by Paula Quinn
“And then I vanquished him,” Patrick told them all then returned his attention to Nonie. “Tell me yer dream.”
“I was playing with Otis—”
“Who is this Otis?”
“He’s our cat,” the oldest boy told him, sitting up.
“It got dark,” Nonie whispered, “the way it gets when a storm is coming.”
Patrick nodded, listening.
“I heard them behind me and I looked…I looked and…”
Patrick waited patiently while she buried her face in her mother’s bosom and fought back her tears. Hendry Cunningham had done much to this family. Patrick would see him punished.
“They were big and ugly and they tried to catch Otis,” Nonie ran her tiny fist across her nose to wipe it. “They wanted to eat him. And then one of them caught him and…” She could go no further and began to cry.
Patrick deduced the rest. It would indeed be horrifying to watch a monster consume a beloved pet.
“Lass?” he whispered and tugged softly on her hand to make her look at him. When she did, her eyes gleamed with tears. “Where is Otis now?”
She pointed to a fat gray cat curled up on a nearby stool.
“Are ye certain Otis didna eat one of them? He looks as if he feasted well.”
The boys laughed. Nonie smiled behind her mother’s skirt. Then, “You speak oddly.”
“Nonie!” her mother scolded quietly.
“But he does, Mama!” the second youngest agreed vehemently.
“All the warriors in m’ land speak this way,” Patrick told them. “Monsters hate it. They say the lilt of m’ voice makes them cry fer their mothers.”
The boys’ laughter brought another smile to Patrick, but he was most grateful to see Nonie smile.
“I like it,” she said.
“Good,” Patrick said. “Then ye’re are no’ one of them in disguise.” He gave her a closer look. “Are ye?” He turned to her brothers. “Are any of ye lads monsters?”
They all giggled, shaking their heads.
“So,” Patrick turned back to the cat. “They didna truly eat Otis.” He returned his attention to Nonie. “D’ye know why?”
“Nay.”
“Because they are no’ truly big at all. In fact, they’re rather small, small enough to live only here.” He pointed to her head. “They couldna fit a cat in their mouths, especially Otis.”
“How do you know this?” she asked softly.
“I know many things. Would ye like to know some of them?”
She nodded with enthusiasm that made his heart lurch. “Ye’re bigger and stronger than they are. Why, ye dinna even need me to fight them.”
“I don’t?”
He shook his head. “But I’ll still help ye. I’m goin’ to tell ye their secrets. Ye are aware that monsters and all types of ogres can be defeated if ye know their secrets, are ye no’?” She nodded though he’d just made the entire thing up.
“D’ye want to know them, then?”
“Aye, aye, I do!”
He held up three fingers. “First, they can never ever tell the truth. If ye know this secret they’ll never be able to lie to ye. They lose all their power. The second way to defeat them”—he curled one of his fingers back into his fist—“is to know that the reason they are so foul is because they have never had a friend. They are monsters, after all. Who would want to be friends with a monster?” He paused for a moment to let her think about it. “This secret is good to know,” he continued, “because making a monster yer friend means he can never frighten ye again.”
He moved the candle back to the nightstand. Nonie’s eyes, wide and curious followed the light—followed him as he went. “D’ye want to know the last way to defeat them?”
“Aye,” she uttered breathlessly eager for his instruction.
Both their gazes watched his last finger curl with the rest.
“They are verra small. As I’ve already told ye. ’Tis why they will never come to the place where we truly reside. We would see how small they are and we would laugh.” He smiled and moved a bit closer to her face. “And laughter is what they are most afraid of.”
She was silent for a moment. No one stirred in the room while she counted down on three of her fingers. She closed her eyes and then opened them again on Patrick. “I think I can do it.”
He smiled as his pitiful heart melted all over his ribs. “I know ye can. And until they’re gone fer good, I’ll be close by to help ye if ye need me.”
He wasn’t prepared for her small arms as they reached around his neck or her delicate sigh across his cheek. He looked up at her mother and smiled, undone by her child.
