My One True Highlander

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Graeme?” Connell prompted. “They’re too little to go off alone, and Brendan said if ye knew aboot them ye’d have Mrs. Woring cook them in a stew.” His light blue eyes filled with tears.

  Oh, for Lucifer’s sake. “I did tell ye nae more pets, Connell,” he said slowly. “I reckon ye didnae have a choice, though, with a hawk taking their ma. Ye can keep ’em. Remember, though, the foxes and the cats might ferget they’re all to get along.”

  The lad bounced on his toes. “Now that ye know about them and I have yer permission, I can build a hutch in here where they’ll be safe.”

  “Mm-hm. Have Johnny help ye. He built the chicken coop. And I’ll have Brendan lend a hand, too.” He’d also have a chat with the sixteen-year-old about frightening their youngest brother for no good reason. “And Connell?”

  “Aye?”

  “Thank ye fer telling me.”

  Putting on a huge grin, Connell nodded. “Thank ye, bràthair. I couldnae leave them there in the heather withoot their ma.”

  With a return smile, Graeme tugged his brother’s ear. “I know ye couldnae. Now take Fluff and Hop and Gray and go tell everyone, so we’ll nae have any surprises.” The boy fled, and Graeme squatted down in front of Marjorie. “How much convincing did that take ye?”

  “Not much. I think he wanted to tell you, but couldn’t figure out how to do it.” She put a hand on his knee, beneath the hem of his kilt. “He’s been very worried you would find out and make him let them go.”

  “Nae. I may nae be a civilized man, but I do ken when a boy who didnae know his own mother needs to rescue bairns who’ve lost theirs. Every animal beneath this roof’s an orphan, me included.”

  “I am, as well. Gabriel and I lost our parents when he was seventeen, and I was eight. His answer was to join the army and use his pay to send me to boarding school.”

  “Ye were the age Connell is now, and ye went off on yer own to boarding school?” He couldn’t even imagine his youngest brother sent away from his siblings. The abrupt anger he felt toward the mighty Duke of Lattimer made his jaw clench.

  “We couldn’t keep the house. The money for it paid off our parents’ debts, bought him a commission, and paid for my acceptance and first semester of school. If Gabriel hadn’t done that, I don’t know where I would be now.”

  His anger eased again, though he remained certain he would have found a way for him and his siblings to stay together. “Ye dunnae think that wherever ye might have ended up would be better than being kidnapped by three nodcocks and held prisoner in the Highlands?”

  She grinned at him. “Considering I’m alive to be kidnapped, I’d have to say no.”

  Graeme leaned forward, resting his weight on his bent knuckles, and kissed her. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him back. Time seemed to slow, the sounds of the noisy house faded, and he could swear sunlight burned through the clouds outside to shine down on the countryside.

  The door stood wide open, so as much as he wanted to prolong the moment, as much as he would have done so with anyone but this propriety-obsessed lass, he straightened and stood, holding down a hand to help her to her feet. Aye, he would let her go for now, but tonight he meant to visit her. Two evenings without her was two evenings too many, as far as he was concerned.

  “You’ve never mentioned your father,” she said, nudging his mind off its trail and into the shrubbery. “Do you mind my asking what happened to him?”

  Since meeting her, he’d only wanted to forget. And yet by one action the dead man dictated the way he meant to live the remainder of his life. “My mother died giving birth to Connell. Brian Maxton was always mad fer her. Two days after she passed, he walked oot to the river and shot himself in the head.”

  Her dark blue eyes widened. “Oh.”

  “Dunnae ye dare call it romantic,” he stated, accustomed to hearing those murmurs from every lass in the countryside. “He left three boys under ten years old with nae a parent.”

  “That’s why Connell said you’d been looking after him since he was two days old.”

  He nodded. “Aye.” Graeme forced a smile he didn’t feel. “Ye may nae believe me, but at twenty I was a wee bit uncivilized. I did my damnedest, even thought aboot finding a bride to help me raise them, but it seemed like someaught I should do myself. They—all this—were my responsibility.” Everything became his responsibility, all at once. Whether he’d been successful or not wasn’t for him to judge, but no one could say he hadn’t done everything he could.

