The Valiant Highlander (Highland Defender #2)

by Amy Jarecki

  “No, no.” Mary placed her palm on his chest. “It would be scandalous if you took me above stairs.”

  His lips formed a hard line. “Not if I summon a chambermaid.”

  When the thrum of his heart hammered beneath her fingers, she snapped her hand away. “Are you always this overbearing?”

  “Always.” He glanced at her while he continued to boldly stride nearer and nearer the castle. “My siblings forever chide me about it.”

  “Then ’tis pointless for me to insist you put me down this instant?”

  “A complete and utter waste of breath, miss.”

  Astonishingly, by the time he’d carried her all the way back to the main gate, the baronet wasn’t even breathing heavily. Was the man hewn of iron?

  Fyfe dashed straight for them. “Miss Mary, whatever happened?”

  “I fell—”

  “We need a chambermaid in Miss Mary’s chamber forthwith.” Sir Donald didn’t miss a step, marching across the great hall with purpose. “See to it she arrives there before I exit the stairwell.”

  Fyfe’s brow furrowed. “But first I have to find a chambermaid.”

  Sir Donald stopped. “Are you saying you intend to keep me waiting with an injured woman in my arms? Fetch the chambermaid now before I order one of my men to kick you up the backside.”

  “Yes, sir.” Fyfe bowed. “Straight away, sir.”

  Ducking his head, Sir Donald stepped into the stairwell, his feet resounding loudly.

  Mary tried not to laugh. “Everyone in all of Castleton kens you’re taking me above stairs.”

  “Aye, but they’re also aware a chambermaid will be right on our heels.” He hesitated at the first landing. “Where am I heading?”

  “Up three more flights, down the passageway, first door on the left.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Sorry.” She placed her hand around his neck for balance. The movement drew them together all the more closely. His breath caressed her forehead like balmy steam. Realizing her folly, she snapped her fingers away. Good Lord, he was warm as a hearth. “You needn’t carry me all the way.”

  He glanced down to her face. Long, feathery lashes shuttered his eyes, making him look far too desirous. “I do and I will. Now keep your head and feet tucked in so they don’t graze the walls.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A smile spread across his lips for the first time since she’d seen him that day. “That’s better.” He stepped out onto the fourth floor landing. “First on the left?”

  Mary pointed. “Aye. Right there.”

  “My word,” Lilas squealed from her doorway on the right. “Whatever happened?”

  Mary waved her hand. “’Tis merely a twisted ankle.”

  Sir Donald kicked open the door. “Drag the chambermaid up here if you must, miss. I see she hasn’t yet arrived.”

  “Straight away, sir,” said Lilas—goodness gracious, it must have been the first time Mary’s sister had ever obeyed anyone without giving them a bit of sass first.

  “How on earth did you do that?” Mary asked.

  He strode inside. “What?”

  “Lilas obeyed you without issuing as much as one single objection.”

  His deep chuckle rumbled through Mary’s body before he rested her atop the bed. “Not many people question me when I issue them an order.”

  She reclined against her feather-soft pillows. “Why do you think that is?”

  His jaw twitched. Sir Donald mightn’t outwardly display his emotions, but she’d seen that tic a few times now—a sure indication he wasn’t hewn of iron. His gaze meandered down the length of her body. Mary shivered as if his stare had actually caressed her. “It has always been that way.” Something in his voice changed, grew softer, deeper.

  Something else deep inside her melted—a pleasant sensation, but one that left her wanting more. Mary looked him from head to toe, just as he’d done to her. “I think…” Her tongue slipped to the corner of her mouth. “Your size alone would intimidate some…and your station.” And the intensity of your eyes, and the way your mouth forms a bold line when you’re not smiling…not to mention your smile. Yes, your smile could cause any woman to lose her senses.

  Sir Donald took her hand between his two warm palms. “My guess is that you are not often questioned at Dunscaith Castle as well.”

  “Mm,” Mary said, praying he wouldn’t release her hand too quickly—the comfort of his touch soothed. Besides, this man soon would be on his way and she might never see him again.