Bidding Nonie farewell, he left the cottage with a satisfied grin on his face and Charlie at his side.
“You surprised me, Mr. Campbell,” she offered lightly and walked with him toward Cunningham House. “The sinner has a bit of saint in him.”
Patrick quirked his mouth in the milky light of the moon. “I’m no’ a saint. I’m no’ a host of things, lass. Take yer pick. That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell ye.” His grin deepened on her and he stepped closer to bump her shoulder.
He noted with a palpitation in his heart that she sprang right back to him, even closer this time.
“I’ll be the judge of what you are not,” she said, giving him a little bump back that didn’t move him an inch.
“And what have judged so far?” Why did he care? He never had before.
“You’re not altogether barbaric like the rest. You have a naturally easy way with people, beguiling at will.”
“Ye flatter me, lass.”
“And judging by what you think of yourself, you want me to proceed.”
He threw back his head and laughed. He liked how she aimed her insults as skillfully as she hurled her stones. She thought she knew him. He was quite transparent, after all. But being not altogether barbaric wasn’t so terrible. And he did have any easy way with people. He’d much rather make friends than kill enemies. He could kill if he had to. If Hendry Cunningham ever harmed Nonie Wallace or her cat, he would. Thinking of killing her brother sobered his thoughts and he remained quiet while he walked.
“I will proceed then,” she said, breaking the silence. “What you did for Nonie was kind and verra clever. My brother has caused the Wallaces much affliction and I’m sure Hendry is one of Nonie’s monsters. When you first told her you’d help her vanquish them, I asked myself how you could do it. There is no way you can step into her dreams and save her. But you did something better. You taught her how to fight them herself. You”—her dulcet voice grew lighter—“made a little girl her own hero. And mayhap that makes you a hero too.”
He eyed her in the soft moonlight. It pleased him that she thought highly of him, enough to consider him a hero. She was wrong, of course, but he saw no reason to tell her that. “I must start somewhere.”
He was glad to hear her soft chuckle. This night had to have been taxing for her. She could likely use some laughter.
“Mayhap,” she whispered in the darkness. Her sweet breath fell across his chin. He clenched his jaw with the effort it took not to bend to kiss her. “There is more to you than I first thought.”
There was. But revealing it made him vulnerable, needful. Like…drowning in the water, needing to be rescued.
“Where did ye get the coin?” he asked, moving away a little. He wouldn’t expose any more of himself to her.
“I stole it from Hendry, of course. He keeps his purses in a trunk in his room. He’s paid for much of his wrongdoings and thankfully he’s too dimwitted to realize it.”
“If he brings harm to—”
She placed her hand on his arm. He looked down, wishing he could see her slender fingers.
“He would be dead before you reach him,” she vowed.
“Ye share no affection fer him then?”
“I’d like him better if he were a viperous asp.”
Damn it, he couldn’t help but smile at her. She poss
essed fire beneath her subservient gaze. Fire to defy, outwit, and save a village or two while she was at it. He’d never met anyone like her. She was trouble. The worst kind.
“And Duff?”
“He’s different,” she told him after a moment to consider her words before she spoke them. “He had no part in this. But he wouldn’t approve of what I’m doing, especially since I’ve taken from his purse as well.”
This time they laughed together. When was the last time he’d strolled with a lass under the moon and simply spoke and laughed together? It was rather nice. Different. Better.
“Once I robbed Hendry’s favorite whore to pay for a goat so that Maeve Kennedy’s new babe could have fresh milk,” she continued, the amusement in her voice sounding like music in his ears. “The whore refused to ever sleep with Hendry again, calling him a thief. He brooded for a month.”
“Och, lass,” he told her. “I’d want ye on m’ side in a battle. Ye’re devious.”
They continued to laugh all the way back to the perimeter of the house.
She made no apologies for finding amusement in her brother’s misfortune. Hendry was a hateful bastard who deserved what he got. And thanks to his sister, he was getting it good.
“Your company wasn’t so terrible after all.”
“Truly, ye must cease with all yer kind words.”
