The Scottish Rogue

by Heather McCollum

  “I would be happy to answer,” he said. Alana huffed, rolled her eyes, and walked away.

  “I withdraw the question,” Evelyn said, but managed to hold his gaze.

  He kept his grin, enjoying the woman’s wide-eyed look, and crossed his arms. “If your curiosity outweighs your blush, I can provide detailed answers.”

  Evelyn huffed, a small growl coming from her throat, and she marched off.

  …

  “Thank the good Lord, the kitchens weren’t harmed,” Evelyn said to Molly as they pulled the apple tarts from the brick oven. Clean and fairly stocked, the two kitchens sat behind the keep, inside the surrounding wall, but apart, ironically to protect the castle from fires.

  Molly inhaled over the fragrant pastries. “I’d stab someone in his eye to get one of these tarts.”

  Evelyn wiped her hands. “Sweets can soften the hardest hearts.” She was certainly not above bribing the people of Killin to talk to her. She also needed to find a butcher for fresh meat, a gardener to salvage their herbs and start the vegetable garden, and above all, Evelyn needed to invite the ladies to attend the school. Three months, Evie. That’s all I can give you. Evelyn frowned over Nathaniel’s words as she walked back to the great hall.

  Scrubbed, the stone floor still showed dark staining from the fire, especially along the edges where the burning tapestries had fallen. But the entire room looked much better after the massive cleaning she, Molly, and Scarlet had accomplished yesterday.

  Scarlet stood before the long table, looking over the shards of pottery they’d collected from the floor. The waste of it all lay heavily about Evelyn’s shoulders.

  “They must have been lovely,” Scarlet said.

  Evelyn lifted a piece of china to see the delicate lace painted on the edge. “Yes.” She sighed. “Scar,” Evelyn whispered, glancing around the empty room. “You don’t think that…well, that Captain Cross ordered Grey’s family burned to death in their castle because I told Nathaniel and the solicitor to smoke the Scottish vermin out, do you?”

  “You didn’t know the captain was referring to people,” Scarlet said.

  “The solicitor never said anything about people,” Evelyn said, her voice wavering. “I would never—”

  “Of course you wouldn’t,” Scarlet said, squeezing her arm.

  Evelyn picked at a thread along her cuff. “I don’t think these people would have such faith in my intentions.”

  “Well, they needn’t hear about it,” Scarlet said.

  “I mentioned it in the carriage,” Evelyn said, her heart sinking. “Should I say something to Molly? And Nathaniel when he comes?”

  “I would put it behind you. Molly knows you wouldn’t say that about people, only rats.”

  Evelyn nodded. Best to just let her remarks go. If only they’d stop troubling her conscience. She should have asked the background of the forfeiture and the family. But she’d been so busy with her own plans. She pinched her lips together. “I…I suppose.” She dusted her hands and looked toward the turning staircase that led up one of the connected towers. “I’m going above to inspect the rooms.”

  Scarlet held up a bright red shard. “Such radiant color.”

  “You are the artistic sister,” Evelyn said. “I’m sure you can come up with something beautiful to do with them.” She stared at her for a moment.

  “What?” Scarlet asked without looking away from the colorful pieces.

  “Scar,” she said, lowering her voice. “If you could just tell me some of what happened at Whitehall—”

  “Don’t press me, Evie.”

  “I would never judge you,” Evelyn said, laying her hand on Scarlet’s and squeezing. “But healing—”

  Scarlet pulled her hand out and laid it on top of Evelyn’s. “Will happen in time.” She met her gaze. “Just give me time.”

  Evelyn inhaled and exhaled a long breath and gave her a small nod. “All the time you need.”

  Evelyn hiked up to the next level of the castle. Grey had left the castle early, going about his duties as Highland chief, she supposed, and Alana had taken the pack of tumbling puppies out to the bailey. Evelyn moved down the dark corridor to Grey’s bedroom. Turning the ancient iron knob, she pushed the door inward and peeked around the heavy door.

