A Lord for the Lass (Tartans and Titans)

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  Arabel had never been one of Graeme’s more cruel mistresses, those who would flaunt the fact that they were the laird’s chosen woman. He’d cast them aside, then bring them back into favor, and then cast them aside again. Arabel had been a constant, but she had also been quiet and reserved. She was one of the few who had lived in the keep, though she and her son had always kept to their area of it. If she hadn’t been her husband’s lover, Makenna might have even tried to befriend her.

  The woman’s head tossed side to side, and Makenna pulled her hand into her lap. Her skin was soft, like that of a woman who was not expected to toil on a farm or in a household. Graeme had taken care of her then, perhaps because of the boy. Illegitimate, but still his son. She felt a twinge of regret, but then it was gone again. For years she’d wished to be a mother, if only to escape Graeme’s scathing digs over her barrenness. But for some time now, she’d been glad never to give him a child. He would not have been a good or kind father, of that she was certain.

  Makenna gave her hand a squeeze, meant to be reassuring, but then noticed how delicate her fingers were. Each one, long and slim and elegant. Makenna frowned as she looked at her hands. They seemed familiar, even though the topaz ring that had graced one of her fingers was no longer there. The cloaked woman with the roughened voice with a hint of a cough who had come to her cell and released her, brought horses for her and Tildy, and even confessed to being glad the laird was no more…had it been Arabel?

  “Was it ye?” Makenna asked. She tipped the cup to Arabel’s lips and gave her another sip of water. This time she swallowed most of it. She did not know if the woman was even aware of where she was. Or who Makenna was. “Were ye the one who helped me?”

  Lady Haverille and the maids were about their business, but they were still close. Still listening, she was certain. She’d have to be careful not to say anything in regards to Graeme’s murder.

  Arabel’s lashes parted, and her fevered eyes met Makenna’s. They were full of despair. Of fear. Her chin dipped, and Makenna realized it was a nod.

  “Thank ye,” she said, battling the sting of tears. “For what ye did.”

  “I kenned,” Arabel began, her throat still sounding swollen and hoarse. But there was now a determined sharpness to her gaze, as if she’d suddenly forced herself to hack through the fog of delirium. “I kenned ye were innocent, and didnae want to see ye suffer like that. He had plans for ye, terrible plans to break ye.”

  She closed her eyes again and Makenna paused to let her rest. It was the most she’d said since her arrival, and she didn’t want Arabel to have another coughing fit. But after another sip of water, and a cool cloth pressed against her hot forehead, she tried again.

  “He? Ye mean Colin?”

  Even the name struck fear into her heart.

  Makenna watched Arabel nod once again, and felt her chest grow tight and airless.

  “How did ye ken where Tildy and I went?” This was no coincidence, her showing up here.

  “Letters,” Arabel murmured, licking her split lips. “The Brodie women have been listening to the men and watching to see if they’d found ye. Celia, the healer, saw a lad in a strange tartan at the village inn, and managed to retrieve the messages before they were delivered to the laird. Two of them, since ye left.”

  “Messages?” she echoed.

  As Arabel stopped to catch her breath, Makenna blinked, her mind a whirl. After releasing her from the prison cell, Arabel had told her that she had been a beacon of hope for many Brodie clanswomen. She hadn’t fully believed it—hadn’t they always hated her? And now, hearing they had been looking out for her… She didn’t know what to think.

  Makenna took a moment to glimpse if the maids and Lady Haverille were still listening. But the maids remained at a distance, busying themselves with building a fire in the hearth grate, and Julien’s mother had left.

  “Aye. They were no’ signed, but they told where ye were hiding,” Arabel went on, her voice weaker. “Duncraigh Castle. We read them and kenned ye were in danger.”

  “A spy?” Makenna asked, a hollow carving into her stomach.

  “Someone’s followed ye or found ye,” Arabel said, “and means to tell the laird where ye’ve escaped to. He’s offering a reward for yer capture.”

  Makenna’s shoulders straightened, those words—escaped and reward—seeming to echo through the bedchamber. She turned to the maids, hoping she did not appear guilty or worried in any way. “Millie, Aria, why dunnae the two of ye go check on the lad? And fetch some broth for Lady Arabel.”

