The Highlander's Lady (Highlands Forever Book 1)

by Aileen Adams

  “I understood. Why did ye follow me? I dinna care what ye think of—”

  “I did not mean to insult you,” she nearly shouted over him, determined to be heard. “Truly. It was not of you I was thinking. In fact, I was not thinking at all. Ann embarrassed me, I had to say something. No one has ever spoken so frankly to me before. My mother died when I was quite young. I have no sisters, no close friends I might speak with on such matters. I wish she had never brought it up at all. But it is true that young women of my… place in life are expected to wed certain men. I cannot help that.” She paused, and just under her breath she added, “I wish I could.”

  Whether he was supposed to hear that or not was beyond him, and he was not about to ask.

  “Please. You have been kind to me, and I would not wish to part as bad friends. I did not have the chance to thank you for your goodness yesterday. To be honest, I did not know how to thank you. I am deeply ashamed at how I behaved.”

  “Ashamed?” He turned partway, catching sight of her. The way she wrung her hands, the shifting of her weight from one foot to another. The lass was terribly frightened, which went a long way toward softening him. “Ye need not be ashamed, lass,” he assured her in a kinder voice than before.

  She looked up at the straw roof, smiling as if in disbelief. “I never accompanied my father or the other men on a hunt before. I could not find it in me to admit this to Donnan. I had never seen an animal… killed.”

  Her voice cracked at the end, revealing a tender heart which spoke well of her.

  “That is the way of it,” he grunted. “If we wish to eat…”

  “I know,” she breathed, lifting her sloping shoulders. “Just the same. It is easier not to think of the animal it once was. This is all very foolish. But you were kind to me, and I thank you for that. I am sorry if I caused you—”

  “Ye caused me nothing.” He turned fully, facing her. “It was nothing at all.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled, her chin dipping downward the instant their eyes met. “And again, I am sorry for any offense. I cannot do anything about the way things are. I am a daughter, not a son.”

  There was a deep wisdom in her simple words, and it struck him to his core. As son of the laird, and now laird himself, he was free to do as he pleased so long as it was for the betterment of the clan. Yet if he found a bonny chambermaid who amused and warmed him, he might wed her and be done with it.

  It would not be the same for the daughter of a laird, who was expected to wed as her father instructed.

  “Dinna think of it,” he replied, gruff and impatient to have the entire thing over with. He had taken it too hard. She had not been speaking of him. And even if she had, what of it? She was a stranger.

  A stranger who had reached for his hand in a moment of dismay. How he wished she had not done it, for he had not been able to push the memory of her hand touching his from his mind for more than a few moments at a stretch.

  It kept coming back to him. Her grip on his hand in that last, breathless moment before the bolt released and sailed across the open expanse. The way she had not released him, either, holding tight. Trusting him. Needing him to hold onto as she witnessed something that shocked her into a faint.

  Curse his weakness for fragile women.

  She looked around, studying her surroundings as if she’d never seen such a structure before. It occurred to him that she likely had not until then. What his life must look like through her eyes.

  “How does a Scottish lass come to wed an English earl?” he asked. Why did he ask that? Why not let her go? It would be best if she went her way and he went his.

  Her eyes lit up. “Ann just told me! They met at a fair. She was there, with my mother. She said there was no keeping them apart. It was not supposed to be that way, you understand. My mother was to wed another man. But they wished to marry each other after that first day.”

  She chuckled, going to the stall which held the mare he recognized as hers. “There you are,” she murmured, stroking the mare’s forehead. “I did wonder what made them wed, but father never wished to speak of it. I was too young to care much before my mother died, you see. There was no one to tell me.”

  He imagined her sitting in a large house. Alone.

  And wished he would not, for he felt sorrier for her than ever and damn the English, they did not deserve his sympathy or his sorrow. “Ye recall enough of her to sound a good deal like a Scottish lass,” he reminded her, and enjoyed the way her face colored.

