Highland Hero

by Hannah Howell

  Gently setting the tarts in her basket, she prayed the laird was one of those rare people who felt nothing when eating her food. Or, that he accepted the soothing or lifting of his spirits as simply the result of eating something delicious. Rose had enough trouble in her life without having the new laird cocking a suspicious, fearful eye her way.

  “Weel, lads, wish me luck,” she said as she donned her cloak.

  Rose shook her head when only two of the four cats sprawled around the kitchen deigned to glance at her. It was very sad, she decided as she picked up her basket and headed out the door, when a woman of only one and twenty was reduced to talking to her cats. Even sadder was the fact that, since her mother’s death, she rarely had anyone else to talk to.

  “Pssst! Rose!”

  Then again, she mused, there were times when talking to cats was preferable to talking to some people. She hastily scolded herself for being unkind and smiled at the young girl who stumbled out from amid the tangled shrubbery she had been hidng behind. Meg was at that awkward age of not quite a child, but not quite a woman. Even harder, Meg had a lively mind that was not being kept fed. Unfortunately, that lively mind had become fixed upon Rose, her family, and her garden.

  “I fear I cannae visit now, Meg,” Rose said, almost smiling at the way the young girl had to brush her thick dark hair off her face. “I must hie to the castle.”

  “I ken it,” Meg said as she fell into step beside Rose.

  “The laird wants to see ye and test your food for himself.”

  Rose frowned slightly. “How did ye hear about that?”

  “ ’Tis being whispered all about the village.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Aye. Seems the old laird kept a journal. ’Tis said he thought it might help his son settle in as laird if he kept clear records of all that was said and done at the castle, in the village, and all about the lands of Duncairn.”

  “And the old laird wrote about Rose Cottage, the Keith women, and the garden.”

  “He did. He praised your apple tarts, ’tis said.”

  “Weel, that is kind, but I rather wish he hadnae done so.”

  “Why? The young laird lived here nearly a score of his years. I suspicion he heard all about it.”

  “True.” Rose sighed. “He may have forgotten it, though.”

  “Wheesht, even if he had, he would soon have been told about it all.” Meg shook her head, then had to brush the hair off her thin face again. “S’truth, Mistress Kerr has nay doubt complained, as is her wont.”

  “She has already been to see the new laird?”

  “Fast as she could. He has been home a fortnight, ye ken. She was dragging poor Anne up there ’ere the dust had settled behind his horse. The laird has no wife, has he?”

  Worse and worse, Rose mused, eyeing the stout walls of Duncairn warily as they appeared before her. Joan Kerr hated her, had hated her mother, and was the most vicious and consistent voice speaking out against the Keith women. She had married a Kerr but returned home once widowed. Rose’s mother had often jested that the Kerrs had probably had a grand celebration when the woman had left. Joan was a distant cousin of the old laird and made far more of that connection than it was worth, considering how many of the clan could claim the same. For some reason Joan had always disliked the Keith women. Rose had a feeling her mother had known the reason for that animosity, but she had never shared that information.

  “It would be a good match,” she murmured, wondering why the thought of the new laird with Anne should irritate her. “Despite her mother, Anne is a sweet woman.”

  “Too sweet. I think the laird terrified her. That seemed to be what Mistress Kerr was scolding her about as they walked home. Timid, wee mousie, her mother called her. Anne stayed to the shadows and the few times she spoke to the laird, ’twas in a tiny, shaky whisper.”

  “Ye listened for quite a while, didnae ye?”

  Meg nodded, revealing not a glimmer of remorse. “Thought they might catch me at it a time or two.”

  “Did the laird do something in particular to frighten Anne?”

  “Not anything they mentioned.” Meg frowned and scratched her slightly pointed chin. “All Anne would say, or could say with her mother moaning on and on about ungrateful bairns, was that he was too big, too dark, and too fierce.”

  “Too fierce?” Rose’s steps slowed even more as she neared the towering gates of Duncairn.

  “Och, weel, I wouldnae pay much heed to that. Anne is sweet, as ye say, but she is also a coward. A wee brown rabbit shows his teeth and she is all aswoon.”

