A Gypsy in Scotland (MacCallan Clan Book 1)

by Tanya Wilde

  “Lash.” The smile returned to her eyes, and his heartbeat settled. “What an interesting name.”

  “It’s Romany.” He meant to shock her, maybe even scare her off, but it appeared he accomplished the opposite.

  “Romany?” she inquired. Her eyes lit up in intrigue, then rounded. “As in a gypsy traveler?”

  “Romany,” Lash corrected.

  “They are the same, are they not?”

  “We do not care for the term gypsy,” Lash said, clearing his throat. “Were you the one who found me?”

  She nodded. “Good thing, too. Your wound would have claimed your life.”

  Something in Lash’s chest expanded. Not loathing, as he expected, but something akin to gratefulness. Because of her, he would live to find Syeira.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “Think nothing of it,” she murmured. “You will stay with us until you regain full strength.”

  “No,” Lash protested, attempting to sit, the walls of the chamber seeming to fold in on him. “I cannot stay here.”

  Her hands reached out to rest on his shoulders, pushing him back into the mattress. He allowed it, only because he was weak, and the strength it would take to fight her would weaken him more.

  “You are not healed enough,” she scolded.

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Four days.”

  Four days! Mierda! No wonder it felt as though a hole had been chewed in his stomach. But a more pressing question burned in his mind.

  “Why did you save me?” Lash asked. “A virtual stranger.”

  She looked puzzled at the question. “You were hurt.”

  “You saw the wound,” Lash pointed out. “My assailant could have been nearby and hurt you, as well. You risked your life for me.”

  “I’m quite accomplished at fighting off brigands with my sharp wit,” she teased.

  Lash withheld a snort. The woman was dinilo. Crazy.

  “And if you are worried about your safety, be at ease, no one here will betray your presence. Well,” she amended after a short pause, “at least not until my brothers return from Edinburgh. Then I suspect there will be quite the line clamoring to tattle on me.”

  “Why would there be a line?”

  “My brothers are quite intimidating and servants curry favor at times.”

  Lash found himself transfixed by the sensual arch of her lips. The way she smiled at him—it hit him square in the chest.

  “What of your reputation? Will it not be ruined caring for me?” His gaze flicked to the half-open door. “You are alone with me in a bedchamber.”

  She waved his concern away. “My reputation can survive healing an injured man.”

  Her reputation was the last thing she ought to be worried about. Danior. His brother will not stop until he had irrefutable confirmation of Lash’s death, of that he was certain.

  Had she said her brothers were gone? Who protected her? Servants? An ailing aunt? If that was the case, Lash had to part with some truth, enough that she understood the peril.

  “The man who plunged the knife in my chest,” he paused when her eyes widened. “He will not stop.”

  “Then you do know who assailed you.”

  He pressed his lips together in a firm line. He would reveal no more than that.

  “No matter,” she said, not questioning him further. “Whoever he is, he will not find you here. And even if he were to discover your whereabouts, Castle MacCallan is well protected.”

  “Castle?”

  She nodded, her expression bemused. “Do you have a last name?”

  “I do.”

  Her brows drew together. “I do? I have not heard such a last name before.”

  “Now you have.”

  “You are being purposely difficult.”

  “And you are purposely probing.”

  A laugh burst from her lips. His heartbeat stalled. No laugh should sound so carnal.

  “You are right, I have been prying,” she confessed. “I’m not normally so forward, but I have never met a man like you.”

  “Pray I’m the last.”

  “Why?” she asked, leaning over him and reaching for the wrap covering his injury.

  He caught her wrist in a firm grip, and she froze, her eyes lifting to search his. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Your wound requires a fresh wrap.” She gave him an imploring look. “Do you wish to tend it yourself?”

  He grunted. What the hell was wrong with him? One by one he lifted a finger until she was free from his grasp.

  “So,” she murmured as she pulled the material away from his skin and gently cleansed the wound. “What is wrong with men like you?”

  “Men like me are no good for women like you.”

  Her lips curved. “Like me?”

  “Women who live in castles,” Lash clarified, scrutinizing her face as she worked. She had lips so sensual he wanted to lean over and brush his fingers against them. She was so close.

  “And have never splashed their pretty slippers in a puddle of mud, I suppose?”

  “Don’t forget riding sidesaddle.”

  “I see, women secluded in castles are too fragile and cannot manage men like you, so dangerous and big?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mmm.” Her face pinched in concentration as she dabbed at his wound with a soft, damp cloth.

  Then her fingers skimmed across his bare skin.

  Pain had nothing on her touch. Lash could handle pain, but the soft graze of her fingers was another matter. It appalled him how profoundly attracted he was to this woman—a gadji. That was a problem. A big one.

  His kind was not accustomed to denying themselves what they wanted. They walked the road that called to them, choosing to live outside the world of gadjo and the temptations that came with that life. It defied reason that he should be drawn to this woman as he was.

  “Is there anything you need?” she asked once she was done wrapping his wound.

  Lower your mouth to mine? “Can you remove the head of the stag from the chamber?”

  Her gaze flicked from him to the ornament in question, her brow furrowing. “You do not like it?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then I shall have it removed at once.”