  “You insist on bringing that up!”

  “I am praising ye, lass.”

  “Hmph. It does not strike me as praise.”

  “Nay, I mean it truly.”

  She smiled a bit, her gaze still on the mare though she spoke to him. “I tried to remember as much as I could of the way she spoke, so I might sound more like you. It seems foolish now. I could never.”

  “Why dinna ye try, lass?” He folded his arms, bracing himself as if preparing for a blow. “Come, now. Try to speak as I do.”

  “No!” She met his eyes, laughing, and he could not help but laugh with her.

  “Why not?”

  “It would sound terribly clumsy to you. I would be too embarrassed, and I have had enough of that today to last for quite some time.” She laughed again, and it lightened his heart. She had a lovely laugh, a lovely way about her when she was not being difficult.

  “All right. I shan’t force ye,” he relented, still grinning.

  To think, he had come here to escape the rage she’d stirred in his breast. Now he was laughing, even bandying about a bit. And it ought not to be so.

  He forced the smile from his face. “I had best get back to Donnan. We have matters to discuss, and…” And he did not need to explain himself to her. It would be best to go.

  Her face fell. “I see. I do not wish to keep you.”

  “Ye are not keeping me. Rather, it matters not, lass.” He decided it was best to hurry past her before he continued to speak and thus continued making a right fool of himself. He stepped to the left to move around her, but she moved to her right, blocking him.

  He moved to the right. She moved left, again in his path.

  “Remain still,” he barked, reaching for her and holding her in place before she had the chance to block him again, then dropping his hands from her arms and backing away, hoping she would not ruffle her feathers over his having touched her at all.

  She did not. Instead, she turned away, back to the mare whose forehead she stroked. The air was suddenly thick, hot, difficult to draw into his lungs.

  It was easier to breathe once he was in the courtyard again. Away from her.

  “Boyd! There ye be, man. I had wondered.” Donnan limped out to meet him. “Tell me ye might stay on another day, at least.”

  Another day. He ought to have been on his way already, long before now. There were other visits to be made before he reached his home, his clan.

  And yet…

  “Why?” he asked, pretending to think it over. “Do ye need my help?”

  “Nay, man. We shall hold a feast for ye on the morrow, what with the men here already. It would be a bonny thing, to lift the spirits. And ye would be my most honored guest.”

  One more day. That would not hurt anything, would it? He could easily make up the time now that the weather had turned and the ground had hardened.

  “Aye,” he mused, stroking his chin watching Olivia from the corner of his eye as she wandered from the stables. “I suppose I could spare the day.”

  7

  “Och, ye will knock out the eyes of every man who sees ye.” Young Bridget, still nursing her broken ankle, brushed out Olivia’s hair.

  “I do not wish to knock out any man’s eyes,” Olivia giggled.

  “Just the same, ye will. Ye have the bonniest hair.” The girl’s fingers were nimble, working the strands into what Olivia hoped would be an attractive coil of braids. She had no lady’s maid with her and had not expected to ne
ed help with dressing, but she’d not imagined there being a grand feast, either.

  “What should I expect to find?” she asked, looking to Bridget over her shoulder. “At the feast. I have never been in the presence of so many…”

  “Highlanders?” Bridget whispered. “Dinna worry yourself. It will be a grand day. Perhaps they will perform feats of strength. That is my favorite.”

  “Feats of strength?” Olivia attempted to envision this. “What do they do? Lift heavy things?”

  “Aye, among other deeds. Wait and see. It is quite thrilling.” She lowered her voice. “At times, the prize is for the winning man to kiss the lass of his choosing.”

  What was this? The quickening of her heart, the dampening of her palms? Why did she feel so breathless and giddy at the mere thought of the strongest man kissing the girl he chose?

  Because she could imagine only one very strong man. A man with shoulders as wide as a doorway, who had to bend to avoid striking his head when he entered a room. A man whose chest and torso brought to mind a wall—firm, unbreakable.

