Taken by the Highlander

by Julianne MacLean

  Mairi faced the window again. “Mmm. Maybe you’re right. We should bring him in.” She considered sending Hamish out to extend the invitation, but the rain was coming down hard and she wasn’t sure how much of the whisky Logan might have consumed. Hamish would be soaked and Logan could be completely inebriated. “I’ll go and fetch him.” She reached for her shawl and raised it over her head.

  Seconds later, she was at the stable door, flinging it open and darting inside.

  “Gracious,” she whispered, lowering her shawl and shaking out the rain, while the wind pummeled the stable from all directions.

  The chickens clucked and fluttered about, and Logan’s horse stomped around skittishly.

  “Relax everyone,” she whispered. “It’s only a rainstorm.”

  Tiptoeing to the back stall, she found Logan resting soundly on his side, facing the wall. Not yet ready to wake him, she allowed her eyes a moment to roam the full length of his body, from his broad shoulders beneath the loose white shirt, to his narrow hips and those long, muscular legs.

  You shouldn’t be doing this, Mairi. You should not be looking at him like that…

  Leisurely, he rolled over and gazed up at her. “Can I help you, lass?”

  Taking a step back—and feeling as if she’d been caught like a thief in the night, stealing naughty glances—she spoke casually. “I only came to see if you wished to join us inside by the fire. It’s a miserable day, and it’s only going to get worse.”

  He slowly sat up. “That’s very kind of you, Mairi. If you’re certain I would not be intruding….”

  “Not at all. We couldn’t possibly enjoy our supper with you out here in the cold. Please, come with me.” She held out a hand.

  His green eyes glimmered with appreciation as he accepted it and rose to his feet, looking tall, capable and brawny, even with his arm bound to his ribs in the sling. He stood for a moment, gazing down at her while the rain struck the window pane.

  Her heart thudded in her chest. “Did you finish the whisky?” she asked, feeling like she could use a wee dram herself, just to calm her nerves.

  “Not all of it.”

  She looked down and spotted it on the floor next to the bed. “I’ll bring it inside then.”

  She bent to pick it up and placed it in the basket with the goblet, knowing the entire time that it was merely a reason to turn away from him before he recognized how flustered she was feeling.

  And how strangely, unexpectedly exhilarated she was by that.

  * * *

  The cold rain fell mercilessly for the rest of the day and long into the night, while the wind howled up and down the glen.

  “I owe you another debt,” Logan said to Mairi after Isla took Hamish to bed—in a blatantly obvious attempt to leave them alone together. “I would have been in no condition to brave this storm on the road with my arm in a sling. Thank you for convincing me to stay on another day.”

  Mairi sat in a chair across from him, in front of the warm, crackling fire, sipping her wine. “There is no debt to repay, Logan,” she replied. “Your company this evening was more than enough to satisfy us all. Hamish greatly enjoyed your stories of adventure as a scout.” She leaned forward and spoke conspiratorially. “But tell me the truth now. Were they all true?”

  He leaned forward as well until their faces were very close. She could almost feel the beat of his breath on her lips. “I might have exaggerated a detail or two, just a wee bit.”

  She found herself smiling and beguiled by his candor, the sculpted contours of his face, and the glimmer of mischief in his eyes.

  Mairi sat back. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  He leaned back also and, in the flickering light, regarded her with interest.

  Perhaps it was the wine, but she felt unusually adventurous herself—and wickedly flirtatious—which was not like her at all. Or perhaps it was simply the passage of time and the fading of certain unpleasant memories from her mind.

  Or perhaps it was the man himself….

  For the next two hours, they sat and talked openly about every possible subject under the sun—Scottish politics and farming, stories from their respective childhoods. He spoke affectionately about his over-protective brother, and she told him about her father and the brothers she’d loved but lost at the Battle of Sheriffmuir.

  Soon she couldn’t keep from yawning, and Logan set down his glass. “I’m keeping you up.”

