My One True Highlander

by Suzanne Enoch

  Laughter burst from his chest, deep and surprisingly infectious. “Sassenach or nae, I do like yer wits, m’lady.” Setting the tray on the table, he moved the second chair back over and sat opposite her as he had at luncheon.

  He liked her wits. Graeme Maxton’s approval happened to be the last thing in the world she sought. She wore the evidence of his brutishness, after all. And yet in the back of her mind she couldn’t help acknowledging that she’d never received a better compliment.

  Teachers, tutors, dance masters had noted her fine posture, her pretty face, the artful shape of her hands, and the grace of her movement. Until now, no one had complimented her mind. Marjorie cleared her throat.

  “Nae response to that? Och, ye dunnae care what I think, do ye?” he went on after a moment, his charming smile fading. “Ye’re a grand lady, after all.”

  “I never said any such thing,” Marjorie retorted. “Though I have no idea why you think I should care a whit about anything you utter. And if you value my wits, perhaps you should listen to what I have to say instead of trying to force me into something neither of us wants.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “I havenae said I dunnae want it, lass, though I’m beginning to think ye may be a madwoman. Now eat yer damned venison.”

  “I am not your lass, and I would like to be returned from whence I came.”

  “‘Whence,’ is it?” he repeated, clearly amused.

  “Yes. ‘Whence.’ That is the correct word.”

  He was right about one thing—she’d clearly begun to go mad, and after only a few days of captivity. She had no other explanation for the nonsense running through her mind. Squaring her shoulders and trying to set all that aside, she picked up the knife and fork.

  “Ye’ve never been truly hungry, have ye?” he asked after a few moments, rudely staring at her mouth as she ate.

  “No, I haven’t.” Until very recently she’d eaten simple fare, but Gabriel had always managed to send her enough of his salary to pay for her schooling, her clothes, lodging, and her meals. “Have you?”

  “I’ve gone withoot from time to time. But with three brothers, if I took as long as ye do with every bite, I’d starve to death.”

  “So none of you have manners. What a surprise. I imagine even the sight of me combing my hair must seem outlandish to you. Good heavens, what might happen if your brothers saw someone using utensils?”

  “I reckon they’d think someone was aboot to start a fight,” he returned, more mildly than she expected. “Ye’ve the right of it. We’re a pack of hounds here, sleeping on piles of hay and gnawing on bones. Ye’re lucky the cook remembered how to roast that venison, or ye’d be eating it raw like the rest of us.”

  Whatever he claimed, she did know that even the youngest of them could read and write, but she couldn’t say that without admitting she and Connell had been corresponding. It made her curious, though, about why he persisted in characterizing himself and his household as barbaric. Of course he was a barbarian, but he actually seemed … proud of that fact. Highlanders, Mrs. Giswell had claimed, couldn’t be explained, and he was living proof of that.

  “Will you at least give me the opportunity to prove that you can trust me? That I won’t cause trouble for you or your brothers?” she ventured.

  “Nae. I willnae. Anything else ye want to ask me?”

  The answer didn’t surprise her. “So you’ve made your decision and won’t be swayed. Before you reach the point of no return, though, consider that a special license still requires a priest, and that I will not remain silent, and I will not agree to marry you.”

  He cocked his head. “Do ye want me to get doon on one knee?”

  “I have a life elsewhere, sir, and I have no desire or incentive to give up that life for you. Even—”

  “Ye have a beau in London, then, do ye?” he asked, his voice flattening a little.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say yes, but the part of her that remained supremely annoyed wanted him to acknowledge that the fault lay with him, and not some imaginary suitor. “Would it make a difference to you if I did?”

  “Nae. I’m thinking ye dunnae, anyway. Ye wouldnae be so prickly if ye did.”

  “I am not—” She took a breath, setting down her fork. “For heaven’s sake, you don’t even know me—nor I, you.”

  “That’s yer objection, then? We’re nae acquainted?”

  Impossible man. “That’s one of my objections, yes. Of course there’s also the matter that I have a shackle on my leg, and that I don’t like you!” She took a breath. Ladies didn’t yell. He was simply … maddening beyond all sense and reason.

