Never Kiss a Highlander

by Michele Sinclair

  Mairead let go a short, terse breath. “You know that I found nothing.”

  “I am well aware there was nothing to find. But I am curious as to what you expected to find. I mean what could I possibly have in my chambers regarding my plan for Ulrick?”

  “Your plan?” Mairead scoffed. “I knew all along that would be fruitless. I was hoping to learn just what you do in there after the rest of the world has risen and started the day.”

  She had already probed Ava on the topic and the girl had been no help. Mairead had hoped that the temporary chambermaid just had not known what to look for, but after examining the room, she had to agree—there was nothing there one would not find in any man’s bedchambers. The few items Selah stored in the room looked basically untouched and everything else was as expected. Hamish had traveled with little and even if he did have more, there was nowhere in the room to hide it. “I won’t give up. I will find out,” she pressed, more to convince herself than him.

  “I have little doubt that you will,” he replied, and curled his index finger for her to follow him.

  Mairead waited until he was halfway across the courtyard before she picked up her dress and ran to catch up with him. “False flattery will not distract me.”

  Hamish stopped in front of the stables and pulled out two fur wraps from the bundle. He held out one to her. “First, I was being sincere. Second, we have known each other for years. You were obstinate then and still are. And third . . .”—he lowered his voice to a sensual level that only she could hear—“when I’m trying to distract a woman, I employ much more pleasurable means.”

  Mairead grabbed the fur in her hands and was about to issue a retort when she was interrupted by two women passing by wishing Hamish a good morning in altogether too cheerful voice. Their overt friendliness irked her and she knew there was no reason for it to. Hamish was an extremely good-looking man and other women were bound to notice. It was natural that they flirt with him whenever they got the chance. But did they have to do it right in front her? It was like they knew she had no chance with him and considered her to be no competition.

  “Jealous?”

  Mairead’s eyebrows shot up as she realized her emotions had been plastered all over her face. Pride took over, saving her with a quick retort. “I probably would be if it were not for all the male company I’ve had lately.”

  “I would normally encourage you to join those old farmers again, or even offer you the chance to continue with your search of my chambers, but today, I need your help.” He waved to Adiran to bring the horses.

  Saddled horses and a fur covering meant that Hamish intended to travel farther than the village. “Just where are we going?” Hamish did not answer. Instead, he cupped his hands to help her mount the smaller of the two horses. He then pulled the blanket around her and draped it so that it also shielded the exposed part of her legs. The attention he was giving her was unnerving for many reasons, most she refused to acknowledge. “Getting me bundled up is not enough to make me go with you. Where do you want to go?”

  “To see Davros.”

  “Davros?” She blinked in surprise. “He doesn’t like strangers.”

  “That’s why I need your help. Besides, you were going there anyway. I distinctly remember on the day I arrived that you promised him to visit his wife.”

  Mairead narrowed her gaze. “Does the reason you want to meet with Davros have to do with your plan?”

  He knew she was stubborn enough to refuse if he did not answer. “It might,” he answered. It definitely did if Davros agreed to his proposal. Hamish knew that bringing her along would give Mairead tremendous insight into what he was ultimately devising, but he did need her help. From what he learned earlier that morning, Davros could be instrumental to his success. And just walking up to the man’s front door was not advisable.

  “Then you know my answer.”

  * * *

  Hamish gave a light tug on the reins to avoid a group of children playing chase outside one of the village cottages. The path they were on would soon fork and both led to Davros. The left was a much longer, more circuitous route and followed the river. The right was the opposite. It was a significantly shorter, direct route, but it required one to go over several semi-large hills, a wide valley, and then a small forest. Hamish wanted to go left. Not because the other was more difficult, but because it came uncomfortably close to where he went early in the mornings. Soon he would bring Mairead in on his secret, but not yet. He had other things he needed to put in place first and there was just too great a chance that Mairead would do more than watch or ask questions. She would want to interfere.