  Lash inclined his head. “Thank you.”

  To his complete astonishment, she reached out to brush the sweep of dark hair from his brow. The action was beyond intimate. For him, at least. It did not seem the gadji was even aware of what she’d done, which sparked an unexpected flash of annoyance.

  “You must be starving,” she said. “I will have some broth heated for you.”

  Lash merely stared at her as she pulled herself upright. He watched as she tilted her head to the side, returning his gaze.

  “Do you believe in fate, Lash?”

  “Don’t you?” he countered, trying to distract himself from the soft purr of his name on her tongue.

  “I’m not sure I did,” she murmured, her lips lifting in a quirk. “Until I met you.”

  He frowned and shook his head. “Fate would not send a man like me on your path, my lady. That would be a cruel twist indeed.”

  “Some things are too strong and too strange to be considered mere luck.”

  “If it were luck, I would be the lucky one.”

  The way she was looking at him did something odd to his gut. It clenched and twisted. Hard. She was staring at him as though he was her fate. As though crossing paths was indeed meant to be. And that couldn’t be right. Lash was Rom. She was not. Simple. Even fate knew better than to intertwine their destinies.

  But whatever fate had in mind, Lash was right about one thing: speaking to her had been a mistake. Each syllable uttered from her tempting lips wove deeply into his being, casting a spell on him, bewitching him.

  Feeling once more the walls closing in on to him, he shut his eyes, pretending not to think about how her touch had sent little thrills of pleasure through hi
m.

  “Call me Honoria,” she insisted. “Lord knows, I’ve had your blood on my hands.”

  At that his eyes shot open and he met her gaze squarely. “The universe did not bring us together.”

  “You seem quite sure of yourself.”

  “For what reason should fate wish for us to cross paths?”

  “Other than saving your life?” she murmured and sauntered from the chamber. At the door she halted, shooting him a soul-twisting grin over her shoulder. “Adventure, Lash. Adventure.”

  Chapter 5

  Every time Honoria thought of Lash’s tempestuous green eyes, she became more convinced their paths were meant to cross. And the more she became convinced of that, the more fascinating he became. An air of danger shadowed him, and she was drawn to that danger—like light was drawn to reveal the darkness.

  His accent was neither Scottish nor English, his skin tanned, and not the way one would expect from a man occupying the British Isles, but richer, smoother. He also did not approve of animals being killed for sport. Unusual among the men she knew.

  Her mind circled back to his weariness, his uneasiness around her. Honoria had not missed the flash of fury in his gaze when she remarked on the identity of his assailant—a truth he clearly did not wish to be known. But it didn’t change the fact that Lash absolutely knew who had stabbed him.

  Honoria entered the drawing room and spotted her sister at the writing desk. She was forever writing letters. As a child, Isla had written countless letters to Drew Murray. They’d all been fast friends since childhood, but that ended with Ewan’s death. It had been Drew’s blow that claimed her brother’s life—a standard, friendly bare-knuckle fight gone wrong.

  Needless to say, these days Isla’s letters were not to Drew Murray but Patrick Moray.

  “Fate has finally sent me a boon,” Honoria said, sinking into a plush, upholstered emerald settee.

  “Mmm.”

  “Would you stop writing and spare me a moment of your time?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be nurturing the stranger upstairs back to swift health so he can leave?” Isla said without looking up from where she sat scribbling.

  “What has gotten you into such a snip?” Honoria muttered.

  “I’m not in a snip.” Isla looked up from her writing station. “Go paint something and leave me be.”

  “I cannot paint. I’m blocked.”

  “You mean your plaything consumes your mind.”

  “He is not a plaything,” Honoria denied. “And his name is Lash, and he is as mysterious as the fairies that hide in the forest.”

  Isla’s eyes widened as she looked up from her letter. “He is awake, then?”

  Honoria nodded. “He woke up for a short while but is sleeping again.”

  “Och, that is good news. Did he say anything about his attack?”

  “Nay, he was reluctant to part with any information. But he did mention that the man would want confirmation of his death.”

  Isla drew in a gasp. “There are still men out looking for his body?”

  Honoria nodded, her expression grim.

  “How dreadful.”

  “Aye, but he is safe here with us. And I reckon the man will give up his search eventually.”

  “You cannot know that,” Isla argued. “The attack must not have happened far from where you found him.”

  “Then we shall deny his presence if someone comes searching for him at our big castle door and alert the authorities.”

  Isla rolled her eyes. “That big castle door cannot protect us for long and the last thing Hugh will want is the authorities searching our grounds and discovering our family secrets.”

  “Lawd, I forgot about that.”

  “I do not like this, Honoria, ’tis dangerous. We must tell Hugh.”

  “Not yet. What if he sends him away? I need more time with him.”

  “Why?” Isla’s eyes clouded with suspicion. “What are you up to?”

  “I must finish painting his face,” Honoria said with a wave of her hand. Not entirely a lie. “And that sculpted chest is pleading to be painted.”

  Her sister peered at her for a thoughtful moment. “You mean to use him for whatever scheme you are formulating.”

  “I am not formulating anything, except maybe palettes of different colors to use in my painting.”

