Highland Temptations: Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Adams, Aileen

  “Enough of that,” Anne spat, looping a protective arm about Liam’s shoulders.

  An arm which, to Drew’s surprise and growing respect, the lad shrugged off.

  “I know what it means to be punished for a misdeed,” the lad boasted. “I am not afraid.” His pallor suggested otherwise, but he did his best to put on a good show of strength.

  When he glanced up at his sister, it became clear that the performance was not only for Drew’s benefit. This bravado was as much for her sake, perhaps more.

  Why did the lad tug at his heart so? No matter, for there were others who tugged even harder, and they were in need of his attention this morning. “I have matters to attend to. There is a small structure behind my house which ought to hold tools and what have ye, but ‘tis empty at the moment. It should do nicely for the pair of ye. I’ve filled it with clean straw, buckets for ye to take care of your private needs, and I shall see to it you’re fed.”

  “Wait.” Anne held up both hands, her face a mask of confused despair. Her eyes were a lovely shade of blue, he noted, though they looked dark and stormy at present.

  “’Tis either that or take ye into the village, and I have no time today to make the journey. I shall lock ye in the wee building, and ye shall remain there until such time as I can drive the cart into the village. I will hear no arguments.”

  They offered none, choosing instead to hold a silent conversation. As if they had a choice.

  “Pardon me, but I didna ask ye to decide whether this was acceptable. What I’ve described is what is to be.” He went to them and was rather brusque in winding the rope about their wrists. “’Tis either this, or remain here with the cattle ye were so intent on stealing.”

  They remained silent, unnervingly so. No doubt the lass believed she could think her way out of this, the clever thing. Not as clever as she believed herself to be, nowhere near. He’d seen enough in his years to know he knew very little, but she was not old enough to have reached that place in her life.

  For all his sharpness, the callow attitude he put on for their sakes, he had done what he could to make the shed comfortable with the lad in mind. There was plenty of straw for a bed, light, and air came in through a pair of very narrow openings in one of the stone walls; they need not sit in stifling darkness.

  The lass sniffed when they entered. “It is quite small.”

  It took every last scrap of self-control to keep from showing her the sharp side of his tongue. He’d been too long without a good brawl, and she was beginning to push him toward engaging in one.

  “Ye deserve less,” he snarled, and left it at that. “Be glad ye will not have your wrists tied here. The lock on the door is a new one and the walls sturdy. No one ever ventures back this far, so there is no sense in screaming—besides,” he added, “should anyone know of your presence, they would have ye in the back of a wagon and on your way to prison in the time it would take to snap my fingers. I wouldna do it if I were ye.”

  Anne turned a slow circle, while Liam made himself comfortable in the straw. Drew had the vague sense of the lad seeing this as a grand adventure, even while his sister behaved as though she’d expected grand accommodations. She made it impossible to feel anything but bitterness toward her.

  “This is not your farm, then,” she concluded, a sly smirk tugging at her full mouth.

  “What makes ye—”

  “If ye were the owner, if this were your land, only ye could say whether or not ye choose to send us to the village to be locked away. No one else. Ye would not need to hide us here. Why are ye hiding us? Why not—”

  She went silent, her mouth slightly open, her shoulders falling from where she’d positioned them near her ears. As if she understood this was for Liam’s sake.

  And he hated her for it, for now she’d feel as though she could take advantage. His hands curled into fists at his sides, blood pumping in his ears as it always did when there was a fight before him.

  Would that she were a man. He would knock her senseless and spit on her unconscious body.

  He had never thought his way out of a problem before. His fists had always been the answer. Now, the sense that he’d been outmatched burned like a fire in the pit of his stomach.

  “Enjoy yer day,” he snarled, spitting on the straw before turning and closing the door as hard as he could. The sound of the lock clicking into place was a satisfying one which he hoped she heard inside.

  Not a moment later, the back door to the house opened and out tumbled two bairns.

