A Rogue's Heart

by Debra Browning

  Conall sat up and surveyed the camp in the half-light of dawn. His men still slept, but that seemed not to concern him.

  She crossed her arms in front of her and arched a brow at him. “Ye’ll no’ finish till the spring at this pace.”

  “Finish what?” He blinked the sleep from his eyes and stared at her dumbly.

  “The docks, ye fool. And the village must be rebuilt as well. If we’re to house boatsmen and traders, we’ll do it proper.”

  Conall frowned, then all at once his face lit up, much as Kip’s did when she allowed him a rare sweet. He threw back the plaids and scrambled to his feet. “You agree then? You’ll give up the land?”

  “I’ll do no such thing.” She narrowed her eyes and tipped her chin at him. “I’ll allow the building, aye, but I give up nothing. And in exchange for the use of my land, I’ll take a fourth of the goods which pass this way.”

  “Ha! A tenth, and we’ll start tomorrow.” He smiled at her, and she felt a strange tingling.

  She ignored the sensation and tipped her chin higher. “A fifth, and we start today.”

  He regarded her for a moment with what she thought was no small amount of amusement. Her anger surged. She ground her teeth together to stop herself from commenting. Her sharp tongue and stubborn pride had ruined many of her father’s arrangements, and she was not about to lose this chance for her clan. She held his gaze and her breath.

  “Done,” he said.

  She exhaled.

  “I’ll rouse the men and, after they’ve broken their fast, I’ll direct them where to begin.”

  “No’ so fast,” she said. “Aye, ye may rouse them, but I shall do the directing.”

  “You?” He looked her over again and laughed. ’Twas the same look he’d had in his eyes after he’d kissed her on the dock.

  Her cheeks blazed against her will. She dug her bare feet into the loamy soil. “’Tis my land and my docks. I shall oversee the work.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “No’ as ridiculous as a man who canna swim.” Aye, that got him. He started to speak, but she cut him off. “A man who canna swim is of no use here.”

  “I can learn,” he said flatly.

  “Hmph. Seeing’s believing.” She turned to leave.

  “Swimming’s one thing, but what do you know of engineering and construction?”

  That stopped her. In truth, she knew little. The ancient docks and the crannog had been built long before her birth. ’Twas by sheer luck, and Dora’s handiwork, that the crannog still stood. The docks had fared less well. But her mind was made up; she’d not relinquish her land to a stranger. She faced him. “I know enough. I shall direct the work.”

  “Fine.”

  Fine? His acquiescence stunned her.

  “And for every day past the feast of Saint Catherine’s ’tis not finished, you shall forgo your share of one shipment of goods.”

  “What? For each day? That’s larceny!” She should have known better than to think him honorable.

  “Perhaps, but those are my terms. I plan to be out of this godforsaken place before the snows come. Well, what say you, woman? Being in charge is not so attractive now, is it?”

  Dora was right. All men were the same.

  The corner of his mouth curled in a smile. It drove her over the edge. “’Tis more attractive now than ever,” she said. “Rouse your men. We begin at once.” She extended her hand to him, as she’d seen her father do many times upon sealing a bargain.

  His eyes widened. “But, I thought…surely—”

  She grabbed his hand and shook it awkwardly. Somewhere amongst the sleeping piles of plaids dotting their makeshift camp, she heard Rob’s unmistakable laughter. “There, ’tis done,” she said. “Now if ye’ll kindly—”

  Jupiter let out a deep, short bellow—a warning—jolting the Chattan warriors from their slumber. They shot to their feet, scrambling for cast-off garments and weapons. Conall continued to grip her hand while he looked past her into the wood.

  “What is it? What d’ye see?” Mairi followed his narrowed gaze. She was acutely aware of his strength as his fingers tightened over hers.

  “Are you expecting someone?” he whispered, his green eyes fixed on the hillock above the camp.

  “Nay.”

  “Well, it seems you’ve some uninvited guests, then.” He pulled her behind him, and her heart skipped a beat.

  Mairi yanked her hand from his as her eyes focused on the object of his attention—a warrior astride a dappled gelding, flanked by a score of clansmen.

  Blue eyes burned into her.

  “Geoffrey,” she breathed.

