My One True Highlander

by Suzanne Enoch

  If she could use his guilt to her advantage, that was what she was supposed to do. Yes, he’d kissed her, and yes, she’d found it immensely unsettling in an exhilarating kind of way, but they weren’t friends. And they definitely weren’t allies. “It seems you didn’t intend a great many things where I’m concerned, but they keep happening anyway.”

  The expression in his dark gray eyes cooled to ice, a sure sign that she’d scored a hit. Marjorie didn’t feel at all triumphant or vindicated, though. She made a show of gathering the sheets around her and standing, anything to avoid his gaze. It didn’t matter a whit if she’d hurt his feelings; she wasn’t the villain of this piece. But it felt like it mattered, like she’d … cheated or something.

  “Can ye walk?” he asked, his voice clipped.

  Now would be the time to say something even more biting about how she would have to manage, because he certainly wasn’t permitted to attend to her and he didn’t seem to have anyone in residence who was. Instead she clung to the tightly wrapped sheets and limped for the door. “Yes. I can walk.”

  He’d evidently ordered everyone to stay clear, because the hallway stood empty and silent as she stepped out of the bedchamber. Whether that was for her benefit or theirs, she had no idea, but she did appreciate not being gawked at while all she wore was a thin cotton night rail and some sheets.

  “Yer shift and gown are inside,” he said, moving up behind her. “And yer shoes. I’ll be right outside the door, waiting fer ye, so dunnae do anything foolish.”

  The most foolish thing she’d done was to go help a boy rescue some kittens. Since then, she’d done her best not to be foolish. Her annoyed glance back at him didn’t have the desired effect, though, because his gaze seemed to be resting on her backside. Blushing, she hurried inside the small room and shut the door behind her. This one, of course, didn’t lock. She wasn’t the one deciding her privacy. And that fact could be even more troublesome than she’d anticipated.

  Graeme Maxton said he had no use for love, but he did desire her. It certainly … felt that way whenever she caught him looking at her. And it wasn’t because he meant to marry her, since he’d made it clear that that had more to do with strategy than with feelings. But that made his lust about her, and she simply was not accustomed to that.

  She dropped the sheets to the wooden floor, then stepped out of her night rail. He—or someone—had left soap on a stool beside the steaming bathtub, so she could wash her hair this time, at least. A small covered bowl sat there as well, and with a glance toward the door she lifted off the rough washing cloth draped over it.

  Lemons. Two thinly sliced lemons, peel, pulp, juice, and all, filled the bowl. With the cloth removed, the scent of them immediately lifted into the air to remind her of warmth and sunshine—two things that had been very rare since they’d begun the trip north. Abrupt tears filled her eyes and ran damply down her cheeks, and she brushed them away, surprised at how touched she felt.

  He’d listened to what she said, and brought her a gift accordingly. Whether he meant it to placate her or to bribe her into being more cooperative she had no idea, but just seeing them, smelling them, meant a great deal to her.

  Marjorie dumped half of the bowl’s contents into the hot water of the bath. She’d save the rest of it for her hair. Then, very conscious that she was naked, she slowly padded back to the door. “Thank you for the lemons,” she said quietly, putting one palm against the cool wood.

  “Ye’re welcome, lass,” came almost immediately and from very close by. She could imagine him leaning his forehead against the door as she was, their hands touching but for an inch of old oak. The thought made her feel warm, and safe, in the least likely place in the world for her to do so.

  Before the chill of the room could sink deeper than her skin she backed away and stepped into the bath. With blessed heat surrounding her she took her time soaking, and then washed her hair with soap and lemons and tried to convince herself that she was only smiling because it felt good to be clean, and not because her maddeningly stubborn captor was also proving to be far more considerate, and interesting, than she ever would have expected.

  Chapter Eight

  The moment he heard Marjorie step into the brass bathtub, Graeme pushed away from the door and moved quickly and quietly to his own bedchamber. The pale, perfect skin of her leg marred by purple and red bruises, wounds that he’d caused her—it made him angry. Furious. He’d fought people—men—before, caused and received cuts and bruises far worse than those she bore. But those had been fair fights, two opponents stepping forward willingly. Marjorie had had no choice in the matter, because he hadn’t given her one. Not from the moment she’d arrived.

