My One True Highlander

by Suzanne Enoch

  The next three things happened all at once.

  Soft female laughter sounded from just inside the doorway behind him.

  Connell squealed. “Ye set her free! I knew ye would, Graeme!”

  Brendan pounded on the sitting room window from outside. “Uncle Raibeart’s here! Sir Hamish Paulk’s with him!”

  * * *

  This had been a good idea. Marjorie knew it had been. She’d sat in her temporary bedchamber for nearly an hour-after she’d clanked over to the door the second Graeme left to slide a piece of writing paper between the lock and the jamb to keep the door from locking, then removed the padding from the ankle lock and pulled her foot free. She still had no idea where to run, and he was likely to dog her heels unless he trusted her at least a little.

  Before she could open her mouth to state that she might have run but she’d chosen not to do so, Graeme dumped his youngest brother onto the overstuffed couch cushions and strode forward to grab her arm. “Paulk’s Dunncraigh’s lapdog. So ye need to get back upstairs,” he hissed, his face pale. “Now.”

  The flat, dead-serious tone of his voice convinced her as much as his grim expression. This was not him being angry that she’d escaped her prison. That would likely come later. With a brief nod she gathered her green skirts and hurried up the hallway—only to be blocked from the stairs by the two older men for whom Cowen had opened the front door.

  The butler’s eyes widened almost comically as he caught sight of her. “I—ye,” he stammered. “Ye shouldnae be here.”

  “Nonsense, Cowen,” the taller of the two men drawled, favoring her with a smile that reminded her of Graeme’s. “A lass here in the Lion’s Den? Introduce us.”

  These two men were the reason Graeme had been more concerned with getting her out of sight than with figuring out how she’d escaped. The question for her, though, became whether they were more likely to offer her aid or to send her off to the Duke of Dunncraigh.

  She did, however, have some skills at conversation that might assist her, and in more ways than one. She offered a polite curtsy. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I’ve been told that one of you is Lord Maxton’s uncle, and one of you is Sir Hamish Paulk, but I’m afraid I wasn’t given a description.”

  The one who looked like an older version of Graeme put a hand to his chest. “Raibeart Maxton. This is Sir Hamish Paulk, chieftain of clan Maxwell.”

  “A chieftain? Like Lord Maxton is a chieftain?”

  Steel-gray eyes took in the length of her before returning to her face. “Nae. I’m nae like Graeme Maxton. I dunnae ignore the Maxwell’s wishes or fail to pay my tithes. And ye’re English.”

  That answered that. She and Sir Hamish were not going to become bosom friends. “I am English.”

  “And what’s yer name, then? Ye’ve held on to it fer a good bit, I reckon.”

  “Uncle Raibeart.” Graeme’s booming voice sounded from closer behind her than she expected. “Thank ye fer coming so quickly. And Sir Hamish. What brings ye this far from Dunncraigh’s boots? And who’s licking ’em while ye’re away?”

  “I came to see yer uncle and do some fishing at Mòriasg, nae that it’s any of yer affair. Who’s the Sassenach?”

  Graeme glanced at her as he put himself between her and them. “Nae that it’s any of yer affair, but this is Marjorie Giswell. She’s to—”

  “I’m Connell’s new governess,” she broke in hurriedly. There. That should put a stop to his marriage plans for her.

  He sent her a black look. “Aye. Governess,” he ground out.

  “A governess?” Raibeart asked, lifting an eyebrow. “Ye’re a mite young fer that, are ye nae, Miss Giswell?”

  Yes, she’d out-maneuvered him, but her internal gloating only lasted a moment. Now she’d made herself a governess, the one thing she’d vowed never to become. A companion had been awful enough. Caring for and instructing someone else’s children because she couldn’t make a home herself had seemed the worst form of torture possible. Even so, it had to be an improvement over being anyone’s unwilling bride. And for the moment, that was enough. Mrs. Giswell would faint at the idea that now she’d become an actress, a governess, and escaped a marriage, all in the same moment. She fixed a smile on her face. “I am one-and-twenty, sir. How old should a governess be?”

  “She shouldnae be English, and that’s fer damned certain,” Sir Hamish put in. “Nae in a Scottish hoose.”

