The Savage Highlander

by Heather McCollum

  Craig chuckled. “A handy hiding place for a dagger.” He eyed her the same way he’d studied the hair stick. “I heard ye were training a pack of lasses up there at the castle.”

  She smiled. The man reminded her of the ornery beekeeper back at Hollings Estate in Lincolnshire who, despite his temper, always saved some of the honeycomb for her and Evelyn. “Yes, a pack of lethal roses,” she said. “Especially if we are armed with your hair sticks.”

  “And twisted, ye say?” he asked, signaling to his apprentice, a younger man named Eagan who shoed all their horses.

  “Yes,” Scarlet said. “So, once it stabs in, it can’t just be yanked back out.”

  Both men looked at her, their eyes wide, though Craig recovered quicker. He swore softly and rubbed his bristly chin. “Aye, right vicious. Aiden wasn’t spouting nonsense.”

  “Aiden?” she asked, watching Eagan take the hair stick to examine. Aiden was talking about her?

  “Aye, said ye were fierce, a warrior in a Sassenach’s body,” Craig said and shook his head, one fuzzy eyebrow rising higher than the other. “The man doesn’t throw out compliments very often.”

  “I take it then that being a fierce warrior in a female body is a compliment,” she said. Back in England, any reference to being manly would have been a severe slight, but not in this rugged, wild country.

  “In an English woman’s body,” Craig said with emphasis. “Aye, ’twas a boast about ye. Never heard him speak of a Sassenach without spitting afterward.”

  Scarlet watched Kirstin and Cat step out of Kirstin’s thatched cottage, Izzy trailing behind them. They carried woven black wool and walked up the path toward Finlarig. She must hurry, but Craig’s comment caught at her. She turned back to him. “Aiden doesn’t like English because of his burned back.”

  “Aye,” Craig said, scratching his head. “True, but his hate started way before that bastard Captain Cross set fire to the castle.” The man pinched his lips tight together as she waited for him to continue. Several breaths later, it was apparent that he had no intention of doing so. “How many of the sticks do ye need?” he asked.

  Scarlet kept her frustrated huff soft. “A dozen to start with,” she said, placing shillings in his palm. “But each new student will require one.”

  “Trousers and daggers,” Craig said with a shake of his head. “Never thought the English prims would build up an army of lasses. Ye’d be better off letting a strong man and God take care of ye, lass.” Judgment twisted with a twinge of mockery in the man’s tone.

  Tipping her head to one side, Scarlet regarded him with disdain. This man had likely never felt trapped by someone larger than he, stronger than he, someone who wanted to violate his body. She stood tall, staring him in the eyes without blinking. “And I thought God would have already struck down all the bloody, raping bastards with pox, boils, and the clap, but since God only judges them after they are dead, we lasses are helping God by sending the bastards to Him.”

  Scarlet took great delight in watching Craig’s beard drop as his mouth opened. Perhaps he’d never heard those particular words come from a woman’s mouth before. “I expect the first dozen hair spikes before the end of the week,” she said. “Good day.”

  Scarlet walked away, anger fueling her steps, but she made sure to keep a slow, even gait so as not to appear running away. Something she’d done too much in the past. “Not anymore,” she whispered through her teeth.

  Her gaze scanned the road ahead of her. Would she be able to defend herself right now if faced with an ambush? Not likely. Women were practically shackled in their own clothing, making them even weaker with the weight of petticoats and the bindings of their skirts and stays. Like trussed up turkeys.

  Scarlet snorted softly. Maybe she’d wear her training trousers all the time. Aiden’s face coalesced in her mind. Would he be fine with her wearing trousers? He hadn’t said much against them the other day, like Kerrick had. Not that it mattered what Aiden Campbell thought of her. “Damn,” she said low, because even if Scarlet wasn’t truthful all the time with others, she was always truthful with herself. And she knew very well that she did care what Aiden thought of her. When the hell had that happened?

  Up ahead, Scarlet saw Rebecca, Aiden’s sister. She lived on the outskirts of town at the other end. She’d been coming to the castle for reading lessons, but since Evelyn left, she hadn’t. “Hello,” Scarlet called and raised her hand.