  Mairead pointed to her right. “There’s a shortcut if we go south and cut across the valley, but this time of year it is muddy and the wind can be strong along the hills. This way,” she said, pointing left, “follows the river before it bends north. It will take us a bit longer, but the path is wider. Farmers and merchants use it and their carts have broken down most of the rocks keeping the mud at a minimum.” She shivered and pulled the fur around her tighter. “It’s also warmer.”

  Hamish sent a silent prayer of thanks to heaven. “I’m in no hurry and besides that gown is one of my favorites. I wouldn’t want to see it ruined due to a shortcut.”

  Mairead issued him a sideways glance. She was cold and not in the mood to be intentionally riled by duplicitous compliments. Hamish might like her gown, and it could even be one of his favorites, but its potential ruin was not the reason he had so readily agreed to go left. When they had neared the fork, the tension in his body was almost palpable. But the moment she hinted her preference for the longer route, his shoulders deflated and the expression on his face relaxed into the smug grin he still was wearing. And if going right hadn’t been very muddy and were not so bitingly cold with today’s winds, she would have tested her theory by turning around and going that way.

  The obvious postulation was that Hamish had lied and the McTiernay army was hidden in that valley. It was big enough, and yet Mairead knew without any doubt that was not the case. In the last week, someone would have reported seeing strangers and the sudden influx of a hundred men or so would definitely have affected the ability for local clansmen to hunt and feed their families. Nothing beyond the normal complaints about the weather had been heard. No one was having to go significantly farther to find game, so it was not an army. But what then? Hamish was a MacBrieve. And they did like to build things. It was not much, but he had fixed those broken scissors. Maybe Hamish was working on something that would help secure the gates. It was Foinaven’s largest weak point.

  Mairead shrugged and told herself that she just needed to be a little patient now that she knew where to go for answers. She would soon be able to unravel Hamish’s plans and decide her next steps.

  “So how long has it been since Foinaven has had a steward?” Hamish prompted once they were alone and out of earshot from the village.

  Mairead was surprised by the sudden question. They had been riding in silence, only talking when necessary. She knew why she had been quiet—the air was bitter and she had buried most of her face in the furs. But now that they had turned north, the easterly wind was blocked by one of the larger hills in the area making talking far more feasible. Hamish had appeared to not be affected by the weather, but perhaps he was. Then again, maybe his silence had been due to a reluctance to give the village gossips any fodder. Whatever the reason, Mairead was glad for any conversation as it would make time pass much faster and the ride much more enjoyable.

  “The last steward died shortly after your father,” Mairead began. “Robert decided he could handle Foinaven’s finances better than anyone he could hire and felt that Selah and I had the ability to oversee the servants.”

  Hamish pursed his lips together. He had known from the first night that Foinaven had no steward, but he had assumed that the role’s vacancy was only temporary. That there had been no castle steward for some time, however, explained a lot.
r />   To an untrained eye, Robert would seem correct—a steward was unnecessary. Foinaven appeared to be running smoothly. Servants were kept busy. Villagers enlisted help from craftsmen. Farmers, hunters, and the cooks could be seen hauling food in and out of storage areas. But what a good steward would recognize were the areas Foinaven lacked attention. Hamish was far from an expert on such matters, but even he knew that castles—even those erected in stone—required periodic maintenance. Based on Foinaven’s size and number of buildings, the noise of repairs being made should be constant. He had not yet seen anything that posed an immediate threat, but there were several places where rot had taken hold and would soon be a problem if not rectified.

  Being a master mason, Robert should have known this and been the first to recognize construction issues and initiate action. And he probably would have, if he had looked. But maintenance involved no creativity. It posed no new challenges. As a child, after Robert built something it had been impossible to get him to repeat it again, even if the item could be very beneficial to his father or the clan. The boredom of repetition always prevented him from finishing. In this, the years had not changed him, though the impact of his neglect was far greater.

