Pulling the cloak over her shoulders and shrouding her head in the hood, she rode the rest of the way into the village. Her injured legs shook with the strain as she dismounted the horse and looped the reins around a pole. She was glad that she’d chosen the mare instead of the stallion she’d been given the night she’d escaped. If it was one thing Graeme had loved most above anything, it would have been his horses. She patted the mare.
“Stay, I’ll be back,” she muttered. “Hopefully.”
With a bracing gulp of air, she trudged along to the inn. It was nearing midafternoon and the square was busy. Makenna recognized the baker as well as several of the shop owners. They likely wouldn’t know her, but she ducked her head anyway, and tried to even her breathing. Coming back was a risk, but she was tired of not knowing what was happening. Tired of being in the dark, filled with only questions and dread. Waiting to be trapped and caught like prey in a snare. Or murdered.
The Cooke’s Inn was crowded, and Makenna made her way to the back when a rough hand on her arm made her freeze. Faolan, the tavern owner was a gruff, grouchy man who had no time for riffraff. He’d always reminded her of her brother Ronan. In other circumstances, Makenna might have liked him.
“Where do ye think ye’re going lad? Tryin’ ta steal, are ye?”
“Nae,” she said in as deep and loose a brogue as she could manage and held up two coppers in a dirt-crusted fist. “I’ve go’ coin. Only wantin’ a bit of bread and stew ta fill me belly.”
“Nae trouble,” Faolan warned, releasing her.
“Nae, sir.”
Heart hammering, she made her way to a small back table. That Faolan hadn’t recognized her instantly as Lady Brodie gave her a surge of relief and confidence. She sat down, legs still quivering, at the table, which was out of the way enough for her not to draw attention, and close enough that she could hear most of the chatter in the inn. It was also close to the back exit through the kitchens should any brawls break out—a definite risk with hot-blooded Highlanders.
She ordered some bread and mutton stew along with a pint of cheap brown ale, and tucked in. Between slow mouthfuls—she wanted to make the meal last as long as possible before Faolan got suspicious—she peered up occasionally. Some of the men’s faces seemed familiar, but she’d only seen most of them from afar. One of them gave her a start, though, Graeme’s first commander, a man called Gregor. Her heart nearly leaped out of her chest as she scanned the room for his new laird. Gregor had never been far from Graeme’s side, so it stood to reason that he wouldn’t be far away from Colin. Her heart quailed with the sudden terror of possible discovery.
God, how stupid are ye?
What if Colin was here as well? No amount of dirt would hide who she was, not from him. He’d stared at her often enough that he’d recognize her if she wore a burlap sack, just from her chest size alone. Perhaps even bound as they were now. Makenna shivered with revulsion.
Ducking down into her chair, she hunched her body over, her panicked stare searching the room. Luckily, there was no sign of the laird. Her heartbeat, however, did not calm. It knew how much danger she was in, even if her mind refused to pay heed.
“Bring me an ale,” she heard Gregor say to the tavern girl, his grating voice making Makenna’s breath shorten. “Two while ye’re at it.”
“Did ye find the wench?” someone else asked.
Did they mean her? Makenna sipped at the brown ale, her ears pounding. Luck, it seemed, was still with her. She thought she would have had to initiate talk somehow, and that could have drawn attention of a different kind.
A laugh. “She’s gone into hiding like a wee rabbit. We’ve torn half a dozen villages apart and nae one’s seen her.”
She’d heard about the raids but she’d no idea so many villages had been affected. How many people had been injured because of her? Nae, she reminded herself. Because of Colin. She had to stop feeling responsible for other men’s actions. That didn’t stop her from feeling sadness at his cruelty, however, and it renewed her determination to stop him. Somehow.
“Thought she would run ta the rest o’ the Maclarens, but Seamus says there’s been nae sign o’ the lass.”
Makenna felt relief. If they didn’t think she’d gone home, they would leave her family alone. She felt a spurt of guilt that she was still putting Julien and Lady Haverille in danger, and that strangers in those raided villages had experienced hurt at the hands of Colin’s men.
