Highland Hellion

by Mary Wine

  But she suddenly looked back at the second set of clothing as an idea formed in her mind.

  Maybe she needed to fight smart and dupe her captors with the aid of their own fear.

  * * *

  Someone screamed.

  Rolfe looked up, as did a dozen or so men. There was a commotion coming from the new tower, and it took him about two seconds to decide Katherine was the likely cause. He went running around the gate and into the yard, just in time to see a woman dangling from a crude sort of rope from the third-story window.

  “Bloody fool,” he snarled as he pushed people out of his way to try to get to her faster.

  She was dangling from the rope, twirling around and around, and he suddenly stopped, realizing there was no weight on the rope, at least not the weight of a person. It was flapping like a child’s toy. There were men in the window of her chamber, tugging on the bedsheet to pull her up. They stumbled out of sight as they tugged too hard, anticipating a person’s weight.

  Rolfe scanned the area. Everyone was hurrying into the courtyard to get a glimpse at what was causing the commotion.

  Katherine would be heading the other way. He turned and ran toward the stables. He caught sight of a skirt as she went around a bend in the stalls toward the back door that was open to let in fresh air.

  “Katherine.”

  She turned on him, her eyes wide as she realized he’d caught her.

  “Ye’re a bloody hellion, woman!”

  Her eyes narrowed in response. She reached out and picked up a pitchfork used to move hay.

  “Yes, and I am more trouble than you need.”

  “On that we agree,” Rolfe stated.

  “Your lesson is well learned,” she argued. “Now, leave me be. I do not wish to hurt you. I am simply set on going home.”

  His lips twitched into an arrogant grin. “Put that down so I do nae have to hurt ye.”

  “You said you would not risk me being turned over to the Earl of Morton.”

  That made him stop edging toward her. “I did.”

  “But your father is laird here.”

  He drew in a deep breath. “He is.”

  Katherine felt a much-needed breath of relief fill her lungs. “Good. Go back the way you came.”

  He shook his head. “As ye have learned, lass, the McTavishes are no’ the worst ye might run across. I will no’ allow ye to leave alone.”

  “I will go straight back to MacPherson land,” she offered. “I promise, no more rides at night.”

  Katherine tightened her grip on the pitchfork, but she was loath to use it.

  “Ye’ll have to trust me, Katherine.”

  Her name came across his lips in a deep tone that send a shiver down her spine. It mixed with the way her heart was racing, producing a very unexpected sort of excitement.

  “You owe me a debt,” she reminded him.

  “No’ at the expense of yer safety.” Rolfe stepped closer, eyeing her weapon. “No honorable man would let ye take the risk of crossing all the clans between here and MacPherson land.”

  She lifted the pitchfork, shooting him a clear warning. Rolfe didn’t back down. He was edging toward her, backing her into a corner. She twisted away, bringing the pitchfork up before the wall behind prevented her from using it. For a moment, she hesitated, wishing things might be different between them.

  That was her undoing. Rolfe launched himself at her, pushing her back, and claiming her weapon in a motion that knocked the breath from her. But she went with it, turning back so he stumbled past her. He took the pitchfork away with him, while she gained a few steps of freedom.

  It wouldn’t be enough. She knew that. She’d have to disable him or submit to his will. She lifted her foot and kicked the back of his knee.

  He let out a curse and hooked his hands into her skirt as he went down. He twisted and turned, tumbling her as she tried to get her feet braced beneath her.

  “Curse and rot this dress!” she exclaimed as it trapped her legs.

  “I preferred ye out of it meself.”

  Rolfe landed on top of her in a hard, panting mountain of muscle that she was powerless to move. She flattened her feet beneath her and tried to heave him off her. All he did was roll over and take her with him, until she was beneath him once more with her wrists held captive in his hands as he pinned them to the ground near her head.

  “However”—his breath was close enough to tease her lips—“I believe it’s better that ye have more than a shirt on right this moment.”

