The Highland Renegade

by Amy Jarecki

  Janet sniffed, wildly fluttering her fan. “What should I have said? I could not sit idle and allow him to degrade our traditions.”

  “But vigorous?” Mairi giggled.

  “Aye, Sister.” Kennan gave a pointed look. “I agree with Her Ladyship. Keep mum when in the presence of that man—or any dragoons. They have a knack of turning anything you say against you.”

  Janet grasped the handle of her tankard. “I intend to stay away from all soldiers.” Cummins most of all.

  As she sipped, she watched Mr. Grant follow a barmaid out the back toward the bathhouse. Over his shoulder, the brawny Highlander cast a tortured look Janet’s way. A look filled with hunger. Had Janet blinked, she would have missed the glance from her father’s sworn enemy. Oddly, the shudder coursing through her far exceeded the brief duration of his glimpse. How could a man impart such heated intensity within a mere heartbeat? Good glory, she could scarcely breathe.

  Oh, to be in the barmaid’s shoes. Janet would douse the laird under his bathwater until he admitted the Camerons hadn’t stolen his miserable beasts.

  Bath?

  Robert Grant without his clothing.

  Janet gulped, her skin afire.

  Perhaps she’d best confront him on the matter some other time.

  * * *

  “’Tis sixpence for a bath and shave. The men’s tubs are behind the curtain,” said the wench. “Would you like me to launder your shirt and kilt?”

  “Please.” Robert set down his cup of whisky, opened the thong on his sporran, and fished out a handful of coins.

  “A penny for the shirt and two for your plaid.”

  He dropped the change into her palm. “Is the water hot?”

  “The lad is bringing a kettle from the kitchen anon.” She dropped the coins into a pocket hanging from her apron. “Shall I help you disrobe, sir?”

  “Nay, just ensure the lad hastes with the water.”

  “Very well. I’ll return later with the shaving kit.”

  Normally Robert enjoyed having a female unwrap his tartan. He liked the thrill of having a wench’s eyes on him—her tongue slipping to the corner of her mouth, her cheeks growing rosy. Occasionally breasts would heave, and the boldest lassies would pay a compliment, or make a proposition—usually a welcome one. But Robert was still annoyed by his confrontation in the stables with Kennan Cameron. Worse, the man’s sister had stood by, glaring at him as if he were Lucifer, and now the lass was dining in the next room. Blast her. He could feel Janet’s accusing eyes boring into his back as he’d left for the bathhouse. The heat from her gaze still lingered on his skin. Must his nemesis have a daughter sent from hell to torture him?

  If only the Camerons hadn’t come. And why do they not leave their womenfolk at home?

  He shouldn’t have been so forward with Cameron when he’d confronted him at the stables, but his shepherd had been positive about the cattle thieves. Cameron men had been spotted nearby and no one else. Of course, Kennan had denied his clan’s guilt and Miss Janet had grown indignant at Robert’s accusation, insistent upon her father’s virtue. And she’d stood beside her brother like a Viking princess, her rich blue eyes intense and far too confident—as if she were accusing him of poaching. Further, she’d had the audacity to point out her kin had sustained hefty livestock losses as well.

  But the yearlings hadn’t disappeared on their own. Someone was responsible for poaching Robert’s cattle, and he intended to find out who.

  Hell, I ken who.

  Camerons and Grants had feuded for centuries, and it would have been too bloody tempting for Lochiel’s men to ride on without pinching a few of Robert’s head. But they hadn’t left it at a few. The bastards had poached six and sixty yearlings—enough for him to consider putting Achnacarry to fire and sword. But first he needed more proof. With all the redcoats swarming through the Highlands, gone were the days of reiving without first securing a testimony.

  Robert retrieved his whisky and took a healthy swig, then pushed through the curtain. A pair of men reclined in tubs, smoking pipes. He gave them a nod, wishing tobacco were banned from the bathhouse. He didn’t enjoy the smoke. To him it reeked, and the odor clung to his clothes. Which is why he set his satchel on a chair and left his only change of clean clothes inside.

