My One True Highlander

by Suzanne Enoch

  He dropped into the chair opposite his brothers. “What did I do wrong in raising ye,” he asked, “that ye reckoned kidnapping a lass would solve yer troubles?”

  “It’s nae just our troubles,” Brendan returned. “If the Maxwell turns against ye, we’ll all be in fer it. And ye’re so bloody stubborn ye’d risk all of us, Connell too, to yer damned pride.”

  “The Maxwell barely remembers we exist,” Graeme retorted. “I reckon he visited every clan chieftain between Lattimer and Dunncraigh to vent his spleen about how much he hates Lattimer and how grateful he’d be if someone else saw to the problem fer him. It’s nae pride; it’s ignoring someaught that’ll be trouble fer us.”

  “But we’re Lattimer’s neighbor,” Dùghlas put in, always the most logical of the three. “Dunncraigh expects us—ye—to do someaught. Otherwise he wouldnae have bothered coming by here at all. He’s nae more stomach fer ye than ye do fer him.”

  “What he might expect and what he’ll receive are two very different things, lads.”

  “Why? She’s here! All ye have to do is send word to Dunncraigh and tell him so. We’ve solved yer troubles fer ye, bràthair.”

  Graeme contemplated Brendan for a long moment. Sixteen. When the devil had that happened? And why had he only noticed when Brendan began kidnapping delicate-looking young Englishwomen? “Fer the sake of argument,” he returned slowly, “let’s say I do just that. What do ye reckon happens next?”

  “The duke sends someone to fetch her, uses her to purchase Lattimer from the Sassenach, and clan Maxwell unites again. And we did it, so we get the Maxwell’s gratitude and a sackful of blunt.”

  “Uses her how?” Graeme pressed. “Ye’re leaving oot some details.”

  Brendan folded his arms across his chest. “That will be fer Dunncraigh to decide, and has naught to do with us.”

  “Are ye certain of that? Because ye took her away from safety.” Sitting back despite the fact that he’d never felt more alert, Graeme stretched out his legs. “I dunnae ken if ye’ve noticed, bràthair, but the Maxwell prefers other men dirty their hands so he can avoid trouble. What if he asks me to ransom Lady Marjorie Forrester to her brother? Dunncraigh may get Lattimer, but I reckon I’ll get prison. Or a hanging.”

  Connell’s eyes widened. “They wouldnae! The Maxwell asked us to help him, so it’s his fault.”

  “The Maxwell asked us to hurt a man who, from what I can tell, inherited some property and is working to improve it. I found his request selfish. But nae, he didnae ask ye to kidnap anyone.”

  “He would have, if he’d known Lattimer’s sister would be aboot.”

  That was likely true. “Say he did, then,” he agreed. “And say Lattimer, being a bloody English soldier, tells Dunncraigh to go fling himself into the loch. And then Dunncraigh asks us to get rid of the lass before Lattimer can track her here. Would ye shoot her, Brendan? Cutting her throat would be quieter, of course.”

  His youngest brother sniffed. “She was going to help me rescue Mouser’s kittens from the haystack. Ye cannae murder her fer that, Brendan.”

  “So I should be like ye, Graeme, and do naught while we watch our property rot away?” The sixteen-year-old stomped to his feet. “I did someaught, and it wasnae just fixing old plows or pulling sheep oot of ravines.” Pushing open the door, Brendan slammed it closed behind him.

  “What are we going to do, Graeme?” Connell asked, still teary-eyed. “I dunnae want ye to hang.”

  “I dunnae want that, either. Go up and change oot of yer wet clothes, and stay away from the back sitting room while I figure oot this mess.”

  The two remaining boys shot to their feet and fled.

  “And dunnae think ye’ll be escaping withoot punishment,” Graeme called after them.

  Once they’d gone, he sat forward to rest his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. If he caused his brothers some worry, then good. They should be worried. This was not sneaking out to go spy on the half-dressed lasses dyeing wool down by the river.

  And however serious they thought this might be, it was even worse than that. The lads had dropped them directly into the middle of a fight between two of the most powerful men in Scotland. He’d always preferred action to words, but at this moment he’d be walking into cannonfire either by releasing her or sending her on to Dunncraigh.

