BEAUTY AND THE BRUTE
Barbara Dawson Smith
Chapter One
THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS SEPTEMBER 1827
The third disaster of the day occurred when Lady Helen Jeffries found herself stranded in an unseasonal blizzard.
Shivering outside the broken coach, she clutched the ermine-trimmed hood tighter around her blond hair. The wind plucked at her crimson cloak. Specks of ice peppered her cheeks. Heedless of her own discomfort, Helen waved a cheerful farewell to her footman as he rode off into the blinding snow.
For a moment she stood there, gripped by cold and fright. It was mid-afternoon already. Even if Cox reached the village before dark, would there be time for a rescue party to set out?
Possibly not. She and Miss Gilbert and the injured coachman might be forced to spend the night here with no fire to warm them. The spare horse, tethered in the shelter of the rocks, could not carry all of them to safety.
And this predicament was her fault.
Heartsick, she climbed into the coach, which lay tilted in the ditch. At least the plush blue interior felt marginally warmer than outside. M'lord yapped excitedly. Helen scooped up the little brown-and-white dog and took comfort from his warm body.
Miss Gilbert had tucked a spare blanket around the coachman's hurt leg. With her arms fluttering beneath her cape, she looked like a plump brown wren. "Oh, my lady," the old governess chirped, "whatever are we to do? Poor Cox will freeze to death. And so shall we!"
"It's not as bad as all that," Helen said reassuringly. "He'll ride to that hamlet we passed a mile back, and then we'll be rescued in a trice. Mr. Abbott, are you in pain?"
"I'm well enough," the coachman said, though his grizzled face showed tension around his mouth. " Tis sorry I am for running us off the road."
"It was an accident," Helen soothed. "Certainly we've survived worse. Remember that sandstorm in North Africa? And the earthquake in Turkey?"
"Lord Hathaway saved us from those catastrophes," Miss Gilbert said worriedly. "He led us to safety. How can we manage without him?"
Helen wondered, too.
Her father, the Marquess of Hathaway, often accompanied Helen on the journeys she had taken over the past five years. After the disastrous end to her betrothal, she had left England, restless to seek a new life. She had traveled the world, and as time passed, she had come to relish her freedom.
Lord Hathaway had intended to join her on this tour of the Highlands. But as they had been about to depart at dawn, a messenger had arrived from the docks. A fire had broken out on a ship belonging to his lordship, and he needed to assess the damages. Helen wanted to delay the trip, but her father insisted he could catch up to the party later.
That had been the first disaster of the day.
The second had occurred after luncheon, when a few pale flakes had drifted from the leaden sky. As it was too early in the season for a storm, Helen had insisted upon pressing onward. She was enthralled by the rugged scenery, so ancient and natural, the trees displaying their autumn brilliance. Except for the occasional croft with smoke drifting from a stone chimney, the Highlands were a rough masterpiece untouched by man. Great crags of rock towered over heather-carpeted moors. Once she glimpsed a herd of red deer grazing deep in the shadows of a pine forest. Another time, a waterfall shimmered against the mossy rock of a hill.
As the coach climbed higher into the mountains, the powdered-sugar dusting of snow had thickened into a dense white blanket. The wind whipped the flurries into a frenzied dance, but even then Helen had been enchanted by the savage splendor of it all. . .
"M'lady," said Abbott, hanging his head, "I humbly beg your pardon for leadin' you into such trouble. When his lordship hears what I done—"
"You shan't lose your post," Helen said, anxious that he would fear so. "It's my fault. We ought to have turned back when you first suggested it."
"Oh, we shall all perish." Miss Gilbert dabbed at her red nose with a handkerchief. "They will find our poor frozen forms with the spring thaw."
"Please," Helen said in exasperation, "there's no need to be theatrical."
"But listen to that wind. I do believe the storm has grown worse." Quivering, the governess peered out the window. "One might think an evil sorcerer has cast a spell over this uncivilized land."
A flurry of goose bumps crept across Helen's skin. "That is nonsense," she said crisply. "We are safe here with enough food in the hamper to tide us over. Now sit back and relax. I shall read to all of us."