  Something to lean on.

  It was wrong, entirely wrong, for her heart to race so when she imagined him carrying her unconscious body into the keep. Even worse was the wish that she had been aware at the time, that she might remember what it felt like to be in his capable arms.

  What a terrible girl she was to think this way. Though it was not entirely her fault. Ann was to blame for turning her thoughts in this direction, asking if George Ainsworth stirred anything in her.

  Now when she brought his image to mind—tall, fair-haired, with a lithe, healthy frame and a graceful way of carrying himself—she frowned.

  For he was not Boyd.

  But that was not his doing, naturally, and he could not simply add height and width to his body. He could not change his fine, delicate features—almost lovely, really—into Boyd’s strong, rugged jaw and nose and forehead. His pale blue eyes were not the nearly black eyes which sparked endless fascination and interest and hope in her breast whenever they met hers.

  Naturally, had Ann not turned her thoughts in this direction, she would never have noticed any of this about him.

  Would she have? It was impossible to tell, and a waste of her time to question herself. He would be on his way in another day, and that would be the end of this unfortunate confusion.

  This unfortunate, breathless, delicious confusion. Confusion which was enough to stop her heart when she imagined it coming to an end. There would be no one to search for when she entered a room. No one to place herself in the way of, hoping he would take notice of her and perhaps favor her with a smile.

  Oh, this was dreadful. Perhaps she ought to take to her chambers and avoid the feast and the games entirely.

  That would mean avoiding him. Missing the chance to spend even a few moments near him before he went away. This caused her greater distress than the notion of seeing him did, which meant she had no choice but to participate.

  Which was no hardship, truly.

  “There ye are!” Bridget announced, all but clapping her hands in glee. “Och, but ye are a sight. I would wager nearly anything that it will be ye who is kissed.”

  “Oh, not at all,” Olivia demurred with a breathless giggle. “I would not… that is, I have not…”

  She had never been kissed. It simply was not done! Not until a couple had wed. Or, at least, just before the wedding. A man might kiss the woman to whom he was promised, but he ought not to make a habit of it. And it was the work of the young lady in question to make certain this was a rare occurrence.

  George had never kissed her. He had certainly not been given the chance to do so, and she had not wished he would.

  She never knew until Ann explained it that she should want a man to kiss her at all.

  No one had ever told her there would be this much confusion and uncertainty. Or that she would enjoy it in a wicked sort of way. For it had to be wicked, did it not? Wishing for a man to kiss her? Imagining it, even?

  Color came to her cheeks as she examined herself in the looking glass. The quality of the glass was not very high, making it appear as though she looked at herself through a fog, but even with that in mind she could not help but admire the work Bridget had done. “You are a wonder!” she exclaimed, patting the coil of braids with the gentlest fingers possible for fear of knocking them loose.

  “I am at that,” Bridget laughed. Olivia helped her to her feet, making certain she had a solid grip on the crutch she used to move about the keep.

  “Ye need not trouble yourself over me,” Bridget assured her. “It isna for a fine lady such as yourself to do this.”

  “Nonsense.” Perhaps it was time to stop thinking so much of being a fine lady. She would hardly loosen her tongue and speak as freely as some of the women of the house did—truly, the things she heard nearly stopped her heart at times—but she might be of service where she could.

  After all, Ann had all but forbidden her against turning her hand toward household duties. Perhaps she had done a dreadful job with the washing.

  She descended to the first floor of the keep, where everything seemed to be rushing past at top speed. Maids carrying great platters and bowls and baskets, the cook shouting orders loudly enough to be heard throughout the place. The great hall was ablaze with light from braziers in each corner, with rows of lit candles along each long table and even more in the iron chandeliers overhead.

  “Och, Olivia! There ye are, and how bonny ye look!” Ann waved to her from the far end of the room, where a table had been laid out for the master of the house and his wife. To her surprise, there was a place set beside Ann.