  “You? Wild?” She tugged on the black sleeve of his coat.

  “You summoned me, Lord Maxton?” Mrs. Giswell’s precise voice came from the doorway.

  Marjorie immediately lowered her hand as he straightened. “Aye,” he said, keeping his expression neutral as he faced the woman. Brown hair turning to gray, sharp green eyes, a mouth presently pinched a little in disapproval. She had a grand bosom, large and prominent enough to support a tea tray, while the rest of her went down in a straight line past her hips and then to a sturdy pair of legs.

  “I insist you cease ogling me, sir,” she stated, clasping her hands in front of her bosom.

  “I wasnae!”

  “Good,” Marjorie murmured from beside him, almost soundlessly. He heard her, though, and her response warmed his insides. She did like him, or at least want him, whatever she might prefer to have him believe.

  “I’ve word that the blacksmith in Sheiling has been looking fer a lass named Hortensia fer the past few days,” he told Marjorie’s companion. “Loudly.”

  Her cheeks darkened to crimson. “I have in no way encouraged any such thing,” she said, a slight squeak in her voice. She fanned at her face with both hands.

  “Regardless, I cannae have him stirring up questions.”

  “Please don’t tell me you mean to kidnap him,” Marjorie put in, clearly only half jesting.

  “And what do ye suggest, then? That I kill him? Have him over fer tea?”

  Making a face at him, she turned to Mrs. Hortensia Giswell. “Is he … trustworthy, do you think?”

  “I … How in the world would I know?”

  “Mrs. Giswell, this concerns the safety of those young boys,” she pointed out, making Graeme want to kiss her all over again.

  “Oh, dear.” The companion sank into a chair. “Yes, I think he could be trusted with the truth. But not if you kidnap him.”

  “Yes, then,” Marjorie said, looking over at him again. “Have him over for tea.”

  “Oh, aye. And biscuits. That’d nae make the blacksmith suspicious at all.” Women. One of them had proved to have some tolerable ideas, but they were both definitely English. “I’ll ask him over to look at horseshoes. Ye can chat with him in the morning room. And be convincing, if ye please. I dunnae think that shackle’ll fit his mighty leg.”

  “Well, thank goodness for Mr. Polk’s large ankles.” Marjorie took Mrs. Giswell’s arm and the two women left the room.

  Now he needed to let someone else in on the goings-on at the Lion’s Den. If this continued, everyone in the valley would know. Most of them he would trust with that information, but there were a few who were more loyal to Dunncraigh than they were to him, particularly with the limited aid and charity he could grant them.

  On the other hand, he still didn’t quite trust Brendan even though his brother’s threats and complaints about Ree had subsided over the past few days. And yet he sent Brendan out nearly every day to help the cotters with the preparation for the heavy snow—where the sixteen-year-old had numerous opportunities to betray the lot of them.

  Complications piled on top of lies spread over trouble. And in the middle of it, when he should have been concentrating on finding a way to get Marjorie Forrester out of the valley, he continued to look for every possible excuse to have her stay.

  Chapter Twelve

  Graeme met Robert Polk in the stable. The blacksmith’s dark beard looked less well tended than usual, and the typical grim smile with which he gre
eted every new challenge had been replaced by a deep scowl. “Laird Maxton,” he said brusquely. “Ye’ve a horse needs shoeing? I’ll see to it, but I’ve other worries today.”

  The two of them stood about the same height, but the smith had shoulders molded by years of wielding a heavy hammer, and the rest of him built to match his shoulders. Graeme had never considered having to fight the man, but today could be that day. It would be interesting, at the least.

  “Come inside with me, then,” he said aloud. They could do much more damage in the house.

  “Yer horse is inside the hoose, then?” Rob asked, lifting an eyebrow.

  “Nae. I want a word with ye.”

  “I’m here, then. I dunnae belong in a grand hoose.”

  Graeme took a half step backward into the muddy stableyard, trying to lure the smith into the open before they spooked the livestock. “I’ve someaught to tell ye, Rob, and I need ye to listen to the end, and to keep what I say just between the two of us. Aye?”