  “Get off…me…” She was breathless and panting, her heart hammering as she shuddered.

  He seemed to feel it, suddenly lifting a bit of his weight off her as he stroked the insides of her wrists with his thumbs.

  She shuddered again, this time twisting away not because of any conscious choice but because the sensation was too deep somehow, too purely intimate to endure.

  “I should,” he rasped, drawing her attention back to him. There was something in his tone that stroked another place inside her, one she hadn’t known might be touched by another human being.

  In his eyes, she caught a promise that made her belly twist. It was so deeply personal that she withered, straining against his hold on her wrists.

  “No’ just yet, lass,” he said. “I’ll be claiming a prize from ye first.”

  She knew he was going to kiss her before he angled his head and fitted his mouth against hers. She moaned softly, unable to remain silent as sensation went flowing through her as if a dam had ruptured. She’d never realized what it held back, and now it swept her up in its grip, tumbling her with its power and rolling her completely within its current.

  The kiss was hard, just like his body. He didn’t allow her to keep her mouth closed, but pressed her lips open with the motion of his own as he moved his mouth over hers. It was overwhelming, like a clap of thunder directly overhead. She was left with her ears ringing, off balance as she reeled, and all the while, the storm continued.

  And then she was free.

  One moment, she was full of the taste of him, every inch of her body prey to the sensation of his contact, the bite of his hold on her wrists confirming how much stronger he was than herself, and then the air brushing over her was cool because he’d withdrawn. She rolled over, frantically trying to recover her poise, and found him facing her as he balanced on his haunches just a foot away.

  They stared at each other for a long moment. She thought she saw uncertainty in his eyes, although she wasn’t really sure her mind was working. But the stall where they’d landed was full of the raspy sounds of their breathing.

  “Has no one ever kissed ye before?”

  Of all the things he might have said in that moment, his question caught her off guard. She looked away, realizing that it bothered her to have to admit that no one had.

  She heard him mutter in Gaelic and looked back toward him. “Just because I didn’t kiss you back doesn’t mean—”

  “It is no’ a shame,” Rolfe informed her softly. “At least no’ yers. It’s mine to admit that I let me temper get the best of me. For that, ye have me apology.”

  He straightened up, reaching back down to offer her a hand. She was crouched in the corner, watching him warily, when her senses cleared enough for her to realize she must look like a trapped fox.

  She didn’t take his hand but rose under her own power. He nodded slowly, admiration in his eyes that granted her some measure of poise. Was it for the way she failed to cry? She wasn’t sure. But she did know she wouldn’t be showing him any sort of weakness.

  There was a pounding of feet. Rolfe looked out into the stable and whistled. “I have her, lads.”

  She was grateful he was looking away during that moment of crushing defeat. She clamped her jaw tight as she felt her fingernails digging into the wall behind her. The impu
lse to turn and break it down was strong but senseless.

  So she set her shoulders and faced the men who skidded to a halt in front of the stall. They took her in, shock registering on their faces at the sight of her.

  Which pleased her at last because she knew she’d given them hell.

  And she planned to do it again.

  * * *

  Helen was wringing her hands. She didn’t question Marcus when he came in because she knew his body. He was stiff from long hours in the saddle. Dirt was caked onto his skin, and his boots were covered in mud. His horse eagerly took off toward the stable and a warm stall.

  Bhaic stood on the top steps, waiting for his brother to reach him.

  “The Gordons had her, planned to burn her as a witch.”

  Helen sucked in her breath, as did Ailis. Marcus cut her a quick glance. “Somehow, she managed to escape. Rumor is there were McTavishes in the Gordon stronghold as well, but I’ve no solid proof of it.”

  “Rolfe McTavish?” Helen asked in a ghost of a whisper.

  Her husband nodded.

  “I pray so.” Ailis spoke up, gaining the attention of her husband and brother by marriage. “They’ll just want ransom again.”