  “Not at all,” she replied, not wanting him to think she was disinterested in his company. “I haven’t enjoyed myself like this in a long time. Not since… Oh, I can’t even remember when.”

  He spoke softly, “I feel the same way, Mairi. Right now, I’m almost glad my brother broke my arm.”

  Her eyebrows lifted in surprise, but before she could comment on that, the sound of approaching hooves and men’s voices outside in the yard caused her heart to explode with panic. Her eyes darted to the door.

  “Are you expecting anyone tonight?” Logan asked.

  “In this foul weather? No.”

  He rose from his chair. “Where’s your pistol?”

  She rose also and bent to fetch it from the box under the storage cabinet.

  “It’s here.”

  “Give it to me, lass.”

  She handed it to him without the slightest hesitation.

  “Do you have any other weapons in the house?” he asked. “A sword or a dirk I might use?”

  “My father’s sword. It’s in my bedchamber, on top of the wardrobe.” By now, her belly was on fire with terror, for it sounded as if there were a number of men outside, not just one or two. It was like something out of one of her nightmares.

  Logan moved swiftly toward the curtain that led to her mother’s room where Mairi’s son lay sleeping, checked on them, then crossed to her room on the other side of the kitchen. “I’ll wait in here. Answer the door and see what they want. Maybe they’re just looking for shelter. If that’s the case, send them to the stable. Tell them your son is ill with a fever and no one should enter.”

  Nodding her head quickly, she lifted the bottom of her skirt and unsheathed the small blade she always kept hidden in her boot. When she lowered the hem, she noticed Logan watching her from the door to her room. She merely shrugged, and he gave her look of approval, as if he understood exactly why she carried it.

  In that moment, a knock rapped urgently at the door.

  Chapter Six

  Mairi glanced over her shoulder to wait until Logan was hidden behind the curtain, then she opened the door a small crack.

  A tall, flaxen-haired English soldier in a rain-sodden cloak stood outside in the furious downpour. “I beg your pardon, madam,” he said, grimacing with discomfort in the cold. “Would you allow us to take shelter in your stable for the night?”

  The sound of his voice—that familiar, well-bred English accent—sent a shiver of revulsion down her spine.

  Mairi studied his eyes, searching for signs of deceitfulness or drunkenness. All she saw was a man shivering in the cold, appearing rather desperate.

  “How many are with you?” she asked, leaning to peer over his shoulder.

  “Five in all,” he replied. “I apologize for the inconvenience, but we will require nothing more than the use of your stable. Perhaps a few eggs in the morning if you can spare them.”

  Though it was pitch dark outside and the rain was coming down in a merciless fury from the clouds, Mairi was able to make out the shadowy figures of four men on horseback, braving the storm in their saddles.

  “Aye, you may take shelter here,” she replied, “and help yourselves to some eggs in the morning. But please be gone at first light.”

  He bowed and fingered the brim of his hat. “Much obliged, madam.”

  He shouted orders to his men, while Mairi quickly shut the door and locked it.

  Exhaling with relief, she turned around and tipped her head back against the door. Logan emerged from behind the curtain with her father’s sw
ord in hand.

  “Did you hear that?” she asked.

  “Aye. You did well, lass. Now go get in bed with your mother and son. I’ll stay awake and keep watch.”

  She blinked a few times, feeling rather dizzy as her rapid, out-of-control pulse finally began to slow to a normal pace. “Logan, what would you have done if they tried to come inside?”

  “If they intended to do you harm, lass, I would have killed them.”

  She felt her forehead crinkle with disbelief—and fascination. “Even with your broken arm? You believe you could have done that?”

  “Aye.” He strode closer and set the sword on the table. “Never underestimate the element of surprise.”

  Her body rhythms began to slow as he grew nearer with every step. By the time he reached her, she felt completely spellbound, and ever so grateful for his presence.

