The Valiant Highlander (Highland Defender #2)

by Amy Jarecki

  Mary’s eyes popped wider. Rolling to regard his face over her shoulder, her hips shifted back a fraction and met with something hard. Goodness gracious, it was the same thick column that had rubbed against her during their unbelievably amorous kiss. At least she knew enough about mating to realize what it was. A man was built for breeding—just like a fine stallion. That’s why it was so imperative for her to marry well—to ensure the family survived into the future.

  But why did the slightest friction make her crave more? With a low rumble, Sir Donald tugged her closer. “Och, mo leannan.”

  Oh, how she loved to her him whisper the Gaelic endearment for sweetheart—though he was obviously dreaming.

  She tensed when his hips rocked into her, pressing right between her buttocks. She wanted to move, to play along with his erotic dream, but that would be ever so wrong. Wouldn’t it?

  A loud pounding came from the cottage door.

  Mary jerked up so fast, she hit her head on the wall.

  Instantly awake, Sir Donald cracked the door to the box bed a fraction of an inch and held his finger to his lips.

  The pounding pummeled again. “In the name of King William, I demand you open this door at once.”

  Dear God, it was Lieutenant MacLeod’s voice.

  “A moment,” Parlan said with significant rustling coming from the direction of the hearth.

  Sir Donald pulled his dirk from under his pillow and leaned forward, peering out the crack in the door and blocking Mary’s view. Clutching the bedclothes to her chest, she squeezed herself into the far corner of the box, praying for a miracle and wishing she had a musket in her hands.

  The hinges creaked. “What the devil?” Parlan cursed. “Isn’t it awful early for a mob of redcoats to come to call?”

  “We’re chasing an escaped woman and a man. Lost their trail, then picked it up again at dawn. Led straight here.” Mary could never mistake Balfour MacLeod’s unpleasant, nasal tone.

  “Escapees?” Parlan played along. “They sound dangerous.”

  “They are. Especially the woman—she’s a sharp shooter—very, very dangerous.”

  “Och aye? What did she do?”

  “Resisted arrest.”

  Good heavens, is that the best Balfour could come up with? I’d like to burst out of this box bed and show him just how good my aim is.

  “You don’t say? And the man?” asked Parlan.

  “Not certain who he is. Seems he caught up with the lass after we abducted her.”

  “Abducted?” asked Parlan with skepticism in his voice.

  “Have you seen them?” the lieutenant demanded.

  “Aye, a couple like you described rode through yesterday. Said they were on their way to Fort William to file a complaint about a lieutenant who stole their boat.”

  Mary silently applauded. Good for Parlan.

  “Blast. It is the damned baronet.”

  “Mind your vulgar tongue—you’ll offend my missus.” Feet shuffled. “You wouldn’t be the culprit who took their galley, would you?”

  “They broke the law. I did nothing wrong.” Mary had heard Balfour say that before, the self-righteous measle. How dare he justify his lawlessness in the name of the Government?

  “Then I suggest you hightail it to Fort William afore they have a chance to meet with the colonel.” Parlan was thinking on his feet for certain. Mayhap it wasn’t such a bad idea for Sir Donald to give him Ragnar.

  “I need food for my men,” said the lieutenant.

  Mary tensed. Lord in heaven, he didn’t intend to come inside?

  “Wait there and I’ll fetch you some bread—bloody hell, Fort William isn’t far. With those hackneys you’re riding, you’ll be there within a few hours.” The door slammed.

  Don pushed open the box bed.

  Parlan hastened to wrap a loaf of bread in a cloth and motioned for Don to hide.

  The baronet glanced back to Mary, looking at her like he’d throttle her if she made a sound. Holy fairies, he’d been the one who moved, not Mary.

  Again the latch clicked with the opening of the door.

  “My corporal tells me there’s a lame pony in the barn.” Balfour sounded suspicious, the blackguard.

  “Aye, ’tis the garron your escapees were riding—they took mine and left the old fella to heal—gave me a fair bit of coin for the trade as well.”

  Mary smiled to herself. Goodness, Parlan sounded convincing.

  “Oh?” Curses, Balfour didn’t sound swayed in the slightest. “I think you’re telling tall tales. Why haven’t you invited us inside?”