  After the lad came with the hot water, Robert lowered himself into the tub and sighed aloud. Weariness built up after a month traversing the Highlands, sleeping on rocky ground and freezing his arse most nights; the big wooden tub was akin to heaven. He took another sip of whisky and slid down farther, resting his head back and closing his eyes.

  By the time he finished his drink, the lass had reappeared with razor, bowl, and brush. “Are you ready for your shave, sir?”

  “Aye.” He beckoned her forward, examining her form. She was of sturdy stock, full bodied, the way women ought to be. Then she smiled, revealing a missing tooth right in the front. Wisps of mousy-brown hair poked from beneath her coif, and when she bent over him with the brush and bowl, her breath smelled sour.

  Robert wiped his hand down his face. “Be careful with that blade, lassie.”

  “I always am,” she said, as if she’d shaved hundreds of faces—most likely she had.

  He raised his chin and submitted to her choppy ministrations, feeling like a sheep in the shearing shed. She hummed pleasantly, but her hand was anything but gentle. Robert winced when she nicked the back of his jaw.

  The lass snapped her hand away. “Och, forgive me, sir. I’m sorry.”

  He wiped the cut, then rinsed the blood off in the water. “Do you have some other place you need to be?”

  “Nay, sir.”

  “Are you not satisfied with your wages?”

  “My wages are adequate. Why do you ask?”

  “You’re nay cleaving a slab of mutton here. I suggest you relax. Shaving a man is easier if you’re not tense.”

  “Sorry,” she apologized again before taking another swipe along his jaw, slower this time. “Ah…would ye be needing some company this evening?” she asked, her voice unsure.

  He opened one eye and looked her up and down. The woman had not a line on her face, making it impossible to determine if she’d reached her majority. In the dark the missing tooth might not matter, but Robert had no intention of bedding a novice.

  Chapter Two

  Wrapped in her woolen cloak and carrying a satchel holding the mittens, scarves, and hats she had knitted for the unfortunate, Janet met Mairi in the entrance hall of the boardinghouse. “It is blowing a gale outside.”

  Stepping down the creaky stairs, Mairi pulled her hood low over her brow. “Always does this time of year. At least it is not raining.”

  “Thank heavens for small mercies.” Janet’s stomach gave a wee flutter. She’d been looking forward to doing a bit of shopping, and being able to catch up on the news with Mairi was an added boon. She held up her satchel. “It will only take a moment to drop these at the Benevolent Society.”

  “Aye, and it is on the way to the haberdasher’s.” Her Ladyship opened the door. “I need to purchase some silk thread for a receiving blanket I’m making.”

  “Oh, my word!” Janet skipped beside her newly married friend. “Tell me you’re not expecting.”

  “We are.”

  “What wonderful news. When?”

  “Spring. I think.”

  “Should you not be home at Eilean Donan and in your chamber with your feet propped on a stool?”

  “Wheesht. I’d go mad being cooped up for so long. ’Tis bad enough as it is. Dunn says this is my last outing afore he insists upon my confinement.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re here…as long as you are feeling well.”

  “Never better. It seems pregnancy agrees with me.”

  “You are fortunate. I’ve heard tell of women who take to their beds ill as soon as they miss their courses.” Janet clutched her cloak tighter against the wind. “Have you been to the seer?”

  “Nay.” M
airi slapped her hand through the air. “I’m not about to allow an old crone to tell me whether I’ll live or die, or if the child will be lass or lad.”

  “Smart of you…though I’m not certain I’d be able to wait nine months to find out.”

  “I think seers are wrong half the time, nevertheless.”

  “Aye. The women in Achnacarry jest that if ours says the bairn will be a lad, then expect a lass.”

  Her Ladyship gave a pronounced nod. “See what I mean?”

  A shingle hung outside the West Highland Benevolent Society’s door, screeching and unreadable in the wind. Janet pushed inside to find the same crusty old man with a stooped spine who had manned the office since she was a child. “Hello, Mr. Andrews. I’ve brought you some woolens,” she said, pulling the assortment of scarves, bonnets, and mittens from her bag and placing them on the table.

  “Och, just in time, lass.” He gave her a grin, revealing two black top teeth. “With the chill in the air, I believe winter will be early this year, and there are certainly plenty of unfortunate souls who will be grateful for these.”