  Chapter Three

  Conall disliked the man immediately.

  ’Twas plain Mairi knew him. She called for the Chattan to sheathe their weapons as the warrior guided his dappled mount down the hill toward the camp. Conall nodded, and his men complied. His own hand twitched on the hilt of his dirk.

  Rob materialized at his side. “What d’ye make of them?”

  “Frasers, likely. The one has a sprig of yew leaves tucked in his bonnet.”

  “Aye, and they’re a damn sight far from home.”

  Jupiter positioned himself in front of Mairi and let out a low, ominous growl. To Conall’s surprise, she thumped the dog squarely on the head. “Hush now,” she said as she brushed past him. “They’re neighbors.”

  Neighbors. Her voice betrayed a familiarity Conall didn’t like. He locked gazes with their leader, a dark-haired warrior who glanced briefly at Mairi and frowned at her obvious acceptance of Conall’s company.

  Just short of the camp he reined in his mount, and his men fanned out beside him. “Who are ye? What d’ye want here?”

  “I am Conall Mackintosh, third son of Colum Mackintosh, here on behalf of the Chattan.”

  A wary recognition crept into the warrior’s expression. “The alliance?”

  “The same. And who are you?”

  “I am Geoffrey Symon, laird and master of the lands to the west.” He drew himself up in his saddle.

  “Symon,” Conall repeated.

  “A sept of Fraser,” Rob whispered.

  “Aye, though a small one,” Harry breathed in his other ear. “Less than a hundred men.” The two young scouts had moved quietly to Conall’s side.

  “What’s your business here?” Symon asked. “Ye didna say.”

  “Aye, I didna.”

  “Geoffrey, I—”

  Symon silenced Mairi with an upraised hand. He and his men remained mounted, livery creaking, horses restless. The neighboring chieftain was sizing him up, Conall knew, and while Symon’s escort equaled his own, Symon had a clear advantage on horseback. Nonetheless, a hint of uncertainty clouded the chieftain’s eyes, enough to buoy Conall’s confidence.

  “The lady has struck a bargain with the Chattan,” he said.

  “What bargain?” The dappled gelding stirred in response to Symon’s obvious surprise. “This lady is under my protection. Her father, Alwin Dunbar, was my lifelong friend and ally.”

  “Under your protection?” The bloody fool. She could have been dead by now, or worse, had Conall wished it.

  Symon narrowed his eyes at Mairi, who stood still as a stone. “What bargain, Mairi?”

  “Mackintosh shall build out my docks,” she said, “so trade boats from the south might harbor here.”

  “What?” Symon threw a leg over his horse and dropped to the ground.

  “In return, Clan Dunbar shall receive a quarter of all goods that come and go.”

  Rob snorted, and it took Conall a full five seconds to comprehend what she’d just said. “A fifth,” he blurted out.

  Mairi arched a brow at him and, after a moment, conceded. “Aye, a fifth.” His eyes were drawn to her mouth for the second time in as many days. A catlike smile bloomed there.

  “There is no bargain.” Symon closed the distance between them in a half-dozen strides. “If there are bargains to be made for the lake trad
e, then I shall make them.” The chieftain was tall, as tall as Conall, and not many men could boast that.

  He met Symon’s angry gaze. “So be it. I’d prefer to deal with a man.” He was about to continue when a red-gold flurry elbowed her way between them.

  “Ye shall do no such thing!” Mairi pushed them apart, her cobalt eyes afire. “’Tis Dunbar land. No’ yours, Geoffrey Symon. I’ve struck a bargain, and it shall hold.”

  “Mairi, ye dinna know what ye’re doing.”

  “I’ve struck a bargain!”

  “Aye, she has.” Dora marched from the edge of the camp’s clearing to Mairi’s side. Rob grinned at the fair, middle-aged woman who stood nearly a head taller than he. She pretended not to notice.

  “As for you, Mackintosh—” Mairi whirled on him. “Ye shall deal with me alone on this.”

  “It shall be my pleasure, lady,” he said, and held her fiery gaze. Her eyes widened just enough so that he knew his response had unnerved her. It pleased him.

  “I…I would speak with Geoffrey alone now.” Before he could answer, she turned and took Symon’s arm. “Come, there are things we must discuss.”