  Though Makenna was also a servant, as steward, she was of a higher rank, and the two maids bobbed and dashed from the room obediently. She turned back to Arabel, and dipping the warmed wet cloth back into a bowl of cool water, wrung it out.

  “The messenger,” she asked in a low voice. “Who was it?”

  “A boy, I dunnae ken who. Some paid courier. Ran off the second time one of the girls stopped him from reaching the laird’s study.”

  It was unlikely the messenger boy was the spy, but Makenna supposed anything was possible. “Why have ye come, Arabel, when clearly, ye are so sick?” she finally asked. Makenna knew whatever the answer was, it would not be pleasant.

  At this, Arabel’s face unlocked. Her eyes opened, her whole countenance bloomed as her pinched expression went slack. She even tried to sit up higher in the bed.

  “Malcolm,” she said. “My son.”

  “Aye, he’s safe and in the kitchens, eating. Ye’ve come here, for him?” Makenna asked, confused as to what the woman meant.

  Arabel squeezed shut her eyes. “Aye. To protect him. From his father.”

  Makenna took the woman’s hand again, alarmed. Was she hallucinating? Did she believe Graeme was still alive? “Dunnae fash,” she whispered. “Graeme is gone. He cannae harm ye or Malcolm.”

  “No’ him.” Arabel’s crackling voice hitched. Makenna saw the mottled color rising into her ashen cheeks, and hushed her, but Arabel kept speaking, even as her voice rose and fell, her breath wheezing what sounded like a death rattle in her throat. Her eyes opened and the hazel irises seemed to gleam with urgency. “He wasnae his father. Colin is. I’ll be gone soon and couldnae leave him with the Brodie. I couldnae let that cold bastard have him.”

  Makenna straightened her back in shock. Colin was Malcolm’s father? Not Graeme, as she had believed, along with everyone else at the Brodie. So Colin had seduced his cousin’s mistress as well? God, the two men were a horrible pair. Arabel had been right to spirit Malcolm away.

  “Does he ken?” Makenna asked. “Colin?”

  “Nae. I was his wife before…” Her lashes descended in shame. “Before Graeme decided he wanted me for himself. Colin believes the bairn is his cousin’s.”

  Makenna stuttered. Colin’s wife! She hadn’t known. What a web of deception she’d been tangled in. No wonder Colin had hated Graeme, and had set his sights on Makenna, if her disgusting husband had snatched his cousin’s own wife from under his nose.

  “Malcolm is no’ a bastard,” Arabel said. “I took herbs from Celia with Graeme to prevent pregnancy. And I kept my secret, but now…now Colin’s laird, if he finds out he has an heir…and I’m gone…” She took ragged breaths, her strength clearly failing her. “I wanted to take him to my kin, in the lowlands, but they wrote that there was nae room. They’ve too many mouths to feed already…and there was nae one else, nae one…”

  Makenna took her hand again and tried to soothe her. “’Tis all right now. Yer son is safe here. I’ll keep him safe.”

  She wanted it to be true, but if a letter was to make it through to Colin indicating Duncraigh Castle, they’d all be found within a day.

  “Thank ye,” Arabel whispered, a plea in her voice. “I helped ye and I need ye to help me, to protect him. Ye ken Colin, ye ken what kind of man he is. He might try to get rid of the boy because he thinks he’s Graeme’s son. He hated his cousin.”

  Makenna grimaced. She didn’t know C
olin very well at all, but she’d suspected his loathing many times before, too. And it appeared Arabel had known it firsthand. She had helped Makenna escape, saving her from the horrors Colin had held in store for her. The boy deserved protection, and his mother’s distress, her agony over what would happen to Malcolm when she passed, tore at Makenna’s heart.

  “He’ll be safe with me, Arabel,” she said, dampening another cloth and pressing it to her ashen forehead.

  “Thank ye…he’s my heart, my Malcolm. He’s nothing like his father, he’s a good boy, he’s…” She wasn’t able to finish before another round of coughs erupted. Makenna hurried to place the linen over the poor woman’s mouth but saw the blood just the same. Copious amounts of it flecked her lips and stained the cloth in scarlet splotches.

