The Highland Renegade

by Amy Jarecki

  He raised the spoon to his lips and tasted. “Does the fact that I’m cooking surprise you?” he asked.

  “Aye, and everything else. You managed quite well with my gown, you cleaned rabbits, set my arm, rescued me from certain death at the bottom of the glen.” Again she sighed. “I suppose it should be of no consequence to watch you prepare a pottage.”

  He shrugged. “I suppose ’tis nothing I wouldn’t expect from any other man. We all must dress ourselves, and when droving cattle for months on end, a man learns a bit about preparing food, else he starves.” He tapped the spoon on the edge of the cast-iron pot, then set it down. “Don’t expect this to taste like a Michaelmas feast. Without seasoning, it will keep us alive and that’s about all.”

  “I’m hungry enough to eat tanned leather.”

  “Good.” He grinned, those confounded dimples making her insides dance. “Camp food tastes better when you’re starved.”

  “I shall remember that.” Janet picked up her comb and started working through the knots at the ends of her tresses. Using one hand was all but hopeless. Her hair was too thick and too unruly.

  “Let me help.” Robert sat on the pallet beside her.

  “You’re busy. The least I can do is work a comb through these knots.”

  “Aye, though we’ve naught to do but wait and let the rabbits simmer for an hour or so.” He slid his hand over her fingers and took the comb. “Please, allow me.”

  “Good luck to you. I’m afraid the tangle is beyond repair.”

  “I do not ken about that.” He started at the ends, working the comb with quick flicks.

  “My hair has always been difficult to manage. My lady’s maid complains about it incessantly.”

  “Then I would venture to guess she is underworked.”

  Janet glanced over her shoulder just as he looked up. Goodness, her stays were hardly constricting, and yet her head swooned. Not only that, her entire body swooned, if such a thing could happen. “I daresay you have an arresting look about you.” Och, did I just utter those words aloud?

  He confirmed her dread when his gaze dipped downward and then back up while his tongue slipped over his lip. “I cannot say I have ever been thus accused. Mayhap ’tis on account of the stitches on my right cheek.”

  “Apologies.” She winced. “Your wound looks a bit red around the edges. But you said earlier ’tisn’t ailing you?”

  “Not overmuch.”

  “As I mentioned afore, leave it sewn at least another sennight, else your scar will be worse.”

  “Hmm.” He winked. “I doubt such a battle wound will add to my status as an arresting gentleman.”

  An unladylike chuckle pealed from her throat. “Agreed. The scar will be fearsome enough without it taking up half your cheek.”

  His gaze returned to her tresses, and he drew the comb through the length. “There. I say your locks are like silk thread. They might tangle easily, but I am convinced your maid hasn’t worked a solid day in her life.” He plucked a half-dry tress and drew it to his nose. “And the scent reminds me of a field of lavender.”

  She pulled away while her hair slowly slipped across his palm. The swooning of her insides grew tenfold. “Now I ken you tell tall tales.”

  “I beg to differ, miss. In this instance I have been reticent if anything.”

  As her gaze slipped from his intense silver-blue eyes to the fullness of his lips, Janet raised her chin slightly. For a moment when he was helping her dress, she’d thought he might kiss her, and now she craved for him to do so. She shivered with the unbridled strength of her longing. He needed only to dip his chin a few more inches and their lips would touch. They sat motionless for a lingering moment, staring, not moving, while Janet’s heart pounded.

  But rather than dip his chin, Robert swiped his knuckles across the thick stubble along his jaw. “So, Miss Cameron, how do you spend your days at the illustrious castle of Achnacarry?”

  All thoughts of swooning turned to sinking lead. “I doubt my days would hold any interest for a great laird such as yourself.” She looked to the rafters. Her father always paid far more attention to her brothers’ pursuits.

  “Humor me. What would a day in the life of Janet Cameron be like?”

  “Boring.”

  “Nay, lass. I do not believe you.”

  “Very well. In the mornings, I like to visit the stable and work the fillies and colts.”

