A Gypsy in Scotland (MacCallan Clan Book 1)

by Tanya Wilde

  Chapter 21

  Lash was brushing down Balthazar—a gift from the duke for saving Honoria and an encouragement to clear off “peacefully”—and contemplated how he was going to set out without hurting her. He had denied her wish once and it had been one of the hardest things he had ever done. If she asked him to stay, or God forbid, demand he take her with him, Lash wouldn’t be able to deny her a second time.

  Logically, it made sense to leave. Lash still needed to find his sister. And now his parents, too. Why then, did it tear his insides apart? Why did he feel like he belonged here with her?

  Belong? I don’t belong anywhere anymore.

  Ever since his half-brother’s mind-blowing revelation, one question had dominated his mind. Who was Lash Ruthven? No longer a full-blooded Rom, neither a full-blooded gadjo, he existed somewhere in between.

  What did that mean for him?

  Lash did not know.

  Except.

  Except he knew Honoria felt like home.

  Could it be that he had found his atchen tan—his stopping place—with Honoria? It rarely ever happened to Rom, but he wasn’t all Rom. And how else to explain his desire to stay near her?

  Hugh strode into the stables, a grim expression on his face. “You’re leaving.”

  “You were there when your brother asked me to go peacefully or forcefully,” Lash said, brushing down Balthazar’s flank.

  “Forcefully dragged from the property I can explain to the lass, peacefully leaving without saying goodbye, I cannot.”

  Lash sighed.

  “Would you have left even if Adair hadn’t tossed you out on your arse?”

  “What do you want me to say, Highlander?” Lash turned to Hugh. “Nothing will change your brother’s mind. To him, I’m a filthy gypsy unworthy of your sister.”

  “Aye, I just never thought we would get rid of you. I always thought of you as a barnacle.” He wrinkled his nose. “And I think my sister will disagree with you on the unworthy score, though I dare her to argue the dirty part.”

  Lash cursed.

  Unperturbed, the Highlander leaned back against a stall. “And if it makes you feel better, Rom, any man is unworthy of our sisters, be he titled or not. It’s how it is.”

  “As I, too, have a sister, I understand that much. But this is different and you bloody well know it. I have nothing to offer her. I am no one.”

  “I don’t know about that, Rom.” The younger man scrutinized him with brows drawn together. “But I do know that Honoria will never forgive you if you leave.”

  Lash flinched. He knew that, of course. “My sister is still out there. I promised to find her. Honoria understands that.”

  “Aye, but she also understands you do not have to leave to search for your family. We have contacts, Ruthven. Why not use them?”

  “You know why.”

  “Because you’re a big, bad, Rom that has to take on the world alone?”

  Temper flashing, Lash straightened to his full height, glaring at the man. The Highlander wasn’t the first Scot to tell him that. Honoria had said those same words to him once.

  “What happens when you find them?” Hugh pressed. “Do you all live happily ever after, drinking wine and humming merry tunes, and you forget about my sister?”

  The question hit him square in the chest. Raised more questions Lash didn’t have the answers for. His thoughts drifted to Honoria, her sparkling eyes and trusting smile. His heart belonged to her. He’d leave it—and his potential for happiness—here with her.

  But didn’t she deserve a man who knew his place in the world? Who wouldn’t cause her to be shunned? Could he be that selfish?

  “Don’t you have anything better do with your time?” Lash growled.

  “I probably shouldn’t say this,” the Highlander murmured, his eyes filled with indecision. “The lass is in love with you. Can you walk away from that, Ruthven?”

  Lash’s heart leaped at the words. He didn’t want to hear them. He couldn’t stand them. It took all of his damn strength to leave, and those words made it harder. So much harder. Almost impossible.

  “Honoria is too smart to love me.”

  “Smart or not, she does, and if you are going to leave, I’m not about to let you go without you knowing that, because Honoria has no clue what Adair has done, and it seems you are not going to inform her of your departure.”