  They met on the road near Kirstin’s cottage. Rebecca smiled, glancing down, and sidestepped to go around Scarlet. “Wait, Rebecca,” Scarlet said. “Won’t you come up to the school for some classes? We miss having you.”

  “I…I couldn’t,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “I…well, I haven’t anything to pay ye with.”

  “The others are paying by helping us get the school up and running. All of them except our newest student, Cecilia Menzies. And I know you’ve been helping Kirstin sew our trousers. If you attend, you can continue to learn to read the clothing patterns in the library, and more importantly, you’ll learn how to protect yourself.”

  Rebecca pinched her lips tight. “I don’t think I’d like to attend, thank ye.”

  “Why don’t you want to attend? You have friends there. Has someone told you that you shouldn’t? You don’t have to wear the training trousers.”

  “Nay, it’s not that,” she said quickly and huffed. “My brother”—she lowered her voice—“doesn’t think I should come up to the castle.” Her hand went to her mouth as if she’d said too much.

  “Aiden?” Scarlet asked. “Why not?”

  “See now,” Rebecca said, her words muffled from behind her hand as she frowned. “I can’t keep words inside. They just spill about.” She shook her head. “I must go,” she said, practically running up the lane that led through town.

  Scarlet stood in the middle of the road, watching her flee. “What the bloody hell?” she whispered, her anger growing like a rising yeast roll. Why didn’t Aiden want his sister to attend? He knew they were trying to educate the whole town. Did he not want her learning, preferring to keep his sister ignorant? Doubtful. He seemed to approve of the book learning going on in the library, never wanting to interrupt when it was time for classes in the gymnasium next door.

  Scarlet resumed her walk toward the castle. Could it be that he didn’t want his sister learning to defend herself? Maybe he had a problem with the trousers but hadn’t said anything. Well, whatever it was, she was going to find out.

  …

  The sheep corral was snug with the daub between the lathe and a sturdy thatched roof. “There now, Snowball,” Aiden said to the lamb as it nuzzled against a wide ewe who must be its mother. “Now ye can shite wherever ye want.” And Scarlet wouldn’t have a reason to run out of his room to save her wandering lamb. He snorted at the foolish thought. The woman hadn’t come back down to his end of the fourth-floor since that first night.

  He washed in the ice-edged bucket of clean cistern water and walked back into the castle. He’d been away for a night and day, meeting with Donald Campbell at Balloch Castle, to see if he’d heard about any goings-on at Castle Menzies. Kerrick had heard from a man passing through Killin that there’d been crowds up at the castle. Donald had sent a man who’d returned to say that Edgar Menzies was rallying against the young chief, saying he wasn’t fit to lead.

  It was Sunday, so no classes would be held up at the castle. Except for the chickens, a set of peahens, and what seemed to be a furry, scurrying pine marten, the bailey was empty. A day of rest and biblical reflection were the mandates from the church even if Killin didn’t have a chapel, something that Grey said his new wife was planning to change.

  What would Scarlet be up to today? The great hall was quiet, but the remains of a fire showed that someone had stirred it before noon. The haunting sound of someone singing came up from the back corridor that led out to the gardens and kitchens.

  “And the wind blows low over the
bloody moor.

  As the raven’s beak plucks at frosted eyes.

  I’ll never again see me Johnny love,

  But will hear his voice when err the breeze cries.”

  Molly with one of her melancholy songs. Aiden climbed the steps, hesitating on the second floor when he heard a bang. Walking along, he heard it again and stopped before the closed gymnasium to nudge the door open a crack.

  Scarlet bent over, the black trousers hugging her arse, to pick up a dagger from the floorboards. Back-stepping nearly to the door, she held the knife cocked, took a step forward, and threw. The steel blade made it across the room to a straw-filled tick he’d erected at one end but hit the floor right before it.

  “Ye need to step more into the thrust,” Aiden said, pushing the door open. Scarlet whirled toward him, and he had the briefest relief that she wasn’t still holding the dagger, else he’d likely be dodging it. He crossed his arms, walking into the room. “Keep practicing the timing to get the blade to rotate fast enough to hit the mark with enough forward motion to stick.”