  “At this hour of the morning? I’ve barely stepped out of bed and you come a pounding on my door demanding food.”

  The hinges creaked.

  Don snatched Mary’s wrist and pressed his lips to her ear. “Be ready.” Words spoken so softly, he was barely audible.

  But her heart flew to her throat while the hiss of a sword scraping from a scabbard turned her nerves ragged.

  “Why were you sleeping on a pallet when you’ve a bed?” Footsteps crunched the dirt floor. “If I find out you’re harboring my prisoners, I’ll—”

  In a blink, Sir Donald leapt from the bed, bellowing like a madman. Attacking the lieutenant, sword struck sword with screeching clangs.

  Scrambling off the bed, Mary dove for the musket, training it on the fighting men, but Sir Donald’s form was too large. The blades flickered with the firelight with every swing. The lieutenant was fast, but the baronet was faster, deadlier and far stronger.

  Mary skirted around the perimeter, looking for her shot. Balfour MacLeod would not hurt Sir Donald and he most certainly would not capture her again. Her blood pulsed beneath her skin. She would never allow that miscreant to touch her, to force a vile kiss upon her. He wanted to marry? Well, she’d sooner he die first!

  Out of the corner of her eye, Parlan, too, held his musket to his shoulder—and Cadha stood beside him with two pistols cocked and ready to fire.

  Blood splattered to the floor.

  Mary gasped, trying to make out who’d been cut.

  With a forceful blow, Sir Donald pinned Balfour to the wall. “I’d like nothing better than to end this right now.”

  “Coward,” Balfour spewed with blood drooling from the corner of his mouth.

  “Mary, come behind.” Sir Donald motioned with a nod of his head.

  The door burst open, three muskets thrust inside. “Release him,” demanded a dragoon.

  Sir Donald wrenched Balfour against his body, using the lieutenant as a shield, angling the point of his sword to the blackguard’s neck. “He’s the first to die.”

  “And I don’t like your chances,” Mary added, making sure the soldiers saw her musket—and the others as well.

  “Stand down,” the corporal bellowed.

  “Mary, behind me,” Sir Donald commanded again, pushing out the door with Balfour in his clutches.

  She obeyed with the crofters following, their muskets pointed at the line of dragoons outside.

  How on earth would they escape this mess?

  The lieutenant and five soldiers against a baronet, an elderly couple and Mary. She might be a good shot, but she only had one chance before they charged.

  But Sir Donald didn’t hesitate. He hauled the lieutenant straight for a hackney horse. “Mount up, Mary.”

  Bare feet, wearing only a shift, she complied, then quickly trained the musket on the others.

  Using the pommel of his sword, Sir Donald smacked Balfour in the head. As the lieutenant dropped, the baronet leapt onto the back of another steed. With one slap of his reins, the young hackney burst into a gallop. Mary followed suit. Her musket misfired and the horse took off like a ball shot from a cannon.

  A soldier howled.

  A crack. Something whizzed over her head.

  “Don’t shoot at the woman,” Balfour hollered.

  “To your horses, men!” another bellow sounded behind.

  Holding on for dear life,
Mary’s horse raced past Sir Donald. “Faster!” she shouted as she sped past.

  ***

  Galloping his horse in Miss Mary’s wake, Don had to grin, even with the redcoats close on their tail. The woman could handle her mount like she handled a musket. And why would that surprise him? For once, he thanked the stars she was talented at more masculine pursuits. He didn’t doubt the soldiers were close behind, but the bastards were short two mounts and Don had ensured their leader suffered a severe ache to the head.

  Barely an hour had passed when the stone walls of Achnacarry came into view. Don glanced behind. No redcoats moved through the trees. He pounded on the heavy wooden gate with the pommel of his dirk.

  A man-at-arms appeared above, holding a musket to his shoulder. “Who goes there?”

  Don fired off his name and title, then introduced Miss Mary. “Is Sir Ewen within?”

  The guard lowered his weapon. “He hasn’t returned from Dunscaith Castle as of yet.”