  That attractive smile curved his mouth. “I think ye do like me. Ye just dunnae like that ye do.”

  “Oh, for…” This was getting her nowhere. Either he was intentionally aggravating her, or he had a supreme lack of self-awareness. She tended to think it was the former, but she wasn’t going along with his plans, regardless. “Think whatever you wish, Lord Maxton. I’m more interested to know if you own a book other than Culpepper’s Herbal Medicine. I would prefer something more literary.” She paused to take another bite, chew, and swallow. “And my gown has jam on it. Might you spare me some water and a scrub brush?”

  That made him look her up and down again, which sent odd tingles down her spine. “After ye change into yer nightclothes, toss yer gown by the door. I’ll knock before I fetch it.”

  She shrugged to cover her discomfiture at the idea of him coming in to see her naked—or nearly so. “Don’t expect me to be overcome with dizziness at the idea of you touching a dress I won’t be wearing.”

  Maxton tilted his head, a lock of his lion’s mane falling across one eye. “Tell me someaught. If I werenae marrying ye, ye’d be ruined in English eyes, aye?”

  “I’ve been alone without a chaperone and in male company for over two days. That doesn’t earn me a parade. It earns me gossip and whispers and considerably fewer invitations to soirees.” Not that she had any to begin with, but he didn’t need to know that.

  “Wouldnae marrying me fix that?”

  An honest question? “No. You’re a viscount, yes, but no one in London knows your … pedigree. And you’re Scottish.”

  “But they wouldnae call ye ruined.”

  Marjorie sighed. “Please don’t pretend you’re attempting in any way to help me. We both know I’m still here because you want my money.”

  He leaned forward. “That’s nae all I want of ye.”

  Abruptly her cheeks warmed. “I’m certain I have no idea what you mean.”

  His gaze held hers for a moment, then he settled back in the chair again. “Marrying ye’s nae the only way fer me to gain some blunt, lass. If I told Dunncraigh who I have beneath my roof, he’d likely throw enough money at me that I could purchase a London lady fer a wife.” His direct gray gaze unsettled her. “That could only happen if ye were never heard from again, though, so be careful who ye choose to ally yerself with in the Highlands.”

  Fear brushed at her, cold and dark—the first time she’d truly felt it in his presence. “Why in the world would the Duke of Dunncraigh wish me harm? I’ve never met him, and never heard of him except to read his name from time to time in the newspaper.”

  “He and yer brother are at war, lass. Lattimer may think it’s over and done with, but Dunncraigh’s nae finished with him, yet.”

  Oh, dear. “Then bring me to my brother. Ransom me to him. Or simply be a good Samaritan, which I promise not to dispute. He will reward you.”

  “Ah, lass, if Dunncraigh ever heard that I’d helped Lattimer, that I’d given ye to yer brother and nae to him, I’d be the one to disappear. And I wouldn’t even be the first to do so. That would be one thing if it was just me, but I’ve my brothers and a hundred cotters relying on me.” Almost absently he lifted her glass of wine and took a sip of it. “So now ye ken my dilemma. I dunnae wish to be yer enemy, or yer captor. But ye’ve nae offered me a better opportunity than
the one I lit on—marrying ye.”

  She nodded. “I do understand. But I still won’t cooperate. I wish you would believe that if it comes to it I will not name your brothers. I wouldn’t name you, either, my lord.”

  “What I’d like to do and what I can afford to risk are two different things. So ye stay in this room, and in that shackle, until ye come to yer senses.”

  This was worse, much worse, than she’d even imagined. This Dunncraigh, who from what she’d read had recently been accused of threatening and neglecting his own clan Maxwell, wanted to do harm to both her and Gabriel. And she’d landed squarely in Maxwell hands. “I shouldn’t ask,” she said quietly, working to keep her voice steady, “but why haven’t you given me to Dunncraigh in exchange for those piles of gold?”

  Graeme drew in a breath, then stood. “I reckon I’ll be keeping my own counsel on that count.”

  “But if you married me, he would certainly find out.”

  “Aye. He would. And if he came after me, I would firstly have the funds to make it a fight, and secondly I’d have yer brother nae wanting anything to happen to ye and so helping me go after the Maxwell. I dunnae see anything fer me to regret.”

