A Rogue's Heart

by Debra Browning

  Dora swore under her breath. “Ye are so pigheaded! Ye dinna deserve this blessing.”

  “Ha! A blessing is it? For who?”

  “For the both o’ ye!” Dora rose in a huff and set the kettle on the fire to boil.

  Oh, now ’twould start. Dora would have her drinking every kind of foul tea imaginable until the babe was born. Just the thought of it caused her stomach to lurch.

  “If he knew,” Dora said as she set a cup on the table and filled it with something awful she’d plucked from the pocket of her gown, “he might feel different about things.”

  “Aye, he might, and that’s exactly what I dinna want.”

  Dora stopped what she was doing and frowned at her. “Why not?”

  “Why not?” Mairi couldn’t believe she had to ask that. She met her friend’s puzzled gaze and shook her head. “Because I dinna want his help, nor his pity.”

  Dora snorted, and finished preparing the cup. “Are ye tellin’ me ye wouldna wed the man who’s the father of your child?”

  “I’m telling ye exactly that.” Mairi had thought this through a hundred times since she first suspected she might be pregnant. “I’ll no’ marry a man who doesna want me. ’Twould be a humiliation too great to bear.”

  “Humiliation, my eye. Ye love him—’tis plain as day.”

  “I don’t! He played me for a fool and I got what I deserve.”

  “What ye deserve is each other,” Dora said. “The both o’ ye are idiots. Ye can go on foolin’ yerself, Mairi, but ye dinna fool me. Ye love him.”

  “What does it matter if I do? And I’m no’ saying I do, mind ye. ’Tis just that—” God’s blood, she didn’t know what she felt anymore.

  “And another thing,” Dora said, “ye dinna know for certain that he doesna want ye.”

  But she did know.

  Three long months and nary a word from Conall Mackintosh. He hadn’t even sent word to his companions, Rob and Harry and Dougal, who’d remained at Loch Drurie to supervise the trade.

  In fact, his whereabouts were wholly unknown. ’Twas said he ne’er returned to Findhorn Castle. She wondered, now, if his brother Iain had truly called him home, or if the summons was a fabrication he’d designed to make easy his departure.

  “’Tis been a hard winter,” Dora said. “More snow than we’ve seen in years. The roads are thick with it. Except for the packhorses in and out of Monadhliath to meet the boats from the south, no one’s come to visit.”

  Did Dora think to make excuses for the man?

  “Geoffrey’s visited,” she snapped. “Nearly every fortnight since Christmas.”

  Dora screwed her face up. “Geoffrey.” The word oozed off her lips like a fetid blister. She handed Mairi the steaming cup of God knows what. “Here, drink this down. ’Twill be good for the babe.”

  She wrinkled her nose but obeyed, thinking that if she did, Dora might leave and she could get some rest. Mairi was never one to sleep in the day, but of late she’d been so tired. ’Twas the pregnancy. She remembered Dora’s last breeding, and how exhausted she’d been. Aye, well, she’d also had five other bairns to care for at the time, and a husband who’d been more trouble than help.

  “E’er since Conall left,” Dora said, obviously not willing to let the subject go, “Geoffrey’s been sniffin’ around ye like a dog. I thought ye despised him.”

  “Nay, ’tis you alone who despises him.” And wasn’t that the truth. Dora hated him. Mairi now wished she’d never told her of her suspicions about Geoffrey’s hand in the explosion.

  “’Tis true,” she continued, “I’ve never loved Geoffrey, but he’s been an ally to the clan, and now that I understand things better I can see what a true friend he was to my father.”

  “Oh, posh! He encouraged Alwin to drink himself to death and ye know it.”

  She didn’t know that for a fact, and would not hold it against Geoffrey now. So many things had changed in the past year, in the past few months.

  Her clan was thriving again. Because of the lake trade there was plenty of food, wool for clothing, and household crafts the likes of which she’d ne’er seen before. Come spring, Rob said the traders would bring livestock. Aye, life was good. Better than it had been in years.

  She had paid her father’s debt with the very first shipment of goods, though the boats had arrived late after having met with some unexplained misfortune. She’d been surprised when Rob and Harry returned from Falmar with more than half of what she’d offered.

