My One True Highlander

by Suzanne Enoch

“I could say the same about a horse, sir. That doesn’t make it so.”

  “Damned Sassenach. Ye tell me how often ye saw her laugh and smile before ye came to the Highlands.”

  Mrs. Giswell opened her mouth, then shut it again. “I notice when she smiles, Highlander. I didn’t realize you noticed, as well.”

  “I do. I’m a keen-eyed heathen, Hortensia Giswell, and I love that lass something fierce. So dunnae ye try to come between us unless ye’re ready fer a brawl.”

  She backed up the hallway a step. “Her brother could still cut her off if he disapproves of you, you know.”

  He’d figured that out weeks ago, when he’d reckoned Lattimer would be willing to trade some blunt for his sister’s good name. Now, though, it needed to be a fair fight. “I ken. I reckon we’ll go up to see him in a few days, once damned Paulk slinks away. If he hears word that I’m on my way to Lattimer, that’ll begin a whole different battle.”

  The day he shrank from a fight with Hamish Paulk would be his last day, but he wanted any conflict to be between them, and not about Marjorie. And not about his brothers. That was the one thing that continued to trouble him, in fact; while his brothers had been born into this mess of clan rivalry, he’d kept them as far from it as he could. Marjorie, though, had no experience with clan politics or how deeply anger and resentment could run.

  The Highlands was a different world, and one she hadn’t learned about in finishing school. Was she ready for it? She was strong, but was she strong enough?

  “Well, I see I’ve made you stop and think, at least,” Mrs. Giswell said. “And that’s something. We both want the best for Lady Marjorie, evidently, but I’m not certain we agree what that is.”

  Aye, she’d made him think. And now he wanted to heave the stout lass over his shoulder and dump her into the river. His fingers curled. “I reckon deciding what’s best fer Marjorie will be up to Marjorie.”

  “True enough.” She sketched a shallow curtsy. “Good day, Lord Maxton.”

  “Go soak yer head, Mrs. Giswell.”

  She didn’t react to that, but he could swear he heard her faint chuckle as she retreated down the hallway to her own room. She could cackle if she wanted, but she wasn’t going to win.

  Cowen pulled open the front door, and Brendan appeared out of the morning room to join him in the foyer. “Ye’re off to the Cracked Hearth, aye?”

  “Aye.”

  “I dunnae ken why Ewen Sturgeon’s scared to come to Garaidh nan Leòmhann,” his brother continued, walking beside him as Graeme approached the stable. “If he’s brave enough to marry Kitty Howard, coming to get yer permission should be easy.”

  “There’s naught wrong with Kitty Howard. She’s a tall, healthy lass.”

  “And Ewen’s thin as a rail. Maybe he’s worried he’ll be crushed.”

  Graeme chuckled. “I dunnae want to hear ye saying that anywhere in their hearing. And I reckon Ewen would’ve come up to the hoose if I’d asked. But he says tall buildings make him dizzy, so we agreed to meet at the inn.”

  “I’ll come with ye.”

  “Ye wouldnae expect to find a certain good friend of Kitty coming along with her, would ye?”

  Brendan flushed. “I might.” He squinted one eye. “Ye’re going to marry Lady Marjorie.”

  Graeme stopped just short of the stable door. “I was going to marry her all along, if ye’ll recall.”

  “Aye, but this time ye mean to ask her proper.”

  “I do. If she’ll have me, after all this mess. Do ye have any difficulty with that?”

  His brother kicked a clod of half-frozen earth. “Is it because ye dunnae dislike her now, and she’s ruined because I kidnapped her? Are ye saving her reputation?” He lowered his shoulders. “Mrs. Giswell told me I was a ruffian, going aboot ruining women by taking them from their companions.”

  “Have ye kidnapped any other women?” Graeme asked, trying to stifle his amusement. Perhaps Mrs. Giswell would be handy to keep about the Lion’s Den.

  “Nae. Dunnae be ridiculous. But is that why ye mean to marry her?”

  “I mean to marry her because I love her. And I’ll ask ye once more, do ye have an objection?”

  “Ye’d only throw me in the river if I did, but nae. She … She’s nae what I expected from a Sassenach.”

  “She’s nae what I expected, either.” Graeme elbowed his brother in the ribs. “But dunnae expect me to thank ye fer grabbing her. Even if it does rescue the property.”

