The Scottish Rogue

by Heather McCollum

  “Kerrick didn’t notice,” Evelyn said, turning to watch Isabel walk with Scarlet through the wildflowers, Kerrick bringing up the rear.

  “I’m known for my accurate instincts,” he said, his voice lower.

  She studied his face, her fingers curling into her skirt so she wouldn’t reach up and touch the smoothness of his jaw. “What do your instincts say about me?” she asked.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The muscles in Grey’s arms contracted as if they fought with him, wanting to rise to pull Evelyn back in. She smelled sweet, her hair tumbling free instead of in its usual knot at her nape. The gown she wore made her look like a Scottish lass and wrapped her body in a way in which he suddenly yearned.

  She gave a little shake of her head and glanced down. “’Twas not something I should ask,” she said. She hadn’t moved back but remained close enough to kiss. “Never m—”

  “Ye are dangerous,” he said and crooked one finger to lift under her chin so that she met his gaze.

  She stared back, her soft green-gray eyes revealing flecks of gold ringing her pupils. “Yes.” She let a grin grow. “Yes, I am.” With a glance at her sister and Izzy walking safely out of range, she lifted her bow once more, nocking an arrow. In a swift pull and release, she loosed it. Thwack! It hit close to the center of the target at the far end. Several of his warriors clapped loudly from near the cabers.

  Grey crossed his arms over his chest, watching her balance the bow back on its wooden holder. “In some ways,” Evelyn said. “But in other ways, I’m still as feeble as a lamb.” She pointed over toward the targets for throwing daggers and axes. “I would have no defense against a blade up close.”

  “Another lack in education for lasses,” Grey said, his brow tensing. The thought of his sister, Evelyn, or any lass being threatened with a dagger soured his stomach. A man was charged with protecting his woman, but if he was at war or away, she must have some way to defend herself. “Come,” he said, clasping Evelyn’s hand. “I have another lesson for ye.”

  They stopped before a wooden table with several types of blades lined up on it. He picked up a six-inch sgian dubh. “This is a sgian dubh, which means black knife in Gaelic.”

  Evelyn peered at the shining blade. “A skee en due,” she sounded out. “It looks deadly.”

  “Aye, it is, but it is meant to be used as a tool rather than a weapon.” He pointed to one side of the blade. “Only one side is sharp. The other side is dull, so ye can place your hand on it to help ye skin an animal or trim away bark.” He imitated the motion. “Versus a mattucashlass, which is a true weapon, because both sides of the blade are sharp.” He picked up one of the daggers, turning the blade left and right to show her the blade. “Ye can’t use your hand to press down on the blade.” He held it before him and snapped it forward, spinning it through the air to embed in the center of the target. “It is for thrusting forward or throwing.”

  “Nicely done,” she said. Her words brought a warmness to his chest. “Can you show me how to wield it?” She picked one up, holding it out before her and squinted one eye shut to aim.

  Grey cleared his throat. “Aye. To throw it, ye need to step into it,” he said, giving her room to step back. “A warrior has a lot of power in her thigh muscles.”

  She glanced his way. “Her?”

  “Or his.”

  She smiled, and he schooled himself for the assault of her scent as he stepped close, his arms coming up to guide her extended arm. “Ye need to concentrate on throwing out at the same time ye snap it into a downward rotation with your forward step.” She adjusted her stance, and her arse rubbed into his groin. With a start he dropped his arms, stepping back. When she glanced at him, he cleared his throat. “Try it.”

  Her spine was straight, and he watched the sun skim her loose curls gathered to fall down her back to her hips. No matter how much he despised the English for what they’d done to his family, Evelyn was beautiful, intelligent, and brave. Blast, he was a hot-blooded man, and his cock didn’t care from what side of the border she hailed.

  With a twist in her trim waist she released the mattucashlass. It spun forward and landed among the flower weeds halfway to the target.

  Evelyn spun toward him, hands on her hips and a frown on her lush lips. “I am a failure.”

  The lass will be a failure. His gut tightened, but he ignored it. “Ye have to practice.” He took up another blade. “And ye should also learn how to stab with the dagger.” He gave a few examples and laid it back on the table. “But what if neither of ye has a blade? What do ye first do if a villain comes at ye?” Grey said, grabbing her wrists.

