Crack! Evelyn jumped at the thunder, the lightning illuminating several more cottages with interlocking stone walls around their perimeters.
“Whoa there,” James called from above as the horses jerked against their bits.
“Hopefully we can get inside before the rain drowns poor James and Thomas,” Scarlet said. She took a full breath and held the window drape aside. “I wonder if lightning hit a tree. I smell smoke.”
Evelyn tugged on one of her stockings. “The smithy.”
“Was dark,” Scarlet answered. “Everyone seems locked up for the night.”
Molly’s eyebrows rose. “I’d be hiding, too, if I lived in a town named after murder.”
“They’ve likely taken cover from the oncoming storm,” Evelyn answered. The crunch of the wheels softened as they turned up a grassy lane past a weathered wooden sign that read Finlarig Castle. “Maybe the castle has its own smithy.” A soft patter of rain tapped the top of the carriage.
They neared a thick wall that likely surrounded the castle, a defensive structure from the times of raids and pillaging. Now it would be used to keep the sheep from fouling the yard where her students would walk for exercise. The carriage rolled within, and Evelyn’s gaze fastened on a splintered iron gate flung off to one side. She frowned. How many shillings would that cost to fix?
“No gate?” Scarlet said. “Convenient.”
“It’s broken,” Evelyn murmured, leaning farther out the window as the looming four-story castle came into view. Finlarig Castle was a Z-shaped stone fortress, with a central square formation and two towers, set on diagonals from each other. With enough rooms to house up to twenty girls, it was the perfect place for the school.
“Blast, it’s so dark,” Evelyn said, squinting at the bulk. The rain had increased, giving the air a smoldering, wet smell.
Scarlet’s voice was muffled as if she, too, spoke from halfway out the window. “No one here to greet us. We’ll be sleeping with rats or in ashes of rats.”
As her last word ended, lightning splintered across the sky above the surrounding trees, illuminating the bailey, bright as day. Crack! Thunder followed, covering the loud gasp that flew from Evelyn’s open mouth. Not from the show of God’s mighty ability to strike them down if desired, but from her first brief view of Finlarig.
“No,” she said, her eyes transfixed on the shadowed form as she waited for another lightning bolt to confirm what she’d seen.
“What is—?”
A cracking boom rang out over Scarlet’s question. In that instant, Evelyn’s stomach dropped as if the very ground struggled to wrestle it from her body. She sucked in a breath. “It’s…burned.”
Black soot scorched upward around the door, the glass windows burst out, the remaining shards like jagged teeth set in a series of open-mouthed screams. Had the captain mistakenly set her castle ablaze? She flattened her hand to her chest and straightened as James came to the door.
“The storm is upon us, milady. Best to get you three inside. I will help ye in while Thomas holds the horses.”
“Thomas won’t be able to hold the horses by himself if they spook,” Evelyn said, placing her hand in James’s. “We will be fine.” Had he not seen the soot? Perhaps it had been a trick of the shadows. But the smell of smoke was no shadow.
“Scarlet,” Evelyn said as a sprinkling of rain misted her face. “The school…the castle…” Astonishment made her mind race faster than her mouth could form words. What had happened? How could she make a profitable school and sheep farm if the castle was uninhabitable? Please let only the outside be scorched.
Her sister climbed out, Molly bringing up the rear, and then James and Thomas hurried to the horses. With the storm upon them, they would unhook and shelter the animals, retrieving the carriage when it had passed.
Evelyn stood waiting for another flash of lightning. “’Tis impossible to see anything,” Scarlet called as more rain shot down. “Hurry.” She linked her arm in Evelyn’s as they strode toward the steps leading into the keep. Large pines and winter-bare trees, which grew just outside the wall, bowed and bucked overhead. The horses whinnied as Thomas and James led them around to what looked to be stables. Rocks bruised Evelyn’s feet through her slippers, and she shot up the first step, her bare fingers on the wet stone.
Looking up, Evelyn stopped.
“God’s teeth,” Scarlet said beside her.