  Finally Brendan grinned. “Och, ye’re grateful. Ye just cannae say it.”

  Well, that was true enough. What Brendan didn’t realize was that Marjorie had done more than give him love and hope; she’d also helped Brendan and brought him back to his previous good-natured self. Two miracles, wrapped up in one precious, extraordinary, remarkable female.

  * * *

  “I’m nae looking fer orphaned rabbit kits,” Connell declared, bending to turn over a rock. “I’m looking fer orphaned mice.”

  Oh, dear. “Mice? What does Graeme think about you rescuing mice?”

  The boy shrugged. “I havenae asked him.”

  “Connell, he’s been very good about your menagerie. But you can’t go looking for things to bring home without asking him first. It’s one thing to rescue a young goose from an attack. It’s another to go take an infant from its parents.”

  “I suppose that makes sense.” Changing direction, he clambered down the slope to the edge of the river. “I can find river rocks, though.”

  “Of course you can. We’ll use them for your arithmetic.”

  “At least that’s better than Dùghlas using his fingers. I dunnae mind counting rocks.” Straightening, he looked up at her. “Are ye going to go back to London?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  He shook his head. “Nae. I like ye being here. I didnae know that lasses dunnae like profanity, until ye told me.” Sending her a sly look, he returned to his search. “And I think Graeme likes ye. I went to see him one morning a bit ago, and he had some of yer hair clips in his bed.”

  Her cheeks warmed. That would have been the morning Graeme had pushed her off the bed to hide her from Connell. “I wondered where my hair clips had gone,” she said aloud.

  “And he makes Mrs. Woring buy lemons, and he sent to Edinburgh for a lemon tree to put in the sunroom. I think he traded his pocket watch fer it.”

  She hadn’t known that. No one but her brother had ever sacrificed of himself for her. It made her want to cry and to spin in a circle with her arms out all at the same time. “Perhaps we should purchase him a new pocket watch,” she suggested.

  “There’s a shop in Sheiling. They can order anything fer ye, as long as they have the catalog.”

  “Excellent. Let’s go tomorrow, shall we?”

  “Aye. I think I can manage that.”

  Marjorie grinned. Whether she’d ever wished to be a governess or not, Connell Maxton was a bright, curious, warmhearted joy. “Good. I’ll…”

  The sound of horses caught her attention, and she looked across the corner of the meadow slightly above where she stood. A dozen men in Maxwell plaid trotted in her direction. That didn’t seem anything too extraordinary, until she recognized the gray-haired man in the lead. Sir Hamish Paulk.

  Turning her back to them, she looked down at Connell still searching for river rocks. “Connell, get behind the boulders,” she said, just loudly enough for him to hear over the sound of the river. “You stay there either until I tell you it’s safe, or you don’t hear anything. And then you get back to the house. Do you understand?”

  His light gray eyes wide, he nodded and ducked behind the trio of cow-sized boulders at the edge of the water. Once he was out of sight she wandered a few feet to her right before she turned around again. The horses stopped in a half circle around her, cutting her off from every direction but the river. She swallowed, clasping her hands behind her back.

  “Gentlemen,” she said, inclining her head. “You’re
looking for Lord Maxton, I presume? Shall we go up to the house?”

  “Nae, we arenae here fer Maxton.” Sir Hamish looked her up and down, making her very conscious of the fact that she wore a slightly small brown muslin and an old overcoat—not a great deal of protection against twelve very solemn-faced men.

  “Then how may I help you?”

  “What are ye doing oot here all by yerself?” This time it was Graeme’s Uncle Raibeart who spoke.

  “The foxes decided to battle the cats up and down the stairs, and I opted for a bit of fresh air while the house settles. What brings you here, if it’s not to see the viscount?”

  “Why, we’re here fer ye,” Paulk took up again. “I ken ye think we’re nae but empty-headed barbarians, but we’re nae so easy to fool, lass. Or Lady Marjorie Forrester, rather.”

  Damnation. She had a choice now—she could lie even though they clearly knew the truth, or she could try to use the truth, or part of the truth, to her advantage. Marjorie took a deep breath. “Well, that’s a surprise,” she said, pleased at how calm she sounded. “I do hope we can come to an understanding. If Lord Maxton discovers who I am, he’s not likely to be very amused.”