  “If you can call eyes, chest, and lips a painting,” Isla pointed out. “Your paintings cause shivers down our brothers’ spines.”

  Honoria sealed her lips over a laugh. “Aye, I am aware.”

  “Of course you are,” Isla said, setting down her quill. “Did this Lash provide any useful information?”

  “Nay, I get the sense he doesn’t want us to pry too much.”

  “Not a promising sign, Honoria.”

  “Och, who cares? The man needs our help. You should hear his accent, Isla. ’Tis a mixture of thick foreign sweetness and drawn out vowels, flowing over your skin like fresh river water.”

  “’Tis even worse than I thought,” Isla muttered with a shake of her head. “You are besotted.”

  “I’m intrigued, that is all.”

  “We must inform Hugh. If men are searching for him, we must be prepared.”

  “Fine, I shall consider it. Who are you writing to?” Honoria asked, already knowing the answer but desiring a change of subject.

  Isla glanced away, but not before Honoria noticed her brightened cheeks. “The wind, nothing more.”

  “And has the wind thought to return any of your letters?”

  “Nay, and curse his behind for it. Why can’t I preserve some of my dignity and stop humiliating myself?”

  “You are not humiliating yourself, dear. Perhaps he has not received your letters, or he is cautious. What man wouldn’t be after nine Highlanders threatened to end his life?”

  Isla cracked a small smile. “It’s neither here nor there, Honoria. It’s over. He left. I’ve moved on.”

  “And still you write him.”

  “And still I write him,” Isla repeated on a wistful sigh. “Mostly words of anger. Any foul turn of phrase I can come up with.”

  “That ought to be colorful,” Honoria murmured, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.

  “It is.” Isla shook her head. “But I’d much rather discuss the man you’ve formed an attachment to, and how you plan to save his life once our brothers return.”

  “I have not attached myself to him,” Honoria disagreed. “And he will be gone by then.”

  Isla stared at her intently before understanding lit her eyes. “You think to use him to leave.”

  Honoria’s ears burned. “I thought you didn’t want to be part of my schemes.”

  Isla harrumphed. “It matters little whether I wish to be part of it or not. In the end, I always am. You mean to use that poor man to defy Adair and ask him to escort you to Edinburgh and risk, nay, ensure the wrath of our brothers.”

  Honoria sputtered. “And whose fault is it that I have been reduced to approach a stranger?”

  “They cannot refuse you forever.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Honoria muttered. “But they have refused me long enough. If Lash agrees to take me to Edinburgh, that will be splendid, if not…” Honoria lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Then I shall make the journey on my own.”

  “You cannot ask a stranger to escort you to Edinburgh, Honoria. What if he is a bad man?”

  Honoria waved Isla’s concern aside. “I shall determine that beforehand.”

  “What about the man after him? It’s too dangerous!”

  “I told you, he will give up long before we go.”

  “You are not being reasonable,” Isla complained. “You want to go to Edinburgh so badly you are acting recklessly.”

  Honoria pursed her lips.

  She would go to Edinburgh. Fate had given her a sign—a way—and she would not squander it.

  Besides, Lash wouldn’t be caught unawares again. The bounder would be unabl
e to ambush him a second time. There was no true danger.

  Isla huffed. “Do you honestly believe Hugh will allow any of this?”

  “Och, what a smashing notion,” she declared with the clap of her hands. “All three of us can make the journey!”

  It was a better idea. A safer one, too.

  “That will never happen. Hugh is under strict orders from Adair.”

  “Aye, I keep forgetting our little brother has something to prove.”

  “Do not sound so sarcastic, he is but a man. He does have something to prove; they always do.”

  “Speaking of our dear brother, where is he? I have not seen much of him.”

  “He is frolicking with one of the dairymaids, no doubt.”

  “Shocking,” Honoria said. “You should come with me, Isla. ’Tis unfair that our brothers get to frolic to their heart’s content while we are locked away in a castle. We deserve to experience some of the world before we perish in the name of spinsterhood.”

  “It will not come to that.”

  “Are you certain? I for one don’t wish to be married to a man Adair chooses—I shall die of boredom if he has his way!”

  “It will hardly be as bad as that.”

  Honoria raised her brow.

  “Fine, it shall be worse.”

  “I’d rather not turn into a prune while waiting for Adair to find pompous lords for us to marry. Let us seek our own destiny.”

  “I have given thought to follow my own path,” Isla answered with a sigh. “But look where that got me—heartbroken. Perhaps we ought to follow the rules for once.”

  “Rules are meant for breaking.”

  “The very purpose of them is the opp—”

  “Lawd! You sound like Kieran,” Honoria interrupted her sister. “Will you join me or not?”

  “I do not wish to intrude upon your journey.”

  “Honestly, have some sense of adventure. Sometimes there are no second chances,” Honoria gave her sister a pointed look. “Sometimes there is only the present, and if you don’t take the chance, if you do not seize the moment, it is lost forever. Are you prepared to lose a chance at some freedom?”

  Isla inhaled a deep breath. There was nothing insignificant about the pause. Her sister had been through heartache, almost to the point of never recovering.