  “I still canna believe Geoffrey accepted those few goods in payment,” Dora said, again reading her mind. The woman was almost scary.

  “Aye, well, he likely had a change of heart.”

  “Hmph. The man has no heart.” Dora snatched the empty cup from her, swabbed it out with a rag and put it back on the shelf by the hearth.

  All at once, the lake house rolled under the weight of something moving across the pier. Footfalls. Both women looked to the closed door. Mairi got to her feet. “Someone’s coming.”

  The door crashed open and Kip burst across the threshold, gasping, his warm breath frosting the chill air.

  “Kip!” Dora guided the wet boy toward the hearth while Mairi shut the door. “Why in God’s name are ye running?”

  “Look!” he said, and fished a tiny cloth bag out of the child-size badger sporran Rob had made for him last month. “’Tis for ye.” He pressed the bag into Mairi’s hand.

  “What is it?” she said, as she tested the weight of it in her palm.

  “Geoffrey brought it,” Kip said. “And he told me to tell ye—”

  “Geoffrey is here?” Dora said. “Where? Where is he?” She moved to the window, peeled back a corner of the deerskin covering and looked out toward the beach.

  “Och, nay, he’s gone home,” Kip said. “He wanted to see ye, Mairi, but I told him ye werena feelin’ so good—on account o’ the babe.”

  “What!” both women shouted in unison.

  “Ye know,” Kip said, and pointed matter-of-factly to Mairi’s slightly rounded stomach. “The babe.”

  Mairi felt her eyes widen and her mouth gape. “But how on earth did ye know?”

  “Rob told me. ’Tis Conall’s babe, aye?” Kip grinned at both of them, and Mairi shot Dora a murderous look.

  The older woman shrugged her shoulders and cracked a sheepish smile. “I didna ken for certain.”

  “Ye told Rob?” Mairi shouted at her, incredulous. “How could ye do such a thing?”

  “I didna think he’d tell anyone.” Dora looked to Kip for help.

  “Oh, aye, the whole clan knows of it,” Kip said.

  Mairi was tempted to wipe the grin off Kip’s face with the back of her hand. And she’d have words with Rob before the day was out. “Geoffrey knows, too?” she asked.

  Kip nodded. “Are ye no’ gonna open your gift?”

  She was so astounded by Kip’s revelation, she’d forgotten about the tiny cloth bag, clutched so tight in her hand the hard object inside nearly cut into her flesh. She loosened the string at the top and dumped the contents into her palm.

  “A brooch!” Kip said. “’Tis bonny.”

  ’Twas bonny, and finely crafted. It surprised Mairi that Geoffrey could be so thoughtful. And yet, ’twas not the first time in the past few months he’d given her such a gift. She felt badly he’d had to learn of her condition from aught than her own lips. She’d meant to tell him herself, but it seemed that plan was already foiled.

  Mairi knelt before Kip and clutched his narrow shoulders. “What did Geoffrey say when ye told him?”

  “No’ much. Only that he was sorry ye was sick, but such is the way o’ things when a woman’s breed-in’. Whatever that means.” Kip shrugged. “He said he was happy for ye.”

  “He did?” she and Dora echoed together.

  “Aye, and that the child would need a father.”

  Dora sucked a gasp, but Mairi took the words in stride. She reminded herself she was a practical woman and had
more than just herself to think of now. She’d not have her child live with the scourge of being a bastard. He would need a father. One who’d be loyal, who’d protect her clan and her babe as if they were his own.

  “A father like Geoffrey Symon,” she whispered.

  Two and a half months’ forced labor in the hold of a foreign ship was more than enough to break a man. Or make him stronger. In Conall’s case, it simply afforded him time to dream up new ways of killing the man who’d put him there.

  But that’s not what he was thinking about as he liberated Jupiter from the wharf-side beast circus in Wick to which Geoffrey Symon’s men had sold him before turning Conall over to a Nordic slave trader bound for the Shetlands.

  He was thinking of Mairi Dunbar, as he had every day of his captivity, praying to God she was well and safe.

  He thought, too, about his brothers. Iain would think Conall had simply ignored his request to return to Findhorn. In the past Conall might have most certainly ignored the summons, much as he’d managed to avoid nearly all familial responsibilities.