  Symon’s eyes never left Conall’s as he allowed Mairi to lead him from the camp. She stopped at the edge of the clearing, near the first dilapidated shack marking the boundary of the village, out of earshot but within sight.

  Conall watched them with a growing impatience. She seemed to know Symon well—too well. Why the devil did it annoy him?

  After a few minutes the Dunbar women, all save Dora, strolled down from the village and welcomed Symon’s men. One by one, the warriors dismounted and tethered their horses. With a nod, Conall instructed his own men to stay out of their way. Jupiter plunked himself down at last with a sigh, but never took his eyes off the strangers.

  “What are they discussin’, d’ye suppose?” Rob said, eyeing Mairi and Symon.

  “I know not. I care not.” Conall turned away and pretended to study Jupiter’s seemingly bored expression.

  “His plans for the wedding, no doubt,” Dora said casually.

  “What?” Conall spun on his heel. “She is betrothed to him?”

  “Aye. Well…she was.” Dora nodded toward them. “They make a bonny pair, do they no’?”

  “Oh, aye,” Rob said. “Verra bonny.”

  “What do you mean, she was?” Conall asked, ignoring their comments.

  “Och, that’s quite a tale,” Dora said.

  Rob stepped closer and invited her to tell it. Conall ignored his better judgment and inched closer to listen.

  “Well,” Dora began, “about a year ago, Alwin lost her to Geoffrey.”

  “Lost her?” Conall said. “How?”

  “Oh, ’twas on a wager.”

  His eyes widened of their own accord. What kind of a man would risk his daughter on a wager?

  “So they were to wed?” Rob said.

  Dora nodded. “But Mairi’d have none of it.”

  Conall fixed his gaze on Mairi Dunbar and caught himself smiling. “Smart woman.”

  Dora and Rob exchanged a glance, the meaning of which did not escape him. Suddenly his collar felt too tight. He pulled at his shirt laces. Why the devil did he care how she felt about Symon?

  “So she wouldna have him,” Rob said.

  “The wedding day came,” Dora continued, “and Geoffrey strutted in here like a royal peacock, dressed to the nines.”

  “And Mairi?” Rob prodded.

  “She didna show up.”

  “What?” Conall couldn’t help himself.

  Dora smiled slyly. “Aye, she hid herself, miles away in the wood. Alwin was furious.”

  “She jilted him!” Rob cackled loud enough to draw Symon’s attention. The chieftain glared at him, then returned to his conversation.

  A conversation that had gone on long enough, Conall decided. He had docks to build, and the morning was half over. He took off across the clearing toward them, Jupiter tagging behind.

  “Ye dinna want to hear the rest?” Dora called after him.

  He ignored her and kept walking.

  Kip appeared out of nowhere. ’Twas beginning to be a habit. Conall stopped and watched as the lad approached Symon. The two exchanged words Conall couldn’t hear, then the warrior laughed. Not with the lad, but at him.

  Kip went for his blade. In three strides Conall was there. “Ho, laddie!” He stopped himself just short of catching Kip’s hand.

  “Idiot bairn,” Symon said. “Think ye to challenge me? Come on, then.”

  “Geoffrey, stop it,” Mairi said. “Kip, sheathe your dirk.”

  Kip wavered, his gaze fixed on Symon. Conall recognized hate when he saw it. So did Mairi.

  “A man must choose his battles and his opponents wisely,” Conall said evenly. The message was meant for all three of them. After a strained moment, Kip lowered the blade. “Come, lad. Your mother has business with her neighbor.” He shot Mairi a loaded glance, then turned and strode toward camp, Kip and Jupiter in his wake.

  Mairi stood at the window and let the breeze off the loch cool her anger.

  “May I sit?” Geoffrey asked.

  She nodded at a bench flanking the wooden table dominating the interior of the lake house. “Suit yourself.”

  “Mairi, I—”

  “That was no way to treat the boy.”

  “Who, Kip? I was simply—”

  “’Twas cruel, and ye know it. He’s at a difficult age—no longer a child, but no’ yet a man.”

  Geoffrey reached for her hand, and she snatched it away. “Mairi, I…I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly.” She heard the creak of the bench as he sat at the table.