  The lack of a steward reached beyond structure to personnel and clan matters. If not for Mairead, things would be truly dire. Technically, Selah was responsible for overseeing many of the areas of the castle, but from his vantage point she added no value. She dictated what she wanted, but instead of the steward running around seeing to her desires, it was Mairead. It was possible that it only seemed that way because Selah was tending to Robert, but the dynamic between Mairead and the staff was too seasoned to be temporary.

  He was about to probe more on the subject when loud, very angry shouts could be heard up ahead. Mairead looked at him. “It sounds like Seamus and Art,” she said in disbelief. They had passed the village and were now near several large farms. Until the start of the planting season, most of the men relaxed indoors, avoiding the cold and enjoying time off from the long hours of hard work in the fields. “This is unlike them.”

  Mairead urged her horse into a trot and Hamish followed her, stopping only when they neared the two men. Both ignored their approach, refusing to break eye contact. With each shout, they drew a fraction closer toward each other, increasing the chances that one of them would soon throw a punch.

  Hamish held his breath and then let it slowly go. He would hate to be hit by either man. Despite his own substantial girth, both men matched him in height and were even wider than he was. It mattered little that their size was due more to fat than muscle. The weight behind their punch would not only hurt the recipient, but possibly cause serious damage. A broken nose would heal, but a jaw hit just right snapped—a fate worse than death to some.

  He thought Mairead would recognize the obvious danger, but before he realized what she was planning, she had slid off her mount and moved to stand between the two men. He was about to jump down and pull her out of harm’s way, when he realized her presence might be working.

  Mairead held her hands up on either side of her. “Art! Seamus! What has you so angry?”

  “Ask him!” Seamus shouted, stabbing a finger over her shoulder toward Art.

  Art’s dark beady eyes became slits and his face turned red as he began to clench his fists. “I did nothing! Unless ye count catching this lazy scraiste trying to steal me wall.”

  “If that’s a wall, then I’m skinny wee caileag.”

  Infuriated, Art moved forward and this time jabbed a finger at Seamus. “Then ye best be taking off that plaid and be puttin’ on a little girl’s dress because it was a wall yesterday, it’s a wall today and it’ll be a wall tomorrow!”

  Mairead threw her hands in the air. “Art? What wall are you talking about?” From her puzzled expression, it was clear she did not remember there being a wall anywhere on or near his property.

  Seamus gave out a single triumphant shout. “Even one of yer own doesn’t think that truagh thing is a wall.”

  Art nudged Mairead out of the way so he could again get in Seamus’s face. “Me wife’s da built it and I’ll not be hearing her screeching till the day I die because it was destroyed by the likes of a Faill.”

  “We Faills have been in these parts longer than ye MacMhathains and if ye heard me wife nagging all day about them rocks, ye’d be out there with me!”

  Art’s fists came up and immediately Seamus’s followed. Mairead’s eyes grew wide as she realized that her presence was no longer enough to prevent the men from fighting. She pointed behind her as she ran to Hamish, who was still sitting on his horse. “This time you have to do something!”

  Hamish arched a single brow and reached down to pull out a leather water bag. He took a large gulp, gargled loudly, and then swallowed. Mairead’s jaw dropped open, but the unexpected sound gained him both men’s attention. Seeing his opportunity, Hamish threw it at Seamus, who instinctively unballed his fists and caught it. Hamish pointed at him and the bag and said, “Have some.”

  Seamus eyed Hamish for a second and then pulled the plug out to take a swig. His eyes widened and without thought he handed it to Art. Smelling its contents, the farmer immediately took it and downed several gulps. When done, he handed it back to Seamus and said, “Ahhhh, blessed ale. I’ve had nothing but weak mead fer near three weeks.”

  Seamus nodded and enjoyed a couple more swallows before capping the bag. When he was done, his thick brows once again formed a straight line as he leveled a glare, this time at Hamish, before tossing him what was left of the ale. “Sharing a drink does not change things.”

