A Gypsy in Scotland (MacCallan Clan Book 1)

by Tanya Wilde

  “Nine.”

  Both his brows shot up. Somehow it seemed significant that Honoria hadn’t revealed the extent of her family. He made a note to ask her about it later. If he could manage to drag his gaze away from her lips, that is.

  “Lash Ruthven.”

  The Highlander inclined his head. He certainly did not lack in size. Lash wondered if all her brothers were tall and built like bulls. Honoria probably thought he’d be daunted—the Highlanders must make an intimidating picture.

  “My sister has taken an interest in you.”

  Not good.

  Certainly not with the announcement coming from her brother.

  “I’m as baffled as you.”

  The Highlander arched a brow. “In my experience, women are often attracted to mystery and, at this moment, you are quite a puzzle. Why not fit together the pieces for me?”

  “There is nothing mysterious about me.”

  “Nay? I have received word that there are travelers on horseback, three of them, scouring nearby villages and farms, searching for an injured man. I don’t suppose you know anything about that?”

  Lash’s pulse leaped. Every last instinct went on alert.

  He studied the Highlander carefully, from the sudden hard set of his gaze down to the tick of his jaw. “I do.”

  The man nodded. “Were you part of their band?”

  “No.”

  “But you are a traveler like them?”

  “Honoria did not tell you?” That surprised Lash. Why wouldn’t she inform her brother who he was?

  The man cursed beneath his breath. “Honoria knows what you are?”

  “I believe she is well aware that I’m a man,” Lash muttered, offended.

  One brow jutted upward, that was all the response he got.

  Lash shrugged. “I’m a Rom, Highlander. I have never hidden the fact.”

  A string of inventive curses filled the chamber. “Adair is going to kill me.” His glowing eyes met Lash’s. “You couldn’t be a normal Scot; you had to be a Gypsy.”

  And there it was—the reason Lash preferred solitude. After a time, years and years, the mocking and condemnation had become tedious and ill-tolerated amongst his kind. While not all Rom were trustworthy and good, most were peaceful people going about their lives the best they could.

  “We prefer the term Romany.”

  The Highlander gave Lash a brooding once over. “This is worse than I thought.”

  “And how is that?”

  The man shook his head. “You don’t know Honoria . . . Now that she is aware of your culture, she might never let you leave.”

  Lash raised both brows. “That sounds. . .”

  Fascinating.

  “Terrifying? Aye.” The Highlander pushed away from the door. “You are a guest in our home until Honoria kills you with her healing remedies, or you, by some godly miracle, heal and leave of your own accord. In the meantime, why don't you identify the man who stabbed you?”

  Lash scowled. He might be at the mercy of the begrudging generosity of this gadjo for the time, but he was not about to give up any information about those seeking him. It was too dangerous.

  “They won’t stop until they have proof of my death.”

  Irritation flashed across the Highlander’s face. “Fine, don’t tell me anything. But be forewarned: when my brothers return and you are still here, they will not be easily thwarted off topic. Fortunately for you, and me, the men seemed to have moved on.”

  The warmth left Lash’s skin. Danior would not leave. Not this soon. Not without absolute proof. No, they were biding their time, waiting him out.

  “As you are our guest, feel free to join us for meals whenever you are up for it,” the Highlander offered. “You do eat food, Rom?”

  That elicited a contemptuous snort from Lash.

  “At the very least, you will not be confined to this chamber.”

  The Highlander had a point.

  Lash had never dined at the table of a gadjo before. But dine with Honoria and her family? The thought left a peculiar taste in his mouth. Not bitter, and yet not sweet.

  Lash really, really needed to leave.

  The soft breeze of the outdoors beckoned. He needed to think. Breathe. Plan. But mostly, he needed to escape Honoria MacCallan.

  Honoria’s head was still spinning the next time she entered the chamber where Lash rested. She had spent a good portion of three hours wearing the plush wool carpet in the library thin. But no matter how angry she’d been with Hugh for sending word to Adair, how desperately she wanted to cling to that anger, in the end, her thoughts had circled back to the kiss.

