My One True Highlander

by Suzanne Enoch

  No, he didn’t require love, and didn’t want it, actually, but she seemed a lass made for it. Made for long, sweaty nights of sex, too, judging from that pair of kisses, but would she want him? Or would she consider it her wifely duty, which would make any physical contact considerably less interesting?

  Trying to shake himself loose of her, he rode parallel to the river Douchary for a good mile and a half and then took the bridge where the rutted road crossed over it. At least Brendan had thought to drive about in circles before he brought her home—if she knew she was only three miles from the inn she might be trying harder to escape.

  After another mile or so he reached the scattering of cottages and other buildings that marked the wee village of Sheiling. His village. Even with the sun barely a glow behind the mountains to the east, smoke already rose from most of the chimneys, and he could hear metal ringing against metal from the direction of Robert the blacksmith’s.

  As he swung down in the inn’s stableyard one of the stable boys ran up, pulling on a wool cap as he came. “Good morning, Will,” Graeme said with a smile, handing over the reins. “He’s been fed, but if ye could find him an apple and a blanket to throw over him while he waits, I’d appreciate it.”

  The boy tugged on the front of his cap. “I’ll see to the old devil, Laird Graeme. Dunnae ye worry over him.”

  Ree—Marjorie—did address him by his proper title, but she thought of him as just that and no more—a viscount, a minor noble in an uncivilized country, a lord last-name. He already had ample evidence that she didn’t understand Highlanders or their ways. Because he wasn’t just a lord. Here, he was the laird, the clan Maxwell chieftain responsible for keeping the people around him safe, for relaying the thoughts and wishes and rules that came from the Maxwell, for collecting clan tithes, settling disputes, and for maintaining the security of the clan and its interests in this part of the Highlands.

  He pitched a penny to Will, then made his way through the fading snow flurries to the inn’s front door. Coming here today could be a risk; on seeing him, someone might recall to Lady Marjorie’s friends that his brothers had been about a few days earlier, just when she’d gone missing. But he needed to learn what they did know, what they’d said, and when he could expect the Duke of Lattimer on his doorstep.

  In fact, as he walked into the warm common room he was surprised not to find the inn filled with her brother’s men. And why weren’t they here, looking for the missing sister of their lord and master?

  “Good morning to ye, m’laird,” the innkeeper called from across the room. “Maddie’s just made some fresh bread, and the roasted ham is very fine this morning.”

  Sending the rotund man a nod and a grin, Graeme sat at one end of the nearest of the long tables. “And some mulled ale, if ye care aboot me at all.”

  “Aye. It is a mite temperate this morning.”

  A minute or so later the innkeeper set the hot mug on the table, then sat on the bench opposite. “I reckon I know why ye’re here this morning,” he said, uncharacteristically lowering his voice.

  Alarm bells began ringing in Graeme’s skull, but he kept his expression still. “I heard ye have some English visitors here, and a missing lass. What can ye tell me?”

  “It’s a bad business, m’laird. Pretty young lass, went oot fer a breath of air, and vanished.” He leaned his elbows on the rough-hewn table. “Odd, though, that the woman here, Mrs. Giswell, says this lass is her niece, but the coach standing out of sight behind the inn bears the Lattimer crest.”

  Graeme didn’t have to feign his frown. “That is odd,” he agreed. “What’s the missing lass’s name?”

  “Marjorie Giswell, or so they say. I saw her, ye ken. Pretty young lass, black hair and blue eyes, and nae resembling her so-called aunt even in the dark. On the other hand, Mrs. Giswell and the two men with her seem genuinely worried over the lass.”

  “Are they offering a reward?”

  “Aye. A hundred quid—which makes her a princess, I reckon. It doesnae quite make sense, but she’s definitely gone missing, and we definitely dunnae want Sassenach redcoats tromping aboot the moors looking fer her.”

  He agreed with all of that. As for no one in her party admitting that she was Lattimer’s sister, it made sense when he considered it. But if they knew how dangerous it was for her to be in Maxwell territory, why had they allowed her to come in the first place, and much less to wander about on her own? And why hadn’t she known about the risk she was taking?