  Mairi examined a mitten. “Your work is quite good, Janet.”

  “Thank you. Is there anything else the society needs, sir?”

  Mr. Andrews scratched his chin. “A hall with about twenty rooms and blankets.”

  “Well, I might be able to help with the blankets.”

  “That would be much appreciated, miss,” he said, gathering the woolens into his arms. “I’ll expect to see you a few months hence.”

  “Indeed you will, sir.” Janet turned to Mairi. “See, that didn’t take long at all. Now to enjoy our shopping adventure.”

  Together they continued on their way. At the curb they were forced to walk single file in order to use a plank to cross the muddy street. On the other side, Mairi took Janet by the elbow. “We’ve talked enough about me. How are things now your father has remarried?”

  “I’d rather not talk about things at Achnacarry.” Janet rolled her eyes as they stepped inside the haberdasher’s shop. A sign on the door indicated the tailor was visiting between the hours of ten and three and that all gentlemen should schedule an appointment with the clerk.

  “Good morn,” said the merchant from behind the counter.

  The two women greeted him in unison.

  “May I help you find something?” he asked.

  “Silk and sewing needles, please,” Mairi replied.

  “Ah yes, we received a shipment with brilliant new colors just for Samhain. You’ll find them and the needles just here.” Beaming, he motioned to the silk display case with at least a dozen drawers along the far wall. “Needles are in the bottom drawer.”

  “Thank you.” Janet gave him a nod as the bell rang and two more ladies stepped inside.

  “I’ll leave you to make your selections,” he said, then greeted the newcomers.

  Janet used the tiny wooden knob to pull open the top drawer and peek inside. “These are lovely. Do you like the blue?”

  “I think yellow is more neutral.” Mairi moved in beside her. “Your tone was a bit foreboding when you uttered ‘Achnacarry.’ Is all well?”

  “Och, let us simply say it is a welcome diversion to spend a few days in Inverlochy.”

  “Oh dear, I sense some discord.”

  “I suppose. Honestly, I have no grounds upon which to complain. ’Tis just difficult to see one’s own father acting like a lovesick chap.”

  “I can hardly imagine my father behaving so un-earl-like.” Mairi covered her mouth and stifled a giggle. “And your stepmother. Is she treating you well?”

  Janet pursed her lips and glanced over her shoulder to ensure no one was eavesdropping, then lowered her voice. “I suppose she’s nice enough. Though she looks at me with leery eyes. And I strongly suspect she’s planning to marry me off to the first man who happens past.”

  “Truly?” A crease formed between Mairi’s eyebrows. “Your father ought to have something to say about that.”

  “Thank heavens, else I would have been peddled off to a traveling merchant who called in a fortnight ago.”

  “A merchant? You are the daughter of a knight and a laird. Has your father not begun to seek an alliance with your hand?”

  “Haud yer wheesht!” Janet knew all about arranged marriages. Mairi had been promised to the Earl of Seaforth all her life, until the earl fell in love with an English lass. Thank heavens he did, else Mairi never would have been able to marry the man she was meant to. “You are my dearest friend, m’lady, but I must say you are the last person who should talk to me about making alliances via the marriage bed.”

  Mairi stared, agape. “Goodness, you are right. I cannot believe I uttered it.” She shut the top drawer of the thread display and pulled open the next—not that she seemed to be paying any attention to the colors whatsoever. “Forgive me for prying, but are you planning to forge your own alliance—say during Samhain?”

  “Not at all. I’m nowhere near as flamboyant as you, my dearest.” Janet sighed, knowing she’d just told a tall tale. If only I could be forward like Mairi—bat my eyelashes at a braw lad and have him swoon at my feet. “However, I am browsing. I would like to find a suitable gentleman afore my stepmother starts to meddle—if she hasn’t already.”

  “Is there a suitor you might have in mind?”

  “Nay. Please keep my confidence, but I’ll admit I did think, with so many clans coming to the Samhain celebrations, why, there might be someone.”

  “Hmm. How about Ciar MacDougall? He’s next in line to be laird, and his lands are vast indeed.”