  “Uncle Drew!” Moira cried out, holding up her arms that he might lift her onto his shoulder. It was the same way every morning. Two children full of life and excitement—after all, they had awoken to a new day in which there was nothing to fear, nothing to dread, nothing to gnaw at them as they went about their business.

  He was in no mood for play this morning. In fact, he realized as he herded them into the house and slammed the door that he even resented them a bit. Not for their presence, but for their carefree attitudes.

  Whirling on them, he barked, “Quiet!”

  He had never raised his voice to them. He had never spoken sharply except when Owen strayed too close to trouble. Moira was a perfect angel of a lass, sweet and winning and clever.

  And heartbroken. Her wide, dark eyes filled with tears. Her chin trembled.

  Owen took her hand in his own. That simple gesture filled Drew with a deep loathing of his own temperamental nature. The poor wee ones.

  “Forgive me,” he murmured, dropping to one knee with arms outstretched. “’Tis been a difficult morning for me, my dears, but I should not have spoken that way to ye.”

  He even hated himself when they ran into his arms, glad to be loved, glad to love him. There were moments in which he was certain he did not deserve them.

  He patted their curly heads and sent them off to wash up before leaving them with Innis at the main house. Perhaps they would have a happier day there, while he went about his day with his thoughts always on the pair in the shed.

  8

  The sun was directly overhead by the time Anne finished examining every last bit of their surroundings. She’d run her hands over every stone she could reach, had tried to chip away at the mud holding them together with what unchewed bits of fingernail she possessed.

  He’d thought of everything, it seemed. The devil. There was not even anything she might use concealed within the straw. The floor was entirely clear beneath the golden clouds.

  He’d seen to their comfort in spite of his qualms toward them.

  And he cared about Liam in spite of them, too. She could see it. The way he looked at him, the way he’d watched him eat with such interest.

  What she’d considered at first to be a millstone about her neck might have been a stroke of good fortune.

  Not that she could ever consider her brother a burden. Not truly. But worrying about herself would be one thing. Worrying for his sake sent her stomach churning and caused her head to ache all the worse.

  Her stomach. Empty, churning, hunger gnawing at the back of her mind. Liam had needed to eat, truly, he always needed it more than she did. If only she knew when their captor would bring dinner.

  Or if he would at all.

  “He will,” she whispered, peering out the narrow excuse for a window. She could breathe, at least, and see a bit of what was just outside. There was not very much, just the wall beyond.

  If she could only get out there and over that wall. If only they could, together.

  But she had heard the lock clicking closed. It sounded solid.

  She’d heard something else, too, or she’d believed she had. Voices. Wee ones, likely belonging to wee people. Bairns, or a bit older. One of them had spoken of “Uncle Drew.”

  Was that him? Uncle Drew? The happiness in the wee lassie’s voice did not seem to match in Anne’s head with the snarling man who’d locked them in a shed used for storing tools. What would that lassie think if she knew what her Uncle D
rew had done?

  What would any of them think? Such as the owner of the land? This was all very strange, to be sure, and far beyond what she had expected from her midnight ride.

  Liam had settled into a peaceful slumber on a pile of the sweet-smelling straw. She untied the strings of her cloak and draped the garment over him, then pushed back a lock of hair from over his forehead.

  She had to keep him in mind. Whatever it took, she needed to get him away from there. He’d done nothing except follow her. This was her fault. If she’d only paid attention to his tracking, she might have turned him away long before reaching the farm.

  She ought to have turned him away regardless, rather than allowing him to take part after he’d announced himself. It had been a matter of his pride, and his tender heart, and protecting both.

  What a fool she’d been, for look where she’d gotten them. Better to injure his pride than to lead him to this. Locked in a shed by a stranger who toyed with them, leaving her to question when he would decide to take them to the magistrate.

  She could imagine worse, in fact. What if he spread the word of her capture? What if she found herself in the center of a mob? They would be angry. Enraged. Murderously so.