  “That’s her now,” the innkeeper said, angling his chin toward the stairs that led to the half-dozen rooms for let upstairs. “Mrs. Giswell. I reckon she’ll be headed up toward Garaidh nan Leòmhann in the next day or so; she and the two fellas and Robert Polk have been south and west the past two days.”

  “Robert Polk?” Graeme repeated, lifting an eyebrow. “They’ve hired our blacksmith?”

  “Nae. I think he’s sweet on the old lass. She called him ‘sir,’ and now his head’s so big I’ll have to widen my doors.”

  “His skull’s big enough, already.” With a grin, Graeme took a blessedly warm swallow of the spicy mulled ale. “I’ll go talk to her, then, and offer my help.”

  “Ye stay here, m’laird. I’ll bring her to ye, as is proper.” The innkeeper stood.

  “Thank ye, Ranald.”

  That was how it was supposed to be. Anyone staying more than a few days in a clan’s territory was supposed to present themselves to a chieftain and state their intentions and reason for trespassing. And then the chieftain would decide whether the strangers would be allowed to stay or not, and whether the clan chief needed to be notified.

  The power of the clan chiefs and chieftains had waned considerably since the bloody disaster at Culloden. Chiefs burned out their own cotters to make room for sheep in a desperate effort to keep from having to sell off their ancestral, hard-won land. And men like him, who disagreed too vocally with their chiefs and didn’t have the resources to break away completely, fought tooth and nail to keep what they had.

  And now his lunatic brothers had piled this on his head. If the British army became involved, he could lose not only his status with the clan, but his ability to help and protect his tenants. He could lose Garaidh nan Leòmhann, the Lion’s Den, as they called it, named by fierce Highlands warriors and by their enemies who feared to tread there.

  “Laird Maxton,” the innkeeper said, inclining his head as the stout, gray-haired woman glided up behind him, “Mrs. Giswell. Mrs. Giswell, this territory’s chieftain of clan Maxwell, Graeme, Viscount Maxton.”

  She sank into a deep, graceful curtsy, one of such perfection that it immediately reminded him of his sharp-witted would-be bride. “Lord Maxton,” she said, in a supremely cultured accent. “I’m very pleased to meet you. I require your assistance, my lord. Have you been informed that my niece is missing?”

  “Aye. I heard aboot it yesterday afternoon,” he said, oddly glad that that, at least, was the truth. “That’s why I’m here this morning. Sit and have breakfast with me, Mrs. Giswell, and we’ll see what can be done to help ye.”

  Hortensia Giswell sat as gracefully as she could on the bench opposite the very fine-looking, if wild-haired, Viscount Maxton. Finally, someone who might be able to do more than recite how young English lasses shouldn’t go wandering about the Highlands alone. She knew that. More importantly, Lady Marjorie knew that.

  The sympathetic but supremely unhelpful innkeeper brought her hardboiled eggs and toasted bread, her usual breakfast, so she held in her impatience, kept her criticisms about Highlanders and the Highlands to herself, and dined with the Scottish chieftain.

  “What’s yer niece’s name?” he asked, apparently finding something amusing about the way she ate. Perhaps he wasn’t accustomed to someone who knew how to use utensils.

  “Marjorie,” she returned. “Marjorie Giswell.” Whatever last name she gave, Marjorie would certainly recognize that she was the one being sought, which was all any of them r
equired. “She’s one-and-twenty, of medium height, and has blue eyes and very dark brown hair. She’s not an heiress, by any means, but I am offering one hundred pounds for her safe return.”

  “That’s very generous,” he commented. “Tell me, does this lass have a beau? They could marry here in Scotland withoot residence or parental consent.”

  “You’re suggesting she eloped? Ridiculous. Aside from the fact that it would surround her with scandal, she has no beau.” After two months spent in the young lady’s company, she would certainly know if there was a particular gentleman. And there hadn’t been, the poor lonely girl. Hortensia had actually begun to wish there had been someone for her. Someone who wasn’t a blasted fortune hunter. But then again, men were trouble. All of them.

