The Chieftain's Daughter

by Frances Housden

  Turning to look at Rowena, Nhaimeth whispered, “Ye had nae warning of this?” He kenned Rowena didnae want her ability to see the future to be taken for granted, and tried not to depend on her impressions of folks’ lives when her gift gave her a glimpses of their future. He wasnae certain, but it seemed that their son Ghillie was a fair way to discovering the same ability. For his sake—not wanting Ghillie to take such a power for granted—Nhaimeth desisted frae asking for help, unless as now, it was an emergency.

  “I did get an impression that she was soon to meet her fate.” Nhaimeth drew in a sharp breath, but she simply reached out and took his hand. “It was naught bad. I didn’t see how it might happen. Simply that she might meet someone who would change her life. It could happen anywhere and, just like yerself, I didn’t expect her to disappear in the middle of naewhere.”

  Holding Rowena’s hand settled Nhaimeth down; his pulse nae longer raced and if his heart beat a mite faster, it was for a different reason entirely. “We’ll have to retrace our steps,” he said and rode to where Shug had begun helping his fellow housecarls. In his opinion the man had lost Maggie and must be responsible for finding her.

  “Shug, ye better show me the last place ye remember seeing her. We can do that while the others make camp for the night and get a fire going. It will be daylight for a while yet, and Rowena can sort out a bite to eat while ye and I look for Maggie.”

  Ghillie came forward eagerly. “Can I come with ye, father? I have guid eyes.”

  “And so ye have son, but I depend on both ye and Neil to help Hamish set up the tents. I expect we’ll catch up with Maggie quite quickly. Mayhap her new horse has been ge’in her trouble and nae doubt by now she’s hurrying to catch up to us.”

  Even as Nhaimeth spoke to Ghillie, he remembered Rowena’s mentioning Maggie meeting her fate, whatever that might be. Being female, Rowena was probably putting some sort of romantic proposition to it, but where in all Hades was Maggie likely to run into a likely lad in an area as bare of folk as Skene. The clan’s folk had been run off, and he hadnae heard of anybody else moving onto the once fine property. Frae his point of view, he couldnae see why anyone would want to. Riding through, he had found little to interest him.

  Therefore he set off, telling himself the worst he expected to find was that young Maggie’s new mount had thrown her. Ach aye, the mare was bonnie but, like her rider, she was mighty feisty.

  He couldnae help his shoulders sagging or the worrying thought of the consequences should they not find the lass. Maggie might dress like a lad and be better with a sword than a needle; she was still the daughter he believed save Morag’s life, had done so through being a lass. Nhaimeth was convinced that if she’d been a son, Morag would have died, just as Euan’s first three sons and their mothers had done.

  The irony of the situation was that Maggie always seemed to be attempting to make up for all yon sons that the McArthur had lost.

  Chapter 4

  “What do ye mean by ‘broken man’? Are ye actually an outlaw, a cateran, like I said?”

  Dhugal caught a tinge of disappointment in the lass’s expression and for some reason, it hurt—not as much as the hole she had made in his shoulder but, all of a sudden, he didn’t want her to think badly of him. She had mentioned finding a bit of something to cover his wound and didn’t want her to change her mind. “I swear on my sgian that I’m not a cateran, or even an outlaw. Truth to tell, my whole clan has been dispossessed because of my late uncle. He supported Donald Bane instead of Duncan and Edgar—not that Duncan was any great loss. Queen Margaret’s sons Edgar and Alexander are of better stock, but my uncle was nae guid judge of character and the whole clan have suffered for it—me in particular, being his heir … a circumstance that is worth nae more than the clan Skene that came down to me.”

  The look in her eyes softened. He had to admit she was bonnie, far too bonnie for him. A broken man was worth naught—deserved naught. God’s teeth he didnae even know her name. Nae sooner had the thought slipped into his mind than she solved his dilemma and at the same time made it worse.

  “I was named for Queen Margaret, she and Malcolm Canmore were guid friends to my father and my uncle.” She was searching for something in the wee sporran at the waist of her short coat as she spoke looking away frae him and he was glad she couldn’t see the shock she had stung him with.

  “So yer a Margaret?”

  “Maggie. Maggie McArthur.”