  “Here ye are, my dear,” she beamed. “Ye shall feast with us.”

  “But… I could not…” She stammered, blushing, unable to find the words to explain what an unexpected honor this was.

  “Not a word of it, lassie!” Donnan laughed. “Boyd is our honored guest, but so are ye. Our dear cousin.”

  This was becoming more embarrassing by the moment. Everyone would see her, the men of the clan, and their wives and children. All of them, dining along those tables set up before the one she stood behind now. Did they believe her to be Scottish? Would they expect her to pretend?

  Something brushed against her arm. She looked up, distracted by her troubled thoughts, and nearly sighed aloud at the presence of Boyd at her side.

  He had shaved his face again, had even smoothed down his wild, thick hair into something a bit more presentable. That made him the only man who’d taken such pains, as none of the others even appeared to have changed into a clean tunic for the occasion.

  He was the honored guest, after all, and a laird in his own right. She supposed this was the custom.

  Custom or not, she was glad for it, as he made a grand sight. Especially when he smiled down at her. “Ye need not fret,” he murmured, as if he’d known what troubled her.

  “How do you know I fretted?” she asked, a bit dizzy at his nearness. She’d never known a man like this. There was so very much of him. Not only his size, but his very presence. Such as the way he’d dispatched with the pair of thieves in the road without so much as lifting a hand against them.

  It took great skill to manage that, and perhaps a reputation for strength and fierceness.

  She only knew she felt sorry for the man who dared challenge him to a fight.

  His smile widened. “Do ye not know how simple it is to read your every thought on your face?” he asked. “Ye reminded me just then of a frightened hare, looking over the many Highlanders it expected to make a meal of it.”

  “Not truly,” she sniffed.

  “Truly,” he chuckled. “No one is here to question ye, lassie, though it might be best to keep your thoughts to yourself. One never knows how a man in his cups will behave when he knows a half-English lass is about the place.”

  “You had best not speak of it,” she warned.

  “I would never.” There was no teasing note in h
is voice now. No, instead, there was a greater depth than ever before. Familiarity, perhaps.

  Dare she use the word? Intimacy.

  She pressed her lips together, clutching the wool of her kirtle in her fists, willing herself to fight back a wave of thrilling, heart-stopping desire. Yes, this was what Ann had spoken of, this stirring. This breathless longing, the sense that every moment held the possibility of surprise and delight, all of it centered around one person.

  A person who had a clan to return to the next day.

  This was akin to splashing cold water all over her flushed body, and she was glad to have remembered it when she did. Or else she might have continued to make a fool of herself.

  “Thank you,” she allowed herself to say before taking a seat beside Ann, putting an end to their conversation. One of them had to, after all.

  He took his place beside Donnan, the pair of them discussing war and other such manly things while she did her best to pretend to have an appetite.

  “Ye look like an angel come down from on high,” Ann whispered in her ear. “Little wonder our Boyd is so taken with ye.”

  Why? Why did she have to say it? Why make things worse?

  Olivia forced a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Surely, that is not so.”

  “I would not be so sure,” Ann winked. “He was quite concerned with ye when ye had yer faint, dear. Did ye hear of his disappointment? I heard some of the lasses whispering over it earlier today and thought ye might have heard, as well.”

  “No. What disappointment?” Did that sound uncaring enough? She hoped so. It would hardly do for Ann to get further notions.

  “He was betrothed to a wicked, heartless thing. How I would still like to have her neck in my hands,” Ann scowled. “She ran away with another man. Can ye imagine? What did that other man have to make him appear a better match than Boyd MacPherson, I have to wonder?” She scoffed, shaking her head at such an impossible notion.

  Olivia looked past her, past Donnan. One would not know by looking at him, but he’d been disappointed by a woman. Even one such as he. “Did he… that is to say, did they…”