  “Fye. He should have been here a day ago.” Don’s stomach twisted. Had there been a problem securing his galley? Were Kennan and Coll in trouble? Bloody hell, he couldn’t think about that now. “We’ve a mob of redcoats on our tail—I need a seafaring vessel to sail for Glasgow immediately.”

  “You’ll have to ride to Corpach on Loch Eil—the laird moors his vessels there.”

  Blast. Another bloody setback. “Do you have a postern gate?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Then show us through and man the battlements. A measly retinue of seven is no match for a fortress such as this.”

  The gates opened and they met the man-at-arms in the courtyard.

  Don continued to ride toward the rear of the fortress. “We’ve no time to waste. Detain them by having a good yarn and, by all means, do not tell the soldiers we’ve ridden through. Suggest they ride to Fort William and enlist more forces if they want to take us on.”

  The man stood with a puzzled look on his face. “Fort William, sir?”

  “I suspect if they ride for reinforcements, they’ll meet with some resistance. My brother should have already lodged a complaint for the abduction of Miss Mary and the seizure of my galley.” He looked toward the keep. “Is Lady Isobel within?”

  “No, sir. She’s visiting her sister in Inverness.”

  Pursing his lips, Don regarded Mary. “I’d hoped you could stay with her ladyship until we could arrange for a transport back to Castleton.”

  Mary blinked as if she hadn’t considered what would happen to her—or that they must part. Then she regarded the dirty shift she was wearing—now only a mussed scrap of linen at that. “S-should I wait for her here?”

  Dear God, a tear dribbled from the lassie’s eye. “Fetch Miss Mary an arisaid forthwith.” He regarded his own sweat-streaked, bare chest. “And I could do with a shirt of some sort as well. Quickly.”

  Don scrubbed his knuckles against his skull. If he left her there and MacLeod found out, the blackguard would try to abduct her for certain. And with half the Cameron guard still away, Don couldn’t take the chance.

  Damnation. The last thing he needed was a country lass following him all the way down the coast. But for the life of him he could think of no other solution.

  He gave her a reassuring smile—at least he hoped it was reassuring. “Not to worry, Miss Mary. I’ll secure you an escort and safe transport after we arrive in Glasgow.”

  Once he’d enlisted a pair of Cameron men who could help man the galley, they rode out the postern gate for Loch Eil.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Once Sir Ewen’s small galley tacked into the Firth of Clyde, Mary stood at the bow in the crisp morning air. She watched the scenery pass while clutching her borrowed arisaid around her shoulders. She’d never been this far south—honestly, she’d only traveled off the Isle of Skye once and that was to Inverness. If only she could enjoy this voyage, but ever since they’d sailed from Corpach, she had replayed the scene from the Achnacarry courtyard over and over in her mind.

  She’d been a fool to let Sir Donald kiss her—to harbor the remotest hope that he actually cared for her. She’d seen the disappointment on his face when he discovered Lady Isobel was away. Oh yes, his discontentment had been clear when he realized it would not be safe to leave Mary behind. It had been eminently obvious he intended to part ways once they reached the Cameron keep.

  She felt like a leech—like an unwanted wastrel.

  And now rather than sailing for the Isle of Skye, as sure as the brisk wind on her face, she was growing ever further away. Oh, how she missed Dunscaith Castle. There, people appreciated her, followed her direction. She ran the keep with efficiency. Mary had her family to look after—surely Lilas hadn’t resumed Rabbie’s lessons, or Florence’s lessons for that matter. And only heaven knew what Mrs. Watt was up to with Da.

  The sooner Mary hastened home, the better.

  She glanced down at her bare feet. Goodness gracious, it was midsummer and her toes were blue. Though the guardsman had given her an arisaid of red and black plaid, there had been no time to search for a pair of shoes that would fit.

  Sir Donald didn’t seem to mind. He hopped around the galley working like a sailor as if he preferred bare feet.

  Funny, Mary didn’t take the Baronet of Sleat for a seafaring tar. Aye, the Highlands flowed through his blood, but when he was visiting Dunscaith Castle, he played the part of gentleman. His every movement had been like watching a choreographed ballet. Beneath his velvet doublet he wore shirts with neatly tied cravats and lace at his sleeves. True, he’d earned the moniker Don of the Wars after the Battle of Killiecrankie. Perhaps there was much more to this man than she initially thought.