  But he was a changed man, and that had not been his intention when he’d turned the black ‘round that day in the wood, retracing his path back to Loch Drurie, back to Mairi.

  “Come on, boy. Let’s away.” He returned the mastiff’s slobbery licks of joy with a squeeze and a head pat, noticing in the moonlight that the dog was fat and newly groomed. He’d evidently fared a damned sight better than Conall had these past weeks.

  What Geoffrey Symon didn’t know when he sent a dozen men out after him the day Conall threatened his life in the wood north of Falmar, was that a Nordic slave trader bound for the Shetlands was the poorest choice he might have made had he wished to rid himself of Conall for good.

  Symon had been too much of a coward to directly order his murder. He knew ’twould have brought the whole of the Chattan down on him. Instead, he’d opted for the slave trader.

  It had proved to be the wrong move.

  The Mackintoshes had allies in the Shetlands on Fair Isle, where, a fortnight ago on its return trip, the slave trader had landed to take on provisions. George Grant, cousin to Iain’s wife, Alena, had married a Viking maiden from that very shore—Ulrika, daughter of Rollo. Her brother Gunnar was chieftain there now, and had bought Conall’s freedom for a mere ten kegs of Viking mead.

  He would not forget this kindness.

  Conall had spent nearly a sennight on the remote windswept isle, regaining his strength. Not long enough, but ’twas all he could abide. Vengeance burned like fire in his gut and would not be quenched till his hands slid ‘round Geoffrey Symon’s neck and squeezed.

  The coin Gunnar had advanced him had purchased a decent enough mount once he’d reached the mainland. Symon had kept the black and, by God, Conall would have him back. That, and other things he’d come to think of as his.

  “Soon,” he whispered to himself as he mounted. “Soon.”

  As Jupiter fell into step beside him, Conall urged the purchased mare south toward Falmar Castle, the memory of Mairi Dunbar’s kiss and Geoffrey Symon’s treachery driving him on.

  “Four days’ hence, ye’ll be in that man’s bed.”

  Mairi glanced out the half-opened door of Dora’s cottage and shivered. “’Twill be fine.”

  Dora kicked the door shut and handed her a steaming cup. “Drink this, and I dinna want to hear any whining about it.”

  “Ugh.” For the past week, e’er since the clan had discovered Mairi’s pregnancy, Dora had plied her with a half-dozen different concoctions, most of them as noxious as the water in Falmar’s moat.

  “Ye’d wed a man ye dinna love.” ’Twas a statement, not a question.

  “Why not?” Mairi said. “You did.”

  “Aye, but I was young and stupid. Ye’re a grown woman, Mairi, and a smart one.”

  “That’s precisely why I accepted Geoffrey’s offer.”

  She’d had Kip go after him the day he delivered the brooch to her. She’d met Geoffrey at the edge of the village and, after sending Kip home, she’d told him of her decision. At that moment, in Geoffrey’s eyes she’d read not joy, but triumph. His hands on her had been overbold, his kisses hard and possessive.

  Mairi pushed the memory from her mind, refusing to dwell on how wrong it all felt. If she did, she might change her mind, and that was not an option. She had her child to think of now.

  She shook off her melancholy and forced a smile as Rob burst into the cottage, his cheeks red as apples, carrying an armload of new-cut peat for the fire.

  “Christ, ’tis cold.” He glanced around the dimly lit room and frowned. “Where are the bairns?”

  “At the house,” Mairi said, “with Kip. I had things to discuss with Dora.”

  “Things.” Rob shot them both a loaded glance. Mairi noticed a bit of frost clinging to his short, tawny beard.

  “Aye,” Dora said. “She’s hell-bent on it.”

  “Still?” he said.

  “Still.”

  Rob shook his head, then knelt and stoked the hearth fire until the smoke died down and bright flames danced. “Weddin’ Geoffrey Symon.” He snorted, then pulled a dirk from his belt and skewered a block of peat. “I dinna like the man.”

  “Nor does she,” Dora said.

  Rob glanced over his shoulder at them, the peat hanging like a slab of meat from his blade. “Then why, lass? What’s your hurry?”