  The door to the guest chamber opened and there was a commotion behind her, and in the next moments Makenna was led away from the bed so the doctor, who had arrived, could tend to Arabel. Her coughing turned wet and violent, and then abruptly stopped, but the doctor remained hovered over her, his stethoscope pressed to her chest. He listened another few moments before drawing the stethoscope away and bowing his head.

  “I’m so sorry, it’s too late. She’s gone.”

  The room tilted around Makenna, her vision blurring behind tears. All she could picture was Malcolm, sitting in the kitchen eating one of André’s delicate pastries, happy in the moment and not yet knowing that his mother had died.

  Makenna left the room before she could cry. Weeping had never solved any of her problems before, and it wouldn’t start doing so now. She took the stairs and corridors to the kitchens, as if in a fog. When she entered the vast room, her eyes went immediately to the tall, imposing man standing by the long servant’s table. Julien looked like a sentry as he stood watching the small boy with flaky crumbs clinging to his cheeks. She had expected him to leave Malcolm with André and the maids, not stay.

  “Malcolm,” she said, her voice trembling over his name.

  The lad looked up from his full plate of treats. She hoped the truth wasn’t written on her expression, but she saw his instant worry.

  A commotion at the kitchen door, open to the herb garden, interrupted them. Tildy entered with an armful of fabric—green linen, blue cotton, and one bolt of cream fabric with a pattern of small embroidered roses. Makenna had forgotten that she’d sent her maid to the neighboring village to purchase fabric for their new dresses, something the two of them had been looking forward to. Tildy’s wide grin fell as she saw his lordship, and then the boy. Her eyes popped wide, an indescribable expression on her face. Fear? Loathing?

  “Milady,” she said, coming close and lowering her voice. “What is his lairdship’s bastard doing here?”

  She placed a hand on Tildy’s shoulder. She knew her maid had to be frightened to see a familiar face from Brodie, and yet she was also utterly overwhelmed at the prospect of explaining all that had happened over the last hour. All she’d learned. Not just that Colin was Malcolm’s true father, but that a Brodie spy had somehow followed them to Duncraigh, or tracked them there. That at this very moment, Colin could be reading a missive exposing their whereabouts.

  “I’ll explain later, Tildy. Can ye please take Malcolm to Lady Haverille for now? I’ll join them as soon as I can.”

  Thank goodness for Julien’s mother—the older woman had a gentle, compassionate air about her, and Makenna knew the boy would be at ease with her. Tildy’s alarm was still etched into her face when she beckoned the boy forward. He craned his neck to see Julien, as if asking for permission to leave. Julien nodded, and Malcolm got to his feet. André disappeared as he and Tildy shuffled from the kitchen and out of sight.

  “I already see it in your eyes,” Julien said a protracted moment later. “The boy’s mother has died?”

  Makenna closed her eyes. “Aye.”

  “And who will take care of him?”

  “I gave my oath I would.”

  Another few seconds of silence swelled up between them, and Makenna still had not opened her eyes to look at him. Coward. She took a breath and faced Julien.

  And then flinched. His normally light, sardonic expression, the one that promised indecent thoughts and witty retorts, had transformed. His eyes were two dark storms, his jaw a battleship braced for war.

  God above, he looked utterly furious.

  Chapter Seven

  Julien wanted to shake some sense into the wan woman standing a few feet away. How many more Brodies should he expect on his doorstep? Other women and children? Armed warriors? The entire clan? He’d brought his mother to Scotland for peace, quiet, and recovery. And now it seemed he was being drawn into the middle of some unexplained clan vendetta.

  Already there were men searching for Makenna, believing her to be the dead laird’s murderer. Who knew if anyone would eventually come looking for the woman or the child as well, and Julien refused to be blindsided without all the facts. He stared at Makenna, whose lips were pressed into a tight, flat line, ready for battle. Her hands shook. Her face was pale, but those blue eyes sparked with stubborn, steadfast resolve. A few hours ago, he’d admired that stubbornness. Now he wanted to shake it from her.

  He knew she expected him to turn them out. It was what he’d said he would do if she brought trouble to Duncraigh, and this woman and her son were just the start of it. Julien wasn’t a man to go back on his words, but even he wasn’t that hardhearted to withhold clemency from a child. However, it was time for Makenna to release all those secrets she was guarding so carefully.

