The Valiant Highlander (Highland Defender #2)

by Amy Jarecki

  The crofter’s cottage was neatly kept. A peat fire burned against a masonry wall in an open hearth with a cast-iron pot hanging above the fire, suspended by a hook which was secured with a chain attached to the rafters. Smoke hung in the air and dissipated through the thatch. Mary had seen the like in the cottages of the crofters around Castleton. The furnishings were modest. A table with two long benches, two rickety wooden chairs by the fire and on the far wall, a box bed with doors that closed to keep in warmth.

  The thing that piqued Mary’s interest the most were the white silk Jacobite roses sitting on a small table beside a spinning wheel, encircled by oak leaves and acorns. Doubtless, the fairies were with them. They had, indeed, arrived among allies. Thank heavens.

  Cadha busied herself with setting the table. “Where are you from?”

  Mary pointed. “Castle—”

  “Up north,” Sir Donald interrupted.

  Inclining her head toward the white roses, Mary gave him a firm elbow—not that her efforts helped. He just scowled like he wanted to rip her head off.

  “North? Up by Skye, would that be?” Cadha asked.

  Sir Donald sat there like a lump. Again Mary poked the baronet in the ribs with her elbow, squeezing out a reluctant “Aye” from him.

  “And where are you headed?”

  “Achnacarry,” Mary said before the baronet had a chance to blurt out something so vague it seemed rude. For goodness sakes, they hadn’t eaten in a day and he was speaking to the matron as if he didn’t trust her at all. Did Highland hospitality mean nothing to the baronet now he lived in a Glasgow townhouse?

  The woman set a pitcher of ale on the table. “Are you on your way to see Laird Cameron?”

  “No,” said Sir Donald.

  “Yes.” Mary thwacked his arm.

  He gave her a heated frown, lips turning white.

  She overtly pointed to the darned flowers.

  “How far is Achnacarry from here?” he asked as the door opened and Parlan strode inside, hanging his bonnet on a hook by the door.

  “Fifteen miles due east,” said the old man, scratching his balding head. “What business have you with Laird Cameron?”

  By the hearth, Cadha ladled pottage into a bowl. “I asked the same thing.”

  “We’re running from the redcoats,” Mary blurted.

  Sir Donald grasped her fingers under the table and squeezed.

  Yanking her hand away, she again thrust her finger at the roses. “I cannot believe you haven’t seen the white roses surrounded by oak leaves and acorns—plain as the nose on my face they are.”

  Silence filled the cottage as the couple exchanged knowing glances. “Och aye, there’s nary a soul in these parts who trusts William of Orange especially after what he did in Glencoe—and don’t you try to tell me he is innocent—he penned the order.” Parlan held his fist over his heart. “Jacobus, the rightful king.”

  The baronet smoothed his hands over the tabletop. “’Tis good to hear. And aye, the redcoats stole my galley and tried to abduct my wife as well. We’re en route to Achnacarry to enlist Sir Ewen’s help to reclaim my boat.” He gave Mary the evil eye, sending a clear message she wasn’t to let anything else out of the bag. He’d lied to the couple about being married and if they found out he’d fibbed about that, they might hand them over to Lieutenant MacLeod. Oh no, no one lied about such serious matters in the Highlands. It just wasn’t done.

  “Oh, you poor dears,” said Cadha while she set the bowls of pottage on the table. “Do you think we’re in danger?”

  Sir Donald reached for the ewer and poured for the womenfolk. “With luck, they’ve lost our trail.” He then poured for Parlan and himself.

  The old man broke the bread and dunked a piece in his pottage. “And if luck isn’t on your side?”

  “I’d be obliged if you didn’t tell them you saw us.” He looked to Mary. “We’ll head off as soon as we’ve finished our meal.”

  Cadha picked up her spoon. “You cannot be serious. You’ve been riding all night and all day. You must be exhausted.” She snorted with a blubber of her lips. “And I ken a tired man when I see it. Dark caverns have taken up residence under your eyes, sir.”

  “That might be so, but we cannot put you in danger.” Don ladled a spoon of pottage into his mouth. “Och, this is delicious.”

