My One True Highlander

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Write yer brother’s name on it; I’ll get it to Cooper.” He stood beside her. “Ye sit fer a few minutes and get yer thoughts back together—unless ye care to explain to the duckling why ye’ve been crying.”

  “No, I do not.” Leaning over the table, she wrote the Lattimer name and address on the outside of the folded note. She handed it to him, then rose up on her toes and placed a feather-soft kiss on his mouth.

  That might well be his favorite kiss ever. He hadn’t instigated it or even expected it. She’d kissed him simply because she’d wanted to—and he would never forget that moment. “I’ll nae be sleeping alone tonight, lass,” he murmured, smiling down at her.

  With that he tucked her letter into his coat and returned to the meadow to find Marjorie’s messenger. Aye, he didn’t mind Lattimer knowing she was safe. Knowing where she was or coming to fetch her, though—that would mean a fight. He wasn’t giving her up, even if it did mean a war.

  * * *

  “What the devil are they doing?” Sir Hamish Paulk reined in his horse, guiding the nervous beast in a tight circle amid the trees where they stood across the river Douchary from the Lion’s Den.

  Raibeart Maxton looked from his guest to his nephews spread across the meadow. “Young Connell likes to look fer treasures after a gathering.”

  “The castoffs of cotters and shepherds? In front of the men taking doon tents? Yer nephew doesnae know how to run a household, much less clan Maxwell.”

  After over a week of nearly continuous insults aimed at Graeme, Raibeart had become so accustomed to them he barely bothered to listen. Insulting the young lad, though, seemed both mean-spirited and pointless. “The bairn’s but eight years old, Hamish. I’ve yet to meet any young lad who doesnae dream of finding treasure.”

  “The…” The Maxwell chieftain trailed off. “Did ye see that? Miss Giswell tossed a coin into the grass fer the boy to find.”

  “Nae, I didnae. That was kind of her.”

  “Aye. But where did Maxton find a well-educated English lass to tutor his brothers? And how did he afford to bring her up here? And how is he paying her enough that she can toss coins into the grass? Ye mark my words, Raibeart. Someaught’s afoot here.”

  “If ye care to hear my opinion, Hamish, Graeme’s done as well as anyone could here. The Maxtons have always had more spleen than money, and he works with his own hands to support his cotters.”

  “They’re nae his cotters. They’re Dunncraigh’s. That’s what ye Maxtons keep fergetting.”

  “Ye need a new song to sing, my friend. This is a small corner of clan Maxwell, and one that the lot of ye, except fer Graeme, mostly ignore. Let it be. Let him be.”

  Hamish edged his mount forward a little. “What’s this? The Sassenach looks like she’s aboot to kiss that old lad.” He chuckled. “If she’s after a proper Highlander mayhap I should ride doon there and give her one.”

  “Dunnae be crude. If she can tame those lads some, she has my respect. And my gratitude. Now let’s get back. I told ye the river here’s too swift fer fishing.”

  “In a damned minute.” He leaned forward in the saddle. “So she goes back to the hoose, then Maxton does. Do ye reckon he’s plowing her? I would be.”

  “Ye’ve made that clear enough. What do ye think, he’s going to walk oot of the hoose carrying enemy Campbell colors or someaught? Let’s go.”

  Instead of leaving, Hamish swung out of the saddle. “I reckon I’ll go after a trout or two here, anyway. Just because ye say there’s naught here, ye dunnae expect me to take yer word fer it.”

  “T’would be nice if ye did, aye,” Raibeart grunted, dismounting to unlash his pole from the back of the saddle. “Ye might just admit ye’re spying on a man fer nae good reason.”

  Hamish jabbed a finger at him. “Dunnae ye try to tell me what’s nae good reason,” he growled. “I had my own niece at Lattimer, and trusted her to keep an eye on that Sassenach. We lost over a thousand of our clan because I trusted that damned female. And now she’s marrying him. I’ll be keeping an eye on everything myself from now on, thank ye very much.”

  Raibeart blew out his breath. “I willnae comment, then, that what truly irks ye is that Fiona’s aboot to be a duchess, Sir Hamish.”

