by Paula Quinn
“I’ve decided to stay in Linavar fer a while longer. If that’s all right with ye.”
His words made her belly flip.
“I’ll bring Patrick here to protect the hamlet with me.” His voice grew closer. “I’ll return Marion to Deware’s arms, and then… mayhap we can get to know each other better.”
If the deafening beat of her heart was any indication, she wasn’t going to survive this. She mustn’t have cared very much, because she turned around to look at him. She exhaled the breath she’d pulled in at the sight of him directly behind her. So close, in fact, that she almost stepped right into him.
He lifted his broad fingers to a strand of her hair that had fallen over her cheek. His touch warmed her insides, her heart. She gazed up into his eyes and he smiled at her as if she was more than just a lass who’d helped him recover from his physical wounds. She wanted to tend more than that. She wanted to heal his heart.
For a breathtaking moment, she thought he was going to take her in his arms on the windswept moor and kiss her the way a woman should be kissed: slowly, masterfully, and with passion.
Oh, how she wanted to be kissed as if she was cherished, treasured… by him.
Instead he pushed her out of the way and stood in the path of the lone rider descending the Munro from Lyon’s Ridge Castle.
Chapter Twelve
I dinna believe m’ eyes! Cailean, ye whoreson, is that ye?”
Patrick.
Patrick! What was he doing here? Hell, ’twas good to see him. Cailean told him so as his cousin carefully left his saddle. He’d healed well at the castle, but by his slow movements it was easy to see that he hadn’t completely recovered.
“How d’ye fare?” Cailean asked him. His cousin was the man he had come here to avenge. He hoped Patrick wouldn’t say too much. He’d have a talk with him about it later. Right now he was entirely grateful that his cousin and closest friend lived.
“I’m well,” Patrick said. “Though obviously no’ as well as ye, I see.” He turned his most dashing grin, one that had provided him with more female company than he knew what to do with, on Temperance, and reached for her hand.
Cailean cast the heavens a fleeting glance and then introduced Temperance to his ridiculously attractive cousin.
“I’ve a feeling I’ve seen ye before.” Patrick glanced Cailean’s way and smiled. He recognized her from the marketplace in Kenmore.
Were Temperance’s cheeks so red from the cold, or from Patrick? Usually Cailean didn’t care whom Patrick took to his bed. This time was different, though. His muscles tensed and hardened at the thought of her with anyone else. Hell, he was letting it happen. She was becoming important to him and he didn’t want her to be. But he feared it might already be too late. He’d almost kissed her. He’d wanted to hold her and kiss her for the next century. It was the fevers. He’d gone mad and every time he was near her the madness worsened.
“I’ve heard much about you,” Temperance told him. “And I’d love to hear more. Come, let’s go down to the house where ’tis warm. Fortunate for you, Mr. MacGregor, you’re just in time for Gram’s hot wild rabbit stew.”
Cailean stared at her. Was she flirting with Patrick? It wouldn’t surprise him if she was. With his carefree laughter, charming wit, and eyes that could change from emerald to topaz, most lasses found Patrick to their liking.
“I thought ye were dead,” Patrick told Cailean, leading his horse and following Temperance to the house. “Duncan came back with yer horse and told us that there was nothin’ else around the beast but a pool of blood.”
Cailean’s smile was as cold as the frosted air. He was certain it was Duncan who’d attacked him.
“I didna believe ye could be taken doun so easily,” Patrick went on, “but there was nothin’ I could do until I recovered. Then one of the scullery maids told m’ nurse that a man had arrived from Linavar askin’ aboot me. I knew it had to be ye.”
“’Twas William,” Temperance corrected over her shoulder, with yet another smile.
“William Deware,” Cailean explained when his cousin set those damned bewitching eyes on him. “Her betrothed.”
She turned while she walked and cast him a look of disappointment and confusion.
“For now,” she corrected.
Would it matter that she didn’t want to marry her childhood friend? Or that her betrothed loved another? Why should it? He and Patrick wouldn’t be here overlong.
Cailean understood why marriages were arranged. It happened often in the Highlands. His own cousin Adam MacGregor was bound by duty to wed Yla MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod of Skye. Adam was not pleased. Marriages were a means of attaining peace, acquiring land, strengthening an alliance, or keeping safe. If it was best for Temperance to marry Deware, then mayhap he shouldn’t bring Marion back.