  If he had been standing his heart would have dropped into his feet, but instead, the pain wrought by her pressing something against his wound distracted him. A McArthur? It was a blessing he had discovered her name afore he made a wrong turn on the road his heart had taken at first sight of that face and hair spinning afore him. It might just be that a lack of female company was responsible for the feelings, the heat that stirred low in his belly as she bent over him, close enough to smell her hair, a scent twice as sweet as the way its owner acted. It was as if putting on an abrasive front to warn men away came naturally to her.

  He soon realised how preposterous he was being—the best outcome for all concerned would be to die frae his wound afore her father killed him—a result he soon discovered was the last fate he wanted as she lifted his own sgian and held it close to his belly.

  “Nae ye don’t.” With a new lease on life he snatched her wrist, pushing it up higher than their heads until she collapsed forward, landing against him with the force of his movement. The pain lanced through his shoulder, echoed in his heart as the weight of her breasts punched into his chest and throbbed in his groin as his cock hardened, thinking all its prayers had been answered—an illusion wrought by her closeness and encouraged by the scent of a woman who could never be his.

  Maggie’s cheek brushed his, as she pushed away, telling him in a low murmur, “I wasnae intending to harm ye.”

  Her free hand slipped over his chest, moving down to his belt. He tensed, aware he was in nae condition for a bonnie innocent lass to discover the affect she had on him. Her hand clutched at his shirt and he thought his heart stopped as his breath seized in his lungs, reviving as she dragged up his shirt. “All I intended was to cut a strip off the tail of yer shirt. It will help to bind this dried moss onto yer wound.”

  “A-ah,” he sighed, “In that case help yerself.”

  Her mind raced as she cut a long narrow piece of linen frae his shirt. The cloth was thin, as if pounded by many river washings, but it would be enough to hold the moss in place. It was something Kathryn had given her, meant to soak up a different kind of blood; however, needs must.

  Her cheek burned frae where it had rested next to his. A strange, lax feeling had invaded her limbs, and it took all her concentration to make sure she didn’t cut him again as she sliced through his shirt, while the heat from her cheek seemed to signal the melting feeling betwixt her thighs. Her breath stuttered frae her lips in wee puffs of air. Nervous, she pushed the slashed neckline of his shirt wide, sliding it down his muscled arm, baring his chest. The darker V of skin matched his throat and face and for some unasked-for reason she felt tempted to put her lips on the tip of the V where it rested over his heart.

  Scrunching her eyelids tight for but a moment, she snapped them open again, discarding the nonsensical notion that had invaded her brain. “Hold yer fingers on there again until I wind this down underneath yer armpit to hold it in place.”

  As soon as he complied, she wrapped it tightly, pulling his hand out of the way once his fingers were bound betwixt linen and skin. Not even the taking of numerous deep breaths were likely to dilute the male scent he exuded frae her head. Tucking the end of the linen underneath the spot where it pressed tightly against a bulge of muscle she said, “That should be fine for now, but ye need to go home and rest if ye can. Chances are ye will run a fever afore the night’s over.”

  “Chance would be fine thing,” he muttered as she sat back on her heels. “It so happens I left my horse in it’s stable this morning, and I belie
ve crawling back on hand and knee is going to be impossible. I can feel my ankle swelling inside my boot.” He shrugged the hurt off as if it were naught. “It twisted when I tripped over that tussock.” He nodded in the direction of the clump of spiky grasses.

  Maggie looked up at the sky. Summer was drawing in and with it the long nights. If she wasnae mistaken there was a touch of scarlet tinting the under side of the clouds, and birds flying home to roost swam beneath clouds stained by the blood of the dying sun—birds showing black against the sky as the night crouching below the horizon. “If we take my horse will we be able to reach your stable afore dark. I can’t guarantee more, since I don’t know the way and saw nary a hint of any building frae the roadway.”

  A slow smile lit his expression as she warbled on about his giving her directions. “It’s nae secret, but it is hidden by the lie of the land. I’d rather show ye the hall than describe it.”

  Understanding dawned on her and surprised by it, she spoke her thought aloud, “Ye love the place.”