  “Aye, ye’d best nae say such a damned idiotic thing. And…”

  Paulk trailed off again. Beginning to wish, and not for the first time, that he hadn’t bragged about the trout fishing on Loch Achall, Raibeart followed his friend’s gaze. On the other side of the river Graeme approached the gray-haired stranger with whom Miss Giswell had spoken so intently earlier. They talked for a minute, and then Graeme handed him a folded missive and what looked like a five-pound note.

  Five quid was a damned fortune for that boy. What the devil was he doing, giving it away with a handshake? As soon as the two men parted, the older one left the meadow to head up the road toward the old bridge and Sheiling beyond.

  When Raibeart turned around, Hamish had already returned his fishing pole to his saddle. “Ye can stay or go back if ye choose, but I mean to find oot what in that letter is worth five pounds.” He snorted. “Spying fer nae good reason, my damned arse.”

  They reached the bridge first, and had to wait a good half hour before the old man appeared. “Well met,” Hamish said, sending his gelding in a circle around the man and his formidable mustache. “From yer tartan I make ye oot to be clan Stewart. What brings ye into Maxwell territory?”

  “Work. I’m a builder. And I’ve the afternoon mail coach to catch, if it pleases ye.”

  “It’ll please me more if ye let me have a look at the paper Graeme, Laird Maxton, handed ye.”

  The man’s friendly, open expression closed down. “Whoever ye are, I was paid to deliver a letter. I aim to do it.”

  “I’ll pay ye more fer a look at it.”

  Lately low-voiced tendrils of whispers had begun to spread that Hamish might have had something to do with the disappearance of his own nephew, Fiona Blackstock’s brother, four years earlier. Raibeart had never paid the tales much attention—he knew his friend’s reluctance to dirty his own hands. But he also knew Hamish still burned from the loss of face he and Dunncraigh had shared at Lattimer Castle.

  “Thank ye fer the kind offer, stranger,” the Stewart lad returned, “but I’ll have to decline.”

  “That wouldnae be wise, friend.”

  “Hamish,” Raibeart broke in, “let it be.”

  “Sir Hamish,” Hamish corrected, his hard gaze still on the mustached fellow. “Sir Hamish Paulk. Chieftain of clan Maxwell. And ye’ll hand me that letter, or I’ll drag ye behind my horse to the Duke of Dunncraigh’s doorstep as a Stewart spy.”

  The man blanched. “I’m nae such thing!”

  Hamish held out his hand, palm up. “Prove it.”

  His own hands shaking a little, the man pulled a folded missive from his inner coat pocket and handed it up to Hamish. “Take it, then. Just leave me be.”

  With a flourish and a smirk that said as much about Paulk as his bombast ever could, he unfolded the letter. As his eyes scanned the missive, his mouth opened and closed like one of the fish they’d landed. At the same time, all the color left his face.

  “Hamish?” Raibeart prompted, abruptly alarmed.

  “By the devil,” Paulk muttered, folding the letter again. “Take it, Stewart,” he said, leaning sideways to hand it back. “Deliver it. And feel free to tell the Sassenach exactly what just happened here.”

  With a frown the stranger placed the missive back in his pocket, tucked his coat closer around him, and hurried up the road toward Sheiling.

  “What did it say?”

  Hamish wheeled his mount. “And ye said to leave it be. Did ye know, ye bastard?”

  “What are ye going on aboot?”

  “That Sassenach lass. Miss Giswell. She’s nae who she claims.” The chieftain sent his gelding into a gallop, headed back for Mòriasg, Raibeart’s mansion. “She’s Lady Marjorie Forrester.”
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  Forrester. “Lattimer’s kin?”

  “His sister. And yer nephew’s harboring her. What do ye ken Dunncraigh will have to say aboot that?”

  Oh, God. Raibeart could imagine it all—and it wouldn’t be pleasant. “Hamish, he’s my nephew. And so are the other three. Connell’s but eight.”

  Hamish looked over at him. “If ye want to spare them, ye’d best think of someaught fast.”