  “Colts? Honestly? Isn’t that a bit dangerous for a wee—”

  “A wee woman?” She squared her shoulders. “Do you not think I can train a horse?”

  “As I have witnessed, you are quite a proficient rider, but young colts are skittish.”

  “They are.” She leaned nearer—sideways, shoulder to shoulder, as she would with her brothers. There would be no more temptation. She could not allow it. “The key is patience.”

  “Patience? They’re bloody beasts of burden.”

  Janet held up her finger. “So says every man I’ve ever met bar one.”

  “And who may that be?”

  “The stable master at Achnacarry. He taught me everything I know.”

  “And is this stable master arresting?”

  “Nay. Crusty and old is more apt—but he is endearing.”

  “And patient with young horses.”

  “Aye.”

  “If you show them patience you’ll never manage to break them.”

  “True.” Janet held up a finger. “The goal isn’t to break a horse but to become their alpha mare.”

  The man snorted, a sarcastic grin making his dimples prominent. “That sounds like hogwash. Do you incant a spell and wave a magic wand as well?”

  “Now you’re mocking me.”

  Awkward silence swelled through the air.

  “Forgive me.” Mr. Grant scooted over and stirred the pottage. “I just have never witnessed such a thing.”

  “Then admit you cannot pass judgment until you’ve seen it with your own eyes. I think you owe me that, for I am not one to tell tall tales, either.”

  “Very well.” He rolled his hand through the air. “You spend your mornings in the stables.”

  “Aye, when I can. I also spend the evenings knitting.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Knitting,” he said, as if it were the most interesting thing to come out of her mouth thus far.

  “I make mittens, bonnets, scarves, and stockings for the West Highland Benevolent Society.”

  “A worthy cause.”

  “It is. I delivered a score of each before Samhain. ’Tis the reason Da allowed me to accompany Kennan, else I doubt he would have let me go.”

  Robert gestured to her arm. “I reckon you would have been better off had you stayed at Achnacarry.”

  “True.”

  “But Kennan is a responsible man. I do not see why your father would object to having him provide escort.”

  “It wasn’t Kennan so much as Da likes to keep me under a watchful eye.” She groaned. “That’s what he says, though I’m never quite sure why. When I’m at home I hardly see him.”

  “Doesn’t he pay you much mind?”

  “Mind? He’s a laird of a vast estate—just like you.” Batting her hand through the air, she shook her head. “We chat at mealtimes, so he always kens what I’m up to. At least he thinks he does.”

  “Thinks? I hardly see you as surreptitious.”

  “True. Though every lass has her secrets.”

  He took up a lock of her hair and twirled it around his finger. “What kind of secrets?”

  Her lips parted as she watched a curl form as he drew his hand away. “Och, do not tell me a braw Highland laird the likes of Robert Grant would have any interest in the things I choose not to tell.”

  “Hmm. I am very interested.”

  “Bah.”

  “Shall I guess?”

  “I think we should change the subject. I’m sure your hopes and dreams are far more entertaining than mine.”

  He wagged h
is finger beneath her nose. “Not so fast. I like the guessing game better. I’ll wager you have been kissed, but no one but the lad who kissed you kens.”

  Janet drew her hands over her mouth while her cheeks burned. “Kissing is not a proper topic to discuss, sir.” She had kissed a lad once, though she never would own to it.

  “It may not be proper, it’s certainly very interesting,” he chuckled.

  “Sir! I assure you I am not about to discuss whom I have and whom I have not kissed. Especially with you. Goodness’ sakes, you are the head of Clan Grant.”

  He dipped his chin, and intensity filled his eyes. That and unquestioning sincerity. “I would never reveal your secrets to anyone.”

  “Even though I am a Cameron?”

  He gestured from wall to wall. “Here in this bothy, we are but two souls stranded in a snowstorm.” He dug inside his sporran and presented her with a pair of dice. “Have you ever played hazard?”

  “N-no. Is it not a gamer’s sport?”