  Cowen knocked on the half-open door. “M’laird, she—the grand lady, that is—is pounding on the door and demanding to see ye. She asked fer ye by name, sir.”

  Graeme pushed to his feet. “That’s because I gave her my name.”

  “Why in God’s name would ye do that?” the butler asked, clearly dismayed.

  “So when everything goes awry she’ll accuse me instead of Connell or Dùghlas or Brendan.” He paused in the foyer. “Did ye drag that chain oot of the cellar?”

  “Aye. And we’ve nailed shut the windows in the bedchamber beside yers. I reckoned ye’d want her close by.”

  “Thank ye, Cowen.” He glanced over his shoulder at the older man as they continued down the hallway and the trio of stairs that marked the lower back half of the house. “Ye seem to be settling into this fairly easily.”

  “I’m all a-tremble inside, Master Graeme, but I reckoned it wouldnae do any good to let the rest of the staff see it.”

  The muffled pounding ahead of him grew steadily louder as he approached. “I know someone’s out there!” she called. “I demand to speak to Graeme Maxton at once!”

  “Och, ye demand, do ye, yer highness?” he returned, glad she met his expectations of a rich, delicate, spoiled aristocrat. While he couldn’t quite manage to blame her for all of this, to himself he could agree that she likely deserved a little fright and discomfort. “I’m here, then, so stop yer yowling. What do ye want?”

  “There … There are foxes in here.”

  Graeme shared a glance with Cowen, amusement pulling at him. Served her right, the spoiled miss. “Foxes, ye say?”

  “Yes. Two of them. They’re both staring at me with their beady eyes, and one of them is growling. And they stole my mutton.”

  He didn’t want her bitten, damn it all. Turning the key, he shoved open the door. The lass staggered backward, and he caught her arm before he could stop himself. Her skin was soft and warm and smooth, and he released her the second she got her feet under her again.

  “You see?” she enunciated in her precise English tones, pointing beneath the small couch. “Foxes.”

  “Daisy. Pete. Go find Connell,” he ordered, stepping farther into the room.

  The pair of foxes bounded out of the sitting room in a flash of red fur and white-tipped tails. It wouldn’t do for the foxes to reside in Connell’s room while the lad had rabbit kits hidden there, but once he moved Lady Marjorie to her guest bedchamber they could return to their sitting room den.

  “Better, m’lady?” he asked, finally giving her his full attention. Black hair, aye, a bit disheveled after the sack and the travel in the back of the wagon, but still long and curling and soft-looking. She likely had a maid brush each strand a dozen times before bed. That wouldn’t be happening tonight, however.

  “Yes. Thank you. Though you might have told me they were pets.”

  “I might ask in return whether ye reckon all Highlands hooses have wild foxes settled in their sitting rooms,” he commented, folding his arms across his chest. Graeme cocked his head at her. “How the devil did ye manage to get stolen by a handful of bairns? Or are ye daft enough to think yerself safe alone in the Highlands?”

  “I’m not alone,” she retorted, managing to look regal despite the half-fallen hair and the mud-edged green gown. “I stepped away for a breath of fresh air, and the little boy lured me away by asking for my help.” She put her hands on her slender hips. “Do you often use children in your nefarious dealings? That is shameful, sir.”

  “Ye’ve mud on yer cheek,” he noted, curling his fingers against the desire to brush it away. “Ye’d look more indignant if ye were clea
n and yer hair put back up, I reckon.”

  “I was clean and my hair put up, before your hoodlums kidnapped me,” she retorted. “And my goodwill is swiftly vanishing. Set me free by sunset, or—”

  Graeme closed the distance between them. “Or what?” he murmured. “Dunnae make threats against me or mine, lass. Ye’ve nae idea what’s afoot here, or how very restrained I’m being.”

  She lifted her chin to continue meeting his gaze. “Clearly I don’t know what’s going on. All I do know is that I was on my way to see my brother and now I’m Graeme Maxton’s prisoner somewhere in the Highlands. You tell me not to threaten you, but you’ve already done far worse to me, sir.”