  Would they not let up? Dora had spent days trying to talk her out of it, and now Rob was starting in. Bloody nuisance. Her mind was made up, and that was that.

  “My babe needs a father. Ye know I’m right.”

  Dora snorted. “Mine did well enough these past two years without one.”

  “Aye, but they’ve got one now, don’t they, love?” Rob said.

  Dora blushed, and Rob grinned at her. Their eyes shone with a mutual adoration that tugged at Mairi’s heart. She quickly crushed the emotion and crossed her arms over her chest. “My babe needs a father and that’s that.”

  Rob turned his attention back to the fire. “I’ll no’ argue with ye.”

  “Ye won’t?” Now this surprised her. She cast Dora a smug smile.

  “The babe does need a father.” Rob sheathed his dirk and rose stiffly to face her. “His own.”

  Mairi bristled.

  Dora joined him in front of the hearth, and he wrapped an arm ‘round her waist. “I wish ye’d let Rob set out to find him.”

  “Or at least send word to Findhorn,” Rob said, “on the off chance he’s returned there. Conall has a right to know.”

  “He has no rights!” She whirled toward the door, biting back a litany of curses.

  “Aye,” Dora said. “She loves him, plain as day.”

  Mairi swore.

  She didn’t love him. She didn’t!

  She yanked the cottage door wide and sucked in a breath of icy air. “Geoffrey’s sending an escort. I ride for Falmar today.”

  “Ye’re with child!” Dora cried.

  “Aye, and the whole bluidy world knows thanks to the both o’ ye.” She glared at them.

  “The man’s no’ comin’ to fetch ye, himself?” Rob said.

  “’Tis Geoffrey’s hunting day today. He’ll meet me at the forest camp near the standing stone at the north end o’ the loch. Ye know the place.”

  “Near the crossroad,” Dora said.

  “Aye.”

  “I’m going with ye,” Rob said, and grabbed a saddlebag off a hook on the wall.

  “Me, as well,” Dora said.

  “Nay, I’ll go to him on my own.” She relieved Rob of the saddlebag and placed it firmly back on its hook. “But ye’re to join us the day of the celebration. The whole clan’s to come.”

  Ignoring their protests, Mairi pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders and took her leave of them. She stepped onto the floating timbers anchoring the lake house to the shore as if in a trance.

  One thought consumed her. After they married, Geoffrey would
expect her to…oh, she’d tried, but she couldn’t bear the thought of his hands on her. True, Geoffrey had held her before, kissed her before, and she’d found it tolerable, pleasant even.

  But things were different now. She was different. A hot shiver raced along her spine as she recalled the feel of Conall’s arms around her, their tongues melding like molten glass.

  “Ye must be strong now. Smart.”

  Hers had never been a world of frivolous emotion. And this was certainly no time to succumb to it. If her submission to Geoffrey ensured her child a name and a future, so be it. Her mind was made up.

  Closing the lake house door behind her, she threw off her shawl and knelt beside her pallet before the pine chest that had once belonged to her mother.

  For years she’d held on to the gown that had been her mother’s favorite. ’Twas the finest thing Gladys Dunbar had owned, and Mairi would look her best when she went to Geoffrey.

  “Where on earth could it be?”

  Her fingertips brushed the edge of something familiar, and she gasped in recognition. Slowly she drew the coarsely woven garment from the chest. ’Twas Conall’s shirt, the one he’d left behind after their night of lovemaking so long ago. A wave of raw emotion welled inside her.

  For months she’d fought it, denied it to herself and to the world, would have ripped her own heart out if she thought ’twould have eased her pain. She clutched the shirt to her breast and focused on one lucid truth.

  She loved Conall Mackintosh.

  All the same, less than an hour later, she placed a slipper-clad foot on the knee of one of Geoffrey’s warriors and mounted a saddled mare. Surrounded by armed men, Mairi guided her mount onto the lakeside trail leading north toward Falmar Castle.

  Chapter Sixteen

  On the journey south from Wick, Conall had avoided both Findhorn and Monadhliath. He could think of no good reason to involve his brothers or his clan in the business at hand.

  ’Twas between him and Geoffrey Symon.