God’s teeth, indeed. Standing at the top of the steps, illuminated by a flaming torch, was a man dressed in a kilt, his arms and chest bare. Perhaps it was the darkness around him, or the fact that she stood below on the steps, but the man looked larger than any human she’d ever seen, like a Scottish legend come to life. Broad across the shoulders and tall, power radiated out from his braced stance. His arms were corded with muscle. She couldn’t tell the color of his hair, but it was dark and free of the wigs that were so popular in England. Her heart sped at the obvious strength and finely wrought features of his fierce face. With this man at the school, they’d have no worries about bandits or thieves. Perhaps she could hire him.
“Hello, sir. I am Lady Evelyn Worthington of Hollings Estate in Lincolnshire.” He held a torch where he stood under the eaves, frowning. Had she woken him? She blinked against the brightness of the flame and the rain in her eyes but managed a smile. “Are you the caretaker of the castle?”
His voice came as if from the storm above: hard, cold, and booming. “Get the bloody hell out of my bailey.”
Chapter Two
For a long moment Evelyn stared at him, her mind trying to grasp the terrible mix of a burned castle and an angry greeting. Was she in the wrong place? But the sign… This was Finlarig Castle. “Excuse me?”
“Ye heard me.” He didn’t yell, but his voice filled the space like the thunder around them. “No Sassenachs allowed at Finlarig Castle.” He threw his torch into an iron holder bolted to the stone wall flanking the doorway and pulled a thick sword from a scabbard strapped to his kilted side.
“Ridiculous,” Evelyn shouted over the rain, which began to dump from the sky as if God meant to wash them away. Tension in her throbbing head made her eyes ache. She inhaled, drawing strength from anger to keep the weakness inside. Just like talking to Father.
Scarlet cursed from behind Evelyn and retreated to the carriage, dragging Molly with her. But Evelyn remained rooted to the step, letting the fresh torrent flood her face and weigh down the curls she’d fashioned around her shoulders. Repressing the shiver from the cool rain, she matched the man’s frown with her own. Her anger grew swiftly as the rain slapped her face, while the damn man stood dry under a rocky archway, his torch sputtering in the holder from the splattering drops.
“It is pouring!” she yelled above the lashing wind. “Let us enter, and we will figure this out.”
“Nay.” His word was a curse, and he held his sword higher. Would he dare run a woman through? A drenched, cold, unarmed woman?
Evelyn stepped to the side to go around the sword, but he moved the tip so that it centered on her throat. “Do not tempt me, Sassenach,” he said. “I have a thirst for English blood.”
“Good God,” she said, her eyes wide. “You are a savage.”
Behind the man, a shadow moved down a step. Yap. Grrrr…
The man huffed, rattling off a string of what sounded like curses in his rolling language. He sheathed his sword and squatted to scoop up the shadow, tucking it under his arm. It was a small dog.
He ignored the puppy, who wiggled, straining to lick the side of his face, as if the man’s jaw was coated in honey. “Be gone, Sassenach,” he repeated, but it wasn’t nearly as intimidating with a puppy lapping at him with zealous affection.
Thomas and James ran from the stables, James holding his matchlock muskets that Evelyn knew were probably useless in the rain. Perhaps the Scotsman knew that, too, for he paid them no heed.
Boom. Thunder made the very air around them tremble. Evelyn willed herself not to run for the shelter o
f the carriage. I’d rather be struck dead than give up my castle. She wiped a wet hand over her dripping face, shoving her hair back to see. The pup whimpered, and the man tucked him inside the drape of his tartan, which lay across his bare chest.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Evelyn said with snapping determination. “I’m exhausted, drenched, and freezing. Now step aside so I can enter my castle.” This was horrible. All her plans were crumbling before her.
“You heard the lady,” James yelled, but the man ignored him.
The Highlander’s eyes narrowed further, and she had the feeling that if he could skewer her on his sharp-looking sword without repercussions, he would. But Evelyn had grown up under her father’s glares and…by God, the man was comforting a puppy. So she stood firm and delivered her own lethal stare.