  He bowed. “Rest whilst I go find out what is taking that chambermaid so long.” His eyes locked with hers for a fleeting moment. A swirling current emanated from those fathomless blues, just like the undertow of the sea. Then one corner of his mouth ticked up. Long, tawny lashes again shuttered his eyes as he stooped lower. Hot breath skimmed the back of her hand.

  Mary gasped.

  As soft as a feather, he plied her hand with a kiss—not a brief peck, but his eyes closed and a sigh rumbled from his throat, so low, Mary wasn’t certain she’d heard it. When he straightened, a faint grin turned up the corners of his mouth.

  He’s toying with me for certain.

  “My lady,” he said, turning and heading for the door.

  Chapter Five

  Mary’s sister and the chambermaid nearly fell into Don when he opened the door. Flustered, both dipped into a curtsey.

  “How is she?” asked Lilas.

  Don glanced over his shoulder. “She’s resting. Perhaps a healer should have a look at the ankle.”

  “No need to call for the healer.” Mary lifted her foot slightly and rolled her ankle. “It feels better already.”

  Don frowned and lowered his voice. “I do not believe it for a minute. One of you must have a look and if there’s any swelling, summon the healer.”

  “Yes, Sir Donald,” said Lilas, grasping the servant by the arm and pushing past him with a daft smile on her face. “Janie will tend her—you mustn’t worry.”

  Letting the door close behind him, Don adjusted his doublet and took a deep breath, thankful to pass Mary’s care along to someone more capable than he. What in God’s name did he know about twisted ankles, especially female twisted ankles?

  “He carried you all the way from the old sycamore?” Miss Lilas’ high-pitched voice resounded through to the stone passageway followed by a shrill giggle.

  It was a stroke of mercy Don wasn’t called upon to carry the younger sister above stairs. From what he’d seen at the gathering last eve, Miss Lilas was as flighty as a hen hatching an egg. He strode directly for the stairwell. Perhaps carrying Miss Mary to her chamber demonstrated a wee bit too much overzealousness. He realized that after he’d kissed her hand. The lass had gone glassy-eyed. Lord only knew what prompted him to linger when he kissed her. Thank God no one else saw.

  But by the saints, he couldn’t just pass her off to a guard. She was the lady of the keep, regardless if she had climbed a tree.

  Grown women don’t climb trees, blast it all. Miss Mary must be addled in the mind. Yesterday I found her wearing men’s clothing, in public of all places, and today she ran away from her troubles and hid in a tree?

  Truly it would have been disconcerting for the lass to find her father in such a compromising position, but running away for the solace of an old sycamore? In a castle as large as Dunscaith, there surely would be someplace quiet she could have gone—a place far less public, especially given the Castleton MacDonalds were hosting the gathering.

  ’Twasn’t a wise decision on her part.

  Don’s conviction grew deeper. Indeed, Mary was the hostess of this fete, yet she had not the maturity to push her personal woes aside and hold her chin high. She should have been outside watching the games. In fact, Don had noticed her atop the wall-walk earlier. She should have stayed up there until they broke for their nooning.

  When Don exited the stairwell, Narin, the Dunscaith henchman approached. “Laird John has requested an a
udience with you in his solar.”

  “Now?”

  “Aye, Sir Donald. Unless you’ve other matters to attend?”

  Don scratched his chin. “Do you ken what he wants? The afternoon games will commence soon.”

  “I’m sure he’s aware of that, sir. Please, just a moment of your time.”

  Grumbling under his breath, Don followed the burly man. Why in God’s name did Miss Mary have to fall from the tree? And now Sir John wants a word? I should have let her limp back to the keep.

  Don rifled through the turn of events, clarifying the story in his mind. Because the lass was injured and walking clearly caused her pain, he’d carried her to her chamber, hollering for the chambermaid loud enough for everyone to hear. So not to risk impropriety, he didn’t dare venture to examine her ankle. Thank God he’d had enough sense to tell the lasses to tend Miss Mary’s leg when he met them in the passageway—else the chief might attempt to trap him.

  By the time they arrived at the solar door, Don stood with confidence, tugging on his lapels. He had done nothing but act as a gentleman ought.

