A Gypsy in Scotland (MacCallan Clan Book 1)

by Tanya Wilde

  Then, suddenly, she gave a curt nod. “Very well, if you convince the stranger with the syrupy voice to escort you to Edinburgh, I will come along.”

  “Marvelous!” Honoria announced. “You might even seek out a certain gentleman you’ve been pining over and give him a piece of your mind.”

  “I have not pined,” Isla protested but continued on a sigh. “And what will I do if I find him? He left. I cannot lock him away in a tower. I ought to cast him from my mind if I only could.”

  “Then we shall find you someone else, someone worthy of your affections. And if there is no man worthy of your affection, we shall find you the steamiest man in Scotland. To hell with Patrick Moray.”

  “To hell with Patrick,” Isla agreed with a flash of teeth.

  “Whether Lash agrees to escort us or not, we shall seek our destinies. I refuse to die an old maid having never left these walls. Let us hope that our brothers do not return before we can execute our plan.”

  “’Tis when they eventually find us that worries me more.”

  “Och, do not fret over that. If they do catch us, they will be too happy to have found us.”

  “Your reasoning is utterly flawed.”

  “Just the way I prefer it,” Honoria said with a smirk.

  Hugh strode into the room, his expression dark with suspicion. His eyes flicked between them like a hawk surveying its prey. “What are the two of you plotting?”

  Honoria turned to him innocently. “Whatever gave you the idea we are plotting?”

  “You are my twin, Honoria; I am familiar with the signs of your scheming. I heard your mutterings when I passed in the hall and bet a bag of coins it’s about the behemoth occupying Callum’s bed.” His eyes narrowed on Honoria. “What are you planning?”

  “I am not planning anything,” she protested. “Other than healing him.”

  “That man is dangerous, lass.”

  “As dangerous as a wee bairn,” Honoria agreed.

  “Don’t forget you found him on a hill bleeding.” Hugh placed his hands on his hips. “How do you suppose he got here? That unicorns and fairies dropped him there by mistake?”

  “Outlandish,” Honoria muttered.

  “Hugh,” Isla murmured gently. “The man is injured, what scheming could Honoria possibly be up to?”

  “When it appears the least,” his eyes flashed across hers, “it’s always the most.”

  Honoria scoffed. “’Tis like you don’t know me at all.”

  “’Tis like I know you too bloody well.”

  “Perhaps if you weren’t so occupied with . . .” Isla turned to Honoria. “What is that dairymaid’s name?”

  Honoria laughed when Hugh’s cheeks flushed. “Mary, I believe.”

  “Aye, Mary.” Isla turned her sly smile to Hugh. “How is dear Mary?”

  Hugh’s ears burned. “Ladies are not supposed to speak of such things!”

  “And what things would that be?” Honoria asked sweetly.

  He spluttered.

  “Och, come now, Hugh, we are having a spot of fun,” Isla murmured.

  Hugh scoffed. “Any news on the behemoth’s health?”

  Honoria nodded. “He woke up for a while and finished a bowl of broth.”

  She elaborated no further. The last thing she wanted was for Hugh to fly into a frenzy because the behemoth is Romany with a villain on his tail.

  “Does the behemoth have a name or is he purposefully shrouding himself in mystery?”

  If only Hugh knew.

  “His name is Lash.” Honoria’s lips curved. “Hardly a name that inspires the plague.”

  Chapter 6

  The next morning Honoria studied the eyes on the canvas she spent over two hours painting. Something still bothered her about the lines. She was missing an important detail. The color was perfectly captured, and the creases at the corner of his eyes painted to perfection. Still, there seemed to be an element missing.

  Essence. Soul.

  She tapped the paintbrush against her chin, considering her work. She had never been a painter of note. Calling her work paintings was perhaps overstating her creations. And the only people who saw her art were her family.

  Honoria bit back a smile.

  Her brothers’ expressions were mostly looks of barely disguised horror when confronted with her art.

