By sundown, it was apparent that Quinn wasn’t coming back. The hard ground grew colder beneath her after the sun disappeared, and if it hadn’t been for her jacket and the plaid, Maggie felt sure she’d have died of hypothermia. As it was, she spent the worst night of her life, shivering under a bush, half-starved, with only the half-filled bottle of water in her backpack to keep her from total panic.
When the sun came up the next morning, she’d slept little,but only too gladly dragged herself up off the ground. After taking care of a very urgent problem—she was sure she would never feel quite the same about leaves again— Maggie started walking. Only the thought of what she would do to Quinn MacIntyre when she saw him again kept her moving.
Maggie had been walking for eons. Or at least it felt like she had. She stopped at the top of yet another hill, and dragged in a deep, weary breath. Not exactly the Scottish holiday she’d dreamed of, where she’d find her soul mate and ride off into the Highlands with him forever.
She turned back toward the sun to get her bearings. Maybe she was going about this the wrong way. She’d spent her time walking away from the sun, thinking that would lead her to the cairn, but so far she hadn’t seen anythingfamiliar. Maybe it would be better to go to the manor house. If she walked toward the sun, she’d get there. She knew, sort of, how to reach it, and surely someone there would have a phone. With a sigh, she started walking again.
An hour later she stood staring at a very large, dark loch. Loch Lomond? There were a billion lochs in Scotland,she supposed. The trick was in being able to tell the difference between them, something she didn’t think she’d ever be able to do. They all looked the same to her.
Maybe Quinn could teach her how to—she stopped the thought with a humorless laugh. If she ever did see Quinn MacIntyre again, she sure wouldn’t waste time getting geographicallessons from him. She’d be too busy using his good-looking face as a punching bag. If ever there was a man who needed to be taught a lesson, it was her would-be rescuer.
She frowned as the wind picked up, gusting against her. Maybe there was another reason for Quinn’s failure to returnto her. What if he had been caught? No, Quinn was too smart for that. What if he’d been hurt?
A tendril of her hair blew into her face and Maggie dragged it back, ignoring the way her heart pounded at the thought of Quinn lying bleeding somewhere, alone. Or maybe he had been caught and was in a dank cell somewhereawaiting the dubious Scottish justice system. She was getting depressed, so she stopped thinking and drew in a deep, fortifying breath.
“Ye’d better start worryin’ about yerself, lassie,” Maggieannounced to the hills, “and let the outlaws fend for themselves.” She walked on. She’d finished the last of her water an hour ago, and so was thrilled when she stumbled across a beautiful clear stream. As she knelt beside it and refilled her bottle—surely these crystal clear waters were free of bacteria or anything harmful—a loud noise rumbledbehind her. She threw herself flat on the ground, fearful the men who had chased them the day before had returned.
After a moment, the sound came again, and then again. All at once, Maggie realized what it was—someone nearby was snoring. Cautiously she raised her head.
On one hand, maybe this would be someone who would help her. On the other, this was obviously a man snoring, and she’d had enough of dealing with wild Highlanders to last her a lifetime.
Carefully easing back to her feet, she pinpointed where the sound was coming from—behind some large stones not too far from the brook. She moved quietly across the soft ground and peered around the edge of the large rock and almost passed out from surprise.
Quinn MacIntyre lay asleep on the ground, his plaid wrapped around him. Saint grazed nearby. The stones had blocked the stallion from her sight when she went to refill her water bottle. Now, as she watched the horse move farther away from the sleeping man, her need to kill Quinn faded as she saw a better way to get even.
She was lost.
Maggie sighed and stood up in the stirrups, taking the weight off of her backside. She gazed helplessly around at the beautiful countryside, trying to get her bearings, as Saint moved restlessly beneath her. She finally gave up and settled her sore bottom into the saddle again.
Maybe she had overreacted. Maybe she was losing her mind. Maybe she’d jumped to a wild conclusion, based on her own fear. Maybe Quinn had been her destiny, a gorgeousguy with edge, and what had she done? She’d stolen his horse and run away.