  “MacDougall?” Janet said, her voice trailing off. She had known Ciar all her life. He was as much her brother as Kennan. MacDougall lands were not as vast as Cameron lands, though that didn’t matter a lick to her. Her friendship with Ciar was unquestionable. Unfortunately, she’d never felt much of a spark for him. Isn’t there supposed to be some sort of spark, heart palpitations, swooning, falling in love? In addition, she was quite certain he felt the same. Spark-less. In fact, they’d discussed their feelings at a gathering when she was eighteen. They’d agreed to be fast allies for life and never sweethearts. “He’s a good friend, I suppose.”

  “Friendship is a place to start.”

  “No, Mairi. I am not attracted to Ciar.” Janet opened the drawer of needles and pulled out an assortment of four pinned on a black piece of cloth. “You found love,” she whispered. “Is it wrong for me to want that as well?”

  “Not at all. I am the last person in all of Christendom to downplay the merits of a bond with love. To me it is the difference between building a house of stone and one of sticks.” Mairi opened her fan and held it up to ensure more privacy. “Do you want to know what I think?”

  Janet kept the needles to purchase and closed the drawer. “I’ll wager you’re about to tell me.”

  “At every gathering we have ever attended together, you have not been able to avert your eyes from the laird of Clan Grant.”

  Janet nearly spat out her teeth, she guffawed so loudly. “Oh please. Mr. Grant?”

  “I’m telling you true.”

  “If what you say is actually what you have observed, then ’tis only on account of his vile nature and his insistence on blaming my father for his own livestock losses. I declare, that man is neglectful of his affairs, an unmitigated brute, and a rogue of the worst order!”

  The curtain behind them swished open. A tailor with a measuring ribbon around his neck stepped through and gave the ladies a sideways glance. The problem? On his heels was the very man for whom Janet had professed her dislike so profoundly.

  Her throat constricted as she drew her hand over her mouth.

  “Grant,” Mairi said behind her, far too chirpily. “’Tis good to see you this morn.”

  The man towered over them by a foot, glowering directly at Janet. “Is it? Or would you prefer I collect my horse and leave the profits on my remaining yearlings for your brother to collect?”
/>
  Janet’s face grew hot. “I—”

  “Oh please, Your Lairdship,” said Mairi. “You cannot hold Miss Janet and her clan accountable. You ken they would never thieve your cattle.”

  “I can only go on the facts, m’lady. And the evidence points to Cameron lads.”

  Shaking off her mortification, Janet stepped forward and shifted her hands to her hips. “My father’s men did not thieve your yearlings, sir.” She might not be flirtatious like Mairi, but she would hold her own against this brigand. “Did you not hear Kennan yesterday? The Camerons suffered losses, too. Someone else poached your cattle as well as ours.”

  The laird’s polished-steel eyes glared down at her, his jaw hard. Janet’s knees wobbled. Good gracious, the man had shaved, and he wore a clean shirt and kilt, looking far too braw for a scoundrel. But Janet could not mistake the hate in his stare; he was glowering as if he might be about to strike. “Then you’d venture to add daft to your litany of dislikes, would you, miss?”

  “I-I—”

  “You are filled with your father’s bile just like all of his spawn.” Mr. Grant strode past the tailor. “I’ll return for my suit of clothes afore the end of the week.”

  Janet cringed, watching him storm out the door, his shoulders so wide hardly any daylight shone between his form and the jamb. She clutched her hands over her heart, every fiber of her body taut. No matter how handsome she found Mr. Grant, she would never like him. “He’s horrible.”

  “Misguided, I’d say.” Mairi placed her arm across Janet’s shoulders. “Perhaps I’ll have a word with Dunn—see if he can reason with the laird.”

  “What use would that be? Robert Grant will always think what he likes, no matter how mistaken he is. I stand by everything I said about him, and if he doesn’t like it, he can bite his own backside.”

  * * *

  Robert cracked his knuckles as he made his way to the alehouse. While he’d stood for the tailor to take his measurements, he’d heard the ladies enter the shop. Their banter had been mildly interesting until Janet spat a line of defamatory untruths about him. What the devil did she know of Robert’s character? He wasn’t vile or neglectful, and he most certainly was no fop. Aye, he had a reputation to uphold for harboring a certain talent with the ladies, but rogue?