  “God’s teeth.” The bed was large, at least thrice the size of her bed abovestairs. “It is scandalously large,” she whispered. Drapes in heavy, dark blue material, hung around the four posters of sculpted wood. She stepped inside, glancing about, and gasped. Bookcases flanked a large hearth. The shelves ran floor to ceiling and were filled with thin and thick bindings. No wonder Grey knew Descartes. The Campbells collected books.

  Walking straight to them, Evelyn ran her fingertip along the leather spines of classics in both English and French. Her lips relaxed into a smile. It was like meeting old friends. She inhaled, relishing the smell of the worked leather, parchment, the inks of the books, and the wood polish on the shelves.

  Propping her hands on her hips, she turned in a tight circle. “This is already a library,” she whispered, and frowned at the monstrosity taking up the other half of the room. “We but need to remove the scoundrel’s bed.”

  …

  Grey rode his gray stallion into town, having visited his grandmother at dawn. She still wouldn’t return to Finlarig, choosing to stay hidden away in her cottage in the woods. At least her cottage was near Cat’s, and Gram said the woman checked in on her often. Once the hound’s whelps were weaned, he’d bring one out to grow into a loyal watchdog. An adult wolfhound could fend off any predator, the kind with four legs and the dastardly ones on two.

  As he dismounted at the smithy, Ceò’s mate, Rìgh, a massive hound that Craig kept, rose from his spot in between the kiln fires. He gave one deep, grumbling bark to announce Grey’s arrival, and Craig came from around the back, his jaw working. He raised his hand in greeting and swallowed whatever he’d been chewing, leaving crumbs and honey in his bushy beard.

  “Lo there, Grey,” Craig called.

  Grey nodded to Craig’s apprentice, Eagan. “Keeping busy?”

  “Aye,” Craig said, tipping his head toward a covered pile. “More swords than arms to hold them.”

  Grey lifted the edge of the blanket. The polished steel of nearly two score swords lay stacked and waiting.

  “I’m working on iron shot now,” Craig said. “Even a lass could fire a musket if taught.” That was true, but muskets were difficult to come by unless one was an English soldier. Firearms had allowed the English farther into a land where warriors still fought by the strength of their muscle.

  Grey looked out to catch the little girl, Izzy, sliding from a copse of trees to hide behind a cottage. When her father had been killed a couple years ago, her mother and older sister had moved themselves into the forest. But then when Izzy’s mother succumbed to grief and illness last year, Izzy had refused to stay with her sister and moved back to the village on her own. Without an adult to look after the lass, she’d taken up hiding. Grey made sure food was left for her, but he hadn’t been able to get close to her.

  Izzy must have felt his gaze and turned to look at him from her crouched position by a cottage. She held up a dirty finger to her lips as if to keep him quiet, and then pointed across the road ahead.

  Evelyn Worthington stood with two of his young warriors, and Grey’s stomach hardened. She looked fresh, with a clean apron, her hair mostly down, the curls over one shoulder. The men smiled as Evelyn handed them pastries from a basket. Since the English had attacked Finlarig, nearly two weeks ago, Grey hadn’t held his daily training sessions with his men. Instead of sword practice, they’d become idle and were eating sweets.

  “Were ye needing something?” Craig asked, stepping up to look out. He coughed when he caught sight of the warriors eating and talking to Evelyn.

  “Evelyn Worthington brought ye a tart,” Grey said.

  Craig huffed. “’Tis too much for a simple man to resist. Said she b
aked them herself and plans to make more for those who help her.”

  “What did she want ye to do?” Grey continued to watch her smile, her long eyelashes lowering coyly. Were his men so undisciplined and beguiled that she could turn them to her side with sweets and smiles? Both young warriors nodded as if answering his question. Grey cursed.

  “She came to ask for the gate of Finlarig to be fixed, and she needs a farrier for her horses. Eagan agreed to see to the horses.” He scratched his head, making his hair stick out straight in spots. “Horses can’t help being English.”

  Grey glanced at Eagan. The lad was wiping a dirty hand over his honey-sticky beard. “And ye agreed to fix the gate?” Grey asked.

  “I said I’d think about it,” Craig grumbled, wiping a hand down his own beard. He frowned and looked at his hand, which was no doubt streaked with honey. “I figure ye’d want the gate fixed anyway, and she’s willing to pay to see it done.”

