My One True Highlander

by Suzanne Enoch

  Once they were all inside and the door closed, Graeme paced to the window and back. “Ye dunnae ken the first thing aboot yer own sister, do ye?”

  “Graeme, I’ll tell this story. And if either of you start punching each other, I’m going to get that fireplace poker and remind you forcefully that we don’t have time for nonsense.”

  “Fine, lass. I like listening to ye talk, anyway.”

  Marjorie sat in the chair nearest the fire just to keep the poker close to hand, and she told her brother about how the past months had been for her. Graeme knew the tale, but he listened anyway, his expression an intent fondness that kept distracting her every time she looked over at him. No one looked at her like that—like she was something precious and rare and beautiful. For heaven’s sake, he’d stood toe to toe with her brother, and was still doing so. The man about whom French soldiers had made a rather bloodcurdling song involving the Grim Reaper.

  Because she didn’t want a battle between them she left out the shackles and the attempt at a forced marriage and the other, more … personal parts of the tale, but she didn’t spare any details about her second abduction or Graeme’s swift rescue. When she finished that part, Gabriel put up a hand.

  “You broke Sir Hamish Paulk’s nose?” he repeated, shifting his attention to Graeme.

  “I damned well tried to. Even withoot what he did to Ree, he’s been after my cotters and my place in the clan fer better than seven years. The fact that he touched the lass topped it off.”

  Gabriel narrowed one eye. “You know I’m about to marry his niece.”

  “Aye. I also know how ye booted him and Dunncraigh off yer land and then exposed all the shite the Maxwell’s been doing to his own fer the past decade or so.”

  With a half grin, Gabriel sat back in the old chair again. “And all the armed men outside are because you’re expecting retaliation.”

  “Aye. I reckoned ye might be some Sassenach mercenary the Maxwell hired to burn me oot. I aim to object to that.”

  Marjorie sat beside him, twining her fingers with his restless ones. “Graeme told me what happened at Lattimer, Gabriel, when Dunncraigh tried to force you out. We promised the tenants here improvements and homes whatever their clan chief attempted, but they’re scared.”

  “I dunnae have the men to stand against him in an out-and-out fight. And I’ve cotters afraid of what’ll happen to them if they choose the wrong side—and I’d nae force them to do that.”

  Gabriel sat silently for a moment. “Marjorie and I need a word,” he finally said. “In private.”

  She didn’t need to look at Graeme to know he didn’t like that. “I refuse to be kidnapped a third time,” she said aloud, freeing her hand. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  He stood. “Nae. I need to go check on the lads. Ye stay here.”

  Marjorie watched him out the door, splendid in his heavy, dark coat and bright plaid kilt, then turned to find her brother gazing at her. “Are you pregnant?” he asked, with his usual abruptness.

  A few weeks ago simply being asked that question would have mortified and offended her. Her world had tipped on its ear since then, and so had her sensibilities. “I don’t know.”

  Gabriel cursed. “You were the one I thought was fit for this life we’ve had shoved at us. You’re poised, proper, sophisticated, l—”

  “I thought I needed to fit into this new life, too,” she interrupted. “But you don’t, so why should I?”

  “I didn’t expect to meet Fiona, you know,” her brother countered. “Or to find anything I cared to fight for here. I expected to be back on the Peninsula by now.”

  “And I didn’t expect to meet Graeme, or to see anything of the Highlands except what I viewed through the coach window. I never expected any of this. But it happened, and I want what’s here. More than I ever wanted to be a fine, admired lady in London.”

  He blew out his breath. “I’m not a clan chief. I can’t tuck his people beneath my wings.”

  “Graeme said they call you Laird MacKittrick. And if I asked those men who rode all this way with you, would they say they’re part of clan Maxwell, or clan MacKittrick?”

  “They’re Maxwells in everything but name, Ree.”

  “And the name they do use for themselves is…” she prompted.

  “MacKittrick. But only because that’s Lattimer Castle’s old name, and the name of the Maxwell chieftain who resided there before one of the old Georges had his head lopped off.”

  She’d nearly forgotten how stubborn her older brother could be. “Graeme can provide for these people here. He’s been doing it for the past eight years with almost nothing. I can help him make Garaidh nan Leòmhann profitable, if you don’t get your back up and cut me off. But he needs to be rid of damned Dunncraigh.”