  She was splendid with her fierce frown, rosy cheeks, and hair braided to hang over one shoulder. She wore a man’s shirt, tied at the neck, the ends tucked into trousers that showed her long legs. With each breath, her breasts rose under the tunic where he could barely make out some banding, probably to hold her full breasts firmly without stays. He remembered those beautiful breasts resting on the surface of her bath water.

  “You’ve been gone,” she said.

  He cleared his throat and took a few steps closer, noticing the pink of her lips. What would Scarlet Worthington taste like? Tea and tarts? “Only for a night,” he said. “To meet with Donald Campbell at Balloch. I see ye are continuing your training, even on Sunday.”

  She walked to retrieve her dagger. “I had a need to work off some ire.” She bent down, and Aiden’s breath stuttered at the perfectly round display.

  “Ire?” he repeated.

  She turned on her heel and tilted her head. “You don’t want your sister to attend the Highland Roses school.”

  Blast. “Did Rebecca say that?” he asked. He inhaled, bracing his legs.

  “Yes, that you didn’t want her up at the castle.” Her hands rested on the perfect slope of her hips, which he could follow easily while she wore her trousers. The thin, soft wool slid right along her skin, showing all her woman’s curves.

  “Why wouldn’t you want your own sister to come to school here? She doesn’t have to wear the trousers, but if she wants to, she can decide on her own.”

  “She can wear whatever she wants,” he said, frowning over his immediate reaction to her attire.

  As if feeling the slant of his thoughts, she crossed her arms over her chest. Her hip jutted out, showing her annoyance. “Do you not want her to look in the art book then? I keep putting it away, but someone keeps pulling it out in the library, leaving it open.”

  “An art book? What art book?” he asked, his gaze following her tightly plaited braid. She reminded him of the female warriors of legends. Though, he doubted Boudica or Joan of Arc could have been nearly so beautiful.

  “Why then would you not want Rebecca to come up here?”

  Aiden met her steady gaze. The tug, to be honest, was more insistent than he’d ever felt. He rubbed a hand through his short hair, glancing away. “Rebecca can’t keep her thoughts and… well, anything to herself. She spouts words, anything that comes into her head.” Which was why he didn’t trust his sister to keep their family information buried in the past where it belonged. But Scarlet wouldn’t understand the feelings he barely allowed himself to recognize—anger, shame, betrayal.

  She looked doubtful. “And this is why you don’t want her at the school? Because she will talk us to death?”

  He grinned past the heaviness of the past. “She could. But really, I’d told her that before,” he said, not altogether lying.

  “Before what?” she asked, walking toward him.

  “Before ye impressed me with being so bloodthirsty,” he said, indicating her stance. “Ye aren’t the typical Sassenach.”

  The corners of her mouth tipped upward, and she looked beside herself at the mirror they used in training. “No?” she asked. “What is the typical Sassenach then?”

  Flashes from the past filled him with details, but he shook his head. “Just more easily affected by cold and the wildness of the Highlands. Peevish and easily irritated.”

  She laughed. “Since when have you known me not to be cold?”

  A memory of her in a tub of hot water at his cabin, her glorious display on the surface, pushed away his distasteful thoughts about frigid, complaining Englishwomen.

  “And,” she continued, “I am almost always irritated.”

  Her easy admission made the corner of his mouth go up. “I know better than to argue with a lass holding a mattucashlass in her hand.”

  She gazed at him for a moment as if replaying their words. Had he answered the questions about Rebecca enough to suit her? He’d have a serious talk with his sister before she came up to the school for daily classes. Rebecca was clever and quick, but she had no control of her tongue.

  Scarlet came closer, their gazes locking. The woman had the longest lashes framing her hazel brown eyes. So clear and confident, as if she wished for him to see her for the strong woman she was becoming. He held his breath as she neared, but then she turned, presenting her back. She raised the dagger in her throwing hand. “I step and throw,” she said, simulating the movement without releasing the mattucashlass. She looked over her shoulder at him. “Some further instruction will help me be less irritating.”