  “Graeme doesnae know who ye are?” his uncle asked sharply, his expression hopeful.

  “Of course not. My coach broke down near here, and I needed a safe place to stay for a few days. If he’d discovered I was the Duke of Lattimer’s sister,” she returned, using her brother’s title deliberately, “I would not have been welcome. This is not friendly territory for me, as you know.”

  “Ye’re a fair liar, my lady.” Hamish continued to gaze at her levelly. “I half believed ye fer at least a moment, and I even saw Maxton deliver yer letter to that Stewart lad and pay him to carry it north to Lattimer.” He gestured, and half the men dismounted. “Let’s get this over with before someone from the hoose comes looking fer her.”

  Over with? Did they mean to murder her? She would have attempted an escape into the icy river, except for the fact that that would have exposed Connell. “I’ve said my brother is the Duke of Lattimer. Crossing him is not a good idea. Consider carefully, gentlemen.”

  “Fer God’s sake. Get her.”

  As the first man reached her she swung out with her fist, smashing it into the side of his head. Then she turned and fled upstream. Hands grabbed at her, caught her gown, and she went down hard enough to knock the air from her lungs.

  She gasped, and more hands pushed her down, binding her legs together and her hands behind her back. At least this didn’t seem to be a murder, she told herself, working to calm down so she could use her head. When a cloth went over her mouth she wasn’t surprised, but she was furious. A woman should never be kidnapped once—much less twice.

  Wherever they thought to take her—and she could guess it would be to the Duke of Dunncraigh—she had no intention of making it easy. And as soon as Graeme heard what had happened, these cowards would truly have something to fear.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Are ye certain it’s Isobel who’s caught yer eye, Brendan?” Graeme teased, sending the innkeeper a wave as they left the building for the stableyard. “Kitty had her gaze on ye the whole time, and she’s a lass who willnae blow over in a strong wind.”

  “Ye have it wrong, bràthair. She couldnae look away from ye.”

  “Mm-hm. I’m spoken fer. Ye, on the other hand, shouldnae narrow yer choices so soon. The—”

  “Graeme!”

  The desperation in Dùghlas’s voice turned his own spine to ice. “Christ,” he hissed, turning to look up the road and then sprinting forward to meet the cart horse his brother rode.

  Both brothers rode, he amended, as Connell jumped to the ground and ran forward to meet him. “Graeme,” he rasped, sobbing, and threw his arms around Graeme’s waist.

  “What’s happened?” he demanded, dividing his attention between Dùghlas and the top of Connell’s head.

  “He saw it,” Dùghlas panted, swinging to the ground as Brendan took hold of the pony’s halter. They’d ridden a cart horse bareback.

  “Saw what? Duckling, if ye please.” With his three brothers there, his thoughts immediately leaped to Marjorie. Damnation. What the devil was wrong?

  Connell lifted his head, his young face pale and streaked with dirty tears. “We were looking fer river stones, and then Ree told me to hide behind the grand boulders by the fast water and nae come oot. And then I heard horses and Uncle Raibeart and Sir Hamish and they said she was Lady Marjorie and some fighting and then they rode off with her. I waited until it was quiet because that’s what she said to do and then I ran so fast to the hoose and found Dùghlas and we had to ride King George withoot a saddle and he didnae like it at all but I held on, anyway.”

  Even with the dizzying speed of the words flying about, Graeme caught the vital part. Paulk had Marjorie, and knew who she was. “Are ye certain ye heard Uncle Raibeart?” he asked grimly.

  The bairn nodded his head. “I didnae want to, but I did.”

  Graeme hugged him again. He would bloody well settle with Raibeart later. “Brendan, get our horses.”

  “Aye.” The sixteen-year-old set off at a run.

  “I’m sorry I didnae help,” Connell sniffed, backing away to wipe his nose.

  “Ye did help, Connell,” Graeme returned, working to keep his attention on this moment and not on what he meant to do next. “If ye hadnae stayed put like Ree asked, I’d nae have anyone to tell me what happened.”

  The lad’s shoulders lifted a little. “We need to rescue her.”

  Brendan rode up, leading Clootie behind him. “Let’s go, Graeme.”

  “Nae,” Graeme said, as firmly and calmly as he could. “I’m going after her.”