  “But you don’t know me! You certainly don’t love me!”

  He shrugged. “I’ve nae known that to be a requirement fer a marriage. I prefer it that way.”

  “That’s very … sad.”

  “In yer opinion.” Silently he gathered up the utensils, empty plates, and glasses, leaving her with a single tin of water—presumably so she couldn’t break it over his head. He carried the tray to the door and pulled the heavy thing open to set his armload down in the hallway.

  Marjorie sighed, grateful for some time now to think. But then he faced her again. “Now,” he murmured, softly closing the door behind him and then strolling slowly back to her, “one more thing fer me to see to tonight, lass.”

  Even knowing what she did, knowing he’d just more or less said he had no use for love, her heart skipped a little when he said “lass” in that low, intimate brogue of his. Marjorie climbed to her feet, resisting the urge to smooth her skirt. A lady did not show uncertainty, because a lady always knew the correct thing to do. And of course if he tried to kiss her again, the correct thing would be to slap him. Except that she wasn’t certain she wanted to slap him—and she couldn’t explain why, even to herself.

  He stopped a foot in front of her, his gaze roving her face as if searching for … something. Truth? Trustworthiness? Interest? Desire? When he reached out to cup her cheek in his hand, she stopped breathing. He was a foot taller than she was, far stronger, and as long as he kept hold of those two keys he had complete control over her physically. It almost seemed to his credit that he hadn’t tried to do more than bellow at her—but this, the way he looked at her now, could be far more dangerous.

  His mouth, warm and surprisingly sensuous for such a heathen, touched hers. It made her want to melt into him, to feel his strong, hard arms around her. This was so, so wrong, but it didn’t feel that way. And she could tell herself that perhaps, just perhaps, if he liked her enough he would realize the true best option was to let her go.

  He put a hand on her shoulder, deepening the kiss as he trailed one finger along the conservative neckline of her gown. She should be scandalized; a proper lady would never allow such an intimate touch from a man, whether he’d declared that he meant to marry her or not. None of her instructors had ever been in this circumstance. Of that she was certain.

  Still kissing her, still touching her in a way that made shivers chase each other down her spine, he hooked his fingers into the front of her dress—and slid out the folded note she’d stuffed there. At the same moment he took a long step backward.

  “Give that back!” she demanded. Blast it all. He’d outmaneuvered her, and she’d fallen for it like some moonstruck nodcock. Marjorie stomped after him, only to be brought up short by the blasted chain.

  And there he stood, just out of her reach, his unreadable gaze on her as he unfolded the missive. Then he looked down, his jaw visibly clenching. “Ye have an admirer, do ye?” he asked gruffly. “He’s eight years old, and ye’d try to turn him against his own family?”

  “I would do no such thing,” she protested, even though she’d actually considered it. “And he would be very hurt to hear you say that.”

  Graeme narrowed his eyes. “I dunnae need ye to tell me how to raise my brother. And since he says he wants to show ye how to fish in the river, I’m thinking ye told him to help ye escape.”

  Thank goodness she hadn’t put any of that in writing. And really, all she’d suggested even aloud was that he ask if she could be unchained so she could reach the door and the writing table. “Nonsense!”

  “Then why did ye hide it from me?”

  “Because you’re an annoying, arrogant man and I didn’t feel like explaining myself to you.” She scowled. “But I promised not to get him into trouble, so look beneath the blank papers in the drawer.” She jabbed a finger at the small writing desk.

  Even well out of her reach he backed toward the desk, as if he didn’t trust her enough to take his eyes off her. She, on the other hand, wanted a quiet moment or two to further contemplate that kiss. If it had been meant only as a distraction, Graeme Maxton was a consummate liar, because she hadn’t felt anything but curiosity and desire. Or perhaps that was just her—in which case she needed to stop it immediately.

  “His note came first,” she said by way of explanation, as Maxton pulled the pages from the drawer. “And you might consider that I didn’t have to tell you anything about them.”

  He glanced down at the notes, then pocketed all three of them. “I’ll give ye ten minutes to change oot of the dress and toss it by the door.” With that he headed out.