  “We can nae be certain of that,” Bhaic informed his wife.

  “It’s better than the Gordons,” Helen offered, but she knew her husband. He took the welfare of all MacPhersons personally.

  He trudged toward the bathhouse, and Helen followed. He shed his clothing as she readied a tub for him.

  “I failed her,” he said at last.

  “We share the blame.” Helen rubbed a lump of soap across his back. “I should have argued with ye when ye allowed her to train.”

  Marcus grunted. “The good Father Matthew should have said something about that.”

  “I’d like to have heard it.” She worked the soap into his hair. “Let me see, it is a sin for the wife to argue with her lord and husband…and yet it is a sin to allow a young girl to run wild like a lad.”

  “Aye,” Marcus agreed. “It would have been a very interesting conversation.”

  One they would never have. He sighed. “We’ll have to wait, to see what news comes.”

  * * *

  He’d taught his son not to lie.

  Just as a father should.

  William McTavish watched Rolfe tug on his bonnet and leave his study.

  “Are ye sure ye need to send the lad out?”

  It was his senior captain Boyd who asked the question.

  “Ye saw her.” William reached for his mug and downed what was left in it. “Hay stuck to her skirts and hair.”

  “She was trying to escape. To tell the truth, I can nae recall when I saw such determination in a lass before. Stuffing the bedding into those clothes and sending them out of the window was a fine idea, sure enough. Fooled the men into thinking she’d gone out that way, and all the while, she was just waiting on them to leave the door open for her… Clever.”

  William snorted. “I still remember what a woman looks like when she’s been kissed.” He pointed at Boyd. “That lass looked startled down to her garters. Which means she’s a maiden, and Rolfe is… Well…he’s…”

  “A man to be proud of,” Boyd offered.

  “Aye.”

  “An honorable man,” Boyd continued.

  “Which is why I’ve sent him off to the Robertsons,” William replied. “I’ll no’ have him near that wench. If she was nae worth something, I’d turn her out and let her make her own way back to MacPherson land. But know this, I will not have me son wed to an English chit.”

  Boyd nodded. “It would nae be good, unless she brought a dowry worth overlooking her English blood.”

  “There are things more valuable than coin.”

  Boyd lifted an eyebrow at his laird’s words. William looked around first, making sure no one was inside his study. “The Earl of Morton stole that girl to use in an alliance with England. She’s a woman now, ripe for marriage. I sent a letter to him to see if he will ennoble me line in exchange for her.”

  “The man might just insist ye have Rolfe wed her,” Boyd cautioned.

  William grunted. “I’ll see her wed to Niul first.”

  “Ye think ye’d have a choice in the matter?”

  William merely shrugged. “The man might just have to take what alliance I give him.”

  Boyd didn’t correct his laird, but he had his doubts. The Earl of Morton was king, or at least he might as well be, and from what news came up from Edinburgh, it was clear the earl was intent on making sure he maintained power.

  “For now, put that wench in the cellars.”

  Boyd was shocked. “Ye’d do that to a lass?”

  William nodded. “I need her more submissive, ready to do me bidding, and too a-feared to cross me. Make sure Angus knows I’ll cut off his balls if he fucks her. The earl might have her inspected.”

  “Well now, taking an English bride is bad enough,” Boyd agreed. “Getting saddled with another man’s leavings… That’s downright pitiful.”

  William made a low sound of agreement in the back of his throat. He pointed at a pitcher, and Boyd refilled his mug. He detested having to ask for help. The damned wooden leg he was saddled with was almost more than his pride might bear. It had been Rolfe who refused to let him stay abovestairs, and it had proven that Rolfe was a man grown. William would be wise to listen to him.

  Yes, he was a fine son. More like his mother when it came to his honor, but a woman could afford to be devoted to things such as honesty and integrity. A laird had to temper that with the will to improve his clan’s lot. A noble title. It was a fine thing to want. The regents surrounding the young king made sure to not hand out titles to the Highlanders, preferring to keep them all beneath their higher stations. The Earl of Sutherland was one exception, and William planned to be another.