  Cursing, he dug one of his softest linen shirts out of his wardrobe and with the help of his boot knife, tore it into long, wide strips. Gathering them up along with a heavy wool scarf, he returned to her room and sat on the floor to line the ankle cuff with the thick wool and then wrap every bit of it but the lock with layers of linen. He’d have to open the cuff a bit wider than it was now to fit it around her leg, but he’d be damned if he would lock it on her again without some padding.

  He wanted to leave it off her altogether; in fact, he wanted to yank it free of the bed and throw it through the window. If it had been just the two of them, he would have risked it, risked her getting away and sending the law and Lattimer after him. But as he’d been reminded every day for the past eight years, he couldn’t make decisions based solely on what he wanted.

  Because what he wanted happened to be naked just a few feet away from him. A proper, aristocratic, tight-bunned English female, and he wanted her pale, perfect skin against his, he wanted her mouth on him, he wanted to see her face flushed with passion and to hear her cry out his name as he came inside her.

  That was why he’d asked her so-called aunt if she had a beau—though why in hell that should matter, he had no idea. He simply wanted her, and that had nothing to do with what an alliance with her could do for his corner of clan Maxwell. He wanted to know that a lovely duke’s sister desired a near destitute Scottish clan chieftain who mended fences and sheared sheep and delivered calves with his own two damned hands.

  With the cuff as comfortable as he could make it, he stuffed the knife back into his boot, placed the book of Robert Burns’s poetry he’d dug out of the attic on the mantel where she could reach it, then returned to his watch by the spare room’s door.

  A few minutes later, that door opened, and Marjorie in shimmering emerald stepped into the hallway with the scent of steam and lemons swirling around her. Graeme’s entire body reacted, and he had to work to remain where he was. To make it worse, her long, dark hair hung damply halfway to her waist, strands framing her own face and caressing her cheeks. She looked up at him, her deep blue eyes searching his.

  Abruptly she blinked and looked down. “You found another dress for me,” she said, brushing her fingers along the deep green satin of her skirt.

  Thankfully they’d simply stored most of his mother’s things away in the attic, along with his grandmother’s and her mother’s before that. “It was fairly fashionable ten years ago, I imagine,” he heard himself say. “And it’s a bit warmer than the other one.”

  Of course she wouldn’t thank him for it, because she’d said she would do no such thing, but she did incline her head. “I don’t suppose I could go for a walk?” she said, stopping short of the open door to her room. “Stretch my legs a little?”

  Graeme knew he was being led about by his cock, but he was still tempted to take her for a stroll. “Nae,” he said aloud. “The fewer people who know ye’re here before I wed ye, the better fer all of us.”

  “For all of you, perhaps.”

  He grimaced. “I met Mrs.Giswell this morning,” he offered, motioning her into the bedchamber. “She’s calling ye her niece Marjorie, and offering a hundred pounds fer yer safe return.”

  She stopped again, facing him. “Why—”

  “I rec
kon she figured with the way ye went missing, that ye’d been taken. And that if so, it’d be better if ye werenae known to be Lattimer’s sister. A hundred quid’s a damned fortune, hereaboots, but nae overly suspicious. Nae when it’s offered by some mad old Sassenach lass.”

  “At least someone’s looking for me,” she muttered, limping past him and into the room.

  “Aye. And we’d best come to an agreement, ye and me, before she brings yer brother and all of his MacKittrick men doon on my head.”

  “Who’s MacKittrick?”

  There likely wasn’t any harm in telling her, and if it distracted her for a time, so much the better. “Yer brother’s started his own clan. Did ye nae know?”

  She shook her head, the dark cascade of her hair falling over one emerald shoulder. “I had no idea that was even possible.”

  “It isnae, truly. But the castle, Lattimer, used to be called MacKittrick, after an old Maxwell chieftain. When all yer brother’s tenants sided with him against the Maxwell—the Duke of Dunncraigh—they were booted from clan Maxwell. So they decided yer brother was Laird MacKittrick, and now they’re MacKittrick’s men. His clan, in the ways it counts.”