“Good going, Maggie,” she muttered. She was just lucky that Rachel wasn’t here. She’d have delivered a sharp lecture on carpe diem, but in this case it would have translated to “seize the Scot.”
Maggie still felt guilty about Quinn’s friend being shot, but maybe Ian really wasn’t dead. When she got back to civilization, she’d find out, call the police, or the Scottish equivalent. Maybe it would be in the newspapers.
But if Ian was robbing people, she didn’t feel so guilty. She still didn’t want him dead, but that was sort of the risk robbers took, wasn’t it? So she would chalk Bad Boy Quinn up as an interesting experience and focus on finding a phone, a bus, a taxi, anything that would help her get back to civilization.
Suddenly, up ahead, gleaming in the hazy light of the setting sun, she saw a crumbling castle. As she watched, the fog shifted away from the ruins and sunlight lit the stones, turning them golden. For a moment she felt just like Dorothy must have as she stood in the field of poppies and gazed at the Emerald City. Awestruck and amazed. Except Oz wasn’t real, and this definitely was.
Her stomach growled loudly. As real as the fact that she was starving to death. She lifted the reins again and mutteredto Saint to move on. He headed downward again now, and with every jarring step, she wondered how much longer it would take before she got somewhere—anywhere? There was just a bare sliver of the red gold sun in the distancebehind the dark purple hills, and too late she realized she should have stopped earlier and found shelter.
The ruins of the castle lay at the top of the next rise. She turned Saint’s head toward the stones, quickening their pace. Camping within some kind of structure, even a crumblingone, would make her feel less exposed, she decided. Another night spent alone, sleeping on the cold, hard ground, with no midnight snack, was not her idea of fun.
But heck, she was having an adventure. And at least she had on her favorite jammies. She smiled, shaking her head at her lame attempt to boost her own spirits.
“Fortune and glory,” she said out loud. “Fortune and glory.”
An hour later, Maggie was sick of having an adventure and all she wanted was a warm soak in a deep bathtub, followedby a nice, soft bed. Instead, she had a hard piece of ground damp from an earlier rain, the kind of wet that the thickest blanket in Scotland couldn’t keep out. And the ruins were not comforting, they were creepy.
After trying to get comfortable for an hour or more, she finally gave up. With her jacket zipped up tight, she leaned back against one of the tall stones to stare up at the stars brilliant against the backdrop of the summer sky. In the distance a wolf, or some other kind of animal, howled, and she shivered.
With a sigh, she stretched a little, easing the ache in her back. Instead she got a cramp in her leg. Well, she had walked a million miles that day, hadn’t she?
Maggie stumbled to her feet and massaged her calf muscle. She didn’t hear her attacker at all, just felt the sudden,hard sensation of a hand clamping over her mouth and another around her waist, slamming her back against a hard chest.
Her heart began to pound. This was great. Perfect. Not only had she gotten lost, now she was being kidnapped. Or worse.
“Dinna scream,” said a deep voice that rumbled like a thundercloud. “T’will do ye no good for there is no one around to hear ye.”
She swallowed hard and nodded. The man removed his hand from her mouth. “Wh-what do you want?” she stuttered.
He laughed, the dark, ominous sound sending a tremor through her soul. “I have been sent to teach y
e a lesson, and deliver a well-deserved punishment.”
“Qu-Quinn sent you?” she quavered.
The man chuckled.
Maggie knew that chuckle. She whirled around.
Quinn MacIntyre stood there grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Good evening, Miss Maggie.”
“You—you—”
“Mondo-dizmo?” he asked.
“Worse,” Maggie said, trembling with fury. “You idiot! You scared the life out of me!”
Quinn crossed his arms over his broad chest, his green eyes amused. His dark, wavy hair danced in the wind, and even as Maggie thought about just how she was going to kill him, she couldn’t help the way her heart fluttered at the sight of him.
He had changed his clothes. Gone was the black outfit, and in its place, he wore a kilt that was somehow pleated around him, but left enough material to loop across his chest and then his back, and his chest again, ending at the shoulder, where what looked like the antler of a deer was thrust to hold the cloth in place. He wore a wide belt and the Scottish version of a fanny pack—the sporran. Beneath the plaid was a rough-textured, cream-colored shirt, open at the neck, with full sleeves. Rough leather boots laced to his knees, golden brown and dirty.
