by Paula Quinn
“Charlotte!” Their father bellowed from the parlor. “Get your arse in here, gel!”
Charlie closed her eyes. Damn her brothers for telling him anything. He always overreacted and she was weary of it.
“I’ll come with you,” Elsie offered, biting her lip.
“Nay, dear,” Charlie smiled tenderly at her. “Wait here for me and we shall do something exciting when I’m done with him.”
“You mean after he’s done with you.”
Charlie shook her head. Five years of his bellowing had taught her that agreeing with her father was the best way to mollify him. She would handle him, but for now she preferred to waste no more time on him.
“I made this for you.” She removed her daisy circlet and placed it over her sister’s brow then stepped back to admire it. “You look like a fairy queen.”
“Charlotte! Damn it!” their father shouted.
Elsie stopped her when Charlie turned to answer his booming expletive. She stepped closer and kissed Charlie’s cheek. “I made something for you as well.” She took Charlie’s hand and placed a small leather hilt inside it.
Charlie looked down at the short, curved blade, black as a moonless sky. “What is it?” she asked running her finger along the edge. She pulled back as the blade cut her skin and drew blood.
“’Tis very hard glass,” Elsie told her in her soft breathless voice. “’Tis called obsidian. Like your eyes.”
They smiled at each other, kissed again, and then Charlie hid her dagger beneath her skirts and ran off.
“He did not tell me who he was, Father.”
“Well, what did he tell you, Charlotte?”
Allan Cunningham sat across from her and to the left of her brothers in the private parlor. The “parlor” was nothing more than a stone and timber chamber with a small hearth and several cushioned chairs. But according to Lachlan Wallace, the village tanner, Cameron Fergusson’s Tarrick Hall had a parlor, so her father had to have one as well.
“He didn’t have time to say much,” Charlie told her father, trying to remain patient. She hated having to stand before him in his stuffy parlor and give account for everything she did. She’d much rather be outdoors soaking up the sun. “He begged me not to strike him.
“Duff has my sling, as you already know, and I request it back.”
“I didn’t know,” he informed her, sparing his son a surprised glance.
Charlie turned to him as well. She wouldn’t smile or thank him for not telling their father, but she was glad he hadn’t. He was still loyal to her. It broke her heart a little to remember how much she’d loved him. That she’d not only lost Kendrick but him too. He’d always been a better brother to her than Hendry, who was jealous of any attention their father gave anyone but him. Duff had been a better person, or so she’d believed. His part in Kendrick’s death hurt more than the rest. She couldn’t forgive him.
“I shall consider it.” Her father’s dark eyes narrowed on her before he spoke again. “You struck him down after he pled your mercy?”
She nodded, keeping what she truly thought of her father hidden behind a well-learned impassive expression.
“You’ve learned well, daughter,” he smiled. She didn’t smile back. “People are merciless. You must be merciless, as well. Did he say anything else?”
She’d asked the stranger what he wanted. The conquering slant of his grin had been riddled with a natural magnetism that had rattled her a bit.
Just a moment more to gaze at yer beauty.
“His name perhaps?” her father pressed.
What would he do to the stranger if he was a Fergusson? Would her father be such a fool to harm the man and bring Cameron Fergusson and his brothers back to Cunningham House? They had four guards. Four. What would four guards do when the Fergussons could take down fifty? “I didn’t wait for him to say anything else.”
Her father laughed then offered her a nod of approval. “Duff, give her back her sling.”
She still didn’t smile. They could keep it for all she cared. She had the original.
“Thank you, Father.” She dipped her head and turned to her brother. He gave her the sling, and the slightest of smiles.
“You may go, Charlotte,” her father called out, “and take that kohl off from around your eyes. You look like a woman from a brothel.”
She remained unfazed by his insult as she turned to face him again. “Warriors used to paint their faces, Father.” And she was a warrior, wasn’t she? Perhaps not the kind he would prefer, but that hardly mattered. She did all she could to help her sister and the others. Defying her father and her brothers with her nightly visits outdoors. She’d fight to the death for the freedom she lost five years ago to her father’s fear of the Fergussons. Sometimes she painted her eyes to remind herself of who she was.
He raised a brow. “They did, didn’t they?” He looked her over from her mantle of raven hair to her long, flowing skirts she sewn herself, to her bare feet, and scowled at the last.
“You certainly don’t look like one,” he finally concluded. “I would prefer it if you wore acceptable layers and your earasaid. You look fragile in those sheer skirts.”
He didn’t know her. He used to, but not anymore. Not since her mother was killed. “Looks can be deceiving.”
“So it seems.” He dismissed her with a wave.
She turned to leave, refusing to remember the happier, kinder father who’d raised her until she was ten and four, the year, unbeknownst to her at the time, he ordered her brothers to murder Kendrick.
She had suffered a life with him for five long years and was determined to get Elsie away from his poisoned ways of thinking and cold, callous tongue.
But for today…She stopped at the door. There was something she wished to do and she needed her father’s permission else she’d find herself locked away in her room for the next sennight. “May I take Elsie to the village? I believe the sun does her good.”