  “Och, ’tis a simple game of main, nicks, outs, and chance. And I thought—”

  Janet shook her head. “I have nothing with which to place a wager.”

  “If you would allow me to continue…I thought it might be amusing if the loser of each main revealed a secret about themselves.”

  She tapped her lip. It sounded innocent enough, and Janet would quite like to learn more about His Lairdship. “You have no qualms about telling me your secrets?”

  “Not especially.”

  “Does the winner ask a question to which the loser must reply, or does the loser volunteer something?”

  “What would you be most comfortable with?”

  “Volunteering. Most definitely.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Robert stretched out his leg until his foot touched the wall. Odd, a stone about the size of a cannonball shifted.

  “’Tis your turn,” said Janet. The wee vixen had taken to the game of hazard like a bird to flight. Thus far Robert was the only one divulging any secrets.

  “A moment.” He crawled to the loose stone and examined it. Sure enough, the wall had been hollowed out and concealed a cranny. It took only a flick of his fingers to roll the stone away and peer inside.

  “What is it?” Janet asked.

  “Mayhap my luck has changed for the better.” He chuckled. “It appears our shepherds have a taste for spirit.” Wrapping his fingers around the neck of a bottle, he pulled it out. Indeed, it was a full flagon of whisky sealed with cork and wax. He handed it to Janet and, before he rolled the stone back into place, he slid a guinea into the cranny—more than double the price of a bottle of fine whisky, but well worth it.

  “’Tis nice of you to pay.”

  “It is only fair. Though I venture to guess the man who left this will bring along a replacement.” He uncorked the bottle and poured two cups—half for the lass and full for himself. “This will help ease your pain, but be careful not to overindulge, else you’ll suffer from a sore head come morn.”

  She raised her cup. “Whisky is so potent, I doubt I could drink more than a wee dram, though it does help numb the awful throbbing.”

  Robert tapped her cup in toast, then sipped. It wasn’t the smoothest drink he’d ever had, but it was a mite better than water. He picked up the dice. “My turn to call the main, did you say?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “I’ll call it five.”

  “Only five?” she asked as if she were an expert, following her words with a healthy drink. Evidently Janet was a quick learner at more than the game of hazard.

  “Oh ye of little faith.” He shook the dice in his hands and tossed them onto the floor. A two and a three.

  “I’ll be. Nicks on the first throw.” Her cheeks turned a lovely shade of rose while her round eyes sparkled in the firelight.

  Robert waggled his eyebrows teasingly. After a few sips of whisky, the game had suddenly grown more interesting. “Tell me a secret, lass.”

  The flutter of her lashes spoke of bashfulness and something else. Perhaps a bit of pride? “If you must know,” she said with a flip of her hair, “I wear trews.”

  “You what?”

  “Trews. On occasion…when Da and the lads are away, of course.”

  Why on earth would a lass as bonny as Janet Cameron think about donning a pair of breeches? The woman filled out a gown far more fetchingly than perhaps any in Christendom. Robert’s jaw dropped. “Aaaand you enjoy the feel of them?”

  She shrugged. “’Tis more for practicality.”

  “I suppose. If you are running a footrace.”

  “Or riding a horse astride.”

  “Ah.” Now he understood. He wouldn’t ride sidesaddle for his life. “You prefer to sit a horse like a man, do you?”

  “When I’m trying to attain maximum speed, aye.” Janet’s words were spoken with such confidence, Robert had to purse his lips to stanch his laughter—not at her but at the picture he conjured in his mind. Miss Janet wearing a pair of plaid trews, standing in the stirrups with her heart-shaped behind in the air while her horse galloped around a racetrack. Now that would be a sight he’d love to witness.

  He took another drink of whisky before he spoke. “I hope you will be able to give me a demonstration after your arm heals.”

  “In trews or riding astride?”

  “Ha!” Och aye, hazard was growing more enjoyable by the moment. Unable to stop his grin, he replied, “Why, both, of course.”

  He lost the next roll of the dice. “I never wanted to inherit the lairdship,” he confessed.