  Cadha beamed, but Parlan ignored the compliment and pointed toward the door. “I reckon you should stay as well. I keep my musket by the door. If you had been one of those red-coated bastards, I would have shot a hole right through you.”

  “Parlan,” Cadha chided.

  “’Tis a relief to be amongst friends.” Sir Donald gestured to the pot in the middle of the table. “Do you mind if I help myself to another serving?”

  “By all means,” said Cadha before she shifted her attention to Mary. “Did I hear Donald say you were abducted by those filthy redcoats?”

  “Aye, took me just as the sun was rising. Bound my wrists and ankles and tossed me in the back of his lordship’s galley as if I were a barrel of oats.”

  “His lordship?” Cadha’s eyes nearly popped out of her head.

  Across the table, Parlan sputtered and coughed. “You don’t mean to say you pair are nobility?”

  Sir Donald gave Mary an exasperated glare. “I’ve inherited a baronetcy, nothing more. Thus there’s no need to refer to me as his lordship.” He gripped her hand the table and squeezed hard like a smithy’s vise. “Please accept my apologies. It has been imperative for me to conceal my identity.”

  “Och, you can trust us. We hardly ever receive visitors now our children are grown,” said Cadha.

  “Aye,” Parlan agreed. “And now we have a nobleman in our wee cottage. I never would have guessed. Where are your lands? I’d think a baronet would live in a castle with a full regiment to protect him and his kin.”

  “We were at a gathering in Castleton.” Mary yanked her hand away. “Sir Donald MacDonald is the Baronet of Sleat.”

  “Sleat?” Cadha said as if she’d been awestruck. “Why, you’re descended from the Lords of the Isles.”

  Don’s face turned red beneath the tawny stubble peppering his face. “Aye, but I would appreciate it if you would keep mum about my identity until this business is over.”

  “You can count on us, sir,” Paden gushed with admiration. “I’ll wager those dragoons are out to make an example of you to strike fear in the hearts of Jacobites.”

  Cadha fanned her face. “The gall of those soldiers, abducting a noblewoman. I wonder how William of Orange will respond to such brazenness.”

  Mary just about sank under the table. True, she was the daughter of a Highland chieftain, but far lower in society than the baronet.

  Sir Donald wrapped his arm around Mary’s shoulders. “’Tis exactly why I will be filing a formal complaint both for the abduction of my galley and the abominable act against her ladyship.” He placed a tender kiss on her forehead, closed eyes and all. What a liar this man could be. “How are you feeling, my dearest?”

  Mary smiled sweetly. “I’m gaining confidence by the moment. I’d like to take that musket and fire a hole through Lieutenant MacLeod’s chest.”

  He gave her a squeeze, tightening his grip much harder than one would expect from an endearing hug. “That’s my lassie.”

  Cadha stood and began picking up the empty bowls. “Well, you cannot possibly set out for Achnacarry now. You need a good rest.”

  “Aye, that garron of yours needs rest as well,” said Paden. “I had a feel of his pastern and I doubt he’ll be healed before a fortnight comes to pass.”

  “A fortnight?” Mary gasped.

  Sir Donald raised his cup. “Well leave the pony here in payment for your kind hospitality.”

  Cadha dropped the bowls on the table with a clatter. “A horse for a wee night’s hospitality? My heavens, we cannot possibly accept such generosity.”

  Mary crossed her fingers. Leave Ragnar with these—albeit nice—stranger
s? She’d never see the pony again.

  Shrugging, the baronet took a long drink of ale. “’Tis my pleasure. If you promise not to give us away to the redcoats, then you are welcome to the little fella.”

  Paden reached for his pipe and tapped it on a tray. “And as our esteemed guests, we insist you sleep in the box bed. I’m certain it is nothing close to the comfort to which you’re accustomed, but it is soft and warm.”

  Mary’s stomach flipped upside down. Sleep in a bed beside the Baronet of Sleat? “Oh no, we couldn’t take your bed.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Paden. “I’ll fix up a pallet for the missus and me to sleep upon. And come morning, I’ll hitch up the mule to the wagon and take you to Achnacarry myself. I wouldn’t have you stressing your injured knee, m’lady.”

  Placing his tankard on the table, Sir Donald regarded Mary as a thin-lipped grin spread across his face.