  Marjorie inclined her head. “Well, I cannot change where I was born, but if I can teach young Connell the difference between an exclamation and an interjection, I believe I will be satisfied.” She backed down the hallway away from the three men. “Please excuse me. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  As soon as she turned the corner she found the nearest open room, slipped inside, and sagged against the wall. The moment Hamish Paulk set eyes on her she’d felt in more danger than she ever had in Graeme’s presence. That didn’t make any sense, of course, when one had been holding her captive and the other had only eyed her rather boldly, but she felt it down to her bones. She would not be throwing herself on Sir Hamish Paulk’s mercy.

  For the moment she wasn’t a prisoner. But if she fled now, after she’d provided everyone with a reason for her to be staying, she’d raise even more suspicions. Considering that here she at least had food and warmth, the last thing she wanted was to end up on foot somewhere in the Highlands wilderness while at least two sets of men hunted her. Graeme’s first priority was protecting his brothers. If she fled while his guests were here, he might well have no choice but to tell them the truth about her to save the boys.

  Deciding all those things in two hard beats of her heart, she’d moved from being an adversary to an ally of Graeme Maxton—at least from her viewpoint. She had no idea how he would see it. All she did know was that she would not be wearing that shackle again. Not without a blasted fight.

  “There ye are,” a younger voice said.

  With a surprised gasp she straightened. “Oh, goodness. You startled me.”

  Light gray eyes beneath a straight mop of dark hair regarded her. Was this Brendan, the one who, according to Connell, had been her chief kidnapper? Or the other one? He stood as tall as she did, which didn’t tell her much, and though she’d heard both boys’ voices during the long, bumpy wagon ride, she didn’t know which voice belonged to which Maxton.

  “How’d ye get oot?”

  “I think I’ll keep that information to myself.”

  A grin crinkled his eyes. “Are ye angry at Brendan and me? I reckon ye ken that ye cannae blame Connell.”

  So this was Dùghlas, the fourteen-year-old. She made a note of that for future reference. “I was angry,” she admitted. “And I’m still not convinced you and Brendan don’t deserve a walloping.”

  The boy nodded, his hair flopping across his forehead. All of the Maxtons she’d seen so far, with the exception of their uncle, badly needed a haircut. “That’s fair enough,” he said. “Ye’re still nae to leave the hoose, if ye hadn’t already figured that.”

  She cocked her head. “And you’re to stop me if I do?”

  “We’re all to grab hold of ye and drag ye back upstairs. Ye’re nae as delicate as I thought, but I’d wager two or three of us could manage that.”

  The matter-of-fact way he spoke actually left her feeling somewhat calmer. He wasn’t angry, or frightened, or particularly worried over Paulk’s presence, at least. Unless he didn’t understand the implications. Or unless she had figured them wrong. “I imagine you could. Very well, then. I’ll remain in the house.”

  “Good. Graeme’s closed in his office with Uncle Raibeart and Sir Hamish, likely trying to explain why he needed to see our uncle. I’m to take ye back to the sitting room and show ye how I help Connell with his lessons so ye willnae look like a nodcock if they stay fer luncheon, which I reckon they will.”

  Of course the Maxtons would assume she had no idea how to be a governess; given the number of ways Graeme had referred to her a
s a princess, he probably thought she’d been born into wealth and position. He had no idea that she’d gone to school with the idea of serving in a household, even if it had been as a companion rather than as a governess or tutor. Well, for the moment she had no intention of correcting his misapprehensions.

  “Lead the way,” she said, gesturing. “And please tell me where things are in the house as we go, since I’ll be expected to know.”

  “Nae. I’m nae telling ye a damned thing withoot Graeme’s permission,” he countered. “If ye need someaught, Connell or I’ll fetch it fer ye.”

  Blast it. “Not Brendan, though?”

  “Brendan thinks sending ye on to Dunncraigh is the answer to all our ills, so ye’d do well to stay away from him.”

  They walked back into the sitting room where Connell still sat on the couch, his eyes wide enough that he knew at least something of what was afoot. “Sir Hamish is here?” he whispered loudly. “Did Graeme tell him to come take ye to—”

  “Hush, duckling,” his brother interrupted, ruffling his brother’s red hair. “All ye need to know is that this is Lady—I mean Miss—Marjorie Giswell, and she’s yer governess.”