  Lash Ruthven had kissed her. Pressed his lips right over hers. And the taste of him still tingled on her lips.

  Her brothers would spiral into their graves.

  Her mouth twitched.

  Granted, the man had crumbled at her feet. All the same, as short-lived as the kiss was, the impact had slammed the breath from her lungs.

  An action repeated when she walked into Callum’s room only to find Lash perched upright in bed, his head resting against the wall. His ebony hair brushed against his shoulders in a loose, disheveled way that only added to his wild attractiveness. He had removed the shirt she’d offered earlier, and once again her heart fluttered at the sight.

  This man . . . Even relaxed, the strength of him was evident, his presence awe-inspiring. The tingling on her lips increased and Honoria found they burned for a taste of that splendid golden skin.

  Why must she find him so appealing?

  His taste?

  Aye, definitely the raw, masculine flavor of him. It made Honoria want to kiss him again until she became tipsy.

  Lawd, this was not part of the plan. The plan was to convince Lash to escort her and Isla to Edinburgh, to gain her freedom, not to . . . to feel this. Something needed to be done. She squared her shoulders and exorcized every inappropriate fantasy that did not suit her purpose from her mind.

  His eyes lifted to collide with hers.

  All the fantasies came rushing back.

  There was a wild, untamed look about him that reminded her of an ancient warrior. His eyes blazed as they tracked her every movement. They looked downright predatory.

  Awareness prickled down her spine. He suddenly looked mountainous on the bed. Lethal in the way he was staring at her.

  Her throat went dry.

  Hugh was right—Lash was dangerous. But not for the reasons Hugh might imagine. Dragging breath into her lungs, she lifted the tray in her hands. “I come bearing stew.”

  His gaze watchful, he said nothing as she set the tray on the table beside the bed and handed him a bowl, settling in a chair with her own.

  “It’s beef if you were wondering,” she offered, lifting her spoon to taste a mouthful.

  “Thank you,” he murmured.

  Honoria smiled, watching him savor the dish.

  “Your brother paid me a visit,” he said after swallowing a spoonful. “He is worried for you.”

  She blinked and drew in a breath. “He is worried for his own hide.”

  “You didn’t tell me you have nine brothers.” He searched her face. “Why?”

  Honoria felt the impact of those green crystals down to her bones. How to answer that? I did not want you to be intimidated and leave before I could recruit you for my escort? Honestly, there was no other reason.

  “You thought I’d be intimidated and did not wish to add to my worries?” he guessed.

  “And leave,” she muttered, picking at her stew.

  He arched a single brow. “I wouldn’t have gotten far.”

  “That’s my point, you would have gotten somewhere.”

  Lash’s face showed his exasperation. It was a look everyone had around her sooner or later.

  “Your brother was upset to discover you knew I’m Rom. You didn’t tell him.” An accusation.

  Honoria shrugged. “You are different, that is true, and some, such as Hugh, don’t al
ways react well to people who are different. They respond with mistrust and will treat you as though you are damaged.”

  His lips curved. But his gaze remained sharp. “He also said you have taken an interest in me.”

  Honoria’s face flamed at that. How dare Hugh say such a thing? Och, her brother annoyed her at times. “I cannot believe we shared the same womb,” she muttered.

  He sputtered over his bowl. “Pardon?”

  She waved his question aside. “Of course he’d be worried over any interest I take in a man, healing notwithstanding. My brother is afraid history will repeat itself.”

  “History?”

  Honoria nodded. “My sister took an interest in our gardener and my brothers sent him away,” she explained.

  “Ah.”

  They fell into a comfortable silence, finishing their stew. Honoria’s eyes ever so often trailed over his face. He had beautiful eyes. The sort of green that one could only find on a warm summer day in Highland pastures. His lips, too, were the sort of fullness that no women could resist dreaming about. Not even a week had passed and the air crackled with wildness.

  So much for expelling improper fantasies.

  It seemed in his presence, the battle of resistance held no power whatsoever. Distracted, her surreptitious gaze wandered their path again, only to find his eyes on her.