  “He needs a man’s encouragement and guidance, no’ ridicule.”

  “Aye, and that’s exactly my point,” Geoffrey said.

  “What d’ye mean?” She turned toward him, and in that moment the morning light caught the seriousness of his expression. ’Twas not like him, and she’d known him many years.

  “Sit down, Mairi,” he said.

  She obeyed, not because he asked her, but because of the way he looked at her. His eyes were tired, as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. She’d never seen him so.

  “Ye both need a man to guide ye, you and the lad,” he said.

  “Hmph.” She started to rise, but he clutched her hand.

  “Mairi, ye know I’m right.”

  He was wrong. She needed no one. Least of all a callous, domineering husband. The memory of her father’s tyranny over her after her mother died burned bright in her mind.

  “I’m fine on my own,” she said. “’Tis barely a month since my father’s death and already I’ve secured an arrangement that will feed the clan through the winter—and for years to come.”

  “Aye, an arrangement.” The way he said it annoyed her, as if ’twas something wicked. “And how d’ye know this Mackintosh will keep his word?”

  “He shall.”

  “But how d’ye know?” Geoffrey leveled his gaze at her. “What d’ye really know about him?”

  In truth, she knew nothing—only what Conall Mackintosh had told her of himself and the Chattan, and that was fair little.

  “What will stop him from taking the land and paying ye nothing?”

  “He’d never do that.” Would he? She glanced out the window and let her gaze drift along the pier leading to the village. All was quiet.

  “Let me protect ye, Mairi, and what’s left of your clan.” He squeezed her hand gently. “Ye know I love ye. I always have.”

  She looked at him and what she read in his eyes disarmed her. This was a new Geoffrey—tender, persuasive—not the vain, demanding chieftain who, together with her father, drank and gambled and made sport at other’s expense.

  “N-nay. I’ve told ye.”

  Geoffrey rose and skirted the table until he stood beside her, then drew her close and willed her look up. She did, and before she could protest, he bestowed the gentlest of kisses
on her surprised lips.

  “I love ye, Mairi,” he whispered. “Think of it…together our lands will span the whole of the southern wood, and nearly all of Loch Drurie. Fraser will be forced to reckon with me, then.”

  “What?” She pushed him away.

  He smiled. “I was saying I love ye.”

  “Trickster, ye love my land!”

  “Nay, ’tis you I desire.” He reached for her again, but she stopped him with a look.

  “I dinna doubt it, Geoffrey. Ye desire me as ye do a prize. Something to be won and owned.”

  “But—”

  “Ye hate to lose, admit it.” Mairi turned toward the open window and looked out across the loch.

  “Come now, ye deal too harshly with me.”

  She felt his powerful hands on her shoulders, his breath in her hair. Perhaps she was too harsh. ’Twas true, Geoffrey had goaded her father into offering their land as collateral in his wager—and who knew he’d die so suddenly? Not that she mourned him, the drunken sod. But she also knew Geoffrey could have taken both her and the land, had he a mind to.

  But he hadn’t. Why?

  She looked up suddenly and recognized Conall Mackintosh lounging against a timber cottage, staring at her from across the water. Autumn breezes lifted his fine red-gold hair and played at the hem of his plaid, revealing powerful thighs. A shiver coursed through her as she recalled his relishing kiss.

  “Cad,” she breathed.

  “What?” Geoffrey whispered, jarring her back to the moment.

  “Oh.” She turned quickly into his arms. “Nothing. I was just—”

  “Marry me, Mairi.”

  “Geoffrey, I—”

  “Say ye’ll consider it.” He grasped her hands. “Please consider it.”

  Flustered, she freed herself from his embrace and moved to the door.

  “Mairi,” he entreated.

  “All right.” She tripped the door latch, anxious to be rid of him. “I’ll think on it, but dinna press me further.”

  His face beamed, blue eyes dancing. “I’ve brought meat. We shall celebrate.”

  “We will do nothing of the kind.” Now she was sorry she’d acquiesced. She threw open the door and the wind blasted her. “Ye may stay to supper, along with your men, but then ye must go. I’ve work to do.” She drew a sobering breath and looked again to the spot Conall Mackintosh had occupied not moments before.