by Gill, Tamara
She clenched her hands at her sides, reminding her she was wearing her kid-leather gloves and would not be able to feel him even if she were to be so bold. Not that she would, but he was nice to look at in any case.
“Are we going to go inside, Miss Sophie?” Gretel asked, shuffling on her feet and rubbing her arms to warm them. “I’m freezing. I don’t know how we’ll survive going farther north. Even this far up in Scotland is cold enough.”
Sophie nodded distractedly, her attention fixed on the Scot being served by a young woman with a white apron over her pink, woolen gown. “Yes, of course.”
They entered and a little bell dinged above them. Sophie glanced up at the brass bell before looking back toward the counter and the breath in her lungs held. She felt her mouth pop open with an intake of much-needed air as the green, hard stare of the highlander took his fill of her.
Gretel cleared her throat at her back and Sophie remembered to step forward, moving toward the counter and trying with all the willpower ever afforded to her to keep her attention on the pastries she intended to purchase.
Her cheeks burned and she could feel his gaze tracing over her, before he turned back to the serving girl. “How much do I owe ye, Rhona?”
His voice was deep, smooth like liquid chocolate, and the shiver that ran up her spine had nothing to do with the frigid air in this part of the world.
Sophie glanced toward where he stood and watched as the serving girl leaned over the counter, her ample advantages in full view of anyone standing in the store. “Two farthings please, Laird Mackintosh.”
Laird? The highlander reached into his sporran and passed the woman some coin.
“Thank ye, Rhona. I’ll see ye next week.”
The young woman tittered and Sophie bit back a smile at her infatuation with the man, not that Sophie could blame her. He was not at all what she was expecting to find this far north in the wild Scottish highlands.
He turned toward Sophie and caught her eye and for a moment she could not look away. His compelling eyes drew her in and she turned, following his progress as he made his way out the door, before striding past the shop front windows and disappearing up the street.
“He’s a fine laird, if ever there was one,” the young woman behind the counter sighed to an older lady who’d come to stand beside her. The elder shushed her and Sophie stepped up to the counter, ensuring she was served by the younger girl.
“May I order two queen cakes and a loaf of bread with seeds on top, please?” she asked. They were quite alone now, Gretel waiting patiently behind her and the older woman in the store serving another customer.
“Of course ye can.” She busied herself packing up the pastries, wrapping them in wax paper.
“Did I hear you say that the gentleman that you just served was a laird?” Sophie met the woman’s widened eyes and pinkened cheeks and smiled. “He looks very friendly,” she continued, hoping to gain some information.
“Oh, aye, it was and he’s a Scottish earl as well. He lives in Moy Castle half a mile northeast from here, not far from the banks of Loch Moy. He often comes into town to enjoy my mama’s cooking. Honey biscuits are his favorite.”
He had a sweet tooth, but then, so did she so she could not fault him on that. Not that she was looking to find fault with the man in any case. It was simply a little odd that a man of his size and stature, who looked like a Scottish warlord, would come into a bakery and buy sweets. She smiled, handing over her payment and taking the small parcel from the shopgirl.
“Thank you. Have a good day,” Sophie said.
“You too, my lady,” the young woman called out as they left.
They made their way outside, and Sophie took in the small village and the large, rocky outcrops of the highlands that dwarfed the town in the background. It was certainly an idyllic location, but even now in the middle of spring the air was chilly, the ground still damp underfoot.
They walked along the road for a time, looking at the many cottages, some that reminded Sophie of the village that she grew up in. It did not take them long to come to the edge of town where nothing but forest and a waterway greeted them.
“There is a bridge and what looks like a path leading up the hill, Miss Sophie. Shall we explore a little?”
The day was still young after all, they had a little food with them now, and they had their woolen cloaks. Sophie nodded, seeing no reason why they could not.
“Yes, perhaps it’ll lead up to a lookout over the town.” They had little else to do to fill the time before the carriage was repaired and Sophie was not ready to go back to their room at the inn just yet. A little fresh air and exercise would do them good.
They walked for a time in silence, both lost in their own thoughts. Every now and then Gretel or Sophie would point out a splendid view, or a plant that caught their eye.
The wind whipped at Sophie’s hair and she pulled her shawl up over her head to keep it from blinding her. “The wind is picking up, Gretel. We should probably head back soon.”
Gretel stopped, pointing ahead of her. “We’re almost there, just a little farther.”
The hill they climbed was steeper than Sophie first thought, and the breath in her lungs burned as she continued to climb. The ground underfoot was rocky in parts, and slippery in others and nerves pooled in her stomach that perhaps their morning walk was beginning to look like a bad idea.
With that thought, her foot landed on a plant that hid a stone. It slipped out from under her and she toppled forward, coming down onto the ground and slamming into a boulder. An acrid taste entered her mouth when she bit her tongue. Sophie sat up, her vision swimming a little.
“Miss Sophie!” Gretel said, running to her as best she could and kneeling before her. Her friend fumbled in her pocket and brought out a handkerchief, pushing it against her forehead.
Sophie hissed in a breath at the sting of her friend’s touch. “Ouch, that hurts.”