  “I’m too old fer a governess,” Connell returned, not quietly.

  “Then I’m your tutor,” Marjorie amended. “And you should all call me Ree.” She sat on the couch beside him. “I think I’ve only just taken the position, which would explain why we don’t know each other well.”

  “Do ye know aboot my baby rabbits? Because Graeme doesn’t know about them.”

  Beyond him Dùghlas rolled his eyes. “Ye really think Gr—”

  “I think you told me about the rabbits because we’re friends,” she interrupted.

  Connell nodded. “I think so, too.”

  “‘Friends’?” a deeper male voice echoed from the doorway. “I’m nae yer friend. And I’m trying to decide why I shouldnae drag ye oot by yer damned hair and tell Sir Hamish exactly who ye are.”

  And that would be Brendan. As she looked over at him, Marjorie reflected that even if she hadn’t known who he was, she would have known he was one of the Maxton brothers. Gray eyes, his narrowed, glared at her from beneath an unruly tangle of red-brown hair. He was thinner than Graeme, and a few inches shorter, but he stood taller than she did. And he was daring her to argue with him, to make one wrong step that would give him the excuse to do exactly as he threatened.

  Marjorie folded her hands in her lap. “First of all, ladies do not care to hear a man cursing in their presence. Cursing makes a man seem impolite and inconsiderate, and no lady wants to spend her time with someone more concerned with proving how rough he is rather than with making her feel special. Second, m—”

  “That would explain why Isobel Allen called ye a lunkhead and willnae go walking with ye, Brendan,” Dùghlas put in.

  Stifling a smile at that, she stood, keeping her gaze on the sixteen-year-old. “Second, my brother is the Duke of Lattimer. I am not some helpless female who screams and faints. Mistreat me, and I will be the worst enemy you can imagine. Be fair and kind to me, and I can be the best friend you’ve ever known.” As she spoke she slowly approached him, stopping when they were merely two feet apart. Some of this she’d wanted to say to her neighbors for months, and she hadn’t dared. It felt good to say it now. She only hoped she wasn’t wasting a good speech for no good reason.

  He didn’t back down, and she held his gaze for a long moment, having to lift her chin a little to do so. The anger practically radiated off him, and she certainly understood wanting more and not being able to find a way to achieve it.

  “You think I’m the means by which you can help your family,” she said after a moment. “Perhaps I am; just not in the way you imagined.”

  “Ha,” he retorted. “Ye’d help us, willingly, after what we did to ye? After Graeme tried to force ye to marry him? Ye wriggled oot of that like a clever lass. But I’m nae a fool, Sassenach. And we dunnae need English charity.” With a scowl he turned around and stomped out of the room.

  Marjorie let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Brendan could still change his mind and go wag his tongue about her to Sir Hamish, and she wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. Hopefully, though, she’d at least given him something about which to think. Something to make him hesitate before he acted.

  “Ye made him stop arguing,” Connell said, bouncing up beside her to take her hand as if they’d been allied for months rather than for the past ten minutes. “Usually Graeme has to drag him outside and throw him in the river before he’ll shut his gobber.”

  “I didn’t wish to be dragged off by my hair,” she returned, pasting a hopefully convincing smile on her face. “Now. Please show me what you do for grammar and mathematics, if you don’t mind.” Because whether she wanted to be a governess or not, today she preferred that position to being locked up in a room again, or dragged off to the marriage altar because that was the least of several evils.

  She wondered what Graeme might be telling his uncle and Sir Hamish Paulk about her, because she certainly qualified as an oddity in this household. Whatever his ultimate intentions, today he’d tried to protect her, keep her safe, and he’d lied to his clan to do it.

  That certainly made her think about his kisses all over again, as well. And made her wonder whether she was still a captive, or somewhere in the past hour had become a mad, willing participant.

  Chapter Nine

  “Of course I’d be honored to judge the jams and shortbread at the fair, lad,” Raibeart Maxton said, a furrow appearing between his straight brows. “But ye might have sent me a note aboot that. I thought ye had someaught amiss here, sending for me at my ‘earliest convenience.’”

  As long as Hamish Paulk sat in the room with them, nobody would be discussing anything more troublesome than jams and shortbread. “Aye,” Graeme said aloud, watching as the Maxwell’s favorite chieftain poured himself a second, generous glass of the house’s most expensive vodka. “I reckon Ross got overexcited when he delivered the message. That’s why I was surprised to see ye.”