  However, eyes were her forte. If she could paint nothing else, she could paint them. And she always captured the person’s essence. Except for now. Except with Lash. And she couldn’t figure out why.

  It was remarkably frustrating.

  She peered over her canvas to the man, who lay sleeping on the big canopy bed, oblivious to her internal struggle. Perhaps it was something about his face that obscured the element of his eyes. A shadow or the grimace of pain crossing his features whenever he moved.

  Her gaze roamed over his bare chest, a shiver of awareness sparking up her spine before she lifted her gaze . . . And locked onto pools of green.

  “Oh!” Startled, Honoria dropped the paintbrush. “You are awake!”

  His eyes pierced straight through her. “What are you doing?”

  “Painting you,” she murmured, bending to snatch up the brush. “More precisely your eyes.”

  “I’m pretty sure my eyes were closed when you snuck into the chamber.”

  “I do not have to sneak anywhere, I am your healer, and I came to heal. Besides, it’s better to be in the presence of the person you are painting.”

  “Have you ever healed anyone from painting their portrait?”

  “Nay.”

  “But you have healed a stab wound?”

  She lifted her chin. “Of course.”

  “Before me.”

  Honoria blushed at his obvious skepticism. “Nay, but I’ve read tons of books on herbs and healing methods.”

  “And that makes you an expert?”

  “How else does one become an expert at something if not by studying the text and applying that knowledge on a subject?”

  “So I’m your subject?” he muttered, shifting into a sitting position.

  “Do not sound so put out. You are still alive are you not?”

  He grunted in response. “I don’t recall commissioning a portrait.”

  “Nay, that is why I’m not charging you for my work.”

  “How lucky for me.”

  Honoria waved his beastly tone aside. She was used to men and their moods and turned her attention back to her work. She brushed a few strokes on the canvas, her eyes darting to him after a moment. Then down to his chest. “Your tattoo . . . is it a dragon or a snake-like beast?”

  “Both,” he answered. “It’s a symbol of strength and power. I acquired it on my travels.”

  It suited his heavily built chest, Honoria mused, admiring the contour of his body. “You travel a lot then?”

  “Of course, I am Rom.”

  Her eyes jumped to his. “You don’t like answering questions in detail, do you?”

  “You are a stranger.”

  “A stranger that saved your life,” Honoria pointed out. “Where is the harm in sharing something about your travels? Like how you came to get your tattoo?” She infused a note of challenge in her voice.

  His lips twitched, his eyes dragging over her face as he conceded. “In my youth, I met a wanderer called Yamada Hajime, a man who claimed to be a descendant of a famous Japanese adventurer. He told me stories of dragons and their folklore. I was fascinated. The tattoo is his design.”

  Honoria’s eyes traveled over the intricate detail on his chest before lifting to meet his gaze. She bit down on her lower lip. “Did it hurt?”

  He searched her eyes, studying her as if she were a puzzle to solve. “Like the devil.”

  The corner of her mouth curved upward. “Will you not tell me your full name? Where you are from? Who hurt you?”

  He peered at her without blinking.

  Honoria harrumphed. “Some men truly do try my patience.”

 
; One dark brow jutted upward. “To heal a wound, you must stop poking at it.”

  “Is that some sage gypsy advice? I’m not poking at anything.”

  “Romany,” he corrected. “And you are poking into things better left unpoked.”

  She snorted. “Do you not care to bring the bandit who attacked you to justice?”

  “And what sort of justice will I get? I am a vagabond, trickster and swindler.”

  “You are?” Honoria asked intrigued, lips stretching.

  A scowl deepened his brows. “That is what people think when they learn of my heritage.” He gave her a strange look. “Except you. It’s as if you revel in all that is wicked.”

  She shrugged. “Perhaps I do.”

  He stared at her for a moment, and then, to her shock, conceded. “In that case, Ruthven. My last name is Ruthven.”