“You’re bleeding. You hit your head and you’re bleeding more than you should be.”
Sophie swiped at her cheek, glanced down, and gasped at the amount of blood on her fichu and gown. “Oh my Lord, I’m going to bleed to death.”
Gretel bit back a smile, pushing harder against her wound. “While I do not think it is as bad as all that, I do think I should fetch help to carry you down. I don’t want you to faint and hit your pretty head again.”
Sophie glanced at Gretel. It was just like her friend to try to make a small joke in the middle of a disaster. She sighed. “Fine. I’ll sit here if you think it’s best, but I’m sure I could make it.” She looked down the path that they had walked. It was an awfully long way back down.
“I’ll be back as fast as I can. Do not move,” Gretel said, and then she was gone.
Sophie watched her disappear down the side of the hill before she was out of sight. She pressed against the wound on her forehead, dabbing at it a little to see if it was still bleeding. A light thumping started at her temples and she shuffled over to a large boulder and tried to protect herself from the wind.
How long she sat there she did not know, but as the hours passed and the afternoon grew darker and colder, she slipped into sleep on the craggy ground, heedless that her gown was growing ever more damp by the minute.
Brice Mackintosh had better things to do than rescue women who were foolhardy enough to walk up hills during this time of year. The ground was damp and slippery and the lass was lucky she’d not broken anything else other than that thick head of hers.
After having been waved down by a young woman running from the bridge that led to the summer lookout over the town, she’d then gone on to explain that her mistress had fallen and needed help down the hill.
Brice looked at the sleeping woman. The once-white handkerchief she’d been using to press against her head wound was lying in the mud and her wound gaped, the congealed blood seeping slowly down her forehead.
He cringed. The injury would need stitching and that in itself
alleviated some of his anger at being waylaid. He kneeled beside her, reaching out to shake her shoulder. “Miss. Wake up, miss…” He shook her shoulder a little more and this time her eyes fluttered open.
Her lashes were long and dark, and yet her hair was sun-kissed. Whatever hairstyle she’d had this morning had long ago fallen out.
He stared at her as she sat up, reaching out and taking her hand to help her. She clutched at her head and he cringed when she did. “I’m Brice Mackintosh. I’m going to carry ye down to the town. Will ye let me, lass?” he asked.
She glanced at him, confusion in her gaze, but she nodded, trying to stand.
Brice stood and, reaching down, swooped her into his arms and started back toward the village. Her arms went about his neck and she gave out a sweet little yelp at his manhandling. She smelled of lavender soap and her hair even better, like wild berries and fruit.
The wind blew it into his face, and he fought to keep it out the way as he made his way down the hill. She would be tall, he could tell, and carrying her against his chest put into focus how very womanly she was. Her bottom hit his stomach and his hand sat just beneath her breast as he carried her—both locations on her person that felt ample and lush.
He frowned, reminding himself that being here, helping this lass would make him late for the dinner party he was holding for his potential future wife. His sister would accuse him of being late because she believed him to be indifferent to Elspeth. A truth that even he acknowledged even though he’d never tell his sister such a thing. He glanced down at the lass and caught her studying him.
“How are you doing down there?” He took in her wound. It still wept, but had at least stopped bleeding. As for her appearance, it was disheveled to say the least. Half her face sported dry blood, and her golden locks too were a little stained and clumped from the wound.
“Your friend said you’re staying at the inn. I’ll have a doctor sent straightaway over to you when we return.”
“Thank you,” she said, speaking at last. She frowned up at him, studying him as if he were an oddity. “Are you the laird I saw in the shop earlier today?”
Realization struck him and he stumbled a little. That was where he’d seen her before! As per usual, his daily walk and honey biscuit purchase had today been a little less banal that it normally was. And it was because of this lass in his arms. “Aye.”
He’d heard the door to the shop open, but it wasn’t until he’d glanced to see who had stepped inside that his body had stilled at the sight of her. She was all golden beauty. Her eyes so wide and blue that they would make even the sky envious. He’d stared at her, unable to look away before he’d realized his mistake and had turned back to Rhona to finish being served.
In Moy there were few women who looked like the one in his arms and it had merely been a shock to see anyone. She was a Sassenach as well, and not worth his time.
He was to marry a Scottish lass, Elspeth Brodie in fact. A woman who was as robust and capable as anyone he knew. The fact that she’d never raised one ounce of attraction in him was beside the point.
Many marriages were based on friendship and they were friends…most of the time.
Finally they made the bridge that separated the walk up the hill and the town. Her friend stood waiting for them, a deep frown on her brow as she worked her hands before her in worry.
Brice sent her a comforting smile, trying to put her at ease. The young woman visibly relaxed upon spying them.
“You’re very strong. There are few who would be able to carry me all this way and without even puffing.” She studied him and he refused to meet her gaze lest she see just how very fascinating he found her.
“I work. I should imagine you know very little of the trade.” She stiffened in his arms and he inwardly cringed. There was no need to be so curt and opinionated about the lass in his arms. For all he knew she did work, although her fine clothing and hands that were soft against his neck told him otherwise.
