Evelyn’s fingers curled into the back of Grey’s shirt. He was the one in danger here. A single twitch of his weapon, and an inexperienced soldier might fire. She poked her head around his side. “I am Lady Evelyn Worthington, sister to Nathaniel Worthington of Lincolnshire, and this is my castle, soon to be the Highland Roses School.”
She felt, more than heard, the rumble of a curse coming through Grey’s back. When she tried to step to the side, one of his large palms came up to her shoulder to push her behind again.
“Lower your muskets,” she yelled with all the fury and unease boiling within her. “Or Chief Campbell won’t allow me to properly berate you for your insolence.”
The man at the top of the steps wore a coat of vibrant red, displaying his high rank. He lowered his hand in the air, and the soldiers brought their muskets down. Grey finally allowed her to step to his side.
“Captain Cross, perhaps?” she asked, an icy frown in place. Scarlet claimed that Evelyn’s frown, inherited from their father, could freeze a man at fifty paces. Captain Cross did not seem to be affected by the cold.
The man was of medium build and older than medium age. His hair was streaked with gray, and he wore a pointy beard and mustache around a tight mouth, which added to his angular features. He squinted at her, the lines furrowing deeply between his brows. He marched down the steps, his gaze sweeping along her form, ignoring Grey, as if he didn’t matter. “Lady Worthington,” he said and gave a quick bow of his head. “I was told you had arrived and wished to extend my welcome.”
“With thirty armed men?” she asked, her tone and gaze direct, yet she kept it from being snappish. There was a fine line, but she walked it well, thanks to her mother’s tutelage.
Captain Cross glanced toward Grey and allowed a cool smile. “I thought to assist you if needed.”
“I believe that your men have done enough damage here already.”
Cross tilted his head, the grooves between his brows digging deeper as he squinted. “I was but following orders to evict these trespassers.”
A lump formed in Evelyn’s throat, and she worked a swallow around it. “’Tis quite possible that you misinterpreted your orders, as Chief Campbell and his family were still in residence, and we would never condone such brutality.” Cross stared at her, as if trying to read her thoughts. Evelyn’s heart pounded as she waited for his next words.
“The Campbells of Finlarig Castle were evicted from this property when it was seized in payment for disloyalty to the royal crown a month ago,” the captain said. His gaze slid to Grey. “That you are still standing on this land is illegal, and you are therefore under arrest.”
“If ye can’t burn us in our own home, ye’ll hang us instead,” Grey said; the seething in his voice shot chill bumps along Evelyn’s arms. Not cold and disdainful like the waspish tongues and veiled threats at the English court, Grey’s voice held raw, hungry hate. Any moment he would pull his sword, and carnage would soon litter the school’s front steps.
“No,” Evelyn yelled, throwing her arms wide, her empty tart basket flying from her fingertips. “Grey Campbell and his sister are part of the Highland Roses School.”
Cross’s gaze slid to her. “Lying to a captain of the royal guard is a crime, no matter who your brother is or your father was.”
Anger rippled through Evelyn at his condescending tone, and she lowered her arms. “Accusing a lady of lying is a crime against good English manners, Captain.” She continued, her voice louder when Cross opened his mouth. “I have hired Chief Campbell as an instructor, and his sister is my first student.”
Cross looked down his long nose at Grey. “And what is he capable of teaching?”
“French philosophy,” Evelyn replied without hesitation.
Captain Cross’s frown split into a smile. He laughed, his shoulders shrugging with it. “S’il vous plaît dites-moi plus,” he said and folded his arms over his chest.
Good God! How much French did Grey actually know?
“Captain Cross, I do—” she started.
Grey’s voice interrupted her, his Scottish accent thinning into a thread of French pronunciation that would have earned high marks even with Evelyn’s exacting French tutor in Lincolnshire. “I will begin with teaching the lives of several philosophers, with only René Descartes being French. Francis Bacon and John Locke being English, but strangely without the standard idiocy of most Englishmen.”
The rapid flow of Grey’s French words seemed to pull everyone’s attention, especially Evelyn’s. The scoundrel was far more educated than she’d thought. Each sentence made her lips relax increasingly toward a true smile.