  “That’s … Why in heaven’s name didn’t Gabriel write and tell me all this?” she burst out, stalking toward the window and then quickly turning back, as if she remembered she wasn’t supposed to be over there. “Why didn’t he tell me he was in the middle of a war with clan Maxwell? And that clan Maxwell apparently surrounds Lattimer?”

  “It does,” he commented. “And he didnae do ye any bloody favors by keeping silent, and that’s damned certain.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “Yes, I believe we can agree on that point. And your language sir, if you please.”

  Back to that again, were they? So be it. Neither of them had much incentive to change, so he’d imagined they’d be having the same argument until doomsday. “Aye. My filthy language. Ye can sit in the chair, or on the bed,” he said, squatting to pick up the end of the chain. “I padded it, but I’ll let ye choose which leg I put it on.”

  Marjorie scowled. “My right leg, then. At least I’ll be able to sit in the chair more comfortably.” With that she seated herself, graceful as any princess, in the old, overstuffed chair. “And however well you cover it, it’s still a shackle, and you’re still locking it around my ankle.”

  Graeme clenched his jaw. “I’m aware of that, lass. Agree to marry me, swear on someaught ye cherish, and I’ll take it away.”

  She looked directly at him. “No.”

  “Stubborn woman,” he muttered, unsurprised. Trying to ignore the lemon scent of her skin, the smooth warmth of her, he carefully locked the cuff around her ankle, made certain none of the metal pinched or even touched her, then straightened again. “I’ll be back with yer breakfast in a bit,” he said, retreating to the door. “Is there anything else ye require, aside from yer freedom and a coach with four white horses to carry ye away from here?”

  “The horses don’t have to be white,” she returned. “I’m not particular.”

  Every time he thought he’d figured her out, every time he concluded that she was the grand, spoiled lady he’d expected, she said something like that and set him off kilter again. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he returned, pulling the door closed behind himself.

  Another day or two of this and he was likely to become a raving lunatic. At the bottom of the stairs he summoned Cowen. “Has Mrs. Woring put a tray together fer our guest?”

  “Aye, m’laird. I was aboot to have Ross fetch it fer ye.”

  “I’ll fetch it. I need ye to send Ross doon to Mòriasg Hoose and have him tell my uncle I request his presence at his earliest convenience.”

  Raibeart Maxton was a practical man, and Graeme could damned well use some practical advice—and a plan that didn’t end with someone imprisoned or dead.

  * * *

  “Ye should go talk to her,” Connell Maxton urged, as he tossed bits of chicken into the air and his pair of foxes leaped after the morsels. If Morag Woring got word of where one of the chickens she’d set aside for dinner had gone, the lad wouldn’t be able to sit down for the meal, but the foxes seemed happy enough.

  “She’s locked in,” Brendan returned, frowning over a full page of complicated-looking mathematics. “And she’s English. I dunnae want to talk to her.”

  “When Graeme marries her, ye’ll have to talk to her,” Dùghlas pointed out.

  “Nae. I willnae.” Brendan crossed out a line in heavy pencil. “Damnation. I’d rather be oot clearing the ditches than doing this.”

  “Graeme said the morning snow should be gone by tomorrow, and we’re to do it then,” Connell recited, as if they all hadn’t heard the announcement four hours ago, over breakfast. “And why dunnae ye want to talk to her? Are ye scared? Of a lass? I talked to her.”

  “Aye, but ye make friends with frogs, duckling. And then ye weep when a hawk takes one. Dunnae make the same mistake with her. Stay well away from that woman.”

  In the chair beneath the window of the downstairs sitting room, Dùghlas set aside his own pencil and sighed. Generally afternoons were filled with Brendan’s complaints about having to continue his studies at the old age of sixteen, while Connell worked through whatever passage he’d been given to read, and Dùghlas helped Connell and finished up his own studies.

  Today, and for the past few days, the lessons had been more difficult and more lengthy, and they felt like a punishment—or a way to keep them inside the house. Dùghlas supposed that made sense, given the trouble they’d made for Graeme, but he wondered if their oldest brother had any idea how angry Brendan still was.