She laughed one last time then leaned up on the tips of her toes and before he knew what she was about to do, she placed a kiss on his cheek. “Goodnight, Mr. Campbell.”
She turned to proceed toward the house alone but he grasped her wrist and pulled her back into his waiting arms. She bent backward, casting her long plait of raven glory over the crook of his elbow. He followed, leaning over her, enveloping her like smoke. When she ceased protesting, he leaned over her, one hand cupping her chin to tilt back her head while he drew her closer. Her lips were soft but unyielding, wanting his kiss but set in denial. He flicked his tongue across her lips coaxing her to open for him. When she did, he felt his strength leave his body in a maelstrom that left him weak on his feet. For an instant, fear overwhelmed him. Her effect on him was most unwanted but she tasted of defiance and honey and as he spread his tongue across the hot cavern of her mouth, he knew he had to have her.
It was going to be a difficult task he was reminded when, after a tight little moan he pulled from her throat, she shook her head as if her senses were returning. She pushed out of his embrace and managed, in the dark, to slap him hard across his cheek.
“Never do that again!”
Hell, he thought while she stormed back to the house. He wanted to do far more than that.
Chapter Nine
Charlie sat on her windowsill and looked out at Duff and Patrick Campbell sparring in the front yard.
She was surprised that Duff had risen from his bed so early. She had put enough Valerian in his nightly cup of wine to keep three men of smaller size out cold for at least twelve hours. Duff was a big brute and she preferred being safe than sorry. She never wanted to take the chance of him following her out at night.
But there he was, engaged with Mr. Campbell for at least a quarter of an hour now, both men throwing jabs and different combinations of punches, as well blocking and avoiding many blows. They caused no real harm to each other, avoiding most of the blows. They used no weapon in their practice, other than fists, skill, and wit.
They appeared equally matched, but Charlie noted that her brother was slower and less fluid in his movements.
She also couldn’t help but notice how the sun shone off their guest’s crown of auburn hair and off the fiery hair dusting his arms. He moved like a flame, penetrating all Duff’s best defenses. The size of his arms drew her careful attention from time to time. They were well muscled and thick, built for brawling. If he ever fought with Hendry, her brother wouldn’t last ten breaths.
They stopped for a break and came together to discuss the match. Patrick Campbell smiled at something Duff said. He always smiled, Charlie thought. He always appeared calm and unruffled. Even when he’d stepped out of her home, bound at the wrists, and came face-to-face with the Dunbars, his supreme confidence hadn’t faltered. He had yet to offer her a scowl for knocking him out with her sling and setting him here.
“Are you going to stare at him all morn?” Elsie asked while she slipped into her petticoats and woolen stays, dyed the perfect shade of blue to match Elsie’s eyes.
“I’m not staring at him,” Charlie defended herself and left the sill. “I was watching them fight.”
She ignored her sister’s doubtful smirk and went directly to her wardrobe. But instead of choosing what to wear, her thoughts drifted back to him.
What was she to do about him? Last night he had the audacity to put his mouth on her without leave. Not that she would have given it. Although, dear saints in heaven, she nearly lost consciousness—or something just as vital—tossed into his arms like some carefree wench. If not for the strength in his arm she would have wilted right there at his feet. He kissed with exquisite care, molding her mouth and her body to his. Kendrick had kissed her, but they were young and his mouth had been awkward on hers, not hungry and not nearly as passionate.
The Highlander had also made her laugh, really laugh, and it had felt delightful. She didn’t do the like often.
There weren’t many reasons to. After her brothers had killed Kendrick, after the Fergussons had killed her mother, her life changed drastically. She saw the truth in men, what they were truly made of. Kendrick’s warnings were true. The first time her father tried to marry her off she was ten and five. Hendry began pushing her around more openly. Duff had retreated into a cave and tore at the throats of anyone who tried to go near—including her. She found ways to protect herself, and her sanity. Thankfully no one wanted Elsie with her breathing condition.
The only good thing left in her life after Kendrick and her mother left was their memory. She wouldn’t let them go. She couldn’t.