  She blinked.

  “Why do I get the sense,” he drawled, “I’m spiraling into uncertain peril?”

  “How remarkably eerie, I was just thinking the same thing.”

  Chapter 9

  When Honoria entered the dining room for breakfast the following morning, she was greeted by none other than Hugh. Taken aback, she lifted a single brow at his presence. He never awakened this early and by his sour countenance, she could tell he wished he hadn’t. His eyes were bloodshot—a sign that whisky had dominated his evening. Just as well, for it meant he would be too tired to pester her about her life’s choices.

  “What a lovely surprise, brother.”

  He shot her a menacing look.

  Honoria suppressed a grin and helped herself to a plate of oats. She was in no mood to draw swords with him this morning. How would he react if he knew Lash had kissed her? It would certainly imply that any “interest” on her part was mutual.

  Excitement thrummed through her. Since every attempt at banishing improper fantasies had been futile, she may as well entertain them.

  “Where is Isla?” Hugh asked. “Does she not rise before the break of dawn?”

  Honoria took a seat across from her brother, shrugging. Isla spent mornings out by the stables, having formed a friendship with the head groom, Mr. Ross. She was not about to tell Hugh that. Not after what happened the last time. Though she ought to warn Isla to be more careful—if Honoria had noticed the shy glances, it was only a matter of time before their brothers did.

  “I’m concerned for her,” Hugh said.

  “And here I thought you were up in arms over our guest,” Honoria remarked.

  “I am concerned about both,” Hugh snapped.

  Honoria wrinkled her nose. “Give our sister some credit, Isla is strong. And while you are at it, why not give me some of that benefit, as well?”

  “She is seventeen years old.”

  “Only for a few days more,” Honoria pointed out. “Age aside, she has more sense than half the men in this household. Keeping us locked away on the moors of Scotland will not work for much longer.”

  “This is hardly the moors of Scotland.”

  “It may as well be. ‘Why do men get to have all the fun?’ I ask myself. Perhaps Isla and I should start a whisky distillery of our own—it would certainly be more gratifying than wasting away in a castle.”

  His russet eyes bulged. “You are not supposed to know about that.”

  Honoria shrugged. “Sound carries across the stone. We have overheard all of you talk about your smuggling and dealings.” She raked him with a look. “Which is why expecting us to live above reproach is beyond maddening.”

  “That is why we require you to behave above reproach,” Hugh countered, looking uncomfortable.

  “Keeping the family name respectable, right?” Honoria mocked.

  Hugh dragged his hands over his face. “Why did you not say anything? Adair is going to lose his mind once he learns you knew all along.”

  “I wager he won’t.” Honoria stirred her tea and stared at her brother from beneath her lashes. “He’ll be unmasked as the worst sort of hypocrite.”

  “Lass . . .” Hugh groaned. “I wish you hadn’t told me.”

  “Aye, but wishes don’t grow on rainbows in this castle, do they?” Honoria drawled in a syrupy voice. “Be that as it may, it is absurd to keep us sheltered for the rest of our lives.”

  “Not the rest of your life.”

  “Och, you mean until the ball where you collected the most tedious men in creation to rub off on us?”

  “They are Highlanders,” Hugh said as if that meant everything.

  “How unexceptionally familiar.”

  Hugh raised a brow. “I take that to mean you have a preference?”

  “Of course I have a preference! And let me assure you, picking a husband from a list of men my brothers thought to invite does not count as picking my own husband. Do you imagine me with a stick-in-the-mud man who reads the paper all day?”

  His mouth twisted. “You would not clamor for the attention of such a gentleman?”

  “First of all, Hugh, I do not, nor will I ever clamor after a man. Secondly, I would rather remain a spinster before that comes to pass.”

  Hugh shook his head. “I was only teasing, lass. And for the purpose of full-disclosure, there will be non-tedious gentlemen too.”

  “I’m not so sure. Will you be there?”

  He scowled at her.

  She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I want a husband who is captivating, mysterious and big and strong and—”

  “I get it,” Hugh bit out. “No need to imprint the image to my brain.”