He raised a gray brow. “You think to know more than Ennis Kennedy, the physician?”
She folded her hands in front of her, her sling dangling from one, and stood her ground. “I know Elsie more than he does. As for knowing what’s best for her, Mother always said that laughter was good medicine.”
She held fast to her stoic expression, keeping a victorious smirk hidden. If there was ever anyone Allan Cunningham loved, it had been his wife. He wouldn’t disagree with anything his dearest Margaret had believed.
Charlie didn’t even have to continue. He would grant what she asked. She felt mildly guilty for using her beloved mother to get her way, but she would always do what needed to be done. “Elsie doesn’t laugh when she’s locked within these walls.”
He looked up toward heaven and pounded his palm on his thigh. “Margaret,” he lamented dramatically, “why did you leave me with such a sickly creature?”
Charlie turned away from him, hating how he felt about Elsie’s illness. To him, she was weak and a burden.
“Go,” he breathed out as if she exhausted him. “Don’t be out for too long.”
Charlie shut the door behind her, glad to be away from him and her brothers. Someday, when the villagers were safe from her father and Hendry, she would take Elsie away from this house. They would live alone in a small cottage somewhere near the water. But until then, there were things to be done. One of them being finding a cure for her sister’s breathing ailment. The other was even more impossible. Thinking of it, she prayed that the pouch of coins she’d hidden upstairs in one of her winter boots remained unfound until she could get out of the house tonight.
But presently there was another matter that needed her attention.
She hadn’t asked her father about his prisoner. The stranger hadn’t been brought into the house so he must have been taken to the stable—which was where she’d planned on going.
She wasn’t afraid to be near the Highlander. Her brothers would never have left him unbound. Not if he was possibly a Fergusson. Was
he? If he was, she didn’t think he’d be candid about it since the only reason he would have come here was for trouble. She’d find out the truth if she could, and possibly save all their lives.
She wasn’t going to help him because she liked him. She didn’t know him. She sure as hell didn’t like rakes. They were the worst kind of men; versed in flowery words, they seduced, took what they wanted, and then left. She’d seen the effects of it firsthand. She didn’t want that kind of possible trouble to complicate her life.
If he was a Fergusson she should hate him the way her father and brothers did. But she didn’t hate the clan. She wanted to forget them. She did all she could to forget them. All but one.
She’d help because if this stranger was kin to Cameron Fergusson and her father and brothers killed him, she had no doubt that this time, retaliation would include the death of everyone in Cunningham House, not just her mother. If he was a Fergusson then anything that came next was her fault. Any act of aggression would lead to bloodshed for all, and now they were holding him prisoner! If he was not kin to her father’s enemy, then he had likely just wandered onto Cunningham land and was guilty of nothing more than having a fickle, foolish heart.
She’d help because it’s what she did, what Kendrick had always told her to do, follow her heart. Her heart told her to right her father and brother’s wrongs. To give back what they took and help whom they harmed. She wasn’t completely merciless, and she wasn’t fragile. Mostly, she wasn’t about to change now, no matter who the man in the stable was.
She found her sister sitting on the steps and finally smiled. “Told you I’d be done with him quickly,” she said with victory lacing her voice. “Do you want to ride with me to the muirs?”
“The heather muirs?” Her sister sucked in a slight breath while a faint smile hovered over her lips. “’Tis too far. Father wouldn’t approve.”
“I know,” Charlie said, her eyes sparkling in the candlelight. “But he won’t find out. I told him I was taking you to the village. He won’t look for us. Will you come?”
Elsie’s smile grew wide and she nodded.
Without waiting to ponder what she was about to do and perhaps talk herself out of it, she took Elsie’s hand and led her to the front door. “Come. I must see to one thing before we go.”
Elsie made no protest when Charlie led her out but paused on their way toward the stable.
“Are we taking horses, Charlie? Will Father notice if we—”
“I’m going to help a man who is inside. Stay close to me,” Charlie warned as they neared the old structure.
She felt her sister’s thumping heart against her back as they entered. Or was it hers? It didn’t matter. She’d promised Elsie something exciting. What was more exciting than danger that wasn’t truly dangerous?
Then again, if the stranger was a relative of Cameron Fergusson, he was dangerous indeed.
Chapter Three
Patrick opened his eyes and lifted his forehead away from something cool. A wooden post. Where was he? He groaned and muttered a curse at the ache in his head. The smell of hay and manure overwhelmed him for a moment while he tried to clear his thoughts. The neigh of a nearby horse confirmed that he was in a stable. What had happened? The lass at the river, he recalled. She’d brought him down with a sling and a stone! He didn’t know anyone who used a sling anymore, save his uncle Tamas. He tried to ask her where she got it but she’d struck him in the head with a stone. Did she know the Fergussons?
He thought of her eyes, ringed in shadow. He’d seen them before, felt the power in them. Last night at the pub. The lass in the shadows. It was she. Hell, she was even more compelling in the light of day. He should have recognized her at the river when she not only sparked his desire, but piqued his curiosity. But what the hell was she doing in Pinmore if she lived here in Pinwherry?