  He nodded. “It’s the reason I cannae bring myself to leave. Everyone else drifted away, and who can blame them? Bad enough losing yer land, but yer name…“

  He swallowed, hard, but she chose to ignore it. How to tell him she understood? For years she’s watched her brother struggle with the knowledge he was a bastard. Their father gave him the name McArthur as he did her, but for the first eleven years of his life Rob was known as Farquhar, as was their mother. She never saw a man so happy as Rob on the day when their parents married.

  “If we’re going to leave, it had better be now, afore Nhaimeth sends out a search party,” she informed him, rising from her knees and approaching Star, who looked to have fallen asleep. “Come on Star, time to make yerself useful.”

  She untied the reins and walked Star over to the huge boulder, “The mare’s not over-big but she she’s sturdy enough to carry us both.“ Gripping the reins in one hand, she held out the other in an offer to help him to his feet. He grasped her by the wrist, his big hand enveloping hers, then she tugged him towards her. Maggie had almost forgotten how tall he was and, out of the shadows, his hair glowed dark red—whether naturally or frae the reflection of the sky’s colour was hard to tell. For an instant, he attempted to stand straight but was forced to lean on her shoulder. She raised her eyes to his and together they both said, “I’ll sit behind ye.”

  She looked up; he looked down then raised the hand he still held. “Yer arms aren’t long enough, and as I have only one useful arm, we’ve nae option but to trust each other.”

  “I’ll mount first, then, and you can swing up onto Star’s rump,” she said, suiting the deed to her words, surprised as he slipped on her shield so it sat behind him, drawing up his knees until he fitted himself to the shape of her shorter legs. She shouldn’t have been surprised to feel his uninjured arm curve about her waist, yet she shuddered when the weight and warmth of his forearm flowed across her belly, unobstructed by the leather trous she wore. His presence behind her felt, overpowering, as if she might lose control if she leant against him. She’d had nae notion that a man’s body could throw out so much heat and, even while they weren’t touching, Maggie would have known he was close behind her.

  “Are ye certain ye can cope with all the hue and cry that yer disappearance will cause?” His voice came in her ear a husky burr that sent a shiver through her, tingled up her spine and ran on tiptoe over the curve of her nape.

  She needed to think, yet it was all but impossible to string one coherent thought after another and eventually she blurted out, “I don’t care. I was the one who stuck ye; it’s up to me to see that ye don’t die.”

  Would he know she was lying? Would he know she didn’t want to leave him until she found out why being with him made her feel different. Made her experience new sensations, new thrills.

  Aye going with him was a risk—the one thing her father never allowed her to take. He had allowed her—taught her—to fight, which was all well and guid, but then he’d made sure she was never in any danger. He had come up with young Scots who had aspirations to offer for her hand—Maggie, the McArthur’s daughter. She would have had to be blind not to recognise not a one of them bore any resemblance to her father. They might aspire to her hand—she clenched her teeth remembering, huffed a short sharp breath down her nose—everyone of them had been safe— not liable to cause a stir in the world. That quality was the last one she was looking for in a man. She didn’t want to be safe.

  She wanted adventure.

  It wasnae what Maggie said, but what she didn’t say that bothered Dhugal. Yet, while pressing his free hand into her hip to find a measure of balance, a steadiness of soul and all that was left of his honour, down deep in his gut sat the notion that he should have sent her away for her own guid. And if he had felt but a whit better, he might have summoned up the energy to tell her so. Instead, he let temptation rule his head and told her to take a path through the trees to the northeast. Sitting poised on her mount’s rounded rump, Dhugal’s shoulder burned like the devil, as her horse’s long, loping stride jostled both it and his ankle, reducing him to biting his tongue rather than cry out and make him appear even less worthy in her eyes.

  What kind of a man let a twisted ankle hold him back?

  So he sat like Maggie’s shadow, with naught to prevent him breathing in the scent of her hair, drowning his bodily pain in wishing that they had met in a different place—a different time—when he had still been his uncle’s heir, had prospects, a future.

  Ach, he might be all about in his head, thrown by the way his insides stirred, sitting this near to her, knowing there was only one way the two of them could become closer.