  “What brings ye to the Highlands, then?” he pursued, continuing to gaze at her as he downed a good portion of the steaming, cinnamon-scented ale in his mug. “Ye’ve nae sent fer help, Ranald tells me, so I reckon ye dunnae have relations hereaboots.”

  That charming accent of his didn’t fool her for a moment. He’d likely been told about the Lattimer coat of arms on the coach, and he was fishing for more information. Well, she wasn’t about to declare to the world that an heiress, an English duke’s sister, had gone missing. If someone had the young lady, a hundred pounds would sound like a fair, generous offer. If they learned the truth about her, getting Lady Marjorie back would involve politics, a great deal more money, quite possibly the military, and would likely end with her being sacked.

  “My late husband served with the Duke of Lattimer,” she lied slowly, hoping the tale made as much sense aloud as it did in her head. “His Grace very kindly invited me to visit, even offered me the use of his London coach. But I don’t care to travel alone, so Marjorie volunteered to accompany me.”

  He finished off a thick slice of ham. “My cotters are fairly well scattered, but I’ll make certain word gets oot that ye’ve a missing niece and she’s to be found and returned to ye safely,” he said, washing down the remains of his breakfast.

  At least he seemed to believe her story. If her keeping the truth about Lady Marjorie’s identity from everyone somehow caused her harm, though … Hortensia would never forgive herself. Oh, she was adept at social machinations, but she’d utterly failed with her last charge when Sophia had disappeared, and this looked to be even worse.

  She reached out to touch the back of Maxton’s hand. “My niece is very dear to me, sir,” she said, not trying to hide her concern. “You know the Highlands better than I could ever hope to. What do you think has happened to her?”

  “This land has more sheep than it does people,” he returned, looking down to fiddle with his fork. “And neither is likely to be especially kind to a Sassenach. An ootsider, that is. But a lass alone—it wouldnae be our custom to turn away someone who needs help. She could well be at some shepherd’s cottage waiting fer ye to find her, or fer the shepherd to find the time to walk her back here.”

  “Oh, I do hope that’s what’s happened,” she said, releasing his hand and trying not to imagine how unfriendly the sheep must be if they warranted such a warning. “I’ll keep searching and be as patient as I can. But if I haven’t recovered her in the next few days, I’ll have to send to His Grace for more assistance.”

  A muscle in Maxton’s jaw jumped. “Bringing in a Sassenach soldier and his men wouldnae be wise.”

  Hortensia hadn’t thought that idea would go over well. It would provide a little more incentive for this “laird” to aid her, however. “I understand, Lord Maxton. I must consider the safety of my niece before everything else, though. I hope you understand that.”

  “What I understand, Mrs. Giswell, is that ye shouldnae have let the lass oot of yer sight in the first place,” he stated, then took a breath that lifted his shoulders. “Ye keep looking, and I’ll do what I’m able. If she’s nae fallen into a loch or a ravine somewhere, we’ve a chance of finding her.” He climbed to his feet, tall and fit and imposing. “Now if ye’ll excuse me, I’ve some cotters to see, and a few trackers to put on the lass’s trail.”

  She remained seated on the long bench for several minutes after he left. If anyone in this blasted tangle of trees and moors and lakes and ravines and impossible mountains could help find Lady Marjorie, Graeme Maxton seemed to be the one to do it. The poor young woman wasn’t at all foolish, so whatever these Highlanders thought or said, Hortensia would have been willing to wager—if ladies wagered—that someone had taken her. The question was who’d done it, and where they’d taken her. And why, of course.

  “I see Laird Maxton rode doon to see ye this morning, lass,” a low, thick brogue commented from behind her, and she gave a quickly stifled smile. “That’s an honor, seein’ how much that lad carries on his shoulders these days.” Robert Polk, the big, bearded blacksmith, circled around to take the seat Maxton had vacated.

  “I am honored, of course,” she said, nodding. “But Marjorie is still missing.”

  “Ye’ve the right of it, Mrs. Giswell. To ye, Graeme Maxton’s a way to find yer niece, and nae a thing more than that. Is he calling men together fer a search? I can tell him where we’ve already been, if ye like.”