  Honoria doubted he got anything but decided against arguing the point. He was cranky enough.

  “Men aren’t mysterious,” Hugh muttered biting into a sausage. “We are simple creatures.”

  Honoria thought of Lash, the definition of mysterious. Big. Strong. Certainly not tedious. Nay, he was thrilling. Dangerous. The stuff dreams were made of, or rather, the stuff her fantasies were weaved from.

  “I would hope you are wrong, Hugh,” Honoria murmured. “How else will you land a wife if there’s not even a dash of intrigue about you?”

  “I’m intriguing,” he disagreed.

  Honoria sipped her tea. “Of course you are. That is why you sent word to Adair about our recent guest. Intriguing gentleman always rat out their sisters.”

  Hugh’s cheeks flushed. “You did not tell me he’s a gypsy.”

  “Would it have made a difference?”

  Hugh opened his mouth, but it was Lash who answered. “Good morning.”

  Honoria jerked in surprise.

  “Ah, speaking of the devil,” Hugh muttered.

  Honoria leaped to her feet when Lash entered the dining room fully clad and more mouth-watering than any spread laid out. “What are you doing out of bed? Is something wrong? Are you unwell?” Her eyes flicked between the two men before they narrowed on her brother. “Hugh, help the man!”

  “I can manage,” Lash argued. “I’m not an invalid.”

  “See, lass?” Hugh’s eyes were wide and innocent. “He can manage. And I invited him to join us for meals if he so desired.”

  “Well, your presence certainly makes much more sense now.”

  Hugh flashed Honoria a dark glance. She ignored him, turning her attention to Lash. “Are you sure you are feeling well? Yesterday—”

  “Was yesterday, today we try again.”

  She shot him an exasperated look. “Sit down,” she motioned to a chair, “I shall bring you breakfast. Hugh will pour you a cup of te
a. Or do you prefer coffee?”

  “Tea is fine.”

  Hugh’s eyes narrowed on Honoria. “Shall I dab his brows while I’m at it as well?”

  “Don’t be silly, his fever has long since broken. We shall be careful not to tax his strength today,” Honoria said, filling Lash’s plate with bread, meats, and eggs.

  “Dab at my brows?” Lash queried after she placed the heaped plate before him.

  “Do not ask,” Hugh muttered, begrudgingly pouring tea into a cup.

  “Hugh dabbed your brows when you were brought to the castle,” Honoria clarified, settling back in her chair.

  “Never speak of it again,” Hugh groused, eyes flashing. He turned to Lash. “So, Ruthven, I do not recognize your accent. European, I take?”

  Honoria groaned.

  Every nerve ending went on alert. The question was framed innocently enough, but Lash knew better. Hugh MacCallan wanted answers. And he wanted them with Honoria present.

  Damn the Highlander.

  She might not approve of her brother’s interrogation, but she was staring at him, the corners of her mouth quirked up, eyes gleaming with curiosity. He thought of her lips, her honey-sweet taste. She was tying him up in knots, knots he wasn’t sure he could ever untangle.

  Perhaps the best thing he could do for her, for him, was to show her how different their lives were from each other. There could never be a repeat of the kiss they shared.

  “I was born in Spain,” he finally answered, noting the slight widening of her eyes.

  “Really?” she breathed. “How grand!”

  Lash drew his brows together at the dreamy expression that flashed in her gaze. It wasn’t as grand as what she might be thinking, and he loathed to be the one to steal that look from her eyes—he liked it there—but it had to go.

  “You don’t sound Spanish.” Hugh’s eyes were narrowed on him.

  “And how do Spaniards sound?” Honoria asked her brother. “Have you ever been to Spain?” She turned back to Lash. “I have never met a Spaniard, but do I detect a touch of. . .” she paused thoughtfully. “Irish?”

  Lash’s gaze lowered to her puckering lips. He doubted that was the accent she heard. It was hard to explain. Still, he tried. “As Rom, we tend to pick up different forms of dialect and their pronunciation from various regions of the countries we travel through. My accent is predominately Spanish.”