  Gabriel gave a surprised laugh, moving over to the couch to hug her and place a kiss on her hair. “Language, Ree.”

  The fact that he’d voluntarily embraced her, voluntarily allowed his arms and his attention to become entangled … “Fiona Blackstock has been very good for you, I think.”

  “Yes, she has. Did I tell you I resigned my commission? I realized I couldn’t help these people without being here full-time, body and s—”

  A rifle shot rang out, the second one this morning. Before she could finish registering the sound, her brother was already at the window. “It means someone’s spotted riders approaching,” she supplied.

  With a nod he strode to the door and pulled it open. “Find somewhere safe,” he barked, and vanished toward the front door.

  Marjorie stood, ready to retreat to Connell’s room again, but stopped herself in the doorway. The two men in her life did share one thing—the inability to keep from reminding her to go hide. However long the animosity between Graeme and the Maxwell had existed, it was her presence that had brought it to a head. Likewise Gabriel wouldn’t even be here if not for her.

  As Cowen hurried into the morning room, rifle in hand, to take his place by the window, she followed to crouch beside him. The butler lifted both bushy eyebrows at her. “Ye’re meant to be in the duckling’s bedchamber with the lad and Mrs. Giswell.”

  “I prefer being able to see and hear. And I want to be closer to the door.”

  “Laird Maxton’ll have my head if someaught happens to ye, lass.”

  “It’s my decision. And I don’t plan on being foolish.”

  He likely would have continued arguing, but Gabriel’s men flashed by outside, leading their mounts around to the back of the house. Did they mean to stay clear of this particular argument, then? From the standpoint of a soldier, it made sense to do so; her brother had no sound reason to wish to increase the antagonism between himself and clan Maxwell. Nor had he promised her anything, including his permission for her to wed Graeme.

  A moment later everything looked as it had before, with Graeme and two older boys positioned behind the wagon and everyone else—such as they were—hidden in the house and among the trees. This time, though, she knew it was trouble approaching. The only question was whether it was Paulk, or Dunncraigh.

  Roughly twice the number of men Gabriel had brought galloped up the drive, spreading into the semicircle she remembered all too well from yesterday. She even recognized some of the same men, from the one with his right arm in a sling to the previously distinguished-looking Sir Hamish Paulk, now with two black eyes and a thick swath of gauze across the middle of his face and tied at the back of his head.

  Once her gaze found the mounted man on Paulk’s right, though, she didn’t look any further. White, close-cropped hair, deep-set green eyes, and an air about him that as much as said all these men belonged to him. A tremor ran up her spine. The Duke of Dunncraigh. This was the man to whom Brendan had wanted to deliver her, the man Paulk had attempted to drag her off to yesterday.

  “I see ye ken ye’re in some trouble, Maxton,” the duke called in a flat, carrying voice. This conversation wasn’t just for the two of them; he meant for everyone
around them to hear it, as well.

  “I’m fine,” Graeme returned. “Ye’re the one who’s ridden into rifle range.”

  “If yer objection is to Hamish trying to steal the prize ye meant to deliver to me yerself, then I reckon he earned a broken nose.” He tilted his head. “Is that what’s happened, lad? A simple misunderstanding?”

  “Aye,” Graeme returned, to her abrupt confusion and dismay. Of course he would never give her to that man, but this sounded like he meant to antagonize his clan chief. Further antagonize him, rather.

  Dunncraigh briefly looked surprised, as well, but the cool, stoic expression quickly settled over his face again. “Then mayhap ye’re nae a lost cause, after all. Bring oot the Sassenach lass, and ye’ll have my gratitude.”

  “And how would having the lass help ye?” Graeme pursued.

  Oh, she hoped Gabriel was listening. Anything to convince her stubborn brother that his wasn’t the only land that needed to be free of the Duke of Dunncraigh’s influence.

  “Dunnae pretend ye’re innocent in all this, Maxton. What, were ye considering making an alliance with Lattimer against me? Turn her over to the bastard and say ye’d kept me from her?” The duke sneered. “Aye, that’s what it was, I wager. I’ll let it pass, though, if ye give her to me. Now.”

