The Taming of a Highlander
Page 3
“Love, she hasn’t said a word. I’ve never seen her like this. If anything, it’s hard to persuade her to stop talking.”
“Aye, I ken.” Annie’s eyes turned tender. She stood on her toes and cradled John’s face in her hands. “Give us an hour, hmm? Let me help yer wee sister.”
He nodded, kissed his wife, and stroked Kate’s hair. Then, he left the room. Annie gently helped her remove her clothing.
Shivers wracked Kate until she wondered if her bones would break loose and float about inside her limp body. She blinked, realizing Annie and the maid had helped her to the tub. She blinked again, and she was soaking in hot water, surrounded by steam and the scent of her soap. Jasmine. Tuberose. Hints of clary sage and bergamot.
Another blink, and she was dry, her washed hair brushed and plaited down her back, her body dressed in a clean shift and swaddled in several woolen blankets. Presently, she sat on the sofa. She didn’t remember sitting.
“Wh-where is my sketchbook?” she rasped.
Annie turned from speaking with the maid. She came and sat beside Kate, rubbing Kate’s fingers between her hands. “Where ye always keep it.” She nodded toward the dressing table beneath the window. “There, ye see?”
“Oh.”
“Do ye care to say where ye were this evenin’, Katie-lass?”
“I went for a ramble. I thought Sir Wallace should battle a wolf, but his knife was too small. He needs higher ground.”
Annie’s blue eyes caught Kate’s gaze. Scarlet brows puckered with concern. “There arenae any wolves left in Scotland.”
Kate tried to smile, but her mouth shook. “I know.”
John entered and came to crouch in front of Kate. Warm, worried hazel eyes smiled at the corners as he stroked her cheek with his knuckle.
She clasped his hand desperately tight and held it against her. A tear wet their fingers. “I lost my way, John.”
His jaw flickered. He closed his eyes briefly. “I thought as much. Why did you go off alone?”
“I—I’ve been taking these rambles by myself for weeks without incident. The storm moved in so quickly. I lost track of time, I suppose. Dark came on, and I …”
“What happened?” His voice was a hard demand.
“Go easy, English,” Annie said softly. “Kate’s had a wee fright, havenae ye?”
Kate nodded.
Annie fetched her a cup of tea, but Kate could only drink half of it before her head began swimming. “This is mostly whisky,” she murmured into the hot liquid.
“Aye. Best thing for ye.”
Kate blinked as the little roses on the cup began to swirl.
“Did someone hurt you?” John demanded. He’d begun pacing, she noticed.
She shook her head. “No. Not me.”
“What does that mean?”
“I climbed to the top of one of the easterly hills. The bald one with the large rocks. Lovely view of both glens. I was searching for a proper setting, but I didn’t realize it had grown so late. Then the storm came, and the wind—”
“Katie.” John’s patience seemed to be slipping. “Just tell us what frightened you.”
She’d been staring into her tea, seeing her own reflection. The white face surrounded by damp brown curls. Now, she raised her head. John crouched in front of her, his jaw hard.
“I heard his voice first. I was lost and thought to ask for directions back to the castle. Then I saw him. A monster. So very large.” Her heart sped as memories flashed. “He was … beating someone. Oh, God, John. I think he killed him.”
John stilled. “Large, you say?”
“Seven feet, perhaps. Taller than Angus. But bigger. And so strong.”
“And you were in the east hills.”
She nodded. Her stomach churned.
“What did he look like?”
“Monstrous.”
John released a half-chuckle. “For once, you are giving too little detail. But I need you to be specific, sweetheart.”
She met his gaze, warm and reassuring. Like Papa’s. “He was … scarred. Very badly scarred. One of his eyes was missing. He wore black, I think. His hair was dark.”
John stood and shifted his gaze behind Kate. “The man he was beating. Did he have light hair, by chance?”
Kate frowned. “Yes.” She glanced behind her. Annie stood near the fireplace, swaying and whiter than Kate’s tea saucer. “Annie? What’s wrong?”