  Rose looked away as she swallowed a laugh. It was not well done of her to listen to Meg’s gossip, but she was unable to resist the allure. It was also, sadly, often the only news about those she lived among that came her way.

  “I begin to understand poor Anne,” she muttered, pausing in front of the gates.

  “Nay, ye are far braver than her,” Meg assured her. “Anne could ne’er live alone, although I suspicion she oftimes dreams of it.”

  This time Rose could not fully restrain a giggle. “Naughty Meg.” She quickly grew serious again and sighed as she stared through the gates at the thick walls of the keep. “I dinnae feel verra brave at the moment.” She looked at the basket of tarts she held. “I keep wondering why the mon wants my apple tarts? Is he but wishing to see if he finds them as delicious as his father did? Or is he seeking proof that I am a witch, that I am an evil thing that must be cast out of Duncairn?”

  “Wheesht, ye have been thinking on this too long.” Meg got behind Rose and gently pushed her along until she was inside the gates. “If naught else, ye cannae run away and hide, can ye? Best to get this o’er with. And, doesnae your food make people happy and at ease, scowls turning into bonnie smiles? A calm, smiling laird isnae apt to be hanging ye from the battlements.”

  “Thank ye.” Rose nimbly eluded Meg’s pushing and turned to frown at her. “I was recovering weel until ye said that.”

  “Ah, good, there ye are, Rose,” called a lanky young man named Donald as he hurried over to her.

  “Aye, here she be,” said Meg. “Ye are so clever to track her down right here in the bailey.”

  Donald glared at Meg. “This rat’s nest of hair on a stick wasnae invited. Hie along home, bairn.”

  When Meg returned that insult with an impressive one of her own, Rose sighed. Only four years separated Donald and Meg, yet Rose could not think of many times when the two were not arguing or insulting each other. Her mother had found the pair a source of great amusement, even called what the two did a mating dance. Flora Keith had always revealed a great skill at judging such matches, but Rose sometimes wondered if the two would survive it.

  Taking a deep breath, Rose squared her shoulders and walked into the keep. Donald and Meg needed no audience to their strange courtship. Meg was right in saying it was best to get this confrontation over with. Anticipating it, thinking of all that could go wrong, was only agitating her. Rose was almost tempted to eat one of her own apple tarts. Her agitated state might be uncomfortable, but it kept her wary. She felt that was more important than greeting the new laird with a calm heart and a pleasing smile.

  She paused in the doorway to the great hall to study the two men seated at the laird’s table. With his long gray hair, Robert the steward was easy to recognize. Rose cautiously turned her full attention upon the new laird, Sir Adair Dundas.

  The long black hair, the dark gray eyes, and the dark skin told her the man next to Robert had to be the new laird. A closer look revealed the shadows of the old laird in the strong line of Adair’s jaw and his long, elegant nose. Fighting for France had added the muscle the boy of nineteen had lacked, although the lean, almost graceful lines of the tall body were still clear. Little else of the boy she had once known remained, however. There was no hint of a smile upon that well-shaped mouth, no sign of softness at all in his finely hewn features. France and its wars had taken the boy she had once known and sent ba
ck a stranger.

  “Mistress Keith,” exclaimed Robert when he finally noticed her. “Come, sit down,” he said as he stood up, along with Adair. “Do ye recall Sir Adair?”

  “I do. My laird,” she murmured and curtsied.

  “Where is Donald?” asked Sir Adair. “I sent him to meet ye at the gates.”

  “Meg was with me, laird.”

  “Oh, dear.” Robert frowned toward the door even as they all took their seats, obviously wondering if he should go and rescue his son.

  “Meg?” Sir Adair frowned for a moment. “Lame Jamie’s lass?”

  “Aye,” replied Robert. “She and my son seem to forget all else when they meet and begin to trade insults.” He smiled crookedly at Rose. “I ken that your mother said they would be mates, but I oftimes wonder if they will survive each other long enough to see that truth.”