“Pity,” Patrick said in a low voice when she returned her attention to the house, and then dipped his gaze to her backside.
“Patrick,” Cailean growled.
His cousin flicked his eyes back to Cailean and made quick amends. “Fer ye, I mean. Pity fer ye.” He smiled, and Cailean knew that soon every lass in Linavar would be knocking at Gram’s door.
What if the person who’d tried to kill Patrick was here? Was it safe for him to even stay in Linavar? With each day that passed, Cailean became less certain that Patrick’s would-be assassin was from the hamlet. No one here knew him or his cousin. Why would someone shoot arrows at them? Besides, it had been Duncan’s suggestion. What if Duncan had hired someone to do it? Mayhap the arrow that had hit Patrick had been meant for Cailean, and the only thing Linavar had to do with it was that it supplied Duncan with someone to take the blame.
They reached the house and Temperance went on toward the small stable. Cailean stopped Patrick from following her. “She doesna know I’m a Black Rider, Patrick. Ye must no’ mention it. Have ye heard aboot the killin’ here the night ye were shot?”
“A few whispers here and there. The leader of Linavar was killed?”
Cailean nodded and looked around to make sure they were alone. “Her faither. Duncan accused him of shootin’ ye and had Cutty cut his throat… in front of her.”
Patrick’s expression fell. “Och, hell. Poor lass. Were ye there?”
“Aye, I was.”
His cousin examined him for a moment, knowing him better than anyone else. “Ye blame yerself.”
“Aye,” Cailean told him. “And rightfully so. I gave the order to Cutty.”
His cousin looked away. “I told ye this way of life would find ye guilty of what ye hate sooner or later. I hope now ye’re ready to listen to me and get back to Camlochlin.”
Cailean shook his head. “No’ yet. I canna leave them defenseless against Murdoch.”
“What d’ye intend to do, Cailean?”
Cailean looked toward the stable and watched Temperance Menzie exit it. He’d teach her and Deware and everyone else in Linavar how to fight, and then he’d help Temperance kill Duncan Murdoch.
“I’m goin’ to help her.”
“Cousin.” Patrick put his hand on Cailean’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Dinna get caught up in this. I dinna know what happened in that brothel that made ye so angry, but—”
“A lass I was fallin’ in love with died,” Cailean finally told him. Whenever Patrick had asked in the past, Cailean always grumbled that he didn’t want to discuss it. He’d wanted to forget it. But he hadn’t forgotten. And now, thanks to Temperance, talking about it wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be.
“I’m sorry, Cousin,” Patrick said, sounding genuinely heartsick over it.
“Is everything all right?” Temperance asked, reaching them and staring at each of them in turn.
Cailean nodded and moved out of the path to the house. “I was just tellin’ Patrick aboot Alison.”
Temperance turned to his cousin, surprised. “You didn’t know?”
Patrick shook his head, just as surprised. “Ye did?”
They both looked at Cailean. Temperance looked as if she might want to smile at him, but she didn’t.
Patrick, on the other hand, raised a dark-auburn brow at him and hooked his mouth into a knowing grin.
Cailean shoved him forward the instant Temperance turned away.
They entered the house and were met by a mewling TamLin and the delicious aroma of Gram’s cooking.
“Do I smell ginger?” Cailean lifted the cat in his arms and his nose to the air and inhaled. It was indeed ginger, one of his favorite spices. There were others wafting through the house: thyme, sage, coriander, basil, and parsley.
“Aye, we put some in the stew and Gram is making us ginger mead to wash supper down.”
The men followed her to the kitchen, where Temperance introduced Patrick to Gram. The two got along right away.
“How did ye know to look fer Cailean here in Linavar?” Gram asked him after she’d settled him into a chair opposite Cailean at the table.
Patrick explained how his nurse had carried the kitchen gossip at Lyon’s Ridge to his room. “Once I knew someone from Linavar had asked fer me, I figured ’twas m’ cousin, who Murdoch claimed was dead.”
“He’s a real devil, that one,” Gram muttered, joining Temperance in serving.