  “I … I can’t reach the night rail,” she said, wishing it didn’t sound like an excuse to have him stay.

  With another sharp look at her he altered course for the wardrobe and pulled the night rail off its shelf. Then he bunched it in his hands and lifted it to his face, and breathed in.

  Good heavens. Shivers started along her arms all over again. “That is not appropriate, sir,” she managed, her cheeks heating.

  “Lemons,” he said, lifting his head again.

  “I put sliced lemons in my bath when I can,” she stated. “I like the smell of it in my hair.”

  “So do I.” He walked forward and handed her the garment, their fingers brushing as he did so. “I’ll have another bath drawn fer ye in the morning. I dunnae promise ye lemons.”

  Marjorie lifted her chin. “I didn’t ask for any.”

  “I know.”

  Chapter Seven

  Graeme walked outside to a light snow flurry and the gloom of predawn. His heavy coat kept the cold at bay, but it did nothing for the darkness. The lass would be awake in an hour or two and expecting breakfast and a bath, though, so he needed to see to his errands while he could and before the next disaster came calling.

  As Johnny saddled Clootie for him, he leaned against the wall of the stable and pulled her letter from his pocket again. It wasn’t addressed to him, and she’d certainly meant it to draw Connell into a friendship. Whatever her motives, though, something about it fascinated him.

  It might have been the neat, lovely printing—no doubt simplified for Connell’s benefit. “Dear Connell,” he read to himself, for the fourth or fifth time, “Thank you so much for your letter. Of course I accept your apology; I have an older brother, too, and as a young girl I followed him everywhere—and frequently got into trouble because of him.”

  The brother she referred to was of course the Duke of Lattimer, the reason for all this bloody mess. Lucifer’s balls, she was clever, pointing out to Connell that the lad and the duke had common ground. Enough to launch a hundred questions about why the Maxwell had declared Lattimer an enemy, at the least. Thank Lucifer he’d intercepted the letter before the duckling could get hold of it.

  “I
would love to see your baby rabbits. Are they as soft and warm as I imagine?” she went on, of course admiring Connell’s fondness for young animals. “And you must tell me about your foxes! Do they get along with the rabbits? As I cannot visit them at the moment, perhaps you could draw me a sketch of them. Also, when you write me back, please tell me the name of the river I can see from my window. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite as lovely. Your friend, Ree Forrester.”

  So she was after clues about where she was, however prettily she asked for them. He could hear her voice as he read, the smooth words and cultured accent. Aye, she knew how to use words, flinging them about sharp as a blade, even when he had an eye and an ear out for trouble from her. And mayhap some of what she said made sense, but it all came down to trust—and he didn’t trust her.

  Straightening, he refolded the note and slipped it back into his pocket before he swung up on the gray gelding. “I’m off to the Cracked Hearth for breakfast, and then to see to Pòl Maxwell’s deer troubles,” he told the head groom, stuffing his rifle into the scabbard on the saddle.

  “I heard the pesky things ate all his wife’s cabbages,” Johnny returned, slapping Clootie on the rump as Graeme trotted out of the stable.

  He had at least three other things to attend to this morning, and that was before he dragged his brothers out to help clear the irrigation ditches with the rest of the local cotters. Aye, they’d be frozen in a month, but the last thing he wanted was for some old tree branches to get caught in one of the gates and smash it to the devil when the ice twisted them around.

  As he rode away, he couldn’t help glancing up at the line of dark windows along the house’s upper floor. With the shackle on her leg she couldn’t be watching even if she was awake, but even in the dark, even asleep, he felt her presence. And even with the way she’d put him behind in his duties, he wanted to go watch her eat breakfast, wanted to hear what insult she would aim at him this morning—even if it did include reasons she wouldn’t marry him.

  The last thing he wanted her to know was that she had him hesitating—not because of her pretty, biting words, but because he didn’t quite feel the … satisfaction he’d expected at bringing a spoiled Sassenach lass to heel. She could indeed bring him wealth, and with that, power, but beneath all that he didn’t like the idea that she would be sad and miserable here. He was a Highlander; he valued his freedom, and he didn’t like having to chain her, even if that was to protect his family.