A Highlander’s Love: Highlands Ever After

by Adams, Aileen

  What else was there to be found? Now, nothing could have kept Tyra from satisfying her questions. She turned to a pile of papers, letters by the looks of them.

  Her eyes moved back and forth over the parchment, her mind barely allowing her to accept what she saw before her. It could not be. Either the man suffered under delusions—she could not rule this out—or he was entirely different from the man she’d imagined him to be.

  For the unfinished letter had been written to none other than Charles Stuart.

  Bonnie Prince Charlie? How could it be? Tyra plopped down upon the chair behind the table, no longer concerned with keeping watch. Surely, her eyes deceived her. The man could not know the prince.

  The letter had never been sent, obviously, likely because the man was in hiding the last Tyra heard of him. Or because Dougal did not know him.

  It occurred to her that she wished for this to be the truth, even if it meant the man holding her all but captive in his empty house was deluded, because the alternative—living beneath the roof of a Jacobite sympathizer—was far more dangerous. The rebellious Jacobites were considered outlaws by the crown, were arrested and more often than not executed for their activities.

  Was Dougal Craig one of these men? Did she sleep beneath the roof of a wanted man?

  She did not realize she’d all but forgotten about the dog until the beast jumped up from its resting place near her feet and trotted to the door. The sudden movement drew her attention.

  Which left her staring at Dougal Craig himself, standing in the doorway with a murderous look on his face. His eyes darted from her to the papers, which she had not touched, thank the heavens. As far as he knew, she’d taken a seat and nothing more.

  If only he believed this.

  The fact of her presence was more than enough trouble. “What are ye doing in here, lass?” he demanded. Another of the dogs was at his side, and this particular beast growled at her presence.

  She raised an arm, pointing at him. “I will tell you, if only you hold that hell hound back.”

  Dougal’s brow furrowed. “He will not harm ye—unless I wish it so.”

  “Do not threaten me,” she warned. It was strange, even perverse, but the little she’d learned of this man had rendered him more… human. She was no longer as frightened. He was merely a man.

  A man who’d attempted correspondence with Charles Stuart, who had a price on his head and was rumored to be hiding somewhere on the moors.

  “What brings you here, into this room?” he murmured. She’d expected him to shout, yet this was far more chilling. He spoke as one who barely held himself in check.

  “I wished to walk about,” she offered, knowing how pitiful an excuse it was but unable to come up with anything better. “I grew tired of remaining in a single room, and you never speak to me or visit aside from leaving my tray. I will not be held in a cage.”

  “Ye are not in a cage.”

  “I am not allowed to explore the house, however, or you would not demand to know why I’ve come to rest upon this chair.”

  His mouth all but disappeared as he pressed his lips in a tight line. “Dinna lie. Ye dinna have a gift for it.”

  “It is the truth.”

  “Ye wished to learn more of me.”

  “That is untrue.”

  To her surprise, he snickered with a touch of humor, his eyes lighting up when he did. “Is it? Ye have never asked yourself who I am? How I live? Not once in these many days? I find that difficult to believe.”

  “If you thought me curious, you might have shown yourself and allowed me to speak with you,” she countered. What was this reaction, deep in her core? A flood of warmth to pair with the singing of her blood as it raced through her. The act of matching wits with this large, powerful and terribly wealthy man gave her fresh vitality, it seemed, and she sat up straighter.

  “I am a busy man.”

  “Not too busy to bring my trays.” When he stammered, reaching for a response, she smiled in triumph. “If you are so terribly busy, you might allow me to be on my way. Someone awaits me, someone who knows by now that I’ve reached Beauly.”

  He lowered his brow, the dog at his side growling again as if it sensed the darkening of his mood. “Who would that be? Ye never spoke—”

  “You never gave me the chance to speak of her!”

  “Her? A lass, then?”

  “Iona Douglas. I was to be her cook and housekeeper.” There was no missing the twitching of his jaw. “You know the name, it is clear. Where does she live? She must be terribly upset, thinking some tragedy has befallen me.”

  He cleared his throat, now shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Iona Douglas, is it? She is quite the figure in the eyes of the villagers.”

  Tyra’s heart sank. “I do not understand.”

  “They dinna care for her. Laughed at her, even, when she fell in the muck. They believe her to possess notions above her station. She is all but hated by many—truly, it is for the best that ye came to find me,” he added with a sigh. “I would not have ye suffer the whispers and rumors she has suffered.”

  Was this true? Was Iona suffering so? “Oh,” she whispered, confused and dismayed for her old friend. “Perhaps my presence would bolster her. She might not feel so alone.”

  “Perhaps the presence of a mysterious woman who’d been shot through the shoulder while trespassing on the lands of a stranger would add to her strain,” Dougal suggested with another sigh. “Do ye see the problem clearly now?”

  She did, and it sickened her. She would only make Iona’s life more difficult if they were seen together. “But I must see her,” she insisted just the same. “She must know I am alive and well enough. That I did not fall prey to cutthroats along the road, that I have not betrayed or forgotten her. You must see that. We have relied upon each other these last ten years. I cannot allow her to mourn me when there is nothing to mourn.”