  Grey nodded slowly as he watched Evelyn wave to the two men and continue on her way. Izzy followed, staying to the back of the next cottage. “Aye,” Grey said. “But I want a full portcullis with thick iron bars dropping down from a watchtower above.”

  “Well now,” Craig said, nodding. “That will better hold the English off.”

  “And have the Sassenach pay for it,” Grey said.

  “She says she’s sending a writ of recompense to Captain Cross,” Craig said, spitting on the dirt as if the name tasted bitter. “To get him to pay for destroying Finlarig on his orders.” He scratched his gray head. “The Sassenach has a stubborn nature, and bloody hell, she’s a fine baker.”

  Grey left his horse hitched at the smithy and walked through the narrow street. Izzy, her ragged clothes tied in odd knots around her, held one dirty finger to her lips as he passed. Experience warned him that if he tried to catch the girl, she’d run off and hide for days.

  Just past Kirstin’s yard, Evelyn had found a seat on one of the boulders that marked the end of the village and the beginning of the path that led through the bramble to Finlarig. As if she hadn’t a care in the world or a thing to do, she leaned back on her flattened palms and tipped her face to the sun.

  He stopped before her. “I thought all English ladies hid their skin from the sun.” She must have seen him walking up, for she didn’t even open her eyes. He watched a contented smile soften her mouth, and then those lush lips opened.

  “Enjoying the warmth on this lovely spring morning, and I have no current balls to attend and no one to fret over my freckles. It’s quite freeing, and the sun feels wonderful.”

  His arms crossed over his chest. “Ye shouldn’t be here alone in town. Lieutenant Burdock may return, and a simple twist and jerk of your hand isn’t going to stop him for long.”

  Her smile faltered, and she leveled her face, opening her eyes. “I brought James. He is still haggling with the butcher at the other end of town.”

  “The butcher? Thomas hates the English. I’m surprised he even let ye in his shop.”

  Her gaze met his. “Two tarts, still warm, offered just before the midday meal with a promise for more…” She shrugged. “He let me in and stopped just short of offering me tea.”

  Grey couldn’t hold back a small grin as he grunted a laugh. “The man’s grown soft.” He glanced in her basket. “Ye’ve given them all out but one.”

  “I’m saving it for someone,” she said.

  For him? He frowned over the small hope, not for the sweet, but for something much more dangerous. An enemy sporting misty green eyes, a lush mouth, and womanly curves to make a holy man grow hard beneath his robes.

  “I do not desire a tart,” he said, his voice gruff. He moved closer, leaning against the trunk of a sturdy old oak.

  “It’s not for you,” she returned, standing. She stretched and twisted at the waist, then picked up her basket and set the tart on the boulder. “It’s for Isabel, who’s been following me since before the smithy.” Evelyn glanced toward the corner of Kirstin’s house but then looked down to straighten her skirts. “I’m headed back,” she called loudly.

  “I’ll escort ye,” he said. He’d return for his horse later, for there was no guarantee that Burdock wasn’t lurking in the woods along the way. He was a slippery, deceitful bastard who carried out Captain Cross’s orders with devilish glee.

  “I’ll leave this honey tart here in case my friend, Isabel, would like it. If she comes to the Highland Roses School as a student, she can have sweets every day.”

  Evelyn walked down the grassy path, and Grey fell in line with her. “Ye’re offering baked bribes?”

  Evelyn plucked a blue wildflower. “So far, my tarts have won me a goose, shoes for my horses, a new gate for Finlarig, a smile from Kirstin, and two young men who may help me unload my books and shelves when they arrive.” She smiled innocently up at him. “Sweets seem to be more valuable than coins.”

  “If ye can’t keep up your promise to bake, you’ll likely have a mutiny,” he said and watched her snap off several more stems to make a bouquet. Blueish-purple blaeberries sat in clumps on low bushes. He plucked off a few, tossing them into his mouth. They were a little unripe, but the tang couldn’t hide the flavor he remembered from his childhood.

  “I brought plenty of milled flour, with more coming,” she said. “But eventually the pastries will just be for celebrations and, of course, for my students.” She nodded, as if she’d planned it all out.