“Do ye think she’s taken a packet to the Continent?” another man asked, chewing loudly.
“Heard there’s a few ships in the western bay,” someone else answered. “Some frog’s fleet. Bloody foreigners, taking o’er Scottish soil.”
Gregor cleared his throat as he drained his pint. “Nae French frog would get involved in Scottish clan business, but it may pay to make the man a visit. See if he’s taken on any runaways. That bonny little maid the laird favors is with her, too.”
Makenna’s blood went cold. Since when did Colin favor Tildy? Had he cornered her as well? Gregor was not someone she wanted going anywhere close to Tildy. Or Malcolm. He would know them both in a blink. And he was not a man to miss details. She caught Faolan’s scowling eye, and hastily ordered another ale from the circling wench. The last thing she wanted was for him to kick her out with Gregor in such close proximity.
Her view was suddenly obscured as a large man stood at her table and pulled out the chair opposite. “That seat is taken,” she growled in a low but threatening voice.
“Is it now?”
Though the response was in a perfect Scottish brogue with just the right amount of burr, something in its cadence made Makenna lift her head. She froze, impaled to her seat by a furious pair of peridot eyes.
Lord above, it was Julien.
But this man looked nothing like Julien. Instead, a tall Highlander stared back at her. His normally pristine hair was tousled blond curls hanging into his forehead. Stubble coated his cheeks and chin. Gone were the fussy waistcoats and perfectly tied cravat. This man wore a fitted linen shirt that clung to his broad shoulders, a harness crossing his muscular chest that held a scabbard with a claymore tucked into it. Makenna’s eyes widened as they dropped lower. He wore a kilt, the loose brown tartan pleated and draped over one shoulder.
Her mouth fell open.
Where was her perfectly groomed fusspot of a Frenchman?
“Are ye certain this chair is taken?” he asked again, his eyes never leaving hers. That brogue rubbed against her every sense, like velvet across a calloused palm. The low husky tenor of his tone made a fire erupt in her belly. God, he stole her breath, so much so that she nearly choked on a mouthful of ale gone down the wrong way.
Makenna could only nod as he lowered his bulk into the seat in front of her and ordered a pint. His tone earlier had been mild, but she could feel the leashed menace emanating from him. If the messages swirling in those green eyes were any indication, he wanted very much to put her over his knee. The thought of his hand grazing her bottom elicited a hot tremor of desire instead of fear. Odd that. Any hand lifted against her in the past would have her cowering. Perhaps it was because she knew no matter how angry he got, he’d never hurt her. She gulped and licked dry lips.
“Dunnae do that,” he snarled under his breath. “Or everyone here will see ye for the female ye are.”
She blinked and slouched down in the chair.
“What are ye doing here?” she whispered through her teeth. And in a tartan. She’d thought of him wearing a kilt, but nothing in her imaginings had ever come close. Sweating under her clothes, she took a swig of the awful ale and then drained the mug, calling for a third. Julien arched an eyebrow that only she could see. Her mouth flattened at his dour expression.
“The question is, lad, what are ye doing here?” He lowered his voice. “When ye’re supposed to be abed.”
“I am no’ a child.”
“One would think ye are since ye dunnae listen to simple instruction.”
>
Seething and unable to do anything about it without causing a scene, Makenna accepted her refreshed mug of ale and defiantly drank half the contents. Julien did the same with his, all the while watching her over the rim. What was his game? Did he intend to drink her under the table? She’d learned how to drink good Scottish ale, thanks to her no-good brothers Finlay and Evan, who had gone through a youthful stint brewing the stuff in the Maclaren barn. Wiping her lips with the back of a sleeve, she drained the brew and lifted her own brows in challenge.
Stars swam before her eyes.
Was that three? Or four? She’d forgotten how strong the stuff was.
“Ye still have to catch up,” she said, watching as he finished his. “Ye’re on one, I’m on three.”
“Ye’re playing with fire,” he said, and lowered his voice. “Lassie.”