Annie shook her head and covered her mouth with a trembling hand. Blue eyes shimmered. Without speaking, Annie fled the room.
“John?” Kate tried to stand, but the whisky and layers of woolen blankets made it impossible. “What’s wrong with Annie?”
Expression grim, John braced his hands on his hips and hung his head. “You must forget what you saw.”
“I—I cannot.”
“You must.”
“Every time I close my eyes, I see it again.”
“I promise you’re safe. The man you saw will never hurt you. Do you believe me?”
She swallowed. John was her brother. He’d never lied to her before. “I suppose so.”
“Good. Time to sleep, now.”
“I don’t think I can.”
He nodded to her teacup. “Drink the rest.”
She did, and before long, her eyelids fluttered as weariness and warmth invaded. Her muscles ached. She began to slump. The room spun.
He helped her to her feet and guided her to the bed. Then, he tucked her in as he’d done when she was a child. “Sleep, sweetheart. All will be well.”
When he moved to douse the lantern on the bedside table, she stopped him. “Please. I need it.” Her words sounded slurred. She’d never been one for strong drink.
He nodded and strode to the door.
“John?”
He turned.
“Why must I forget?”
For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, he did. “Because the man you saw was Broderick MacPherson.”
Annie’s stepbrother? Kate knew the name, but she’d only met the youngest of the four MacPherson brothers. Rannoch was charming in a wicked, flirtatious way. The two oldest, Campbell and Alexander, were in Aberdeen on distillery business, according to Angus. Broderick was Annie’s third-oldest stepbrother, a few years younger than John. She’d mentioned him to Kate in passing but hadn’t gone into detail.
“I don’t understand,” Kate murmured. “If he murdered that man—”
“Forget him, Katie.”
“But why?”
John’s face turned to stone. Hazel eyes flashed angry gold in the firelight. “If what you saw was Broderick MacPherson killing a man, then that man deserved to die.”
The following morning, Kate awakened bleary-eyed, head-pained, and more confused than she’d been when she’d fallen asleep, but at least morning had brought an end to the nightmares. Great, hulking monsters with bloody fists and a murderous gleam had hunted her for hours. One of them had even sprouted fangs.
She doubted Annie’s brother had fangs, but how in blazes would she know? John and Annie hadn’t explained anything about him or what she’d seen. Kate had hoped to question them about the matter this morning, but they’d already left the castle by the time she went down to breakfast.
Now, she exited the only shop that sold paper in the small village of Glenscannadoo—the haberdashery—and glanced around the tiny square. At the center was a statue of a pompous-looking MacDonnell laird. Surrounding it were several taverns, a motley assortment of shops, an inn, and a cottage or two. All were the same gray stone in the same state of dilapidation. They were also similarly wet.
Blast. Kate sighed and struggled to open her umbrella while keeping her package beneath her arm. She fumbled awkwardly. The package slipped. The umbrella flew. It collided with the knee of a passing pedestrian.
“Oh!” Her gaze flew up. “I do beg your pardon, sir. Dreadfully clumsy of me.”
She blinked as he brushed past her. “Good day to …”
He entered the saddler’s shop two doors down from the haberdashery.
“… you.” Kate wondered if the Scot’s brusque manner had been specific to her wayward umbrella or if he was simply displeased with life. Some men were. Her mathematics tutor, for example, had been of a similarly sour disposition. Of course, she’d always been dreadful with numbers, and the young man had found their sessions exceedingly trying. Why Papa had insisted she have both a music tutor and a mathematics tutor, nobody had quite understood. Papa would only say that some ladies discovered interests beyond music and theatre once they explored a bit further afield.
Which was certainly fine for those ladies. But Kate had discovered her interests—indeed, her passions—early in life, and she was quite content to pursue them to the exclusion of all else.
She wrinkled her nose as she glanced beyond the eave to the steady rain.
If only she could manage to keep a single sheet of paper dry long enough to finish writing Sir Wallace’s grand adventure.