  Narin pulled down on the latch. “Donald MacDonald of Sleat, m’laird.”

  Sitting at the head of the table in his wheeled chair, Sir John beckoned with his hand. “Come in, Sir Donald.” He flicked his wrist at the henchman. “That will be all, Narin.”

  Don moved toward the table as the door closed.

  Sir John smiled, though his appearance was rather withered for a man the age of one and fifty. He gestured toward the sideboard. “Will you pour us each a dram afore you sit?”

  “By all means.”

  “Apologies for not serving you with my own hand. Being a peg-leg makes some things rather difficult.”

  “I can imagine how challenging things must be for you, especially living in a castle with so many stairs.” Don pulled the stopper off the flagon, his thighs aching a bit from climbing up the stairwell with Mary in his arms. “I’ll never forget your heroics at the Battle of Dunkeld.”

  “If only we had won.”

  Inhaling deeply through his nose, Don wished he could forget. “It was a debacle for us all—we completely lost our momentum.”

  “Aye, the clans disbanded—went home to lick their wounds.”

  “And the Government has been squeezing us ever since.” Don placed a dram of whisky in front of the chieftain. “I’ll never forgive William of Orange and the Campbells for their massacre at Glencoe.”

  Sir John frowned, a dark shadow passing across his face. “Nor will I.”

  After Don took a seat, the two men stared at their whisky for a moment. Whenever anyone mentioned the Government’s horrendous actions at Glencoe, a moment of silence always ensued.

  “Slàinte.” John raised his cup.

  Don returned the salutation and sipped. “Mm. ’Tis fine spirit.”

  “Indeed,” the old chieftain agreed. “Sir Coll of Keppoch brought it as a gift—pure Speyside gold it is.”

  Don shifted in his seat. “I’ll agree with you there.” Having made the appropriate amount of small talk, Don looked the man in the eye. “To what do I owe the honor, sir?”

  A grin twisted the corners of John’s mouth. “With three daughters and one crippled leg to carry out my bidding, can you not guess?”

  Sitting back, Don crossed his arms and his legs. “You ken I’m embroiled in negotiations to establish Jacobite trade in the Americas?” He whispered the word Jacobite—for though they were among loyalists, one never knew who might be listening. Furthermore, Donald never dared to utter the word in Glasgow.

  “Aye.” John smoothed his finger around the clan brooch at his shoulder. “But how does the cause preclude you from taking a wife?”

  He cleared his throat. “I cannot possibly risk having my mind distracted from business matters. Besides, if I were to marry anyone, the poor lass would be ignored for God kens how long.”

  Sir John raised his cup and sipped, closing his eyes as if either enjoying the taste or collecting his thoughts—or both. “Miss Mary is a fine Highland lass. Had to grow up too fast on account of her mother’s death after the birth of my only son—then had to play both mother and father after I fell at Dunkeld. She’s tough as nails, mind you—runs the keep more efficiently than I ever did.” He looked up. “And she’s bonny—those wee freckles are as Scottish as the Highlands.”

  “Och, I have no doubt Miss Mary will make a fine wife, but not for me—not unless she wants to wait a decade.” Perhaps by five and thirty Don might be ready to settle down.

  The chieftain plucked a snuff box from his waistcoat pocket. “I can offer you lands south of Tokavaig.”

  Devil’s breath, Don knew as well as anyone John could ill afford to lose the rents those lands brought in. “I wish I could humor you on this account, but timing prevents me doing so.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “If there is nothing else, I must haste back to the games. I wouldn’t want to miss the first round of the archery contest.”

  “Tell me.” John’s lips thinned while he pinched a bit of snuff and sniffed. “Was Mary too injured to make her own way back to the keep after her fall from the tree?”

  Ah ha—now he asks. “In my opinion she was. When she tried to stand, she yelped and fell. I acted as any gentleman would have done given the circumstances.” Lord, news traveled faster at Dunscaith than at Duntulm.

  After a hearty sneeze into a white kerchief, the chieftain’s face fell along with his shoulders. “I suppose I’ll have to make an appeal to Sir Robert Stewart next. He would be my second choice for my daughter.”