  “Honestly? But you’re such a commanding man, everyone respects you.”

  “Not everyone.” He drummed his fingers. “Your father comes to mind.”

  “Hmm. What would you have done had you not inherited?”

  “When I was a lad I wanted to be the master of my own ship—sail to the Americas and find my fortune.”

  “Sailing across the sea can lead to a man’s end.”

  “True—though the lucky, I hear, find riches we only dream of in the Highlands.”

  “Now that you are a laird, do you ever dream of sailing off on an adventure?”

  “Only when I face misfortune—such as losing half my herd of yearlings to tinkers and thieves. But I could never leave my clan and kin. They mean the world to me.”

  “My da would say the same.”

  “Your father wanted to be an adventurer?”

  “I do not ken about that, but clan and kin come before queen and country.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. Cameron and I agree on something.”

  “If you’d sit down with him, you’d likely find you have more in common than you think.” She held out her cup. “I believe I might withstand another dram…just a dollop, mind you.”

  “Very well, but after this I’m calling an end to your drinking.”

  “And yours, sir.”

  Though she was right, he scowled and gave her a slanted leer as he poured, helping himself to a bit extra. “Are you planning to roll the dice, or shall I have another go?” No use having the mitten knitter think she can outdo me.

  Then he bloody lost the next round. He’d already told her everything he dared reveal to anyone, let alone the daughter of Sir Ewen Cameron.

  The vixen sat taller, her eyes becoming heavy-lidded and a bit glazed. Now dry, her hair hung to her waist in waves like the mane of a lion. Moreover, the innocent lass had no idea how tempting she looked. She leaned closer, the motion giving him a delicious view of her cleavage as ample breasts strained against a bodice too frilly for a bothy in the wild.

  “Do you have any more secrets, Mr. Grant?” Damn, her eyes met his with a moment of sizzling apprehension.

  He took a lock of her hair and wound it around his finger. For all his days, he would never forget of the silken feel of it. “I enjoyed combing your tresses…” Drawing the lock to his nose, he inhaled her unique scent. “Ever so much,” he whispered.

  The in
tensity of their unwavering gazes grew tenfold. She seemed to be aware of the mounting awkwardness and dispelled it with a smile. “I do believe you are flirting with me.”

  “Never.” He scooped up the dice. “But I need another secret from you, lass. I’ve revealed far too much.”

  “Very well. I call nines as main.”

  “Nines?”

  “Nines.” She threw the dice and rolled two fives.

  “Outs.” He grinned at her from behind his cup. “I’m listening.”

  “Ugh.” Slapping her hand through the air, she huffed. “Two years ago, I kissed Malcolm MacGowan at the gathering in Inverness. There.” She picked up the dice and pushed them into Robert’s palm. “I’ve had enough of this game. It will end in nothing but trouble, I ken it right down to my bones.”

  He slipped the dice into his sporran. “I’ll not utter a word, I give you my oath, as long as you pledge to keep my confidence.”

  “Of course I will.” The lass raised her chin, looking innocent yet worldly, composed yet disheveled.

  Without thinking of the consequence, he smoothed his fingers along her cheek. When her lips parted, his finger ventured to trace her bottom lip. “Satiny smooth.”

  He half expected her to slap him or at least shove him away, but instead she reached up and swirled her fingers around his uninjured cheek. Wonder glistened in her eyes. “Your beard is softer than I imagined.”

  He cleared his throat. “I should shave on the morrow.”

  A wee smile played on her lips as she studied him. “I think you are quite braw with a dark shadow. Perhaps you look like a sea captain.”

  His errant hand threaded through the hair at her nape. “Did you say braw?” he asked, his voice deep and gravelly.

  “Mm-hmm.” Those rosy lips turned up, bow shaped, pert, trembling a little, and looking exceedingly delicious.

  Robert gulped while he lowered his chin. “And you kissed MacGowan two years ago?”

  “I did.”

  “Anyone else since?”

  “Nay.”

  “Then it has been far too long since a lass as bonny as you has been showered with such affection.”