  Against his will, he found himself asking, “Then why hasn’t she told me?”

  At that, Hugh gave a humorless laugh. “She’s a woman, Ruthven. Who knows why? But I can tell you it’s true. Believe it or not, I know my twin better than she thinks.” Hugh paused. “And as you’re aware, Adair already sent one ‘unworthy’ man away because Isla fell in love with him. I never agreed then—not that anyone listens to me—and I don’t agree now. I have arrived at the conclusion, even if my brothers have not, that Honoria and Isla could never fall in love with unworthy men. You should stay.”

  Lash’s heart constricted. “Your brother only wants what’s best for your sister.”

  “Of course, but Adair is clueless about what is best.”

  “Honoria deserves a better man than me.”

  “Well, Adair is hosting a ball in three days. Should she choose a husband there then?”

  Something fierce and primal rose within Lash. He tamped it down.

  “Is that also for the best, then?” Hugh insisted.

  Lash couldn’t bring himself to answer that. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his breeches and flicked Hugh a silver coin. “Give this to her. It’s a Spanish reel, to remind her of her fearless spirit.”

  “Lord, man, stop,” Hugh muttered in a dry voice. “You’re breaking my heart.”

  Lash shook his head, a small smirk seeping through his sorrow. This man was more of a brother than Danior had ever been.

  Hugh pushed away from the stall and headed out. At the door, he paused. “For what it’s worth, Ruthven, if you do decide to stay, I have your back.”

  Lash’s chest expanded to something painful. He nodded at the Highlander, unable to form a response.

  He had found his stopping place.

  But was he selfish enough to stay?

  “What do you mean, he is gone?” Honoria demanded, glaring at her brother. They had told her Lash had left. Left! What did that mean? Was he in the stables? Had they moved him into another room? Had he gone to the nearest town to stay there?

  “He left, Honoria,” Adair said with a shrug. “I couldn’t very well shackle him to the bed, now could I?”

  “But why would he leave?” she asked, confused. She cast a questioning glance at Hugh, who looked away. Honoria grabbed him by the arm. “I swear, Hugh, if you don’t tell me, I will run you through with a sword, leave these godforsaken castle walls, and make sure you will never see me again.”

  Adair’s eyes thundered, and the low undertone of his voice speared through the great hall where they stood, facing off. “He expressed the desire to search for his family, Honoria, and so I provided him Balthazar, a gift for saving your life.”

  “You mean a gift for him to leave,” she snapped. “You could have offered him help with finding his family from here. Do not coat your actions with pretty words, Adair. You bought him off.”

  “He is a gypsy, Honoria. What else was I to do?”

  “They prefer the term Rom, Adair. And you sent him away before you even learned of his character—like you did with Patrick. You believe Lash is no good simply because he is different.”

  “He is no good for you,” Adair snapped. “Just as Patrick was no good for Isla.”

  Honoria met Adair’s unapologetic gaze. “And who made you the expert on what is good for us?”

  “I am your brother, and Rom or gypsy, lass, the man is a peasant—so was Patrick,” Adair said as if that made all the difference, as if that should be the end of it.

  “A peasant,” she repeated, her hands lifted to clutch at her temples as she shook her head. “Must you
be close-minded?”

  She turned to glance at Hugh again. “He wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye.”

  “I’m sorry, lass,” Duncan murmured. “We felt it best if he left without a moment’s delay.”

  Damn them and damn Lash for his betrayal! He left her, without a by your leave when he’d given every indication they would talk. How could he do that to her? After everything they’d been through?

  The tears that lurked so close to the surface threatened to shatter her composure. She would not weep and bawl in front of these unjust beasts! She turned away from them, shutting her eyes tightly.

  “He was dangerous, lass,” Boyd whispered in a low murmur.

  “You don’t know him well enough to make such an assumption!” Honoria accused, whirling on them once more. “He was never a danger to me.”

  “Ruthven is a good man,” Hugh agreed. “And Honoria is right; the lot of you are bloody close-minded.”