“And if you continue to threaten my people and me by spouting lies about treason, I will slice your thick tongue from your screaming mouth. Oui?”
Evelyn’s breath stopped, her smile falling, as her gaze snapped to the captain. How much French did Captain Cross know?
The Englishman frowned, his bushy brows low over narrowed eyes. The air seemed to still around them, as if the very breeze waited. Slowly, the captain turned his gaze back to Evelyn. “Lady Evelyn.” He tipped his head. “Welcome to Finlarig. I am five miles north if you need assistance. Please send my regards to your brother and let him know I wish to discuss his orders when he arrives.”
Beside her, Evelyn felt Grey shift, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Good God. Would Grey think Nathaniel ordered them burned? Surely, her brother also thought the captain spoke of rats, not people.
She stepped before Grey, purposely leaning backward as if he were an oak holding her up. “Now that my sister and I are in residence, I assume that you will guard against any further assault on the good people of Killin and Finlarig, captain, from any of your men.” Evelyn’s gaze shifted over the gathered soldiers, but she didn’t see Lieutenant Burdock. “I must guarantee the safety of my students, and I will not have soldiers attacking innocents walking through town. Is that understood?”
He met her stare without wavering. “Yes, and I want you to understand, milady, that you are no longer in civilized country. The flames of revolt sit in the hearts around you, and we are here to guard you from it. Remember who you are. You are first and foremost, English. Good day.”
Evelyn felt the prickles of an angry flush along her neckline, triggered by his clipped British tongue that sounded so much like her father’s. It shook her enough to allow him to walk away with the last word. His back to her as he signaled his men to line up, she opened her mouth and closed it several times, unable to think of a reasonable response.
Evelyn jumped slightly as Grey took her arm, half dragging her toward the door. “Fosgail an doras,” he called through the thick oak, and Evelyn heard the scrape of a heavy bar slide along the inside. He pushed the heavy door inward and ushered her into the darkness that engulfed the stone entry.
After the brightness of the day, Evelyn blinked several times until she could make out the three faces of Molly, Scarlet, and Alana. Scarlet was hugging Alana, but Grey came forward and took his sister. “Are you well?” Evelyn asked, taking Scarlet’s hand.
“Alana’s the one with tremors,” Scarlet said. “Not that I blame her.”
“They didn’t have torches,” Grey said as he held her. He looked over Alana’s head to meet Evelyn’s gaze. “This time.” His lips pinched tight. “What exactly were your brother’s orders to Captain Cross?”
Evelyn blinked, the constriction back in her throat. “Nothing about lighting the castle, which he’d just purchased, on fire.” Lord, she hoped that was true.
Alana straightened. “They had muskets, didn’t they?” she asked. “And ye were out there.” She scooped up Robert, the pup. “Maybe we should go live with Gram.”
“No need,” Evelyn said, tearing her gaze from Grey’s. “I’ve told Captain Cross that you are a student and Grey is a teacher here. You have every reason to be in the castle.” Evelyn rubbed a hand along her forehead up into her hair as they all stared at her. What a damned difference
a few days made. She’d gone from yelling eviction to harboring them. No one uttered the words, but it hung heavy in the small lobby. She turned on the heel of her boot and traipsed into the great hall.
…
Every reason to be in the castle. Evelyn’s statement gnawed inside Grey’s belly. Of course he had every reason to be in his castle. He was the chief of the Campbells of Breadalbane, and Finlarig was his home and seat of his clan. No matter what a damned English captain ordered or a green-eyed, tart-wielding Sassenach declared.
Grey yanked the saddle from its stand and strode to Adhar, his gray stallion, who finished chewing some hay. His horse’s large, knowing eyes studied him. Grey shifted the saddle to his hip and laid a palm on Adhar’s long nose. He exhaled. “She’s bloody moving in. Making us her damn workers.” The horse’s ears twitched.
