“It matches her eyes.” He extended the Luckenbooth brooch.
The bairn snatched it from his hand and promptly stuffed the scrolled end into her mouth. However, Lady Findlay gently took the clasp from her daughter.
“Nae, sweeting. Ye’ll hurt yerself.”
Her voice sounded funny and tight, as if she tried not to cry.
Grabbing his wooden sword, Logan made to join Coburn. Barely one year older and often mistaken for his twin, his cousin was also his best friend.
“Logan?” Lady Findlay’s lyrical voice stopped him.
Holy rotten haddock.
What now?
Eager to find Coburn, and slay all manner of mythical beasts from dragons to trows, Logan fingered the sword’s smooth hilt and slowly faced her.
“M’lady?”
Her ladyship offered him a brave, if somewhat wobbly smile.
“I ken ye be young, and ye dinna fully understand what has transpired here today. But I ask ye to be kind to Mayra, to no’ hurt her—to keep her from harm. And someday, perhaps, ye can come to love her. Can ye promise me that, Logan?”
After coming to stand before Lady Findlay, he cocked his head.
“Aye, m’lady. I surely can.”
Bracing his hands on his upright sword, Logan peered into the cradle.
Covered in lacy stuff, the infant gurgled, waved her chubby fists, and blinked her big blue eyes. Whitish bumps covered her face, and drool ran from one corner of her slobbery mouth.
Och.
He pinched his features tighter.
“Why’s her face all puckered? And riddy and blotchy?” He touched his own smooth cheeks while eyeing her doubtfully. “Are ye sure the bairn is a lassie? She has nae hair.”
Just like Mr. Hyde—bald as a stone or a goose egg.
“Aye, Mayra is a lass.” Lady Findlay lifted the wee one from the cradle, and after arranging the bairn on her lap, brushed her fingers across the lass’s head. “She’s fair, like her father. It may take a while, but she’ll have hair. Would ye like to hold her?”
Nae!
Logan shook his head and backed away. Horror of horrors. He’d rather cuddle a selkie or a kelpie. He never wanted to hold or touch the wriggling bairn.
Ever.
“I would have an oath from ye too, lad.” Findlay went to one muscled knee before him, and still Logan had to crane his neck to meet the laird’s eyes.
By jiminy, he’s huge. Way bigger than Da.
“Court my wee lass beforehand,” Findlay said. “And wait until she’s passed her twentieth birthday to wed.”
“Now see here,” Mr. Hyde spluttered, his eyebrows writhing like great, giant, fuzzy gray worms. “That’s no’ part of the settlement.”
“Nae age nor courtship restrictions were specified, Hyde. Sloppy on yer part.” Findlay’s frigid smile nailed the nasty wee man to the hall’s paneled wall.
Dunrangour’s laird leaned in and whispered in Logan’s ear. “And when ye are an adult, and if’n ye dinna want to marry Mayra, petition the monarchy to grant ye a reprieve. I shall ask, too, if that’s what ye want. But ye needs return her dowry else she cannae marry another.”
Logan veered a brief glance to the squirming infant. Not have to marry that blotchy-faced lass? Aye, that Logan could promise.
“Sir, it shall be as ye request.”
Outside Glenliesh Village, near Dunrangour Tower
12 March 1720
Mayra grinned at the days-old dun calves frolicking in the meadow, which gleamed as if blanketed with enormous emeralds. Early-blooming Lady’s Smock added faint lilac patches here and there. And if she weren’t mistaken, a few bluebells already bobbed their cheerful heads amongst the green bordering the Windlespoons’ estate.
She wouldn’t stop and say hello to her dearest friend, Gaira, today. Gaira’s doting parents had whisked her to Edinburgh for the Social Season, something Mayra would never experience.
Envy tried to jab her, but she resolutely tamped the dark sentiment down and focused on the lovely day instead.
After a surprisingly mild, if typically wet winter, spring had blossomed prematurely this year. As she expertly guided the dog cart along the muddy, rutted path still dotted with puddles from last night’s blustery showers, Mayra smiled for the sheer joy of the sun’s stroking rays and the vivid azure sky peeping between the ever-present silver-tinted clouds.
These were the days when she relished the Highlands, when spring promised new life, fresh hope, and possibly even a wee romping adventure.