  Aiden came forward and closed his hand around her wrist. He leaned in toward her head, his lips near her ear. “Your mark is about sixteen feet away right now, but if a man was running at ye, ye should wait until he’s closer to throw, so the blade won’t fail to penetrate.” He pressed her with his body from behind, making her take several advancing steps.

  Aiden’s whole body felt alive as his blood surged within him. Without her skirts, she’d no doubt feel him grow against her, but there was no help for it. Everything about Scarlet wrapped around him, her womanly clean scent, tinged with flowers; her warmth and softness; her silky hair, which he brushed his cheek against.

  He cleared his throat. “Hold the dagger loosely, so it will slip from your fingers, and raise it over your shoulder.” He lifted her arm, her sleeve sliding up to expose the underside of her wrist. Its paleness was soft as he rested his thumb there. He felt the thrum of her pulse. His lips hovered so close to the velvety skin of her neck. Och, how he craved a taste, trailing kisses down it. Feeling her pulse fly.

  He swallowed and inhaled her fragrance. “Ye whip it forward with the shift of your weight to the other foot, but keep your wrist straight.” He moved her arm through the motion slowly, stepping with her. It took his rock-hard discipline to step back. “Ye try.”

  Without turning, she took a step back and paused. He watched the slight rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathed. Lifting her arm, she took aim, stepped, and released. The blade flew through the air, bouncing off the target.

  “Good,” he said.

  “It dropped on the floor,” she answered and strode forward to retrieve it.

  “But your form was right, and ye have strength.”

  She turned to walk back, and he noticed a flush up her neck. Embarrassment or desire? She didn’t meet his gaze but turned her back to him again.

  “With this dagger, the blade is heavier than the handle, so make sure the blade is facing the mark when ye release. It doesn’t need to spin in the air.” He stood there, staring at her straight back, his gaze following the soft coil of her hair down over her shoulder. She didn’t move, as if listening intently to his words. “Every blade throws differently. Ye should pick a blade that has a good balance of weight and practice with it. Make it your own.”

  She lifted her arm, aimed, and stepped forward to release. Whu
mp. The point of the blade hit the hay-filled tick, cutting through and quivering where it stuck. She spun on her heel, a broad smile stretching her lips and lighting her eyes.

  He smiled and nodded. “Ye follow direction well. Nice throw.”

  She hurried to the tick and yanked the dagger out, holding it across her finger pads to weigh it. “I like this one.” She glanced up at him, happiness in her bonny face replacing the nearly constant unease she wore like a neutral expression.

  “Then it is meant to be yours, Scarlet.”

  “Perhaps I should also acquire a sword,” she said. “And become a true Highland warrior.” She sauntered toward him, a definite tilt of feminine cockiness in the sway of her hips.

  He shook his head but kept his appreciative expression. “Nay.”

  Her brows lowered. “Why not? I could find one that doesn’t weigh as much as yours.”

  He stood before her. “Apart from not wanting to see ye in the middle of a blood-soaked field being circled by ravens,” he said, “a lass’s battles will most likely be more up close. To protect yourself from those who think they can overpower ye with muscle, ye should wield daggers that can be hidden upon your body. A sword is long and meant to slice a man in two. Ye just need to protect yourself.”

  She looked up into his face, her frown softening. “What if I want to slice a man in two?”

  The side of his mouth quirked upward. “Craig said ye were bloodthirsty.”

  She scoffed and walked away toward a wall that had two practice swords. She hefted one, feeling its weight. The lass didn’t really want to slice a man in two, did she?

  “If women had the strength of men, we would be treated very differently,” she said and slid the blade slowly through the air, testing her arm muscles. He could see the strain in her shoulders as the heavy blade pulled her arms downward. Some of the tightness that she normally wore in her face returned.

  “Were ye born bloodthirsty?” Aiden asked, his tone light, but he watched her closely.

  She laughed. “Only when my sister stole one of my ribbons or my brother pushed me out of his way.”