  Mary’s cheeks burned as if she’d held hot coals to it. “But you cannot give us your bed for the night. I am perfectly able—”

  “No, no we’ll not hear another word,” said Cadha. “No one will say you pair came to visit and were asked to sleep on a pile of musty hay.”

  Goodness, the pottage continued to roil in Mary’s stomach. Why on earth did Sir Donald have to tell the couple they were married? Now they had no choice but to sleep side by side? She turned around and regarded the box bed. Was it even big enough for two people? The baronet was a large man—a fact that hadn’t escaped her thoughts since he’d first mounted Ragnar behind her. It was a wonder the garron didn’t collapse from exhaustion sooner.

  ***

  Don would have preferred a bath and a shave before he climbed into bed with a woman, but the two crofters had marshalled them into the box bed as if they were ushering a royal couple to their boudoir on their wedding night to ensure copulation took place. They’d even tried to convince him to leave his weapons beside the bed. Thank God the old man hadn’t pressed him too hard there or else he would have had to put his foot down.

  With the redcoats on their trail, Don stashed a dirk under his pillow, knives in his hose, and his sword beside him. The only thing outside the bed was his musket and it lay directly beneath, charged and ready to fire.

  Mary lay beside him as stiff as a board—something seemed to be bothering her for certain. He’d only had to look at her face when Parlan had offered the bed to them. If anyone had ever doubted Miss Mary’s virginity, Don could vouch for her simply by watching her reaction. She was more frightened than a doe being chased by a fox.

  It didn’t matter. He had no intention of bedding the lass—not ever, and most assuredly not tonight.

  He stretched his feet down and met with the wall at the foot of the bed. What? Was the bed made for an elf? Don hated to sleep with his knees bent and cramped. Rolling to his side, he angled his legs toward Mary. “I need a wee bit more space to stretch my knees,” he whispered.

  She wriggled away from him, but truly there was no other place for her to go. Her arm brushed his chest and she jerked it away. “I cannot believe you gave Ragnar to them without consulting me first,” she said in a heated whisper.

  Good God, the crofters had bedded down by the hearth only paces away. For all Don knew, they could hear their every word. “Oh?” He inclined his lips toward her ear to ensure only Mary would hear his low tone. Of course, her hair tangled across his nose—hair that still smelled sweeter than a mountain of heather in bloom. “Please. Did you expect us to drag the lame mule fifteen miles on the morrow?”

  “I expected you to discuss it with me first.”

  “Forgive me.” He crossed his arms, trying to pull his face from her voluminous tresses, but they seemed to grow a mind of their own and clung to his unshaven stubble. “I felt it little payment for their hospitality and their loyalty.”

  She huffed audibly. Through the darkness even her profile looked annoyed—darling, but annoyed. And how in God’s name could a woman’s profile be darling? Holy hell, Don had gone without sleep for so long, his mind was addled. He brushed her hair from his face. Little good that did. With another huff she rolled to her side—not putting her back to him, but she faced him. Why the bloody hell did she do that? Warm breath tickled his throat—sweet breath smoldering with a mixture of mint and succulent woman. There was a reason he’d never climbed into bed with a woman he didn’t intend to swive. Within two blinks, his cock shot to rigid. In fact, the damned appendage was so hard it stiffened straight up to his belly.

  Her fingers brushed his chest.

  Don gasped.

  “I’m sorry.” The apology sent tendrils wrapping around his heart.

  “Don’t be.” Good Lord, his mind couldn’t focus on anything but the wispy breath caressing his skin. Her lips were only inches from his. All he needed to do was take his finger and incline her chin ever so slightly and he could steal another kiss. Och aye, he’d enjoyed the one he’d stolen in the forest—enjoyed it far too much. And so had she. Thank God he’d had the wherewithal to stop and act as if it meant nothing.

  Don gulped, trying to ignore the hot breath driving him to the brink of madness.

  That damned kiss will haunt me for sennights.

  Of course it meant nothing. Kissing Mary of Castleton could never mean anything. Aye, she was the daughter of a chieftain, but she lived in a remote part of the Isle of Skye. He’d made his home in Glasgow…was supporting the Jacobite cause by entertaining dignitaries throughout the Americas and Europe and negotiating business transactions with them—fighting the murderous Government with trade rather than brawn. Fewer good men would die that way.