“It will be well, James,” Evelyn said without averting her eyes. The slowing rain tapped upon her lips. She rubbed them together. Lord, she was thirsty and exhausted. They needed to get inside. Yanking the bill of sale out of her leather receptacle, Evelyn flashed it up at the Highlander before hiding it in her cape to keep the ink from running in the rain. “Proof that the Worthington family of Lincolnshire owns Finlarig Castle and the fifty acres surrounding it. Now kindly step aside,” she said, though she doubted the huge man was given to any type of kindly action, unless one was a pup.
In the quickest of movements, the Highlander turned to shove the puppy back in through the door, shutting it. He grabbed up the torch. “Show me this proof,” he said and stepped to the side to give her room to join him under the narrow eaves.
Finally. First obstacle met and nearly conquered. Evelyn’s knees felt weak with relief. She climbed the steps, her sodden slippers squishing in obvious ruination. Bumps rose along her arms, and she shook from the cold. Coming level with him, she realized that the top of her head barely reached his chin, which was covered with the short growth of a beard. A slight steam came off the hot, bare skin of his shoulders where the dampness hit.
God help her, just being close to the half-naked, brawny man made her stomach flip. The girls back at court would surely swoon from such raw male power, although Evelyn was quite above such ridiculous attraction. It was a man’s mind and convictions that interested her.
As she drew out the document that had been signed by the solicitor, the king’s representative, and Nathaniel, she stepped closer into the light of the man’s torch. Evelyn opened her mouth to breathe, expecting the man to stink of sweat or some off-putting odor, like everyone else they’d encountered on their journey. But as she came into his circle of light, she realized that his hair was damp, and the skin of his face and neck were clean. The faint smell of pine and rosemary came from him. He’d obviously just bathed. With soap.
She swallowed. Just because a man bathed and was gentle with a puppy did not make him safe or honorable. She looked down into the pool of madly flickering torchlight and unfolded the document, the royal seal still attached to one edge. “Once we settle all this, you can explain to me what happened to my castle.” She barely kept the chill-induced chatter from her words, and her heart thumped hard in her chest.
A low sound, almost like a growl, issued from deep within the man, but he didn’t say anything, just held out his large hand for the paper.
Evelyn held it up so he could see it. “I will read it to you.” She touched it with her fingertip. “Right there. Finlarig Castle and—”
The man snatched the paper out of her fingers and, without a glance at it, lifted the brittle paper to the torch flame. Evelyn’s lips fell open in numbed shock as the parchment caught fire. The Scotsman stretched his arm high above his head, holding it out of her reach as the fire ate up the paper, blackening it.
Evelyn stared, her entire being, body and spirit, trapped in motionlessness. Was this really happening? Had she packed books and teaching utensils, planned for a new life, traveled in dangerous territory for weeks, argued in the freezing rain, only to have her future turn to ash before her eyes? She couldn’t even draw in breath as the horror washed through her.
The man kept the paper aloft and glanced down to capture her gaze. His voice was deep, stern, and powerful. “Finlarig Castle has always, and will always, belong to the Campbells of Breadalbane.”
…
Greyson Campbell, chief of the Campbells of Breadalbane and Finlarig Castle, pivoted on his heel and stalked back through the doors into his gutted keep. Abovestairs, a mournful howl set the muscles in his back rigid. Where the bloody hell had the wee dog gotten?
“You…you scoundrel!”
Of course, the lass had followed him inside. He should have lowered the bar across the door to keep her out. Though she’d probably have pounded on it, keeping him awake all night.
“I said…” The Sassenach huffed furiously. “You are a scoundrel, sir.”
Surrounded by the memory of flames licking the walls of his home, his mouth twisted in anger. “Satan would be a more accurate name,” he said without looking back at her. He lit two wall sconces and threw the torch into the hearth where the flames caught on the dry kindling he’d set before bathing.
“Devil then.” She threw the words at him, and he noticed a slight chatter to her teeth. “Barbarian.”
“Robert, where are ye?” His sister’s voice called from the curving stairwell. “Ye are needed back in bed.” Bloody hell. Grey didn’t need Alana tangled in this. If he was going to be hauled away and executed, it should be him alone.