  At the corner of the wagon Graeme looked as relaxed as if he was chatting with a friend about the lowering weather. “I was agreeing that we’ve had a bit of a misunderstanding,” he said coolly. “And so I’ve a counterproposal fer ye. Ye leave my land withoot the lass, and ye nae set foot on my property again, and I’ll send ye the tithes due ye. My cotters will still call themselves Maxwell, and ye and Paulk and his broken beak will stay well clear of us.”

  For a heartbeat or two she hoped the duke would agree to those terms. It wouldn’t be perfect by any means, but it would likely leave Graeme’s tenants the most comfortable.

  “And have ye go to Lattimer behind my back? Nae.”

  She knew what would happen next. The insults would grow more savage, and then someone would shoot. Whether or not Gabriel’s men charged in, it would mean a battle. And because it was what she feared and dreaded most, Graeme would be killed. She strode for the door.

  “Lass,” Cowen hissed. “Where are ye going?”

  “To put a stop to this.”

  “I reckon we’re at an impasse, then,” Graeme retorted, motioning for Dùghlas to move farther into cover. This was about to get bloody, and he needed to keep the lads safe.

  Dunncraigh’s gaze moved beyond him, a very unsettling expression touching his face. “I’m nae so certain we are at an impasse,” he drawled. “Welcome, Lady Marjorie Forrester. I’m glad ye dunnae see the point of hiding behind this amadan.”

  “What does amadan mean?” she asked in a calm voice, moving around the wagon and into the open.

  Bloody hell. Graeme wanted to grab her, tackle her to the ground. Moving toward her now, though, would very likely encourage someone to start shooting. This wasn’t her brother she’d decided to confront. This was a man who thought of nothing but his own power and pride. He took a shallow breath, ready to move if anyone dared approach her. “It means ‘fool,’” he said flatly.

  “Ah,” she returned, nodding even though she kept her gaze on Dunncraigh. “Laird Maxton is a fool for not dragging a duke’s sister across the countryside and then handing her over to you, whom everyone knows to be an enemy of said duke.” She patted a finger against her chin. “Logically, even if you rewarded the viscount with sheep or wheat or something, the Duke of Lattimer would see him imprisoned for kidnapping.” She dipped a shallow curtsy. “I am a member of the aristocracy, after all. My home in London stands between the residences of the Marquis of Pyegrove and the Earl and Countess of Adsam.”

  “I dunnae give a damn who yer neighbors are, Sassenach.”

  “That’s Lady Marjorie to you, Your Grace,” she returned, still as calm as if she was chatting over tea.

  Watching her, listening to her, mesmerized Graeme, and he worked to keep his attention on Dunncraigh. Very rarely did anyone attempt to openly oppose the Maxwell, and whoever did make the effort never emerged successful, if he emerged at all.

  “Since Lord Maxton is unwilling to risk being jailed,” she went on, “I suppose it’s a good thing—for you, Your Grace—that Sir Hamish is willing to take up residence at the Old Bailey.” She glanced at the fuming Paulk, who looked ridiculous with a great bandage across the middle of his face. “Did you have any idea that five young lads were playing along the river when you grabbed me? That’s five witnesses to the kidnapping of a duke’s sister. Unless you mean to murder children of your own clan, of course.”

  That caused a stir among Dunncraigh’s men. Whatever the lass was about, for the moment it seemed to be working.

  “It’s fortunate Lord Maxton stopped you, and persuaded me not to send to Fort William for soldiers, when you consider it.” With that she returned her gaze to the tight-lipped duke. “While I was being dragged across the countryside yesterday, I also found myself considering the dilemma my delivery would have put before you, Your Grace.”

  “Oh, did ye now? Enlighten me. I’m curious to hear how hurt I would feel while ye rotted naked in an oubliette.”

  She nodded, apparently unmoved. Graeme wasn’t; he gripped the stock of his rifle so hard his knuckles showed white. One step. If anyone took one step toward her, he was opening fire.