The crazy angle of the coach made it impossible for more than one person to comfortably occupy each blue-cushioned seat. Cradling M'lord in her lap, Helen sat down on the floor, reached into her valise for Rob Roy by Sir Walter Scott, and read the book aloud. The well-worn pages provided a distraction from the howling of the blizzard. After a time, a light snoring emanated from Abbott, and his chin slumped onto his broad chest. Even Miss Gilbert huddled in the corner with her eyes closed.
The scant daylight had begun to wane. Soon it would grow dark. To allay her fears, Helen stroked the dog. Her fingers and toes felt numb from the cold. Had Cox reached the village yet?
She prayed so. The thought of spending many more frigid hours here daunted her. What if the snow continued throughout the night? What if rescue did indeed come too late?
Immediately she scolded herself. Who was she to complain when Abbott lay senseless with pain?
Helen leaned her head back and stared out the window, where snowflakes cavorted in a highland jig. The branches of a bush scraped somewhere outside. The wind lamented like a lost soul.
A sense of utter aloneness crept over her. She had the uncanny impression it had nothing to do with being stranded on this remote road, that the emptiness had been there for a long time, buried deep inside herself. She felt lacking somehow, unsatisfied with . . . what? The direction of her life?
Surely not. She liked being free to go her own way, to discover new places. And yet. . . she thought of her visit a few weeks ago to her half sister. Isabel and Justin lived on an estate in Derbyshire with their three young children. Their happiness had lingered like a rich essence in the air, and Helen recalled the time when she had come upon husband and wife kissing in the garden. The tender passion of their embrace made her heart ache.
How would it feel to be held by a man, to let him caress the secret places of her body, to join with him in the mysterious act of mating? She had traveled the world, seen more exotic sights in the past five years than other ladies did in a lifetime, but she did not know the touch of a man.
At one time she'd had that chance, but she hadn't been ready for it. Now she feared she might never again have the opportunity. She had no wish to marry a dull English lord, and her father would be terribly disappointed if she wed beneath her station. Besides, having a husband would put an end to her independence, and that thought was sufficient to douse any romantic yearnings. She wanted to live life to its fullest. Never again would she be the naive girl whose sole relief from boredom was to visit London for the Season.
Of course, there were drawbacks to adventure. Her quest for new experiences had left her stranded in a raging snowstorm.
The reminder of her predicament sobered Helen. Because of her selfish folly, she had endangered her loyal servants. Yet she felt almost fated to fall in love with the wild grandeur of the Highlands. If she still believed in fairy tales, she might have fancied these mountains enchanted ...
M'lord lifted his silken head and growled at the door.
An instant later, a dark shape appeared outside the window. And Helen found herself staring at the hulking form of a monster.
Chapter Two
The door handle rattled.
A screa
m strangling her throat, Helen jolted upright. Her half-frozen fingers gripped the leather-bound book, and she wished it were a pistol. It was up to her to defend Gillie and Abbott.
In a blast of icy air, the door flew back. The dog barked. Miss Gilbert came awake and squealed in surprise. A loud snort emanated from Abbott.
The beast thrust its head and shoulders inside, blocking the meager daylight. His shaggy black hair was mantled by snow, and a length of plaid cloth draped his brawny chest. Dark eyes glowed in a face of uncompromising masculinity.
A man, Helen thought in relief. The beast was merely a Highlander.
"Hello," she said, extending her gloved hand to him. "I am Lady Helen Jeffries. And you are . . . ?"
Muttering under his breath, he glowered as if she were his worst enemy.
The coachman rubbed his eyes. "Here now. What's this?"
"We've been found, thank heavens," Helen said briskly. She braced her hand on the velvet-covered wall and struggled to stand in the tilted vehicle, her half-numb legs tangling in her heavy skirts. "Have you come from the village, sir?"
The Highlander grunted what sounded like an assent. In one giant step, he entered the coach, and it rocked beneath his weight.