  Logan stood before her, his golden hair falling forward around his face. He smelled of leather and wood smoke, and she wanted to reach out and touch him—to lay her hands on his solid chest, to step into his arms and feel safe there.

  “Do you often get Redcoats knocking at your door?” he asked.

  “Nay,” she replied. “But I suspect it might become a regularity, now that the Campbell stronghold has fallen to the English.”

  Logan’s eyes roamed over her face, then he reached out, as if he were about to lay his hand upon her cheek.

  Instinct took over. Mairi turned her face away. “Please, don’t.”

  With his hand still hovering in mid-air, Logan tilted his head to the side. “I only wanted to tuck that stray tendril behind your ear,” he explained.

  Her heart raced as she met his gaze again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to react like that.”

  “No need to apologize.” He lowered his hand to his side. “You should get some rest now. I’ll keep an eye on things.”

  “Thank you,” she replied shakily, wondering why she’d turned away from him when only seconds before, she’d wanted to lay her hands on his chest, feel safe in his arms. Perhaps even feel his lips upon hers and stoke the fires of desire that were growing inside her.

  She’d never believed her body would ever know such feelings again, and yet despite desire, she had recoiled from his touch. What was wrong with her?

  “Good night, lass,” Logan said, his gaze deep and penetrating, urging her to go.

  “Good night,” she replied in a whisper, not wanting to leave him, but feeling confused and knowing that it would be best.

  * * *

  The following morning, Mairi woke to the faint sound of voices in the yard. Sitting up in bed beside Hamish and her mother, she listened carefully, alert for a knock at the door or some other such disturbance.

  When nothing happened, she slid off the bed, stood and padded to the window to carefully look out. The morning sun—just beginning its rise—revealed five Redcoats in her yard, mounting their horses and discussing in which direction they should travel. There was some disagreement until the ranking officer laid out a plan.

  A moment later, they were gone, by way of the swollen creek, and then they entered the forest.

  Her mother sat up. “Have they left?”

  “Aye,” Mairi replied, moving to the bed to kiss Hamish on the forehead. “Sleep late if you wish,” she whispered. “I’ll take care of breakfast.”

  As she swept the curtain aside, she found Logan in the kitchen, just turning away from the window with the pistol in his hand, her father’s sword sheathed in his weapon belt. He lowered the pistol and released the hammer.

  “Were you up all night?” she asked.

  “Aye, though I might have dozed off once or twice.”

  She approached him. “You must be exhausted. Why don’t you get some sleep? Please take my bed. It will be awhile before breakfast is ready.”

  He agreed and handed the pistol to her.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” she said.

  “No thanks are necessary,” he replied, as he moved to disappear behind the curtain to her room, leaving her feeling very regretful for her behavior the night before.

  * * *

  After returning to bed after breakfast, Logan slept a good part of the day and woke to the delicious aroma of meat stew. In that moment, he experienced a minor epiphany and decided to make no mention of hurrying off to pursue his brother while he contemplated it.

  For one thing, the hour was growing late, but more importantly, he couldn’t fathom the idea of mounting his horse and saying good-bye to Mairi Campbell. The incident with the Redcoats the night before had been disconcerting to say the least, and he wanted to make sure they did not return.

  Or perhaps he simply wanted to remain in Mairi’s presence a little longer and assure himself that she was not torturing herself over what had passed between them the night before—when he’d tried to touch her.

  There might have been a hint of a challenge in there somewhere…for after seeing her flinch, he wanted more than anything to prove he could be trusted, that he had no wish to harm her. He wanted her to know—and truly believe—that a man’s touch wasn’t always to be feared.

  It was not an entirely selfless ambition. It was, in fact, quite the opposite. She was the most stunningly beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes upon, and not only that, she was strong, brave and resilient, and full of goodness—for she had somehow managed to put hatred and vengeance aside for the sake of love for her son.

  How was such a thing possible? How had she done it?

