His uncle edged his bay forward a little. “Graeme, I’m trying to keep ye and the lads clear of this.”
Keeping the weapon and his gaze on Marjorie’s captor, Graeme scowled. “I dunnae know who ye are, but ye’re nae kin to me. Now, ye put the lass doon. I’ll shoot ye in the head and do it myself if ye make me ask ye again.”
“Graeme, ye’ll be starting a war,” Raibeart pleaded.
“Ye already did that when ye stole my woman from me,” he snapped. “The only question ye need to ponder is whether ye want to leave this meadow alive or nae.”
“Ye cannae shoot us all, Maxton,” one of the other men grunted.
In one quick move Graeme pulled the sharp sgian dubh from the top of his boot and hurled it into the man’s shoulder. “Any other idiotic thing to say?” he asked, as the rider doubled over. “I’m nae jesting!”
His uncle took an audible breath. “Nae a man dies here today, lads. Give him the Sassenach.”
Slowly the muscular man lowered Marjorie’s feet to the ground. “Move back,” Graeme ordered, urging Clootie closer and then hopping to the ground, his rifle still lifted. Swiftly he pulled a second knife from his waist, crouched, and cut the rope binding her feet and her hands.
Immediately she pulled the gag from her mouth. Clever lass, she took the knife from his hand and faced the tight group of Maxwell men. His clan, until today. Graeme swung back into the saddle, kicked his foot out of the stirrup, and held down his free hand. “Behind me,” he said.
Marjorie took his hand and stepped up, settling behind the saddle with her arms around his waist. When she seemed secure Graeme toed Clootie again and the gray gelding backed slowly.
“This willnae end here, lad,” Raibeart said, his tone glum and pleading. “Dunncraigh wants to be rid of Lattimer. She’s the way to do it.”
“Ye know where to find me, then. I’ll be waiting.”
As he turned for the trees Sir Hamish sat up, groaning and with blood dripping from his mouth and nose. Graeme shifted a little and kicked him in the face as they rode by.
“The lot of ye, get off my land. And take this pile of shite with ye.”
They broke into a canter once they reached the trees, and kept up the pace until Graeme was certain they were well away. Marjorie had never ridden double, and her wrists hurt, but with her arms around Graeme’s waist and her cheek resting against his shoulder, she felt completely safe and utterly content.
Finally he stopped by a stream and handed her down, then dismounted after her. Still without speaking he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her hard against him. He kissed her hair, and finally giving in to the fear and shakes she’d been fighting off for hours, Marjorie tangled her hands into the back of his coat and held herself as close to him as she could manage.
“Are ye hurt, my lass?” he finally murmured, swaying her slowly back and forth.
“No,” she whispered, trying to keep from crying. For heaven’s sake, she was safe now; the time for crying had come and gone. “I’m just a little tired of being kidnapped.”
“It’ll nae happen again. I’ll nae allow it.”
She nodded against his chest, then straightened, horrified that she hadn’t asked earlier. “Is Connell safe? I told him to hide, but when your uncle arrived I worried that he would—”
“He’s fine,” Graeme interrupted. “He did just as ye asked, then ran back to the hoose and found Dùghlas. The two of them rode King George the cart horse to find me at Sheiling.” He kissed her again, this time on the mouth. “I cannae ever—ever—thank ye enough fer keeping him safe, Marjorie.”
“You trusted me with him. And he’s … very dear to me.”
“Aye. He’s very dear to me, too. As are ye, my bonny, bonny lass.”
She kissed him back, relishing in his warmth, and his strength, and his very presence. She’d known he would look for her, that he would find her. He’d told her the truth. She wasn’t alone any longer. “I don’t want to go back to London,” she said, lowering her face against his pine-smelling coat again. “I don’t ever want to see it again.”
What had London ever given her, but a hatred for her own supposed failings—failings only brought to her attention by the very people with whom she’d wanted to mingle? The idea of returning to the sea of false smiles and ill-concealed resentments when she could instead simply turn her back on the entire maelstrom seemed utterly mad. And she did pride herself on her logic. It was just unfortunate it had taken another kidnapping to rattle her brain to its senses.