  “So we rode two miles fer nae damned good reason.” Sir Hamish sat again to sip at his drink. “And I missed half a day’s fishing.” He rapped his knuckles against the surface of the old, worn desk. “I’d rather know where ye found that fine Sassenach lass. A fortnight ago ye couldnae pay yer tithe to Dunncraigh.”

  “I reckon if I decide to put the education of my bràthair ahead of sending the Maxwell a bit of coin he doesnae need, that’s my affair,” Graeme retorted. He didn’t like the way Hamish called Marjorie “fine,” as if the lass wasn’t a good thirty years Paulk’s junior. And he definitely hadn’t liked the way the old man had looked at her.

  As for that clever little trick she’d pulled, turning herself into an employee rather than a betrothed, in a sense he was relieved. More relieved than he’d expected. Aye, he would have married her, and she likely would have hated him for it. Now, he could pursue something more carnal, without feeling that he was pushing her into a union about which she had no real choice. Now she could tell him no—though he didn’t think she would. Not if he’d read those kisses correctly. No, he wouldn’t be falling for her, but wanting her felt safer now that they wouldn’t be … permanent. Now that he could put distance between them if he wanted to do so.

  “But an English lass, Graeme?” Raibeart took up. “Even I have to question that. Ye ken we’ve a handful of educated Highlanders who’d welcome employment at a fine hoose such as this. Lads, too, which I reckon would make a more proper tutor fer Connell.”

  “Ye ken we’re at war with an English duke,” Hamish put in. “Are ye trying to rile Dunncraigh even more than ye already have?”

  Oh, for Lucifer’s sake. “If there’s one thing Garaidh nan Leòmhann doesnae have need of, it’s another lad. With her aboot, at least they have to use utensils.”

  It had been twenty minutes now since he’d last seen her heading for the back of the hou
se. He had to settle for hoping that Dùghlas had understood his hastily whispered instructions, that he’d found Marjorie, and that the fourteen-year-old had somehow managed to convince her to cooperate. Failing that, the lad and whoever he could round up to help him would have to throw her back into her bedchamber, when he didn’t know how the devil she’d managed to escape in the first place.

  “I heard someaught aboot a Sassenach lass going missing out of Sheiling,” his uncle went on. “There’s a reward fer whoever finds her. Wasnae her name Margaret or Marjorie?”

  Damnation. “Aye, that’s her,” Graeme conceded, thinking fast. “Her aunt’s staying at the Cracked Hearth while we open a room fer her. We didnae know she’d be coming fer a holiday. The old woman’s a Bedlamite, nearly. I had to ride doon this morning to remind her that nae a soul’s missing, that her niece is where she left her, and that this is Scotland and nae Prussia.”

  The two men continued to look skeptical, but when neither one said anything aloud he decided not to elaborate. The simpler the tale, the easier it would be to keep it straight later. At the same time, he knew he couldn’t leave Mrs. Giswell at the inn where she could announce to all and sundry that her supposed niece was still missing. And that damned Lattimer coach needed to vanish, as well.

  “Well, lad, as Brendan’s nae burned doon the stable and Connell doesnae have a red deer living in the attic, invite us to luncheon and then we’ll be on our way.”

  Graeme forced a smile as he climbed to his feet. “I dunnae believe he has a deer in the attic. I’d nae swear to it. But how long are ye staying at Mòriasg, Paulk? I’d like to know when I can next go visit my uncle withoot seeing ye there.”

  “That depends on the trout, I reckon,” Sir Hamish returned flatly. “Of course when Dunncraigh finally decides ye’re nae worth the trouble ye cause, this is all likely to be my territory, too, since I’m the nearest chieftain. Mayhap I’ll stay a bit longer, to get the lay of the land.”

  They couldn’t strip him of his house, or of his property, but with him no longer considered part of clan Maxwell, remaining would be a very unpleasant prospect. He would lose cotters, and income, and then debts might well take what Dunncraigh couldn’t. It wasn’t a pleasant prospect, but it didn’t mean he would bow to a man who endangered and mistreated his own. Not while he had the choice to do otherwise.