Great. Maggie thought in disgust. Now he thinks he’s Braveheart!
“How dare you scare me like that?” she said, her fists still clenched.
Quinn looked down at her and shrugged. “How dare ye steal my horse when I was sleeping?”
“I did not steal your horse!”
Saint, grazing nearby, nickered softly, threw his head back, and broke into a quick trot, headed straight for his master. Quinn laughed as the stallion stopped inches in front of him, nuzzling his nose against his owner’s neck.
“Aye, I’m glad to see ye, too, ye old scalawag. Why did ye go with her in the first place?” The horse whinnied, and he laughed again. “I know, I know, ye never could turn down the lassies.” He stroked the horse’s neck with one hand and raised his gaze to Maggie’s. “So, ye dinna steal my horse?”
Now he looked a little less amused. Time to do some damage control. Maggie strolled across the rough ground between them, her hands on her hips.
“Well, for your information, I’ve been looking for you so I could give this silly horse back to you! I found him wandering in the Highlands.” She lifted her chin slightly. “Now that I think of it, maybe he was just coming to my rescue, after you dumped me.”
Quinn knotted the reins together, never taking his gaze from her. “I came back for ye. Ye were gone.”
A new wave of anger flooded over her. “Don’t lie, Quinn MacIntyre.”
His eyes sparked with answering fire. “I dinna lie. I came back for ye.”
“I was there all night,” she said, so furious she was shaking.“Lying on the cold, hard ground, waiting for you to show up. And you didn’t. So this morning I started walking.”
He shrugged. “I must have come after ye decided to leave. Montrose’s men chased me the entire night. After I saw ye were gone, I went looking for ye, but when I stopped to rest Saint, I must have fallen asleep.”
“Right. You were looking for me.”
“Aye, I was. I am no lying.” His gaze suddenly shifted back to her, once again narrowed. “So tell me, Maggie, how did you happen to stumble across Saint wandering in the hills?”
Oops. Okay, so she was lying, too. That didn’t let him off the hook.
“I saw you sleeping near the stream,” she said bluntly. “How did you know I took him?”
Quinn moved to sit down on a large rock. He cocked one leg and clasped his hands around his knee. “I saw yer wee footprint.”
“Oh. Well, believe me, taking your horse was the least of what I wanted to do to you!” Maggie turned and walked away from him, finding her own stone to sit on. She flounced down on it and winced, then glared at him when he smiled.
He rubbed his chin. “Hmmm. What did ye want to do to me?”
Several illicit thoughts came to mind, but she managed not to blurt them out.
“Oh, I don’t know, kick you where it would hurt?” She took her jacket off and put it on the rock, then sat back down. “And now I owe you twice the pain.”
“I dinna hurt ye,” Quinn said. “I was being . . . playful. It was a jest.”
Maggie rolled her eyes. She’d had enough. “A jest. Playful.Look, jackass, you left me in the middle of nowhere and I wanted to pay you back. Also, I needed transportation, so I took your horse.”
“So ye admit that ye stole my horse,” he said. “I should bring ye up before the magistrate.”
“But you won’t do that,” she said.
Quinn raised one brow. “I won’t? And why is that?”
Maggie shook her head. “For some reason I think the authorities are the last people you want to see.”
To her surprise, the glint in his eyes faded into a grudgingadmiration. “Aye, lass,” he said, “ye understand the way of things. I’ll no turn ye in for horse theft.” His almost smile faltered and then disappeared completely. When he raised his head again, his eyes were darkly serious. “What happened to Ian is not yer fault. ’Tis mine. But I am asking ye, lass, to help me. I need someone to work in the manor house, someone who could have access to Montrose and his gaol.” He looked up at her. “I am asking ye, not forcing ye, not threatening ye, just asking ye, to come with me.”
“You left me,” Maggie said, embarrassed at the pitiful sound of her voice. “I was terrified.”