But Patrick Campbell was filling much of her thoughts. As much as his kiss and his laughter haunted her, so did the memory of him with the Wallace children, Robert, Nonie, Andrew, and Jamie. It made her think about him with his own bairns…and hers. She remembered him with Nonie, their faces aglow in the candlelight, eyes locked on each other. He’d calmed Nonie’s fears with cleverness, compassion, and authority.
Nonie had ruffled the Highlander’s feathers. She’d made him admit to things Charlie was certain he hated confessing. How much more was there to Patrick Campbell? She wanted to find a way around his well-aimed smiles and inviting green eyes, around his charming words and relaxed confidence.
No. She had absolutely no desire to lose the only freedom she had left to a man. Especially a self-proclaimed rake whose heart was loyal to no one. What about Bethany from the pub? Surely, he’d had no time to bed her before Hamish had shown up. But he would have. She’d seen the passion in his eyes. Was he going to return to the tavern wench? Or was she forgotten, just as Charlie would soon be? No, Charlie wouldn’t surrender all her hopes and dreams for her and Elsie to a man she hardly knew. A man who would likely be gone in another day. A man who was nothing like the man Kendrick would have been.
She’d wasted enough time thinking about him. She had sheep to tend and chickens to feed.
Thinking of her day, Charlie smiled and pulled a dress from its peg. It was one of her favorites. She’d made it herself from strips of billowing gauze, dyed piece by piece in an array of pale blue, lavender, and peach. The corset was made of soft, thin wool, also dyed in the palest purple, laced up the front, as were all the dresses she made. She didn’t like having to depend on anyone to tie her up the back. Long sleeves opened at her elbows and hung in fluid splendor to her fingers. She heard Elsie sigh behind her. Her sister didn’t understand why Charlie always insisted on wearing such scarce garments instead of the tight boned stays and thick stiff skirts that the other lasses wore. “What good was comfort,” Elsie had often asked, “when you ar
e freezing?”
Elsie was always cold. Poor dear.
“What about your earasaid?”
“Oh, Elsie,” Charlie sang, spinning on her heel to face her, and enjoying the easy sway of her dress, “’Tis a beautiful day! What need is there of a heavy cloak?”
Her sister gave her a frustrated sigh. “You’re always taking care of me, Charlie. Why don’t you ever let me take care of you?”
She loved that Elsie wanted to help her, but she didn’t need Elsie to do things for her.
“I’ll wear a snood in my hair.” Charlie smiled reaching for a thin woolen ribbon of ordinary white. “Will that please you?”
Elsie threw up her hands, conceding. “All that hair of yours will only come loose and hang down over your forehead like that of a wild mare. Why bother?”
Charlie laughed and tied the snood around her head. She pulled her thick locks out of the bottom, and left the room without her slippers.
She was thankful when she didn’t see Hendry or her father breaking fast in the hall. They were likely still asleep, thanks to the Valerian.
With Elsie at her side, she grabbed a pair of apples and handed one off to her sister on the way out of the house.
“You go tend the sheep in the meadow, El. You always have more trouble breathing around all the feathers. Stay where Duff can see you.”
“But what about you?” Elsie protested, not wanting to leave her. “You’ll be alone in the henhouse should the Dunbars return.”
“The Dunbars will not return,” Charlie reassured gently. “They cannot be that foolish. Why, I’d wager that Duff and Mr. Campbell could fight a dozen Dunbars and win. Do not worry. Duff is just around the bend.”
With Patrick. She’d thought about going to watch them spar. She’d decided against it. She certainly didn’t want the rascal Highlander to think she liked looking at him, being around him. She wasn’t like his past admirers. His carnal appearance meant little to her. She knew what men were like on the inside. She’d grown up fatefully wounded by their pride and hatred. They were savage in their thinking. None of them were any different, not the Cunninghams, the Fergussons, or the Dunbars. They were foolishly stubborn like Robbie Wallace, arrogant and cruel like her father and brothers, lustful leeches that were often too drunk to fight her back. Was Patrick Campbell any different?