  “I, too, wonder. Indeed, I pondered that riddle e’en as I left them hurling insults at each other.” She set her basket upon the table. “It does seem more of a battle than a courtship.”

  As Robert and Rose talked, Adair studied the woman he had last seen as a too thin, slightly untidy child. High full breasts, a tiny waist, and gently rounded hips declared her a woman grown, but he could still see that sweet, beguiling child in her delicate heart-shaped face. Her bright hair had darkened to a rich copper and hung down past her waist in thick, tempting waves. Most of the freckles had faded from her skin, leaving no more than a scattered trail across her small straight nose and soft cheeks. Thick, dark lashes and gently arched brows enhanced her wide, beautiful, sea green eyes. Her full mouth was curved in a smile as she and Robert wondered at the odd behavior of the two young people she had left behind in the bailey. He felt a slight tightening in his body and was not surprised that he would desire her.

  There was something missing, however, and it took him a moment to decide what was gone. The child he had known had been a cheerful sprite of a girl, ready with a smile or a laugh. That joy had been dimmed. It pained him to see that, but he was not sure why. He had no time or interest in such foolishness. In truth, such joy and laughter as Rose had once possessed belonged cast aside with her childhood. It was born of the ignorance of blind innocence. At some time during the years he had been away, Rose had finally seen the world as it truly was, a place full of misery, grief, and pain.

  He inwardly cursed when he realized that dose of good sense had not completely banished his disappointment. Adair feared he had hoped Rose still had the gift to make him smile as she had so often as a child. Whenever he had thought of Duncairn, he had thought of her, smiling and laughing. It was past time to bury that foolish memory.

  “I was sorry to hear about your mother’s death,” he said when Rose looked his way, then inwardly grimaced over that appalling attempt at conversation.

  “Thank ye, laird,” she said. “I still miss her sorely.”

  “Aye. Father wrote of her death with great sorrow.”

  “He was always verra kind to us and will be sorely missed as weel.”

  Adair nodded and touched her basket. “He spoke often of the cooking skills of ye and your mother. Father was verra fond of the apple tarts.”

  Rose reached for the goblet of wine Robert had poured for her, realized her hands shook, and quickly clasped them tightly together in her lap. Adair had a beautiful voice, deep and slightly rough. Her all-too-vivid imagination could hear it condemning her as a witch and she felt cold. She tried to find comfort in the fact that Robert was so at ease. He certainly did not act as if she was, more or less, on trial.

  “When he had them in the dead of winter, he often called them a touch of spring,” she said.

  “Father also said he found them most comforting, that eating one was sure to pull him free of a dark mood. He talked so often of them, I felt compelled to try some myself. I hope my request didnae inconvenience you.”

  She managed a smile. “Nay, laird.”

  When he tugged her basket closer, she tried to remain at least outwardly calm. The boy she had known would have never been a threat to her, but that boy was gone. Rose was a little surprised that she felt so strongly attracted to this dark man but knew that did not mean he was safe. Her mother had taught her that desire, even love, could cloud one’s thinking, dull one’s instincts. As he chose a tart and moved it toward his mouth, she prayed that, if the food did anything to him, it simply stirred to life the spirit of that kind young man she had once known.

  Chapter 2

  Sweet, yet tart, Adair mused as he chewed. The blend was perfect. Even the texture of the food was perfect. It seemed strange that such a simple food could be such a delight to the tongue. Adair reached for another one.

  Slowly, he relaxed in his chair. A gentle warmth seeped through him, easing the tense readiness of his muscles that seemed to afflict him even in his sleep. Although he had always thought of Duncairn as home, for the first time in far too long, he felt its welcome reach out and touch him. He looked at Rose, noticed she was looking a little pale and was clenching her hands in her lap, and felt an urge to take her into his arms. Adair realized he wanted to kiss and stroke away the fear from which she was suffering.

  Adair reached for his tankard and had a deep drink of ale. It did not banish the feelings. Comforting, his father had called the food of the Keith women, and that was exactly what Adair felt. He felt just as he once did when his late mother used to stroke his brow and kiss his cheek. Adair felt he ought to be alarmed by that, but he was not. If it was due to sorcery, as Mistress Kerr suspected, it was certainly a very benign sort.