  Logan had sat up all night, keeping watch over this household and pondering the magnitude of those questions. When he woke to the smell of meat stew, he was in absolute awe of Mairi Campbell. It was as if the night sky had exploded with stars before his eyes. If she had found peace in her heart, after all she’d been through, maybe it was possible for him, too.

  But with that epiphany came uncomfortable questions about his own integrity. Could he really be trusted? Mairi didn’t know the first thing about him. He was not who he claimed to be. He was lying to her with every look, every word, every smile.

  It had never bothered him to tell a lie before—his whole life had been a lie—but on that particular evening, his gut had a knot in it the size of a boulder.

  * * *

  Logan enjoyed three helpings of Mairi’s succulent meat stew, and after supper, they again sat together in front of the fire after Isla took Hamish to bed.

  They talked of her neighbors and how her father had come to reside on this land, and how he had met her mother when they were very young.

  Logan shared more stories from his life as a scout, and through it all, neither of them mentioned the awkward moment from the night before when she had recoiled from his touch.

  It was long past midnight when they finally said good-night. Logan returned to his cot in the stable to allow Mairi a good night’s sleep in her own bed.

  For hours, he lay awake, replaying their conversations over and over in his mind and imagining in splendid, vivid detail what would happen if he touched her again…and she did not recoil.

  * * *

  “I’m glad you decided to stay another day,” Mairi said the next morning, startling Logan from his crouched position at the edge of the creek where he was awkwardly attempting to shave his stubbly beard with one hand.

  Isla had been kind enough to loan him her late husband’s blade and shaving brush, as well as a bar of soap, but he was having a devil of a time managing everything. He felt like he had the skills of a three-year-old.

  He tried to stand and greet Mairi, but with one arm still in a sling, and the other hand fumbling with the soap dish and blade, he lost his balance and fell backwards onto his haunches on the grass. His arm throbbed with pain.

  “Oh dear,” Mairi said, hurrying forward to help him. “That was my fault. I shouldn’t have snuck up on you like that.”

  Logan winced and tried again to get up. “It’s all right, lass. It does a man good to be reminded that he shouldn’t take
anything for granted. This makes me appreciate both my hands all the more.”

  She hooked her arm under his and helped him to rise, then pointed a finger at the lather on his chin. “You missed a few spots. Right there. Would you like some help?”

  Suddenly his infirmity felt less like a curse and more like a blessing, if it meant he could spend some time close and alone with her. He decided to play it up. “I was having some trouble. Would you mind?” He held out the blade.

  Mairi smiled and took it from his open hand. “Not at all. This was something I used to do for my father, though it was a long time before he allowed me to hold the blade. I must have been at least twelve.”

  “Who could blame him?” Logan replied. “An unsteady hand could inadvertently cut a man’s throat and end his life—which would result in a lifetime of guilt for the offender. No father would wish to inflict that upon his child.”

  Mairi nodded, a twinkle in her eye. “Aye, he was probably wise to wait. Shall we sit down?”

  Logan followed her lead and sat on the grass with his legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles, while the creek—swollen from the recent rains—rushed fast and thunderously over the rocks beside them.

  Mairi crouched on her knees. “Hamish has been hounding me to ask if you’ll give him another fighting lesson,” she said as she swirled the brush around in the cup of water. “I’m not sure what to tell him. I don’t wish to presume anything and I know what it cost you last time. The pain to your arm.”

  Logan tipped his head back to allow her better access to his jaw and throat. “I’d be happy to give him another lesson. I feel stronger today. I’m well-rested and my arm is not smarting so much.”

  Mairi applied soap to the brush and lathered his chin and jawline. “I’d like to keep it that way.” She gave him a cautioning look. “No sense testing your luck.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  He closed his eyes at the scraping sound of the blade, while he luxuriated in the knowledge that it was Mairi who held it. It was not exactly the same as the touch of her skin, but it was an oddly intimate act she was performing.