“After this I was worried ye’d nae want to see the Highlands again. Two kidnappings in one month. That’s a bit much even fer here.” He kissed her again, slowly, his hands cupping her face as if she was something precious. But then she was precious, to him.
When they mounted Clootie again she opted to sit across Graeme’s thighs, mostly so she could continue looking at him. “Your uncle said this wasn’t over,” she reminded him. “And I think you broke Sir Hamish’s nose.”
“I damned well hope I did,” he returned. “I’ve been wanting to do it for nearly eight years, now.”
“But what will he do to you in return, Graeme? He and the Duke of Dunncraigh? Because even if the Maxwell doesn’t know about me yet, he will.”
“He didnae like me before because I argue with his grand decrees when they aided him and hurt his people. He’s claimed I’m nae loyal. Me flattening Paulk and keeping ye close’ll give him more reason to want me gone.”
“Gone from the Highlands?”
“Gone from clan Maxwell. He’d like it if I left the Highlands, and he may try to burn me oot to encourage me to leave, but this is my land. He cannae push me off it.” She felt the deep breath he took. “I dunnae want ye taken by surprise again, Ree. He hates yer brother. Ye were a way to get to Lattimer. I doubt Dunncraigh’ll leave it with harsh words and threats. Are ye prepared fer that sort of life?”
That was something she’d never considered. “I’d much rather fight to keep something I have and I believe in than for some stupid recognition from a group of people who mean nothing to me.”
“We’ll figure it oot then, lass. This is a new circumstance. Give my wee brain a bit of time to consider it. I reckon Paulk and his men’ll all run away looking to Dunncraigh to tell ’em what to do next. That’ll give us a day, anyway.”
“My wee brain is also available,” she reminded him.
“I’m nae likely to ferget that.”
She wanted him to understand that they could be partners, that if he wanted to, he could tell her all his troubles, his thoughts and his dreams, and she would do everything she could to help him. Whether he ever asked for her hand or not.
* * *
“Lady Marjorie!” Mrs. Giswell hurried out the front door with more speed than Graeme thought the woman could muster. “Come inside! We’ll draw a bath for you.”
“I’m perfectly fine, Mrs. Giswell,” the brave, bonny lass returned as he handed her to the ground. “Where are the boys?”
“I ordered them to remain in the morning room so you wouldn’t be overset. We must get you changed. And oh, your hair!”
“I’m not overset,” Marjorie protested, as the older woman bustled her into the house. “I want—”
“After you’ve cleaned off that dirt and fixed your hair, my dear. A lady never looks disheveled.”
They headed upstairs, still arguing. Graeme wanted to follow, both to be certain she was unhurt and because Mrs. Giswell amused him. But as well as he knew anything he knew he didn’t have the luxury of pausing for amusement.
So with a reluctant last look up the stairs he pushed open the morning room door. “She’s safe, lads,” he said, squatting next to Connell. “And ye, my duckling, are a hero.”
“I was very brave,” Connell agreed.
“Was Uncle Raibeart truly a part of this?” Dùghlas asked, his own expression more concerned than relieved.
“Did ye have to kill anyone?” Brendan added.
> Graeme straightened again, nudging Connell toward a chair. “We need to have a chat, lads. And I need ye to listen.”
“We’ll listen, Graeme,” the duckling said, sitting back in the chair so that his feet didn’t quite touch the floor. Exchanging a glance, Brendan and Dùghlas sat on the sofa.
“Thank ye, lads. Sir Hamish meant to take Ree to Dunncraigh. I reckon the idea was to use her to convince Lattimer to sell his land to the Maxwell. That’s what he wanted earlier, anyway.” The idea of what might have happened to Marjorie made his jaw and his hands clench, and he pushed back against the anger. At this moment he needed to be calm. And logical. Later he could remind himself how satisfying it had been to smash Hamish Paulk’s face.
“And aye, Raibeart was with Paulk. He may have been trying to keep the Maxton soot of any of this, but he’ll nae be over fer dinner anytime soon. That’s nae what I need to tell ye, though. Sir Hamish and Dunncraigh arenae going to let this lie. They may boot us from clan Maxwell. They may try to force us to leave Garaidh nan Leòmhann. The way I—”
“I dunnae want to leave Garaidh nan Leòmhann,” Connell broke in, his eyes wide and worried.