  Then again, he mused, if little Rose could make food that gave comfort to a man who had not known it for far too long, what other trickery could she produce? He studied her lovely face and felt guilty for that suspicion. There was no evil in Rose, no darkness. At worst, she was misguided.

  “They are verra good,” he said at last, resisting the urge to have another. “I shall save the rest for later, I think.”

  “As ye wish, m’laird,” she murmured.

  “Ye grow the apples yourself?”

  “Aye. Rose Cottage has a lovely garden.”

  She inwardly cursed. The last thing she wished for was for his attention to turn to her garden. When people turned a fearful, superstitious eye on Rose Cottage it was mostly set upon the Keith women. Only rarely was it turned upon the garden itself. Rose preferred it that way. The garden was not only her heritage, but it was far more vulnerable than she was. If nothing else, it could not flee the anger and fear of the people.

  “Mistress Kerr spoke of your garden when she was here.”

  “Did she?” This time Rose was grateful for the anger she always felt toward that woman, for it dimmed the fear she could not conquer on her own. “I believe she has intruded upon it once or twice.” With torch in hand, Rose added silently.

  Adair heard the hint of anger in her voice and noted that her hand no longer trembled when she took up her goblet and had a drink of wine. Mistress Kerr had managed to slip out several disparaging remarks about Rose Keith during her visits. There had even been a few less-than-subtle accusations. His father had written of the long-standing animosity the Widow Kerr had for the Keith women of Rose Cottage, but not the cause of it. It was clear from Rose’s reaction to the woman’s name that the animosity was still alive and strong.

  “Come, I will escort ye home,” he said as he stood up.

  “That isnae necessary, laird,” she said.

  The moment he grasped her hand in his to help her to her feet, Rose decided that Sir Adair walking her home was not only unnecessary, it would prove disastrous. That tickle of attraction she had felt while looking at the man was increased tenfold at the touch of his hand. A little stunned by the feelings rampaging through her, Rose somewhat meekly allowed Adair to lead her away.

  Her mother had warned her about such feelings. Flora Keith had not believed it wise to keep maidens ignorant of such things as desire. Rose knew she desired Sir Adair, that her
affection for the youthful Adair had somehow lingered in her heart and might well be struggling to become something more. She could not allow that. Sir Adair was her laird, a man so beyond her touch it was laughable.

  “The Keith women have held Rose Cottage for a long time, aye?” asked Sir Adair, telling himself there was nothing wrong with being so intensely curious about Rose, for she was living on his lands, one of those he was sworn to protect.

  “Aye,” she replied, “for nearly as long as the laird has been a Dundas.” She knew she ought to tug her hand free of his but told herself it was a small, harmless indulgence. “The tale is that the first Keith woman was fleeing a mon and sought shelter in a small copse. The Laird of Duncairn was moved by her troubles and offered her shelter, told her she could make her home upon his lands. She built Rose Cottage with the help of some of the laird’s men and started the garden. Keith women have been there ever since. They always keep the name Keith as weel, e’en if they wed. That was done mostly in the beginning. The family grew enough after that, so that if a Keith woman was to marry, another Keith woman would come to tend the garden.”

  “Your mother remained a Keith.”

  “Aye, she wed one. My father died when I was a wee bairn, though, and I dinnae recall him.”

  “And when did the women become so famous for their food?”

  “I think it was from the first time the garden gave us enough food to cook with.” She sighed. “My mother ne’er told me the why of it all. She may have intended to, but the fever came upon her swiftly. She was ill and then she died, too quickly to settle any of her affairs or tend to matters left undone. I have yet to get through all of her writings. The tale may be in there.”

  “Do ye read and write as weel?”

  “Aye. The Keith women have long been healers. ’Twas thought wise to keep careful notes of herbs and cures. If something new was tried, it was quickly noted, and its success or failure as weel.” As they neared her cottage, she tugged her hand free of his. “I thank ye, laird. ’Twas most kind of ye to walk me home.”