“Here.” Cailean rose from his seat. “We can get our own.”
“Nonsense!” Gram scolded. “Ye and yer cousin are our guests. Now sit!”
They spoke about everything while they ate, with Temperance and Gram quite inquisitive about Camlochlin and their kin. Cailean understood their curiosity. For most of the folks in the kingdom, the MacGregors and their staunchest allies, the Grants, were a mystery. No more than tales whispered around campfires and at the bedsides of willful children, tales of cloaked wraiths that rode out of the mists to exact vengeance upon the wicked.
Patrick answered most of their questions with his natural good temperament, seeming to mesmerize both women. He made them laugh over ginger mead and tales of pirates and a certain October hunt on the braes of Sgurr na Stri when his cousin Adam had shot his own brother in the backside. Poor Tamhas hadn’t been able to sit for a month.
Aye, Cailean remembered that night. He smiled and then he too laughed. Making hearts feel light was Patrick’s gift and, for the last four months, that gift had been Cailean’s annoyance. He hadn’t come to Glen Lyon to be merry. He’d come because he was done with the world and the way it worked. He’d become a mercenary because cutting himself off from everyone and everything he loved was the only way forward for him.
But something in him had changed. He was enjoying this night. Being here made him feel good again.
“And yer grandfather, the devil MacGregor.” Gram’s smile faded softly. “Why does he hate the Menzies?”
“’Twas long ago,” Patrick told her, sobering. “The Menzies were the Campbells’ hired henchmen.”
Cailean had forgotten that part of his kin’s history. He’d heard it many times when his grandfather’s strong voice filled the great hall of Camlochlin, retelling how the Menzies had branded the face of Rhona MacGregor during the first proscription.
“Well, we are no longer those kinds of Menzies,” Gram said, looking a wee bit indignant.
“And we,” Patrick answered with the return of his guileless—or was it?—smile, “are nae longer those kinds of MacGregors, though I mean nae dishonor to m’ kin who bled to keep our name alive. Any ridin’ we do below the Grampians now is to pillage a lass or two, no’ to fight.”
Cailean was lifting his spoon to his lips when he felt Temperance’s eyes on him. He looked up at her from beneath his dark brow. In the past Cailean had never minded being lumped together with Patrick as a rogue, though nothing could be further from the truth.
Tonight he minded.
“No’ me,” he corrected, sounding more like a bear than a man, and then returned to his stew.
“No’ him,” Patrick echoed. “Nothin’ comes before perfectin’ the swing of his blade, coverin’ his fingers with ink, or the quest fer the perfect ingredients for blueberry crepes and crème brûlée.”
Cailean blinked when Patrick grinned at him. Was his cousin now the bard of Camlochlin, retelling details he’d prefer to tell on his own? Cailean wasn’t against hitting him to shut him up. He’d grown up with a dozen cousins. Fists had sometimes been exchanged. But they were kin and forgiveness came with the next round of laughter.
“Ye know how to make crème brûlée?” Gram asked him, pulling his attention back to her.
“Aye,” he told her, “my brother has a French cook. When I was last at Ravenglade, she showed me how to make it.” He felt Temperance’s eyes on him. When he slipped his gaze to her, he found her smiling.
“Tell me, Mr. Grant,” she said, capturing his attention again with the delicacy of her voice and the beguiling arch of her brow. “If you didn’t come below the mountains to win the favor of lasses, why did you come?”
He stared at her face, her eyes, wondering how she made him want to tell her all. He wanted to tell her that he’d come to Glen Lyon to do what he did best—fight. Fighting helped him forget and it fed the beast of anger inside him. “Fer solitude,” he confessed. It wasn’t untrue. “And to nurse m’ wounds.”
“Alison,” she breathed.
“Sage.” Patrick nodded at the same time.
“Who is Sage?” Temperance set her huge, lovely eyes on Cailean.
Patrick answered for him. “His dog.” He turned to Cailean and aimed an easy smile at him. “Read to her from one of those parchments ye carry aroond.”
“Parchments?” Temperance asked.
“We can speak of it another time,” Cailean interrupted. He’d had enough of their speaking about him. Patrick’s misdeeds were much more entertaining. “Tell the ladies aboot yer faither and yer elder brother, Lucan. I think Temperance and Gram would enjoy hearin’ aboot their noble beliefs.”