“Let her stay and fail,” Grey murmured Aiden’s suggestion and shook his head. He opened the stall door. Placing the saddle on his loyal beast, his mind ticked away at plans that he knew were doomed. Raiding the English outpost. Burning it to the ground and skewering Captain Cross. Now, that plan had merit, though more bloody English would retaliate against not only Grey, but all of Killin and even the outlying Campbells. Although Grey would forfeit his life to battle against the English, he wasn’t willing to risk his entire clan.
“Mo chreach,” he cursed and led Adhar into the bailey. Empty and scorched. Just three weeks ago his bailey was full of his men training, women trading and talking over smiles, and stone masons working to extend his wall. Now it was empty, a charred ruin with nothing but muddy puddles and a few scattered chickens. Grey raised himself easily into the saddle.
“Where are you going?” Evelyn’s voice came from the steps, clear and pleasantly curious, yet very English.
“To rally my men,” he answered truthfully, swinging Adhar around.
Evelyn stood, clutching a shawl around her arms. The late afternoon wind tugged at her hair, the lowering sun casting her face in a golden hue. Her lips were pink and lush, teasingly delicious-looking even as she frowned. His traitorous thoughts ran to how she would look naked, holding his plaid about her.
“That sounds like you’re gathering an army for war,” she said.
“We are at war, lass.” He spurred Adhar toward the broken gate.
“Don’t get yourself killed, Grey Campbell.” Her words reached him, though he galloped toward the path leading to the village. He slowed as he saw Kirstin walking toward Finlarig.
“Is all well?” she asked.
“Now that Captain Cross and his armed platoon have left, aye.” He glanced down the road. No skulking English soldiers spying around the cottages. “Are ye going up to the castle?” he asked, keeping Adhar still.
“I thought to,” Kirstin said. Kirstin had been a friend from childhood who had chased him down for a kiss when he was a lad. Now that they were both older, many in town thought they would wed, but Grey had put his whole heart into leading the warriors of the clan, and now he was chief. Kirstin was bonny, for certain, and had a range of men panting after her, but she remained unwed.
“So,” she said, tucking her reddish hair behind one ear. “The Englishwoman? She’s bent on staying at Finlarig?”
“It seems,” Grey said, the anger at Evelyn’s intrusion mellowed by the thought of her lush lips. Damnation.
“She’s paid me to help her with bedding and curtains and clothes. I won’t, if ye say nay to it.”
“Finlarig needs help to right it, and if she’s offering ye coin…” He shrugged, looking down the road toward the smithy where several of his young warriors stood. One raised his arm in greeting. “Evelyn is up at the castle. Feumaidh mi ruith.” He clicked his tongue, and Adhar trotted forward.
Kerrick and Hamish stood talking with Craig as Grey dismounted. Both were broad, with Kerrick much taller than the grayer Hamish. Together, they worked vigilantly to mold the young warriors in the clan.
“I heard Cross paid ye a visit,” Kerrick called as he approached.
Grey raised one eyebrow. “Aye. Do ye have spies about?”
A half grin lifted the corner of Kerrick’s mouth. “Izzy saw them.”
“And she told ye?”
Hamish raised two fingers to his head as if they were bent horns. “She has a signal to mean Cross and his devils.”
“We were about to ride over,” Kerrick said.
“To help ye bury all those ye sliced open for stepping within the walls of Finlarig,” Hamish said with an easy smile, though his eyes were hard. He’d seen his share of blood by English before. They all had.
“Evelyn wouldn’t let me kill anyone,” Grey said.
“Evelyn?” Kerrick asked, his brow cocked. “She the bossy Sassenach who’s taken Finlarig?”
Grey glanced at Craig who was feeling the weight of a new sword by shifting it between his hands. The old man’s tongue must be wagging. “Aye. Evelyn Worthington.”
“Cross’s men have muskets?” Hamish asked.
“Aye, about thirty of them,” Grey answered.
“Well then,” Kerrick said. “Sounds like we owe this Evelyn our thanks for keeping ye alive.”
Grey knew he was right, but the fury that had blinded him in his bailey, seeing those redcoats who had set his home on fire and then hid behind lies of orders… The rational part of his mind had shut down, and truth be told, it was only Evelyn who had stopped him from battling thirty armed Englishmen.