Och, so wonderful, if only it might be so.
She detested the rain—almost a treasonous attitude for a Scot.
Yet the dampness, as well as everything cloaked in grayish hues from palest ash to deepest charcoal—day after day, weeks on end—wore on her.
Especially since her only regular reprieve from the Keep—also pewter-colored from its corbelling and crow-stepped gables to its corner turrets and bartizans—were these twice-weekly visits to the village.
Always—always, God’s teeth—accompanied by someone.
Usually a clan member, one or two of her rapscallion teenage brothers, or Mayra’s diligent, middling-aged maid, Bettie. On rare occasions, dear Mum joined Mayra, but since Da died two years ago, those instances had grown fewer and fewer.
The latter pairs’ keen regard seldom left her longer than a minute, so seriously did they take her chaperonage. Consequently, nothing the least bit exciting ever occurred on the jaunts. Unless Mayra counted her brothers’ penchant for regularly becoming embroiled in mischief of some sort in the village.
Today, Bettie sat in the dog cart’s rear seat, food baskets for the needy tucked inside the rectangular box beneath her. She snored softly as Mayra skillfully guided Horace, their mild-tempered, going-to-fat gelding, along the well-worn, rutted path passing for a road.
“I promised Maggi MacPherson I’d stop in for a short visit and share a pot of tea today after I deliver the baskets. Do ye want to go with me, Bettie? Or would ye rather take a cup with yer sister, and I can collect ye afterward?”
Mayra spared a swift glance behind her.
Chin drooping, Bettie dozed, her cream kerchief-covered head bouncing with each jar of the cart. She stirred and blinked sleepily while yawning behind her hand.
“I’d like to see ye to the inn and then walk to Agnes’s, but I’m feelin’ a wee bit waff.” She sneezed and blinked watery eyes. “If ye promise no’ to be more than a half an hour, Mayra, I suppose ye can see yerself there this one time. Straight to The Dozin’ Stag and back, ye hear? Nae dawdlin’ or givin’ anyone cause to wag their tongue.”
Did anyone ever need cause to blether?
Not in Mayra’s limited experience.
“I dinna dawdle, as ye well ken. Besides, I cannae imagine what could occur in such a short time that would raise even a single eyebrow hair.”
“Hmph.” Bettie made a mollified sound before sneezing again. Her plum-round cheeks slightly flushed, she pulled her shawl snugger. “And let’s be keepin’ it that way, shall we?”
Arching an indignant brow, Mayra directed her attention back to the road as the neat village loomed ahead. Honestly, a little tittle-tattle on her behalf might prove most invigorating, given her wholly predictable and dull-as-a-worn-quill’s life.
However, Bettie did appear a trifle peaked. Rather wan about her mouth, too.
Swallowing her disappointment, Mayra released a slow sigh.
Nae loitering in the village today.
After she made her excuses to Maggi, she’d see Bettie home and to her bed as quickly as possible. She’d take no chances with her beloved servant’s health.
An hour later, having delivered food baskets to Widow Ainsley, the kind but dotty Pinkerton sisters, Dunrangour’s deaf-as-a-turnip retired gardener, and four more to the kirk for other villagers in need, she drew the equipage before the MacPherson’s charming three-story lodging house.
Nearly a century of weather had worn th
e stone surface to a welcoming mellow, tawny-slate, a delightful contrast to the faded, paint-chipped, poppy-red shutters.
As always, mouth-watering smells wafted from within, and Mayra’s stomach gurgled in anticipation of enjoying one of Maggi MacPherson’s Scotch pies. Mayra had skipped breakfast, and now she’d have to bear a hollow middle until she returned home.
Pressing a hand against her rumbling tummy, she squared her shoulders. More than one unfortunate villager dealt with hunger daily these past months. Assuredly, she could endure another hour or so.
“G’day, Miss Findlay.”
A ready grin split Reed MacPherson’s winter-pale face when Horace nudged his chest, demanding the boy rub his withers.
As the lad reached for the reins before obliging the persistent horse, she smiled.
Standing on his toes, Reed scratched Horace’s coat, just below his mane. “Ho, Horace. Ye like that, do ye?” Reed patted the gelding’s side. “He’s gettin’ fatter, Miss.”