  Hearing the residual anger in the tone and Art’s grunt, Mairead knew the argument was seconds away from reigniting. If Hamish did not resolve the matter, this time both men would come to blows. Anyone else, a fight would be undesirable, but with these two, the damage they could cause would be horrifying. “You are Robert’s commander. Settle this,” she hissed.

  Hamish stared at her for a second and then with a shrug to his shoulders, he looked at Art and Seamus and said, “You’re both farmers, right?”

  “Aye,” they both replied, each poised and ready to fight should the other try to sneak in a punch.

  “That’s what I thought,” Hamish said with a nod. “What you men need this time of year is more ale. Go to Foinaven and make your way to the buttery. Tell them that I sent you and they are to give you both two large tankards, filled to the brim. Once you’ve finished, then go to the main tower in the courtyard and find something that will put holes through the first floor.”

  Each man dropped his fists and stared incredulously at Hamish. Hamish ignored them and instead focused on Mairead. “How many do you think? Five? Six?” Receiving no response, he nodded and looked back at the men. “Six it is. Punch six holes, three a piece, and make them about so big.” Hamish raised his hands and made a circle touching his index fingers and thumbs together. “Once you’re done, head home. Anytime between now and planting, your wives make a ridiculous request just to get you out of their sight, go back to the tower, and make another hole.”

  Hamish then reached over and gathered the reins to Mairead’s horse and handed them to her. She took them automatically and remounted her horse. Hamish nodded to the two men, nudged his mount in the flanks, and once again continued toward his intended goal—Davros’s.

  Mairead urged her mount to catch up and when she was sure no one was in earshot, tried to decide just which of the multitude of questions pouring through her mind to ask first. “Why would you go and tell Art and Seamus to pound holes in the tower floor?”

  “You told me to.”

  Mairead opened her mouth, shocked that Hamish would make such an obviously false accusation. “I did not.”

  Hamish nodded his head. “Aye, you did. You said to ‘do something’ so I did.”

  Mairead licked her lips and shook her head with disbelief. “You think Art and Seamus are going to walk all the way to Foinaven and spend the day
cutting holes in the tower floor.”

  “Aye.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “Not really. Most men really enjoy ale. A tankard of it? I guarantee you both men are on their way and neither of them are thinking about fighting . . . at least not with each other as that would only delay their drinking.”

  “And the holes?”

  Hamish cocked his head and gave her a sideways glance. “I thought the activity would relieve some frustration. Any man caged in a house with a woman for too long is bound to get edgy.”

  “How awful, especially as confined men bring their women nothing but pure joy.” Her sarcastic tone unmistakable.

  Hamish chuckled. “I suspect not joy, but stress,” he said sincerely. “No doubt that is why Seamus’s wife sent him out to move the wall in the first place. With nothing to do but annoy her, she decided to give him something outside, time-consuming, and most important far from her. I would have thought all that obvious.”

  Mairead sat quietly absorbing what Hamish just said and how it sounded not just plausible, but likely. But Hamish’s solution was not going to be liked by Robert when he finally recovered. “I’m curious to know how you expect to explain the state of the tower floors to my sister and your brother.”

  Hamish shot her one of his playful grins that accentuated his dimples. “I’ll just tell him that this is what happens when I follow your advice and get involved with the affairs of the clan.”

  Mairead opened her mouth, but almost immediately snapped it shut. Hamish eyed her carefully. Whatever she was about to say, Mairead had changed her mind, and it was not out of fear of his reaction. Her expression had shifted from major frustration to ease and contentment. She held her head up high, allowing the breeze to catch her hair and whisk it around her face. She really was beautiful. And she was also quite confident. Something had given her an idea, but just what it could be, he could not fathom.

  Hamish maneuvered his horse around another large puddle, trying to decide on whether to wheedle it out of her or pursue something Art had said. He decided on the latter. “What was all that about Faills and MacMhathains?”