  “How about your teachers?” he asked and tossed another few berries into his mouth.

  She stopped, turning wide eyes up to him. He could see the faint brown dots of several freckles on her nose. Even though ladies seemed to despise them, he found them fresh. “You are willing to teach, then?” she asked. “Ladies? On how to defend ourselves?”

  The gaze between them was strong, like a woven rope that he’d trust to withstand the weight of a millstone. She was asking for his promise, not a casual suggestion. Aiden’s words came back. Let her stay. Seem as if you’re helping her. She will fail and leave on her own. Then he could have Finlarig back without risking the village as well.

  “Aye,” he said. “I will teach at Finlarig.”

  Her eyes widened with happiness. Did the lass know she betrayed her feelings and thoughts with her features? “Your stipend?” she asked.

  A kiss. The thought surfaced like a sudden rolling boil in a pot over flames. He smothered it quickly with the image of Craig’s hairy arse that he’d showed everyone the last Beltane Celebration after he’d drunk half a barrel of whisky. White, sagging, and hairy. The image did the job.

  When he didn’t answer, Evelyn turned back to the path. “For free then. How kind of you.”

  “Nothing in this world is free, lass,” he said, his voice hushed as if he shared a dark secret.

  “Do not play with me, Chief Campbell. If you are willing to teach, what is your price?”

  A kiss. A castle. Scotland’s freedom from English dogs. There were many things that he could demand, all of them absurd. Perhaps it was the rumble in his stomach or because he wanted to see her smile again that gave him an answer. “How are you at baking blaeberry tarts?”

  She walked on in silence for several moments. “Very well,” she said, glancing at him. “I will pen a contract trading your teaching skills for tarts, though I have no idea what a blaeberry is.”

  “They are referred to as bilberry in England,” he said, his voice dropping as he frowned. For his gaze had fallen to the path, where fresh horse tracks marked the mossy soil. “Damn,” he whispered, his fists clenching. “We have visitors.”

  Chapter Six

  Years of practice. That was the only thing that had kept Evelyn from reacting to Grey Campbell’s nearness, teasing words, and now his ominous prediction. A cool countenance could hide both fear and heat within, like a mask. Evelyn had been hiding her true self for her entire twenty-four years, first from a mother who was determined to form her into a lady of distinction and then from a father who
berated her every time she opened her mouth.

  She drew her shroud of calmness around herself as she surveyed the fresh footprints in the broken mud. A wide berth stretched up around the corner toward Finlarig. “Visitors?” she asked, her voice hushed. There were no wagon wheels to suggest her brother’s delivery.

  Grey pulled his sword, and she yanked his arm to keep him from charging forward. “A single man against a possible platoon will have only one outcome if you surprise them while brandishing a sword.”

  “I will not let the English burn my castle again. I will slaughter as many of them as I can.”

  “No,” she said. The thought of Grey running into the English soldiers, sword falling from his hand as they fired a volley of iron bullets at him… Evelyn’s stomach tightened and twisted. She lowered to a hiss. “There will be no dying today. I have need of you.” She slapped a hand at his grip. “Put that away and stay behind me.”

  “Ye don’t know much about Highland warriors, do ye, lass?” he said, but he lowered his sword.

  “And ye don’t know much about determined English ladies,” she replied in a poor Scottish accent. “Take my arm.” She smacked his middle. He stared at her like she’d grown snakes out of her head. “Please,” she said. Several heartbeats passed before he placed his sword back into its scabbard and took her arm. “Good, now—”

  Grey strode forward, cutting off her next suggestion. Evelyn’s legs slapped against her skirts as she hustled to keep him from dragging her, though his strong arm held her from falling. They rounded the corner to see a group of thirty English soldiers, donned in red uniforms, standing in the bailey while two men pounded on the front door.

  Evelyn dug her heels in to slow Grey as they entered through the broken gate. “May I help you?” Evelyn yelled to be heard, and all the soldiers turned toward her, several leveling their muskets. Grey pushed her behind him, but she still yelled out. “Gracious! What horror is this that you would draw your weapons against a lady in her own residence?”