  “Certainly. I assume my captivity would be used to encourage my brother to sell you MacKittrick—or Lattimer, rather. If he agreed you could release me—in which case both you and Sir Hamish would have to face the English courts. Or you could murder me, which would give the Duke of Lattimer—also known as Major Gabriel Forrester, the Beast of Bussaco—every incentive either to hunt you down and murder you in return, or to inform his fellow soldiers of precisely what happened. And then you would be stripped naked and tossed into a cell at the Old Bailey. If you lived that long, of course. I personally doubt you would.”

  Marjorie lifted a finger in the air. “Oh, I forgot something. You came after me today. In person. Everyone here, those you can see and those you cannot, are all witnesses now. And I married Laird Maxton yesterday, so whatever happens to me, he has my entire fortune at his disposal. I imagine that’s more than enough money to persuade even the most reluctant and loyal of men to speak up.”

  Dunncraigh’s face went from mottled purple to gray and back again. Graeme wouldn’t have been surprised in the least to see the Maxwell drop dead on the spot from an apoplexy. He bloody well wouldn’t shed a tear.

  “Once I consider all these fantastical thoughts of mine,” Marjorie went on, clasping her hands behind her back, “I have to presume you actually rode all the way out here to make certain I’m uninjured, and to congratulate your chieftain on his marriage. In light of the past tensions between you, however, I’m afraid I can’t invite you inside. So unless there’s something else you wish to discuss, Your Grace, I thank you and bid you good day.” With that she offered a deep, proper curtsy, turned around, and smiled tightly at Graeme.

  That was the only sign of nerves he’d seen from her. Lowering the rifle, he strolled out to meet her, offered his arm, and headed for the front door. “Lads,” he murmured, and Brendan and Dùghlas moved in front of them.

  In the doorway Marjorie turned around again. “I do need to take issue with one thing you said, Your Grace. You called Laird Maxton a fool. He isn’t a fool. He’s a man who accepted, at age twenty, the responsibility of raising three brothers and being a landowner and a viscount and a clan Maxwell chieftain. He’s delivered calves, shorn sheep, plowed fields with his own two hands because his tenants needed him to. Graeme Maxton is a true Highlander in the best sense of the word. I don’t know what you are, sir, but I will have to be content with calling you gone from here.”

  * * *

  “I called ye my fierce lioness, but fer God’s sake, lass.” As soon as the front door closed behind them
, Graeme pulled her into a hard, relieved embrace. That wasn’t enough, though, and he bent his head to kiss her.

  “I suppose all those years of conversation and comportment and etiquette lessons did turn out to be valuable,” she said breathlessly, holding on to his lapels. “My legs feel a bit wobbly now, though.”

  “My legs feel wobbly,” Dùghlas put in.

  Graeme swept her up into his arms. “Do ye ken how much ye risked oot there?” he muttered, kissing her again. She still wasn’t close enough, but with the entire household pouring into the hallway, truly showing his appreciation would have to wait.

  “As much as you risk every day,” she returned. “If I’m to be your wife, I could do no less.”

  “Ye are to be my wife,” he stated. “And now that ye’ve told all of clan Maxwell we’re already wed, we’d best send for Father Michael before Monday.”

  “You haven’t asked my permission,” the Duke of Lattimer said, as he trotted down the stairs, his rifle held easily in one hand. “They’ve gone, by the way. Dunncraigh threw a shoe at Paulk. And you took away my best chance to shoot the bastard, Ree. I’m not certain how I feel about that.”

  “If you’d stepped in,” she returned, pushing at Graeme’s chest until he relented and set her down again, “someone would have gotten killed. And it might have been one of us.”

  “That’s all well and good,” Graeme said, figuring it might be a good thing to have both hands free now, anyway, “but let’s get back to that first bit. I’m nae asking yer damned permission fer anything, Lattimer.”

  The duke lifted an eyebrow. “No?”

  “Nae. Ye can ask yer sister if she’s happy here, and I’ll tell ye that I adore her. If ye want to fight aboot it, I’ll oblige ye.”

  Marjorie pushed between them. “I am happy here, Gabriel, so you don’t have to ask me. No punching.”

  “Let go of me, ye madwoman!” Connell’s voice came from upstairs. “Cannae ye see it’s safe?”

  “We’re to stay put until someone fetches us, young man!”

  “I’m nae a man! I’m a duckling!” With that, he pounded down the stairs. “I need to know, Graeme. Are we still clan Maxwell?”