Halfway up the hill, though, she stopped. What in the world was she doing? Whatever he said about keeping her and his family safe, whatever she’d agreed to, she was still a prisoner. And just across the rather formidable-looking river behind her lay freedom.
Even as the thought occurred to her, though, she knew she wasn’t going anywhere. Perhaps she did know approximately where in the Highlands she now found herself, but she still wasn’t prepared for a hike through the wilderness. And she … didn’t want to go. She wanted to stay, at least until she’d figured out why she found this man—a barbarian and a heathen who seemed to enjoy nothing so much as flaunting the rules and dragging her along with him—so compelling. Until she’d rid him from her thoughts and felt ready to return to her very large, comfortable house in London.
Still panting, she resumed her sprint to the top of the rise. She definitely needed to go for more walks, if she could possibly arrange it. The meadow spread out before her, piles of wood planks stacked here and there among rolls of heavy canvas and two dozen men marking things with stakes and string.
In the middle of all that, a large blue-gray goose honked and flapped, dodging Connell, Graeme, and anyone else running after it. She recognized Brendan as he made a dive, only to get tangled up in twine. And Graeme, in his white linen shirt and kilt with work boots, looked magnificent but wasn’t faring much better. Connell, flapping and squawking himself, seemed more excited than worried.
Finally Graeme made a twisting leap, scooping the gander up in his arms and rolling several times before he came to a stop. Marjorie put both hands over her mouth, trying to stifle her laughter, as Connell flung up his arms and then collapsed beside his brother.
“Well done,” she called, clapping. Marjorie picked her way over the remaining stakes and twine to stop beside them.
Breathing hard, Graeme grinned up at her. “If he ever figures oot how to fly, we’re done fer.”
“He cannae fly,” Connell put in. “A wildcat tried to eat his wing when he was a bairn.”
As she looked at Honker more closely, she could see the long length of featherless wing on one side. Another orphan Connell had needed to rescue. Another lost soul Graeme had allowed his brother to bring into the family.
Had she been one? Was that the real reason Connell had noticed her and had gone along with his older brother’s plan? Was she a lost soul trying to fit into a place that neither needed nor wanted her presence? But where, then, was she supposed to go? She had the education and the sophistication to be an aristocrat, a house nicer than half the dwellings in Mayfair, and tradition had affixed “Lady” in front of her name the moment they’d recognized Gabriel as the Duke of Lattimer.
No one, though, had given any indication that she belonged among the blue bloods of London. And after her escapade here in the Highlands, she never would. Where, then, did she belong? Where would she feel that she’d achieved what she’d spent most of her life pursuing? Was—
Connell sat upright and took her hand, pulling her down to sit beside Graeme in the damp grass. “Pet him, Ree. His name’s Honker. He’s very friendly, but he likes to run aboot in the meadow.”
With Graeme still on his back and the gander cradled against his chest, she reached over to run her fingertips against the soft feathers of the bird’s breast. The head swiveled, beady black eyes assessing her, until he curved his neck to shove the top of his head beneath her hand.
“Honker likes ye,” Connell announced. “I told ye he was friendly.”
“He’s very soft,” she offered.
“And cunning,” Graeme added. “We’d best get him back inside and help restake the meadow before the lads decide we’re more trouble than we’re worth.”
A hand lowered to help her to her feet. She took it and stood, looking up to see Brendan gazing at her. “Thank you,” she said.
Gray eyes held hers for a short moment. “We dunnae all find ye as charming as Graeme does,” he murmured, sent a glance at his older brother, and walked away again.
“Brendan,” Graeme said sharply, as he stood. “What did he say to ye, lass?” Without waiting for an answer, he put the goose into her arms and strode after his brother, grabbing him by the shirt to haul him back in front of her. “Apologize, Brendan. Whatever ye said.”
Putting a half smile on her face, she shook her head. “He said you think I’m charming.” He had; she’d only left out the other bits because they were between her and Brendan. “That doesn’t require an apology where I’m from.”