  “I would scream in his face,” she said loudly, determination tightening her smooth features. “Distract him by kicking or kneeing him.” She stepped into him and raised her knee slowly, apparently not still angry enough to try to geld him. “And then turn and snap my hands away to run.” She demonstrated, yanking back.

  He nodded as she pulled away, giving his senses time to cool before his base instincts carried her away for a private kiss. A kiss? Aye, he wanted a damned kiss from Evelyn Worthington.

  Grey’s gaze lifted, reaching beyond Evelyn’s shoulder where a group had formed, watching. What would they all think if he’d snatched the Sassenach to him? The thought of his clan’s condemnation worked like ice water. “I think we have an audience.”

  Evelyn turned to the lasses and a few gathered warriors. “A woman should know how to protect herself,” she said, her voice loud and steady. “Just like she should be able to read. Lessons in both are given daily up at the castle, and you are invited to come learn.”

  Breaking through the gathering, Cat, Izzy’s older sister who lived alone out in the forest, sauntered forward. With wild, reddish hair, freckled skin, and bare feet, she looked like one of the fairy folk. She grabbed a mattucashlass from the table, aimed, and whipped it through the air, hitting the target’s center. Turning toward Evelyn, she gave a tight smile, said nothing, and traipsed back toward the tables of food.

  “Very nice,” Evelyn called after her. “Perhaps you could be an instructor?”

  “That is Cat Campbell, Izzy’s older sister,” Grey said, watching the others wander away.

  Evelyn snapped back to him. “Isabel’s sister? Does she speak?”

  “Aye, but not to many. She’s the town midwife and chooses to live by herself in the forest after their father was killed and their mother died.”

  Evelyn watched Cat, and Grey watched Evelyn. “Was he killed by English?” She looked to him, and he saw guilt there, guilt that shouldn’t be hers to bear.

  “Aye. Her mother died of a broken heart afterward. None of Cat’s cures worked to save her.”

  “And now her sister won’t stay with her,” Evelyn said, her voice soft.

  “We don’t know why Izzy likes to stay in the family cottage in town,” he said, his gaze drifting to where his men marked the field for the caber tossing. “She hasn’t spoken since her mother died.”

  They walked together across the meadow, Evelyn’s green and blue skirts catching on the tall wildflowers to send an occasional dragonfly shooting into the air. He steered her toward the colorful maypole where several girls sat among the grasses. “I wouldn’t let Cat see that look on yer face,” he said.

  “What look?” she asked.

  “Pity. She’s liable to slice ye open for it.” The seriousness in Grey’s face ebbed. “I’m given to understand that lasses do not like their weakness noted.”

  She halted, her eyes narrowing at him. Even scrunched in an exaggerated glare, they still stole his thoughts for a heartbeat. “Are you bringing up my one little tear again? Do you think I’m a weak woman?” she asked, her white teeth stacked perfectly on top of the lower.

  He held up his palms in mock surrender. “Nay, for tears do not show weakness, and ye have taken on this robbery of my castle with strength and courage.”

  She snorted and strode briskly toward the pole, her hair bl
owing in the growing breeze. She turned to walk backward through the flowers. Gazing at him with wide eyes, she threw one arm wide. “You are welcome to stay as an instructor and chief to your people. It is the best I can do for now.” She turned front.

  She spoke the truth. Despite Evelyn’s determination to turn Finlarig from castle to school, she hadn’t demanded they leave after that first day, nor had she given him up to Captain Cross. His voice came rough, but the words fell off his tongue. “For that, I thank ye, lass.”

  Evelyn looked back to him, and a chestnut strand blew across her cheek. She slid a finger under it and tucked it behind one ear. “A thank you? Most unexpected.”

  The softness in her voice caught at his chest. Everything about Evelyn Worthington was soft: her skin, hair, curves, smell, even her voice. What would it be like to bury himself in all that softness? Only her will and determination were as hard as the throwing stones behind him.

  She smiled. “And I’m lass now?”

  He met her gaze but gave nothing away of his traitorous thoughts. “Dressed as ye are, throwing a mattucashlass and shooting…” He sniffed and looked away from her to see more and more people walking the path through the woods to join the yearly celebration. “Ye seem more Scots than English.”