  Don clenched his fist and bowed. “Do what you must,” he said through gritted teeth. What else could he say? He’d told the man the cause came before his personal happiness. He should have known before he’d arrived Sir John would be looking for suitors for his eldest—mayhap he wanted to secure betrothals for all three lassies.

  Excusing himself, he hastened away. Bloody Robert Stewart was a good man, though a bit too young to handle a spirited lass the likes of Mary of Castleton. A fiery woman such as Mary would give any man difficulty. She needed to be harnessed—to be introduced to society and trained in the art of feminine grace. Aye, she might run Dunscaith Castle with an iron fist, but she would be a duck out of water in Glasgow. Society would eat her alive—and then she’d go sulk in a tree. Such behavior simply wouldn’t do for the wife of a baronet—or any man with important business connections and vast property.

  No, no, Don must be ever mindful of the Jacobite cause. He must think of his clan. Thousands of people were depending on him—on his ability to build new trade routes so the clans in turn would have the means to rebuild their armies. He had been clear on his task when he sailed from Glasgow and, by God, he would not forget it now.

  Chapter Six

  Mary awoke before Janie came to add peat to the fire. Last eve she’d had a wonderful excuse to stay away from the festivities. Too embarrassed to see Sir Donald again, she’d fallen asleep early. Goodness, the clan chiefs and their retinues couldn’t leave soon enough. Thank heavens this was their last day.

  She tested her ankle, slowly sliding out of bed and transferring her weight to it. Still a little sore, she lifted her shift and peered down. A little swelling—a bit purple. Gingerly, she made her way to the hearth, stoked the fire and used a twig to light the candles. The more she moved, the better her ankle felt. Thank goodness. She didn’t want to be seen parading around Castleton with a limp when most of the eligible Jacobite chieftains were present. Honestly, she’d done nothing to encourage any of them and doubted a one would give her a second look…

  Aside from Sir Donald.

  He might look twice and then race to his sea galley and sail as far away from her as he could go. How poorly she must have appraised in his eyes. There she was, a grown woman, crashing out of a tree and nearly falling on top of the poor man.

  And, oh, how Father’s hopes would be dashed. Not that he’d given her any instruction on how to be c
harming. Mary stepped up to the looking glass and examined the freckles dotting across the bridge of her nose. God certainly had a sense of humor when he made her. At least her red hair matched the spots. She swept her curls forward to cover her cheeks a bit and then gave herself a sideways look. Better.

  But Mary couldn’t fool herself. She was nothing like the portraits she’d seen of countesses and highborn ladies with their smooth skin. Why on earth did every woman in Scotland have to have porcelain skin except for her?

  Groaning, she limped to the ewer and bowl, cleaned her teeth, splashed water on her face and dressed in a simple kirtle. She had best stop behaving like a silly gel and remember she was still the lady of this keep regardless of what Da was doing with Mrs. Watt.

  Though the menu was set well before the games, Mary had stayed away from the kitchens long enough. After securing her hair in a plait, she headed for the smell of baking bread. Cook always set the bread to baking before daylight.

  Fortunately, her ankle warmed as she moved and by the time she reached the great hall, it didn’t bother her too much. Doubtless, it would be perfectly fine in a day or two.

  “Good morrow, Raymond,” she greeted the cook. “How are the preparations for the morning meal?”

  “Och, Miss Mary, I’m glad you’re here,” the dear, rotund man said with a flabbergasted wheeze. He stopped stirring the big cast-iron pot suspended from the immense hearth and glanced back. “How’s your leg?”

  “Better, thank you.” She moved toward him. “So, what’s afoot? I ken that burdened tone when I hear it.”

  He nearly shook the bonnet off his head with his grumble. “Of all the sennights in a year, the blasted hens have decided to go on strike. We’ve but five dozen eggs and I need five bushels full.”

  “What about Mrs. Whyte? Have you sent anyone to fetch eggs from her?”

  “Goodness, you are a hard task master. ’Tisn’t even daylight yet.”

  Mary moved to the window and looked eastward. “There’s a pink glow in the sky. Dawn is upon us.”