Goaded beyond belief, she scowled at him and ordered another. It was foolish, but she was beyond thinking rationally. The man made her want to break things or drink copious amounts of terrible ale just to prove he had no control over her. And hardy Scottish lass or not, she was already feeling the effects of the three cups she’d consumed. She had to keep her wits about her. She was here to find out about Colin, not drool over a Frenchman turned Highlander, or wonder whether he was wearing anything under that worn kilt.
Focus, ye dunderheid!
Makenna blinked and ignored the man opposite. She craned her neck to see around his bulk, and noticed that Gregor had left. That was a blessing at least. The man made her nervous. He did not miss anything, and no doubt he’d have taken stock of every single person in that tavern. Including her. And Julien.
“The lady had better be worth the coin the laird is offerin’ for her capture,” one of the men said with a laugh that chilled her bones. “He’s crazed to find her.”
Another guffawed. “What’s between her legs must be made of gold.”
Raucous laughter ensued, and Makenna stiffened, clenching said legs together. Julien’s smirking gaze met hers, and she fought the instant urge to upend the rest of his ale over his conceited head. No doubt he was thinking of the night they’d shared in his study, and how close he’d been to discovering what treasures did lie between her thighs. She almost laughed, but ribbons of ale-induced heat were too busy cascading down her limbs.
“How much is the reward up to now?” she heard herself asking.
“Fancy a toss, lad?” one of the men cackled with a laugh.
“If the coin’s good,” she returned, oblivious to the seething fury on Julien’s face. His fingers were clasped around the mug so tightly, she could see them denting the copper metal. Makenna wondered faintly if he was imagining it to be her throat. She smirked. “I’ll toss and tup anythin’ if the price is right.”
“The laird’ll have yer head fer that,” another said. “Nae touchin’ o’ the goods. Five hundred pounds fer delivery. Ye can tup a dozen lasses fer that. Just no’ her.”
Makenna gaped. It was a small fortune. Enough to tempt the most desperate of men. She felt the stares flicker to where she sat, and she ducked her head. A part of her wanted to ask about the murder of the previous laird, but it was too risky. Not with that many eyes and ears in the tavern. And not while she was in the company of a French nobleman playing dress-up. Speaking at all had been a gamble as it was.
She stood, wobbling slightly, her head spinning. That last ale had been a mistake. “Ye’re right. Too rich fer me blood. I’ll find a nice lass an’ call it a night.” She threw a handful of silver coins on the table. “Next round’s on me father here, right, Da? I only hope ta follow in yer exalted, lofty footsteps.”
She winked insolently at Julien, whose glare could have set the inn on fire.
Take that, fake Highlander!
Hoping to slip away in the jubilant melee at the free grog, Makenna took one step and folded like a piece of string to the floor. She had no idea why she found her new viewpoint so funny, only that she did. Convulsing in laughter, she looked up and nearly choked. Strong lean thighs greeted her, dusted by a liberal sprinkling of crisp blond-bronze hair. They stretched forever and ever, widening and strengthening, like giant, ropy tree trunks. She wondered if they were as hard as they looked. Makenna reached out a hand and giggled as the owner of the tree trunks stepped out of the way with an appalled sound.
“Kiltie, kiltie, cauld bum…” she whispered in a singsong voice, the old Scottish children’s rhyme of kilted nude bottoms making her giggle even more.
She then felt warm arms gathering her up, slamming the tender flesh of her stomach over a hard as rock shoulder. “No’ sure how he’s any son of mine,” her captor drawled. “Poor lad cannae hold his ale.”
“Can so,” she protested feebly, hanging upside down as laughter broke out in the inn.
Lord Tree-Trunk had a very nice arse. One which she promptly vomited over.
Chapter Fourteen
As he left through the tavern door, Julien tried not to think about the woman draped over his shoulder, and the way she made his blood boil in more than one way. He ignored the muttered oaths of the tavern keeper, who now had to clean up the puddle of sickness on the barroom floor, and the looks from the men Makenna had been so brashly conversing with. He couldn’t afford any kind of distraction, because as he stepped outside he knew there was a distinct possibility that Makenna’s presence had been made known. He kept his eyes and ears and every other sense available attuned for a possible attack.