  “Good God,” she said, her mouth open in shock. “Are you calling a truce, Grey Campbell? With a Sassenach?”

  He let out a chuckle and gripped the back of his neck. “Perhaps, but only with one Englishwoman, not the whole bloody country.” When had Evelyn stopped representing the people he hated the most? When he’d seen the strength in her as she barged into his castle, sopping wet? Or when she’d sat all night next to a frightened child in a storm? Nay, even if she wouldn’t admit it. He’d started thinking of her as a Scot when he saw the fierceness of her convictions in that one silent tear.

  …

  Evelyn watched Grey walk off with Kerrick toward the long cabers across the field. His strong legs cut through the bending cornflowers and buttercups. The expanse of his back was draped with his plaid of green and blue. She remembered what his back looked like bare, the tanned skin moving with his muscles.

  Scarlet cleared her throat. “I said, what happened after I took Izzy in to change?”

  Evelyn turned to her sister and waved one hand. “Not much, although… He did say that I seemed more Scot than English today.” She smiled. “I hope that the rest of the clan thinks so too.” Lass. He’d called her lass, with his burbling accent. Her stomach flipped.

  Scarlet grinned, shaking her head. “My, my. Grey Campbell is getting under your tough rhinoceros skin.”

  “What?” Evelyn’s glance bounced between Grey and Scarlet. “No, and I don’t have rhinoceros skin. Heavens!” She shook her head.

  Scarlet leaned forward, whispering. “He is a prime example of a brawny, handsome Scotsman.”

  Evelyn frowned at her. “I thought you had sworn off all men.”

  Scarlet straightened, her smile faltering. “Good God, Evie, not for me. I plan to grow into an eccentric old maid, a crooked-toothed school matron.” She pulled back her lips to show perfectly straight teeth.

  Evelyn inhaled and chuckled. “You don’t have crooked teeth.”

  Scarlet shrugged. “Then I’ll have to aim for old, unmarried, and eccentric.”

  A cluster of young girls ran near the maypole, giggling as they sorted out the ribbons. Isabel stood alone, holding a pink ribbon, while the girls worked around her. “You couldn’t get Isabel to put on the dress we hemmed for her?” Evelyn asked.

  “It was all I could do to get her into one of her clean, shabby dresses,” Scarlet said. “But I managed to wash her face and braid her hair before she ran out.”

  “She’s like a frightened, feral kitten,” Evelyn said, her gaze drifting back out toward the warriors inspecting the long cabers. Had Captain Cross included the girl in his description of Scottish vermin? Put it behind you.

  She slid her gaze and mind toward Grey at the other end of the field. He stood among his men. They’d all taken off their shirts to spar with their long claymores. Grey’s muscles bunched and released as he swung the heavy steel, spinning on the heel of his boot to counter another warrior’s thrust.

  Scarlet was right. Grey Campbell was a prime example of a powerful man. Her mouth felt dry as she watched him help his opponent up from the dirt and sheath his sword. He tipped a bladder up to his lips, drinking, and then crossed his arms over his chest. What would it feel like to have such a powerful man hold her? Evelyn’s pulse picked up to match the fast-paced fiddling of the musician on the other side of the maypole.

  As if feeling her unguarded gaze, Grey looked out across the meadow to meet hers. It was a distance, but Evelyn felt the connection. It held her. Even her breath felt hostage.

  “Who is that?” Scarlet asked beside her.

  …

  Grey’s gaze slid from Evelyn when she looked away. “Och,” he murmured. Emerging from the woods was his grandmother, Elizabeth Campbell, or as she was known, Gram. She wore a blue cape of rich fabric and a feather crown, her long white braid lying forward over one shoulder. She was followed by half a dozen matrons from the village, as if they attended her. Kirstin and Alana walked beside her.

  “Your Gram,” Kerrick said.

  Grey grabbed his shirt and tossed it on as he strode toward the tables of food.

  Alana was talking as he walked up. “This is my grandmother, Elizabeth Campbell.”