The sixteen-year-old’s sharp eyes glanced at her and then away. “Satisfied, ye great lug?” he grumbled, shrugging out of Graeme’s grip and stalking away again.
“That’s all ye have to say?” Graeme asked, eyeing her now.
She handed him the goose back. “Don’t try to begin a fight with me, Highlander,” she countered. For a minute there, before Brendan had reminded her that she didn’t belong at the Lion’s Den, either, she’d almost felt like a part of the Maxton family. And for that brief moment, she’d liked it. “I haven’t done anything.”
“Aye,” he said, blowing out his breath. “The lad has the right of it, ye ken.”
The right of what? That almost no one here found her charming? That she didn’t belong here any more than she did anywhere else? “Oh?”
The fingers of his free hand brushed against hers. “Aye. I do find ye charming.”
This time she felt her smile all the way to her insides, and the world seemed to right itself again. When his opinion had come to mean so much to her she didn’t know, but it clearly did. “You have your moments as well, I suppose,” she conceded. “When you’re not trying to bully me.” Aside from those long, delicious moments in his bedchamber, she liked seeing him with his brothers. The warmth and affection they felt for each other was palpable—and very compelling.
“Johnny,” he called, as the groom finished untangling himself from still more twine and approached. “Take Honker back to his pen, will ye, lad?”
“Of course, m’laird.” The groom took the gray-blue bird. “So ye think ye can escape, do ye? We’ll see if ye get that extra measure of corn tonight.” The gander honked at him. “Och, dunnae try apologizing. Ye made a mess of the meadow.”
With her still laughing at the exchange, Graeme moved closer to her. “Ye didnae try to run,” he murmured.
She nodded. “I considered it,” she admitted. He would only call her a liar if she claimed the thought had never crossed her mind. “We know Sir Hamish is nearby, so I decided not to risk stumbling across him.”
The explanation made sense, at least. Otherwise she was going to have to face something that made no sense at all; in spite of being kidnapped, locked in a room, chained to a bed, and very nearly forced into a marriage, she … liked it here. Being among the wild-hearted, unconventional Maxtons made her forget how badly she’d been failing in London.
It wasn’t merely that she’d been occupied with pretending to be Connell’s tutor, either. When she’d served as a lady’s companion she’d frequently spent her nights lying awake as dread shoved down her throat until she nearly suffocated from it. A lifetime spent fluffing pillows and fetching tea for women who’d likely failed their own run at Society had felt forever and empty and useless.
She didn’t feel that, now. But what in the world did that say about her and her life, if staying in her captor’s house in the middle of the Scottish Highlands left her happier than having money and status in London?
“What’s troubling ye, lass?” Graeme asked, stopping her at the front edge of the drive.
“I hadn’t realized how much I miss walking,” she improvised.
“Liar,” he returned, and moved past her into the house.
Well. “What makes you think I’m lying, you rude man?” she retorted, pursuing him down the hallway.
“Because ye didnae weep when the lads dragged ye off to Garaidh nan Leòmhann. Missing a stroll wouldnae make ye so much as blink. If ye dunnae want to say
why ye’re crying, just tell me so. Dunnae lie aboot it.”
“I’m not weeping,” she stated, wiping a tear from her cheek. “I got goose down in my eye.”
“And I’ve got goose down in my brain, then,” he countered, striding into his office.
“You said it; not I.”
As she pushed inside the room after him, Graeme sidestepped, yanked her over by the desk, and shut and locked the door behind them. She opened her mouth to protest once again that she wasn’t weeping, and to point out that a gentleman didn’t pursue such a line of questions, but he stopped her words with his own mouth as he kissed her. Their tongues tangled, her pulse skimming and skipping as he slid his hands around her hips and pulled her against him.
“That’s better,” he finally said, lifting his head. “It’ll do until tonight, anyway.”
It took a moment for her to gather her thoughts enough to form words again. “What’s tonight, then?” she asked, even though that kiss gave her a very good idea.