“Go back to bed,” he called in Gaelic. “I’ll bring the dog up with me.” Yet the glow of her oil lamp cast the stone wall in yellow. Blast. Alana never listened to him. It didn’t matter that he was her older brother or that he was the chief of the clan. His stomach tightened. A chief who was losing the family castle to the damn English. Shame prickled through his blood, making him itch to yank out his sword. But who would he war with tonight? The glaring Englishwoman with sagging curls and pert nose, the old man with the muskets, or the wide-eyed lad with the bayonet?
The furious beauty stood with fists pressed against her sopping gown, the lace along her collarbone flattened with rainwater against flawless skin. Her full inhales strained the ribbon of her bodice, and she shook slightly from cold or rage or both. Dark hair lay flattened against her forehead in crushed curls. Looking very much like a half-drowned, spitting kitten, he had the strange urge to wrap her in a blanket warmed by the fire. But even as a glorious bundle, she was still English, still the enemy.
The woman glanced toward the stairway, her eyes narrowed. “You and your woman have until morning to vacate my castle, or I will ride to the English garrison and have them remove you.”
“They can try,” he said, anger licking through him until he almost believed he could stand successfully against one hundred English dogs who were armed with muskets.
Having reached the bottom of the steps, Alana gasped, her hands clutching the folds of her sleeping smock. “Are the English back?” she asked.
“Yes,” the woman nearly yelled. “I am English, and I am here to claim my brother’s castle.”
“She’s alone,” Grey called before his sister started screaming. He strode to Alana and led her to a seat by the fire. Despite trying to brush off his hold, she shook, which made his anger flame higher inside him. He’d sworn to protect his clan, and he couldn’t even protect his only sister from the damned scourge of English invading their land. They’d murdered his parents and frightened his grandmother so that she refused to live in the castle of her birth.
“For tonight,” the Englishwoman said, some of the venom in her voice faded as she watched. She walked closer to the hearth. “For your wife’s sake, I will attempt to be patient, but you cannot just burn an official document and make it go away. If you’d let me read it to you, you would have seen that it was an official bill of sale. Nathaniel Worthington of Hollings Estate in Lincolnshire, England, has purchased this castle and the surrounding grounds. It will become a sheep farm while I transfo
rm this place into a school for ladies.” Her gaze slid up the scorched walls. “As soon as we can make repairs for whatever happened here.”
“Happened here?” Alana asked, her voice rising with uncontained ire. “Thalla’s cagainn bruis!”
“I do not understand the Gaelic language, but your inflection is obvious,” the woman replied, and rubbed her arms as if she were freezing. She walked toward the growing flames in the hearth. “Foul language only makes one appear weak and uneducated.”
Bloody hell, his gentle sister was going to spill the woman’s entrails. Grey’s hand tightened on his sister’s shoulder to keep her in the seat even though she continued to swear under her breath. “Do ye know who I am?” Grey asked.
The Sassenach turned to him, crossing her arms before her chest. “You did not introduce yourself while you were burning my receipt, but, since you are needed back in bed, I assume you are Robert.”
Grey stepped closer to her, letting his full height, a gift from his warring father and strong mother, tower over her. She tipped her gaze up to meet his. “I am Greyson Campbell, chief of the Campbells of Breadalbane. My grandfather, Duncan Campbell, built this castle, and this land has belonged to the Campbells for over two hundred years. I did not sell this property, nor my home. It is the seat of our clan and will never peacefully be given to anyone with English blood in their veins. The English have tried to steal it from me and my clan by force, and now they send a lass with a receipt.” He stepped closer, bending so that he was mere inches from her perfectly formed nose. “Finlarig will not become a sheep farm for English lasses.”
Her full lips pinched tight. If they weren’t attached to a Sassenach, he’d consider them soft, warm, and very kissable. “A sheep farm and a school for all women, not just English women. Boys, too, if they’d like. A parish school as required by law but which I am funding.”
The Scottish Rogue Page 2