His gaze softened. “I’m sorry, lass,” he said.
Maybe she was stupid, but she believed him. He crossed to her side and knelt beside her. He took her hand.
“Let us begin again. I am Quinn MacIntyre, ne’er-do-well,but I promise ye, no debaucher of innocents, and no murderer. I need yer help. Will ye help me, lass?”
seven
The lass trembled as she gazed back at him. “Well,” she said finally, “when you put it that way—sure.”
He smiled and released her hand. “Are ye hungry, lass?”
She laughed and brought her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. “I could eat an entire cow. Horns, hooves, tail, everything.”
“I dinna think I can quite manage a cow,” he said, “but perhaps I can find something smaller.”
He didn’t usually build a fire when he slept in the hills, but his brief experience with Maggie had taught him that she wasn’t used to the cold Highland nights. He took a few precious pieces of peat from his pack and got a small fire going.
He’d had the luck to kill a hare earlier and had it tetheredin a nearby stream, keeping cold. Maggie made a face as he skinned, spitted, and started roasting the hare, but smiled in delight when he took her to the stream. Under his watchful eye, she took off her heavy boots and rolled up her breeches, exposing her bare legs to the knee. As he stared, dumfounded, she pulled a bright kerchief from her pack and dipped it into the moonlit water to wash her face, arms, and legs.
After a moment, Quinn decided he had more moral fiber than he’d thought. He made a conscious choice to treat the lass as if she were his younger sister, even though she sat there displaying her limbs to him as she washed. If she had actually been his sister, he’d have given her a damn good thrashing for exposing herself in such a way. But becauseit was Maggie, he just wanted to kiss her from her cute little toes, up her curved calves, around her knee, and all the way up to her still-hidden secrets. She glanced up at him and smiled. Quinn’s mouth went dry and he forced his gaze to the sky above.
After they returned from the stream, on an impulse, he took Ian’s pipes from his saddlebag. As Maggie sat down close to the fire, his plaid once more wrapped around the pale pink—what had she called them when he asked?— aye, pajamas, he began to softly play the pipes.
She leaned back against a stone and closed her eyes. For a moment, Quinn let all of his thoughts of Ian and what lay ahead drift away while he watched her. She made a beautifulpicture sitting there, pale skin, lo
ng red hair bright from the flames behind her as she listened to his music. When he reached the end of the piece, she opened her eyes and looked at him with new respect.
“That was beautiful,” she said. “What’s it called?”
"MacKintosh’s Lament,” he told her. " ’Tis a pibroch, a verra old song written by a MacIntyre.”
She turned toward him, her face suddenly cast in shadow. “Tell me about your clan. About your family.”
He leaned back and stared dreamily up at the stars. It had been a long time since he’d even heard the old tales, let alone shared them.
“’Tis said that the first MacIntyres came from the isle of Sleat. They were told to settle at the first place that their white cow lay down upon the ground.”
“White cow?”
“Aye. Once the hills of Glenoe were covered with the white cattle of the MacIntyres. The old stories say that they landed in a beauteous place, near the base of Ben Cruchan, and there they were challenged by the spirit of the mountainand told they couldna stay there, but to go around the other side and there they would find solace. They did as they were told, and on the other side of the mountain, the white cow lay down.”
“That’s beautiful,” she said softly when he had finished, gazing out across the misty valley. “So why are you here, and not in Glenoe?”
He heard the grimness enter his voice, but he could not banish it. “I was sent to foster with the Duke of Montrose when I was a lad. He heard me play my pipes at a faire and thought I had talent.”
“The Duke of Montrose?” she said. “The same Duke of Montrose that’s chasing you?”
“Aye. Ye must understand, the MacIntyres’ fame lies in their ability to pipe. ’Twas a MacIntyre that piped for Robert the Bruce at Bannockburn. Montrose convinced my father to let him foster me, and my father, of course, was thrilled. I had a tutor, both for my letters and for the pipes, but Montrose eventually sent me to the MacCrimmons School of Piping when I was twelve years old. ’Tis there that I learned how to write music for the pipes.”
Highland Rogue Page 9