“Indeed, he is. Which is why it takes me so long to make the journey, though it’s barely three miles. He’s a lazy laddie, he is.” She adjusted her bergère hat—sadly in need of a fresh ribbon—to a slightly jauntier angle. But how could she justify a new embellishment when villagers went without necessities? “I’ll only be a few moments, Reed—just long enough to give yer mum my apologies. My abigail ails, and I must see her swiftly home.”
“Aye, miss. I’ll keep ’im company for ye. Saved ’im a carrot, too.”
Horace—his eyes half-closed in contentment—blew out a shuddery breath and bent his right leg. He’d not be pleased at having to turn right around and head for home. Too much exertion for one morning for the auld boy.
“Ye spoil him, Reed.”
Giving a soft laugh, Mayra stood, and after pulling her wide skirt to the side, prepared to descend the cart, a task she usually managed well without assistance, despite wearing panniers.
Searc MacPherson exited the inn with a man she’d never seen before. Neck bent, Searc shook his head slowly at something the striking man said.
The stranger’s arresting hazel eyes tangled with hers, jarring Mayra to her toes. And then he smiled—a dazzling flash of teeth in his tanned face.
In a twinkling, her mind went blank as a sheet of fresh foolscap.
In a completely foreign fashion, she became all gangly limbs, caught her toe on her hem, and with a strangled squawk—somewhere between a crane’s whoop and a sheep’s bleat—toppled right off the cart.
Into his arms.
Oh, curdled custard.
Leaping forward, somehow he’d managed to close the distance in a blink of an eye.
She found herself clasped to a marvelous, solidly-muscled chest, while equally impressive firm arms cradled her shoulders and legs. The barest hint of mahogany whiskers shadowed the angular breadth of his neck and jaw—mere delicious inches away—and she forgot to breathe.
What a magnificent specimen of manhood. And he held her in his arms.
Quite the most spectacular accident ever to befall a maiden.
When her faulty lungs decided to function again, the most pleasant masculine scent filled her nostrils. Not a heavy fragrance, but a fresh, crisp, yet slightly musky scent—perhaps a hint of ale and tobacco, too.
She inhaled a thorough, prolonged breath. Probably indecorous, that, although neither Mum nor Bettie had ever specifically warned her against sniffing gentlemen.
Who was he?
Why hadn’t she seen him in Glenliesh before?
Perhaps he only traveled through their unremarkable hamlet?
Och, of course he did. The small village offered little in the way of entertainment or commerce.
Why did the thought cause such profound disappointment?
Mayra wasn’t free to harbor romantic notions, not even in the most secret, most remote recesses of her mind. Well, fine, perhaps in the most clandestine, most isolated niches that even she daren’t peek at except once or twice.
In the dark of night.
With her head buried beneath her thick coverlet.
From the cuaran boots enclosing the gentleman’s feet to his nutmeg-colored jacket and dark blue waistcoat, the stranger’s attire shouted quality. Hatless and tartan-free as he was, she couldn’t hazard a guess as to his clan, or if he even boasted Scottish heritage at all.
Might he be a Sassenach?
A Frenchman?
Perhaps, but his vivid coloring implied Scots or Irish.
He cocked his russet head, and his eyes, an unusual but enthralling shade between summer moss and toasted almonds, glinted merrily at her. An unhurried smile bent his strong lips, revealing a charming dimple in his left cheek and further crimping the corner of his twinkling eyes. From the creases also framing his strong, still upturned mouth, it appeared he smiled habitually.
Instead of mortification engulfing her—as would be appropriate—of its own accord, her mouth swept upward, accompanied by a wave of sheer and wholly foreign giddiness.
And by rumbledethumps, she, Mayra Effie Lilias Findlay, was not the giddy, gay, flibbertigibbet sort.
Perfectly content, she made no effort to leave the blissful security of his arms, and he seemed disinclined to release her as well. And at five feet eight inches, she wasn’t a wee sprite of a lass either. Yet his arms didn’t tremble or shake with the exertion. In fact, she might’ve been a child, so effortlessly did he hold her.
Rather made her feel dainty and feminine.
And ever so naughty.
She peeked over his wide, sturdy shoulder.
Och and rot.