Raising her umbrella, she started forward past the statue. Only to halt, seized by a sudden flash of fear. Thirty yards away, a towering figure with black hair and broad shoulders loped toward the third most popular tavern in Glenscannadoo.
Her heart pounded. She clutched the umbrella tighter. Breathed faster.
Then, he glanced in her direction. And waved.
Her entire body went limp. Oh, thank heavens. It was Rannoch MacPherson. Wickedly handsome and often smiling. Yes, he was over six-and-a-half-feet tall. And yes, there was a family resemblance. But he was not his brother. Not the monster.
She smiled weakly and nodded in return. He disappeared inside the tavern, and Kate pressed the umbrella’s wooden handle to her cheek. Breathe, she commanded herself. Breathe and stop being a ninny.
By the time she returned to where she’d tied her little mare, her heart had slowed from a racing gallop to a vigorous canter. She stashed her package inside her saddlebag and patted Ophelia’s glossy black neck. The horse nudged her hip, and Kate winced. Cuts and bruises from the previous night’s misadventures hadn’t had time to heal. Further, her hands and legs—indeed, her every muscle—quaked like jostled jelly. A product of exhaustion, no doubt.
For a moment, she allowed herself to slump against Ophelia’s damp warmth. Huddled beneath the umbrella, she squeezed her eyes closed.
Lightning flashed white inside the dark. A single eye filled with feral rage stared back at her. Blood dripped from—
Her eyes flew open. Her chest squeezed until she couldn’t bear the pressure.
She grunted and shook her head.
A ride had seemed like such a good idea. Kate despised stewing in her own sauce. Much better to do something distracting. Ordinarily, she would play the pianoforte, but John hadn’t yet acquired one. So, instead, she’d donned her brown wool riding habit and taken Ophelia out for a run.
Now, she stood in the pouring rain in the town square shaking like a perfect ninny.
What she needed was to understand. Perhaps John and Annie would return to the castle soon, and they could set her mind at ease. Or, at least stop the terrible visions she saw every time she closed her eyes.
She glanced at the tavern only steps from where she stood. John and Annie were not the only ones who might offer explanations.
Patting Ophelia’s neck, she murmured, “I’ll only be a moment, girl.”
Glenscannadoo’s third most popular tavern had only two patrons this time of day—one a plump woman in a shabby gown and white cap, slumped and snoring with her mouth open at a table near the hearth; the other was the man Kate had assaulted with her umbrella.
Blast. She peered deeper into the dingy, ale-stained room. The short man behind the bar, another cousin of Dougal’s, immediately abandoned his conversation with the stern gentleman to greet her. “M’lady.” He gave her a respectful nod. “What may I offer ye?”
She drifted to the bar and wrung her closed umbrella in her fists. “Thank you kindly, Mr. MacDonnell, but I’m looking for Mr. MacPherson.” She squeezed the umbrella harder. “Rannoch MacPherson. I saw him enter. Is he here?”
He slanted a glance toward the stern man. “Popular fellow,” he murmured. “Nae. I havenae seen him.”
She frowned. “But, he was just—”
“Now, most days, ye’ll find him at the distillery.”
“Yes, I—”
“But I dinnae ken where he is today. Nor his brothers. Naught to tell ye, I’m afraid.” Mr. MacDonnell’s eyes darted strangely as his brows bobbed.
Kate wondered if the man had been tippling his own stock.
A shadow moved across the bar in front of her. “Beg yer pardon, miss. Or is it my lady? I hear England when ye speak. Perhaps ye’re kin to Lord Huxley.”
She blinked up at the stern gentleman. His gaze had sharpened from steely to piercing. Something about his intent posture worsened her trembling. “I am Lady Katherine Huxley, Lord Huxley’s sister. And you are?”
“Sergeant Neil Munro, constable for Inverness. What interest have ye in Rannoch MacPherson?”
Alarm traced a shivery trail down her spine. She glanced toward MacDonnell and found him wiping a glass with undue fixation. Tilting her chin, she gave the constable the best answer she could summon on short notice. “I fancy him.”
