  “Why?”

  He could almost hear the wheels turning.

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  She settled down, and a few minutes later he heard her steady breathing. How she could have fallen asleep with his erection pressing into her back he had no idea. He tried counting sheep, going over all his patients and their conditions, cataloguing what needed to be done around the ranch and contemplating how to deal with Ainsley’s recalcitrance. Nothing worked. Finally, he extricated himself from her, carefully removing his arm from beneath her and her oh-so-thin nightgown (taking only a moment to run his fingers through her silky hair), and turned his back to her. At last, sometime in the middle of the night, he fell asleep.

  When Sophie awoke in the morning, he was gone. His side of the bed was cold, so she knew it had been a while since he left. Still, she smiled. They were making progress and had only been married one day. Quickly she washed up, noting he must have brought in some warm water at some point, and dressed once again in the breeches and shirt Ainsley had loaned her. She was ready to milk cows, shovel stalls and do whatever she could to help out on the ranch. And then she got another idea.

  She left the bedroom and didn’t see Duncan, so she went outside and headed for the barn. Inside, her husband was saddling his horse, a regal-looking roan, the one he had brought back on his visit to town. She glowed within to see he was wearing a tan shirt she had mended. He had left the top button undone and she could see a little of his chest hair. She decided she loved his chest hair.

  He looked up. “I have rounds to make, Sophie. I’ll be gone at least until mid-afternoon.”

  She smiled. “Did you have breakfast? I could fix you something.”

  He tightened the cinch. “I had some coffee and a biscuit.”

  “What is your horse’s name?”

  “He doesnae have a name.”

  She rubbed her hand along his head. “What? He has to have a name.”

  “Why?”

  She ignored his question and gazed thoughtfully at the horse.

  “Buttercup,” she said.

  “I am not naming my horse Buttercup. ‘Tis a proud stallion he is.”

  Sophie blushed. “Oh. All right then. Hmm, let me think.”

  While she was thinking, he was thinking, I am not going to let this woman take over and change me life.

  “Rob Roy, Rob for short.”

  The Scottish hero. He had to admit it was an apt name, yet he resisted giving her that control. If he had wanted to name the horse, he would have. Better not to hurt her feelings, though. He just looked at her and shook his head, especially when the horse nudged her as if thanking her for the name.

  She rubbed Rob again. “Duncan, could I go with you sometime on your rounds? Maybe I could help. I know about healing.”

  “You read about it.”

  “Aye, I did. And don’t be criticizing it. You would be surprised how much you can learn from books.”

  “I would nae look down on ye for loving books, lassie. Reading isnae a substitute for living, howbeit.”

  “No it isn’t. I just want to help, Duncan.”

  He had to admire the way she was always willing to pitch in. “Ye can help here on the ranch. Just ask Ainsley what needs to be done.”

  Her shoulders kind of sagged, and he felt guilty.

  “I typically donnae need any help with me patients, but if I do, ye will be the first person I’ll call on.”

  She grinned, and he felt ridiculously proud of himself. He hopped into the saddle and looked down at his young wife. “Sophie, I told Ainsley this, and now I am telling ye. Be careful today and every day. Be aware of yer surroundings, and donnae go anywhere alone. Charles Shanley is angry and ruthless.

  She blanched. “But we’ll pay him back.”

  “I already did, and still he seethes.”

  “Oh. I’ll pay you
back, Duncan. I have the money.”

  “As long as ye’re me wife, Sophie, I will pay the bills.”

  Ooh, that forceful, albeit rather annoying highlander-in-charge attitude. She wasn’t sure if she liked it or hated it. His eyes were boring into her. Apparently he was waiting for an answer. “Yes, we’ll see,” she said. “You be careful, too.” She turned and headed back to the cabin, knowing he was watching her and trying to figure out what to do with her. She chuckled.

  * * *

  Duncan’s rounds took a bit longer than usual and included two maternity patients, an older man with pneumonia and a cowboy who got the worse end of a confrontation with a bull. He also sewed up Mrs. Finley’s dog, a mutt that had tangled with some of that new-fangled barbed-wire fencing. For his services the good doctor accumulated eleven dollars, 2 chickens to be delivered, an apple pie and a foal due next spring. The foal was promised by Barnaby Cleaver. He was treating the man for cancer of the abdomen, unbeknownst to his family and the rest of the Stonehaven community. It wasn’t that this particular patient could not afford to pay the doctor. Duncan had requested the foal to help build his ranch.

  The physician/rancher was a few miles from home when the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Like many a highlander before him, he had an uncanny sense of impending danger, honed through centuries of dealing with treachery and strife. Casually he patted Rob’s withers—and couldn’t believe he was already thinking of the horse by that name—taking that opportunity to sneak a peek behind him. The land was relatively flat, and he could see nigh unto a mile behind him and nearly that far on both sides. No one was in sight. The danger didnae come from behind or either immediate side then. That meant it was up ahead, most likely where the road curved. A ravine would appear shortly on his right, and if he were to ambush someone, that’s where he would launch his attack from.

  Carefully removing his rifle from the scabbard, the highlander quietly dismounted and gave Rob a heavy swat on his hind parts. The horse took off at a gallop as Duncan stealthily advanced toward the ravine. After that, it all happened at once. As the horse flew by the ravine, a shot rang out. A split second later, Duncan leapt into the ravine with a loud and frightening battle cry of “Kelpie brae!” that might have sent chills through his own body if he didnae know it was utter rubbish. A beefy man with a scraggly beard and unkempt, greasy brown hair stumbled backwards, dropping his rifle as he fell. He had a look of stark terror on his face.