  Aye, Brendan was angry nearly daily, but generally it was because a lass he liked had smiled at someone else. Then, his grumbling was full of plans to knock Rory Polk or Eran Howard on their arses. This, though, felt different. And when they’d tied up the lass, Brendan would have driven the wagon all the way to Dunncraigh himself, if they hadn’t had Connell with them. He kept talking like he didn’t care what happened to her now, even with the plans Graeme had made, and Dùghlas was beginning to believe that he meant it.

  “Stop teasing Connell,” he said aloud. “He likes the Sassenach, and ye ken the duckling has a soft heart.”

  “I dunnae have a soft heart; I have a big heart,” the eight-year-old corrected. “And Brendan can say whatever he likes. I think he’s just mean.”

  “It’s nae mean to be willing to do what’s necessary. It’s practical. I’m practical.”

  Dùghlas snorted. “Ye’re a bull in a bloody china shop.”

  “At least I’ve done someaught. Graeme would just as soon throw punches while the Maxwell threatens him—and us. Dunncraigh’s supposed to be our ally, nae our enemy. And we can be back at the laird’s table by sending one damned letter! If trouble comes of it, I’ll take it on my shoulders. Graeme’s needed here.”

  “And what would that make me,” Graeme said from the doorway, “if I allowed anyone to take ye from here, Brendan?”

  The sixteen-year-old slammed his fist against the tabletop. “I’m nae having this argument again, Graeme! Withoot blunt coming here from somewhere, ye’ll have to sell Garaidh nan Leòmhann before Connell’s old enough to go to university, even though ye’ll nae have the blunt to send him anymore than ye will Dùghlas and me.”

  “I’m nae going to university!” Connell yelled. “I’m staying here and helping! And we willnae ever sell the Lion’s Den, will we, Graeme?”

  “Nae, we willnae,” the Maxwell chieftain returned with a grin. “If we’ve nae money we’ll sell Brendan to gypsies.”

  Dùghlas grinned too, relieved to see his oldest brother in better humor again. “Well, that’ll gain us a shilling or two, at least.”

  Brendan pushed to his feet, his face beet red. “Ye’re all so damned amusing.”

  He stomped for the door, but Graeme didn’t move. “Where do ye think ye’re going?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow.


  “The snow’s stopped. Someone ought to go take a look at the irrigation ditches and see what’s to be done tomorrow. So I reckon that’s where I’m going.”

  With a nod, Graeme stepped aside. “Good. Stay away from Sheiling in case someone remembers ye were there the same day her ladyship went missing.”

  “Aye, Laird Maxton, my lord and chieftain.”

  Connell charged the door, too, the foxes on his heels. “I’ll go fetch my coat and help him, then.”

  “Ye’ll fetch yer coat after ye read me yer sentences,” their oldest brother amended, putting a hand on the duckling’s head to turn him back into the depths of the room.

  “Damnation,” Connell muttered. “Ye’re truly nae going to sell Garaidh nan Leòmhann, are ye? And dunnae lie to me. I’m old enough to know the truth.”

  Graeme sat at the worktable. “I’m nae selling our home, Connell. And that is the truth. I may have to lease some of the hillsides fer grazing to some of our neighbors, but ye’ll always have a home here. Except when ye go to Edinburgh to university, of course.”

  With a laughing yell of protest Connell launched himself at Graeme, and the two of them and the foxes ended up in a pile on the floor that only ended when Graeme stood and lifted the bairn over his head. “Who’s the Bruce?” he demanded, lowering Connell’s head until they were eye to upside-down eye.

  The boy roared with laughter. “I’m the Bruce!”

  “What?” Graeme spun him in a quick circle with the foxes bounding into the air around them. “I couldnae quite hear ye. Who’s the Bruce?”

  “I surrender! Ye’re the Bruce!”

  With a triumphant bellow Graeme tossed Connell in the air and caught him again. In another year or two the lad would be too heavy for flinging about. Not today, though. Today he needed to hear the duckling’s laughter as much as the boy needed a good laugh and a wrestle. Another thing he’d neglected over the past few days.