“Hush, duckling,” Brendan said. “Ye can talk when he’s finished.”
“Well, I will, too. Dunnae ye think I willnae.”
Graeme hid his brief smile. “This is the thing, lads. They cannae make us leave our home. It’s ours. They can encourage our cotters to leave, our sheep and shepherds to go missing, our fields to flood or to burn. That’s what they did to Lattimer back when we still called it MacKittrick. The way I see it, we’re going to war. But we can do it two different ways. We can stand up, buy more sheep, plant more wheat, build fisheries—and make ourselves both stronger and a bigger target fer them to aim at.”
“But we dunnae have any blunt,” Connell exclaimed, then covered his mouth with both hands.
“We dunnae,” he ageed. “But Ree does.”
Connell opened his fingers again. “Ye cannae take her money unless ye marry her.” He covered his mouth again.
“Aye. I mean to marry her.”
“Ye said that before,” Dùghlas pointed out.
“Aye, but this time I’ve a better reason.”
The duckling made a kissing sound behind his hand.
“Exactly,” Graeme agreed. It wasn’t very sophisticated, but it did represent the Maxton household fairly well.
“Then that’s what we do,” Brendan said. “Dunncraigh doesnae scare me.”
“Me, either,” Graeme seconded. “But there’s one more point to consider,” he said slowly, finding his way along the trail as he spoke. As long as Marjorie is here, Dunncraigh will see her as a chance to get to Lattimer. They took her today. I dunnae ken what these bastards might try next.”
And that thought had begun to tear him up inside. She would be safer at Lattimer with her brother, where they knew the threats and had the men to protect her. Without her funds, though, Garaidh nan Leòmhann would be more vulnerable. He would be alone again, surrounded by family but without her to talk to, to hold, to argue and laugh with. But he’d given his word. He would protect her, no matter the cost to himself.
“Do we talk now?” the duckling asked, removing one hand from his face.
“Aye. We talk now.”
“Good. Because I think—”
“Connell,” Brendan interrupted. “Keep yer gobber shut.”
“But—”
“I know one thing,” the sixteen-year-old went on. “Ye mean fer us to be safe either way. That’s who ye are. But nae one of us is going to tell ye what ye should do with Ree Forrester. We dunnae want the blame fer it either way.”
“I’ll tell ye what ye should do,” Connell offered.
“Nae. Ye willnae.” Dùghlas dragged the duckling over his shoulder. “We’ve a dozen men on the grounds, Graeme. Ye decide what to do next, and we’ll follow ye. I think ye deserve to be happy, but that’s all I mean to say.”
As Graeme turned to watch them out of the morning room door, he caught sight of Marjorie standing there in the doorway, gazing at him. Her hair was combed, pulled back into a long, curling tail, but she still wore the dirty, ripped gown she’d had on when he’d rescued her.
“How much of that did ye hear?” he asked.
“Everything after you said Paulk and Dunncraigh can’t make you leave.” She tilted her head. “Are you going to attempt to send me to Lattimer or back to London and tell me it’s for my own good?”
“Ye’d be oot of their reach in London, and ye’d be better protected at Lattimer.”
“My well-being didn’t concern you before, then?” she prodded.
Damnation. She was never going to forget that. “That was when I needed ye fer yer blunt and didnae much care what happened to the rest of ye. That’s changed. It’s dangerous here.”
“I’d be even safer, then, locked in a room with a shackle on my ankle.” She pulled the key from her pelisse pocket and walked forward to hand it to him. “Go ahead, then. Lock me away like some delicate, dainty porcelain doll that can’t stand on its own two feet.”
“Marjorie, y—”
“Don’t ‘Marjorie’ me in your pretty accent, Graeme. I was dragged here against my will. I had no choice. You tried to make me marry you, and I stood against you. But then I met you—and Connell, and Dùghlas, and Brendan—and you introduced me to a different way of living. And to a great many other things that have literally changed my life. For the better, in my opinion.”
“And all during that ye’d have been safer elsewhere,” he made himself argue. She would be safer. That was what mattered. Now that he had time to move past being relieved, he needed to be logical. “That’s twice as true now.”