  Her heart thumped. Hard. “Lash Ruthven. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  Again, he said nothing, and this time Honoria let it go, biting down on her lip to keep from smiling. She would have to be patient if she wished to earn this Gypsy’s—no, Romany’s—trust. Luckily, Honoria was nothing if not forbearing, and she took small measure of comfort that Lash recognized her as different.

  “You must be famished,” she murmured, stepping out from behind her canvas. “You’ve eaten nothing but broth, perhaps we can prepare something more substantial for today. If you feel up to it, you can even join us for dinner.”

  “I think it best if I do not.”

  Disappointment settled in her breast. He said nothing else, but Honoria noticed the tension in his jaw. It must be a Romany thing, then. They kept to themselves and lived in wagons if she was not mistaken. Lash might not have dined at a table before, and for some reason, that saddened her.

  “If I can join you for dinner,” he said, interpreting her disenchantment. “I can leave.”

  Honoria shook her head. “Walking a few steps and traveling are different things, and you are not healed enough to travel.”

  “Says the novice.”

  Honoria made a face.

  His eyes blazed like dark crystals. A new air of toughness surrounded him, vital masculinity she hadn’t noticed when he’d been sleeping. This was a man that might help her leave MacCallan castle. This was a man, full stop.

  Momentarily disorientated, her fingers clutched the paintbrush as though her life hung on its balance.

  He couldn’t leave. Not yet. Not without her.

  “Novice or not, I am your healer.” She crossed over to the side of the bed, peering down at him. “And like it or not, I shall be the judge of when you’re ready to leave.”

  “And how shall you determine my strength?” he queried with the lift of one brow.

  Before Honoria could stop herself, she lifted her hand to skim over his unshaven jaw, the bristles as rough as wire. He stilled beneath her touch, eyes smoldering, and she snatched her hand back as if he burned her fingertips.

  Honoria cleared her throat, balling her hands into small fists. “I shall determine your fitness with a stroll to the gallery.”

  “A stroll?” he asked.

  “Aye, if you can manage that and back, I will not stand in your way of leaving.”

  Those penetrating green pools narrowed on her. “You think I’m not strong enough.”

  She held his gaze. “I don’t think anything, I know.”

  “By all means, allow me to prove otherwise.”

  “Now?” she croaked. “You are not ready.”

  “I disagree.” He tugged the covers from his legs.

  When he started to rise, Honoria leaned over to lend assistance should he require it. He resisted her offering—hell-bent on proving her wrong. Sweat beaded across his brow as he straightened to his full height, his expression strained, but he said nothing.

  Lord above, he was big, Honoria marveled. And stubborn.

  “It might be better if you dressed in a shirt first,” she muttered, suddenly flustered, and retrieved one of Callum’s shirts from the dresser.

  He didn’t object but carefully donned the offered clothing. Callum and Lash were close in size, although having lost weight since his injury, the shirt draped loosely over his chest. By the time they left the chamber, Honoria’s face burned for no other reason than having admired the ripples of his muscles. He was still powerfully built.

  “We shall stroll to the gallery in the east wing. Most of my paintings are displayed there,” she murmured to distract herself from his proximity.

  He grunted.

  Honoria cast a sidelong glance at him. Lips pinched, his eyes held a note of strain, and sweat beaded his forehead. “Are you sure you are up for this?”

  “Yes,” he ground out. His gaze flicked to her canvas. “Is that me?”

  Honoria shrugged. “Part of you.”

  He made an odd sound in the back of his throat. As though he was trying to keep from laughing.

  She huffed out a breath. “I am a work in progress.”

  His gaze settled on hers. “You capture soul in your art. Even to my untrained eye that is an accomplishment.”

  “I do?” She cleared her throat. “Of course, I do.” Her gaze darted to the canvas. “I thought I failed to capture yours.”

  “Not mine.” He studied the painting. “Yours.”

  “My soul?”

  He nodded, his eyes drifting to hers. “You leave a bit of your soul in everything that you do.”

  Honoria cleared her throat again, her hand lifting to smooth over her heart. “I quite like that sentiment.”