  A man could get lost in those sky-blue eyes of hers, he decided. And she’d likely smile and dance away and entangle the next unfortunate lad who crossed her path, and then the one after that. “I’ll find ye someaught else to eat, ye’ll stay here another hour or so, then we’ll move ye into somewhere a mite more comfortable. Likely nae as luxurious as what ye’re accustomed to, but it’ll have to do.”

  “And then?” she demanded, looking fierce but for the ghostly pallor of her cheeks—unless the hue of fine porcelain was her normal color.

  Deliberately he smiled. “And then we’ll see.”

  * * *

  The door closed and locked behind him again, and Marjorie took a deep, steadying breath. Oh, he aggravated her. If she still felt frightened, well, she wouldn’t admit that even to herself. It did her no good, and quite possibly only aided him.

  She stalked over to the nearest window again, shifting the heavy curtains a little with her fingers to peer outside. A vast countryside spread out before her, broken by stands of trees and rocky hills and soft-edged patches of snow. She’d ridden in the back of that wagon for well over an hour, and in God-only-knew what direction. She could be three hours from Lattimer Castle, or nine.

  That still wouldn’t have stopped her from attempting an escape, though. Eventually she would stumble across someone who would help her, or at least point her in the correct direction. Grimacing, she settled her gaze on the man who stood beside an overgrown birch tree, a floppy-edged hat pulled low over his eyes and his attention squarely on her. She’d already looked out the window facing a wild-looking river, and seen the other man waiting there.

  Both wore heavy kilts of red and black and green plaid—the clan Maxwell tartan, she assumed, since Graeme Maxton had informed her that she was in the middle of Maxwell territory. He wore trousers and muddy work boots, but she had to presume he was also part of the same clan.

  Letting the curtain fall closed again, she made another circuit of the small room. A blue couch, two overstuffed chairs of the same blue material, the hard-backed chair to which they’d initially tied her, four small tables scattered about, and a writing desk between the river-facing windows. She’d already searched it for weapons, but the boys had evidently removed everything sharper than an inkwell.

  Clobbering Maxton with that might feel satisfying, but it wouldn’t gain her an exit from the house. And when she made an attempt, she meant for it to be successful.

  Above the writing desk a small glass-doored cabinet had been affixed to the wall, the seashells and driftwood and small, polished river rocks it held pretty, but completely ineffective as weapons. Closing the doors again, she eyed herself in the slightly warped reflection. A smudge of dirt crossed her left cheek, just as Maxton had pointed out, and her hair could likely frighten a scarecrow.

  Scowling, she pulled out the few remaining pins and used her decorative green hair ribbon to tie it all back in a tail. It was horribly informal, but leaving it loose would be scandalous even in these circumstances.

  Marjorie began to rub at her cheek, then stopped. What was she cleaning up for? Because he’d noted that she was dirty? Well, she certainly hadn’t done that to herself. And if she looked disheveled and out of sorts, she had a right to do so.

  After another few minutes spent studying the half-dozen paintings on three of the walls, she sat on one of the blue chairs. Two of the paintings, a man and a woman, weren’t of any particular quality, but looked to be the parents—or perhaps even the grandparents—of Connell and Graeme, the two Maxtons she’d seen. The woman shared their gray eyes and open, direct gaze, while Graeme, at least, had as much in common with the hard jaw and straight slash of eyebrows that marked the man. He’d seemingly picked up a combination of their hair colors, for the lady boasted a curling mass of deep red hair, a stark contrast to the short, straight brown of the other portrait.

  Why in the world his hair color mattered except so she could adequately describe him to her brother and the local authorities she had no idea, but she had nothing else to do but contemplate it. Him, rather. Now that she knew the foxes were tame, she almost wished she hadn’t complained about them. They would have helped keep her thoughts distracted, at least.

  With no clock in the room she could only guess the time, but the lone candle they’d left her had burned quite low. Perhaps Maxton meant for her to go mad or expire from boredom. Grimacing, Marjorie stood and stalked up to the door again.

  “Hello?” she called, knocking.

  Silence.

  “Hello? I know someone’s out there. If I’m to remain trapped in here, I require another candle. And a book, for heaven’s sake. I’ve never seen a sitting room before that didn’t contain even a single, solitary book on a shelf somewhere.”