  Anything to protect Liam. Anything at all. She would give her life for his if need be—begging on bended knee was not beyond her, not at that moment. If it meant protecting him from injury or worse, nothing was too much.

  He stirred, as if he heard her thinking of him, lifted his eyelids only partway, regarding her through thick, dark lashes. “What is it?”

  “Nothing, lad. Go back to sleep.” He was finally getting proper rest without constant interruption from either Malcolm or one of the other men, stomping around as they tended to do and ordering him about as if he were nothing more than a servant.

  She bit her lip to suppress a disbelieving laugh. Was it possible that he was receiving better care here than he had at home? For he’d eaten well and seemed satisfied, and was sleeping all he needed. Perhaps there was a positive side to this.

  Her optimistic attitude dissolved like sugar in a cup of tea when the lock clicked open outside. Liam did not stir this time, yet she was between him and the door nonetheless. When there was no telling just what sort of mood Drew—or whatever his name happened to be—would be in when he entered, she felt it best to protect her brother.

  Just as she always had.

  “’Tis myself,” he muttered as he entered, bearing a platter laden with cold roast, bread, apples. “I shall bring ye water from the well in a moment’s time.”

  She stared at him in wonder. Who was this man that he could lock them away in such a manner, then provide meals which to her eyes appeared as sumptuous as a feast?

  “Why are ye doing this?” She could not help but whisper as he left the platter on the floor, keeping his slight-yet-sturdy body in the doorway so as to block her exit.

  He truly thought of everything. A suspicious mind, he had, which led her to wonder just what else went on in it. What was he thinking? How could she get around him?

  “Feedin’ ye?” he muttered, looking at her as if she’d grown a second head. The sweat on his brow and grime which had collected on the back of his neck and beneath his nails told her he’d been working hard. A mere farmhand? No, for he had a home of his own—that much she could surmise.

  “Being kind, when all ye want is for us to face punishment. Why go to the trouble at all?”

  He looked down at the platter beside his feet, which she had not yet touched. “I didna think this was too much,” he muttered. “Are ye not accustomed to eating well, then? I need not ask on behalf of the lad, for anyone can clearly see he has not had enough to eat, ever.”

  “I do my best for him,” she sniffed.

  “’Tis only yourself, then? And the lad?”

  She wanted to explain—her mouth even went so far as to open, but she snapped it shut straightaway. “Ye dinna need to know any such thing.”

  How easy it would be to admit everything, to throw herself at his feet and beg for mercy. She’d never wished to become involved with such lawlessness. She merely wished to maintain the peace with her uncle, and to keep Liam with her. She’d had no choice.

  Yes, it would be easy, but it would only lead to more trouble.

  He nodded, studying her with that unnerving way he had. It sent prickles up and down her back. He seemed to see straight into her mind, her thoughts.

  Then he would know how she loathed him. Good.

  “Ye seem to forget which of us is the thief, and which of us is not,” he murmured, eyes narrowing. “Ye keep forgettin’ that.”

  Standing as tall as she could, she replied, “Nay. I have not forgotten. I will not allow ye to force me to speak, no matter how ye may wish me to. My life is mine. Not yours. And why we do as we do is none of your concern.”

  “’Tis my concern when ye take what is mine.”

  “Yet it is not yours,” she corrected with a sense of satisfaction. “Nothing here is yours, is it? It belongs to another. No matter how hard ye might work, it will never belong to ye.”

  He jumped as if startled, holding himself still in time to keep from—what? Lunging at her? Taking her throat in his calloused hands? She knew how strong those hands were. Rough, unforgiving, powerful, they had held her in place, and she’d known without trying that there would be no fighting him off.

  Those hands curled into fists. Tight, tight fists. She looked up from them at his face, the lip curling as he snarled. “What I have done, what I do, is no more your concern than your life is of mine. Ye know nothing of my life, or why I happen to be here.”