Helen's heart beat faster as she backed up to afford him space. He dwarfed the interior, and she was pressed against Miss Gilbert's plump form. "You must have seen Cox, my footman," Helen said. "Is he all right?" When the stranger didn't reply, she went on, speaking slowly for his benefit. "Surely he must have given you directions, told you where to find us."
Another grunt. Was the man a simpleton?
He turned his broad back to her and examined the coachman's leg. Abbott winced at his touch. Then the Highlander retreated outside and returned with a short, straight branch. Taking a long strip of cloth from the pouch hanging at his waist, he secured the branch to the coachman's lower leg.
" 'Tis broken, your ankle," he said, rolling the words in a gravelly Scottish burr. "You shouldna ha' been moved without a splint."
At least the man could speak. "Are you certain it isn't just a bad sprain?" Helen asked in concern.
The stranger cast an accusing glance at her, as if he knew the accident was her fault. "Aye. The temporary splint will protect the leg for now."
She stifled her guilt. "Thank you. We should be on our way if we want to reach the village before dark. I can't imagine we have more than an hour of daylight left. If you'll be so kind as to help Mr. Abbott climb out."
Sheltering M'lord within her cloak, she clambered past the Highlander to open the door of the coach. Snow needled her face and the wind snatched at her cloak, but she gritted her teeth and stepped outside. The gale blew worse than before, the snowflakes falling thick and icy.
Slipping and sliding, Helen hurried to the horse tethered in the lee of, the rock cliff. The gelding nuzzled her cloak, clearly looking for his dinner.
"Sorry, darling," she murmured. "You’ve a bit of a load to carry first." Even as her numb fingers fumbled. to untie the leather lead, she felt herself brushed aside. She looked up into the harsh face of the Highlander. His features were as rough as these wild hills, with a stark, compelling beauty.
"The injured man rides," he stated. "Not you." Before she could react, he led the mount away.
He thought she meant to claim the horse?
His rude assumption startled Helen, but she was too cold to stand there framing belated retorts. Returning to the coach, she helped Miss Gilbert disembark as the Highlander hoisted the burly coachman onto the horse. Then he poked around the luggage that was lashed to the back of the vehicle. Suspicious, Helen went to him. "May I help you find something?"
"Food. You canna be daft enough to set out with no provisions."
His criticism made her bristle. "There's a hamper inside the coach, secured beneath the seat. If you need anything else, you have only to ask—"
He didn't stay to listen. Striding to the door, he went inside and emerged a moment later with the large basket. He thrust the hamper at Helen. "Here, make yourself useful," he growled. "I'll lead the horse."
With a jerk of his head, the stranger motioned for the women to follow. Then he guided the horse and coachman toward a cleft in the rock.
Helen blinked the icy flakes from her eyelashes. Holding the dog in one arm and the basket in the other, she hastened to follow. "The village is back that way," she called, pointing down the road in case he was slow-witted.
"Too far," he snapped. " 'Tis almost dark."
He started to turn, but she caught his sleeve. His muscles felt hard beneath her fingertips. "Wait. What is your name?" #
He muttered an answer, but she couldn't have heard him right. "The brute?" she repeated.
"MacBrut"—he cast her a brooding look—"without an er
He could spell, too. She wanted to proclaim it the perfect name for an unfriendly lout. But whatever his faults, Mr. MacBrut had come to their rescue. "How did you find us?" she asked.
"Your footman."
Exasperated, she said, "Then why didn't you say so in the first place?"
"I dinna have time for chatter."
He directed the horse up a steep track into the hills. Miss Gilbert fell into step behind him. Lugging the heavy hamper in one hand and the dog in the other, Helen hastened to catch up to the small party, already barely visible through the falling snow. She slogged through drifts higher than her ankle boots and felt icy trickles down her silk stockings. Within a short time, her hem was sodden and the freezing dampness dragged at her skirts. Miss Gilbert was struggling to keep up, so Helen lent her aid, though it was awkward while holding the dog in the crook of her arm.
"Bless you, my lady," the governess panted. "And bless our rescuer. Aren't we lucky he happened along?"
"Lucky, indeed." Helen didn't want to alarm the older woman. But something about MacBrut made her uneasy. How did they know they could trust this stranger? He might be a bandit, leading them to his lair . ..