  Raibeart looked in the direction of the Lion’s Den. What the devil had Graeme been thinking? The very second Dunncraigh heard about who’d been residing beneath Graeme’s roof, and that the lad had been lying about who she was, the Maxwell would see him gone from the clan. He’d become an enemy in the middle of Maxwell territory, and likely find himself burned out of his own house.

  “Take her to Dunncraigh yerself,” he said aloud. “This is between the Maxwell and Lattimer, anyway. Leave the lads oot of it.”

  Hamish slowed to a canter. “That doesnae get me this territory.”

  “It does make ye the man who delivered Dunncraigh the means to be rid of Lattimer. Ye said the Maxwell wanted Lattimer to sell the castle and land to him, and leave the Highlands. Ye’ll have the Sassenach’s sister.”

  Slowly Hamish nodded. “Now that’s an interesting idea. And ye’ll be helping me with it.”

  Raibeart sighed. If he didn’t, it would be his nephews on the headsman’s block. “Aye. I’ll help ye.” And God help him, the Maxton brothers, and the poor lass.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Marjorie let out her breath in a shivering moan. With Graeme’s fingers teasing up inside her and his tongue and teeth on her breasts, she felt like a quivering twist of shivering, trembling nerves. When his hands and his mouth traded positions, she lost the ability to speak.

  “Graeme,” she groaned, the only word she could conjure. “Oh, Graeme.”

  She gripped his hair in her hands, arching her back and trying not to suffocate him between her thighs. If a lady didn’t indulge her carnal desires, she was well finished with being one. Because she was not going to give this up—give him up—for anything.

  As she began to think she might faint from pure pleasure, he slid up her body, pausing to lick a sensitive nipple, and kissed her with an openmouthed growl. At the same moment he slid warm and hard inside her, and her fingers dug spasmodically into his shoulders. He’d said she no longer had to be alone. It was just words, hopeful words, until moments like this.

  They were two people, but at the same time they were one, mingled breath, mingled sweat, no space between where she ended and he began. Even their hearts had the same fast rhythm. With every deep thrust she groaned, holding his gaze, watching to see the exquisite moment he climaxed inside her. She could feel it, feel both of them, rushing, quickening, rising, until with a deep groan he let loose, and she shook and shattered around him in response.

  “Fer God’s sake, lass,” he murmured, lowering his forehead against hers. “Ye undo me.”

  She grinned breathlessly. “I’m undone, myself.”

  Graeme kissed her again, this time achingly gentle. “I love ye, lass, mo boireann leòmhann.”

  “I love you,” she returned. They were words she’d never expected to say, and every time she uttered them, she felt stronger.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said, shifting onto his back and pulling her over on top of him. “Ye ken what this hoose needs?”

  “A new roof? Fresh paint?” she suggested, chuckling.

  “A dog.”

  Marjorie snorted. “That should go well with the foxes, cats, rabbits, and the goose.”

  “It’ll have to be a pup. By the time he grows up he’ll reckon all this is normal.”

  She twisted her head to look at him. “You’re serious, then.”

  “Aye.”

  “If I’m staying here, the dog has to be female. I’m outnumbered enough as it is.”

  His arms tightened around her, and he kissed her ear. “Oh, ye’re staying. I still have that shackle, and I’m nae afraid to use it.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that.” If she did stay, as she wanted to, more badly with each passing hour and every time she thought about never having to return to London and those unkind, resentful gazes—she required one more thing from him. But while her comportment lessons had discussed flirtations and making oneself appealing to men, she had no idea how to suggest to a man—to this man in particular—that he needed to ask her to marry him. Ask her. Not demand or bellow at her. And since that mess had already happened and she’d turned him down, how was she to let him know that she might be much more amenable this time?

  Now that she knew him, she would be happy to see her money going to improving the lives of his family and his tenants. But after endless lessons on ladylike behavior, she couldn’t continue breaking the primary rule. Good heavens, what if she became pregnant? They’d certainly been having enough sex to make that plausible, if not probable.

  “So, a dog—a bitch—it is, then.”

  Young footsteps and the quick click of fox feet rumbled by and down the stairs. Marjorie sat up and slid from the warm, comfortable bed. “Yes, of course,” she said, knowing she sounded a bit brusque and not particularly caring. “First things first.”