He realized just how naturally clever Patrick was when his cousin sat back in his seat and aimed his most radiant smile at them. “Honor, dear lasses. M’ faither aspires to live a life worthy of a Thomas Malory tale. Like the heroes in Malory’s writin’s, he is the imperfect knight, reformed by the love of his lady.”
“And yer brother?” Temperance asked, enjoying the tale.
“Ah, Lucan,” Patrick sighed wistfully. “He is the genuine knight. ’Tis all quite dull if ye ask me.” He yawned and stretched as if just speaking about honor tired him. Cailean knew the topic’s effect on Patrick. It quieted him one way or another. “I’m afraid I’m no’ yet m’self. Is there somewhere I could rest m’ head, dear Gram?”
“Why of course, Mr. MacGregor. Come.” Gram stood from her chair. “I’ll show ye to Temperance’s room, where yer cousin is staying. Ye can share the bed with him.”
“Ye’ll sleep on the floor, Patrick,” Cailean called out, then reached for his cup.
Beside him Temperance giggled.
Cailean eyed her from above the rim of his cup. She liked Patrick. “He’s verra charmin’.”
“Aye, he is,” she agreed. She smiled at his deep scowl and rested her chin on her fist. “But not nearly as appealing as you.”
Chapter Thirteen
He looked especially handsome against the backdrop of twilight and mountains. His dark hair whipped across his face, eclipsing his steel-blue eyes.
Temperance couldn’t take her eyes off him while they walked along a small path leading to the well, each carrying a bucket of plates and pots and with TamLin at their ankles. After Gram and Patrick had retired, she’d accepted Cailean’s offer to help her clean up. She was glad she had. She liked walking beside him. Of course she liked tending him while he lay on his back or his belly. But when he was on his feet, his strength and virility warmed the blood coursing through her veins. It was the oddest thing, but being near him, with him, made her feel feminine… like a woman. She liked it. She liked too much about him. She tried to stop it, but it was no use. She liked hi
s being here. She didn’t want him to leave.
“Will you tell me of your dog, Sage?” she asked him as they came upon the well.
He set down his buckets and she did the same. “If ye truly want to know.” He released the rope and dropped the well bucket into the deep.
She smiled, watching him gather water. “Mayhap ’tisn’t a good idea. The look on your face suggests you’d rather fall down the well than speak of it.”
He glanced at her and then unleashed a smile on her that snatched the breath right out of her. It was a good thing it didn’t occur often or she’d likely faint at his feet and hate herself for the next year.
“She reached m’ waist,” he began, “and was the color of the sky before a storm. Others might argue, but I dinna give a damn what they say; Sage was the bonniest of her sisters.”
He hauled the first bucket of water over the edge of the well and poured its contents into her bucket. Then began again.
She wanted to tell him not to lift too much, but he looked perfectly able to lift her and carry her over a mountain if he wanted to.
“Sage used to look at me like she knew every part of me, what I was thinkin’, what mood I was in. She knew me better than anyone else. But I didna want a dog hoverin’ aboot m’ ankles or m’ horse’s hooves. Sage had other plans.”
“She won you,” Temperance breathed, unable to hold in her breath any longer.
He paused and slanted his gaze on TamLin sitting at Temperance’s feet. “Aye, she won me,” he confessed on a whisper that lay his empty heart open to her. “And she humbled me thinkin’ how I had almost rejected her. I took her fer granted, though, never lettin’ it cross m’ mind that she would be gone soon.”
“What happened?” she asked, washing supper plates in the clean water.
He filled his bucket and started washing the pots. “I went on a foolish adventure in Nairn with a pair of m’ cousins to reunite with three sisters we’d met in Sleat. We got caught in the house with the gels. Their faither bound us and whipped us quite thoroughly. I dinna think he had intentions of lettin’ us go alive. Sage had been with me, waitin’ ootside while I stole m’ first kiss from Colleen Rose inside. After we were captured, Sage returned to Skye, somehow bravin’ the rain and hail of the season. She led m’ faither and m’ uncles to us and saved me and m’ cousins.”