  Following him outside, Robert rubbed his beard. “I reckon I can do that. Ye’ve my word.”

  “To begin with,” Graeme began, making certain he had room to move if the blacksmith came after him, “ye know Dunncraigh and I arenae bosom friends.”

  “Ye dunnae hold with the way he treats the outlying Maxwells. I’ve nae argument with ye there, as I’m one of the outlying Maxwells.”

  Resisting the urge to smile mostly so that his amusement wouldn’t come back to bite him in the arse in a few minutes, Graeme nodded. “Thank ye fer that. Anyway, my brothers overheard my last argument with the Maxwell. Then at the Cracked Hearth they realized the Sassenach lass who’d just arrived was the Duke of Lattimer’s sister.”

  The smith’s mildly impatient look dropped. “Hortensia’s niece is Lattimer’s sister? Why didnae—”

  “Hortensia,” Graeme cut in, the companion’s Christian name odd on his tongue, “isnae Marjorie’s aunt. She’s Marjorie’s companion. When my boys took Ree, Mrs. Giswell didnae want anyone knowing they had a grander prize than they realized.”

  “That’s clever, I suppose, but she could have told me the truth.” Slowly he lifted his gaze toward the house. “Hold a bit. Ye mean to say this Marjorie’s been here all along?”

  “Aye. I couldnae see my brothers arrested fer taking her.” Graeme inhaled a deep breath. This next part would be tricky. “Once word got oot that I had a Marjorie staying here, I didnae want to risk Mrs. Giswell sending fer Lattimer or soldiers. So I had to … move her here.”

  “Ye moved her here,” Robert repeated. “And she didnae bother to tell me where she was headed? The lads got a note to stay put, but I didnae get a thing.”

  She hadn’t written the note to the two English servants, but that wouldn’t matter to the blacksmith. “I didnae ask her permission first.”

  “Ye … Och. Ye kidnapped her. Just like yer bràthairs did with the other lass.”

  “I—”

  “I reckoned she’d gotten tired of having a rough lad like me following her aboot.” Abruptly the smith rounded on Graeme. “Is she well? Because my chieftain or nae, if ye’ve harmed her I swear ye and I are going to have a tussle.”

  Graeme inclined his head. “I could give ye my word that she’s fine, but I reckon ye’d rather see fer yerself.”

  “That, I would.”

  So far, at least, that had gone better than he expected. He led the way into the morning room where both ladies sat, standing back as the furry bear of a man wrapped his arms around the proper and stout Mrs. Giswell and lifted her into the air.

  “Are ye well, lass? I thought ye’d gone searching on yer own and gotten yerself lost. Those boys of yers said ye’d gone, but ye didnae leave me word. I looked everywhere fer ye.”

  “My word! Put me down, Rob. For heaven’s sake.”

  “He knows what’s afoot,” Graeme told them, stepping away from the doorway. “I’m trusting the lot of ye from here on.”

  Did the blacksmith and the lady’s companion have a future together? He hoped so; they seemed genuinely enamored of each other. They had no other familial or clan responsibilities that he knew of, nothing to keep them apart but the one being Scottish, and the other English. As far as he knew Hortensia Giswell had no secret desire to be accepted by the bluest bloods of the London haut ton.

  A hand touched his arm. “Thank you,” Marjorie said. “I know including Mr. Polk went against your better judgment.”

  “Well, once ye ask me to grant ye a wish, lass, there’s nae stopping me.”

  “You haven’t let me go,” she reminded him.

  “That’s because ye being here is the one thing I wish,” he muttered, resuming his walk through the foyer. Canopies and tables for the fair would be arriving beginning today, and they had wooden planks to lay over the muddiest parts of the meadow adjoining the house. It had given him another excuse to get Brendan out of the house and away from their female guests, but sooner rather than later he needed to have a serious chat with the lad.

  A hand gripped his, pulling. “What did you say just then?” Marjorie demanded.

  “I said I granted ye what ye wished,” he returned, facing her. “Care to come see the meadow we’re readying fer the winter fair?”

  Her mouth opened and closed again, her pretty eyes widening just a little. “Of course I do. I’ve been wanting to go outside for days. But will my being seen put your brothers at risk?”