  Honoria could have hugged her brother.

  “That doesn’t excuse the fact that Ruthven put all of your lives in danger,” Duncan said. “We could have lost you.”

  “What happened to Ruthven was no more his fault than it was ours,” Hugh growled, steely determination flashing in his eyes.

  “Honoria almost got killed!” Callum snapped.

  “And yet,” Hugh drawled, “she is still here, healthy as a mare’s ass.”

  “Do not start with me, Hugh,” Callum growled. “I have little patience as it stands.”

  “You cannot blame a man for what his brother has done,” Honoria exploded.

  “Exactly, Honoria,” Kieran said. “His brother. The apple never falls far from the tree.”

  “The apple isn’t even from the same tree,” Honoria snapped. “They are only half-brothers. Do not pretend you understand anything of his family!”

  “Then enlighten us,” Lachlan murmured.

  “Would it make a difference if I did?” Honoria asked.

  Silence greeted her.

  “I thought as much.”

  Honoria leveled them each with a reproachful glare before marching off, back straight, shoulders square. Never had she felt more trapped than at that moment. And inside, her heart shattered.

  Chapter 22

  Honoria stared at the canvas, paintbrush in hand. Three torturous days had passed since Lash left. And in an effort to center her inner being, she’d tried to paint. She’d mixed all sorts of colors but none of them seemed right. It was no use. Her heart hurt. So did her eyes. Indeed her most awful work yet. She had painted a dark blue, almost black, circle over the entire canvas. It resembled nothing but a void—a dark, empty spiral.

  “There is a painting of a face and chest where my stag used to be.”

  Her gaze flicked to Callum, who leaned against the doorway, his posture relaxed, which instantly annoyed her.

  “I didn’t want a reminder of Lash or your treachery in my gallery.” Looking at that painting was like looking into the sun—painful, impossible, and blinding.

  Callum sighed but dropped the subject. “What is it you paint exactly, lass? When you paint the eyes and such?”

  “I paint my moods.” Not untrue—she painted with her soul, but she’d not explain that to her brother. He would never understand.

  “Your moods? So we have a room—”

  “A gallery.”

  “—filled with your moods?”

  That he sounded somewhat horrified by the notion as if this was the exact sort of thing in a woman he wished to avoid, pleased Honoria.

  “You are certainly colorful, lass, I’ll give you that.”

  “We are all colorful, Callum, we merely express it differently.”

  He motioned to her current creation. “What does that express?”

  “My utter nothing of a life.”

  “Och, come now, lass, it cannot be that bad.”

  Honoria scoffed. “Then why don’t you slip your big beastly feet into my boots and find out?”

  “I imagine that would be quite uncomfortable.”

  “Aye, that is how I feel, constantly, with nine brothers shadowing my every move.”

  “Not every move,” he denied.

  Honoria whirled on him. “You suffocate Isla and me with your distrust.” She held up her hand when he would have replied. “And don’t tell me you don’t distrust us. We are not allowed to travel to Edinburgh with you, no matter how much you know we wish to go, we are not allowed to leave the grounds, and we are not allowed to choose our own suitors.”

  “First of all, Honoria, we don’t trust the world with your care. It is not that we don’t trust you. And that man you call suitor is a traveler. A gypsy.”

  “Stop calling him a gypsy, he’s a Rom.”

  Callum sighed. “You and Isla have the damndest taste in men. If she is not pining after some servant or another, you are attaching yourself to a dangerous fellow, a wanderer, whether you call him a Rom or gypsy.”

  “He saved my life.”

  “He put your life in danger in the first place.”

  Och! It was no use arguing the point with her brother or reminding him that she’d been the one who brought Lash into the castle—a convenient fact they refused to acknowledge.

  “Why can’t you pick a more suitable man, lass?”

  Lash was suitable—he was good enough for her. But Callum wouldn’t hear that, so she tried to reason another way.