  Evelyn bowed her head. “I am very pleased to meet you, Lady Campbell.” Gram nodded her head. “Lady Campbell,” Evelyn said. “I am sorry for what Captain Cross did to your home, and for any role we may have unknowingly played in it. I invite you to return to the castle, live there like Grey and Alana.” Evelyn glanced his way, a hopeful smile on her lips.

  Mo chreach. Grey held his breath.

  Gram released a small smile. “Thank ye, but I would not be at Finlarig in case the English invade again.”

  “They already have,” Kirstin murmured beside Alana with a glance toward Evelyn.

  Evelyn kept a polite smile. “Please know you are always welcome.”

  Grey finished tucking his shirt into the waist of his kilt. “Gram, ’tis good to see ye at Beltane.”

  Her smile broadened. “Take me to the dancing.”

  Grey extended his arm, and her gnarled fingers latched on with lasting strength. He nodded to the group of ladies about her, his gaze meeting Evelyn’s briefly, long enough to see the hope in her eyes. The tension across his shoulders ebbed. Perhaps his Gram hadn’t said anything to offend her. For Elizabeth Campbell was known for her brutal opinions. Lately, they’d taken a turn toward peculiar.

  He guided Gram to the dancing lasses, their laughter filling the midmorning air as they weaved the colorful ribbons around the maypole. Even Izzy danced, looking gleeful and relatively clean. They stopped opposite the musicians, and Gram smiled out at the dancers. She leaned her head closer to Grey, so he stooped to hear.

  Gram turned her smile to him. “Evelyn Worthington,” she said, her voice even. “She will be the first to go. Then her sister.”

  Unease rippled up Gray’s back. “First to go?”

  “Aye,” Gram said, smiling sweetly. “Ye will kill her first and then her sister.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Gray set his hand over the top of Gram’s talon-like fingers. “Gram,” he said, his voice a warning. “I am not killing Evelyn or her sister.”

  “Aye, ye are.” Gram sniffed, keeping her smile in place. “Better the English sisters than ye.” She raised her white eyebrows as if she were surprised he hadn’t considered his own assassination.

  How far had his Gram’s mind wandered? She was over eighty years old but had seemed quite lucid up until the fire. “I don’t think Evelyn or her sister want to kill me,” he said.

  “That is what they want ye to believe.” Her voice sounded cheerful, but then she frowned, her eyes narrowing. “And then Evelyn Worthingto
n will slit your throat and dance in your blood.” He looked down where she pointed to the ground, her foot tapping as if she splashed in a macabre puddle.

  Grey exhaled long, holding on to Gram’s blue-veined hand. “I think ye’ve exhausted yourself.”

  Her frown turned into a smirk. “If ye won’t do it, I will.”

  Grey dipped his head to catch her gaze. “Ye will do nothing to Evelyn or Scarlet.”

  Gram pulled away from his arm, crossing her hands in the folds of her blue robe. She tipped her nose higher and plastered a knowing smile on her face.

  “Gram…” he said, stretching out her name in warning. “First, Evelyn doesn’t want to kill me. Second, I am not killing any lasses. And third…” He moved around to level his gaze with hers. “If they are murdered, it will bring England down upon us. They will burn us out and take Finlarig.”

  Her eyes narrowed, her stare icing with hatred. “They’ve already done both,” she said.

  He felt the ache in his jaw. “But they haven’t burned Killin and killed all of our clan. And I have a plan to get Finlarig back. One that does not include slitting anyone’s throat.”

  Her bottom lip protruded slightly, as if he’d said that there would be no gifts exchanged at Hogmanay. She sniffed and looked toward the girls laughing around the pole. “A pity.”

  “What are ye two discussing so intently?” Alana asked, coming up, one of Evelyn’s tarts in hand.

  “Your brother’s lack of duty,” Gram said. “Letting the English live under his roof without slitting their throats.”

  Alana lowered the apple tart next to her skirt. “She brought cinnamon with her.” She chewed around her words and swallowed quickly behind her other hand.

  “If ye insist on talking about murder, I think ye should return home,” Grey said.

  “My home has been destroyed,” Gram answered, waving to several little girls who twirled around. They pointed at her, and she laughed. “They like my feathers.”

  Grey exchanged a look with Alana, and Alana took Gram’s arm in her other one. “Evelyn is trying to fix up Finlarig.”