  He looked up at the ceiling, muttering some dark, filthy words just loudly enough for her to hear. “What if I ride out to see her and confide your presence? She might know ye are well, but that ye cannot visit her as yet. Would that suit ye?”

  It was better than nothing. “Yes, please,” she breathed, nodding. “Tell her how sorry I am, that I miss her greatly and wish for us to be together soon. When the time is right.”

  “When the time is right,” he agreed, meeting her gaze once again. “It shall be done.”

  “You forget one thing,” she added when it seemed he was prepared to leave the matter where it was.

  He lowered his brow, glowering at her. “What?” he spat, the attitude of a man near the end of his patience.

  “You have never thought to ask my name.”

  His mouth fell open before snapping shut again. His nostrils flared when he snorted, humor crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I had not thought of it, I admit. Too concerned with whether ye lived or died, I suppose. What would your name be?”

  “Tyra Fletcher.”

  “Tyra Fletcher, it seems I must fashion a sling for your shoulder,” he observed. “If ye are to be walking about the place, ye shall need one to support your arm.”

  What manner of man was this? It seemed he took pleasure in surprising her, doing the opposite of what she would expect. “Thank you,” she murmured as she rose, silently conceding his ownership of the room which she’d searched as she walked from it.

  Perhaps all was not as bleak as she had imagined.

  7

  There was one thing Dougal knew as he walked about with his dogs after having spoken with that damnably frustrating woman.

  He could not allow her to leave, no matter how she wished to do so.

  Iona Douglas! Of all people for Tyra to know. If only she’d veered further east while wandering about, lost. She would have found Iona’s home and all would have gone far differently.

  No, she’d found her way to him and his pistol.

  Now, she wished to leave. He’d known this time would
come, hence having avoided speaking to her until she’d placed herself in his path by going through his things. Nothing had been disturbed so far as he could tell, and there had never been signs before this day that she’d ventured out of her chambers. This was the first time she’d gotten the courage and strength to do so.

  “A fine guard ye are,” he growled at Prince, who looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Ye were to prevent her from leaving the room, and what did I find instead? Ye were all but curled up at her feet, ye fool.”

  And now, she would go to the sheriff and tell him who’d shot her.

  After all, Colin Ramsey was involved with that Douglas woman, hence their fight in the road. There was no mistaking a man desperately in love. It would be a simple matter for Tyra to confess to what had taken place, since the sheriff would naturally be in her presence and would wish to know what befell her.

  Then? No one need tell Dougal what would come from it.

  Not for the first time did he curse that village and the people living in it. Suspicious, vile people who already did not trust him thanks to his English blood. They would delight in spitting upon him if they heard what he’d done.

  Even the bracing, fresh air which stirred the tall grasses and the heather growing abundantly at the base of the western mountains did little to clear his dark, troubled thoughts. He whistled to the dogs when they ventured too far ahead of him, calling them back. Well-trained though they were, there was no telling when something would capture their attention and draw them away.

  Dougal did not know what came as the greater shock: finding Tyra at his desk, or finding Prince resting peacefully near her feet.

  The lass had a way about her, to be certain. In fact, now that Dougal reflected more deeply upon her presence, he found himself not at all angry that she’d ventured upon his personal correspondence.

  For it had led to their conversation, which he’d enjoyed far more than he ought to.

  Why? Was it irrationality on his part? Certainly, he was not above obdurate behavior, that which would be frowned upon by so-called decent people. He tended to go against conventional opinion as a matter of principle, refusing to follow the beliefs of the many simply because a greater number of voices supported them.

  Even at times to his later regret.

  This had to explain why arguing with the lass had invigorated him. Rarely did he match wits with one able to keep up with him, who even managed to surprise him with the quickness of their thinking. She’d done that, both earlier that day and when she’d first awoken and held the knife to him.

  Even then, clearly gripped with terror, her sharp mind and sharp tongue had not faltered.

  He reached the top of a rise, drawing a deep breath which he let out slowly while gazing over his land. It was clear now. He enjoyed having her about the house. Now that she’d shown herself fit to wander on her healed ankle, they might see one another in passing. The notion appealed to him.

  Had he truly been so lonesome that the notion of another person in his house brought a smile to his face?

  It was not simply that she was another person. It was her. The fact of Tyra being who she was. Most people did not interest him, but she did. He wished to know more about her, to hear her thoughts about nearly everything.

  Yet that was not for him to know. It was an easy thing, forgetting why she lived with him, and all the more difficult to bear as he became fonder of her. He’d wounded her badly. He might easily have killed her—were she crouching the slightest bit to the left of where she’d hidden, the ball could have pierced her heart.

  It was not for him to imagine Tyra coming to enjoy her time with him. She saw herself as a prisoner, or a caged animal. No chance was there of her growing fond of him.

  Especially not when she had another destination in mind. He ought to have asked straight-out what brought her to the highlands, where she’d been hoping to reach before becoming lost. Why had he never thought to ask?

  At first, he’d been too concerned with her holding a knife. He’d avoided her after that, knowing she would ask endless questions to which there was no answer. Telling himself that so long as he kept her fed and comfortable, she would have no cause to demand he release her.