  Curses. She didn’t want Sir Donald to have any other sides that might impress her. Mary was already impressed enough. Now that he’d kissed her, how was she to find a suitor who would live up to such lofty expectations? Was there another man in her future who could stir fire in her blood the way Sir Donald had in the box bed…and on the back of Ragnar?

  And now they sailed through the Firth of Clyde with green hills rolling to the shores, the sun shining as if announcing a welcome. But no one need tell her there was nothing for Mary in a burgeoning town like Glasgow.

  “Tack to portside,” Sir Donald instructed, pulling on the rudder. “We’ll be turning up the River Clyde soon. We’re fortunate this galley is small enough to sail all the way to the city.”

  Mary nodded and turned her attention to the estuary ahead.

  “Take the rudder,” Donald barked. His feet pattered over the rowing benches. Mary knew who it was because the other crew members wore boots with heels that clomped. Goosebumps rose across her arms as he stepped behind her. Goodness, heat radiated off him—the same heat that had kept her warm the night before.

  He rested his hand on her shoulder and pointed. “See the big rock with the castle on the far shore?”

  “Aye.”

  “That’s Dumbarton—a major stronghold for Scotland’s west.”

  Mary had heard of Dumbarton, and the news hadn’t been good. “Did they not fire cannons from her walls to celebrate when William of Orange forced King James into exile?”

  Sir Donald gave her shoulder a firm pat. “Right you are, but one day the fortress will again revert to the hands of the true king. Mark me.”

  Mary eyed the enormous castle. From what she knew, it had stood on that rock for centuries. Goodness, stone battlements encircled the entire promontory for miles.

  As the baronet resumed his place at the stern, the galley soon sailed past Dumbarton and up the river until the buildings of a city came into view. Grey smoke hung over the settlement and as they neared, the smells of humanity grew ever pungent. Not new smells for Mary, but stronger with a dead-fish overtone.

  “Things are a bit unpleasant on the waterfront,” Sir Donald hollered as if he could read her mind while he bore down on the rudder. “I’m certain you shall find the townhouse to your liking.”

&
nbsp; The mooring proceeded swiftly while Mary watched men on the shore pulling barrows of everything imaginable from newly caught fish, to whisky barrels, to hay and bolts of Holland cloth. Beyond the embankment, all manner of wagons waited to be loaded with wares while coaches rolled past, some pulled by magnificent horses and others pulled by mules. Merchants clad in rich silks and lace with long periwigs curling well beyond their shoulders conversed in groups. Swarming around them, people dressed in tattered rags carried on with their back-breaking labor, scarcely paying attention to the gentry as they pushed barrows or carried bushels on their backs.

  Such a confounding scene. Why, in Castleton everyone pitched in to unload a galley of stores. They came so rarely, it was an exciting event.

  Sir Donald affixed the wooden ladder and offered his hand. “I’ll fetch us a coach quickly. And as soon as we arrive home, I’ll order proper shoes and clothing.”

  She placed her fingers in his palm. Goodness, why did his touch have to make her insides flit about so? “I thank you for your kindness,” she said as indifferently as possible.

  “’Tis the least I can do.”

  Mary clutched the arisaid around her body, both excited and anxious about the prospect of her first ride in a coach.

  Though it didn’t take Sir Donald long, the coachman regarded their shabby attire warily, gaping at Mary’s bare feet like she was a guttersnipe.

  She couldn’t allow his reproachful look to pass. “Forgive our appearance. We were set upon by thieves.” Though not the complete truth it was easier than trying to explain all the details of the past few days.

  Sir Donald sliced his hand through the air. “’Tis none of the coachman’s concern.” He regarded the driver. “Please take us to fifty Saltmarket.”

  “What dealings have you on Saltmarket, sir?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Sir Donald said as if he’d been issued a personal affront. “I live there. Now climb aboard and give us a lift.”

  Looking very annoyed, the baronet offered Mary his hand and she clambered inside while glancing at his dirty feet. She smoothed her hand over the padded leather seat. It was quite luxurious compared to the wooden bench on the wagon at home. “We do look a wee bit out of sorts.”