  Listening carefully, she heard muttering and then fast-retreating footsteps. Quite possibly she shouldn’t have insulted the lack of literature; she had no idea, after all, if any of these heathens could read. But for once her instinct to be kind and proper and polite could go hang itself. If she’d been less polite she might have ordered Mrs. Giswell to leave the table at the inn so she could dine in peace, and she would be within sight right now of Lattimer Castle and Gabriel. But because she’d bit her tongue against her frustration and left to clear her head, she was here. And she didn’t want to be here.

  Heavier, booted footsteps approached, and she backed away from the door. She’d nearly fallen over the last time he’d stomped into the room, and she had no wish to be grabbed again. Far too many people had grabbed at her today.

  The door opened, but this time he didn’t enter. He didn’t really need to, though; big and broad-shouldered as he was, he filled the doorway. He leaned against the doorjamb to gaze at her, a long strand of his unruly hair falling forward halfway down his cheek. “A book and a candle?” he finally drawled.

  “Unless I’m to sit here in the dark, yes,” she returned.

  “Ye can if ye like. Or ye can come with me, yer highness.”

  Marjorie folded her hands in front of her, wondering why in the world she could look at a man who’d kidnapped her and kept her trapped in a room and still be able to notice that he had fine gray eyes, a lean waist, and an indescribable … something that made her want to keep looking at him. “You’re leading me to my prison cell, I suppose?”

  “Aye.” He narrowed one eye. “It does have a fireplace and a warm bed. I reckon ye’re chilled.”

  “I’ve been sitting in a cold room and in a damp gown for hours. Am I supposed to be grateful that you’ve finally realized I might be uncomfortable?”

  “Nae. Ye could stop yammering aboot it and follow me to where it’s warmer, though.” With that he turned his back on her and walked out of the doorway.

  The man was a barbarian. That was the only conclusion that made sense. An uneducated, unfeeling, arrogant barbarian. “Heathen,” she muttered, stalking after him.

  “I didnae quite hear ye,” he returned, slowing his march up a long hallway.

  “I called you a heathen,” Marjorie said distinctly.

  “Ah. That’s what I thought ye said.”

  An older man in black livery emerged from a side door to fall in behind her. Someone to make certain she didn’t run out the large double doors ahead, she supposed. Still, at least now she knew precisely where the exi
t lay. She would have to find some paper and begin sketching out a map of the house and countryside around her. When an opportunity to escape presented itself, she meant to make use of it.

  In the small foyer, Maxton turned to face her, lifted an eyebrow, then headed up the stairs to her left. All along the wall portraits hung, men in the same plaid as those she’d spied outside, some bearded and glowering, others looking more contemplative, and most of them with the gray eyes and red-brown hair of her so-called host. Evidently his ancestors made a habit of marrying redheaded women.

  If this house belonged to him, and despite his worn, dirty clothes, he didn’t seem to be some common farmer after all. This was no farmer’s cottage, at the least. Simple and rather austere, yes, but the size alone said it belonged to a family of some rank and importance. Shepherds didn’t have portraits of their ancestors lining the walls.

  The doors on either side of the upstairs hallway stood closed, probably so she couldn’t see into the rooms that lay beyond. It would never do for her to discover where the muskets or swords were kept, after all.

  Maxton stopped two doors short of the windows that marked the end of the hallway. Making a show of producing a key from his coat pocket, he unlocked the door and pushed it open. “In here,” he said, gesturing for her to precede him.

  The door itself looked very solid and somewhat intimidating, but Marjorie kept her shoulders squared and stepped inside. A large bed stood close by one wall, while a small fireplace on the opposite wall sent warmth and light into the room. A comfortable-looking pair of chairs squatted before the fire, while a huge, heavy-looking wardrobe shared the wall with the fireplace. If this hadn’t been a prison, she would have called it welcoming.

  “The windows are nailed shut,” Maxton said, strolling in behind her. “If ye think to set fire to the hoose and escape that way, keep in mind that ye’ll be the last soul to be rescued—and that’s after the foxes and the cats. In fact, I may nae get up here to ye at all.”