  “I find your art quite interesting.” He smiled down at her. “It’s refreshing.”

  A blush spread across her cheeks. “You are the first, to be honest. My brothers don’t appreciate strange faces peering down at them from a height greater than theirs.”

  “You enjoy getting a rise out of them.”

  Honoria grinned. “I do.”

  The journey to the gallery was slow and strenuous, and when they reached the room four corridors and two flights of stairs later, Lash’s breathing labored heavily. Perhaps Honoria should not have chosen the farthest room in the castle from his chamber.

  Honoria dragged in a deep breath as they entered the gallery. She loved the smell of this room. It smelled of hopes and dreams and paint. She turned to Lash, who had stopped to lean against the door, catching his breath. After a moment, his eyes flicked to the different works of art displayed against the walls.

  His lips curved. “This is what you do to pass the time?”

  Honoria twirled around in full circle before turning back to Lash. “I read as well. But mostly I paint. Leave me for years and years with a paintbrush. My brother, Adair, assigned me this room to fill with my art.”

  “That is generous.”

  “It’s for their benefit, not mine,” Honoria murmured. “Walking the corridors at night with eyes peering at them from all sides of the corridors gave them the horrors. Adair decided to confine my work to one room in the castle.” Honoria chuckled. “Sometimes I leave them little surprises on their bedchamber walls.”

  “I can see how they might find that disturbing.”

  Honoria thought of the stag head removed from Callum’s room. “Serves them well. I have begged and pleaded for them to take me to Edinburgh, and they refuse me each time.”

  “What is in Edinburgh?” he asked.

  “Only the greatest works of art from artists of Scotland.”

  “And you wish to learn from them?”

  She nodded. “Most of the great artists travel abroad to study in Italy, which I will never be permitted to do. Luckily, the shores of Scotland beckon them back.”

  “Perhaps your brothers have a valid reason for refusing you?”

  Honoria snorted. “I am of age, unmarried and ready to live my life. There is no valid reason to lock me away in a castle.”

  “No, you are not a woman to be locked away like a gilded bird,” he drawled.

 
; The thick, husky consonant of his words spread heat through her belly and Honoria’s pulse scattered. “You are the first man I have met who voiced such a view.”

  They stared at one another for a heart-stirring moment before turning to examine the paintings decorating the wall. They weren’t all faces. Some were nothing more than a legion of brush strokes. And Honoria could not help but wonder, as they gazed at her work, were there more men in the world like Lash Ruthven?

  She did not believe him a vagabond, trickster or swindler. All of her instincts pointed to him being a good man. And that he was the man to break her free from this sheltered life.

  “Some of your strokes are . . .”

  “Endless?” she finished with a laugh.

  “Certainly that.”

  “I believe everything is connected.” She mimed the motion of strokes with her wrist. “When I focus on the flow of my arm, the magic in the movement, I forget about the brush and paint.” She twirled her hand in the air. “Even when it does not seem that way.”

  “Your paintings are portraying connection?”

  She started at his voice, so close, startled to find him suddenly beside her. She hadn’t heard him approach. “Most of the time I don’t understand what I’m attempting to portray.”

  “And the faces? What do they represent?”

  “Faces.” She winked at him.

  “Fair enough.” Their eyes met. “You are an odd creature, Honoria MacCallan.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  He turned in a circle, observing the walls. “This room feels like a dream.”

  It certainly felt as if Honoria was traipsing around in a dream. “Boyd once told me to pour my heart in everything I do no matter how hideous. So I poured.”

  “Your paintings aren’t hideous, merely different.” He smiled down at her. “I am both baffled and intrigued by your mind.”

  What she saw in his gaze pulled the air from her lungs. “Hugh says the gallery gives him night terrors.”

  “Hugh is one of your brothers?”

  “Aye, my twin.”

  He nodded, thoughtful. “Do you resemble each other?”

  “As much as a man can resemble a woman.”

  His lips curved.