  If she had not slipped into his study while he was out of the house, how long might it have been before they spoke again? As long as he could manage it, he assumed. Foolish, thinking he could avoid the inevitable so easily.

  Iona Douglas. This made him laugh again, the fact that the lass had been so close to reaching her destination. Of all the women in the world for Tyra to be acquainted with, Iona Douglas was by far the most dangerous to him.

  Royal stopped, his ears standing up, sniffing the air. Prince did the same. “What do ye smell?” Dougal asked, watching them. Even after living with dogs throughout his life, their keen senses impressed him.

  He followed the direction in which they gazed and found a rider approaching. Had the man heard Dougal thinking about him earlier? For what were the chances of Colin Ramsey happening to cross over the border between his land and Iona’s at this very time?

  Colin raised a hand in greeting, like as not to convey innocent intentions.

  As such, Dougal held back the dogs, merely walking toward his visitor that they might meet in the middle. “What brings ye this way?” he asked once they were within distance to hear one another. “Is there trouble?”

  The sheriff grimaced. He often wore such an expression, especially as of late thanks to troubles in the region brought about by those refusing to adhere to the Act of Proscription. Dougal was one of those men and had openly worn his tartan while riding. It was perhaps more than he deserved, the mercy which the sheriff had shown him and so many others when he might just as easily have turned them all over to the crown.

  “When is there no trouble?” Colin countered. “I’ve just come from Iona. She is terribly concerned.”

  Dougal took pains to appear unaffected by this, even as his conscience fairly shrieked. “Why is that?”

  “She has awaited the arrival of a person she cares for a great deal. Her household companion for many years. The lass was late in arriving, but I saw her in the village a week ago. She ne’er reached her destination.”

  Dougal gritted his teeth, willing himself to appear calm. So the sheriff knew of the lass’s having arrived! She had not told him this. What hope did he have of keeping her a secret when the man knew she’d reached the village?

  “Where did ye send her?” he asked. How could he sound so calm at a time such as this? With the noose all but around his neck?

  “On to Iona’s,” Colin sighed.

  “Alone? Little wonder she never arrived.” It was a long ride from the village, to be sure, and likely impossible for a stranger to navigate alone.

  The sheriff scowled. “Of course I did not, man. Do ye take me for a fool? Dinna answer,” he added with a sharp sigh.

  Dougal held up his hands as if to convey no harm, though he’d been thinking precisely what Colin believed him to be. Yes, the man was a fool, at least when it came to certain matters.

  “I sent her on with one of my guards,” Colin continued, his expression one of pain. “We found him along the road, bleeding, senseless after having been struck over the head. There was no sign of the lass. I fear she has come to a dreadful end.”

  For one moment, it was as if the clouds parted overhead and sunshine flooded over him. Colin believed the lass dead—anything beyond that would seem a miracle, indeed. The notion of convincing Tyra to lie, to say the man who’d killed the guard had also shot her before she’d escaped occurred to him in that wild, hopeful moment.

  She would never agree to it. He did not need to know the lass intimately to understand her mind. The clouds rolled in again, darkening his mood. “A terrible thing,” he murmured, knowing now that he’d missed his opportunity to tell the truth. Anything after this would be a lie, and an unforgivable one. There was no going back now.

  Colin, unaware
of the conflict boiling in Dougal’s soul, nodded slowly. “I fear she shall ne’er forgive me for not having escorted the lass myself, but with so much to concern me…”

  “If she is a level-headed lass, she shall understand in time,” Dougal offered. “I’ve heard of her strong will and keen mind. Everyone has, I suspect. From what I’ve learned, she is not one to lose her senses.”

  “Aye, ye might be right, at that,” Colin admitted, or perhaps the man merely wished to believe it. Perhaps the notion of his beloved never forgiving him was too much to bear, so he would grasp at anything that might offer comfort.

  He then reached inside his cloak, withdrawing a folded bit of paper. “I thought this might interest ye. I have shown this to nearly every man I’ve encountered since it came into my possession.”

  The was The Daily Courant, a printed paper out of London which carried important news items. How the man had come into possession of an English newspaper was a mystery, but any questions as to this came to pass were quickly forgotten when Dougal read the item at the top of the page.

  Two Scotsmen had been arrested and tried for conspiring against the crown and were expected to be parted from their heads soon enough. “Beheaded,” he whispered, his horror growing with each word he read.

  “Aye,” Colin growled. “They were captured outside Edinburgh before being taken to London, and their trial was likely nothing more than a show put on for the sake of saying they’d received fair treatment.”

  Dougal could not speak. He could hardly breathe. He no longer cared about Iona or Tyra or anything around him except for the newspaper he clutched in hands trembling with rage.

  For one of the names was familiar to him.

  8

  Perhaps now would be the time to make her escape.

  Tyra could not help but entertain this impulse whenever Dougal left the house. And he left the house so very often.

  Why did he go out? She could not say. He never spoke of his actions, his work—if there was any. But a man as wealthy as himself would have no need to turn his hand to labor. How did he spend his days, then?