  His chest heaved at the thought, and he hoped she couldn’t feel his cock harden until, if he weren’t careful, this obvious sign of his lust would press into her shapely bottom. Gingerly, he eased his arse further back on the mare’s rump. A movement that set common sense whispering in his ear about the life he had been leading of late.

  Solitary.

  Mayhap, he would have felt the same stirrings if she had been as ugly as sin; it had been a long time since he’d had a woman, an age since any woman had displayed the least notion of having designs on him—back in days afore he became a broken man.

  “Do we keep to this path?”

  He looked past her shoulder as they broke through the edge of the trees. The sun was sinking lower, but he felt certain they could make it all the way to the hall afore dark. Their path lay upwards, crossing over the curve of the brae. “Aye, stay on the path,” he replied, knowing Skene Hall nae longer belonged to his family—might never belong to them again—yet he wanted an honest reaction. Wanted it so bad it twisted in his gut, sharp like the sgian his ancestor had killed the wolf with, the blade that rested down the side of Maggie’s boot.

  He felt her indrawn breath, heard it as the mare crested the brae and halted, letting the sudden revelation of Skene Hall fill their gaze. Nae matter how often Dhugal stood on this spot, the blow to his heart was always the same. In this light, the Keep floated like a polished pewter tower built on the edge of a loch coloured pale red in the reflected sunset. The long narrow loch sat in its own wee glen surrounded by rounded hills. A gleaming silver pendant suspended in the centre of the heather-covered slopes—naught like the Highlands she travelled frae. It surprised him that her father had let her leave Cragenlaw without him. He breathed in deeply, filled his lungs with her scent and knew that if she were his daughter, he would never have let such a temptation to a hot-blooded male out of his sight.

  Impetuous? Aye she was, but without a bad bone in her body, look at the way she had tended his wound.

  Some might say it was herself who had inflicted it upon him, but it was he who had challenged her. If he had known she was a lassie—nae, too late now to say what if. His heart turned over in his chest, imagining if their roles had been reversed and he had wounded—nae, killed her. It didn’t bear thinking of.


  “It’s like a wee version of Cragenlaw, but smoother, calmer, without the waves crashing below the Keep. It’s so bonnie. You are fortunate.”

  “Not so much; it’s nae longer ours—the clan’s I mean—yet I can’t make myself leave,” he spoke truthfully, as much as admitting he had naught but his dreams and who could live on dreams alone?

  “I like it. If that’s where the stables are, we had best get a shift on and take ye down there.” She gathered up the reins and dug her heels into her mount’s flanks, skimming the inside of his ankle, once again reminding him how he had jarred it in the first place—not his best moment.

  “Best put yer bonnet back on and tuck up yer hair, for we won’t be alone. An auld couple meant to take care of the Keep live in a wee bothy on the far side. It’s my fault that ye’ve had to bring me home, so the least I can do is be mindful of yer reputation. Few folk find their way to the Keep, but yer father is the McArthur and, though he might never have heard of me, I’m well aware of the stories about him. He’s not a man to get on the wrong side of, to my way of thinking.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, a twinkle in her eye as she looked up and showed him a lopsided smile. “Do it for me, will ye? It’s tucked in the back of my belt.”

  “Nae bother,” he told her, trying to ignore the implication that to do as she asked would mean touching her, and how could he ignore the feminine shape beneath the leather clothes covering her frae head to toe. On any other day, retrieving her knitted bonnet would be easy. Tonight, with naught but one able arm, he tightened his grip on the horse with his knees to maintain his balance as he slipped his fingers under her belt to hook out the soft, knitted worsted. Nae course wool for this lass. A reminder that nae matter what kind of warning his brain sent out, his body was deaf to it.

  Pushing his fist inside the bonnet, he spread his fingers wide ran his hand over her scalp and left the bonnet in its place. Hiding her hair was going to prove more difficult. Not simply because it was long, silky and hard to wind around his fist. Nae, if that wasnae enough, his pulse already raced frae the heat of her scalp penetrating his palm. Now, as he gathered the long strands into his fist, twisting them into a long black rope, his knuckles skimming the tender skin in the hollow of her nape, he felt her shudder, acknowledged tremors that echoed frae her to his fingers. His breath caught in his throat, roughened the words he couldn’t hold back, “Ye have bonnie hair. Slippery, like mountain water.”