She stomped one foot. “Graeme Maxton, you told me that I didn’t have to be alone any longer. And I don’t want to forget this ever happened and go back to the way I lived before. I don’t want to leave you.”
“Jesus, Marjorie. Dunnae make this harder,” he returned, pushing back. “We were an accident. We werenae supposed to meet.”
“Shut up.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “What was that, lass?”
“You’ve done this for the past eight years, haven’t you?” she demanded, and punched him in the chest, keeping her palm over his heart. “You sacrifice everything. You would have married me—a Sassenach blue blood you detested, or so you thought—in order to provide for your people. Whatever life you had planned for yourself, every day that you spend helping your tenants when that still should have been your father’s responsibility, it’s a sacrifice of your time, your privacy, every spare penny. Well, I’m here to inform you, you stubborn man, that I love you. You don’t have to sacrifice your happiness. You don’t have to be alone.”
No one had ever worded it that way before. Of course he received applause and sympathy for taking over the care of his brothers, as if he could have chosen to do anything else, but he’d figured a long time ago that the responsibility had made him a better man. In Marjorie’s interpretation, he’d always been a good man.
“You will be in danger,” he said, as clearly and succinctly as he could, willing her to understand when he only wanted to keep his damned opinion to himself and kiss her. “Ye’ve nae lived in the Highlands, lass. Life isnae simple here. Ever.”
“If the Crown hadn’t found Gabriel, I would still be a lady’s companion. In forty years I would be Mrs. Giswell. And I assure you, that frightens me far more than your Highlands.” She paused, lowering her hand again. “Unless you’ve changed your mind. Oh, goodness. Am I being a fool? You’re trying to find a kind way to be rid of me.” She gave a humorless laugh. “If not for my money, you wouldn’t—”
“Fuck,” Graeme growled, grabbing her by the front of her torn gown and dragging her up against him for a hot, openmouthed kiss. “Ye’re tearing me apart inside, lass,” he murmured against her mouth, unwilling to part from her at all. “I dunnae want ye to go. Ever. But I dunnae want to see ye hurt
, either.”
“Then leave that decision to me, Graeme. This is the first place I’ve ever felt like I belonged. If you want me here, I want to stay and fight for it with you.”
After being kidnapped twice she had a better sense of the danger of the Highlands than most other Sassenach lasses. And he’d never so much as sensed anything weak about her. Of course he was looking for any excuse to have her stay. “Ye’re certain, my lass?” he asked quietly.
“I will leave if my being here puts those boys in more danger,” she said fiercely. “Otherwise, I don’t care about anything else, or what anyone thinks. They all detested me before; I don’t give a … damn what they’ll think of me now.”
He grinned, relief and a stunned joy coursing beneath his skin. “Mind yer language, lass.” Releasing the front of her gown, he caught her hand instead. “And if ye mean to stay, we need to see ye dressed proper.” He pulled her into the hallway and to the stairs.
“I can change my gown later,” she argued, but didn’t try to pull free of his grip.
She wanted to stay, even with the trouble headed for them as surely as the heavy winter. That still didn’t satisfy him, though; he wanted more, a promise between them as strong as any shackle. When they passed her bedchamber on the way to his, though, she balked.
“Graeme, everyone will know,” she whispered, when he refused to loosen his grip.
“I want everyone to know, lass.”
“But—”
Inside the room, he released her. “Dunnae move, Marjorie.”
“What are you doing?” she asked, from her tone clearly thinking he’d lost his mind. If he had, it had been weeks ago, and he didn’t want to find it again.
Keeping an eye on her, he pulled open the bottom drawer of his wardrobe, found the velvet bag, and returned to stand in front of her. “I’ll nae have ye here against yer will for another damned second,” he said, with his free hand brushing a straying strand of hair from her face. “But if ye’re mad enough to want to stay, I mean to keep ye by my side always.” He sank down on one knee, gazing up at her abruptly comprehending blue eyes. Eyes as clear and deep as a Highlands loch in summer. “We shouldnae ever have met, lass. And even after we did, we should have been enemies. But now I cannae imagine my mad life withoot ye in it. I love ye with every ounce of the heathen blood pumping through my heathen heart. Say ye’ll marry me, Marjorie.”
My One True Highlander Page 26