  “I know the farm is not yours, yet ye speak of it as though it is.”

  “Ye make it sound as though that’s a terrible thing,” he snickered. “I know ye have never worked for a thing in yer life if ye can speak of it with such disdain.”

  “Perhaps ‘tis yourself I speak of with disdain,” she suggested.

  “Perhaps ye ought to turn that disdain inward, and target your own self.” He unclenched one hand and pointed to Liam, who managed to sleep through this exchange.

  And why not? He had long since learned to sleep through nearly anything.

  “Look at him. Look at what you’ve done. Ye brought him to this. Ye would lead him into danger, to punishment which might follow him the rest of his life. Ye do know that he shall never find a position now. No one will do business with a thief. No one would even wish to bring him on as a farm hand or guardsman. He cannot be trusted.”

  “Do not speak of him,” she hissed. It was her turn to clench her fists, to glare at him, to hear the blood rush in her ears and all but deafen her to anything else. The noise filled her head. Her vision seemed to blur.

  A nasty smile stretched his mouth. “Ye call yourself a sister. Ye are no sister to the lad if this is the life ye allow him to lead.”

  “I warned you. Do not speak of Liam. Ye dinna know him. Ye dinna know us.”

  “Perhaps ye ought to explain yourself.”

  “Perhaps I ought to claw your eyes out.” Rage was quickly turning to something else, something even stronger. Something she dreaded and even feared. Hot, angry tears prickled behind her eyes and threatened to spill over. What a fool she would seem if she cried.

  And how correct he would believe himself. For he’d been correct about everything. The fault was hers and hers alone for allowing her brother into this. They might have avoided it if not for her.

  “Many’s the man who tried to best me,” he informed her with a note of humor in his voice, “and many’s the man who failed. While I have no doubt ye would do yer worst, I canna imagine ye getting near enough to do much harm.”

  “So long as ye allow me to try.”

  “I’m not daft, lass. Mad, perhaps, but not daft.”

  She drew a deep breath which seemed to bring her back to herself enough to speak clearly. “Get on with it. Whatever it is ye wish to do, do it. I have no desire to remain here, whe
re ye can disparage me and my brother. If this is your way of tormenting me, I would rather ye tell the magistrate of our theft and be done with it. I will not linger here for ye to enjoy making a mockery of us.”

  “Are ye certain of this, lass?” His mouth tipped upward in a smirk as he looked her up and down. “Dinna say things ye shall wish to take back later.”

  “I never take back anything I declare.” She tossed her hair over her shoulders with a shake of her head and gave him what she hoped was a defiant stare. If only she appeared as fearsome as she wished to.

  He nodded. “I admit, I admire those who stand by their word.”

  “I did not ask for your admiration, or for your opinion. Enough of this trifling about. Either turn us in or do not, but enough of this.” Gathering every bit of self-possession she could muster, Anne bent to retrieve the platter. “I thank ye for bringing refreshment.”

  He did not move to help her, nor did he back away. She was deeply aware of his nearness as she lifted the platter, rising, her gaze traveling from his feet to his grim face. “Be certain ye eat some of it this time,” he grunted.

  Damn her nature. The impulse to not so much as take a bite flashed through her mind, but her better sense took over. Refusing food would not serve to punish him. Only herself.

  “Thank ye—Drew,” she added, then held her breath.

  For one long, heavy moment, he said not a word. No hint of surprise or recognition or even dismay crossed his expression. He remained grim, stony.

  Yet he brought water from the well, as promised, before locking them in again.

  9

  “’Tis growing chill.” One of the hands—was the name Fergus or Kirk? Drew was far too disturbed to recall the name of the lad who’d just finished herding the cattle after they’d grazed.

  “What’s that, then?” He closed the last of the stalls, sliding the wooden plank home and recalling doing so when it was a pair of humans inside, rather than a steer.