  “I reckon by now everyone fer ten miles around knows I’ve an English governess here. If ye dunnae claim to be anyone but Ree Giswell, ye’ll be naught but a minor curiosity.”

  “‘A minor curiosity’?” she repeated. “That would be a lovely change.” Wrapping her fingers around his forearm, she walked beside him out the front door and onto the rutted oyster-shell drive, and he pretended that his heart sped because the wind was brisk.

  When she stopped to look back at the house, he paused beside her. She’d never seen it from the outside, he realized belatedly. Graeme looked at Garaidh nan Leòmhann, the Lion’s Den, again himself. Pale gray stones, a rose trellis climbing up the wall beside the morning room window, two stories and an attic in a large, blocky rectangle that had definitely seen better days. Better centuries, more like. With the roses more or less untended for the past eight years and dying back now in the cold, trim peeling away from the window frames, and the corner of the small, weed-dotted garden in view, it looked … tired.

  “It’s nae much to look at,” he said aloud, “but I reckon it has heart.” A more gentle and compassionate one since she’d arrived, but he wasn’t going to tell her that.

  “I can imagine a dragon nesting on the roof,” she returned. “A medium-sized one, looming in the fog. A large dragon would be a bit much, I think. And very clichéd.”

  Hm. He hadn’t expected that response. “Dragons?”

  “Just one. As a child I always thought dragons lived in the Highlands. This would be a splendid place for one to reside. The Lion’s Den is quite … magical-looking, you have to admit.”

  Graeme looked all over again at the house in which he’d been born. Magical? Perhaps too many nonmagical things had happened there, but he didn’t see it. “I like that ye can see it that way,” he said after a moment. “I’ve heard tales that it used to be a much prouder place.”

  After that she wanted to see the stables and know the names of the two saddle horses and two cart and plow horses residing there, then he led her down to the bank of the river Douchary. Where the water widened and slowed, the banks were frozen out two or three inches. Soon the wide strip of free-flowing water in the middle would begin to narrow, and by January they’d be hammering through the ice to get fresh water.

  “I didn’t expect to see so many trees in the Highlands,” she commented, her gaze on the scattered stands of birch and mountain ash that made their way along the far bank of the river.

  Did she see them as a promising place to hide if she ever attempted to escape? He hoped not, because she’d
never make it across the wild, white-spitting river. “Anywhere the wind cannae howl through, the trees dig into the ground and rise up as far as they can. Most of the valley here is trees and hollows and rivulets. My ancestors built on this side of the river because the winds keep the trees back. Highlanders prefer to see who’s riding up on them with torches and cannon.”

  “It’s very pretty,” she said, freeing her hand to rub both her forearms. To a lass from the soft, warm south, the air must be biting cold today. He shrugged out of his coat and draped it across her shoulders.

  “I need to find ye some warmer things to wear.”

  “I’m fairly handy with a needle and thread. If you don’t mind me altering a few of your mother’s things, I believe I can make do. Though you kidnapped Mrs. Giswell’s trunk along with her, so I suppose you could go back and do the same thing with mine.”

  “I didnae kidnap her trunk. I wanted her to be more comfortable than I ken ye’ve been. I do try to learn from my mistakes, which is why I suppose I’ll be going back for yer things, now.” He preferred not to, as it would make it easier for her to flee, but the lass needed her damned clothes.

  A smile touched her sweet mouth. “I imagine my wardrobe troubles could have been much worse. And I’m lately feeling somewhat … mollified.”

  He drew her a breath closer. “Are ye, then?”

  “Graeme!” Connell’s voice came from the direction of the stable. “Honker’s oot! We have to get ’im before he’s ate by a wildcat!” The bairn went charging up the rise toward the meadow.

  “Honker?” Marjorie asked.

  “Connell’s greylag gander. He lives in the stable.”

  Marjorie gathered her skirts and hurried after Graeme, but as he headed after his youngest brother at a run, she might as well have been standing still. A goose, multiple cats, a pair of foxes, three baby rabbits, and heaven knew what else, but Graeme had hundreds more lives stacked on top of that. And he still took the time to chase down a pet goose with his eight-year-old brother.