She was no trouble to carry, in fact, she weighed very little, although her close proximity did give way to thoughts that he should not be having, not with this lass at least. Brice reminded himself that he was expected to marry Elspeth. A woman who was native to this land and wouldn’t fall over on the craggy mountaintops and cut her head open like this lass.
He came up to her friend and helped the woman in his arms stand. “I’ll help ye to the inn and then fetch the doctor. He’ll have ye fixed up soon enough.”
Brice took her arm, helping her forward. “Thank you again for assisting me. My name is Sophie Grant, by the way.” She stopped and held out her hand.
He stared at it a moment before reaching down, clasping it and bowing over it a little. Something in his gut twisted watching her and he turned back toward the inn. He needed to get her back and settled. There was much to do at home, what with the dinner this evening. His sister would no doubt be flustered and bossing everyone about since he wasn’t there to keep her in check.
Not that he ever could.
“I’m Brice Mackintosh,” he said at length, nodding to the few locals who glanced their way and stopped to watch what their laird was doing with a bloodied woman.
He supposed the sight didn’t place him in a favorable light, but what could he do under the circumstances? He could not have left her there. The drop in temperature alone overnight would’ve taken her life, not to mention it wasn’t his nature to turn from people in need.
They made the inn and Brice, with the aid of the tavern staff, helped Miss Grant to her room, her friend fussing to ensure hot water and linens were brought up straightaway.
Their room was the only one available for guests, and Brice glanced about, spying the large leather traveling cases.
He helped Miss Grant to the chair before the fire, ensuring she was sitting before he stepped back. “I’ll have a doctor sent immediately. I wish ye well, Miss Grant.”
She glanced up at him. Was that a flicker of disappointment in her gaze? Surely not. He was imagining things now?
The other woman came over to him, taking his hand and squeezing it. “Thank you ever so much, my lord. We’re so very appreciative of your help. I do not know what I would’ve done had you not stopped.”
Brice backed toward the door. “Think nothing of it, lass. Yer friend will be better soon enough.”
She smiled, following him, before shutting the door quietly behind him as he made his way down the passage. At the tavern, he stopped to greet John Oates, a tenant of his before heading outdoors.
A man bustled up to him, his fine clothing and pale skin gave him the air of an Englishman. He sighed. What was it today with the English needing a Scot’s help?
“My lord, I don’t know how to thank you enough for the help with Miss Grant.” The man clasped his hand, shaking it vigorously. “I was out, you see. Our carriage is broken and being repaired and I did not know Miss Grant had been injured. I do not know what I would’ve said to her sister had something happened to her.” The man worked his cap in his hand and Brice waved his thanks aside. “I was more than willing to help. Ye have no reason to worry. She’s safe and sound in her room now.”
The man sighed, nodding. “Thank you. I shall let my master know of your kindness. It will not be forgotten.”
Brice frowned at the mention of his employer. “Master?”
“Oh yes, Miss Grant is the sister-in-law to the Marquess Graham.”
For a moment Brice couldn’t think of anything to say. She was nobility, or at least, related to English peers.
If that was the case, what in the hell had a woman of rank—even if only by marriage—been doing walking around the wilds of the Scottish highlands without a manservant? Or for that matter, staying at an inn with only a woman servant in her room?
Moy Inn may be quiet and the only accommodation in town, but it was far from safe for an unprotected woman. There were many riffraff who passed through and could’ve assaulted or stolen from them.
“
Dinna let her wander around Moy alone, ’tis not safe for her or her servant.” Who, no doubt, the other young woman fussing about Miss Grant’s skirts was.
“Of course, my lord. Thank you.”
Brice left then, striding to the doctor’s residence only some houses away and paying for his services to the young woman. He then started back to where he’d left his horse. By the time he hoisted himself into the saddle, drizzle had settled in over the town and with it a decided chill to the air. He pulled part of his kilt over his shoulders and pushed his horse into a trot, needing to get back home sooner rather than later.
He had a dinner to host for his possible future wife. He sighed at the thought. He supposed he’d have to start courting Elspeth Brodie soon. The obligation held little desire for him. The image of Miss Sophie Grant flashed before his eyes and he let himself remember her soft, curvy flesh against his. The smell of lavender and fruits of all things sweet and succulent.
Pity his future was not so alluring to his palate.
Chapter 3
Sophie woke with only the slightest headache the following day. The doctor had come, and forced her to endure two stitches up high on her forehead, which she would never forgive him for. The pain of having a needle threaded through skin was not to ever be borne again and Sophie had promised herself no more hillside walks. From now on she would keep to flat, dry ground. Not steep, rocky, damp ground that was abundant in these parts.
“Would you be up to having breakfast in the parlor downstairs, Miss Sophie? The day has dawned very bright and the room gets the lovely morning sun.”
Sophie slipped on her slippers. She walked to the window and looked out over the street. Again the town was a hive of activity and just as Gretel said, the day looked much more congenial to outings than it did yesterday.
“Yes, I feel well enough.” She checked the bandage on her head. “I’ll have to wear my jockey bonnet to cover the bandage. If I tip it a little over my brow and to one side, I don’t think anyone will see the injury.” She picked up her hat and sat it over her hair, tying it simply at the back of her head.