  “He said his tenants were scattered far and wide, but he would see to it that they knew to look for her, and that she was to be returned safely.” Hortensia frowned. “Should he have organized a search party?”

  The blacksmith rubbed his dark brown beard. “The winter fair’s in less than a fortnight, and we’ll all gather fer that. Pulling clan Maxwell together before then, what with everyone working to bring the flocks doon from the hills and harvesting the last of the crops before they freeze—nae, I reckon he did as he should.”

  That made sense, little as she liked hearing it. “Then I’ll continue my search. I cannot sit and do nothing.”

  He smiled, his brown eyes crinkling. “I didnae expect ye could. Which is why I’ve already hitched up the wagon. What do ye say to heading north? The river Douchary comes within aboot a mile of here, and we can follow it fer a ways.”

  While most of the locals seemed content to shake their heads at the idea of an English lass foolish enough to wander off on her own, not all of them had been so unhelpful. When he stood and walked around the table to offer her a muscular, soot-stained arm, Hortensia took it. Sir Robert, as she’d accidently dubbed him and he now called himself, had been nothing but helpful and attentive since the moment Lady Marjorie had gone missing.

  In fact, she had more than a suspicion that the big man might be sweet on her. Her, twenty years a widow. It was somewhat thrilling to have such a large, fit man mooning after her, even if his manners were barbaric and his grammar frightful. If she’d learned one thing in her years as a tutor and a companion, it was that anyone could be taught. The trick lay in finding the correct incentive.

  But that could wait. First she needed to find and rescue Lady Marjorie. And that needed to happen very soon, for everyone’s sake.

  * * *

  With her ear against the floor, Marjorie could hear the low rumble of Graeme’s voice, and then his heavy boot steps climbing the stairs. Swiftly she looped the chain once around the wooden slat she’d managed to break and slid out from under the bed.

  Her fingers were red and dented, and they and both of her arms and her back ached from pulling and shoving the heavy bed frame about for half the night. She’d warned him, though, that she refused to be chained. Rubbing her hands together briskly, she hopped onto the bed to pull the blankets up to her chin. The chain slapped against the nightstand, luckily in time with his knocking.

  “Come in,” she panted, running a hand across her face and loose hair and hoping she hadn’t acquired any cobwebs.

  A moment later the door opened, and he strolled into her room. “Why are ye wearing the bedsheets?”

  “Because I’m in my night rail. What do you think, I’m secretly wearing a ballgown and mean to dance my way to freedom?”

  A slight, lopsided g
rin touched his mouth. “I wouldnae be surprised if ye are and ye will, yer grandness,” he returned.

  She didn’t like that she found his smile charming. “Well, I’m not. And so I require a gown, and you promised me a bath.” One arm still smelled of strawberry jam, and she had just spent several hours crawling beneath the bed—not that he needed to know that.

  “Aye. That I did.” He continued gazing at her, then visibly shook himself and stepped forward, brandishing a key in his hand as he approached. “Ye’ll have to give me yer ankle, unless that’s too improper and ye’d rather keep the chai—”

  She clenched her jaw and stuck her leg out of the blankets, only up to the knee. It still felt very scandalous, and the way he gazed at her bared skin didn’t help, either. “If you please,” she said brusquely, hoping her cheeks weren’t as red as they felt.

  “Hm? Oh, aye. Lost myself in thought there, fer a moment.” Putting a hand firmly on her calf, he twisted the lock a little until he could reach it, and then inserted the key and turned it.

  She sighed in relief as the heavy thing clanked to the floor. Only a heartbeat later, though, she realized he hadn’t let go of her leg. In fact, he stared at her ankle, which she’d managed to scrape and bruise while trying to work the other end of the chain free. Blast it. If he realized what she’d been up to, he’d likely chain her to the wall in the cellar next.

  “I’m sorry, lass,” he murmured, instead of the tirade she expected. Then he ran his fingers very lightly over her bruised skin. “I didnae intend this.”

  He blamed himself for her injuries. True, he’d put the blasted thing on her in the first place, but she’d been the one wrenching her leg about. She opened her mouth to tell him how minor it was, all things considered, but stopped herself at the last second.