  He sat up as well, the blankets falling deliciously past his waist. “Are we arguing aboot someaught again? I’m naked, so I reckon it’s time fer a fight.”

  “That depends on your list of things you wish to do here.” She pulled on her night rail. “I need to go get dressed before Connell comes back upstairs.”

  “I’m nae going to stomp after ye again, so come here.”

  So now he thought he could order her about. Narrowing her eyes, she started for the door. They did seem to end their rather excellent evenings and mornings with him naked and bellowing while she walked away. With a grimace she walked back and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Ye ken I started after ye because of yer money and yer brother,” he said, trailing his fingers down her wrist. “But we have managed fer three generations withoot a spare coin to pitch. A time ago I’d nae have let ye go because I didnae much care how ye felt aboot all this. Now, though, I reckon I’d be after ye no matter whose sister ye were, or what yer income might be.”

  “I know that. And you know I said I’m not accustomed to wealth, either, but what I have is yours.”

  “Aye. Then why was I talking aboot a dog, when ye were talking aboot someaught else I cannae fathom?”

  “Because you’re a heathen Highlander, I suppose,” she said with a sigh. “The one thing you insisted on before when I refused, is the same thing you don’t seem to be offering now. If you can’t decipher that … Well, I suggest you do so.” Twisting around, she kissed him. Whenever they touched, the idea of living in sin seemed less significant than her need, she supposed it was, to be with him.

  She didn’t slam the door, which Graeme considered to be an improvement. The lass kept her true feelings buried beneath a lifetime of logic and propriety and disappointment, but he looked forward to a lifetime of discovering all her layers.

  In the meantime, and as much a heathen as he knew he was, he had no intention of adding to her disappointments. Once he could hear her rustling about in the neighboring room he slipped out of bed and dressed in the shirt and kilt that were becoming as comfortable again as they’d once been—before he’d become so disillusioned with Dunncraigh and his use of clan Maxwell to make himself wealthy.

  Once he’d shaved and cleaned his teeth and made an effort to comb his hair he padded over and quietly locked his door. Then he pulled open the bottom drawer of his wardrobe, dug beneath the stack of worn trousers, and removed a small velvet bag. When he tipped it into his hand, his grandmother’s ring, a lovely thing twined with silver and a trio of blue sapphires that matched Marjorie’s eyes, spilled onto his palm.

  A few weeks ago he’d begun to consider selling it so he could afford to retrench all the irrigation ditches and replace the wooden water gates.
When the lads had delivered their prize to him, he’d figured at least one of the few heirlooms they had left would be safe. Now, though, he could use it for what it was intended—a promise to marry a lass he’d never expected to find and never meant to let go.

  Of course he meant to marry her, whatever she might think. But this time it mattered how she felt. She’d spent a quiet, solitary life without expectation of love. His own life hadn’t been either quiet or solitary, but he’d been adamant about not risking his heart on something as fickle as love. Both of them had a bushel of surprises ahead of them, and he looked forward to every one of them.

  Once he’d replaced the ring he left his bedchamber—only to have a plump female figure jab him in the chest. “Good morning, Mrs. Giswell,” he said, stepping around her and continuing on to the stairs.

  “Don’t you ‘good morning’ me, Maxton,” she returned in a low voice, following on his heels. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but Lady Marjorie has a home and a life in London. She could well wed a duke or a marquis.”

  “Ye’re nae fooling me, woman,” he returned. “There’s nae a blue blood in London who even looks at her.”

  “Not yet, but they will. It will take patience and finesse.”

  Graeme stopped, facing her. “I’m a viscount, ye ken. I could have made her marry me.”

  “Yes, so you have a pinch of morality. Huzzah for you.”

  “In the two or three or four years it might take fer her to buy her way into parties and maybe find a beau who needs her blunt and happens to have a loftier title than I do, what do ye reckon’ll happen to her?”

  “You want her money, so don’t pretend you’re more noble than anyone else.”

  “I havenae. And aye, she brings with her someaught I find very useful. But I’m nae asking her to change who she is or prove she’s whatever those damned dandies require. I looked at her and I found someaught past her purse. And I happen to find her remarkable.”