  “Come with me,” he said, taking her elbow in a gentle but firm grip.

  He steered her to the library and closed the doors behind them before stalking to the mantle. Julien rubbed his thumbs into his temples. His normally even-tempered, serene state had been thoroughly upended by a maddening, secretive redhead. He poured two drams of whisky and handed her a glass.

  “It’s Ronan’s, so you should have no complaints.”

  She didn’t protest, and drained the spirits in one expert, courage-bolstering gulp. He took the glass and refilled it without question, watching as the whisky pushed a wash of color into her ashen cheeks.

  “Tell me everything,” he said.

  “What do ye want to ken?”

  Leaning against the table at the center of the room, he crossed one ankle over the next and stared at her. Hard. She licked her lips and sipped at her drink, and then took a seat on the armchair opposite. With a deep breath, she opened her mouth and told him what the woman had confided before she died as well as the truth of Malcolm’s parentage and the obsession the boy’s father had for her. Between sips, he learned exactly what had brought the woman to Duncraigh and a hint of what Makenna had left behind. As well as the identity of the man who dogged her every step. The new laird.

  “So the boy is not your former husband’s child?”

  “Nae. He’s Colin’s,” she said.

  “The man you’re running from.”

  She nodded, rising to replenish her emptied glass with a shaking hand. “Aye.”

  “Is he dangerous?”

  Makenna stared into her drink as if she’d find the answer there, and took a while before answering. “He and Graeme share more than a family resemblance. It seems that barbarism runs in that bloodline, too. Colin has always coveted what his cousin had, including me. And now I understand why, considering he was married to Arabel when Graeme took her for himself.”

  “So he seeks retribution.”

  “Something like that.”

  He folded his arms across his chest, watching Makenna carefully. Her expression was shuttered, but her fear of the man was evident in the way she said his name and the shadows that slunk across her eyes when she spoke of him.

  “How was the previous laird killed?”

  Her nostrils flared slightly. “He was stabbed with a dagger.”

  “Did you do it?” he asked once again.

  “I wish I did,” she said fervently.
>
  It wasn’t a denial, but it was all he was going to get out of her on the matter. “But your clansmen think you did it?”

  She nodded, her throat bobbing. “Ye ken they do. Colin will use the accusations and an unjust trial to force me to do what he wants. It was why I was imprisoned and starved. He wanted to break me. Arabel said as much.” She laughed hollowly then. “But the fool didnae ken that ye cannae break something that’s been fractured so many times it’s become unbreakable. Arabel was the one who rescued me from my cell. She set me free.” Her hands shook as she lifted the whiskey to her lips. “She says there’s a spy here, and that the Brodie women intercepted letters.”

  “Why does he want you so badly?”

  She sucked in a shuddering breath. “I suspect it is a combination of retribution, power, and lust. The Maclaren name holds much weight in the Highlands. And Colin has made his…carnal interests clear in the past.”

  Julien’s fingers cinched around the tumbler in his fist. He drew in a deliberate, calming breath, knowing how easily it would shatter, and relaxed his hand. “Did he force you to his bed?”

  “He tried,” she said with a wan smile. “He didnae succeed. But with Graeme gone, I have nae protection. I had to run, ye ken? Colin would have either had me hanged for murder, or taken me for his own use. I suspect the latter, and I will never be another man’s slave.”

  Rage crashed through Julien, along with a territorial, protective instinct he hadn’t known he possessed. Hadn’t she suffered enough at the hands of the infernal Brodies? No wonder she’d run to avoid her blasted disloyal and craven clansmen. Ignoring the violent urge to hurl the drink into the wall, Julien downed the contents of his glass and placed the empty tumbler on the desk beside him.

  Despite his unexpected emotional reaction, the practical part of him still remained objective. As much as he wanted to protect Makenna, the logical side of his brain reminded him that this wasn’t his fight. Instincts he’d trusted all his life were telling him that getting involved in a Scottish clan feud was a mistake. And Makenna, as lovely and vulnerable as she was, was at best an acquaintance. A beautiful temptation of an acquaintance, but one nonetheless. This was a Maclaren issue. A clan issue. He was a Frenchman with no ties to this land…or its people.