“Aiden says I should let her stay, act like I support her. Then when she fails, she’ll leave, and I’ll retake Finlarig without bringing the English down on the whole village and clan,” Grey said.
“How is Aiden?” Hamish asked, their smiles wiped away.
“Cat has been to see him, and Rebecca is tending the burns on his back. I shaved off the rest of his hair, the back being burned away. He was in good spirits early this morn,” Grey said and ran a hand through his hair. He’d change places with his cousin if possible, taking the burns in punishment for letting the damn English destroy his home with their torches.
Grey met Kerrick’s gaze. “We need to keep the men ready, trained. When the time is right, we will help our people take back our country.”
Hamish nodded. “The English dogs dig their way further into our land. We will make Finlarig stronger and train harder.”
“I have the swords,” Craig said, pointing to his covered pile.
“Send some on to Donald Campbell at Balloch Castle,” Grey said and exhaled. “And let me know when ye learn to make muskets.” He looked to his two experienced men. “Round up the men so we can get back to training.” He frowned. “And tell them, no helping the Sassenach without talking to me first.” He might not throw her off his lands, but he could quietly make things difficult for her, undermine her plans. “Then we can start reinforcing the wall around Finlarig,” Grey said.
“The Sassenach will think ye are rebuilding Finlarig for her,” Kerrick pointed out with a nod.
“That’s the idea,” Grey said, and slapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. She would rebuild his castle, struggle to open her school, fail to bring in students, give up, and flee back to her easy life in England. He frowned. Aye, it would be better for all of them if she left quickly.
Chapter Seven
“There now,” Kirstin said. “It fits ye.” She laced the stays loosely around Evelyn’s middle.
“Are you certain?” Evelyn asked, looking at her reflection in the polished glass mirror that she’d found in a guest room. The gown was a muddy shade of brown and sat so high on her chest that there was no need for any type of collar or shawl. The round cut of the neckline was very unflattering.
“Aye, ’tis the common work dress that we wear. No baubles to get caught and no worry of falling out the top when ye bend over to scrub.”
Evelyn looked at herself and shook her head. How far she’d come from the gilt ballroom she’d walked through at Whitehall Palace. But she was here to work and eventually gui
de young minds, not to look pleasing for a rugged Highlander with gray eyes.
“And ye should wear your hair tightly up and out of the way,” Kirstin said, making Evelyn wince as she yanked her hair back. “Ye are a school matron, not a princess.”
“I need a school first,” Evelyn said, swallowing the discomfort as Kirstin stuck twenty pins in her hair to keep it all up. Not a single curl escaped.
“Alana and I will be your students,” Kirstin said.
Evelyn smiled. “You have decided to attend?”
Kirstin shrugged. “I have nothing to pay ye with, except in my help and some material, but if there is learning to be had here in Killin, I would not want to remain without.”
Evelyn nodded. “Very wise, and I will gladly take your help in exchange. Would you move in here then?”
Kirstin shook her head. “I have animals to tend at home but will come each day.”
It had been only a week at Finlarig, and Evelyn already had a willing student. A fluttery excitement filled her. “As soon as my wagon of books and supplies arrive, we will begin lessons.”
“I expect tarts,” Kirstin said.
“Yes, tarts for all the students. Let others know.”
Evelyn and Kirstin walked down the turning stairs. “Once the windows are replaced in the great hall, it will be fit for students,” Evelyn said, energized by the idea. “Soon the library above will be open, too.”
“Alana said ye intend to make the chief’s room into a library,” Kirstin said.
Evelyn glanced around the empty hall. “Yes.”
“Ye are going to move him?” Kirstin asked, her brows high. Evelyn raised a finger to her lips. Kirstin dropped her voice. “He’s bound to be mad as a poked boar.” Kirstin smiled wickedly. “But then ye don’t care what Grey Campbell thinks of ye, do ye?”
Did she? She’d called him a scoundrel and worse in her head. He’d held her at sword point and made her stand in the pouring rain without compassion. He was probably only letting her remain in the castle because of the English troops nearby. She didn’t care that his eyes were beautiful or that he smelled fresh and wild, or that when he’d touched her arm, her heart had sped. He was a problem, not someone she wished to attract.
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