  Rolfe would come around in his thinking.

  * * *

  Grant land

  “Ye are very fetching,” Niul complimented Brenda Grant honestly.

  The woman was breathtaking and a few years past the first blossom of her youth. He decided maturity suited her even better, and wondered just what skill she had when it came to riding a man. Virgins were tiresome with their shyness.

  “And ye”—Brenda looked straight into his eyes and fluttered her eyelashes—“are clearly accustomed to yer handsome face melting the hearts of the women on McTavish land.”

  Niul chuckled. “Perhaps I’m the lucky one to be sent up here after all. And here I was thinking it was another duty thrust upon me by me brother.”

  “Happy to be proven wrong?” Brenda asked him in a lyrical tone.

  Niul took the opportunity to lean closer to her, but froze when he felt the point of a dagger against his thigh. Brenda’s eyes flickered with hard purpose.

  “Brenda,” Symon Grant spoke his cousin’s name in warning. “Tell the man ye are no’ interested and be done with it.”

  Brenda withdrew the dagger and looked at Symon. “Men such as…him do nae listen to a female. They think us all creatures to serve their needs.”

  Brenda rose and lowered herself before the new laird of the Grants. In a motion that was so graceful that Niul discovered himself enchanted by it, she turned and left the hall.

  “Why do ye allow her to behave in that manner?”

  Symon angled his head so he could make eye contact with Niul down the head table. “Brenda did her duty in wedding her father’s choice of husband for her. The Earl of Morton used her cruelly, and me own father arranged a match for her that was distasteful, so…” Symon sent him a hard look. “It was me father who decided she would be her own woman on account of the service she’s done for the Grants. Make no mistake, McTavish. I will be keeping me promise to me father. If ye want her, best learn a thing or two
about courting.”

  Niul didn’t care for Symon’s words, especially when the Grant captains were listening in. “I’ve heard rumors of the way it is here on Grant land now that ye are laird.” Niul took a deep drink from his mug. “Heard ye spent a year following that Lindsey wench about before she agreed to wed ye.”

  Symons knuckles popped as he curled his hand into a fist. “Never”—his voice was as tight as his body—“speak of my wife again.”

  The Grant captains were shooting Niul hard looks. He wasn’t willing to back down, and not just because he wanted to pick a fight. There was a chill in the air in Grant Castle. It raised Niul’s hackles and made him want to kick Symon Grant in the arse. The man had a full mourning beard on his face, growth that was over two years old.

  “This place needs life,” Niul began. “Ye and yer cousin are the only members left of yer line. Ye need some weddings here.”

  Symon slammed his fist onto the tabletop. “I did so and buried me wife before a year had passed. No more talk on the matter.”

  He’d loved her. Niul drew off a long sip of ale and contemplated Symon. Since Niul was a bastard, William had made sure his half brother never wed. Never produced another branch of the family tree. The laird had no idea how much Niul resented his ways or how Niul longed for a son of his own. One he might recognize and raise up. Without one, he found himself seeing Symon as a younger man in need of guidance. Everyone around the new laird was too intimidated by his position to do what needed doing.

  Being a bastard had its advantages at times.

  “Women die in childbed, man. Ye sound like me brother, cursing Fate for the loss of his leg when he is hardly the first man to suffer a wound that festers.”

  “I said—”

  “I heard what ye said.” Niul raised his voice. “And I see how yer captains are looking at their suppers and letting ye seep yerself in yer mourning. I’m no’ afraid of ye, boy… She is dead. Long cold in her grave, and it’s far past time someone found the balls to tell ye to notice how long it’s been.”

  “Bastard!”

  Symon roared as he came up and out of his chair. Niul met him, the pair of them rolling over the long head table as they grappled.