Steely eyes narrowed. “That so?”
“Yes.” Her cheeks began burning. “Dreadfully handsome.”
“Are ye acquainted with his brother Broderick, perhaps?” The man’s whiskers moved as his jaw flexed. “Nae quite so handsome.”
Her heart pounded. Pounded. Pounded. “N-no?”
“Ye’re nae acquainted.”
She shook her head. The skin on her throat felt afire. “I haven’t had the pleasure.” That, at least, was true. Nothing about her encounter with Broderick MacPherson had been a pleasure.
“He is kin to yer brother’s wife, aye?”
“Y-yes, I suppose—”
“Yet, ye havenae met him.”
“No.” Blasted Huxley Flush. Her face prickled with heat.
“Hmm. Have ye any knowledge of a man named Lockhart?”
She frowned. “No. Is he—”
“Light hair. This tall.” He placed a gloved hand near the top of his own head. “Lean. Handsome fellow. One a young lady might take notice of.”
With every terse description, Kate’s stomach gave a queasy lurch. She wrung her umbrella until it made a cracking sound.
“He’s a Lord of Parliament,” Munro continued, unsmiling and colder than drenched stone. “Last seen inside the Inverness jail.”
“J-jail?”
“Aye. He escaped, ye see.” Munro’s head tilted. “Which is a wee bit peculiar, given he was likely to be released in four days.” The grim constable lowered his head and his voice. “Now, I’m charged with findin’ him, my lady. To my reckonin’, the only man who’d trouble himself to free Lockhart from the jail is Broderick MacPherson, who would only do so to ensure his lordship met an untimely end. I’d prefer to ask MacPherson, but I cannae find him. Nor can I find any of his kin.” For the first time, a small smile tugged inside the whiskers. “Except you.”
“I—I am not his kin. His stepsister is my sister-in-law, which makes us nothing at all, really—”
“So, I’ll ask again. Have ye heard or seen aught of Lord Lockhart in the last two days?”
She didn’t have to close her eyes this time for the vision to come—the blood, the sickening sound of a fist being driven into a man’s jaw and nose and teeth. The
man she’d seen being beaten—no, killed—had been light-haired, lean, and roughly the same height as Sergeant Munro. His face had been too damaged to discern handsomeness, but it had clearly been him. Lockhart. What had he been jailed for? Why had he been scheduled for release?
Oh, God. She’d planted herself squarely in the worst possible circumstance. She must answer Munro’s question. And she must lie. Convincingly.
Bracing herself and drawing upon every ounce of thespian talent she possessed, she tilted her chin. Straightened her shoulders. Cleared her throat. And gave the greatest performance of her life.
“You told him what?!” John groaned and ran a frustrated hand over his face. He paced the width of his study. Twice. “Kate. Please say you are jesting.”
Kate twisted the end of her tartan shawl between her hands and nibbled her lower lip. “I’d already confessed I fancied Rannoch.”
“But you don’t fancy Rannoch. Do you?”
“Well, he is charming in a rakish sort of way.”
John glared.
“No. Not particularly. I do find him amusing and handsome. But he is much too tall and his manner too coarse.” She cast a sheepish glance at Annie, who’d sat listening for the past few minutes. “Apologies, Annie. I mean no insult.”
“Katie. Good God,” John continued. “Why would you not simply say you’re acquainted with the MacPhersons through Annie and wished to speak with Rannoch on some family matter?”
She gave a small shrug. “I panicked.”
“Right. Then, you lied about Broderick.”
“Only a little.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Well, I didn’t know what else to say!”
John’s eyes flashed gold. “Anything. Anything would have served better than claiming you and Broderick had formed an ‘impassioned connection’—”
“We did. In a manner of speaking. He was quite impassioned at our first encounter.”
“Then, you claimed that, upon learning you ‘fancied’ his brother, he’d grown so jealous that he’s now devoted himself entirely to winning your hand.”
Absently, she wound a curl near her temple around her finger. “Yes. I may have gotten a jot carried away.”