by Alisa Adams
He gave a great sigh and scrubbed at his face again. He was so tired, so very tired and unsure of what to do.
He could not deny his feeling that this was all his fault.
And now this latest turn of events...
He turned back to his desk and picked up his quill. He quickly dipped it back in the inkwell and tapped off the excess black ink. He must finish writing his observations in his book of the latest injuries inflicted on the laird’s horses.
They were getting more and more horrific.
He knew so much now.
Too much.
He needed to write it all down.
He bent over his small book and began to write.
A sudden splatter of red appeared across the pages as he felt a sharp stinging to his throat.
His quill fell from his hand.
The world went dark as he slumped forward onto the desk. His cheek landed in the still-wet ink of his little book, smudging the words he had just written there.
Chapter 1
Kinloch Castle
Parish of Kinlochervie
Northwest Highlands
Scotland
1700s
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“Ye are not a man!” Laird Rane MacLeod said in a deep, smoky voice as he stopped and stared in shock at the young woman.
The girl was sitting atop a Clydesdale stallion outside his castle gate, staring calmly back at him.
Lady Gillis Ross sighed. She stared at the intimidating man who stood there in a black kilt, black boots, and sweaty linen shirt with the sleeves mostly cut off. His arms were crossed as he stood at the entrance to the gate with a fiery, smoldering look of challenge in his eyes. As if he could single-handedly guard the entire castle by blocking the gate. And she imagined this man probably could.
Aunt Hextilda reached up from her pony’s back and tapped her niece’s boot. “Weel noo, at least the mon has eyes in his head,” she whispered up to Gillis. The tiny nose and brown eyes of Duke, the little dog she carried bundled in her shawl, peeked out curiously.
Gillis quickly glanced down at her aunt with a small smile. “Wheesht, Aunt Hexy! Ye promised ye would let me handle this on my own! Keep yer wee dog in yer shawl else he starts barking or growling, please.”
Aunt Hexy ignored her niece but tucked Duke back into her shawl. “He is a fine-looking mon…” she whispered up to her niece without taking her eyes off of the angry, but incredibly handsome laird glaring at her niece.
“Och, here he comes, Auntie,” Gillis whispered.
Gillis watched from atop her horse as the intimidating laird strode through Kinloch Castle’s gates towards her.
He was clearly furious.
The men at the gates had not let her in when she had told them who she was.
Instead, they had laughed at her.
Then they had gone to get their laird.
Laird Rane MacLeod stopped in front of her. He looked up; from her booted foot, past her long, pale blue, tartan skirts that outlined the delicate length and curves of her leg, to her tiny waist. His eyes lingered on her pert breasts and then traveled up further, to her face.
Gillis bit her lip to keep herself from saying something she oughtn’t. He was trying to intimidate her, of course. She was glad that she was on one of her cousins’ Clydesdales’ offspring. The large, young stallion she was on was trained by her and her cousins, the four Ross sisters. At the end of his training, he had been given to a very excited Gillis.
Gillis started to pull her letter out of her pocket. “M’Laird, I have a letter—”
Rane MacLeod looked up at the girl sitting on the huge draft horse’s back. He frowned at her, his brows furrowed and jaw clenched tightly.
“Ye are not a man,” he said again. It was an accusation.
“Indeed, I am not,” Gillis said with an arched brow. “Ye dinnae look like a laird,” she stated as she studied him closely.
She looked at the tall, imposing, dark-haired laird staring at her with brooding, deep brown eyes and the blackest of black eyelashes. His skin was bronzed almost to an olive color from being out in the sun. His damp shirt clung to his wide shoulders, and she watched in fascination as his chest rippled with muscle as he tensed in anger at her response.
His hips were narrow where his black kilt draped over tight, muscular buttocks. He had long, powerful-looking legs—from what she could see of them just below his black kilt. He stood with his legs braced in dusty black boots that had a scattering of sweaty horse hair stuck to them. His large, strong hands were on his hips as he looked up at her with narrowed eyes.
He ran one of those hands angrily through his dark hair, pushing it off his face and back from his shoulders. Sweat glistened and ran damply through the strands of hair around his face and down into the V of his open shirt. Where his sleeves were cut off, Gillis could see big, powerful shoulders and strong, sinewy arms that glistened with sweat. It appeared she had pulled him from the practice field. Or some other rigorous task.
“Are ye daring to quarrel with me, lass?” he said quietly in his deep timbered voice.
It was a warning. Gillis knew this.
She did not care. This was her first position, and she would not be told to leave before she even was given a chance to prove herself.
She snapped her fingers and smiled firmly at him. “I believe that it will take two arguments to make a quarrel.”
He stared at her with narrowed eyes. “Nay, ye are wrong.”
“I most certainly am not,” she said stubbornly.
“Ye are,” he said obstinately.
She could not help herself. She was so tired. It had been a long and arduous ride here over rocky, mountainous terrain full of beautiful, craggy peaks and the bluest lochs she had ever seen. Magical hills and slim valleys covered in gorse and heather whose colors made you want to weep. But so mountainous, it had been exhausting. No wonder it is called “The Rough Quarter,” she thought. She was giddy with the need for sleep, giddy with hunger. She knew her horse needed to rest as well. And Aunt Hextilda definitely needed to eat and rest.
Exhaustion bubbled up within her.
She laughed.
She actually laughed. At the laird. The man she wanted to work for.
His eyebrow raised slightly as he silently looked up at the young woman on the big, bright chestnut Clydesdale stallion with the flaxen mane and tail and four white, feathered socks. He was a beautiful animal and obviously well bred.
The laird’s eyes strayed back to the woman who was sitting as naturally and comfortably on the huge stallion as if she was lounging in a parlor chair taking tea, laughing at some drawing-room joke.
She was not a beauty, but there was something about her face. Its features all came together in a perfect unity that made her truly lovely. Her cheekbones were high and pinkened with the sun, her eyes large and shining. They were an interesting grey color with the longest lashes he had ever seen. Her nose was perfect and straight, and her lips full and generous. Her mouth was open in laughter, showing straight, white teeth. Her hair was a plain brown but streaked with bits of pale gold here and there where the sun touched it.
He found himself staring.
Rane MacLeod shook himself and glared up at her. “Ye dare tae jest? What dae ye think is sae funny that ye laugh?” he asked in a low voice full of quiet warning.
Gillis looked at him, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she stifled her exhausted laughter and smiled at him. “I am not wrong, for I am indeed not a man.”
He cocked his head and placed his arms across his chest, and expelled an angry breath. “The saying is ‘it takes two tae make a quarrel,’ lassy,” he said curtly. “Ye said it wrong.”
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DISCLAIMER:
This book is a work of fiction. Some of the characters are real historical figures, but the others exist only in the imagination of the author. All events in this book are fictional and for entertainment purposes only.