He tried to pull himself up but found his movements restricted. He glared at the rope securing his wrists to the post. Had she done this? Where the hell was he?
He looked around in the shifting light. There was hay under his arse and his head was pounding. Why was he tethered to a damn post?
He yanked on his ties to no avail. The more he yanked, the angrier he became. Whoever did this was going to regret it.
He was still pulling on his knots when he heard the stable doors opening.
“Is he dangerous?” a female voice asked.
“Nay, and I’m certain he is bound,” another voice answered.
It was her. Patrick would remember the silken edge of her voice for the remainder of his days. He didn’t blame her for slinging her stone and knocking him out. She did him a favor by stopping him from proclaiming her beauty one more time. Hell, it had been as if he’d fallen under a spell and every time he should have been fighting for his life, he was praising her. What the hell had come over him? Perhaps it was the smirk that curled her lips, mocking his prettiest words. There was fire in her.
He wasn’t sure if he’d ever forget the sight of her, her willowy locks dancing across her face, her rosy cheeks, her arm lifted over her shoulder as she swung her sling. Her aim was precise. Who had taught her?
She was glorious, vital, and dangerous.
What was she up to? She couldn’t have dragged him here alone. Damn, he recalled her mentioning something about her brothers being close by. He deduced the rest.
He heard her footsteps coming closer and he sat up straighter—as straight as he could with his bound wrists. He refused to appear weak and vulnerable to her. This was her stable. Her brothers had captured him, for what purpose, he didn’t know. It had to be nefarious or he would have been left where’d he’d fallen. He’d come upon the lass, and for doing so she had almost killed him. Why bring him home?
He didn’t care why. He was getting out alive and he’d use her to do it. He knew how to get what he wanted out of women.
She moved forward into the shaft of light from the small window behind him. She gasped upon seeing him there—as if she didn’t know.
“Have ye come to save me?” he asked, surprising her with a wry grin.
He noticed another lass breathing hard behind the first and heaving in her friend’s ear. Her golden hair flashed in the light for a moment, illuminating her pale, angelic face and the familiar crown of daisies now placed on her brow. The dark-haired one pushed her farther back.
Patrick slipped his gaze to the first once again. Her eyes were already on him, wide, curious, guarded eyes, made even darker by the thin line of black kohl encircling them.
“So what’s goin’ to happen now?” he asked her. He knew what he wished would happen. She’d untie him and send her friend away. Whatever concerns he’d had about growing tired of women and trouble faded when he looked at her.
He could see her shapely curves through the gauzy folds of her skirts. She was delicately formed with long, elegant arms and full breasts beneath the delicate fabric of her gown.
“That depends on who you are,” she told him.
He smiled gazing at her full lower lip. She didn’t smile back.
He had no intentions of telling her who he was. The MacGregor name was proscribed. Being one could get him thrown into prison with a paid reward to anyone turning him in. Her brothers couldn’t know he was a MacGregor, so why was he being held captive?
“Why was I brought here?” he asked.
She shook her head and looked down at him. “That’s enough questions from you, but I have one to ask. What were you doing at the river?”
His dimple flashed when his smile deepened along with his tone. “Ye know what I was doin’ there, lass. But if I’m to die fer admirin’ ye, then stay where ye are and let me take m’ fill this time.”
Hell, he couldn’t seem to stop. Sure, he knew what words to use to win a lady’s favor. But he’d never used so many on one lass. He was tempted to ask her to knock him out again.
She smiled, but not the way other lasses smiled when he was trying to seduce them. Hers was a pitying
quirk of her mouth, like he was the biggest fool she’d ever come across if he thought she believed a word he said.
“Charlie, are we going to untie him and set him free?”
“Nay, Elsie.”
Charlie? Why would any parent give this beauty a man’s name?
“Untie me and ye’ll never see me again,” Patrick promised. Why would he come back to see her when she was clearly uninterested in him? He found it a wee bit insulting.
“I cannot,” Charlie told him. She moved closer, out of the light, and knelt in the obscurity with him. She smelled of lavender and the wind and made him want to lean in and take a deeper breath.
“But I will tell you this,” she whispered, sending her breath along his nape and making him taut as an over-wound harpstring. “If you are a Fergusson, don’t tell them. If you do, they’ll kill you.”
“Why?” he asked, “And who?” But she was already gone and reaching into the shadows for her friend. Grasping her by the wrist, she pulled Elsie out of the stable and closed the doors.
Whoever this family was, they obviously hated his uncles. But why?
He didn’t have much more time to ponder it when the doors opened again. This time men’s voices filled the stable.
“She molds you and Father like warm clay in her hands.”
“See if he’s awake, Hendry.”
Ah, the brothers had arrived.
Hendry appeared around the stall and stood where Charlie had been moments before. He was tall and thin, easy for Patrick to take down if his hands were free.
“He is,” he called out, and then kicked some moldy hay in Patrick’s direction.