Of all the impudent, harebrained plans!
To saunter into the Brodie’s village center and seat herself down, within full view of men hired by her enemy to find her. What the devil had she been thinking? Had there not been a tavern full of Brodie men back there, he would have been tempted to swat his palm against Makenna’s backside for good measure when he’d tossed her over his shoulder. She had not been convincing in the least, even with her men’s clothing and dirt-smudged face, or her hood and the mud she’d caked into the strands of hair at her temples and forehead in an attempt to mask the bright red tresses. Julien had still entered the tavern, wearing his own absurd disguise, and sensed the pure femininity emanating from her. Then again, perhaps that was only because he’d spotted his pilfered mount tied to a post outside the tavern, and known to look for her inside the Cooke’s Inn.
Just before dawn, a distraught Tildy had roused Julien from where he’d drifted to sleep in his study chair the night before, a glass of Maclaren whisky still in his hand. She’d gone to Makenna’s room to stoke the fire in the grate, and had found an empty bed. Upon more searching, Julien discovered that in the stables a horse had been saddled and taken, something Alban had been completely unaware of.
Julien had guessed then where she had gone. If she were leaving for good, Makenna would have never left Tildy or Malcolm behind. She would have packed her things, too. He also didn’t want to believe she would have left without saying goodbye to him. The last day and a half, as she’d healed from the attempt on her life, he’d felt her restlessness. Hell, he’d had to physically return her to her bed so she would give her body the rest it needed in order to recover. He knew she wanted answers, as did he, and there was only one place that could provide them.
Julien had changed his clothes and saddled a horse, and before the sun had fully risen, he’d been riding hard toward Brodie land, following the tracks her mount had left behind. He’d never been there, but over the last few months he’d taken it upon himself to learn the landscape, talk to the men he’d hired to patrol the borders, and map out any potential routes from Brodie to Duncraigh. If Colin and his men were going to be coming for Makenna, Julien wanted to know from what direction. He’d deftly avoided being spotted by a Brodie patrol, though it had taken time, waiting for one such guard to become distracted before Julien could slip by, unseen.
Every moment had felt like an eternity, knowing that Makenna was somewhere ahead of him, walking straight into the lion’s den.
Dieu, he’d wanted to wring her bloo
dy neck!
And now, here she was, a mud-covered, moaning drunk over his shoulder. If attacked now, they would be in trouble. He had a pistol, his claymore, and a few daggers, and he was confident in his newly-honed skill after sparring with Brice, but if outnumbered…and if Makenna fell into Colin’s hands while he was fighting the laird’s warriors…
Concentrate.
Julien tied her horse to his own, and then slung her onto his saddle. He climbed up behind her, one arm around her trim waist to keep her from teetering off to the side. He received a few curious looks as he held his horse back in an unhurried gait, but no one stopped him. His mount could feel his tension, his need to ride fast and hard, but to do so would only bring on unwanted attention. So it was several minutes later when he finally crossed into the forest, and yet he still did not let down his guard. There would be Brodie sentries throughout the woods, he suspected, and he braced himself, prepared to launch into a believable story about his drunk son, delivered with a brogue, if a warrior stepped into his path. He’d listened to Aisla’s brogue for years, and now Makenna’s, long enough to imitate it, but he didn’t know if it would hold up under duress.
He clenched his jaw at the dangerous situation she’d put herself in. Why would she take such a mindless risk, coming back here, after all that clan had done to her? And what answers had she gained? Merely that Colin was offering a reward for her capture, which they had both already suspected after hearing news of villages and outlying farms being invaded and searched. And here she was, ripe for the plucking. Any man with half a brain could have discovered the “boy” in the tavern was not who he seemed.
Julien rode on, alert and cautious. But after an hour into the forest, he still hadn’t crossed paths with a single soul. It didn’t look like they had been followed from the village, either. Maybe her disguise had worked better than he’d thought. Though, even in those trews and linen shirt, and what appeared to be a binding around her breasts, he could smell her dewy, wildflower scent.
A Lord for the Lass (Tartans and Titans) Page 18