“Tonight’s when I’ll have ye again, Marjorie,” he drawled, running a finger along the neckline of her gown. “I’ve been patient fer two days, and I’m nae a patient man.”
“What about all the lasses in the area, Graeme? Surely any number of them would be eager to share your bed. To have a place by your side, even. Connell’s not an infant any longer, and you don’t have to continue to do this alone.”
He frowned. “Dunnae ye want me, lass?” he murmured, turning the attention of his mouth and lips to her jawline.
Did she want him? She could scarcely think of anything but being naked with him again. “That’s not the point,” she insisted, her eyes closing at the lightning shivers his touch elicited. “A chieftain of clan Maxwell needs a wife and heirs. I…” Oh, goodness, what was she saying? “I mean to say, I’m not…” She cleared her throat. “I’m ruined now, as I’ve said, and as such I have no objection to a dalliance. But Connell—and Dùghlas and Brendan—need a female influence in their lives. Badly. And a little bit of taming wouldn’t hurt you, either. Perhaps, then, you shouldn’t be wasting your time with me.”
Somewhere in the middle of all that he’d stopped those toe-curling, feather-light kisses and straightened, gazing at her. Marjorie didn’t know which would be more painful—to have him agree that she was a dalliance when he had better things to do, or to hear him say that she needed to mind her own business because she was, after all, just a Sassenach surrounded by Highlanders.
“Ye sound like Father Michael,” he finally said, “always trying to get me leg-shackled to some ‘promising’ lass or other. I’m nae a monk, Ree. Ye’re nae the first lass to lie in my bed.”
Well, that hurt. “I didn’t think I was,” she said stiffly. “But that—”
“I’m nae some moonstruck bairn who needs to be led aboot. I have eyes … and I’m looking at ye.” He stirred a little. “And since we both know ye’ll be gone as soon as I let ye, then I dunnae see any hearts in danger of being broken. I ask ye to share my bed. If ye’ve nae objection, then leave yer damned door unlocked tonight.”
“I have no objection,” she whispered, so he wouldn’t hear the trembling of her voice. Nothing permanent, but together as long as she was there. She could manage that. Until, perhaps, she decided to go, or he decided it would be safe for her to leave. That, however, wouldn’t be today.
And if part of her wished that Sir Hamish’s fishing holiday was proceeding so splendidly that he would decide to extend his stay in the valley, well, she didn’t need to admit that to anyone but herself.
* * *
Hortensia backed away from the office door, careful not to rattle the old china tea set on the tray she carried. And she thought she’d gone astray. A few kisses and some discreet handholding, though, could hardly compare to what she’d just overheard.
Of course it would take a herculean effort to salvage Lady Marjorie’s reputation should any rumors about a kidnapping emerge. What neither of the two young people in the office had grasped, though, was that at this moment no one outside of this ramshackle mansion knew there had even been a kidnapping. No one knew Lady Marjorie Forrester was missing.
For heaven’s sake, did the young lady think her companion had learned nothing after the disaster with Princess Sophia? The fewer people who knew anything was amiss, the fewer who could wag their tongues about it. If they needed an excuse, they would have the time and opportunity to conjure one.
In fact, Lady Marjorie seemed to be creating the one possible complication herself. A pregnancy would dash any chance for her to emerge unscathed. On the other hand, a child could always be a foundling or the child of some deceased friend or distant relation or other. A good handful of “foundlings” resided in perfectly respectable households with their perfectly respectable “rescuers.” Everything could be managed, as long as a modicum of discretion accompanied it.
The three younger Maxtons trudged into the house, and she stepped to one side of the hallway to let them pass. Little ill-mannered heathens, even though two of them were taller than she was. Someone should have taken a switch to them years ago. Now it was likely too late to rehabilitate any of them but that Connell—and given the way he preferred to nest with wild animals, even that would be a challenge.
“… doesnae mean anything,” the oldest one was saying, as he wrapped an arm around Connell’s waist and hung the boy over his shoulder.