  “And how was I supposed to do that? Perhaps if you allowed us to accompany you into town, we would have met tedious gentlemen who you found entirely acceptable. But you all have refused time and time again. How am I supposed to live, Callum, if you don’t allow me to spread my wings? You are impossible!”

  “We are protective,” Adair replied appearing beside Callum. She shot them both dirty looks. So much for not shadowing her every move.

  “Aye,” Honoria muttered, “to the point where I’d rather be snatched up by traveling folk than remain clustered in this castle.”

  “You don’t mean that,” Adair said, looking wounded.

  “I mean every word.”

  “Tonight, every eligible bachelor from the surrounding clans will be in attendance. You will have your chance to find a more appropriate suitor.”

  I’ve already found one.

  But to voice that aloud would be futile. “I’m sure they will all be remarkably uninspiring.”

  “Honoria.”

  “Let the lass be, Adair,” Callum said with the shake of his head. “She will come around in time.”

  Do not count on it, brother.

  Honoria turned away from the dance floor and pocketed the note from her sister a footman had just handed her. She did not care to draw attention to herself so she would read it later. Isla, nowhere to be found, had likely escaped to her chambers.

  Honoria would shortly follow.

  It was already well past midnight.

  Adair hadn’t been jesting. All the families of the surrounding clans, with every eligible Highlander, it seemed, were in attendance. Honoria was no fool. This was no mere matchmaking ball. Her brothers were conducting business with these men—illegal business.

  She huffed out a breath.

  She hadn’t wanted to attend, but her brothers more or less dragged her to the event and watched her like hawks, daring her to decline dance requests. Now, her feet hurt from all the reels, but not as much as her heart, which was near crippled. It didn’t matter how well these men danced or how acceptable they were.

  None of them were Lash.

  “You look as distressingly sad as you look unforgettably lovely, Lady Honoria.”

  Honoria turned to the man who had so accurately read her mood. She did not recognize him, but he was handsome, standing taller than most men here, a lock of chestnut hair falling over his brow. There was something familiar about him, as though she ought to recognize him but could not draw his identity to the surface.

  “Are gentlemen supposed to remark on a lady’s somb
er mood?” Honoria asked.

  “I suppose not.” He searched her eyes. “You do not recognize me?”

  “Am I supposed to?” Her brows drew together, examining him with renewed interest.

  He offered his arm. “Walk with me, Lady Honoria.”

  Before Honoria could decline, he hooked their arms together and began to stroll. She had no choice but to follow his lead.

  “Have we met?” she asked. “You seem oddly familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

  His lips stretched into a broad grin. “Dianna must have done a better job than I’d first thought.”

  Dianna?

  Why did that name sound so familiar? Dianna. Dianna. Dianna. It felt as if she ought to know that name. Honoria eyed the man in speculative thought. The only Dianna that rang any bell was Dianna O’Donnell, and she married. . .

  No.

  It couldn’t be.

  Her gasp coincided with the man’s brisk acceleration of pace, and before she could blink, he had maneuvered her out onto the terrace. She suddenly found herself pushed up against the wall, a hand covering her mouth. She stared up at him in open astonishment.

  “Are you going to scream?”

  She shook her head, and the hand lifted from her mouth, hovering, testing her intentions.

  “Alasdair Murray!” Honoria hissed. “What are you doing here? If my brothers catch wind of your presence, they will string you up from your feet!”

  “Settle down, lass, if you didn’t see through my disguise, neither did they.”

  Honoria narrowed her eyes—it was that or drop her jaw—the alteration was that miraculous. Normally, from what she recalled, he sported a beard, wild hair, and dusty clothes, but Alasdair Murry had been transformed into a posh gentleman.

  Her arms settled on her hips. “How did you get your hands on an invitation?”

  He bowed before her. “Archibald Ross, at your service, and I managed to slip past your sharp-eyed butler.”

  “Archibald? Truly?” She shook her head. “What are you doing here, Archibald Ross?”

  “I am looking for Drew, Honoria. He left home more than eighteen months ago.”