  Good God, she sighed, sending a blast of heat radiating across his bare chest. Why on earth he’d removed his shirt for bed, he had no idea. Not that he ever slept in a shirt—or anything. It just seemed the right thing to do. After all, he’d left his plaid belted around his waist. He only had one bloody shirt at the moment and sleeping in it…well, it didn’t make sense when Mr. and Mrs. Amorous marched them into the box bed and closed the doors.

  He could almost see Mary’s face with the wee ray of firelight that shone through the gap. Her eyes sparkled. “You should sleep,” he whispered.

  “Mm hmm.” Lithe fingers swirled around his chest hair, sending shivers across his flesh.

  His erection throbbed. Hell, a man could only take so much. One wee kiss wouldn’t kill him and he’d be free of her allure come the morrow.

  Ever so slowly, he inclined her chin with his pointer finger. Her breath teased his face as if she were daring him to kiss her. Sliding his hand to the back of her neck, he lowered his mouth to hers. Silken, succulent lips that begged to be kissed every time he looked at her, met his, followed his lead and joined him in the most primal kiss he’d ever experienced. What Miss Mary lacked in expertise, she made up for with raw passion. Her body writhed against him, rubbed him in all the right places. Pert breasts connected with his bare chest. Christ, he could even feel her nipples through her linen shift.

  Closing his eyes, Don trailed his fingers down her neck, lower and lower until he found what he wanted. Stroking his thumb across her taut nipple, Mary moaned into his mouth. His cock pulsed with a wee bit of moisture oozing out the tip. He’d never been so hard in his life. He kneaded her delicious breast as he pushed his hips forward and connected with her mons. Oh yes, he needed more. Just a wee tug of her skirts and he could slip out from under his kilt and slide between her milky-white thighs. Heaven help him, he’d wanted his hands, his lips, his cock, between those thighs since he’d seen them in the forest.

  Panting, Mary stilled his hand between her palms. “You…you’re not planning to ravish me? Not—not here?”

  Every muscle in his body tensed. What the hell? What kind of monster ravished a virgin? And with strangers sleeping not twenty feet away? Good God, Don had plied her mouth for one wee kiss and now he had her breast in his hand and his cock flush against her body? He didn’t ravish virgins. He didn’t ravish anyone. Ever. N
o woman had ever crawled between the bed linens with him who wasn’t willing and eager.

  Clearing his throat, he forced his hips away. “Forgive me, lass. After our wee kiss in the forest I haven’t been able to think of much but stealing another.” It seemed Miss Mary was made for kissing—and a few other maneuvers he’d like to show her, but not this night. And blast it all, not ever. “Ah…If you’d roll to your other side, perhaps we’d both be comfortable enough to sleep.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  When Mary opened her eyes, she realized she actually had slept. It didn’t matter that she’d been exhausted beyond measure. Lying beside Sir Donald MacDonald was the most confounding, tantalizing, mind-muddling experience she’d ever encountered. Her skin tingled, her lips throbbed. Goodness, even after sleeping, she could still feel his kiss upon them.

  Aye, last eve she’d wanted him to kiss her. Craved the feeling of his lips plying hers one more time before they reached Achnacarry and civilization. She doubted she would ever find herself again in such close proximity to the baronet. And he’d made it eminently clear he didn’t intend to marry her. So, he’d said her future husband would be able to kiss her like Sir Donald MacDonald? Would he be as alluring as the baronet? Make her blood rush beneath her skin, her heart swell and yearn for him even though he was right there beside her?

  If Mary grew any more amorous, she would burst out of her skin for certain. Had anyone ever burst from their skin whilst in the throes of passion? She’d never heard of such an affliction before. Mayhap she was different? Mayhap she was more amorous than other women? Could she be? She had no one to ask and no example to follow except the raging fire in the depths of her belly. Surely such heavy breathing, such anxious beating of her heart, such overwhelming awareness of the man beside her was unnatural.

  The quite virile baronet emitted a low sigh, draping his arm across her waist.