Quickly she banished the morbid thought. She was no longer a silly girl who spun fancies. Better she should praise him for being a good Samaritan.
MacBrut. That must be his clan. What was his first name?
She watched his wide back as he led them steadily higher into the mountains. A thick wool plaid wrapped his massive torso. Now and then, she caught a flash of strong, bare legs beneath his knee-length kilt. The sight caused a peculiar tension in the pit of her stomach. If he had any sense, he'd wear trews in such weather. Though perhaps the storm had caught him by surprise, too.
Where was he taking them?
She had her answer a few minutes later when she spied a castle through the snow. The dark monolith reared against the sheer rock face of a cliff. There was no drawbridge or moat, only an arched gate with a raised portcullis. Through the dimness of dusk, Helen glimpsed twin towers guarding either end of the walled yard.
Picking a path through the scattered rubble, MacBrut guided the horse toward a tall stone keep. Helen could barely feel her feet as she trudged across the bleak courtyard. The basket of food dragged on her arm, but she spared only a fleeting thought for her own discomfort. From the way Miss Gilbert clung, her round body quivering, Helen knew the cold upland trek had been hard on the aging woman.
The keep was chilly and dark inside, but at least the walls provided protection from the wind and snow. Helen gratefully set down the hamper and tilted her head back, turning around for a dizzying view of a cavernous room. The faintest light seeped through the high window slits.
She looked at MacBrut. "What is this place?"
"My castle."
"Your castle?"
"Aye."
"Do you live here alone?"
"Do you see anyone else?" he snarled back.
He probably couldn't get a dog to stay with him, Helen decided. He had brought the coachman in, horse and all, and now he lifted Abbott down, setting him on the stone floor so that he could sit propped against the wall.
Worried, Helen
crouched beside him. "Poor Abbott. How do you fare?"
"Fine, m'lady," he said, though pain roughened his voice.
She looked up, seeking their host. "He needs warmth. Can we—"
Before she could suggest a fire, MacBrut strode into the murky shadows of the hall. His heavy footsteps echoed through the gloom. What a rude, exasperating man! Then came a rustling noise and the hollow thump of wood being, tossed onto a grate. Within moments a cheery blaze sent light and warmth radiating into the hall.
No, he was a wonderful man.
She helped Miss Gilbert to the massive stone hearth and seated her on a three-legged stool. Smiling, the governess stretched out her mittened hands to the fire. "Oh, this is lovely," she said, looking as pleased as a pudgy mole invited to the drawing room of a duke.
Helen set down M'lord, who scooted close to the fire. She turned her back to the blaze, soaking in the blessed heat, but only for a moment. Seeing MacBrut half carrying the coachman, she removed her fur-trimmed cloak and made a pallet close to the hearth. "Have you any blankets?" she asked him.
"The trunk upstairs. In the first chamber." With a tilt of his head, he indicated the darkness. Gruffly, he added, "Take a candle."
She found a stub of wax in a basket beside the hearth, and touched the wick to the fire. It was torture to leave the blazing warmth for the icy bowels of the keep. Shivering, she clenched her teeth to keep them from chatter-, hig.
The meager circle of illumination wavered over the stone floor, without penetrating the dense gloom elsewhere in the vast chamber. She could see only a short distance in front of her. The place smelled musty and ancient. She lifted the candle and searched for the stairs. Rusted armor hung on the walls alongside huge faded tapestries. A dull layer of grime coated the few chairs. If this was MacBrut's home, he sorely needed a housekeeper.
Better yet, a wife to sweeten his sour disposition. Unless he already had one—imprisoned in the dungeon.
Just as she started toward the arched opening of a stairwell, a peculiar sight distracted her. On a dais half-hidden in the shadows, a long trestle table was draped in yellowed linen and set for a dinner party. Dust shrouded the fine porcelain plates. Cobwebs stretched from the filthy crystal glassware to the tarnished silver candlesticks. Dark lumps sat upon serving dishes, and only when Helen walked closer did she realize it was petrified food.
Beauty and the Brute Page 1