Bettie—Mum, as well—would cluck and fuss something awful, when they learned a man had held her—in public, too.
They would know soon enough, since a few villagers had seen her ungraceful tumble, and even now stood gawking at the attractive stranger in their midst. The young ladies in particular seemed enthralled. They stared brazenly whilst striking provocative poses and thrusting their bosoms out, the whole while tittering about the braw mon with the wavy auburn hair.
How could Mayra blame them, when even though each scandalous moment she lingered in the ‘braw mon’s’ embrace heaped scoops of coal on the gossip fires, she couldn’t bring herself to move an inch?
It wasn’t every day a lass found herself in such a wonderfully awkward predicament.
Still, she ought to make some effort to leave his embrace.
Perhaps she’d contracted Bettie’s ailment, and fever had addled her reason.
Mayra touched her cheek, aware his startling, amused greenish gaze trailed the movement.
Aye, verra warm.
That explained the languid heat encompassing her. Like warm honey trickled through her veins and turned her muscles to the consistency of hot-off-the-stove porridge.
And inarguably, no one had ever witnessed either warm honey or fresh porridge ever standing upright.
Finally clicking his gaping mouth closed, Searc trundled to her, his apron strings flapping against his ample behind. “Lass, I feared ye were about to take a nasty fall.” He slapped the other man on his broad shoulder. “Good thing, Mr. Wallace’s quicker on his feet than I am, aye?”
“Indeed. I’m most grateful.” Must she sound so dafty and breathless? “Ye may put me down now, sir.”
Or not.
I dinna mind stayin’ in yer arms a trifle longer.
A week or so perhaps
As if he’d heard her, the handsome stranger’s grasp firmed, pulling her minutely closer, his fingers pressing into the undersides of her thighs in a most thrilling way. A way that made her yearn to nestle closer, nuzzle his strong, delicious-smelling neck, and press her backside into his palms.
Another heady wave sluiced through her.
Was it her imagination, or did he seem almost as reluctant to release her as she was to have him set her down? After he lowered her to the ground, one of his hands lingered between her shoulder blades for a scrumptious, protracted moment. The heat
penetrated her clothing, and she wouldn’t be surprised when she disrobed tonight to find his palm imprinted on her back as if branded by his touch.
The urge to lean into his chest so overwhelmed her, she bit her lip.
What in highland heather had come over her?
She’d been too shielded from young, devilishly-attractive men, that was what. Other than family members, no male had ever embraced her. Good thing, too, if this was her doaty reaction.
Except...
Mayra doubted she’d respond like this with just any mon.
A flush singed her already heated cheeks, and she set about righting her rumpled gown and lopsided hat, taking care to avoid the curious glances of the passersby. She must be above reproach, she well knew. Hadn’t that been drilled into her, over and over and over from the time she was a wee lass?
Aye, and Mayra always did what was expected of her.
Nonetheless, mightn’t a scandal be just the thing to put her betrothed off?
Would her intended then finally grant her request to end their arrangement?
Perhaps.
As the idea took root, she paused with her fussing.
Aye, an innocent flirtation was just the thing.
Och, and when word reached—
“May I ken whom I’ve had the pleasure of rescuin’?” Her hero raked a big hand through his gingerish locks, ruffling the curls atop his head.
Ach. Bless Mayra’s darned and mended stockings, Scots after all.
The way Mr. Wallace said pleasure, the word rolling from his tongue in a low, mesmerizing brogue-turned-purr, wrenched her attention from her ministrations to his much-too-enticing lips.
Since when did a man’s mouth fascinate her so?
That same mouth notched up a trifle before her gaze inched higher to lock with his.
Her heart frolicked about behind her ribs like a litter of frisky kittens.
Guid help me.
A flirtation with this man might prove much too dangerous. Given her uncharacteristic, dazed response, he might be much too dangerous.
“Allow me to introduce ye.” Searc beamed, his wide face wreathed in an enormous smile. “Miss Mayra Findlay, may I present Mr.—”
Searc scratched the back of his bulging neck, his face folded into confused creases. “I dinna recollect if ye told the missus yer first name when Mags registered ye.”
To Redeem a Highland Rake: A Historical Scottish Romance (Heart of a Scot Book 2) Page 14