“It means she could’ve had ye shoveling shite in the stable, and she didnae,” the middle, more clever one pointed out. “And that’s after ye stole her, threatened her, and insulted her. I’d have walloped ye fer every single one of those things.”
“Ye’d have tried, horseface.”
“Cow lips.”
“I’m the Bruce!” Connell yelled, for no apparent reason, and then they were past her and up the stairs.
Madmen. The lot of them. But then Lady Marjorie emerged from the office, her hair coming loose from its pins on one side and her lips swollen. With a smile at the door she turned for the stairs, only to begin humming that song about two bonnie maidens, which everyone knew to be about the Jacobite rebellion. Of course it was good fun to sing it in a horrid brogue in London drawing rooms, but here it seemed very questionable and likely scandalous.
Hortensia opened her mouth to caution her mistress, but stopped herself when Lady Marjorie flung out her arms and twirled in a circle. In the two months she’d known the young lady, Marjorie had never hummed or sung, and she’d certainly never spun.
“Oh, Mrs. Giswell,” the young lady exclaimed, stopping in mid-hum and blushing. “I didn’t see you there.”
“I’m bringing tea to Sir Robert. To Mr. Polk, I mean. Entertaining him in a room with just the two of us isn’t exactly proper, but with no female servants but that savage cook in residence, I’ll simply have to leave the morning room door open and make do.”
“He seems very respectful of you, in any case,” the lady replied.
“He is. Not that anything could come of a Scottish blacksmith and an English lady’s companion, but flirtation is an art and should be practiced from time to time.”
“Just a flirtation, Mrs. Giswell?” she said, her eyes sparkling with good humor. “Your Mr. Polk seemed excessively relieved to see you in good health.”
“Yes, I think he was. But our time here is both unwilling and temporary, my lady, so what could it be if not a flirtation?”
The teasing grin on her employer’s face fled, her gaze lowering. “Yes, of course you’re correct. What else could it be?” She smoothed her skirt. “The priest is due here shortly. You haven’t seen Connell, have you?”
“Upstairs with his brothers, I believe.”
“Thank you. And please, be certain Mr. Polk remembers the roles we’re playing if he speaks to Father Michael.”
“I will, my lady. My niece, I mean. Ree.”
With a flip of her hand and an utterly fake smile Lady Marjorie walked up the stairs. Her thoughts roiling, Hortensia watched
her out of sight. Oh, dear. This was far more serious than she’d realized. However this misadventure had begun, Marjorie was … happy. Here. Perhaps she hadn’t even realized it, but no one who hummed and smiled and spun in private—or what she’d thought had been private—was unhappy.
Hefting the tea tray, she pushed backward against the mostly closed morning room door and slipped inside, only to have strong, warm hands close over her shoulders. “A flirtation, am I?” Sir Robert muttered, leaning around with his bushy beard to kiss her on the cheek.
“I wanted to remind Lady Marjorie that she has plans, and that they don’t include Graeme, Lord Maxton.” She set down the tray to pour him a cup of tea with four lumps of sugar. After ten years of marriage to the very plain and practical Mr. Giswell, she appreciated a man with a sweet tooth.
“But what aboot yer plans, Hortensia?”
With a sigh she handed him the cup and saucer and then sat down on the couch beside him. “As long as she needs me, I go where Lady Marjorie goes.”
“Then mayhap ye shouldnae be pointing oot that she has other plans, lass.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Stay here, you mean? Lady Marjorie wants to be a success in Society. She can’t do that here.” Aside from that, happiness and success rarely had anything to do with each other. So while she might find one here, she certainly wouldn’t find the other.
The blacksmith shrugged. “Mayhap she’ll change her mind aboot what she wants.”
If Marjorie wasn’t careful, she might find herself without a choice altogether. And that would leave her with neither happiness nor success. Nor any need for a lady’s companion, because she would no longer be considered a lady.
Chapter Thirteen
Graeme could swear the number of cats in the house had multiplied. They might well have done it on their own, as cats were known to do, or Connell might have smuggled more inside on the chance that no one would notice. Either way, some of them were going to have to go out to the stable.
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