  “Gr—”

  “Brendan,” he interrupted, “get yer brothers back home. Send word to Boisil Fox and his brothers and sons that they’re to guard the hoose, get the staff inside, and bar the doors. Ye keep everyone safe. Do ye ken?”

  His next oldest brother nodded, light gray eyes as serious as Graeme had ever seen them. “I ken. Duckling, ye ride back with me. Dùghlas, ye’ll have to manage King George again.” He edged closer to Graeme. “Do ye want my rifle?”

  Graeme shook his head. “Nae. Ye may need it. I have mine with me.” He swung up on Clootie, and with a last glance at his brothers, set off northwest.

  They would be headed for Dunncraigh, and he doubted they’d risk stopping first at Mòriasg, no matter how closely Raibeart had been involved. Connell hadn’t said how many men had been with them, if he even knew, but in his experience Hamish did little without someone else to supply the brute force.

  And these wouldn’t be boys uncertain what they were about and unwilling to do any actual damage. A month ago Dunncraigh had all but ordered him to murder Gabriel Forrester. And now they had Marjorie Forrester. If someone—anyone—hurt her, Dunncraigh would have a murder on his hands. Just not the one he’d expected.

  He would be outnumbered. That didn’t concern him overly much, though—advantage went to the man who was willing to pull the trigger first. For the moment he was a clan Maxwell chieftain, and any men with Paulk would be part of clan Maxwell. That alone could give him the edge he needed.

  If worst came to worst, Brendan was old enough to look after his brothers. Without Uncle Raibeart available the lad wouldn’t have an easy task ahead of him, but he could do it. Graeme didn’t plan on dying, but it could happen. As long as Marjorie was safe, the rest was inconsequential.

  Graeme topped a hill and pulled up Clootie. His land spread out before him, rough and rocky ridges cutting through glades and valleys of deep green forest, broken by silver-glinting streams and rivers. Marjorie and her kidnappers could be anywhere, but he didn’t imagine they were more than an hour in front of him, if that.

  A woman, a Sassenach he’d known for just over a fortnight, had hold of his heart. No, he’d never expected it, but now he wouldn’t trade it for anything. With her by his side he
didn’t feel the struggle of trying to stay afloat, of being a parent to his brothers, a landlord to his tenants, a soldier to his clan—and all with barely a pound to his name.

  Her wealth could ease that worry, but his focus on that prize had nearly cost him the greater one. Marjorie herself, her warmth and calm and underlying fierceness, eased him and excited him at the same time. It occurred to him that he’d never had a partner, an equal, someone willing to take on this gargantuan burden with him, someone to share the joy and the pain.

  Graeme clenched his jaw. He’d found her through the most unlikely of circumstances, and no damned opportunistic power-hungry coward was going to take her away from him. No matter the price he had to pay to get her back.

  A flash of color caught his eye and vanished into the trees again. That glimpse provided him with every bit of information he needed. “Up, Clootie,” he ordered, and sent the gray gelding named after the devil into a dead run.

  He was willing to die for her. As the thought racketed about in his brain he nearly steered the gelding into a tree. When Brian Maxton had lost his wife, he’d shot himself. Was it the same thing? Was dying to save someone equal to dying to avoid being without her?

  Unexpectedly the answer came in Marjorie’s matter-of-fact tones. He wasn’t giving up. He was fighting, rescuing, protecting. It wasn’t the same. He wasn’t the same man his father had been. The fact that he’d stayed on at the Lion’s Den, become a father and a brother to Connell and Dùghlas and Brendan proved that.

  They traveled quickly, but he knew the land better, and he moved faster. He estimated it was early afternoon when he reached the edge of a clearing just as they headed back into the trees on the far side. He pulled his rifle from its scabbard to rest it across his knees.

  As they started into the next meadow he kicked Clootie in the ribs. “Paulk!” he bellowed, crossing the edge of the trees to meet them broadside.

  Hamish wheeled to face him. Before he could do more than open his mouth, Graeme slammed the butt of his rifle into the chieftain’s face. With a grunt Paulk fell out of the saddle and hit the ground.

  Graeme aimed the rifle squarely at the short, muscular man who had a bound Marjorie facedown across his thighs. “If ye want to see another sunrise, set her doon. Gently.”